Year C Advent 1
Lissa Wray Beal

Jeremiah 33:14-16 14; Psalm 25:1-10; 1 Thessalonians 3:9-13 9; Luke 21:25-36 25

Yirmiyahu was told to buy a field. It was an ordinary field, not too far from town. He was told to buy it from his cousin. Just an ordinary cousin, eager to sell the field. But that is as far as the “ordinariness” of the transaction went. For Yirmiyahu—Jeremiah to us—was a prophet. And you might wonder what on earth a prophet would do with a field.

And the field was overrun by an enemy army—the Babylonians had come to besiege Jerusalem. They had overrun all the surrounding territory, including the field in question. Jerusalem was about to fall to the enemy. Its inhabitants were about to be deported to exile. And what would a prophet do with a field taken by the enemy?

And Jeremiah was in prison—because he had been proclaiming that God was at work through the Babylonians. The Jerusalem king Zedekiah and all his nobles thought he was a traitor at best, a fifth-columnist at worst. And why would a prophet in prison buy a field overrun by the enemy?

But Jeremiah’s cousin came to Jeremiah that day in the prison cell. “Buy my field,” he said. And Jeremiah (obedient to God’s instructions), bought the field. A transaction against all smart business practice and practicality. The deed was signed and preserved. The witnesses made their marks. The money changed hands. One wonders if the cousin went away gloating (for, after all, he’d succeeded in unloaded his property on the eve of destruction. Perhaps he said, “Jeremiah! What a schmuck. . . buying a field on the eve of the country’s downfall!!”

So Jeremiah became the new owner of a field that was useless to him. A field in the midst of enemies. A field of a doomed country. . . and even (as it turned out) a field Jeremiah would not survive to claim or cultivate. But he bought it, just the same.

For hope. That is why he bought it. God used that transaction to make a bold statement, when all the social structures around Jeremiah were crumbling. When food was scarce and enemies plentiful. When God seemed hard to hear (much less see) and life stood on the edge of a precipice. . . teetering. . . and falling to disaster.

The field of hope. A symbol that one day, one future day, disaster would be reserved. A symbol that Jeremiah actually believed God would accomplish this, as God had promised. A symbol that people would return to the land. Fields would be bought and sold, crops planted, wine, oil, and grain plentiful. One day; one future day.

Jeremiah bought that field in certain hope that God would do this. He continued in prison until the city fell, speaking other words of hope, like those we heard today:

The days are surely coming, says the LORD, when I will fulfill the promise I made to the house of Israel and the house of Judah. In those days and at that time I will cause a righteous Branch to spring up for David; and he shall execute justice and righteousness in the land. In those days Judah will be saved and Jerusalem will live in safety. And this is the name by which it will be called: "The LORD is our righteousness."

Added to the audacity of Jeremiah’s real estate purchase, is this audacity: in the face of social disintegration, loss of city, land, people, and king, Jeremiah dares to proclaim that “days are surely coming” when all these things will be restored. Their country will be saved. Jerusalem will be—not full of famine and fear—but safety and security. A righteous Branch—a king of the line of David—will be re-established. His rule will be one of justice and righteousness.

How do you have audacious hope in the face of social upheaval? In the face of personal loss, national disaster—or any other of the devastating realities that can come to us? How can such things of hope be? Given a present reality in which there seems to be no hope for a future, Jeremiah proclaims a future that includes goodness and fullness. Peace and security. Land, and food, and right living.

In the play Wiesenthal (currently playing at The Warehouse), the Nazi-hunter Simon Wiesenthal recounts his time in the work camps of Nazi Germany. In a very dark hour, Simon is marched, along with many other inmates—walking skeletons—to an undisclosed destination. Along the way, Simon falls to the ground, unable to rise. He feels his heart slowing; he feels that death is near. He manages to roll onto his back to look up at the sky once more. There, in the silky darkness of Simon’s night of hopeless terror, he sees the stars. Bright, sharp, and clear. And in them, he sees a vision of justice and peace: lights in the darkness. And the stoked-down fire of hope begins to warm in his heart, quickening life.

Jeremiah speaks to a people on the brink of disaster. His words will continue to echo in the community that walks through the disaster of exile. To the refugee; to the displaced; to the shattered and sorrowful, Jeremiah’s words bring hope. Hope for new life. . . restoration. . . goodness. . . justice.

