Do Not Disturb

"Besides this, you know what time it is,

how it is now the moment for you to wake from sleep. 

For salvation is nearer to us now . . .

 the night is far gone, the day is near."

(Romans 13:11)

 

 

A sermon by Siegfried S. Johnson on the First Sunday of Advent, December 2, 2007

Volume 2 Number 21

First United Methodist Church, 605 West 6^th, Mountain Home, Arkansas 72653

 

 

On the June 24, 2004 airing of Jeopardy, a contestant asked that the $400 answer in the category Weird and Wonderful be revealed.  It said, “Jean Francois Vernetti has the largest collection of these, usually found on hotel door handles.”  She responded by asking the right question, “What are Do Not Disturb Signs?” 

 

Mr. Vernetti had achieved the milestone the year before, amassing 2,915 Do Not Disturb signs from around the world in scores of languages.  Understand, he didn’t collect these by sitting at home and contacting hotels to have Do Not Disturb signs mailed to him.  Vernetti had at that time journeyed to 131 countries, collecting only the Do Not Disturb signs that he personally placed outside his hotel door, earning him (in addition to a hefty family budget for travel/entertainment) a reference in the 2004 edition of the Guinness Book of World Records. 

 

Why begin our 2008 journey through Advent with this story?  In order to point out that Advent, at its core, is a call to Awaken, to greet a new day, a new order of things.  "Besides this, you know what time it is, how it is now the moment for you to wake from sleep.  For salvation is nearer to us now . . . the night is far gone, the day is near."  Already the first candle of our Advent wreath has been lit to announce the soon coming of the Christ.  Advent is all about Awakening. 

 

Now, if Awakening sounds appealing, I remind you that it oftentimes is not.  The unwelcome alarm can be a rude and startling interruption to sweet slumber.  Advent’s promise, as announced by Isaiah the prophet, is that “the people who dwelled in darkness have seen a great light.”  As wonderful as that may sound, for those who love darkness, that light is as disturbing as someone coming into your bedroom in the middle of the night and switching on the lights. 

 

Advent, then, is a call to greet something new.   Problem with that is human nature itself.  We need not be long in a place, even in a dark place, before we become settled, comfortable.  Our eyes thus adjusted, we prefer to stay in our skivvies, crack the door and hook our forearm to secure the Do Not Disturb sign in its place, eliminating unwanted and untimely intrusions. 

 

Mr. Vernetti had traveled to 131 countries, and one of his desires was to visit the other sixty or so countries on the world map, collecting Do Not Disturb signs from them all.  I don’t know how he’s doing on that dream of his, but I’m certain that wherever he travels he can find such signs, for it seems that Do Not Disturb is a universal default posture of the human experience.  

 

Last week, Christ the King Sunday, we came to the finale of our church’s liturgical year, joyously celebrating Jesus upon the throne.  “Crown Him with Many Crowns, the Lamb upon his throne, hark how the heavenly anthem drowns all music but its own. Awake my soul and sing, of him who died for thee, and hail him as thy matchless King through all eternity.”  Well, if Jesus is on the throne, exalted forever, why need we go back to the birth of the Christ?  Why would we want to return to the messiness of the babe on straw and of a city mourning the death of its infants as a result of Herod’s rage?  Why would we want to return to the barren Judean wilderness to witness the newly baptized prophet’s temptation?  Why would we want again to stand outside Jerusalem and watch a suffering savior being mocked and pierced?  Tetelestai, Jesus said upon the cross. It is finished!  Jesus said as much, so let us be done with all that.  Now Jesus is risen and seated in Glory at the right hand of the Father.  Why disturb this order of things?  Do Not Disturb.

 

Ah, our church liturgy reminds us that our calendar is not linear, but looped.  As January follows December, so also in our liturgy the birth of Christ follows his Crowning in Glory.  This First Sunday of Advent begins our church’s liturgical year.  Out of the old comes the new.  Our end is our beginning, a lesson which, learned year after year in our church’s liturgy, prepares us somehow for the mysteries of living and dying, focusing our eyes to see light in darkness, conditions our hearts to find hope in desperation.  We learn it well enough each year in this liturgical space between the end and the beginning.  The end is the promise of a new beginning.

