Advent is coming to an end, but a new journey awaits. And we, like the magi, look to the rising star in the East to guide our way.
But where does the star lead us?
Follow the star through the darkness and you will find an eclipse, says a former professor, Richard F. Wilson, in the sermon "Eclipse" from his collection entitled Rhythms. And so it is that the light emanating from the star is finally eclipsed by the darkness that occurs at the cross, a darkness that Wilson notes is all the more dark because of the light provided by the star.
Are we ready to welcome the child in the manger as the man who, on the cross, exclaims: My God, My God, why have you forsaken me? Is our hope, the hope of Advent and Christmas, forsaken on the cross with the (forsaken) one in whom our hope lies? Will our Christmas faith survive the darkness of the so-called "Good" Friday? And, as we welcome our Coming Lord, are we prepared to follow his path to the cross and the death that comes his way?
In another sermon, "Living East of Eden," Wilson says that our lives are haunted by two unavoidable truths, truths he finds in Fiddler on the Roof as much as in the words of Scripture. The first is that "[o]ur lives are defined by their horizons;" the second that "our lives are mixtures of joys and sorrows."
Our common horizon as humans, says Wilson, is that we live east of Eden. But he argues on biblical grounds that living east of Eden is not a bad thing, that Eden and east of Eden are really not that different, that Eden is not the grand Paradise it is made out to be--if you read the text itself.
Eden, he says, in addition to being the place where life began, was also "where relationships were made and broken, where temptation to sin was met and embraced, where judgment was pronounced, and where forgiveness was offered and accepted." Not so different from our world, right? And, besides, the one we welcome tomorrow was born and lived east of Eden.
Wilson continues by noting how God's purpose for humanity does not change as we move eastward. Compare Genesis 2.15 with 3.23 and you will find that God's purpose is ever the same: "to till the ground," to live and work productively in God's good creation. So Wilson understands Eden "as much a place of preparation as ... a Paradise."
And as to humanity's flight from Eden, rather than letting the second mention (God driving humanity out in 3.24) govern the first mention (God sending humanity out in 3.23), Wilson chooses to have the first mention dictate what it means to leave Eden. God driving out the sinful humans seems like something straight out of Jonathan Edwards, as if humanity were "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God." Humanity as "'sent forth ... to till the ground' sounds like missionary talk to me," offers Wilson--and you get the feeling that he is at least a little bit excited by the notion of being sent with a purpose by a loving Creator, Sustainer, and Redeemer.
To tie the two sermons together, let us consider our horizons as ones who eagerly await the coming of Mary's magnificent child and begin the journey to follow him to the cross. Our horizons are Christmas, on the one hand, and Easter, on the other. They are inextricably linked, so that you cannot have one without the other. And, together, they define our life as the church, the ones who gather together in the name of the one who is born on Christmas and who is risen on Easter.
But we cannot have Christmas without Advent, just as we cannot have Easter without Lent and Good Friday.
And so, here we are, at the dusk of Advent, following the star, seeking to "live toward," to quote Wilson, the horizon that is Christmas. It is here, in the "midnight brightness," following the star to the Christ-child, that our Easter faith begins. As is life in general, this Advent has been a mixture of joy and sorrow; Christmas will be the same. Christmas is, like Eden, often portrayed as some perfect and peaceful Paradise. Yet, get a little closer to the manger and you will see cries of agony alongside the cries of celebration.
In mere hours now, we will gather around the manger and proclaim--no, exclaim--"Emmanuel, God With Us!" We will then begin a new journey, as we seek to "live toward" our other horizon, Easter, following the star from the East that lights the way to the Christ. Again, our path will be met with both joys and sorrows. And we will have to hear the cry of the babe-turned-man: My God, my God, why have Thou forsaken me?
As Wilson observes, such a cry sends a chill down our collective spine, and even down God's very own spine, the way a shadow from a sudden cloud brings a chill in springtime, "reminding us that winter is not completely gone." Such is Good Friday, when the star is eclipsed and we stand in the shadow of the cross, where our Easter faith begins again, with hope that a new day will dawn.
Are we ready for a new journey, the journey toward the cross? We don't have long to prepare, for Christmas is coming, bringing life and bringing our Lord. Come, Lord Jesus!
Come, Lord Jesus, indeed. But, with his coming, we will then be sent forth with a purpose, the same purpose humanity has ever had: to till the ground.
May we, like the magi, follow the star to Jesus, the Christ. And may we travel together, so that the chill won't be as bad when the cross finally eclipses the star.
Come, Lord Jesus. Come now, as Christmas approaches. Come now, as the cross has even now already eclipsed the star. Come now, as Christmas and Easter become one hope, the hope for our Coming Lord. Come now, we pray.
Amen.
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