Pastor Cogan led a great, thoughtful discussion yesterday about Dietrich Bonhoeffer. The plan for yesterday and the next couple of these Tuesday lunchtime gatherings is to reflect on some letters from Bonhoeffer – one of our better known Lutheran theologians and heroes – that he wrote during the seasons of Advent and Christmas during his life, which was lived in the early to mid-1900’s. Other than his books, other writings and teaching, Bonhoeffer is known for having participated in a plot to assassinate Adolf Hitler during the second World War. He was put to death, himself – a martyr – because of it.

I don’t want to go down that road now, but our discussion yesterday had me thinking about what we’re up to tonight and what we’ve invited one another to this time around where our Advent walk is concerned.

One of the things we reflected on and talked about yesterday, was a painting Bonhoeffer referred to in one of his letters. He was writing from prison, to his parents, and referenced this painting by Albrecht Altdorfer. It’s called, simply, “The Nativity” and, as you can see, it’s not exactly full of the kind of Christmas spirit most people go looking for.

Bonhoeffer marveled that this painting was done 400 years or so before his time, in 1507, to be specific, but that the artist somehow captured something surprisingly relevant and meaningful about the world as Bonhoeffer was experiencing it as a political prisoner in a recently bombed-out prison, somewhere in war-torn Germany, circa 1943.

And it reminded me of something else I’ve seen and read about this week. This is the nativity scene on display these days in the worship space at Christmas Lutheran Church, in Bethlehem, Palestine. Instead of a Christmas tree this time around, the church has created this display from debris like that found in nearby Gaza these days, and they will be limiting their Christmas celebrations to less-than-festive prayers and rituals, in solidarity with the suffering that consumes their part of the world these days.

And THAT reminded me of an image I used a few years back, on the First Sunday after Christmas, where we often read about King Herod and his murderous “Slaughter of the Innocents.” This piece of art was created by the disguised, mysterious, anonymous artist known as Banksy. He called it “The Scar of Bethlehem.”

At the time, in 2019, there wasn’t a full-blown war raging in the region, but the piece was a response to and a depiction of the ever-present tension and division and struggle that seems to be bubbling just beneath the surface there – when it hasn’t erupted like it did, again, on October 7th. Notice the star looks like it was created by a bullet in the wall that divides and surrounds the Palestinians in so many ways. With graffiti there are words and symbols for “peace,” “love,” and “freedom” spray-painted behind the Holy Family.

And, finally, I thought about this image, too. It’s called “Jose y Maria” and done by a cartoonist named Everett Patterson. It’s full of clever allusions to the biblical story of Jesus’ birth, which you’ll have fun finding if you look it up and spend some time with it on your own. But you can see the “Smoke Weisman Cigarettes” ad, the neon “Star Beer” sign, the lack of vacancy at the “city of David” Motel, which also cleverly has the word manger included. And I love how Maria is sitting on that penny pony ride, like I used to ride at K-Mart when I was a kid.

Anyway all of this contemporary artwork, in light of the painting that Pastor Cogan shared with us yesterday, reminded me that there’s nothing new under the sun – these beautiful, haunting, faithful attempts at finding relevance and meaning in the Christmas story for our day and age. Banksy, Patterson and Bonhoeffer, too, are just trying to put the season of Advent and the coming of Jesus into some perspective for a world that simultaneously suffers and struggles in so many ways, but longs for the peace and good news and comfort and joy God promises.

And all of that makes me think of the devotional we hope you’re reading spending time with during these Advent days, this time around, courtesy of Kate Bowler. It’s called, simply “The Advent We Actually Have,” which is all we can have, all we can ask for, and all we can do, when it comes right down to it, right?

The Christians in Palestine are left to celebrate and look for God among the rubble and in the darkness and despair and the noise of the war that surrounds them.

Bonhoeffer was left to look for God in the loneliness and uncertainty and fear of his captivity.

