All Creation Waits: Rewilding Advent // Waiting for Peace

Sermon Delivered at The Local Church
December 8, 2024 • Advent 2C
Scripture: Luke 3:1–6

I remember my very first Christmas Eve as a pastor. It was almost a decade ago now. I was just a few months out of Divinity School—full of fresh ideas and new things I wanted to try on the blank canvas that was my church. I remember how I wanted that Christmas Eve service to be more meaningful, more beautiful, more inspiring than any that had come before. And so our team pored over the service. We sweated every detail.

And the part I was most excited about was the end of the service. We were going to sing Silent Night by candlelight. And then we'd transition into a resounding and defiant Joy to the World. And then… at the very end of Joy to the World, we were going to add on a snippet of a song we'd sung earlier in the service. We'd transition out of Joy to the World with this one final chorus of a different song—that would inspire people to go out and live the Christmas message. It was going to work perfectly. I was so excited.

And we did it. And it was everything I'd hoped it to be. And after the service, as I was greeting folks as they left, wishing them a Merry Christmas, a woman about my age came up to me, and I was waiting for her to tell me how inspired she was. How that was the most meaningful Christmas Eve service she'd ever been a part of.

But instead, she said, "How could you?"

And I said, "Thank you so much." Until I realized what she had actually said.

She said, "You can't do that."

I said, "Do what?"

And she said, "You can't mess with Joy to the World. And you can't mess with Christmas Eve." I remember it so vividly. She said, "Every service needs to end with Silent Night and then Joy to the World… and nothing else."

Did I just ruin Christmas?

It stuck with me. (Clearly.) As I sat with her constructive feedback, I realized that I had disrupted something meaningful for her. I'd disrupted the traditions that had shaped her and shaped her family for years.

It wasn't that I added something after Joy to the World. It was that in so doing, I'd unraveled something that had taken years to build and cultivate—that sense of peace and settledness—leaving her instead with a sense of unease—far from the heavenly peace I was hoping for.

Traditions that shape and settle us

Traditions can do this, can't they? Give us that settledness. Give us that sense of being home. But here's the thing about traditions—whether for you, it's getting your Christmas tree at the same place every year or wearing your Christmas pajamas on Christmas Eve or watching A Christmas Story.

These traditions shape us over time. Not an instant. And little by little, they form us in profound ways—making us who we are.

For what it's worth, every Christmas Eve since—including this year—has ended and will end with Silent Night and Joy to the World… and nothing else.

All Creation Waits

Today is the second Sunday of the season of Advent. The word Advent means "coming" or "arrival," and Advent is the season in which we wait not only for the hope of Christmas and the coming of the Christ child, but we also look ahead to the arrival of God's promised day—when there's no more mourning or crying or pain, when tools of war become tools of tending, when the lion lies with the lamb, and God's perfect peace reigns over all and through all.

In this season of Advent, we look around at our world—the world outside and the world within—and realize that all is not as it should be. We lean into that tension and name our discomfort from this middle space. In a world where it can be hard to parse truth from fiction, what's real from what's not, Advent holds space for us to slow down enough that we might tell the truth and name our deep longing for God to come close to us, to come near, to be made local—and to set the world right.

And despite our compulsion to want to fill this space with more stuff, more activities, or more noise, Advent invites us into the countercultural practice of simply sitting in it. Waiting in it.

But as I mentioned last Sunday, waiting feels so at odds with how the world works. We've created a world where waiting feels like failure, like something's broken.

And so to help us learn how to wait this season, we're looking to some teachers and guides who have been practicing patience far longer than we have. We're looking to the natural world in a series called All Creation Waits: Rewilding Advent. At its core, this is a series that invites us to step beyond the noise of screens and human constructions and turn instead to the wisdom of the natural world: the trees, the rivers, the wildlife, and the rhythms of creation that take place all around us day by day, season after season.

Because if we slow down long enough and pay attention, we discover that there is much to learn, particularly in what it means to wait. And if we let it, the natural world can teach us how to endure the dark, how to trust the slow work of God, and how to prepare well and right and faithfully for all that is to come. In our waiting, we don't wait alone. All Creation Waits.

Last Sunday, we waited with hope, learning from the fig tree and the chickadee about signs of hope around us and seeds of hope that sustain us.

This week, we're waiting for peace.

Setting the scene

We're joining congregations around the world in hearing and wrestling with the same passage of scripture today from Luke's gospel—Luke's biography of Jesus. And if you were here last week, you'll remember that last week's passage took us near the end of Jesus's earthly ministry. This week, we're back near the beginning of Luke's gospel, and we meet the eccentric John the Baptist.

But not before Luke, ever the historian, situates us:

In the fifteenth year of the reign of Tiberius Caesar, when Pontius Pilate was governor of Judea, and Herod was ruler of Galilee, and his brother Philip ruler of the region of Ituraea and Trachonitis, and Lysanias ruler of Abilene, during the high priesthood of Annas and Caiaphas, the word of God came to John son of Zechariah in the wilderness.

He's setting the scene—and what follows is a list of emperors and governors, rulers and tetrarchs and priests. Tiberius. Pontius Pilate. Herod and Philip.

