One of the first steps in creating a clay pot is to pick up a lump of clay. Hold it up over your head. Throw it down on the table as hard as you can. Pick it up and throw it down. Mash it. Smash it. Work it with your hands until it is softened. Only after it has been beaten into submission is the clay ready to be made into something new and beautiful such as a little Christmas ornament. First you have to work with the clay to soften it up. You have to get the clay ready to become something new.
The prophet Isaiah says we -- you and I and all other earthlings -- are the divine potter's clay. We are like clay in the hands of God. We sometimes feel like clay in the first stages of deconstruction. We feel thrown down, smashed, beaten up, worked over in an unpleasant sort of way. Then we lay in disarray. We wonder what we have done to deserve such foul play. We become keenly aware of our limitations. One little illness can remind us of our mortality. One quick fall and our independence is called into question. We may even wonder where God is when we feel like a beaten up lump of clay.
It happens to most of us. We go through periods in life when God appears close at hand, but we also experience periods when God seems very far away in the heavens and even cut off from the earth. It is at this point of paradox and darkness that Advent becomes an ever-present need in our lives. Just as ancient Israel under Isaiah's guidance hoped that the Exodus-Sinai events in her memory would be reenacted so life could begin again as it began in the days of Moses, so do we focus our imagination on the evergreen wreath hoping that our collective memories of the coming of Christ to the world so long ago will be reenacted in our midst so life can begin again for us.
Isaiah says, "We all fade like a leaf." (v. 6c) The faded leaf is but one side of the paradox of Advent. To refuse to embrace the dying of the physical, the social, and even the religious, is to ignore the real ministry of the darkness and its rest. Indeed, all our faded leaves of existence and personal darknesses remind us that all the schemes, expectations, and goals we have set -- for ourselves, our world, and our religious organizations -- have yet to be redeemed. There's more that needs to come. We, too, join the longing of Isaiah, Mary, and John for God to break into our isolation. We place our wreath of hope alongside the darkness of our faded leaves. Perhaps the paradox of Advent becomes ultimately our one great hope. It is an irrational, apocalyptic hope, which informs our waiting.
For people like us -- ever thoughtful, ever reasonable, and ever realistic -- the evergreen wreath of Advent, the special music, the candles, the flowers, and the best efforts of the preacher are necessary. All our hopes twisted together make enough hope to live by, hope enough to see beyond the faded leaf and give us the courage to wait for more.
We all fade like a leaf. The mystery of faded leaves being transformed into evergreen wreaths is symbolic of the power of God transforming darkness into light in human lives. This transformation spans the whole sweep of biblical history. Abraham, the unbeliever, becomes the obedient servant of God. Jacob, who cheats his father out of something that wasn't his, becomes the loving father of Israel. Moses the angry murderer becomes Moses the patient father of a nation. Peter -- the cursing, redneck, abrasive fisherman -- becomes the tolerant leader of the church.
At the personal level we vacillate between the evergreen wreath and the faded leaf. Physically our lives march toward the faded leaf instead of the evergreen wreath. The human body has its seasons commensurate with spring, summer, autumn, and winter. The advancing years take their toll. The eyes dim, the hearing wanes, the hair grays, and the muscles lose their tone. The body becomes as fading as the leaf which will one day fall from the tree. We begin our journey this year with the evergreen wreath and words from Isaiah about a faded leaf. We wait for more.
When we get roughed up by life's circumstances we may feel like the potter's clay. First comes the initial thumping. Then we get put on the shelf. Finally, the potter uses a light touch to make us into more than we ever imagined we could become. The prophet Isaiah said it well: "We are the clay, You are the potter, we are all the work of Your hand." (v. 8)
As we begin this Advent journey, may we join with Isaiah in presenting ourselves to God, saying:
Have Thine own way, Lord! Have Thine own way!
Thou art the Potter, I am the clay.
Mold me and make me after Thy will,
While I am waiting, yielded and still.
Let us heed Jesus' words from the Gospel of Luke and "Be on guard" during this Advent season. Let us "Be alert at all times" to what God may be doing in our lives and in the life of the world. The circle of the wreath reminds us of the round sun that sustains life day after day. Let us awaken then to the Word of God planted in our hearts. As Jesus says, "Heaven and earth will pass away, but my word will not pass away." It is that Word of God that will gestate in our souls during this Advent season.
The Rev Dr. Jon Burnham preached this sermon from Isaiah 64:1-9
on November 29, 2009 at St. John's Presbyterian Church in Houston
