Rev. Cn. Richard Hogue Jr.
There’s a lot of “comfort” in our texts this morning, but it comes from strange places. We have voices in the wilderness declaring it in Isaiah and Mark’s gospel. We have the writer of the epistle of Second Peter saying we ought to find peace and comfort in the end of all things.
Comfort, wilderness, endings, beginnings, what do we listen for in all of this?
A voice says, ‘Cry out!’
And I said, ‘What shall I cry?’ All people are grass,
their constancy is like the flower of the field. The grass withers, the flower fades,
when the breath of the Lord blows upon it; surely the people are grass.
The grass withers, the flower fades;
but the word of our God will stand for ever.
These words are oddly comforting to me. Isaiah expresses two things: first, our fragility. What makes us human is that we flourish and then fall, feeling it, knowing it throughout our lives.
Second is the timelessness of the eternal. God’s breath, ruach in Hebrew, pneuma in Greek, causes us to whither and is also the beginning of all things. The result of God’s breath isn’t just the withering of grass or the fading of flowers, it is also the sound of salvation, the shape of a word that trumpets justice, mercy, renewal, and peace.
This time we’re living in is fraught, frightening, and scary. The whole world as we know it teeters on the brink. I find Isaiah’s poetry comforting because it means that the evil we perpetuate, the wars we set ablaze and out of control, the hate we spew, the fright we cause each other, these too shall pass. If people are grass and flowers that wither and fade, so too are all the horrors of humanity. All the outrage, all the injustices, all the atrocities, all the problems we cause, all the fear will pass. And at the end, God’s word, the breath of life, will be there. Some will find our fragility depressing, and many days I count myself among those. “It’s hell getting old,” we hear a lot of people say. Or “Getting old isn’t for wimps.” Or my grandma’s saying, rest her soul: “Make sure you die young.” But that fragility reflects something deeply beautiful: God blesses the flowers of the field with intense beauty even as they will certainly droop. The grass of the field feeds a panoply of life before it browns.
This part of Isaiah was written during the end of the Hebrew people’s exile in Babylon. It expressed hope for the future as the exiled Israelites returned to their ancestral home across the desert wilderness. The human frailty was shared by their oppressive Babylonians overlords who exiled the Hebrews from their home. Their terror and empire ended. Human frailty is shared by the captive and the captor. And then, at the end, there is God.
Get you up to a high mountain, O Zion, herald of good tidings;
lift up your voice with strength,
O Jerusalem, herald of good tidings, lift it up, do not fear;
say to the cities of Judah, ‘Here is your God!’
See, the Lord God comes with might, and his arm rules for him;
his reward is with him,
and his recompense before him.
He will feed his flock like a shepherd; he will gather the lambs in his arms,
and carry them in his bosom,
and gently lead the mother sheep.
We are fragile, but even so the movement of God’s very breath is the source of growth and unfading good tidings. The withered field is restored as a pasture upon which all creatures roam and feast and graze and rest. And how awesome is it that God knows us so well that even our fears, the barren places in our lives, can be turned, somehow, into a source of life? We are obliged to scream it from mountains and rooftops, yell it in the streets, shout to the ocean that the end is never truly in sight, that it all is a tremendous genesis. God is not done!
That’s exactly what John the Baptist announced. You have heard that sin is death: Sin is our destructiveness lived out. Yet John preached forgiveness, renewal, newness, in the face of all we have done. John knew that the end was only the beginning. He shouted it in the wilderness, he shouted it throughout the countryside, and his shout reached all the way to Jerusalem, and people came to the living water to experience new life in the face of sin and death. They named what ailed them, named tragedy in their lives, and gave it all to God in the rush of the river, washing it away, cleansed by cool water, nourished for a new beginning. People lined up to be washed by this crazy looking person, reminiscent of the prophet Elijah. He dressed like Elijah, with a camel’s hair tunic, and a wild beard (maybe like mine on less groomed days). This was no mistake by John the Baptist, he knew that Elijah was seen as the greatest of Hebrew prophets after Moses, and was the prophet many expected to reappear and announce the coming of the Messiah, when the entire world would change. John knew he was a preparer of the way, he knew someone who would bring the change if he persistently called out for it.
What John says about the one to come after him is interesting, because while he baptizes with water, the more powerful one will baptize with πνεύματι ἁγίῳ, the holy breath, or the Holy Spirit. It’s that same ruach, that same pneuma, the same breath, spirit, that blows down the grass and fades the flower, upends everything, bringing new life from decay. Just as John washed away sins, this baptism of breath and fire will restore life. And though he may not have felt worthy to stoop down and undo the sandals of the one to come, he still proclaimed God’s eternal goodness. The humblest, the most absurd prepare the way.
We hear all this echoing through 2 Peter as well: “The Lord is not slow about his promise, as some think of slowness, but is patient with you, not wanting any to perish, but all to come to repentance. But the day of the Lord will come like a thief, and then the heavens will pass away with a loud noise, and the elements will be dissolved with fire, and the earth and everything that is done on it will be disclosed.” That will not sound comforting to many. This message will not be greeted with open arms for those who have lost. Fire can be destructive, fire can be the end of things we love. And yet, God’s fiery breath restores. “But, in accordance with God’s promise, we wait for new heavens and a new earth, where righteousness is at home.” This is not about what has been, it is about what is to come. Much like pinecones activated by smoke that seed whole new forests that reach to the heavens, God’s fiery Spirit, God’s breath is not about destruction, it is about renewal, it is about starting again.
We heard today about how to prepare, becoming a new heaven and new earth, where righteousness is at home, in our bodies, in our hearts. We prepare the way, starting with ourselves. Advent is all about preparation, anticipation, about sitting in the dark, and lighting a candle anyway. The flickering flame represents hope in the dreary dissipation of light during the day, as the sun’s shining shortens, and the nights grow. Yet we prepare for the new day that God assures us will come. We prepare our hearts by casting aside and washing off those things that prevent us from embracing reflection and growth in the dark even as we look for the light. We prepare ourselves by breathing deeply the breath of God, knowing frailty is only the beginning of something strong and resplendent. We remember that we are the witnesses to the truth, that God’s love is more powerful than anything we ever do, and all our hope and joy is in what comes in the wake of what is. We prepare by listening for the voices crying from the wilderness. We must ask ourselves: what is our wilderness, will we listen to its shouts, and how will we respond? Go, prepare, and listen.