And a hope that is well-founded. It won’t be accomplished because people will it to be so, although good people will always work alongside this hope. But a hope that Jeremiah knows is true and certain because it is a hope brought about by God. The God who brings light out of darkness is the one who says to Jeremiah:

- I will fulfill these promises
- I made these promises; they are mine to accomplish, and I will do it
- I will cause a righteous Branch to spring up

The hope Jeremiah spins for a destitute and bankrupt people is one that is certain. Not because it is based on human wishing. But because it arises in the heart of, and accomplished in the might of, The Lord our Righteousness. The same one who in our gospel says, My words will not pass away.

There is an audacity in announcing such words. To stand and proclaim—in the face of certain loss and uncertain future—that God is there and knows the way back to life. It is a proclamation that Jeremiah can make because he knows the faithfulness of the God upon whom the hope is founded. Jeremiah knows this God has promised in the past. . . and made it so. And Jeremiah urges his people to trust that God’s promises for the future will similarly come to pass.

And they did. Not the next day after they were made, or even the next year. But many years—70 years—later, Judah returned to its land—they were so astounded, it was like they were in a dream. But it had come true. . .

At least, most of it came true. Yes, they were in their land. Yes, they were no longer enslaved exiles. But no king sat on the throne in Jerusalem. No righteousness and justice ruled in the land. Much was new and enlivened, but much remained the same.

And the people of Jeremiah—the people of hope—began to realize that that part of the promise was still to come. One day, a king would come. Would sit on David’s throne. Righteousness and Justice would rule. Peace and security would come to all peoples.

And they waited.

And we wait. We wait in the upheaval of our current world. Where parents load children into flimsy boats and set to sea, and trek across a continent in hope of life. Where our own families can be torn by strife. Or loss. Or each week we come to this place. . . faithfully. . . and in constant expectation for the security of God: in our health; in our mind; in our employment; in our city. We wait.

The psalmist—in the midst of his own struggles and realities—reminds us that “for you, LORD, I wait.” We wait for God—for Christ the King—long-promised and sure—to come and take up his throne. Set up his righteous kingdom here on earth as in heaven. Bring the security for which all creation longs, and too often has little but a taste.

So we begin the Church Year with Advent. A season of waiting. A season of hope.

Pope Francis put this holiday season in perspective during mass at the Basilica di Santa Maria last week. His speech comes after a rash of notable violent incidents, including the now infamous terrorist attacks in Paris, as “we are close to Christmas. There will be lights, there will be parties, bright trees, even Nativity scenes – all decked out – while the world continues to wage war. It’s all a charade.”

I’ve pondered the pope’s proclamation this past week: how is it that Christmas is a charade?

This is, I think, where Advent is helpful. Advent causes us to pause—at the start of the Church Year—and be reminded of all that remains to be healed in our world, in us, in our families and churches. A time to pause. . . and really look at the needfulness that is ours. A needfulness that cannot (ultimately) be met by our own works of goodness and faithfulness. Yes, we work towards good, and in faith. But we work knowing that until Christ the King—the LORD our Righteousness—comes to sit on his throne, all our work cannot reverse the utter desolation of the world in which we live.

Advent lets that reality sit with us. And sink in. And having waited the wait of Advent, having hoped the hope of Advent, we can come to Christmas—the remembrance of Christ’s First Coming; the anticipation of his Second Coming—with a sense of the joyful delight that is only a foretaste of the time when the King Returns.

And without that wait? Without the acknowledgement that the world is weary and needful? Well, then there can be no turning to God in hope.

When Christmas is only about the presents and music, the family get-togethers and food (all good things, indeed!), then the only hope we have is. . . well, not certain. It is a hope in the goodness of humanity. Easily disproved. It is a hope in purchasing power. Easily undone. It is the hope in tinsel and bright lights. All easily packaged up on Boxing Day.

Without acknowledging the need for God. Without acknowledging the hope of God—certain; sure—well, then all that is left is a charade for Christmas.

You and I—this parish—all Christian Churches around the world: in Iraq; in Syria; in the refugee camps; in the secret backrooms of the underground church; in the church of Canada (deemed largely irrelevant by most). . . all these churches stand in the place of Jeremiah as we enter Advent today. We are the people of hope. Those who acknowledge the reality of our broken world; our broken lives.

And with Jeremiah, we have the audacity to say what is really real: God in our midst to love us and call us to love one another. God whose vision goes beyond the world as we now know it, to a world in which his righteousness makes all things right, and good, and safe.

In a world without rightness, goodness, and safety, this is our hope.

For this, we wait.

Welcome to Advent. Christmas is coming. Wait for it; hope for it.

It is, after all, the only true hope we have.