And then… there's John, the son of Zechariah—to whom the word of God came. And Luke wants us to see this contrast in verse two—that despite the worldly power and influence and status represented by this impressive list of rulers, the word of God instead comes to a seemingly nobody like John. John is given divine authority here to speak on God's behalf.

And here's what you need to know about life in ancient Palestine under Roman rule—the context into which John bursts onto the scene. In many ways, it might feel familiar. It was a world where true peace seemed impossible. Where the Pax Romana—Rome's version of peace—was maintained through violence and oppression. It was a world where wealth is concentrated in the hands of a few. Where heavy taxes and debt force families into poverty. Where power was wielded by rulers more interested in preserving their own status and influence than serving the common good. Divisions ran deep—between rich and poor, Jews and Gentiles, insiders and outsiders. Fear loomed large in the shadow of empire. And any attempt at resistance was snuffed out.

So by situating us historically, Luke is telling us something about the world into which the word of God comes through John. It's a world marked by injustice. By exploitation. By dominance and division. It's a world where real, lasting peace—that peace that surpasses all understanding, the world as it should be, what Scripture might call shalom or wholeness, that deep settledness where all can breathe deeply—is nothing more than a pipe dream.

And for those who live in this world—who eat, sleep, and breathe in the toxic fumes of empire—you might find yourself trapped. Maybe you fall into complacency or apathy, convinced that the problems are too big or the systems too entrenched for you to make any significant impact. Or maybe, out of desperation, you're seduced into complicity, seeing survival for yourself and your family as requiring quiet compliance. You keep your head down, make as little noise as possible, and do what you can to get by—all the while reinforcing the very systems of injustice and exploitation you long, deep down, to dismantle. And the cycle continues, leaving you wondering if things will ever truly change. If the world could possibly be different. If peace—real, lasting peace—where all is as should be, could be.

Preparing the way

Enter John.

And here's his mission. Here's what he does. This is what John's about:

He went into all the region around the Jordan, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins, as it is written in the book of the words of the prophet Isaiah, "The voice of one crying out in the wilderness: 'Prepare the way of the Lord; make his paths straight. Every valley shall be filled, and every mountain and hill shall be made low, and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough ways made smooth, and all flesh shall see the salvation of God.'"

John's mission from this wilderness place is to prepare the way of the Lord—to go ahead of Jesus and lay the foundation, to work the soil, to remove whatever obstacles might be in the way—such that all of creation is ready to receive Jesus and the new life he brings. The peace that's possible. And he does this by proclaiming a "baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins."

What the heck does that mean? There are a lot of churchy words there with a lot of baggage, so let's break it down.

Let's start with baptism. Now, at the time, baptism wouldn't have been a new idea. In the Jewish tradition, there is precedent for baptism that functioned as a cleansing or purification ritual. By entering the water, you would be cleansed from all that was impure. But here, John is expanding its meaning—from simple purification to full-on repentance. From something that happens again and again to something that only needs to happen once.

So, what does repentance mean? When we hear this word, we might think of street preachers and televangelists telling you you're going to hell. But in Greek, the word "repentance" is metanoia. And all metanoia means is to change one's mind. Today, we'd call it a "change of heart" or a "change of life." It's a full 180-degree turning around—from one thing to another. And so this is what John is inviting: a turn. This is what repentance means—it's simply a change of heart and life. It's that feeling in your gut—we'd call it the work of the Spirit—that something has to change. That's repentance.

And for those on the receiving end of John's message—and for us—this change, this turn, would bring about the forgiveness of sins. In Greek, the word forgiveness is aphesis which means "release." It's a letting go or a loosening or a releasing. That's forgiveness: a release.

But what are they released from? Too often, when we encounter the word sin, we immediately jump to the things we've done wrong. It can kick up immense amounts of shame and guilt. But all sin is is that which keeps us out of alignment with the divine—out of step with God. My favorite definition of sin is from a pastor named Brian Zahnd who said, "Sin is anything that goes against the grain of God's love."

Sin is anything that gets in the way—any obstacle between us and God or us and another or the created world.

And sometimes, to be sure, it's of our own doing. But other times, we find ourselves caught—bound—in these systems and ways of living that perpetuate injustice. We didn't create them, but we're caught in them. They're baked into the structures within which we live, shaping how we think, act, and relate to one another and the wider world.

But it's not just this. Sometimes we're bound by bitterness or pride. Sometimes we're held captive by fear or just too overwhelmed by the frenetic pace of our lives to imagine something different. Sometimes we're caught in cycles of comparison, or we're ensnared by the myth of scarcity, and so we hoard what we can. We say we want God's peace while clinging to the empire's promises. We pray for justice while hedging our bets. We dream of transformation while calculating what it might cost us. By definition, this is all sin—anything that moves us out of alignment and causes disconnection and separation and goes against the grain of God's love.

In Advent, we tell the truth.

