Stay Awake

Stay Awake by Frank Fisher
Isaiah 64:1-9, Mark 13:24-37. I hope you'll forgive me but I've always wanted to do that. There have been some Sundays when I want to shout those words over and over. For despite all the noise I generate during sermons there are times in every congregation when I look outward after the completion of the Gospel lesson, and find someone settling in for a fifteen minute nap. There's a story circulating on the internet which illustrates this problem. In the story, a woman was visiting a new church. She appreciated most of the service. But the sermon seemed to go on forever, and many people in the congregation fell asleep. After the service, she walked up to a very sleepy looking gentleman, extended her hand in greeting, and said, "Hello, I'm Gladys Dunn." The gentleman looked at her, nodded, and replied, "you're not the only one Ma'am. I'm glad it's done too!" All too often it's difficult for us to stay awake. We'd just as soon nod off and be glad it's done afterwards. That happens during Sunday services and it seems to happen more often during Advent. For Advent can seem to be a long dreary time of waiting. At least it seems dreary when compared to the wonder of Christmas that's yet to come. But perhaps we can wait more patiently if we look back into the lives of some who might have waited with us; Waited as they struggled to stay awake to watch for the One who came among us; the One who died and arose; the One who will come to us once again. Your name is Sapha, a woman of the tribe of Levi, and a daughter of the nation of Judah. But the nation of whom you're a part is faded now; faded almost into an sleep of non-existence as you and your family dwell in Babylonian captivity. It would be all too easy for your country to fall asleep. For your captivity is gentle. And soon your present home seems much more real than remembered glory of Jerusalem. But somehow you manage to fight off the sleep urging you to become one nation with your captors. "We are Judah," you and yours proclaim proudly. And so, you stay awake. You stay awake by telling your children stories of Jerusalem; the city they've never seen. You stay awake by following the law; the law which sets you apart and reminds you of God's path. And you stay awake in worship. For the worship of the Holy One uplifts the hope that one day you will see God's house once more. You stay awake by day and by night as you pray for your deliverance. And one day it seems God's answered your prayers. For mighty and haughty Babylon is vanquished. And the Persians, your new masters, give you leave to return to Jerusalem and to rebuild the house of the Lord your God. Joyfully you and your family trudge back through the many miles of desert. Its a trip whose rigors and your age make your previous captivity almost seem a pleasure Then at last, at long last, you reach the holy city. But when you reach it you find everything is in ruins. You wander through the rubble of the city you loved until you reach the devastated pile of stone once known as the temple of the Lord. And there you and yours rend your garments as your voices reach to the heavens in anguish. "O that you would tear open the heavens and come down, so that the mountains would quake at your presence - as when fire kindles brushwood and the fire causes water to boil - to make your name known to your adversaries, so that the nations might tremble at your presence! >From ages past no one has heard, no ear has perceived, no eye has seen any God beside you, who works for those who wait for him. You meet those who gladly do right, those who remember you in your ways. But you were angry, and we sinned; because you hid yourself we transgressed. We have become like one who is unclean, and all our righteous deeds are like a filthy cloth. We fade like a leaf, and our iniquities, like the wind, take us away. 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." It almost seems like your despair will overwhelm you. It lures you into itself and tempts you to fall back into the sleep of anguish and hopelessness. But you fight off this temptation and your prayer continues. "Yet O Lord, you are our Father; we are the clay, and you are our potter; we are all the work of your hand. Do not be exceedingly angry, O Lord, and do not remember our iniquity forever. Now consider, we are all your people." When your prayer will be answered you don't know. But in your new alertness you know answered it will be. You and yours will rebuild the house of the Lord your God. And one day, if you stay awake long enough, you know God will once again walk among God's people. Your name is Dimitri, a citizen of the city of Athens. Some might even refer to you as the first citizen of Athens. For one could search far and wide before one found an Athenian possessing more power than you. You reveled in your might. For the power to shape and direct the course of your city was to you a treasure beyond price. Your power made you stay awake both night and day as you exercised its seductive delight. But the day came when you found something simple; a simple thing which shook you to the core. And in that simple thing you soon found that your power was nothing; Nothing when compared to a power you'd never encountered. The memory of the day still shines clearly in your mind. You remember you were strolling through your garden when you found two of your slaves sitting on your favorite bench. They were talking softly, and one of them was absent mindedly drawing a simple picture