A Room Called December

The Rev. Whitworth Ferguson III
The First Presbyterian Church
Washingtonville, New York
November 28, 2004

A Room Called December
Matthew 24:36-44
2 Peter 3:1-10

We are standing on the threshold: the threshold of Advent.
We stand with both feet still firmly planted in November,
yet we peer over the threshold through the door
that separates November and December.
The room we are in is still November,
but our eyes are fixed firmly on the room called December.

The room we’re in is filled with the leftovers of Thanksgiving:
a turkey carcass ready to become stock for soup,
a few spoonfuls of cold gravy,
a pie plate littered with crumbs.
As we turn and take a last look at the room called November
we see the remnants of the month gone by:
piles of old newspapers and magazines
with articles about election results;
even a bag of leftover Halloween candy.

It is the room on the other side of the threshold that now draws our interest.
We know the room well.
It is a room filled with joy and laughter,
food and festivities,
families and friends,
gifts given and gifts received.

We know that it is also a room filled with stress,
as we try to juggle all the activities we pack into a few short weeks:
Too many things to do, too many things to buy;
too much money spent,
too much food eaten, too many people to be with.

We look into the room and we see:
laughing children playing with gifts delivered direct from the North Pole,
teens and young adults in front of computer screens and on cell phones
as they enjoy their vacation from school;
newly married couples putting ornaments on their first trees together;
middle-aged women and men anticipating the return of
grown children scattered the rest of the year,
older adults quietly taking in all the sights and sounds,
as thoughts of Christmases past fill memories.

Scattered throughout the room are unpleasant, stressful places:
The crowded stores,
the angry outbursts over parking spaces,
the shock when the man holding the fragrant
beautiful Scotch pine reveals the price,
the disappointment when the catalog operator
tells you the item is out of stock until January.
And everywhere the clock ticking and the days passing,
reminding us how much we have to do
and how little time there is to get it all done.

It is all a heady mix that simultaneously beckons us,
and causes us to drop back.
As we struggle, a step forward and then a step backward,
we become aware of another image in the room,
an image off to the left, over in the near corner.

We have to peer across the threshold to get a good look.
At first the image is dim and clouded,
overwhelmed by the commotion that fills the rest of the room,
but as we train our eyes in that direction the scene becomes clearer:
a father, a mother, and a baby.
They are there in quiet repose,
the happy father beaming at his newborn son.
The tender mother holding her infant, gently rocking him.
We can see the child’s face:
a face that glows, a face that is radiant, content, filled with peace,

Neither child, nor mother, nor father seem at all aware of the cacophony
that fills the rest of the room.
None of them makes a sound;
they are completely focused on one another.
All is calm. All is bright.
Indeed, as we continue to look on them we notice that that corner
of the room grows brighter and the rest of the room grows dim.
The scenes which had been so clear before now seem fuzzy, unclear.
The scenes which has seemed so bright grow dim.
The din which had been so loud is now barely audible.

We cannot take our eyes off the three.
It is all we see, and as we look upon them,
we find ourselves filled with a sense of calm,
a sense of wonder, a sense of peace.
The bright lights and the music,
the fragrant perfume of pine mixed with freshly baked
cookies and pies cannot even distract us.
We don’t even want to turn our eyes back to the rest of the room.

But something to compels us to turn away from the corner,
and look to another part of the room,
the other corner we had at first ignored,
the other corner we had assumed been filled with the excesses
of Christmas.
It is the corner over the right, on the near side.
Again we have to step partly into the room, across the threshold,
to get a good look.
And as we do a different scene comes into view.
Like the scene over on the left side, it is quiet, calm, peaceful;
It is just a man: a man sitting there on a chair.
He looks so ordinary, dressed in casual clothes, jeans, sneakers,
and a sweater that looks like it was a present from last year,
given to him by an eccentric but beloved aunt.