So, all this is to say, taken together, when John calls them to a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins, he's not asking them to feel bad about themselves. He's instead inviting them into something radical and transformative. This isn't just about individual wrongdoings or personal guilt. It's about stepping out of the cycles that perpetuate harm—about dismantling the empire's oppressive and exploitative systems and turning toward a new way of living. It's a call to be released from what binds us, what has sought to define and dehumanize us, and to turn from apathy or complicity or fear or scarcity and instead square our shoulders and plant our feet in the direction of something new—something that feels like real peace. Settledness. Home.

This is John's invitation. This is his invitation to prepare the way of the Lord. This is his call to repentance toward the peace that God has for us and our world. And yet, it can still seem overwhelming. The odds feel stacked. So what are we to do?

Stay with me. Here's the payoff. I've sat with this passage over many Advent seasons, but something new resonated with me this year. Something I hadn't considered before pondering how the natural world might be teaching us to wait. I couldn't help but hone in on the natural elements Luke describes as part of John's mission. Did you catch it?

Every valley shall be filled, and every mountain and hill shall be made low…

Every valley shall be filled. Every mountain and hill brought low. And, to be sure, it can be read as I've long read it—a great equalizing. A sure and future hope in which the powerful are brought low, and the poor are raised up. Unlike the empire of Caesar, the rule and reign of God ushered in by Jesus is creating this new world of equity and justice, peace and shalom—where all is as it should be. That's true.

Trusting in the slow work of God

But here's the thing. Here's what I didn't notice until this year when I let the natural world be my teacher. Valleys aren't filled overnight. And mountains aren't brought low in an instant.

It happens instead over time. Mountains are brought low over centuries. It's slow work. Did you know, for instance, that scientists believe the Appalachian Mountains may have once been as tall as the Himalayas? And yet, over millions of years, erosion has brought them to their current height.

In the same way, valleys are filled and raised over time by the slow, steady work of rivers carrying sediment and soil—and the slow shifting of tectonic plates.

And what this tells us is that this transformation—this move toward real, lasting peace—shalom—is slow work. When the odds are stacked, and real peace feels elusive, it reminds us that God's work of transformation is rarely immediate. It's not flashy or fast, but it is faithful.

French Jesuit priest, theologian, and paleontologist Pierre Teilhard de Chardin puts it beautifully with these famous words:

"Above all, trust in the slow work of God. We are quite naturally impatient in everything to reach the end without delay… We are impatient of being on the way to something unknown, something new. And yet it is the law of all progress that it is made by passing through some stages of instability—and that it may take a very long time."

I love this. Because when we are lulled to apathy or seduced to complicity, when we feel overwhelmed by wars and injustice or stuck in hopelessness bordering on apathy, or wondering if any of it matters, Teilhard declares the truth that yes, God is still at work. It's slow work—like mountains brought low and valleys raised—but it's happening nonetheless. You can count on it. After all, to prepare the way implies that something is coming. It's been set in motion. The lion and the lamb will lie together. The swords will become plowshares. The world will be set right. It's going to happen.

But then, he continues with equal beauty:

"And so I think it is with you; your ideas mature gradually—let them grow, let them shape themselves, without undue haste… Give Our Lord the benefit of believing that his hand is leading you, and accept the anxiety of feeling yourself in suspense and incomplete."

He's saying that even as we wait, we don't wait passively. "Let them grow. Let them shape themselves." The waiting and the preparation are active. It's not passive; we are invited to participate in this slow work. And that's what John's getting at here when he calls us to repentance. When he calls us to turn. Like rivers carrying sediment, we are called to participate in this slow work of preparing the way. To help bring it into being. We do this by choosing practices—like our Christmas traditions—that shape us and form us over time—that remind us who we truly are and what we're called to.

You are what you eat

Consider flamingos. (By the way, do you know what a group of flamingos is called? A flamboyance!) But did you know that their pink color comes from the shrimp they eat? The same is true for Northern Cardinals—that rich, beautiful red because of their diets. Slowly, over time, their outward appearance is changed by what they consume—what they take in.

And when John calls us to repentance for the forgiveness of sins, he's inviting us to do the same. Like a river changing course, we turn—toward love that costs us something, toward justice that rearranges our lives, toward peace that demands our participation. And in that turning, like mountains shaped by wind and rain, like flamingos colored by what they consume, we are changed to become people of peace. Not in an instant, but day by day, choice by choice, practice by practice.

I think about that woman from my first Christmas Eve. About how those traditions, shaped over time, gave her a sense of peace—a sense of home. This is what John is getting at, too. That preparing the way isn't about perfection or grand gestures, but about the steady rhythms that shape us.

This is why we gather here week in and week out. This is why we fill fridges and share meals and practice generosity. It's why we learn the names of our neighbors. It's why we care for teachers. This is why we show up at Pride. Why we tell stories about Jesus. Why we speak out against injustice. This is why we'll gather again in just a few weeks to sing Silent Night and Joy to the World—lighting candles in the darkness. Not because these acts will instantly transform the world, but because they are slowly transforming us and all, then, that we touch.

These are the slow, steadfast daily acts that fill valleys, erode mountains, and smooth the crooked paths. This is how peace comes. By God's grace, this is how the world is changed.

In the name of Jesus, the one for whom all creation waits, Amen.