Paradox.  A paradox sounds absurd at first but echos with profound sensibility as it settles in. A paradox forces us to see the truth held in tension. And of course a good paradox fills us with a sense of wonder and awe.  You are a bit of a paradox.  As we grow older, time feels both longer and quicker. We say the days feel longer and the weeks feel shorter. As we mature and grow in wisdom, we realize how much we do not know and can not comprehend.

  When we consider our current situation our paradox’s multiply. We have access to more information all about any subject every known to mind, but we know less about our neighbors than ever in human history.  Most of us have the ability to call any country in the world for free or very cheaply, but most people around us are lonely.  Most of us have seen amazingly detailed images of galaxies far in the distance taken by a telescope that orbits far above the earth, but most of us can’t see the stars in our sky anymore.  

Psalm 19 says, The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands. Day after day they pour forth speech; night after night they reveal knowledge. They have no speech, they use no words; no sound is heard from them. Yet their voice goes out into all the earth, their words to the ends of the world.

God created the silence of the night sky to scream his wondrous power through infinite vacuum and terrifying cold. He hurled the galaxies, stars and planets into precise and measured paths.  The Psalmist thinks they speak.  That their dance reveals truth and knowledge.  That their message goes out to the ends of the earth, to every person who has ever walked the earth.  And for most of us, we don’t care to look up. Have we lost the wonder? The awe? 

I recall walking in a Redwood forest as a small child, the trees wider than several cars, taller than twenty-story buildings.  I experience deeper awe returning with my children.  I had grown twice my childhood height, but my neck still drew back and my mouth swung open. But when I look into the sky, I don’t see what the ancients saw.  I don’t see the evidence of God’s goodness like the wisemen of Persia did.  I don’t rely on it consistent story to mark seasons, planting and harvest, years of births and deaths, constellations, shooting stars, comets and blood moons.  I suspect you don’t either.  We use calendars, cell phones, watches, and atomic clocks to pass time. It’s a paradox though.  We’ve gained precision on each second, but we’ve lost the context of the infinite vast creation.  We can measure our lives duration but we’ve lost track of our life’s value. But this is the great aspect of Advent.  This season where we revisit the Christmas paradox.

Christmas is a great pile of paradox. A group of wise guys from out East see a star.  They hear the heavens declare the glory of God while Levites, Pharisees, Sadducees, Essenes and Zealots see only another nights sky.  The silence of God, 400 years without prophetic interruption, is broken by the voice of planets. The word planet means wandering star.  These celestial messengers proclaimed a King of Kings.  The greatest king who was hidden in a feeding trough.  The royal birth promised to bless all nations proclaimed through the entire cosmos but attended to by a few poor shepherd and perhaps some resting livestock.  By the time the foreign magicians, maybe distant disciples of Daniel, maybe leftovers from a Jewish captivity, the child at age two still played among the sheep being raised as temple sacrifices.  A king who would be tortured.  A gift from almighty God, overlooked by a nation waiting for him.

But here is where we glimpse with awe, a thrill of hope, the psalmist says more precious than gold and sweeter than honey. “For to us a child is born, to us a son is given, and the government will be on his shoulders.  And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.” He is Immanuel, God with us. Not just around us or at our meetings or hovering within earshot.  He created galaxies humans will never see, but he promised to dwell with you.  He said he stands at the door and knocks. If anyone hears his voice and opens the door, he will come in and eat with that person, and they with me.  He told his disciples that he would be with them, even to the end of the age.

And that’s the last paradox worth our wonder. Jesus said the heavens will again scream God’s glory to all the nations.  He says, “There will be signs in the sun, moon and stars. On the earth, nations will be in anguish and perplexity at the roaring and tossing of the sea. People will faint from terror, apprehensive of what is coming on the world, for the heavenly bodies will be shaken. At that time they will see the Son of Man coming in a cloud with power and great glory.”

This is also the paradox of Advent, the wonder of our waiting.  A trembling world will receive God’s glory.  A cosmic creator will declare his kingdom over a lone planet of humiliated usurpers.  Jesus said, “At that time they will see the Son of Man coming in a cloud with power and great glory. When these things begin to take place, stand up and lift up your heads, because your redemption is drawing near.”

He told them this parable: “Look at the fig tree and all the trees. When they sprout leaves, you can see for yourselves and know that summer is near. Even so, when you see these things happening, you know that the kingdom of God is near.”

This advent season we wait, not for a holiday on a calendar, parties, pastries, presents, or programs.  This advent we wait for celestial proclamations, messages blazing across the heavens.  This advent our paradox is not absurd, but filled with hope and wonder and awe.  That Jesus has brought us near to God, and God’s kingdom is drawing near.  That the day of our redemption, our hope, our final peace with God is held firm, prepared before time, as sure to come as tomorrow’s sun rise, it’s light overcoming every evil, every darkness, every fear.

Let’s pray.