Perhaps you have heard there is a war on Christmas.

Santa setups crowding out Nativity scenes. Secular

songs replacing traditional carols. The celebration

of this holy day upended by generic greetings in

recognition of a nondescript season. The term has

been with us for nearly twenty years, making it

(according to one commentary) “America’s latest

forever war.” Now I understand the controversy, but

I would suggest that we’ve misidentified the threat.

From my vantage point as a pastor, Christmas seems

to be holding up rather well. I imagine we’ll have quite

a crowd here three weeks from today. Scripture’s story

will take center stage, and we’ll sing the carols we

know by heart.

Advent, on the other hand, is under attack. Ask

most folks when the Christmas season begins, and

you’re likely to hear “as soon as the leftovers are

gone” or “when the calendar turns to December.”

Afterall, Christmas follows Thanksgiving, as every

child’s calendar and grocery store display clearly

communicates. Advent, the season of the church

year that begins today and takes us all the way to

Christmas Eve, is threatened. In fact, there’s a kind

of cold war on Advent. The strategy is subtle. The

tactic: total disregard, refusal to acknowledge the

season’s existence. And for the record, I do not count

Williams Sonoma’s $200 “Luxury Advent Calendar”

as an exception.

It is not hard to understand why we avoid Advent.

It’s the season of waiting. That’s a tough sell. When

we were putting up our Christmas tree and our lights

last weekend, our son Samuel asked me if I’d be

preaching Christmas sermons now. I tried to explain

to our fourth grader a bit about Advent, but he tried

to help me out in return. “Dad, I think people like the

Christmas sermons better.”

He is not wrong. The longing for Christmas joy and

holy light is reasonable. We want Christmas, right this

very minute. Advent stands in our way. Waiting is not

the thing. It’s the thing that comes before the thing. It

must be endured.

But, hear me out for a moment. What if the waiting is

a gift we need? What if the season of Advent is the

only true path to Christmas?

The billboard on the side of the road asks, “Are you

prepared to meet Jesus?” That’s the right question for

the Advent season. These four Sundays give us time.

Time to prepare—not our homes, but our hearts. Think

of it. How many times have you reached Christmas

and found yourself wondering where the time went?

Advent is our invitation to wait on purpose. To wait

with purpose.

This season at Second, we’re going to take a

different path to Christmas. Actually, four different

paths, because the Bible is not a solo act; it is a

chorus of witnesses.

So, this December we’re going to pause in each of the

four Gospels to listen for what Christmas preparation

sounds like there.

And we begin with the earliest and most succinct

Gospel. We start with Mark. And, at first glance, you

might think there isn’t much to say about Christmas

in Mark. (Shortest sermon ever!) No pageant. There

are no shepherds, no wise men, no stable, no star,

no baby lying in a manger. Mark seems completely

unaware that any of that ever happened.

Mark does not decorate his Gospel with tinsel and

bright lights. He has no tree. And perhaps that is the

best reason for us to begin here. Mark is all about

Advent. In Mark’s Gospel, you can feel the weight of

the waiting. Mark may not dwell on the birth of a baby,

but he knows where to find God in human form.

He describes how Jesus was baptized by his cousin

John in the Jordan. He gives us a message of hope in

words spoken by a heavenly voice. “You are my son. I

love you.”

That’s a beautiful moment, but it’s just a moment.

Immediately (that’s Mark’s favorite word), Jesus is

driven into the wilderness. In fact, that’s where we

find Mark’s messenger. And so, it’s where we find

ourselves at the start of this season.

In Mark’s Gospel, the wilderness is both setting and

character. It’s where his story begins. Calling on

the words of the prophet Isaiah, Mark speaks of a

messenger preparing the way for the miraculous.

A voice crying out in the wilderness. What does

the voice say? Prepare the way of the Lord. In the

wilderness, prepare the way.

Mark may not tell us where Jesus was born, but he

knows where Jesus can be found. In the wilderness.

And that’s good news for we who know the

wilderness. You may wish you didn’t, but you do. The

war on Advent may insist that we can skip Mark’s

story altogether and run straight to Christmas angels.

But Mark’s messenger has something to teach us.

Jesus meets us in the wilderness.

