Sermon, December 2, 2001
First Sunday of Advent; Year A
The Rev. Lowell E. Grisham
St. Paul's Episcopal Church
Fayetteville, Arkansas

Jeff Dodson was a mystery to me. I was seven years old, and Jeff and I were second graders in Mrs. Hyde’s class. Mrs. Hyde was a wonderful, wise, compassionate teacher. Perfect for second grade.

Jeff walked with a limp and wore a leg brace. His face was disfigured and his speech was slurred because his mouth and jaw didn’t work straight together. I remember my second grade curiosity about his appearance. And that’s all it was. Jeff was okay; he was just a curiosity to me. The only thing about him that troubled me was the very large scar in his scalp where the hair didn’t grow. I didn’t like to look at that.

Mrs. Hyde was teaching us about stories: how to read stories; how to listen to stories; how to tell stories. We all tried to tell or write stories. But it was Jeff’s story that she raised up for us. He told about the day several years ago, when he was very small, when he ran out into the street and was hit by a taxicab. He told about it all in great detail. He described the injuries, the surgeries, the doctors, the struggle to learn to do everything again, the parts of him that didn’t work as well anymore. He told the story in that strange flat voice of his, but Mrs. Hyde’s face showed us how important, how wonderful his story was, whether we understood that or not.

Later that day as we headed for recess, I heard one of our friends come up to Jeff in that matter-of-fact way that second graders have and say, "I didn’t know why you looked the way you do. That was pretty cool." And Jeff nodded his head and smiled crookedly, glad to be cool. I think it was sometime later that week when we were choosing up sides for kickball. One of the more confident kids in our grade picked Jeff first to be on his team. Jeff rewarded him with a string of singles that made us all yell and applaud. Jeff was okay. He was pretty cool.

How do you live after catastrophe? "In those days before the flood they were eating and drinking, marrying and giving in marriage, until the day Noah entered the ark, and they knew nothing until the flood came and swept them all away."

Friday night at our World AIDS Day service a new friend named Ed Johnson told about his life these last nine years since becoming HIV infected. He wanted to quit; to die. Instead, he got sober. And he described a full life of growing confidence and appreciation. A life with challenges; but a good life.

Yesterday I visited with a man at the Seven Hills Homeless Center’s first anniversary celebration. As he leaned on his cane he told about his dreams if his disability claim comes through. He wants to buy a truck, a big truck, and teach some of these others who are homeless how to drive a big rig; and hire some others as loaders; and when they are all paid, they’ll give a portion of their paychecks back to Seven Hills because this place helped them and will help others like them. I asked him how long ago he was hurt. He said the accident was nineteen years ago. "And it’s hard to get a job even if you’re certified to operate a forklift and a big rig," he said. "It’s hard if you look like this. But I keep going," he said. "And I’ve got a lot of hope."

How do you live after a catastrophe? One breath at a time. One step at a time. One day at a time. You keep going, and life seems to come back to you.

The Gospel writer Matthew’s community was living in the shadow of catastrophe. A failed Jewish rebellion had brought the merciless wrath of the Roman Empire down upon them. The ancient Temple had been destroyed. The young church had expected the immanent return of Jesus now for over forty years. People desperately yearned for Jesus to come and save them from this disaster. But the best Matthew could say was, "Keep awake, you don’t know on what day your Lord is coming." A few verses before today’s passage he puts together the haunting paradox that these second and third generation Christians were living with, words attributed to Jesus: "Truly I tell you, this generation will not pass away until all these things have taken place;" and "But about that day and hour no one knows, neither the angels of heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father." That’s as good as Matthew could do for his community in catastrophe. I’m coming back, but only God knows when. So, keep awake.

Those words from the Gospel haven’t stopped lots of people from guessing when Jesus will return again. There is a fascinating and somewhat pitiful two thousand year history of apocalyptic fever, not the least of which is the current series of silly books in the Left Behind series by Tim LaHaye and Jerry Jenkins. The end-time scenarios always tell more about the writers than they do about God. People like Pat Robertson and Jerry Falwell who really seem to hate the world and its people always imagine a God who comes to destroy and condemn. Matthew imagines a pretty fierce and angry God who comes suddenly to wreak vengeance on the enemies who have so damaged his world. Luke, on the other hand, pictures a gentler God; and John’s Gospel has no comparable apocalyptic expectation. When faced with the uncertainty of the mystery of the future, we all tend to project our own limited vision onto that blankness.

So Matthew imagines the coming of the Son of Man to be as unpredictable and catastrophic as a flood or a thief in the night. When you are going through the mindless motions of the day, or when you think no one is watching and you are alone. The Son of Man floods over you or steals silently into you. And so it happens. When you are just taking one breath at a time, one step at a time, one day at a time, something unexpected sneaks up on you and floods you with new life. A crippled boy is picked first for kickball; a man with AIDS realizes he’s going to live; a struggling trucker dreams a dream.

Sometimes it is when our guard is down that Jesus breaks into our life anew. Sometimes it happens when we are overwhelmed by the flood of life and feel like we can’t go on like this any longer. Sometimes it happens when we’ve finished the long day, cleaned up the kitchen, put up the dog and slipped toward the bedroom thinking finally we are alone and no one is watching. It is in those moments when our defenses slip when God comes. When we are flooded and just quit struggling. Or when we are quiet, alone and unseen. When you least expect it. Just taking your next breath, your next step, your next day. Occasionally people tell priests how it happens. I hear the stories all the time.

"I was walking around the corner, and suddenly I was at peace. I knew, all was well."

"I just took my last drink, and that was it. I just quit."

"I woke up from that dream and somehow I knew, I’m not alone."

"The night before the surgery I felt something very deep inside that told me I would be okay."

"I was looking at the colors of the bubbles in the sink, and I was overwhelmed by the beauty of everything."

"As I lay there trapped inside the car I felt a presence there with me. It was utter peace, and I knew I was going to live."

"As the hymn began I felt filled with gratitude and light. I knew, it’s all true. There really is a God."

Keep awake! Keep awake, therefore, for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming. It could be the next day; the next step; the next breath.

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