If you ever get a chance to go to Rome, you will probably visit the Vatican. And if you visit the Vatican, you will probably visit the Sistine Chapel. And if you visit the Sistine Chapel you will probably try to locate on that famous ceiling, Michelangelo’s iconic picture of God reaching out, touching Adam’s finger, and giving him life. Everyone knows this picture, and you can get it on anything, even in Vatican gift shops: t-shirts, magnets, clocks, posters…I even have it on a tie.
But then, after about thirty seconds or a minute, you figure that you’ve spent all this time and effort to get to Rome and here you are standing below one of the most famous frescoes of all time, and you realize there's more to it than just God and Adam, so you begin to move outward from that and look at the rest of it. And soon, given time, you discover that around the edges of the fresco, Michelangelo has painted representations of the Old Testament prophets.
Daniel, Isaiah, Ezekiel, even Jonah, each with looks of determination, righteousness, men on a mission. Around the edge you go, Zechariah, Joel. And then you see him, one of my favorite prophets…Jeremiah. He’s sitting there, his legs splayed apart, with an arm resting on one knee, and his head in his hand, his face obscured. Completely different from all the rest. The others are brave and courageous. But this is a man at the end of his days; a man at the end of his rope. An old, tired man who looks like he’s been through a lot.
And he has: After receiving his prophetic call as a youth, Jeremiah was beaten by his own family, imprisoned by the king of Judah, harangued, put in the stocks, set upon by the priests of Judah, opposed by other prophets, and thrown into a deep cistern and left to die. It took an invasion from Nebuchadnezzar and the Babylonians to free him, and even then he reward was to be left behind to bear witness to the fall of his beloved Jerusalem.
Near the end of the first section of Book of Jeremiah, the prophet’s frustration finally overwhelms him and he begins to vent his frustrations: “Cursed be the day on which I was born! The day when my mother bore me, let it not be blessed! Cursed be the man who brought the news to my father, saying, ‘A child is born to you, a son.’”
When I think of that Jeremiah on the Sistine Chapel ceiling, I imagine he has just shouted all of that to God at the top of his lungs, then, empty and bereft, he sits down and just stops and folds in on himself.
Jeremiah is, quite frankly, gloomy. And he has every right to be. His entire world has just been destroyed. The promised land has lost its promise. The world is dark and dangerous. At this moment, it all seems so hopeless.
We know this world. It's amazing how, with our televisions and computer screens and phones shining bright with 24-hour news, it can be so very dark. We live in a world that is being “consumed” not just by shopping and insane consumerism but by cynicism, bullying, and division. We live in a world that is being consumed by anger, blame, recrimination, retribution, and violence. We live in a world where the other is the enemy to be hunted and driven out. We live in a world where social media show us a side of humanity that is far from the ideals of hope, peace, love, and joy that so-called Christians spewing all that Twitter hatred claim to endorse as they embrace their flag-wrapped Bibles. All of this is sometimes hard to understand.
And it is in this darkness that our New Year, Advent, slowly, quietly begins to reveal itself. As our days get shorter and colder and night seems to be winning, we begin, slowly, quietly to get a sense that something new and important is about to happen.
We tend to shy away from darkness. But it is in this darkness that God so very often speaks most profoundly to us. It is in darkness that God appears to Abraham and seals the everlasting covenant with a people. It is in darkness that God visits Jacob in a dream of angels ascending and descending a ladder in clouds, and it is in darkness that Jacob wrestles with an angel and receives his new name, Israel, and a new blessing. It is in darkness that God calls Samuel, and Gideon, and Solomon, and Isaiah. It is in darkness that God shows the mysteries of the universe, the uncountable stars to Job. It is in darkness that Jesus prays for comfort in the garden before he makes his ultimate sacrifice. And it is in darkness that the single tiny candle of our first week of Advent dares to shine forth its flame.
Just when it is darkest, God always peeks in … and through … to remind us that the work of peace is still alive, the mission of love is still beating in hearts, the embers of justice are still there under the ashes, waiting for God's breath to blow on them.
So, if you ever go to Rome, stand and look on Michelangelo's Jeremiah, understand his sadness, but don't think that is his end. Jeremiah is saddened there on that fresco, but God will soon move through the darkness of his soul and will lead him to shout out words of consolation to those who remain behind in a destroyed culture, a ruined land. Because it is also Jeremiah who will point to the rubble that is the temple and say, “Look, out of the ashes of this destruction grows a shoot! Do you see it? Something new! Do you see it?” Small and green, peeking up in the moonlight, unnoticed in all the smoke. Up peeks a new life and a new way of living.
It is always this way, this way of God. This way of Advent. Small and unobtrusive. Shining steadily in the face of the oncoming shadows of Jesus' warnings of wars and rumors of wars, of signs and portents and confusion. Because even when Jesus warns us, he comforts us with the green shoots of renewal. The steady sturdy growth of the fig tree. Promising fruit year after year.
Nations will conquer nations, disasters will occur in unexpected ways with frightening regularity, and leaders will go out of their way to hurt the vulnerable and trample justice. And we know that in part we are all part of this madness that seems to be our world. We know that we just can't help but be a people who, on our own, just can't seem to keep from doing it all wrong. A people who so desperately need a way, another way, a new way of love and peace and justice.
A way that is offered in quiet, a way that is sealed upon us at our baptism. A way that renews us through Eucharist. A way that reaches our hearts through God's word. A way that gives us strength through prayer. A way that stands against the world but gives hope to the world. A way that offers not just another God in a long line of seductive and punishing gods. But a way that offers a real life with this real God who loves us so very much that God becomes us to be near us.
And so, as we begin this new church year, we give thanks that we are a people of that covenant, sealed in the dark with Abraham, a people who wrestle with our better angels in the dark like Jacob, a people who answer the call in the dark like Samuel. And we, as this people, the people of God, know that somewhere, somehow, in all of this, light will shine through.
And as the weeks go on, that light will be joined by another, and another, and another. Until the whole world is alight with anticipation. The anticipation of a savior coming with clouds descending, only to be born in the dark in a manger, a little child. And with those lights shining warmly in that night, we will soon look at this child, this God-come-to-be-our-friend, and the gloom will fade away, and, like Jeremiah, we will think, “This isn't the end. This is the beginning.”