2nd Sunday of Advent 2023
Isaiah 40: 1-5, 9-11; 2 Peter 3:8-14; Mark 1:1-8
Today’s First Reading, from the Book of the prophecies of Isaiah, is gloriously beautiful. It is taken from that part of the Book which we attribute to the prophet known as Deutero-Isaiah, or Second Isaiah, and it is the beginning of his contribution, set in the context of the return of the Jewish people from exile in Babylon, effectively a second Exodus.
It begins with the words “’Console my people, console them’ says your God”. Do you need to be consoled? Perhaps not at this precise moment, but there will have been times in your life when you needed consolation, and there will be again; times of loss or of bereavement, times of bewilderment and confusion, times of loneliness or of deep sorrow, the time when you will be conscious of the closeness of death.
Where will you find consolation? It will come from God, but it may be brought to you by others, since God gives the order to human beings “Console my people”. From the mother who solemnly inspected the wound when you fell and grazed your knee, before hugging you to herself, to the friend who stood beside you, perhaps silently, at your time of greatest loss, God sends you consolers, as well as being close to you Himself in your times of prayer.
And God sends you to console others. Do you respond to that sending? Are you prepared to be a presence of the consoling Christ to those who need consolation? Will you offer a quiet word, a hand on the shoulder, a hug, a brew of tea or coffee, maybe a silent presence? “’Console my people, console them’ says your God.”
“Speak to the heart of Jerusalem.” How important is it to speak to the heart of another, to pass beneath the surface of pious platitudes or superficial heartiness, to realise what makes that person tick, to recognise where the pain lies? And how important is it to come before God in the silence of our prayer, to reveal our true self, which we may call our “heart”, to Him? Cor ad cor loquitur—heart speaks to heart—was the motto of St. John Henry Newman, and it could usefully be our motto too. “Speak to the heart of Jerusalem” and to the hearts of those in need.
“Prepare in the wilderness a way for the Lord.” Where is the wilderness? Forty one years ago last week, I embarked on my first parish mission with the Catholic Missionary Society, knocking on the doors of people supposedly on the parish register of Our Lady of the Rosary, Marylebone, London. Was that a wilderness? Oh yes! The register was years out of date: a high proportion of the people had moved on or died. So many people there were birds of passage, as much of the parish was bedsit land; a number preferred to conduct a conversation from an upstairs window; several were suspicious; a few were friendly and welcoming. Did I prepare a way for the Lord? The Lord alone knows. Are there wildernesses in society today? Not half! Can you or I prepare in them a way for the Lord?
Well, maybe you can. You can smile at people, or give them a nod or a friendly word in passing. Even that basic human contact is missing from many people’s lives. As people get to know you, they will discover that you are Catholics: you do not need to, nor should you, buttonhole them with terrifying approaches such as “Have you heard the good news of the Lord Jesus?” Better to be a presence of the Lord Jesus.
I am positive that neither my mother nor my father ever attempted to proselytise any of their customers during the three decades that they served the good folk, and indeed the bad and the ugly, of our part of Scotforth, at the southern end of Lancaster. Yet everyone knew they were Catholics, and many of them, I am sure, felt better after buying their sweets or ciggies from the shop. Melvin, the local juvenile tearaway, on his release from his latest spell behind bars, announced to his family, “I am going to Mr. Keefe’s tonight for a chat”, where he might well have been in company with Norman Wood, the detective who had locked him up. It is within the power of all of us to prepare a way for the Lord, simply by being the kindest people and the most honest Catholics that we can be.
To a degree, I am uneasy about the filling in of the valleys, the levelling of the mountains. I am always drawn back to my journey, on this Sunday in 1986, from Keswick, where I was then based at the Diocesan Youth Centre, Castlerigg Manor, to Windermere, to stand in for the parish priest, who was ill. It was a glorious winter morning, a golden sun beaming from a cloudless sky, lighting and brightening the fells, making the wavelets dance and glisten in the succession of lakes which I passed; and as I reflected on the Mass readings, I found myself thinking “Oh! Not these mountains and hills, please Lord; they are much too beautiful”.
The prophet here is speaking of easing the journey for the returning exiles. If we imagine the Lakeland fells surviving untouched, we can nonetheless try to smooth out any obstacles which stand in the way of our, and others’, journey to God: bad habits, indifference, lethargy. Indeed, we can take on board all the comfort which this reading offers, and we can strive to share it with others. Thus we, no less than John the Baptist, can prepare in the wilderness a way for the Lord.
