Here’s Sunday’s sermon with several caveats.

First, I find preaching on two texts quite difficult. I enjoy the challenge, but feel like this sermon could be split into two–Isaiah 2 and Romans 13–and made much better.

Second, I don’t think I’d quote Martin Luther King Jr. in the states. “I Have a Dream” seems almost too sacred to use in a sermon, which is ironic because I quote the Bible all the time and King’s speech was based on Isaiah.

Third, I should credit P.C. Enniss and Day 1 for several ideas (not footnoted because I can’t figure out how in wordpress.)

Fourth, I changed the name of Shipwreck Island’s “lazy river” to “running river” with my sermonic license.

Finally, one day I want to write a book called, “Preaching Mediocrity” in which I will argue that many good things can happen when a preacher does a fairly good job, but not splendidly. Not every sermon must be publishable, especially when it is given within the context of a strong worship service. I’m not saying preachers should strive for mediocrity, but striving for perfection isn’t a good idea either.

Waiting With Our Clothes On

Isaiah 2:1-5, Romans 13:11-14

I’m sure you will have many stereotypes of the American south. Some of them, I dare say, might even be true. On the whole, things are slower in the south–people take the time to talk to you, to discuss next year’s baseball prospects, or the dad-gum drought, or why in the world that new couple painted their house that hideous shade of pink. In the south, we do like our tea with sugar–cold–with plenty of ice cubes and lemon.

Southerners, you might say, talk funny. We say, “pee-can” instead of “pecAn,” “meer” instead of “mirRor,” and “ma’am” and “sir” to anyone older than ourselves, or anyone who might know your mama. Women wear pearls, men wear boots, and we all drive pickup trucks (well ok, not quite).

And it’s not uncommon, especially in smaller towns, to see folk out on their front porch, sitting in a rocking chair just watching the day go by.

Even in Decatur, my small town surrounded by the metropolis of Atlanta, even in Decatur you’ll see them.

Wearing overalls, long skirts, or work clothes, sitting on the front porch just rocking. Maybe with a beer in the cooler, maybe with the radio in the background, but more often just rocking–rocking in the rocking chair, thinking perhaps, perhaps, but mostly just rocking. Watching the day go by. Recalling when things used to be different. Considering the crop outlooks, tomorrow’s weather, the state of the nation, but mostly, rocking.

I’ve heard one son of the south describe his grandmother. She was a rocker. When the family came by, they tried to sit inside. “Common, Grandma, stop that rocking and come inside and talk to your family.” But this Grandma had different ideas, “I think I’ll just set out here until Jesus’ comes back.” And so she rocked.

Rocking chair Christians. Just sitting back, contemplating, waiting for Jesus to come back when he’s good and ready.

Sometimes we Christians can be so heavenly minded that we’re no earthly good.

This Advent season, how shall we wait? Shall we pull up the rocking chair, sit back comfortably, put up our feet, and let the world pass by?

Shall we make sure we buy the most expensive presents, stretching our wallets so we can look good, or feel better, or keep up with the other set of grandparents?

This Advent season, how shall we wait?

[pause: change in tone and pace]

With due respect to my southern brothers and sisters of those glorious rocking chairs, Advent waiting is an active waiting.

Think of it not as a noun, but a verb. Advent is an action word. Advent means “coming.” It moves. It breathes. It beckons you to join.

Growing up, my family would take a yearly holiday to St. George Island, Florida–a beautiful island on north Florida’s gulf coast. Though most of the holiday consisted of playing in the sand, taking walks, and reading books, we would usually take one day to travel to Shipwreck Island in Panama City.

Shipwreck Island is perhaps the grubbiest, least well-run, most unimpressive water park in America, but my brother and I loved it. We’d fly down the giant flumes, fight to keep afloat in the wave pool, and for a break, take a dip in the running river. The running river was part relaxation and part transportation as it ran a route through the entire water park. If you wanted to go from one side of the park to another, you’d walk over the running river, catch a raft or inner-tube, and the always-moving water would carry you around the park.

The running river never stopped. The rafts and inner-tubes circled and circled the park. One could sit back and relax on a raft, yes, but the river kept moving, churning, and flowing always onward.

Advent moves. Advent flows. Advent isn’t for sitting on a front porch, it’s for journeying: journeying from where we have been–as friends, and family members, as disciples–to where we’d like to be. Advent is flowing by, and it’s our job to join the crowds.

