Isaiah 40:1-11; Mark 1:1-8
Rev. Dr. Deborah L. Clark
December 6, 2020
On a sunny afternoon in late October, Jeannie and I leapt into my car and headed to Nobscot Reservation for a hike. The day before, in our staff zoom, we had brainstormed creative ways to make scripture come alive–like reading a stormy scripture text by the ocean in the middle of a storm. We looked ahead to the Advent texts and realized that Isaiah’s poetry is full of nature imagery. We divvied up the scripture. I chose Isaiah 40, with its mountains and valleys, grasses and flowers. Nicola suggested Tippling Rock.
Jeannie and I set off on an exploratory expedition. Where could we film this scripture? Some parts were easy to locate: Get you up to a high mountain, for example. I was stumped by the opening poetry. “In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord, make straight in the desert a highway for our God. Every valley shall be lifted up, and every mountain and hill made low.”
How could we depict mountains being made low and valleys lifted up? And would we even want to? The beauty of the hike—and the beauty of our lives—is in the rich soil of the deep valleys and the majesty of the mountains. Why would we want to flatten out God’s glorious creation?
Isaiah’s poetry is metaphorical, of course. It was written during the exile, when many Judeans were forced from their homes and sent to Babylon. Isaiah wrote to assure them God had not forgotten them. In this passage, after the disturbing suggestion that their exile is punishment from God, Isaiah promises that God is coming—or sending someone–to save them. He gives them something to do while they wait: prepare the way; smooth out the road for God’s return. His imagery hints at the preparations typically made for the return of a victorious army, but with cosmic proportions: valleys raised up, mountain cut down. Isaiah’s dramatic metaphors challenge the people to live in such a way that they will be ready to welcome God’s emissary.
In Isaiah’s time, this flattening the earth imagery would have been a vivid expression of the extent of the preparation needed. In our time, it sounds too much like the ways human beings have abused God’s creation for our own convenience. How can we reclaim this metaphor today?
I was puzzling over the imagery as Jeannie and I set off down the trail. We came upon a series of bridges. Ahh, I thought, this is where we will film. In our time, we are called to prepare the way for the coming of the Holy One–to smooth out the path–by building bridges.
We are acutely aware of the deep chasms in our society and in our relationships. Whether our holiday gatherings have been on zoom or around awkwardly distanced tables, too often they highlight our seemingly irreconcilable versions of truth. We awkwardly keep the conversation on the surface, fearful of falling into a relationship abyss we don’t know how to get out of. How do we build bridges across that abyss?
There is also our growing awareness of our dramatically different experiences of opportunity in our nation, based on the color of our skin or the neighborhood we grew up in. How do we heal the divisions?
Then there are the deeply personal valleys we peer into—ravines of grief we fear will trap us, pain so intense we cannot imagine anyone else understanding. How do we build bridges across those valleys—so we can honor their reality without sinking into the quicksand?
This week, as I re-read our scripture, I found myself imagining how we might prepare the way for Christ’s peace by building bridges of healing and peace and reconciliation. I had visions of concrete pilings and steel cables, of pressure-treated wood cut to precise measurements. Something didn’t feel quite right.
Blessedly, I happened upon an article in a nature magazine with a brief description of living-root bridges. I looked it up on Wikipedia. For centuries, the War-Khasi and War-Jaintra peoples of northeastern India have been creating bridges using the roots of living Ficus Elastica –rubber fig—trees. The abundant and multi-layered roots, which anchor readily to rocks and steep surfaces, grow quickly. The people have learned how to twist and braid and massage new tree roots until they merge together and become strong enough to hold the weight of a human being. Over time, with many hands shaping them, the roots grow across the river and attach themselves to the slope of the opposite bank.
In that very humid climate where ordinary, human-made bridges decay quickly, living-root bridges actually grow stronger over time. As long as a tree is alive and healthy, it produces more roots that can be woven in to reinforce the bridge. Bridges last for centuries; one is thought to be over 500 years old.
Some of the bridges are formed strictly by hand, as community members tug and shape the roots until they are complete. Often, a bridge begins with a bamboo scaffolding that spans the river, so the tree roots can be trained along it. Long after the scaffolding has rotted away, the roots remain strong.
I was fascinated– by the wisdom of people who use their creativity in alignment with the rest of creation, by the thoughtfulness of people who build bridges for the next generation, by the patience of people who understand that the strongest bridges are not the quickest ones to be built. What a remarkable model for sustainable living and caring for our planet! What a remarkable model for bridge-building of all kinds!
My not-very-satisfying visions of concrete pilings and steel beams receded. Imagine, instead, preparing the way for the coming of Christ’s peace by shaping living root bridges. Imagine our church as a grove of trees deeply rooted in the soil of God’s love, nestled by the edge of a deep valley. What would it mean to claim our Advent challenge and begin to shape our ever-growing roots into a bridge across the divides?
It would mean recognizing that we are not alone in this seemingly impossible task of building bridges in a divided world. It is God who makes the roots grow; our job is to weave and guide them across the valley. We do not control the timeline; as individuals, we may not live to see the bridges completed. We do what we can to shape the roots, trusting our efforts will enable future generations to walk across bridges we cannot yet imagine.
Like the people of northeastern India, we are called to build scaffolding along which the roots can grow. Our scaffolding is not made of bamboo; it is built from the practices of our faith, the ways we make space for the Holy Spirit to move, for the roots of God’s love to grow.
When we stare into deep valleys of grief or pain, we can choose to build a scaffolding of daily practices that open the way for healing. By caring for our bodies with healthy food and enjoyable exercise, we give ourselves the message that we are worthwhile. Grace before meals awakens us to life-changing gratitude. Meditation and prayer and music slow us down so we can see possibilities more clearly. What is the scaffolding you are called to build to help grow a bridge toward your own healing?
As we face chasms of distrust in our society, we can build a scaffolding of practices that promote understanding. We can make a commitment to speak the truth in love, regardless of how others behave. Mindfulness practices can help us make conscious choices about how we act on our very real anger. I think of the many kinds of gatherings we support on our campus and through Open Spirit. Even when the conversations start on the surface, we build relationships of trust on which living bridges can be shaped. We build a scaffolding of partnerships as we work with Jewish Family Services and A Place to Turn. We build a scaffolding of caring as we crochet prayer shawls for the chaplain at Metrowest Medical Center to give to patients, as we provide gift cards to help parents at Pathways Family Shelter give presents for their children.
Isaiah called his people to prepare the way for the coming of a savior. John the Baptist picked up his cry and called the people to come be baptized. Mark’s gospel names it as a baptism of repentance, which we rightly interpret as a call to turn around and change our ways. There’s another understanding of the word “repent” that I find helpful in this time. The Greek word is “metanoia,” which translates as “to go beyond the mind you have.”
When we stand at the edge of the steep valleys in our lives and in our world, our minds cannot always conceive of a way to bridge the divide. John the Baptist calls us to go beyond what we can see, beyond what we can imagine, to trust that God is at work. To prepare the way is to start building scaffolding, to start shaping roots, even when we cannot yet envision a bridge that will ever be strong enough to hold our weight.
By the grace of God, we can rejoice in majestic mountains and deep valleys and ever-growing roots of love. By the grace of God, we can be shapers of living root bridges. Let us prepare the way for Christ’s peace to come in our lives and in our world. Thanks be to God. Amen.