The Total Agony of Being in Love - Isaiah 64:1-9; Mark 13:24-37

Friends, it’s that time of year again. It’s time for the annual re-watch of your favorite holiday rom-coms. I spent Thanksgiving with my family in Tallahassee, where we introduced one family member to the Christmas classic, Love, Actually. She was shocked and delighted at how many phrases and quips from our culture originated from this 2003 film. I was delighted to giggle again at my favorite scene in the movie. 

Daniel, played by Liam Neeson, was recently widowed, and is struggling to connect with his sulking young stepson, Sam. Daniel confronts Sam, fearing the problem may be bigger than he can handle, but Sam reveals that he’s miserable because he’s in love. Daniel is relieved and admits to Sam he thought it would be something worse. Sam, incredulous, replies, “worse than the total agony of being in love?” Daniel quite rightly concedes the point. 

Most of us, even those of us who are not as emotional as Sam, can admit to being affected by the pangs of love. Perhaps because I’d watched this film so recently, it was the first thing I thought of when I read the lovely poetry of the 64th chapter of Isaiah. In this part of Isaiah, the prophet is lamenting that even though the people have been released from Babylonian captivity, life is still incredibly hard, and God seems distant from them. And as I read these verses, I thought, Sam could have spoken these words! This is like a love letter! 

“O that you would tear open the heavens and come down, so that the mountains would quake our your presence - as when fire kindles brushwood and the fire causes water to boil….there is no one who calls on your name, or attempts to take hold of you; for you have hidden your face from us, and have delivered us into the hand of our iniquity.” 

I’m grateful that Kate often preaches about our relationship with God as a love story, because it helped me hear this passage from Isaiah and understand that the agony of lost, distanced, or unrequited love is actually quite similar to the agony of not being able to sense the closeness of God. The longing is the same. 

Today we enter the season of Advent. Usually in Advent we focus on anticipation and preparation. But I think a key element of Advent is holy longing. We long for God to come nearer to us, and so we spend a whole season preparing to celebrate the Incarnation of God in the nativity of Christ. We also long for our broken world to be made right, and so we spend a whole season preparing to welcome the second coming of Christ, the Cosmic Incarnation, if you will. 

This brings me to the Gospel. In today’s passage from Mark (have I mentioned yet how thrilled I am that we’ve come back around to Lectionary Year B?) we hear Jesus describe the brutality that foreshadows this Cosmic Incarnation, this final, ultimate indwelling of God in the world. 

Jesus and his disciples have just left the Temple. As they walk away, the disciples marvel at the Temple’s majesty and steadfastness. But Jesus is quick to reprimand. This will not last, he tells them. These stones are not the foundation of faith. The current state of things must be upended in order for God to inhabit the world. The disciples will learn that for those who are content with what they have, Jesus’ words mean that things may get worse before they get better.

Begrudgingly I must admit that in this story, I see Christ Church in the disciples. We love our stones. We love this place. Even in the midst of our master planning process we don’t want one iota of its beauty or charm to shift. We wish the things we love most about our church could stay exactly as they are forever, right down to the grouchy old lady at the front desk.

We know, all too well, that this just isn’t how the world works. And when we cling a little too tightly to the stones of our temple, Jesus gets foot-stompy. As an alternative, Jesus invites us in Advent to engage in holy longing. Jesus encourages us to spend time in prayer and worship and community looking forward to an age to come in which the world will be made right and exceed even our highest expectations and best experiences so far, and when what we’ve lost will be restored to us. 

In short, I think Mark and Isaiah are inviting us to revel in the total agony of being in love with God. It’s agonizing because we long to be fully reunited with God but we don’t know when that will happen - or what will happen between now and then. And it’s agonizing because although it can at times be painful, we do not set our longing aside. We never give up hope. That’s the glory of Advent, and it’s worthy of the most passionate of love letters. 

I’m not much of a poet myself, but if I could write a love letter to Carol Lou, I might borrow a line or two from Isaiah 64. Perhaps the line about mountains quaking at her presence, or how I wish she could tear open the heavens and come down.After the week we’ve had, I’d say Christ Church is drenched in longing. And so, difficult as it may be, I think we’ve never been more ready for Advent. 

We have a long road ahead of us, learning how to live, how to embody the risen Christ without Carol Lou. Just like at her funeral, there will be moments of sadness and there will be moments of joy. And as Advent reminds us, there will be glimpses of incarnation, of the nearness of God, all around us. Our longing and our hope for these glimpses will see us through.

It’s an honor to share my holy longing for our beloved parish administrator, my longing for the closeness of God, and my longing for a better, more Christ-like world to inhabit, with all of you. I look forward, this Advent, to lifting our voices together as we cry, come, Lord Jesus. Amen.