So, this December, resist the urge to rush ahead,

to turn up the Christmas songs and drown out the

voices crying out. This year, sit in the discomfort of a

world still waiting. Wait with families who keep vigil

for loved ones held hostage, and those who huddle

in basements as bombs drop overhead. Stand in

the shoes of patients whose medical tests brought

ominous news. Remain with all who dread the coming

of nightfall or fear the dawn of a new day.

When we are in the wilderness, we can acknowledge

the truth that all of us cause and carry pain. That we

are deeply divided by calcified conviction with no

commitment to conversation. That we exist in chaos

created by violence and injustice. That fear grips

us. Mark knows that what we lack is not the syrupy

sentimentalism of a secularized sacred season. What

we need is hope. Hope in signs and symbols, in

wonders and in words.

In the wilderness, we hear the promise that provides a

path. You are my child. I love you.

That’s Christmas in Mark’s Gospel: the assurance

that God’s grace does not, will not, cannot, leave us.

The Advent gift that Mark offers us is the courage to

wait in the wilderness, where Jesus can be found. The

place where hope is most needed is the place where

God is most present.

I don’t know what the wilderness looks like for you

this year. I do not know the specific burdens you bear

or the heaviness you carry into this season. I do know

that you could name them one by one. Whatever it is

that wakes you in the middle of the night. Whatever

won’t let go of your heart. Whatever occupies your

mind. I know that the whole world feels a bit like

a wilderness this year, that we’re all wandering in

search of signs of hope flashing like points of light

against a sea of darkness. I know that we’re searching

for reasons to rejoice—not the empty calories of a

forced or false merriment that withers like grass and

fades like summer flowers, but hope. Sturdy hope.

And Mark tells us that this hope is often found in the

least expected places. That it’s often found right next

to pain. That hope stands side-by-side with sadness

whenever we open our hearts to receive it.

Miss Lena never missed the annual Christmas caroling

in the neighborhoods near Vandalia Presbyterian

Church. In fact, in her eighty years, no one among us

could remember a time when Miss Lena had missed

anything. Not worship or a youth car wash or a

fellowship dinner or a Bible study. But certainly not the

Christmas caroling, for which she always provided her

world-famous pound cake.

But this year had been different. Miss Lena’s

husband of fifty-eight years, Edmund, had died at

the beginning of December, and we were all worried

about her. She seemed suddenly somehow frail and

fragile. And then, the morning of the caroling, the

phone call came. I heard my father on the other end of

the line reassure Miss Lena that we would persevere

without her. She just wasn’t feeling too well. She

would need to skip the caroling this year.

As we left our final stop and prepared to return to the

church, my younger sister, Emily, had an idea. If Miss

Lena could not come sing with us, then we should

go sing to Miss Lena. The adults in the group were

unanimously dead set against it. They did not want to

impose on a grieving woman or be a bother. But nineyear-old Emily was insistent, and she rallied a dozen

determined kids to her side of the argument. Before

we knew it, we piled back in the vans and made our

way to Miss Lena’s house.

When we arrived, the front porch light came on. She

stepped onto the screened porch and welcomed

us with tears in her eyes. Then she sat down on the

couch. I remember it so well. Emily sat next to her.

Miss Lena cried through every note of every song.

That night she wept openly, without one shred of

self-consciousness or shame. And many of us wept

as well.

Listen. Our hope will be found not only in festive

gatherings or choirs of angels singing Gloria. We will

find hope in the wilderness, where the tenderness

of vulnerable love is spoken in hushed tones. The

grieving woman rests her hand on the teenage boy’s

shoulder, singing Silent Night as tears fall. And hope

holds us in the real world, where our lives and God’s

life are woven together, and where peace and love

and joy coexist with sadness and pain and loss.

You may have missed them, but there are angels in

Mark’s Christmas story. They do not blow trumpets

or sing praise to God in the highest heaven. In fact,

they aren’t in heaven at all. You already know where

they are. In the wilderness. With the wild beasts. You

already know what they’re doing. Waiting.

So don’t rush. Just linger. Just trust. Just hope. Just

wait. Just listen for a voice you know by heart and a

promise you need to hear. You are my child. I love you.

I always will. Amen.