“Homesick”

First Sunday in Advent

November 28, 2021

1 Thessalonians 3:9-13

Luke 21:25-36

I grew up in a small town in western Kansas. It’s where my parents grew up. My grandparents—my mom’s parents—had a farm 2 miles out of town which my mom now owns. On the farm there are two silos—twin silos that you can see for miles if you’re on the right hill. It’s when I see those two silos coming into view that I know I’m almost home. Sort of.

Except, it’s not home anymore—not really. It’s where my mom lives. It’s where other family live. But it’s not the same. When I think of being homesick, going back there doesn’t fix it. Because I’m homesick for when my cousin and sister and I would ride bikes around the farm; I’m homesick for when the football games meant something to me; I’m homesick for watching soap operas with my grandma, and riding horses down the road with my mom. I’m homesick for the time when our family talked to each other, and one didn’t hate another.

But it’s not just home that makes me homesick. I’m homesick for times when I was carefree and fun; for morning runs with my friend Andi in North O; for singing in my college choir and walking through the freezing cold to the nearest bar with my friends. Sometimes, I’m homesick for who I think I was once—before the weight of the world was something real.

What are you homesick for? Even if it’s not from home, per se? Maybe it’s a time. A way of being. A place where you felt safe, loved, whole. I suspect that most of us are homesick for something—that most of us are looking for the sign that says we’re almost there, like twin silos beckoning you home.

In a way, this is what Jesus is telling us through the pen of Luke. We all know that each gospel writer came at the story of Jesus a little differently. Luke wrote his account years after Jerusalem and the Temple were destroyed. By the time his audience read the stories, not only were Jews being persecuted, but Christians, as well. Each Roman emperor worse than the one before him. So, when Luke has Jesus talking about the signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, distress among nations and the roaring of the seas and waves, people fainting from fear and foreboding, and even the power of the heavens seemingly shaken, his frame of reference was present-day. He was conjuring the people’s very current reality and not something to watch for in the future.

But instead of telling them to hunker down, he says, “stand up and raise your heads,” or more literally, “Lift up and lift up.” Or perhaps another way to say it is, “Rise up and be resurrected.” These are merely signs—not that God is so far away but that God is so very near.

I’m always irritated when I see posts that suggest that the reason our society is ‘the way it is’—which is a debate for another day—it’s because we have taken God out of the schools...or the government…or wherever someone thinks we’ve removed God. As if we could. No! If we take Jesus seriously in these passages, evil happens. Sin happens. Sometimes, it’s beyond imagination. Sometimes, the horridness of humanity is unspeakable. But it’s not because a prayer wasn’t said or a soul wasn’t saved. Rather, if it’s possible, God’s presence is even more palpable in those times when it feels like all is lost.

God’s presence is found in the cells among prisoners and on the streets with those who are homeless; God’s presence is with the person rejected by their families and the ones rejected at the border; God’s presence is with the one being abused and the one surrounded by family in a hospital fighting for their lives. God’s presence is with every one of us at all times, but especially when we aren’t certain God even cares. When we feel abandoned by God, God is most certainly there.

This is what I hear in our passage today. When you see these things taking place, pay attention. Look up. Raise your heads. See where God is truly working. Look—look with resurrection eyes—eyes that know how to recognize hope, even when it seems hidden. Eyes that have seen life inside a tomb.

Like shoots sprouting from the ground; like the buds just barely peaking from the tree branch—when we see these things, these tiny symbols, we know that spring is coming. It doesn’t mean we may not get another big snow, but spring is coming. Even as we watch the leaves fall and the daytime get shorter, we know that spring will be just around the corner. Spring will always come again. Always.

Jesus continues to tell his disciples, “Be on guard so that your hearts are not weighed down with the worries of this life.” Open your eyes and look. He says, “Be alert at all times, praying that you will endure and stand before the Son of Man.” Open your eyes and look. Raise your heads and see. Stand up and view this world through the lens of the cross—through resurrection eyes—through the eyes of a compassionate and loving God.

Because when we see our world in this way, we realize that we’re already home. God is already here. God’s kin-dom has always been with us.

Someday, another family will own the old farmplace. And eventually, those twin silos will fall. But I don’t need them to tell me I’m almost home. Because I’m already home. No matter where I am, God is there. No matter where I go, and what I remember or forget, or what challenges or blessings occur over my short or long life, I am me. You are you. And God loves each of us so much that God has created home right here—in our hearts.

Pastor Tobi White

Our Saviour’s Lutheran Church

Lincoln, NE