First Sunday of Advent Year C

Luke 21: 25-36

A World Waiting to be Born 

    William pressed a warm face against the cold glass of the window. Outside the light of day was fading fast, streetlights were already beginning to flicker on. It was the first snow of the year, big, fat, wet flakes, like being inside one of those Santa shakers. The whole world was white and soft. William wasn't thinking much about snow. Even as his back yard neighbour pressed wet snow into a ball and fired it at a tree, William thought of babies.

     He had come home from school as always, banging open the door, shouting for the world to hear, “I'm home.”

     His mother called from the living room, “In here.”

     Kicking his boots off, tossing the coat on the floor, he ran to the living room. His mother looked strange, her eyes red and distracted.

     “You okay?”

     “What? Oh yes, yes. I'm very fine.”  Her voiced lilted, almost laughter. “William I'm going to have a baby. You are going to have a brother or a sister.”

     Just like that. No warning. Just out with it. He hadn't said anything then. He still hadn't. A baby. What would it be like? He pressed his face harder against the glass the cold like a cooling balm. A baby? He couldn't tell whether he was afraid or excited. Either way he knew things were about to change, they would never be the same again.

     A time of birth. A pregnant pause. A world waiting to be born. The lesson from Luke's gospel is apocalyptic. The focus is on the future, on the end times, the end of the world as we now experience it and the beginning of a new world. When Luke was writing his gospel he was witnessing the destruction of Jerusalem, the greatest city in the east sacked and burned by Roman soldiers in retaliation for a Jewish revolt. Amid such painful and prolonged suffering, when on the horizon of predictable history there can be seen no relief from disaster, faith turns its face toward heaven. People seek not only a revelation of God's will for the present but also a vision of the end of this present cycle of misery and the beginning of the age to come. In dire times it takes courage to imagine a hopeful future. Today's gospel lesson is hope's response to the cynic who mocks the faithful saying, “Where is your God now?” In death, surely it is natural for some to think about birth.

   In whatever suffering or fear, in whatever frustration or predicament you find yourself, think of birth. Press your face hard against the glass. Think of the birth of something new, something never see before, a new world, a new creation, beyond your pain and suffering, a birth into God's presence. If you can think of birth in times of darkness and death then you know what hope is.

     Linda let the pulsing water of the shower splash over her. The heat penetrated deep into her muscles, tension dripped away with the water. She couldn't believe she was afraid. She looked down, suddenly aware that her huge swollen belly would not allow her to see the water winding down the drain. It's a bit late to be getting cold feet. She remembered the night William was born, how the pain of labour began as a dull throb, not yet severe enough for her to wake her slumbering husband. She had quietly moved to the kitchen for a warm drink. But the throb quickly turned to real pain, the kind that takes your breath away, a stabbing sharp pain. She clung to the counter top to keep from falling to her knees.

      Even now, after the birth of one child, even now as she tried to think of the wonder of birth, even now as she strained to think of birth as a miracle, she dreaded the pain to come. She thought suddenly of the article she had recently read which stated, matter of factly, that the pain of giving birth was equivalent to having a limb amputated without benefit of anaesthesia. Her body tensed again. It's a good think men don't have to endure childbirth or we'd have zero population growth. The steaming water worked its magic again and her shoulders dropped and relaxed.

     All birth is painful, something to be endured. That's why they call it labour. It is laborious, tough, painful work. Perhaps this is what makes giving birth a miracle in the first place. The birth of the new; new ways of being, new relationships, new job, new town, the newness of God's will and purpose for us, the birth of all these things will take our breath away, will cause our bodies to shudder, will threaten to bring us to our knees, will makes us wish we had never started out on this path. Maybe birthing something new just isn't worth it. Maybe I am not strong enough.

     But remember that God, the same God who calls us to new life, is also the mid-wife, the one beside us, holding our hand, refreshing us with cool clothes, encouraging us through the worst, moving us forward into the birth of the new.

     Finally, she felt relaxed, like her muscles had all gone soft. She began to towel off, wisps of steam clouding her reflection in the mirror. She continued to remember. How the terrible burning pain of birth was replaced by the wonder of creation. Even at that moment, just minutes after labour, she knew that she would do it all over again, just to feel the exhilaration of birth again. She had never felt stronger or more alive, never more whole. Nothing can top this. Nothing.

     Birth is only for the strong, for the faithful, for the committed, it is only for those willing to take the risks and endure the pain. But in the end the trial is not enduring. We emerge fatigued but triumphant, smiling and joyous at the wonder of new creation. God the source and encourager of all newness is there, beaming proud, knowing we could do it all the time. And now life begins as never before.

     Lind worried. She worried about the health of her unborn baby. Was she eating enough? Was she gaining weight fast enough, eating the right foods, getting enough exercise. When the baby didn't kicker her hard enough to jolt her, she wondered if the baby was getting enough oxygen. She looked at herself in the full length mirror. She pinched herself and looked disgusted. To skinny. Her mind continued to race. Would William adapt to having a brother or sister? She looked at her eyes, dark circles. Not enough sleep. How could they afford another child with Michael just starting a new job? She patted her cheeks. Too pale. How would she ever survive this. I must be crazy. I am too old for this. The baby kicked hard.

   Worry consumes us, eats at us, spreads through us like a virus. What will the future bring? Will my job be there next Christmas? Can I pay this month's bills? Will I pass my midterms? Will I ever find love or happiness?

    Worry leads to sterility. It makes us fearful and fear is the enemy of birth. Worry is a refusal to give birth to new life. Worry keeps us at an anxious distance from God, the one who invites us to surrender ourselves and be led into the unknown and unpredictable places.  
    Birth is by nature about uncertainty. It is always risky stepping into the unknown. But without risk, there is no birth. Birth is about trust. Do we truly trust God, the one who is bringing about this new birth? The signs are everywhere that this trust is warranted; in the wild unconditional love of a child, in the caring passion of husband and wife, in the efforts of those attempting to make the world a better place, even here in our midst, in our prayers and music and praise. Wherever people share love, friendship or laughter, whenever people care for others, these are the signs of a new creation, the first pangs of birth. All around us are signs sufficient to still the sterility of worry, to make us once again feel the power and wonder of birthing.

     Linda and Michael were exhausted. Paint spattered the old sweatshirt pulled over her swollen belly. A dab of blue on his nose. She felt his warm hands kneading her shoulders. The peace and joy of work well done filled the little room. They were on a continuous, frantic pace to get ready for the new baby. A blur of movement, a steady crackle of energy. Cribs, showers, car seats, blankets, baby monitors, diapers and yes painting. Linda sighed. All this preparation.

     Prepare. Prepare the way for the one who will be born. Birth is work. If preparation is inadequate then the whole birthing process is in danger, strained to unbearable limits. Like the breathing taught in Lamaze classes, the preparation is a necessary distraction. There are poor to be fed; sick to be visited, many in need of comfort, even more waiting for a word of hope. There is work to be done. We wait with bated breath. But we are energized to be about our work, to prepare things, to make the place ready. This is the decisive moment, the time of opportunity. Tomorrow will be too late. This is the steady exercise of the virtue of hope. We must ready ourselves for new birth. Ready ourselves in our marriages or in our singleness, in our relationships with parents, siblings and children. Ready ourselves in the life of  our church and in our countless efforts to make the world more human.

     Linda sat in the darkness, one clasped around a steaming mug of hot milk, the other cupped under her ever growing belly. Tired from the day's preparations, but aglow with the wonder and newness of birth. Is there any greater miracle