Jose and Maria – the Joseph and Mary of every generation – are left to look for Jesus with the hope, curiosity, and fear that go along with an unknown future – and possibly unwanted – an unwanted pregnancy.

And we are left, no matter how much we decorate or dress up or dream about what all of this Advent waiting will mean this time around – with the Advent we actually have, just the same.

“The Advent we actually have” includes the grief that still lingers for so many who’ve lost loved ones and it includes the joy of new life some have celebrate.

“The Advent we actually have” matters for the successful healing and good health that belongs to some and it matters for the diagnoses yet to be delivered to others.

“The Advent we actually have” comes with promise for the budding relationships some are experiencing and it comes for the relationships crumbling like dust that too many others know.

And “the Advent we actually have” comes for those of us – maybe most of us – who have a little bit of all the above in our lives on any given day.

And the good news of grace we’re waiting for, in Jesus, reminds us that God is here for it … that God is here for all of it … that God is here for all of us … no matter where we find ourselves as we make our way to the manger.

Amen. Come, Lord Jesus.

Mark:13:24-37

“But in those days, after that suffering, the sun will be darkened and the moon will not give its light. The stars will be falling from heaven and the powers of the heavens will be shaken. Then they will see ‘the Son of Man coming in the clouds’ with great power and glory. Then he will send the angels to gather his elect from the four winds, from the ends of the earth to the ends of heaven.

“From the fig tree learn its lesson. When you see its branches become tender and begin to put forth leaves, you know that summer is near. In the same way, when you see these things begin to take place you know that he is near, at the very gates. Truly I tell you, this generation will not pass away until all of these things take place. Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away.

“But about that day and hour, no one knows, neither the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father. Beware; keep alert, for you do not know when the time will come. It is like a man, going on a journey, who puts his slaves in charge, each with his work, and commands the doorkeeper to be on the watch. Keep awake, therefore, for you do not know when the master of the house will return, in the evening, at midnight, at cock-crow, or at dawn, or else he might find you sleeping when he comes, suddenly. Therefore, what I say to you, I say to all, ‘Keep awake.’”

I don’t think Jesus is coming back any time soon. I’m not sure if it’s more or less faithful to say that, but it’s how I feel and how I live much more often than not.

I had a seminary professor who claimed to love a cloudy day because he liked to look up and watch for Jesus to show up from behind the next cloud, at any given moment, like this Gospel reading suggests. He was – and I imagine, still is – one of the smartest Bible scholars I’ve known. He was – and I imagine, still is a level-headed, rational, wise, and faithful believer, too. And I imagine he’s still waiting on a cloudy day and watching for Jesus. More power to him, but I’m not that guy. And more on that in moment…

I don’t know how much is too much news to consume about the hostages in Israel and Gaza, but I suspect I’ve seen more than my fair share. I can’t fathom the fear of being held captive, in the dark, in those underground tunnels. I can’t grasp the anxiety of the loved ones who wait and worry and wring their hands for the next list to be announced and for their loved ones to come home.

And, even more, I can’t stop thinking about the kids. The infant boy who was still nursing when he was taken. The four-year-old girl who finally made it home – but only to her aunts, uncles and siblings, because her parents were both killed; and not really “home” because the house she lived in was destroyed and no longer exists.

But the one who gets me most is the 9-year-old little girl, named Emily, whose father was told had died very early on in the attacks, news for which he claimed to be grateful and relieved – because he believed her fate and suffering would have been worse as a hostage all of this time. It turns out she wasn’t killed, after all, and she made it out alive. But when she was returned to her dad, she would or could only whisper. For fear … or because of the demands of her captors over the course of her captivity … or probably both … this little girl couldn’t or wouldn’t speak in her normal voice. Her dad had to put his lips to her ears to hear anything she wanted to say. And the sadness and fear in his own voice as he described that was heartbreaking and terrifying in its own way.