He sits in front of a laptop computer and the screen is in view for us.
Our first thought is that this is a man who does not know how to relax
and enjoy the holiday season. We want to tell him to forget about work,
even just for a few hours, and have a glass of mulled wine
or some hot spiced cider.
We can see the screen quite clearly as he types something on his
Instant Messaging program.
He types with one finger: first an “n”, then an “o”,
then a “w”, followed by a question mark.
He hits the send button and the question, “Now?” flashes off
into the ether to the man’s correspondent.
The response is immediate.
Just two words: “Not Yet”
The two words multiply until they fill the screen.
“Not Yet”, “Not Yet”, “Not Yet”, “Not Yet”.

The man closes his laptop and looks at the chaotic scene that fills the room.
Everything has come back into view:
the sounds and the sights now distinct, vibrant:
people, food, music, lights,
and all those scents that come with Christmas.
He stands up and says quietly but firmly, “Back to work”
and with that the scene changes.

We are now in a church.
It could be any church, of any denomination, in any location.
The pews are filled with young and old,
the familiar and strangers,
those there with others and those who are there by themselves,
the well-to-do, and those who clearly are struggling.
The man is there.
At first he seems to be everywhere we look:
sitting next to a young child, sitting next to an elderly woman,
sitting next to a man who seems to know no one there,
a woman whom everyone else seems to be trying hard to avoid.
As we look more carefully, we notice that he doesn’t seem to be
sitting next to some people, some men, some women,
those who otherwise look successful, affluent, proud.

Then the man is sitting in the chancel;
he says nothing, leaving the proceedings to others.
He just takes it all in.
Mostly he smiles, but occasionally as he looks around the room,
a pained look, a worried look, a concerned look fills his face.
He knows why the response on his computer was: Not Yet, Not Yet.
There is too much work to do, too much to be done.
The message will be “Not Yet” as long as there is even one person
in that room who is alone,
who is without love, without joy, without hope.
who is hungry, afraid, or sick.
The message will be “Not Yet” as long as there is no peace,
as long as there are those who still think that
warfare is a way to settle differences
and who are unwilling to beat swords into plowshares

Someday the response will change,
someday the response will be “Now!”:
Capital N, Capital O, Capital W, exclamation point.
NOW!
And that will be a glorious day,
when a new heaven and a new earth will be created.
and God will live with his people,
and they will know him and love him.

But for now there is no rush; the day will come soon enough.
The man knows that his father’s love for his children is so strong,
that his father doesn’t want to lose even a one.
His fumbling, fuming, fisherman friend Peter
may have made lots of mistakes two thousand years ago in Jerusalem,
but that idea he got just right:
“The Lord is not slow about his promise, as some think of slowness,
but is patient with you, not wanting any to perish,
but all to come to repentance. …
But in accordance with his promise,
we wait for new heavens and a new earth,
where righteousness is at home.” (2P3:9,13)

He knows that the message will not be “Now!”
until all people in that room look into the Room called December
and look first for the scene over in the near corner on the left.
Only when we look at that scene first,
and make that scene the lens through which we take in
every other scene in that room,
every joyful scene and every stress-filled scene.
The message will not be “NOW!”
until the scene over in the left corner becomes the lens through which
we look not only into the room called December,
but the room called January, the room called February,
the room called Monday, the room called Thursday,
the room called work, the room called home,
the room called marriage, the room called illness,
the room called life.

It is Advent,
the season of joy, the season of expectation and anticipation
as we celebrate the birth of our Lord and Savior,
and look forward to the day when he will come again,
come again in glory,
It is Advent, and we are about to enter the room called December.
Step over the threshold with eagerness,
step over the threshold with a sense of joy
step over the threshold with a sense of expectation.
Not because of the presents, the parties, the food, the fun.
But because of the one who is in the room,
the one in the corner to the left,
the baby born so long ago,
and the one who is in the other corner, to the right;
the man who is present here and now in our lives,
the one who knows there is still work to do,
the one who is waiting to come again in glory.

Christ’s birth in that stable was only the beginning of the story.
His coming again is what we are waiting for, what we are hoping for.
When that day will be no one knows, not even the Son.
But we should always be ready,
because it could be any day.
It could even be a day in the room called December.

AMEN