“When the founder of Hasidic Judaism, the great Rabbi Israel Shem Tov, saw misfortune threatening the Jews, it was his custom to go into a certain part of the forest to meditate.  There he would light a fire, say a special prayer, and the miracle would be accomplished and the misfortune averted.

            Later, when his disciple, the celebrated Maggid of Mezritch, had occasion, for the same reason, to intercede with heaven, he would go to the same place in the forest and say, “Master of the Universe, listen!  I do not know how to light the fire, but I am still able to say the prayer,” and again the miracle would be accomplished.

            Still later, Rabbi Moshe-lieb of Sasov, in order to save his people once more, would go into the forest and say, “I do not know how to light the fire.  I do not know the prayer, but I know the place and this must be sufficient.” It was sufficient, and the miracle was accomplished.

            Then it fell to Rabbi Israel of Rizhin to overcome misfortune.  Sitting in his armchair, his head in his hands, he spoke to God: “I am unable to light the fire, and do not know the prayer, and I cannot even find the place in the forest.  All I can do is tell the story, and this must be sufficient.”

            And it was sufficient.  For God made human beings because God loves stories.”

            Do you ever feel like that?  Like you cannot light the fire, and you do not know the prayer, and you can’t even find the place in the forest?  That all you can do is tell your story, speak your truth, and hope that it is sufficient?

            We gather together today, on this Second Sunday of Advent, and we ask that question.  Oh, God, are we sufficient?  Are we really ready to enter into this Christmas story?  And we hear the answer loud and clear, in our scriptures for today.  Your stories are sufficient, you are sufficient, you are beloved, you are cherished, so please, come enter into the Advent story. 

            We begin today at the beginning.  The first nine words of Mark’s gospel proclaim, “The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ,” and we drawn right into the story, right into the preparation, right into the proclamation of John the Baptist, right into the time line that stretches from the ancient Hebrew prophets, all the way through John, to the ministry of Jesus, and beyond, to the Holy Spirit, here, with us, right now.

            See in these first 8 verses of Mark’s gospel, we hear the whole story of our faith, condensed into a couple paragraphs.  He starts with words from the prophet Isaiah, includes Malachi, as well, refers to the experience of Exodus, and then draws in the image of the prophet Elijah.  Mark’s gospel begins within the timeline of ancient Israel: this is who we have been, this is our story so far, and on the story goes, with John the Baptist, standing firmly within the story of our people.

            But we look ahead, as well, to a man who will come, wearing sandals and simplicity, baptizing us with the Holy Spirit.  The final words of this passage point even beyond Jesus, to the continuing presence of God through the Spirit.  This is a gift to anticipate even at the beginning, because it is the culmination of the whole story.  This passage, which begins by gathering up ancient echoes of Israel’s history, concludes by reaching into the present moment, towards you, towards me, as we take our place in the story.

            But the question of sufficiency, of worthiness, does not go away.  Are we worthy to enter this story?  Can we be a part of this sacred chain of events?  Can we stand in the same line as the prophets of Israel, as John the Baptist?  And that is when we arrive at the challenging realities of this text.  Because it is not just about entering the story, it is about preparing ourselves, through repentance and the forgiveness of sins.

            Do we want to go there?  Right in the middle of a great story…Do we really want to mess it up with something as ugly as sin?  But if our stories are sufficient, if our stories are worth anything at all, certainly there is a place for the stories of our imperfection, for the stories of the times we fail.  For in admitting what we cannot do, in admitting what we have failed to do, we find that we are loved, anyways.  We find that our stories, that our selves, are sufficient.  We find the freedom of forgiveness that allows us to fully enter the story; but we only get there when we are willing to accept the gift of repentance.

            It doesn’t necessarily seem like good news, at first.  To repent means that we need to look backwards, not in the charming nostalgia of the season, but a real, honest look backwards, to that we can move forwards.  It means that we admit the things we should have done, that we did not do, and things that did, which we should not have done.  It is not a fun, joyous event.  It is honest and heart-wrenching, at times.  So why is this good news?  It is good news because it means that we are a part of this story – you and me – the real people that we are, with the real flaws that we have, with the real sins that we have committed.  The fullness of you, and the fullness of me – we belong right here, in this story.

The biblical canon is not closed. What a foolish thought! You and I are still writing the Bible by carrying the narrative forward. We may not see our names in print, but our actions represent new chapters in the Gospel story. You and I represent the power of one, the power of one person being transformed by God and living a life of conviction and hope.

Transformation occurs when we are set free from the sins of our past, set free from the burdens of our imperfection, set free from the guilt that we carry around like pack full of bricks, bending us over with pain.  Why did people flock to see John the Baptist?  Why did they go all the way out into the wilderness, just to confess their sins?  I think they were sick of carrying those burdens around all day.  John offered to wash away those sins, to take away those stains, to offer a true forgiveness, and the people were ready.  Ready to leave their heavy burdens in the wilderness.  Are you ready, too?