So, I wondered what this Gospel reading might sound like to one of those hostages and to their family members.

“In those days, after that suffering, the sun will be darkened and the moon will not give its light. The stars will be falling from heaven and the powers in the heavens will be shaken.”

I wondered that because, this has always sounded like bad news to me … the sun extinguished … the moon dead … the stars falling like shrapnel … the heavens trembling.

But what struck me this time around in a new way, is the hope I wonder if Jesus intended by promising all of it, “In those days, after that suffering…” I wonder if those hostages – or anyone in a similarly desperate, terrifying, sufferable set of circumstances – would see a kind of hope in this, instead of the fear with which these apocalyptic passages are so often received. “In those days, after that suffering…”

See, I realize … and I need to remind myself … that I’ve lived a pretty selfish, self-centered, seemingly self-sufficient life for the most part. Most of the suffering I’ve experienced has been by proxy … alongside others … prayerfully and with, but not IN the depths of the suffering and despair I know others have known, and know as we sit here today.

Of course the hostages in Gaza and the prisoners in Israel – and the war and desolation, the destruction and despair connected with all of that – is one thing.

And there are so many other peoples and places consumed by suffering I feel like I can only watch from a distance, imagine, and pray about.

And I think about the devastating losses in our own community in just the last couple of weeks, too. The tragic, senseless, unnecessary, accidental death of young, beautiful lives full of so much potential and promise – like Lindsay Locker and Evan Neumeister – and what their families and friends suffer, still.

And I think about others we know and have loved who’ve suffered long illnesses – surgeries, medical treatments, mental decline, physical difficulty, chronic pain and all the rest. And the husbands and wives and families who have loved and suffered – and continue to love and suffer – with them through it all.

And, don’t get me wrong, this isn’t a contest. Our suffering is relative and we don’t need to minimize our own hardship and struggle because it’s not as bad as, or because it doesn’t measure up to, what others endure. The hope Jesus offers here is for all of us because the truth is we will all suffer in some way, at some point, and that Truth just becomes clearer the more time you spend on the planet and the more you pay attention.

Whatever the case, Jesus’ words today are meant to be a promise, not a threat, and I hope you hear them that way for a change, if you never have before – especially if you’re in the throes of some kind of suffering or grief or struggle at the moment.

Because listen carefully and remember... Jesus says, “in those days… after that suffering…” I think it means something better is on the way. It means that there’s an “after” to whatever suffering plagues you and surrounds us all.

And I think that’s also why Jesus says, “Beware … Keep alert … Stay awake … Go about your business … Live your life…” because you never know when God’s hope will show up in your midst – and you don’t want to miss it. Yeah, it may be this apocalyptic, second-coming sort of stuff, where the clouds part, the thunder rolls, and Jesus shows up like a Marvel super-hero with his band of angels to save the day.

But, in the meantime, it might also be as close and as simple and as quiet and as slow-moving as a fig tree, too, becoming tender, putting forth leaves, bearing fruit, and signaling that something better is on the way.

Beware… Keep alert… Stay awake… it may be as close and as simple and as quiet as a meal from a church member. Or a text from a friend. Or a prayer from your Pastor. A drink with a buddy, that look in your kid’s eyes, a hand from your partner.

And that’s why I’m not staring up at the sky, looking behind the next cloud, for a super-hero to save the day. I’m trying to find this hope, this presence, the nearness of God, in the eyes and hands and hearts of the people around me. And I’m trying to find it in the mirror more often, too … because these Advent days remind us that God comes in the shape of a person, after all… full of grace and truth ... never promising there will be no pain, no suffering, no struggle, no hardship in our lives … but showing up precisely because there has been, is, and will be all of those things too much of the time.

But there is beauty, too. And there is mercy, in this mess. And there is love. And hope. And plenty of reason to look for and to be those things, for ourselves, for each other, and for the sake of the world.

Amen. Come, Lord Jesus.