First Sunday of Advent: December 1, 2024
Laura Meyers
Jeremiah 33:14-16 • Psalm 25:1-10 • Thessalonians 3:9-13 • Luke 21:25-36
My neighbors put up their Christmas lights last week, Starbucks has been serving its holiday menu since November 7th, and many folks I know have been gradually unboxing their holiday décor over the past few weeks—dusting off faux cedar branches, washing Christmas linens, and immersing themselves in Christmas music all month long. Yet today marks the beginning of Advent, a season often overlooked in the rush toward Christmas. Advent invites us to pause, reflect, and prepare our hearts in anticipation of the coming of our Lord. It’s a time to embrace the waiting, to sit with the hope, peace, joy, and love that this season offers, rather than rushing past it. Advent reminds us that the journey matters just as much as the destination.
This is the season where we orient ourselves—both liturgically and in our everyday lives—toward Christmas. And yet, Advent asks us to make some significant pauses along the way. On this first Sunday, our readings look forward not to the tender nativity but to Jesus’ triumphant return. We are drawn into the apocalyptic visions of a world in turmoil.
The prophecy from Jeremiah points to the fulfillment of God’s promise—a future when all shall live in peace and justice. This era of flourishing for all people is something we can likely agree has not yet arrived. The coming Messiah was meant to usher in this age of peace, an end to war, and relief from the woes of humanity. And yet, in today’s gospel reading from Luke, Jesus acknowledges that this time has not yet come. Instead, he proclaims unsettling prophecies: signs of disaster, roaring seas, distress among nations, and fear gripping humanity. Jesus declares that the time of the Son of Man’s return is imminent, teaching, “Truly I tell you, this generation will not pass away until all things have taken place.”
Advent doesn’t give us the sweetness of Christmas—the infant Jesus, angelic choirs, or a silent, holy night. Instead, it confronts us with the chaos and violence of human history. It offers signs of dread—floods, earthquakes, and fear—that force us to grapple with the tension between God’s promises and the current state of the world. This is less about Luke’s tender nativity scene and more like stepping into the pages of an apocalypse. Advent reminds us that the road to Christmas passes through uncertainty, longing, and hope for the fullness of God’s kingdom.
I invite you to reflect on the recurring presence of apocalyptic moments. Doom and disruption are not unique to our era; they have cycled through history, both communally and individually. We all experienced the rupture and disruption of the COVID-19 pandemic, which upended our sense of normalcy and forced us to grapple with uncertainty and loss.
Today, we witness other moments that feel apocalyptic: the devastation of the latest bomb cyclone, leaving communities in its wake struggling to rebuild; the post-election chaos that sows division and distrust; the ongoing discrimination against immigrants and LGBTQIA individuals, eroding the dignity and humanity of countless people. These events mirror the very signs of distress and foreboding described in scripture—reminders of the brokenness in our world.
Diana Butler Bass, a renowned theologian and author known for her reflections on contemporary spirituality, challenges us to rethink the concept of apocalypse. Rather than viewing it solely as doom and destruction, she reframes it as a rupture—a breaking open that paves the way for renewal. She invites us to embrace the ruptures in our own lives—moments of loss, illness, or significant change—and to recognize them as opportunities for growth, transformation, and reconnection.
For instance, amidst the apocalyptic imagery and unsettling prophecies in our scripture, we encounter a glimmer of hope in the parable of the fig tree. Jesus asks us to look to the natural world for a sign of God’s unfolding plan. The impending bloom of the fig tree—its tender branches sprouting leaves—signals that summer is near. This small, ordinary event becomes a profound metaphor for the promises of God.
In the midst of chaos and distress, the fig tree reminds us that signs of life and renewal are always present, even when the world feels on the brink of despair. The bloom is not immediate; it requires waiting, watching, and trusting. Advent calls us into this same posture: a season of patient anticipation for the fulfillment of God’s promises, when justice, peace, and flourishing will come to pass.
The fig tree assures us that even in the midst of upheaval, there is a divine rhythm at work—a promise that the barren will bloom and that what seems delayed is not denied. As we journey through Advent, this parable encourages us to look for those quiet signs of God’s presence breaking through, offering hope, and pointing us toward the coming kingdom.
This awareness—this tension between impending doom and impending bloom—is where we find God. It binds us to the divine presence and to the work of mending frayed edges, both in our lives and in the world. It also invites us into stillness, a necessary posture for discernment.
This week at Harborview, I witnessed one of those unmistakable signs of God’s presence. A woman about my age brought her 87-year-old mother to the ER. Her mother was gravely ill. She recounted how she had entered her mother’s home to find her lying peacefully on the floor next to her desk, saying, “I’ve seen Him!” When she asked, “Do you mean God?” her mother nodded yes. That moment of profound connection led them to the hospital—and to me.
While the medical team cared for her mother, we had the chance to talk about her life. I learned that her mother was a gardener, and one of her favorite trees was their persimmon tree. She showed me a beautiful photograph of it, and we marveled at how it had weathered the recent Bomb Cyclone. I couldn’t help but reflect on its resilience and how it brought to mind the lesson of the fig tree. We spoke about the legacy of that persimmon tree and what it would continue to mean to their family—a symbol of strength, endurance, and the beauty of life’s unfolding seasons.
Advent invites us to live in the tension between what is and what is yet to come. It is a season of both disruption and hope, of despair and renewal. The apocalyptic moments in our scriptures and in our lives call us to attention, reminding us of the fragility of the world we inhabit but also of the divine promise woven into it—a promise of transformation, justice, and peace.
Like the fig tree, we are asked to trust in the unseen, to hold onto the hope that life will bloom again even in the midst of chaos. The persimmon tree, weathered and steadfast, becomes a living parable of this faith—a reminder that even after storms, the roots of love, memory, and connection hold strong.
As we journey through this Advent season, may we find courage in the waiting and strength in the rupture. May we see in the barren branches of our lives the promise of new growth. And may we embrace the work of preparing our hearts and the world for the coming of Christ—not just as a child in a manger, but as the One who renews all things. The promise of Advent is that, no matter how dark or uncertain the world may seem, God’s light is already breaking through, guiding us toward the kingdom where peace and justice flourish. Amen.