 

There’s always an element of discomforting uncertainty in New Beginnings.  It’s hard to figure out how to start something, isn’t it?  How do I start this term paper, what shall be its first paragraph?  How do I start a difficult conversation with a loved one, recognizing that healing is needed in this relationship, what are the first words I can say to break the ice?  Some of us are struggling just now, how do I work up the energy to open that first box of Christmas decorations? So, how exactly do we start a new liturgical year? 

 

As Christians, we look in two directions at once.  We finish one year with Christ on the throne, and begin the next with prophecy of his fresh arrival.  We undertake the project with rejoicing only because we know the end of the story already.   To have a vision of where you are headed is uniquely beneficial, whether starting a term paper, a reconciling conversation, decorating a house, or beginning a new church year.

 

In the liturgy of the church we know the end while at the beginning, and we know at the end that soon we will be greeted a new call to Awaken.  Our Christian experience, being cyclical, is, thus, connected.  It’s one journey.  We are an already-but-not-yet people, a blend of old and new. Memories and traditions of the past anchor us, even as dreams of the future inspire us.  We are retelling our history even as we are re-imagining our hope.

 

Enough philosophy.  Let me move on to very practical note, because Advent has nothing to say to us if it doesn’t impact, not just the way we think, but the way we live in relationship with others.  The message I wish to share with you today is easily summarized.  Here’s an Advent lesson to take home:  We must not to hang out so many Do Not Disturb signs in our lives. 

 

We seem to have drifted into a “Leave Me Alone” society, a “Don’t Bother Me” and “Give me my space” culture, where the new encounter is regarded more as an annoying problem than an opportunity.  Even within the home, busy families give rise too often to strategies of avoidance which threaten to relegate a child to a safe, although secluded, environment, where childcare is provided by television and internet.  However surrounded by electronic connections to the culture, these are nonetheless confining.

 

Have you ever wondered that anyone today could possibly be bored?  What parent or grandparent hasn’t heard a child say, “I’m bored,” and marvel.  How could anyone be bored with hundreds of diversions available 24/7, at the press of a button or the click of a mouse?  Cable and satellite, video games, laptops, internet, Ipods – in a real sense, modern American life is lived out of a never empty toy box.  Nor is this confined to childhood.  Experts blame boredom for a host of problems – stress, depression, addictions, infidelity, obesity, overspending, even suicide. 

 

Yet, boredom, with its many ill effects if not properly channeled, is an innate reflex of the human spirit which, I think, renders us uniquely created in image of God.  Quite simply, we are Built to be Bored.  That can be bad.  Or, that can be good, keeping us from hanging out the Do Not Disturb sign, shutting ourselves in the tiny room of our own existence, distanced from others. 

When we allow boredom, not to drive us to more distractions, but to force us out the door to engage the world, boredom becomes a positive influence. 

 

Let me share some interesting etymology.  The word boredom, meaning disenchantment with living, is of obscure beginnings, not seen until 18^th century.  The word bore however, as in to bore a hole, is clearly attested from ancient sources -- Latin, Greek, German.  So how did bored come to refer to a restless spirit?  One guess of linguists, admittedly a bit shaky, is that boring came to refer to those who, sensing confinement, were ready create new openings, to open a new door of escape, or at least a new window to breathe the fresh air.  

 

In that sense, there could be Holy Boredom.  Perhaps that First Candle of the Advent Wreath could symbolize Holy Boredom, allowing a bit of light to shine into the darkness.  And is not the quintessential meaning in the Christmas message that the Word became flesh?  It is as if God bored through the barrier separating us from God, in order to touch us.  This table of Holy Communion, which we approach now, contains the elements of God’s touch.  When the bread is pressed into your palm, you are experiencing this touch of God, this touch of grace.  With this touch, go forth from this sanctuary into the world to touch others.