Sermons from Mission Hills UCC San Diego, California Rev. Dr. David Bahr [email protected] November 28, 2021 “Homesick” Luke 21: 25-31 There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on the earth distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves. 26 People will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world, for the powers of the heavens will be shaken. 27 Then they will see ‘the Son of Man coming in a cloud’ with power and great glory. 28 Now when these things begin to take place, stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near.” 29 Then he told them a parable: “Look at the fig tree and all the trees; 30 as soon as they sprout leaves you can see for yourselves and know that summer is already near. 31 So also, when you see these things taking place, you know that the kingdom of God is near. It seems such a strange and bizarre way to begin a season that ends with beautiful, tranquil scenes of a silent night and a baby laid in a manger surrounded by angels singing “Hark!” and shepherds tending their flocks while Zoroastrians prepare for a journey Eastward; strange, but such violent imagery in our gospel reading today is always the way Advent begins, with these kinds of apocalyptic Mad Max end of the world scenes straight out of the minds of Hollywood directors. This particular scripture in Luke is within a longer section in which Jesus describes the destruction of the temple, a public statement that kept adding to the conspiracies and plots stirring against him. What he describes is terrifying. Not only the demolished temple, he foretells false prophets, wars and uprisings, food shortages, natural disasters, persecution, and epidemics. Sadly, we know these are not simply apocalyptic Mad Max end of the world scenes straight out of the minds of Hollywood directors. These are the steady news feed on our phones or on the pages of our daily newspaper. We know the fear and foreboding Jesus describes. Do we also know the hope he describes in the fig tree? Do we know, deep within our bones, that whether in birth or death, from incarnation to crucifixion and resurrection, God always has the last word? Do we know, can we imagine, that hope and peace and joy and love are the home God is preparing for us even now? Not in heaven, but as Jesus taught to us pray, on earth, as it is in heaven. Not some pie in the sky bye and bye when we die but something sound on the ground while we’re still around. That’s one of my favorite descriptions of progressive Christianity by UCC pastor Kenneth Samuel. Do we know this deep in our bones? A deep longing, a kind of homesickness even, for a home we have never experienced. But how can we be homesick for a home we’ve never known? I asked my Facebook friends on Friday, “How can home be a place you’ve never been?” Elizabeth Wheeler answered, it’s wherever the Coast Guard sends us! Kathy said it’s walking into just the right house, knowing this is the one you will buy. One person said home is a feeling – safety, warmth, comfort, unconditional love… My best friend said, “You won't know until you are there and you feel it. You can dream and think a place will be your home, but you won't know until that spark occurs.” I didn’t have that spark when I stood on the overlook at Pacific Beach in April. I don’t know what exactly I felt. I certainly had no idea that I was home, or that I had been longing for a home where I had never been. And yet, even though I may live here now, it won’t be my home until my family finally arrives in 2023. I can relate to homesickness too, but not for Denver. It’s for Art to be here. And then it really will be home. All of this got me thinking about the complexities and complications of the word home. Home is not the smell of Christmas cookies baking in the oven for everyone. We may say home is the place where people have to take you in, but that’s not the reality for everyone. The place where who we are will not be allowed under this roof. Home for some is the abuse of a father, the mental illness of a mother, the death of a young sibling, the holiday meal with an empty table – either empty of food or empty of the person with whom we shared that home for 50 years. One person’s nostalgia is another person’s nightmare. This church’s connection with Just In Time for Foster Youth makes me wonder. What if “home” for a 12-year-old has already been 28 different bedrooms and all your belongings in a garbage bag? Among their programs, I love the My First Home program, perhaps the first leaf on a long dormant fig tree that’s been waiting for the opportunity to grow. But the more I thought of home the more I felt grief for refugees fleeing war, whether in camps or crossing one border after another looking for a new home – that kind of safety, warmth, comfort, unconditional love we can take for granted. Or the pain of internment camps forced upon Japanese families who tried to make things “normal” for their children. Or the outrage I felt listening to stories of gratitude by Lakota families on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation for receiving new formaldehyde-soaked FEMA trailers deemed unfit for living by victims of natural disasters, yet welcomed as upgrades on the ‘rez. That and lead pipes in Flint give a whole new meaning to “homesickness.” And I wonder, does the metaphor of the fig tree still work? And yet, hope survives. And amazingly, though lives may be difficult, yet they thrive. Maybe all of this really does prove the point that home is simply where the heart is. The church I served in Cleveland for 15 years was in the inner city. People had difficult lives, some due to choice, much due to circumstance. We turned our parsonage into a three-quarter house for people in drug and alcohol recovery, meaning it was half-way between halfway house and independent living. We had prostitution off the front steps and swept the playground every morning for used needles, but that’s just what you did in order to welcome kids and help them get a head start on their lives. One of the answers for the question I asked on Facebook came from a member of my former church who had his own version of a very difficult life. He said, “I've always felt that the Exodus story was a great template for ‘finding home.’ It was a journey about purging - purging things about yourself and purging the things or people that will hurt you (and like wandering for 40 years, time consuming, too). But, he said, once the purging and processing is fairly well finished, then you're ‘home’ at the landscape you're in.” And then, of course, you turn around and help the next person find their way home too. This Advent we are taking a journey. Each Sunday a step closer to home, not just Christmas. Today begins by recognizing the world Jesus describes is frighteningly real and we express our deep longing. As in the words of our call to worship, homesickness for a just world and the end of suffering. Fiona and Ben shared so clearly the home we seek – a world where all are fed. A world with more bridges than walls. A world with wide open doors. A world full of contagious laughter, where trees grow tall and rivers run clean and all people feel at home, in their bodies, in the church, and in their physical homes. And for those without, an actual home. In the words of our liturgy for today, we are homesick for that world, even though it’s a place we have never been. That’s where we are on this first Sunday of Advent. Endless warring factions and divisions. Waves of pandemic surges and new variants. We can express hope, or allow cynicism to win. We can hope against hope, or we can throw in the towel. We can insist on a better world, or we can assume it’s impossible and be satisfied we’ve made it and let everyone else fight over the scraps. But that’s not us. We have stories of resilient hope to draw upon and to share. We know that home is here and what we make of it. And, not yet. Not until everyone is at home in a world of peace, joy, and love. But could it be that the world is about to turn? Theme and phrases are part of the resources for the First Sunday of Advent by A Sanctified Art written by Rev. Sarah Speed. sanctifiedart.org
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