O that you would tear open the heavens and come down,
So that the mountains would quake at your presence –
As when fire kindles brushwood and the fire causes water to boil—
To make your name known to your adversaries,
So that the nations might tremble at your presence!
Today’s suggested reading from the 64th chapter of Isaiah seems a rather unusual reading to begin the season of Advent. Heavens being torn open, mountains quaking, fire and boiling water, trembling nations and frightened adversaries – it seems a far cry from the gentle images of an infant child lying in a manger. And that is what Advent is supposed to be preparing us for – right?
Well, perhaps.
But reading this passage in its context does, in fact, lead us towards a deeper opportunity to reflect on the central themes of advent – themes like hope, and peace, and joy and love. And the ways that God acts in our lives.
Consider.
The prophecies of Isaiah were offered to a people in a very difficult time in their lives. They had been in exile for decades, their beloved city and homeland had been overthrown and ransacked, they had been shamed and decimated for years.
But now, they were back, set free from the exile, returned to their ancestral homeland. However, all was not yet well with the world. The city lay in ruins, the Temple had been destroyed, and though they might not still be in exile, they were still under the domination of a foreign power.
And so, they found themselves feeling profoundly disappointed. They still wanted God to come through for them, they were still waiting for the restoration of their dignity, their peace, their sense of safety and security, their feeling of being a people loved and blessed and chosen by God. That is what their faith had told them – that God loved them, that God was sovereign, that God could do great things for them – but where were the fulfillment of those promises?
Okay, God, if you are so powerful, where are you now? We have been waiting for so long – tear open the heavens and make things right already.
Okay, God, we have been told for ages that there is no power as great and mighty as you – “from ages past no one has hear, no ear has perceived, no eye has seen any God besides you, who works for those who wait for him.” And we’ve been waiting, God, for a very long time. And it doesn’t seem to be doing much good.
Okay, God, we admit, we acknowledge that we are not always perfect – yes, we have sinned; yes, we have done things which have made you angry; yes, we have “all become like one who is unclean, and all our righteous deeds are like a filthy cloth”; and yes, perhaps at times we have turned away from you.
But we are here, now, God, and we are turning to you; we know that you have the power to make things right, to take away the pain, to cover our offenses, to restore our self-respect, our sense of purpose, our dignity, our community, our lives – and we are crying out to you. We need you now. Tear open the heavens if you have to; make the mountains quake if you have to; save us and defend us and protect us, because you are God and we are not.
We are the clay, and you are our potter. “We are all the work of your hand. Do not be exceedingly angry, O Lord, and do not remember iniquity forever. Now consider, we are all your people.”
The prophet’s image of a potter working with clay is a fascinating image to ponder in relation to our own lives. After all, any of us who have watched a potter working cannot help but be intrigued and fascinated by how beauty is formed. The potter’s wheel starts spinning, and the potter slaps a formless lump of clay on that spinning disc. A bit of water is added, and the clay starts turning around. The potter touches the spinning clay, and suddenly form and shape start to spring into being.
I always find it intriguing to watch how a good potter can touch the clay in a tiny way, or with some little tool, and suddenly – with that seemingly insignificant little touch or tweak – entirely new and beautiful designs are etched into the newly emerging piece of art.
But every once in a while, the potter realizes that significant change has to happen, so the clay is pushed down so that the work can start again. The potter does not do this out of hatred, or punishment, or wrath, or spite – perhaps, there might be a bit of frustration that what is intended is not emerging as easily as the potter desired – but most of all, the crushing down of the clay is motivated by the potter’s desire to fashion something even more beautiful, even more striking, than what had previously existed on that spinning wheel.
And so, the clay rises again, and eventually, the potter’s vision is achieved, and something unique and beautiful has been shaped out of that formless lump of clay.
This act of creation, of small tweaks, of gentle touches and nudges, and sometimes of full-fledged, all-out deconstruction for the sake of making something even more beautiful – all are the work of the potter.
We are the clay, and you are our potter; we are all the work of your hand.
These words, delivered to those returning exiles, thousands of years ago, continue to be words that are relevant in our lives.
After all, like those exiles, we all have moments, chapters, seasons of our lives when we might feel just as discouraged, just as downcast, just as exhausted, just as broken, just as hopeless as those exiles must have felt.
But we continue to place our trust, our confidence, our faith, in the power of a God who has the power to tear open the heavens and come down; a God who can gather up the broken and misshaped parts of our lives, and save us; a God who can touch us, and tweak us, and perhaps even entirely remake us and even transform us into something ever more beautiful – even as a potter touches, and tweaks and remakes and transforms a lump of clay into a work of great art and beauty.
So how does God do this?
How does this God of heaven-tearing, earthshaking, mountain trembling, triumphant power choose to effect this startling, wonderful, beautiful transformation within us?
Well, usually in the most unexpected of ways.
After all, even though the people were calling God to tear open the heavens to come down, that’s not what happened. That would have been great; it would have been spectacular; it would have been noteworthy.
But maybe that is not how God chooses to act in our lives, and in our world.
Instead, maybe this startling, wonderful, beautiful transforming work began – and maybe it still begins – in less spectacular and less noteworthy ways.
In gentle signs that living in hope is neither futile nor in vain; in quiet moments of peace, even in the midst of life’s storms; in mysterious reassurances that we are loved; in unexpected moments of joy.
And that hope, that peace, that love, that joy, found – and still finds it summation in the story of a little manger stall.
And in an empty tomb.
And in all of the little moments in our lives when hope, peace, love and joy invite us to believe – all over again — that we are clay that have the potential to be shaped into wonderful new creations in the hands of a potter who loves us.
And to live in the expectation that God can, and does, and will act in our lives in such wondrous, simple yet transforming ways – well, that is actually what Advent is all about.
So welcome to Advent.
And thanks be to God.
