St. John’s Episcopal Church
Tallahassee, FL
2 Samuel 11:2-6, 14-15
Mark 13:24-37
This sermon was part of The Year of the Bible—a yearlong initiative in which all sermons, classes, and formation for all ages followed a parish-wide journey through the entire Bible. With the bishop’s permission, we used a custom lectionary: two readings drawn from that week’s section of Scripture, plus a psalm and the regularly appointed gospel of the day.
Several years ago
a parishioner at my last church
brought a guest
to one of our worship services.
Now, to be fair,
it was the Great Vigil of Easter . . .
one of our really big,
really unusual services.
There was all the normal
standing,
and sitting,
and kneeling.
All the singing,
and readings,
and prayers.
But it was also one of those days
when the clergy were wearing
long robes
and weird hats.
There was candlelight,
and there were baptisms.
Water and fire,
love and joy,
mystery and hope.
There was a lot going on,
and I can imagine
it was a whole lot to take in.
So when everything was over,
our parishioner turned to his guest
and asked, “Well? Whad’ya think?”
To which his guest responded,
“Well, I guess it was okay . . .
if you like being new age.”
* * *
I get it,
but the funny thing is
nothing we did there
and nothing we do at St. John’s
is “new age”
or really even “new.”
There is nothing new
about Baptism.
There is nothing new
about Communion.
There is nothing new
about Christians
gathering in the torchlight
and singing old, old songs,
and praying old, old prayers,
to tell the old, old story
of Jesus and his love.
What we do here,
is not “new age.”
What we do here is age old.
In a world that constantly craves
all that is shiny and new,
we have stuck to the old ways . . .
yet through them,
God is the one
who is making all things new.
* * *
I mention all of this
because today is the first day Advent,
and if you came here today
anticipating Christmas carols,
and red bows,
and silver bells,
and all the trappings of modern-day Christmas,
well then we probably feel out of step
or like we are doing something
“new age or “new.”
Instead, what we are doing is age old.
Advent is ancient.
It is the ancient season of Hope,
observed by Christians around the world for centuries
during the four weeks leading up to Christmas.
This is the time of year
when we light the candles
of our Advent wreaths
week by week,
marking the time
and increasing the light
as those candles make a spiral staircase toward Hope.
This is time of year
Christians set aside
to anticipate the coming of our King . . .
not just the newborn King—
who came thousands of years ago—
but the King of glory,
the Prince of Peace,
the Alpha and the Omega,
who has promised to come again
and to make all things new.
* * *
This is good news for us
because the world can so often
feel upside down.
It is hard not to hear Jesus talking
in the Gospel this time of year
about the end of time—
the portents in the sky,
the rising seas,
the distress among the nations—
and to hear all of it and to wonder,
“Lord?
You talking about now?
Is this the big one?”
And while we could all do these days
with a nice shot of hot cocoa
to calm our nerves,
or a big plate of sugar cookies
and Mariah Carey’s Christmas hits
to warm our weary, fearful, stressed out hearts . . .
what we really need is a Savior.
A Savior who loves us.
A Savior who heals us.
A Savior who has a plan for us
and is not done with us just yet.
That, y’all, is the ancient promise of Advent.
That, y’all, is why we are here.
* * *
Like I said last week,
everything we’re reading now
in our St. John’s year of the Bible
shows us how faulty and frail
the rulers and powers of the earth truly are.
Even King David—
who is still lauded to this day
as the greatest king Israel ever had—
even King David
messes up
and messes up bad.
There he is out on his rooftop,
when he looks over and spies
with his little eye . . .
a woman . . .
a married woman . . .
a woman named Bathsheba . . .
Bathsheba, who happens to be married
to a man named Uriah . . .
Uriah, who happens to serve
in King David’s army.
And on this fateful day,
King David looks over and sees Bathsheba
bathing out on her rooftop,
thinks that she is beautiful,
and calls her over to his place.
The proverbial “one thing”
leads to the proverbial “other,”
and—bada bing, bada boom—
Bathsheba ends up pregnant.
So what does David do?
Instead of owning up to his mistake—
instead of confessing his sin
and owning the consequences
of his own selfishness—
King David decides instead
to have Bathsheba’s husband Uriah
placed at the front lines of battle
so Uriah can be conveniently killed
and David can conveniently cover his tracks.
For all we might say about
how great King David was,
he, too, was a hot mess.
He, too, messed up.
He, too, fixated too closely
on what is shiny and new.
He, too, forgot who he was
and whose he was
and all that truly mattered.
* * *
In a world that constantly craves
what is shiny and new,
we are here today
to do something old.
We are here to gather together against the darkness.
We are here to sing.
We are here to pray.
We are here to make our offerings,
and to receive Communion,
and to be forgiven,
and to find healing and hope and laughter and love.
While the world has always desperately looked
for everything that is new,
we are doing what is old.
We are waiting for our Savior and King:
A Savior who loves us.
A Savior who heals us.
A Savior who has a plan for us
and is not done with us just yet.
That, y’all, is the ancient promise of Advent.
That, y’all, is why we are here.
Remember who you are
and rejoice in whose you are.
The King is coming,
and he is the One
who is making all things new.
Amen.