Nelson Mandela spent 27 years, 10,000 days, as a political prisoner in South Africa. Twenty-seven years in a tiny cell, as a revolution was shaping outside the prison walls, as discontent with apartheid was brewing in the soul of a country.

Twenty-seven years of waiting and wondering, 10,000 nights of loneliness and separation, twenty-seven years of deprivation and humiliation. But in that waiting place, strength and focus, vision and determination were forged, so that when the apartheid system fell, Mandela emerged to preside over a free nation. "It was during those long and hungry years,” he writes, “that my hunger for the freedom of my own people became hunger for the freedom of all people, white and black. I knew as well as I knew anything that the oppressor must be liberated just as surely as the oppressed. When I walked out of prison, I knew my mission to liberate the oppressor and the oppressed."

            And so we begin the Advent season, not with the beauty of sparkling ornaments, not with the sounds of a crackling fire, not with the smells of cinnamon and nutmeg, not with the feel of a soft warm blanket, not with the delight of freshly baked cookies.  No.  We start Advent in a very strange place – in a prison, in a place of pain and oppression, in a world that is upside down and scary. 

            Every year, the first Sunday of Advent, the scriptures proclaim the same message.  The world is ending, there is enormous pain; oppression and violence reign.  We are there, in that prison cell, in a place of deprivation and humiliation, waiting, hoping that Mandela might be freed.  At least, that is where we are supposed to be this Sunday.  Living in the midst of pain, beginning Advent by looking at the harsh and tragic realities of our world, waiting for release.

But why should we?  Why should we begin Advent with weeping and lament?  Why not just skip to the good stuff?  After all, the first Sunday in Advent is the Candle of Hope.  What does all this pain and suffering have to do with hope?

But our scriptures demand of us a hope that is real, a faith that is genuine, an Advent that is sincere.  And this only happens when we are honest about our need, about our brokenness.  This only happens when we endure the prison of our pain, when we acknowledge the injustice and agony around us, when we let ourselves feel the hurt we so often seek to ignore.  It only when we let ourselves wait, in that prison of pain, that we can develop a hope that is founded in something real.  Like Mandela, we need to spend some time with our own sorrow and the sorrow of the world, so that we truly understand our own mission.

Our reading from Mark brings us face-to-face with crisis. The sun is darkened, the moon has no light, the stars are falling.  And this all takes place after a time of suffering, of earthquakes and famines and wars.  It is an apocalyptic story, one that many of us might dismiss.  This is the story of end-times, right?  It has nothing to do with us, nothing to do with our theology. 

But what we have in Mark is a basic apocalyptic scenario that was used over and over again, a scenario that helps us understand our past and our present, just as much as it speaks to our future. Christopher Hutson writes, “The rebellion against the reign of God is strong, as the wicked oppress the righteous.”  Apocalyptic scenarios are lived realities.  “The apocalypse of Daniel [speaks to] the Babylonian oppression of Jews in the 6th century BCE and the Seleucid oppression of the Jews in the second century BCE.  So also Mark exploits analogies between the Seleucid oppression and the Roman oppression of God’s people in the first century.  Apocalyptic visions are always available to be recycled and applied to new situations.  The point is not to predict specific events in the future.  Rather, apocalyptic theologians look to understand God’s mighty acts in the past as a framework for understanding how the people of God should respond to the present.” 

In other words, the pain and agony of Mark is not some dreamed up prediction of agony in the future.  It is a lived reality of oppression, war, and famine in the present, accompanied by the assurance that God is coming, even in the midst of the most painful circumstances.  It is a text of hope – but a real lived hope, that does not ignore the reality of pain.  Instead, it declares that God is present in pain and God will deliver peace. 

Mark goes on to emphasize that we need to “keep awake” for the day of God’s coming, for the day when justice and peace will reign.  And when we look at this text not as a prediction of the one, final, end of earth, we can see that the day of God’s coming may come over and over again to us.  And it is up to us to keep awake, and see God’s presence in the here and now.  To keep awake, and see God working on behalf of justice and love, even as we also see the painful realities in the world around us.

Lillian Daniel writes, “The powers that be will lull us to sleep by reassuring us that they have our best interests at heart as they pursue their worldly agendas.  Beware.  Keep awake.”  This scripture claims that we are indeed asleep to much of what matters.  We can sleep through the reality of Christ coming – it may mean less to us year after year, because it is expected.  It is nothing new.  But to keep awake means to open our eyes, to look around, and to see.  Where is God at work in the world?  Where is God coming down with justice and love?  Where do I see true hope in the midst of despair and pain?  Where do I need to keep my eyes open, and acknowledge the reality of pain and injustice?

            On Monday night, I had no problem staying awake. The Interfaith Community Thanksgiving Service was held here, at Edgewood, and it was such a blessing to host that wonderful time of worship.  I saw, vividly, a hope for the future, a foundation for peace, a vision of unity.  After a Jewish gathering song, sung in Hebrew, we listened to a beautiful Muslim call to prayer, chanted in Arabic, and then joined in Christian petitions, followed by a Unitarian thanksgiving, a Bahai hymn, and Hindu and Buddhist scripture readings.  The homily incorporated Jewish, Hindu, and Buddhist writings, and then we shared in five minutes of Quaker silence, and listened to a Dakota hymn.  Together, we sang Let There Be Peace On Earth, and it was one of those apocalyptic moments, seeing God coming again to the earth, a vision of the reign of justice and love.

