St George's Cathedral, Cape Town

A sermon preached by The Reverend Bruce W. B. Jenneker at Evensong in St George's Cathedral, Cape Town on the Third Sunday in Advent, 13 December 2009

Advent is transition. Caught up in our present, the future is breaking in. Advent is passage, a way before us, from what holds us, weighs us down and hinders our advance to that which beckons us, lifts our spirits and promises joy. Advent is expectation: the rush of adrenaline that floods through us when we stand on the threshold of an important arrival, a life-shaping event, an intimidating ordeal. Advent is waiting: like the pregnant mother waits for the labour pains that will signal the end of waiting and the arrival of a new life; like the matriculants waiting for the results that will determine their next steps; like the person who is ready to risk telling the truth, blowing the whistle, when everyone colludes with lies and deceit. Advent is transition, passage, expectation, waiting.

The Church intends Advent to be an emotional time, when anticipation is matched with fear, when the threat of judgment and the promise of mercy both lay hold of our hearts. Advent is turmoil: the anxiety of preparation, the stress of waiting, the sense of unworthiness - hold us captive as much as the delight that hope brings, the joy that comes with looking forward to a long-awaited arrival.

It is not easy to experience Advent as the season our scripture readings announce. It is difficult to catch the feelings we sing of in our Advent carols. There is something about us, and not just about you and me, but about all of us humans that is threatened by anticipating that which we cannot know or define ahead of time. We refuse waiting, turn away from the stillness that anticipation requires and reject transition.

So all around Christmas is practically over. We have had weeks of festive lights. We have eaten mince pies and cold ham at premature Christmas parties and holiday festivities in advance of the holidays they celebrate. We refuse waiting, turn away from the stillness that anticipation requires and reject transition. Not just about Christmas, but about everything else that matters: our relationships, our careers, our health, our commitments and those of others.

The Advent Prose with which we began our liturgy this morning is a series of texts adapted from the prophet Isaiah, and has for centuries been said, or more usually sung, in churches during the season of Advent. In its Latin form, it is attributed to Aurelius Clemens Prudentius, who lived in the fourth century. Pour down, O heavens, from above, we say, and let the skies rain down righteousness. It is a cry from the depths. The Latin text cries out for the power of God to make dew drops of righteousness rather than calling for rain. Rain falls from the clouds and splatters the earth and all that is in it. Dew is formed by a process of condensation in which the moisture in the air interacts with the body of matter it encounters. O Lord of heaven we cry, so touch us with your divine goodness that like the dew on the leaves, so your goodness will form on us, with us and in us. So touch us with your holiness, that like the dew sparkles in the spider's web so your holiness will shine on us, and in us and through us. O Lord of heaven we cry, so touch us with your virtue and justice, that like the dew forms and clings to the grass making it wet, keeping it supple and nurturing its growth, so your virtue and justice will keep us fresh, make us supple to bend to your will and nurture us in the ways of your love and peace.

The Advent Prose sounds the notes of urgent expectation and impending judgement: expectation that is born of hope and judgment that is our just dessert. It puts in our mouths the words of longing and fear. We speak them with authenticity and mean them, for there is much about us and our world that makes us long for a better, more gentle, kinder world, and surrounded as we are by the consequences of our choices and actions, we fear the judgement that is to come.

Here, away from the premature Christmas clamour of our city with its frenzy and our world with its greed, here where the Advent candles flicker timorously, here in this holy place, we hear the words of life. Repent, says John the Baptism, and bear the fruits of repentance. Rejoice in the Lord always, writes Saint Paul, and again I say rejoice.

Repent and Rejoice: the dual vocation of Advent. Turning away from all that threatens to diminish and destroy us – the small and naughty temptations, the big and looming seductions, the awful and fatal attractions. Repent, says John the Baptism, and bear the fruits of repentance. Rejoice, says St Paul, and again I say rejoice. Look at the world and all its many wonders, taste the goodness of the Lord in food and drink, know God's care in bountiful provision – and rejoice. Count how many times your actions have demanded the forgiveness of others when you did not even recognise your need – and rejoice in that plentitude of forgiveness. Consider the mess you make of things and the untidiness of your relationships, and then reflect on the fact that the sun rises and sets day after day and night after night, bringing you a second, a third and a fourth chance to do the right thing. Rejoice, says St Paul, and again I say rejoice.

Today on the Third Sunday in Advent it is John the Baptist and Jesus who stand at the heart of the Gospel message. John is centre stage and Jesus is in the wings, but Paul is playing his music and singing his song. John is fire and brimstone, and Paul tells us that Jesus is near, our needs are know and met, and the peace of God which passes all understanding is ours, given, pressed down and running over. John and Jesus: prophecy and reconciliation, judgement and hope.

Our world is perilously at risk, our planet is sick. Repent, says John the Baptism, and bear the fruits of repentance. You know yourself, your lifestyle and your patterns of consumption. Repent, says John the Baptism, and bear the fruits of repentance. Water – how do you use and conserve it; pollution – how to you avoid and prevent it; your carbon footprint – how much does it steal from the next generation and the ones that come after it? Repent, says John the Baptism, and bear the fruits of repentance. Women and children are perilously at risk in our world – and more especially in our city and region. You know yourself, your prejudices and assumptions. Respect – how honestly do you respect women and children in the way you think and act, speak and tell jokes? Repent, says John the Baptism, and bear the fruits of repentance. Concern – have you found ways to express concern about the alarming number of very young children who are abducted, raped and murdered in our city? Resources – do you share generously what you have with those who do not have any? Your money certainly, but your time, your skills and experience – do you share them, or are they available only to your immediate world of family and friends, career and advancement? Repent, says John the Baptism, and bear the fruits of repentance.

Alongside John and his clarion call for repentance, there stands the one for whom he prepares the way, Jesus the forgiving one, the healing one, the reconciling one. Rejoice, says St Paul, and again I say rejoice. God's grace is vital, strong and life-changing – are you open to receiving its power? God's mercy is boundless and reaches the hidden depths of our hearts where our deepest and dirtiest sins lie buried – are you open to receiving God's forgiveness? God's compassion is immediate and soothes every wound we suffer and heals every scar we bear – are you ready to let God touch and heal, restore and bless you? Think on these things, St Paul says, the Lord is near.

Hear the message of the wild man in skins who shouts on the margins of the city: Repent. Let the message of John the Baptist open the eyes and ears of your heart so that you may see and her the Saviour who comes to make all things new – and for that wonder, rejoice, rejoice and again rejoice.

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