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Mystery’s Call
The First Sunday of Advent (Year A)
November 28, 2004
The Reverend Paul R. Abernathy, Rector
Humbly I adore thee, verity unseen,
Who thy glory hidest ‘neath these shadows mean;
Lo, to thee surrendered, my whole heart is bowed.
Tranced as it beholds thee, shrined within the cloud.[1]
This 13th century personal meditation, attributed to Thomas Aquinas, expresses love for a truth, which, tho’ not fully seen, is no less truly
known. For Aquinas, the truth is Jesus, again, known, even adored, yet shrouded in inexpressible mystery.
Whether all or any of us find accord with Aquinas’s view, these words give voice to a universal human longing for connection to something greater.
The quest for which can occupy a lifetime, sometimes without ever being sure that one will come, can come to a fruitful end of the search.
Mystery. Whether we speak of God or truth – that which is unalterably, reliably real – or virtues – laudable principles the practice of which
make for good living – or the meaning of life itself, there is mystery.
Mystery. Not a riddle to be resolved, so to say that if we only knew more, we’d figure it out – whatever “it” is, again, God, truth, life,
or, even, ourselves. But rather that which is beyond the fullest grasp of our comprehension, as in the more we know, the more we know that we do
not know about it – whatever “it” is: God, truth, life, or ourselves.
Yet the nature of mystery, it seems, is to call us continually, saying, “Come.”
So, our Advent worship task force beckons, asking us, as we begin yet another church year, another season of preparation for the celebration of
the nativity of Jesus, to open our minds and hearts to mystery, particularly as we find it expressed in the Christmas stories.
There is, however, an inherent problem with mystery. It’s so mysterious! So unresponsive to the human quest for answers. Even for us! Yes, we,
St. Mark’s, Capitol Hill, are a community that loves the art of the question. A community that lives by a faith that seeks to say “yes” to
all of life’s possibilities, both in promise and in cost. Indeed, we, as a community, cast a skeptical eye on any answer too swiftly reached and
too quickly offered. Sometimes we cast a skeptical eye on any answer! Nevertheless, even for us, it is one thing to acknowledge life’s
ambiguity in the abstract, as in a moment of calm, saying, “Life’s only consistency is its inconsistency.” It is quite another to come
face to face with uncertainty in the concrete corridors of our lives, at the intersection of circumstance and decision, crisis and action when
our choices, however sincerely made, might prove disastrously wrong. At such times, even some of us would like the comfort of knowing for sure.
Of course, another danger is to run too far in the other direction. To equate faith with an absolute certainty and, even worse, a conformity
that inhibits questioning and favors answers, the more clear and firm, the better.
Hardly a St. Mark’s mentality! Nor is it of Advent, again, the season of preparation for Christmas, which celebrates the greatest mystery, the
grandest incomprehensibility of all: God taking flesh to dwell among us. Hence, Advent beckons us to respond, “Yes,” to mystery’s constant
call to us. So, what does that “yes” look like?
A common image for the human encounter with mystery – whether of God, truth, life, or ourselves – is light. Light. A symbol of our journey’s
end and even stages along the way. Indeed, through each of the four Sundays of Advent, we light an additional candle, symbolizing, as Christmas
draws near, that we come closer to the coming of Jesus, the Light of the world. Light.
Intriguingly, however, our task force, this day, through poetry and scripture, asks us to reflect on darkness…
David Whyte, in his poem, “Sweet Darkness,” speaks of moments when we can’t see. When more looking yields no better recognition… When
more thinking achieves no deeper comprehension… When more words spoken in conversation or argument yield no greater understanding… When sense
and nonsense, clarity and confusion appear as one… Moments when we must retreat, for nothing we can do brings us closer to truth. Yet, there,
in the dark, we can be, no, we are called and comforted, known and loved. There, in the limitless darkness, we see more than we could have
imagined.
To walk into darkness, hoping to see light. This is what a “yes” in response to mystery’s call looks like.
In our gospel passage,[2] Nicodemus, a Pharisee, a living, breathing repository of God’s law, an embodiment of
enlightenment, seems to have followed the counsel of “Sweet Darkness.” Unable to see, confused, unclear, he seeks Jesus at night. They speak,
but, at first, not at all the same language. Jesus talks of spiritual things, telling Nicodemus that he must be born again. Nicodemus, replying
as a cold literalist, wonders how, at his age and his size, he might climb back into his mother’s womb! Jesus persists, pointing to a truth about
God, life, and the meaning of life. To live in God’s kin_dom,[3] to be connected to something greater, to touch
the realm of the eternal can be given only by and through spirit – for this is beyond the power of flesh to grasp. Indeed, to be born again
is a metaphor for that conscious awareness of our connection with something greater. Eventually, apparently, Nicodemus sees.
To walk into darkness, hoping to see light. This is what a “yes” in response to mystery’s call looks like.
What is your darkness? What is mine? For it differs for each of us and can differ for each of us at different moments. What is your mystery and
mine, into which we might look, must look in the hope of seeing light? What, for you and for me, is that darkness, that mystery, and
paradoxically, also that light, for the love of which we might sing:
Humbly I adore thee, verity unseen,
Who thy glory hidest ‘neath these shadows mean;
Lo, to thee surrendered, my whole heart is bowed.
Tranced as it beholds thee, shrined within the cloud.
[1] Thomas Aquinas (1225? – 1274), Dominican philosopher and theologian.
[2] The gospel passage chosen by the Advent worship task force is John 3.1-8.
[3] “Kin_dom,” being less monarchical, less hierarchical and more relational is my favored substitute for “kingdom.”
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