            But I don’t think that anyone in this sanctuary would experience the power of that service as tangibly without also knowing the realities of the pain that we face in this world.  We know that some Christian groups are working to oppress Muslims in this country right now.  We know that in Israel and Palestine, there is a war that has been going on for generations, pitting Christians, Jews, and Muslims against one another.  We know that in India, violence between Hindus and Muslims continue to plague communities.  We know that people have been killing each other, for centuries, because of religious difference.  And it is this very knowledge, this coming face-to-face with the pain in our world, that allows us to see the beauty of a simple Interfaith Thanksgiving worship, to see God in this sanctuary, where we love each other, where we worship together, where we unite across religion, across race, across all of the barriers that divide us, and sing together songs of peace and hope.

Isaiah faced the pain of the world head-on. He was frustrated, infuriated, with the results of Israel’s devastating exile. The temple lies in ruins, and Isaiah rails against God.  “Because you hid yourself, we transgressed.”  Where are you, God?  Come now, and save us.  Stop hiding!

            Isaiah pleads, “O that you would tear open the heavens and come down, so that the mountains would quake at your presence!”  He reminds God, we are your people!  Do not abandon us!  It is a pervasive theme in Isaiah and throughout the Psalms.  We are waiting for God, with a painful longing, with a bold allegiance.  We need God to come.

            But this text moves away from the demand that God tear open the heavens and come down, like Clark Kent turning into Superman.  Instead, it ends with the image of God as a parent, as a potter, and suggests that God is more of an artist than a superhero.  God molds and shapes people lovingly, over time.  And that process takes awhile.  And in the midst of that process, we are left waiting.

            One of the pieces of this Isaiah text that is always troubling for me is the image of an angry God.  Twice, it declares that God is angry, and that language always causes me to recoil.  It draws me into the memory of “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God,” Jonathan Edwards’ image of human beings dangling over a pit of fire, as God prepares to drop them in the flames.  I don’t like the image of an angry God; I believe that God loves us, and does not want to punish us.  Certainly, God does not want us to suffer.

            But on this first Sunday of Advent, there is something appealing about an angry God.  As we look at the injustice in this world, as we look at the suffering and pain of those who live in poverty, as we consider the inhumanity we afflict upon one another, I am glad that God gets angry.  Because I get angry, too.  And I believe that anger is another way that we can live in God’s hope.  Anger calls us to change the world, to prepare the way for Jesus to come.

            Anger and outrage seem to be the main motivation for the Occupy Wall Street Movement that is spreading across our nation.  Indeed, it is now present in more than 900 cities on four continents, as people gather to protest injustice and exploitation.  In an article in Christian Century, Gary Dorrien writes, “They are building a social movement that prizes radical democracy, radical hospitality, and a distinct blend of nonviolence and outrage.”  The outrage that is expressed through the Occupy Wall Street Movement mirrors the outrage of many people in this country, as we consider the ways in which wealth is hoarded, while many go without health care, food, and housing.

            But hope is also a part of this movement, for without hope, there would be no reason to move at all, there would be no reason to occupy.  How did this group, which started with only 2,000 protesters, become a world-wide cry for justice?  A blend of outrage and hope, which looks at pain and injustice without flinching, and decides it is time to take action.  True hope acknowledges that the sun is dimming, that the moon is not shining, and it takes to the streets.

            I could go through example after example, with you, of injustice in this country.  We could speak of the ridiculous tax burden placed on the poor, who pay 9% of their income towards taxes, while those who make over $365,000 a year pay only six and a half percent.  We could speak of the criminal justice system, where a poor, black man gets 15 years in jail for stealing $100, and a rich, white man gets 4 years in prison for stealing more than three billion dollars.  We could speak of a system in the United States, where the top ten percent of the population holds more than 70 percent of the wealth, and the bottom 50% holds 2% of the wealth.  We could look at the fact that the lack of clean water kills more people in this world than any other cause, and that while we spend $450 billion every year on Christmas, only $10 billion is needed to provide clean water for all people.  We could look at all these things – at the injustice in this world, at our need to reprioritize, at the suffering of other people.  Or we could just stay asleep this Advent.

            When we keep awake, as our scripture reading demands, we see realities that we would rather not face.  But we also see God, at work in the world.  We see the Occupy Movement, and we find hope.  Not because we know the outcome, but because we trust that God is at work.  We see people choosing alternative Christmas gifts, and we find hope.  Not because we can solve this problem alone, but because we trust that God is at work.  We see all different religious faiths, coming together in this sanctuary and worshipping together, and we find hope.  Not because that one service will change the world, but because we trust that God is at work.

            Nelson Mandela was in prison for 27 years.  That is a long time to wait and hope.  But the door was opened, and change did come.  And through that time of suffering, Mandela’s vision of true freedom was born.  So let us not be afraid to face our prisons, let us not be afraid to face our suffering, let us not be afraid to face the injustice of this world.  Because we can look, and we can see, that God is with us in the sorrow, God is with us in the suffering, God is with us in the waiting.  And God will be with us in all our tomorrows, as we work, in hope, knowing that this world is changing.  Knowing that Jesus is coming.  Knowing that love will win.  Thanks be to God.