Today’s Old Testament reading was compiled long before the Church discerned it was wise to celebrate the season of Advent, but Isaiah is all about the Advent spirit.

Isaiah (you’ll have to forgive my pronunciation there, I just can’t bring myself to say “eye-sigh-a”–y’all do talk funny here). Isaiah received a vision from God, he dreamed about the days to come.

In that time all the nations will stream towards the holy mountain and receive instructions from the Lord.

They will beat their swords into maddocks and their spears into pruning-knives; nation will not lift sword against nation nor ever again be trained for war. (Isaiah 2:3-4)

And after describing this glorious vision of peace, of God’s people worshiping together in God’s presence, of the Lord justly judging the nations, Isaiah adds one more line.

Come, let us walk in the light of the Lord.

Even Isaiah’s vision, oh those many years ago, is active, an invitation, “Come, let us walk in the light of the Lord.”

This vision, then, can shape our waiting.

It’s a vision that led the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King to see past America’s government-sanctioned racial discrimination to a just society. It’s a vision that led King to brave the hostility of fire hoses and dogs, to keep his hope while wrongfully imprisoned, to march with the faithful. It’s a vision that led King to preach on Isaiah to thousands on the steps of the Washington Monument.

Shaped by the prophesy of Isaiah, King preached,

“I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.”

King then mixes his vision with Isaiah’s.

“I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight, and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together.”

St. Paul saw the vision too. For him, it was immediate, always-moving closer, life-changing. It was ethical, imperative, clear.

Wake up! he wrote, for deliverance is nearer and nearer every day. The dark night is almost over. Day is near. Therefore throw off the deeds of darkness and put on the armor of light….Let Jesus be the armor that you wear. (Romans 13:11-14)

I haven’t seen Marks and Spencer advertising any “armor of light” sales, have you? To my knowledge John Lewis isn’t specializing in the new line of Christ coats, Jesus jumpers, or savior sneakers? What is this armor of light, this putting on Jesus, of which Paul speaks.

Paul lists off a rather nasty collection of vices: drunkenness, debauchery, quarrels, jealousies. Circumstances, we can surmise, that were particularly problematic for the church in Rome–if Jesus was coming back the next day, as Paul and this community thought, what would it matter if you had a hangover?

We could probably come up with a similar list of vices for our culture, but more helpful, perhaps, is a focus on the armor of light, on putting on Christ.

Paul gives a clearer idea of his meaning in Galatians 3:27 As many of you as were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ. (Or another translation says, “you have put on Christ like a garment.” There is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female: for all of you are one in Christ.

By virtue of our baptisms, we have already put on Christ. We are marked and sealed as Christ’s own. The sign of the cross at our Christening, an indelible mark signifying who and whose we are.

That’s one reason we’ll often wear white baptismal gowns. Or, in other traditions, why the newly baptized are clothed in a white alb. Or why some congregations sing the refrain after baptism: You have put on Christ. In him you have been baptized. Alleluia.

But this armor is different. P. C. Enniss writes, “Our lives are inevitably shaped by those for whom we wait.”

Who are we waiting on, but the one of love, justice, and peace? Who are we waiting on, but the one who showed us how to live?

This armor is different. Isaiah reminds us: It is the armor of peace: when nations shall not make war any more. It is the armor of justice: when God will rightly judge the lands. It is the armor of hope: that there be light for ever more.

Dr. Enniss tells a story of Karen, a seminary student living and studying in New York City while her new husband had taken a job in another state. “They saw each other only on weekends. In homiletics class, Karen described what her Fridays were like when John came into Pennsylvania Station on the train in time for supper.

‘I usually get up early on Friday to clean the apartment before coming up here to school,’ she said. ‘Then, after classes, I make a kind of safari down Broadway. I stop for groceries, pick up a bottle of wine, stop at a favorite flower stall for fresh flowers, and when I get home, I have just enough time to get myself and supper ready. Then John comes.’ Only Karen went on to add, ‘The funny thing about it is that from morning until he arrives, I have this strange feeling that he is already with me…not really…but really.’”

How shall we wait? In a rocking chair or on a running river? Shall we sing protest songs, or hum to ourselves? Shall we buy new clothes for the party, or shall we remember the ones we already have, a different sort of armor, a different sort of savior, a different sort of season. Friends in Christ, Advent is here.

Adam J. Copeland
Assistant Minister