(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Worship on December 16, 2018, Advent III)
Just Water
The first time I went skiing, I
did a lot of falling. At twelve
years old, that was pretty fun. In
fact, if I’m honest, falling is probably one of the reasons I went skiing in
the first place. Since I had been
little, falling had always been a temptation. Rake a pile of leaves, and I would gladly fall in it. Throw a pile of blankets and pillows on
the floor, and I would find a way to fall in it. In the same way, a pile of snow was little else than an invitation
to fall in it. The prospect of a mountain of snow was irresistible. Anywhere I turned, mother nature would
be there with her alluring white arms, waiting to embrace me in a heap of
heavenly snow.
But I remember more than falling
that first time skiing. I also
remember the deep ache in my calves and quadriceps after five unbroken hours on
the slopes. I remember my soggy
socks and the sudden sting on my wind-bitten face as I stepped into the warmth
of the ski lodge. And I remember
what surprised me most of all: how thirsty I was. Earlier in the week, I had fantasized about skiing and then
relaxing with a cup of hot chocolate by the fire. But that fantasy had long since evaporated. All I could think of when I stepped
inside was water. I needed water. I stumbled forward with my ski boots
still on until I finally found a water fountain and I parked myself there for
the next five minutes. I can’t
tell you how delicious that water was.
How my body rejoiced, how it felt the water course within it all the way
from my throat to the tips of my fingers and toes.
In that moment, it was the
simplest thing that gave me the greatest joy. Not hot chocolate.
Not some warm luxury drink topped off with an unhealthy amount of whipped
cream. Just water.
Just a Hug
Perhaps you know the
experience. Perhaps it’s an
experience that has to do not only with water.
This time of year, I am filled
not only with memories of snow but also memories of Christmas past. How our family would gather. How my uncle would make jokes that made
me blush. How my grandma would be
taste-testing our dinner, and always erring on the side of a little more lemon
juice if something didn’t taste just right. How my granddad would hug me so tight I could feel his
moustache on my forehead.
Of course, getting the whole
family together was also bound to result in friction. How could you have that many people together and not have two folks rub one another the
wrong way? More often than not,
the conflict would come from something small, like a confusion of
responsibilities in the kitchen or hurt feelings over a hotly contested card
game. If any of this sounds
familiar, take comfort from the reminder that you’re not alone. These experiences are nothing new. They’re bound to happen. What’s worth remarking on is not that
they happen but how we respond.
Because I’ve noticed something in my own experience of these situations. On the surface, I think that what I
want is to be right or to be in control or to win. I want to pick what goes on the table; I want to have the
final say in a conversation; I want to build hotels on my Park Place and
Boardwalk properties and bleed my family dry.
But in fact I don’t those desire
those things at all. When I find
myself embroiled in that helpless, fighting feeling, I actually feel hollow and
small—even when I win, even when I get what I want. Deep inside me there is a
thirst for something different, something much more. It’s a thirst for something I can’t get with words or
logic. It’s a thirst for something
I can’t get with command or control.
The only thing I’ve ever quenched
this thirst with, is a hug.
Letting go of that fighting feeling and sharing a hug recalibrates my
heart, reminds me what matters, relieves my deep thirst. A hug is like water to my parched
heart.
In that moment, it is the
simplest thing that gives me the greatest joy. Not being right or being in control, like I might
think. Not winning. Just a hug.
The Simplest Things
The lie that masquerades as
Christmas in much of our world, is that joy is getting what we want. We hear it in every commercial this
season. We live it whenever we
fight to get our way, whether it’s with holiday plans or side dishes or simply
which decorations look best on the tree.
We believe in the lie and spread it when we turn Christmas into a
holiday of self-gratification, when we expect to be happy all the time with all
of our favorite things around us.
But joy is not getting what we
want.
Joy is about water. Not hot chocolate. Not a drink covered in whipped
cream. Not what we want. Joy is about the water that meets a
much deeper thirst. It’s about the
simplest things—which in fact give us the greatest joy. And this joy can happen in happiness,
like when I stumbled off the slopes aglow with the glee of skiing. Or it can happen in frustration, even
depression, like when we are submerged in that helpless, fighting feeling that
haunts the holidays, and a hug finds its way through to shower our parched
heart.
Water from the Wells of Salvation
Our scripture today is filled
with joy—with giving thanks and shouting aloud and singing praises. The reason for all this joy is
simple. Water. It’s Isaiah’s symbol for
salvation. Joy is about the simple
things that God gives us, the simple things we share, the simple goodness that
is the life of the world—goodness as simple as water. “With joy,” Isaiah proclaims, “you will draw water from the
wells of salvation” (12:3).
While the world suggests that
Christmas is about getting what we want, Advent declares something
different. Something simpler. Advent announces that joy is not a
contest or a competition for gratification. Joy is about a deeper thirst. And joy is about the clear water that quenches it. Joy is as simple as a hug amid loneliness,
or a smile on a hard day, or a moment of quiet in a busy time. Joy is always there, waiting for us to receive
it, to drink it, to share it.
The Help We Need
The ever-presence of joy is a bit
of a riddle, and so I would like to conclude with something of a riddle.
Meister Eckhart, a German priest
and mystic of the fourteenth century, had a curious way of talking about
joy. God laughed at Christ, he
said, and then…Christ laughed back.
That is the completion of joy.
Perhaps we hear an echo of this sacred experience in our other scripture
today, where John the Baptist talks about bearing fruit with our lives. John was preaching in a hard voice, and
it’s difficult to hear any joy in it.
But I wonder if deep down he was saying the same thing as Meister
Eckhart—namely, that joy is a call and response. When we drink its water, we cannot help but bear fruit. When we hear its laughter, we cannot
help but laugh back.
The surprise of Advent, then, is
that joy already abounds in our world, that God is laughing. Can you hear the laughter? It’s hard sometimes, isn’t it? Perhaps that is part of the reason
Advent is also a season of waiting.
We need a little help to hear that laughter. May it come, and quickly.
Prayer
Living Water,
Christ whose love
Quenches our deepest thirst—
Your joy is simple.
Not a thing to be won
But a gift
Ever waiting to be received.
Open the eyes of our hearts,
As you did years ago,
To see the joy of life
In the simple way of love.
Amen.
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