of a fish, in the dirt with a stick. You couldn't hear what they were saying. But there was something about their conversation that turned your anger, at their invasion of your favorite space, into curiosity. For you wanted to discover what absorbed them so completely that they failed to notice your approach. When at last, they did notice you, they immediately jumped up from your bench, and the slave who'd been drawing in the dirt, hastily tried to smooth out his drawing, with his foot. Quickly, you interrupted their stammered apologies with a demand for an explanation. "What were you talking about?" you asked. "Why did you try to hide your drawing? "And," you added, as you remembered seeoing similar drawings, "what's the meaning of your drawing?" At first, your slaves pretended to misunderstand your questions. But finally they admitted the fish was a symbol of those who called themselves Christians. They told you the wonderful story of Jesus of Nazareth the risen Christ. Their story's power drew you in, and made you want to learn more and more about this man named Jesus. Vouched for by your slaves you began to attend services of worship, anxious for the time when you could understand this power; a power that now kept you awake, wondering and questioning every night. But you found your questions wouldn't be answered quickly. For until you'd completed three years of study you were only allowed to sit in the the area called the narthex; the area for the un-Baptized set off from the sanctuary by a barrier. Every week you were dismissed from that area half way through the service. Then at last it was midnight on Easter Sunday. The day had begun when you celebrated Christ's resurrection. And you rejoiced for on this day you'd be brought from the narthex, to the font to be Baptized. You'd long since renounced your city's power. But in its place you'd set a pursuit of the knowledge of God's power. Tonight you knew all would be revealed. And in the morning with full knowledge of the Lord Jesus, you would at last be able to easily fall asleep at night. Morning came and with it the joy of your Baptism. But you know now your hope of restful nights has come to naught. For during the night you were told something your mind still struggles to comprehend. You'd known of course how Jesus came to live on the earth. For you delighted in the stories of his life and work. And you wanted badly to follow the path he'd shown. You'd also known of the Lord's resurrection. Your now former slaves had introduced you to this wonder and hope when they first told you the story of Jesus. But now you'd been told what seemed an ultimate mystery. Jesus, the One who had come, the One who died and arose, will also come to earth to walk among us once again. Stay awake you'd been told. Stay awake and watch for one day the earth "will see the Son of Man coming in clouds with great power and glory." And stay awake you will as you do the Lord's work. For who would want to be asleep when one could be watching; watching for the Lord to come once again. Your name is your own. But although you live thousands of years after Sapha or Dimitri you probably share their difficulty. Its likely you have trouble staying awake. You may be lured to sleep by the hectic pace of our present life; a life which contains precious little time to rest. You may also be lured to sleep by the demands of the upcoming season; a season once intended to allow us time to prepare for Christ's coming into our lives; a season in which the Christ child now seems pushed aside by endless commercialism. But perhaps most of all you're lured to sleep by our modern mind set. An attitude which almost automatically denies the miraculous. And in this modern mind set today's Gospel lesson is dismissed almost immediately as mere fable. Yet to Christians throughout time this is no fable. This is our hope our expectation and the greatest mystery of our faith. For Christians of the last two-thousand years have proclaimed Christ has died, Christ has risen, Christ will come again. The choice is yours my sisters and brothers. Will you fall asleep or will you stay awake to await the day when we will see the glory of Christ's promise. A promise which will likely come in a way we could never expect. Maybe that day will be today. Maybe as you drive home from church you might see a homeless family by the side of the road. A woman, a man, and a little girl. The man's holding up a sign that says, "Will work for food." There's something about them that touches your heart. So you stop the car, and give the parents some food you had stored in the trunk. You talk with them awhile, and tell them where they might find work and shelter. Then you turn to leave but you see the little girl is shivering from the cold. Having nothing else to give her you take off your own coat, and wrap it around her shoulders. And as you bend down to fasten the coat around her you see a strange light in her eyes. A light that flashes into the skies, and thunders from the east to the west. And a noise, sounding like an army of trumpets fills the air, as you sink to your knees in wonder and awe. Maybe that day will be today. But until that day arrives Lord we obey your command We stay awake as we echo the prayer of the saints who've gone before us. Come Lord Jesus. Even so come. To God alone be glory. Amen.

(Comments to Frank at f.fisher.obl.osb@comcast.net.) Interim Pastor of First Presbyterian Chuch of Fairbury, IL Brother Oscar Oblate of St. Benedict's Abbey - Bartonville, IL