We can enter into the history of the prophets and the teachers and every day people, whose stories paved the way for our own stories, as they walked into the wilderness, and emerged into new life.

      We find the wilderness in both of our texts for today. Over and over again in our Biblical narrative, the wilderness is the place where we encounter God.  The wilderness is intimate and challenging, it is a place where nothing can stand between you and God.

Edward Marquardt writes, “There is something compelling about a God who chooses to meet people in places where you take off your sandals because it’s holy ground, in places where people dress down and eat rather basic foods. This is not your average Madison Ave. Throughout the Biblical literature, this is a God who takes you aside, away from human pretense and guile, to talk personally with you in the desert, that place where you and God are alone together. 
This desolate space is not necessarily the Mojave or the Sahara or the Gobi deserts of the world.  Sometimes it is a sanctuary. Sometimes it is noon in your office. Sometimes it is the back porch or the car or the fitness center. God meets you in that space where you and God can be alone together, where the burdens and guilt of your day can be placed on the back burner, and you alone can hear God say that your sin has been forgiven, that comfort and tenderness are the heart of God’s message to you.

The wilderness is where God lives. The wilderness is any place where a person becomes absorbed in the powerful presence of the sacred. The wilderness is where anyone is alone, totally alone, really alone, with the ultimate issues of life, death and eternity.  The wilderness is in a Book, in a thin wafer and thimble of wine.  It is there, at that table. The wilderness is in a prayer and in a still small voice. Sometimes it is in a slum. Sometimes, it is in a closet. Sometimes it is in a home.”  

The wilderness is where God is, where God will tell us to put down that heavy pack of guilt, and enter into the brand new story.  Today, on this second Sunday in Advent, God invites us into the wilderness.  Where is your wilderness?  Where do you need to go, to hear that still, small voice of God, saying, “You are sufficient, you are cherished, you are forgiven.  Enter my story, because you have a part to play.  And only you can play your part.”

Our text from Isaiah also offers an encounter with God, a voice calling out in the wilderness, the words of our Lord speaking, “Comfort, O Comfort my people.”  Your sins are paid for, you are my children, and my glory and grace will be revealed.  This is from the part of Isaiah called second Isaiah, which shifts the prophetic tone away from accusation and moves into lyric poetry of comfort, hope, and joy. 

It does not matter that Israel has sinned; certainly, Israel is guilty of injustice and iniquity.  It does not matter that Israel will sin again; the likelihood of recidivism is very high.  But these things don’t matter; what matter’s is God’s grace, God’s forgiveness, God’s comfort.  And so God insists, and so God commands, that Isaiah comfort the people of Jerusalem.  The intimacy and compassion that are to infuse this comfort are underscored in the parallel command: Speak tenderly!  It is a deep human desire and need, this comfort, this grace, this forgiveness.

            You are loved, you are cherished, you are forgiven.  Now enter the story.  For this is your story, too.  When we enter the wilderness, we find a God who loves us, as we are, and we find a freedom in repentance, in unloading our guilt, and leaving it in the wilderness, before we turn around and head home.

One afternoon, the writer William Boggs and his family learned a valuable lesson about life.  He was driving on a hot Carolina afternoon when he passed an orchard of "U-Pick" peaches.  He writes, "I doubt any bargain would be sufficiently attractive to lure me out of my air-conditioned car into a steamy afternoon to pick fruit, but we pulled over, paid our money and selected a bushel basket to fill with fresh, ripe South Carolina peaches."

"As we set off into the orchard," he writes, "an old fellow, as wrinkled as a peach pit who was tending the place said, 'If you want the best fruit, go deeper into the orchard; the peaces on the fringes are picked over, but deeper in, you'll find the best fruit.'  So, we walked a way and figured we had gone far enough. We set the basket down, but the old man hollered, 'Go deeper.'

"So, we picked up the basket and went a little farther and then when we started to pick, the man said again, 'No, go even deeper...the best fruit's farther in.' Once more, Boggs and his family picked up their basket and walked a little further, thinking they were surely deep enough and as they finally felt like they had gone as far as they could, the old man hollered once more, 'Go on.  Go deeper.'"  And then he writes, "And so we did, right into the midst of the orchard, and we found the old man was right -- the finest, plumpest peaches were untouched and waiting for us.”

            We are called to go deeper, into the story.  It is not just something we hear, it is something we live.  We are called to go deeper, into repentance.  It is not just admitting our failures, it is accepting our forgiveness.  We are called to go deeper, into Advent.  It is not just a time to get ready for Christmas, it is an opportunity to encounter the living God.

            So let us enter into the wilderness today, and experience that still, small voice of God, saying to each one of us, “You are forgiven.  You are loved.  You are valuable.  So come on, now.  Enter my story.  I have a role picked out, it is just for you.”

            Amen.