Some of you might be disappointed with the book of Daniel on the first Sunday in Advent. No hints of a baby in a manger in Bethlehem, nothing about a Messiah, no Mary or Elizabeth or John the Baptist; nothing much in the Christmas spirit at all. I’m going to go out on a limb and guess none of you make little nativity scenes of Daniel in the lions’ den. This has nothing to do with Christmas, which makes it perfectly appropriate for the first Sunday of Advent. You all are getting plenty of Christmas out there; let’s keep Jesus out of the manger until he’s good and ready. However, I am doing the story of Daniel a bit of a disservice if I suggest that any story—so long as it’s not directly about Jesus—is appropriate for the first Sunday of Advent. Some stories are better than others, and Daniel is actually a very appropriate Advent story.
Why’s that? (you might ask) Well, it starts with kings—not the book in the Bible but the people who led their countries. The Old Testament is filled with stories about kings, some of whom were friendly and some of whom were hostile to the God of Israel, Isaac and Jacob. Some of these kings were even from the twelve tribes—David and Solomon and others. Other kings were more evil—think about Pharaoh and Ahab. And there were women in ruling positions as well. There were good queens like Esther and bad queens like Jezebel. Every country and people had its leaders, as we do today.
One such leader was Darius. We don’t know much about Darius, except that he is a king of the Mede people of modern-day Iran, he ruled during the time of Daniel, and he apparently does not think through his decrees to their logical conclusion. If he did he would have realized that a law sentencing a person to death for praying to any god other than him would likely result in some executions, and quite possibly among them would be Daniel—for whom Darius had some affection (we can only assume because of his interpretation in the previous chapter of the writing on the wall). Somehow, Darius didn’t even consider that Daniel would take issue with this law. You see, Darius is a practical person. He would never consider that a person would die for their faith, because... well... political power was the only power he knew. There was nothing to be gained by dying, because death was a powerless act and so violating the law would be illogical.
Along came Daniel,
and a strange thing happens: he prays in spite of the law—openly, in front of
his window. So, Darius is put in a tough place. He has to throw Daniel in with
the lions or he would be violating his own law, but this is not at all what he
had planned. He cannot believe that Daniel would be so impractical.
How can a person be willing to die for his faith?
That little thought—that
little grain of sand—becomes an avalanche for King Darius. He lays awake at
night, thinking. Suddenly, faith in a god is the only hope he has. Suddenly,
Darius hopes that Daniel, the Jew, is right, and there is a God to save him.
Darius realizes that because he is captive to the law his power is ultimately
limited. He is no god.
This should have been
obvious from the beginning, but put yourself in Darius’ shoes. You
have these lackeys who follow you around, doing your bidding however ridiculous
it may be. Whatever you decree is law. Whatever you want you can have.
Everybody addresses you by saying, “O king, live forever!” They are required to
treat you like a god, and so, after a while, you pretty much believe it. You can do
what you want and everybody wishes for you to live forever—at least to your
face. Being a king is a pretty good gig.
If you've read The Chronicles of Narnia by C.S.
Lewis you might remember The Horse and His Boy, the third
book of the series, in which the Calormen people never talk about their leader,
the Tisroc, without adding the words, “May he live forever.” It’s a silly
little oath much the same as the one sworn to King Darius. Of course the Tisroc
isn’t going to live forever; in fact, given the violence around political
leadership he often had a particularly short span as king, and the same can be
said for Darius. He’s not going to live forever, and there’s the rub. He
realizes when Daniel comes out of the pit that there is reason to put his trust
and hope in something else, something more important. This is why Darius
proclaims that “He is the living God, enduring forever.” God doesn’t need a
silly blessing like “May he live forever.” That’s the kind of stuff reserved
for little, mortal kings.
But I
still haven’t exactly touched on where Advent is in this story, so let me put this in
reverse. Advent is a season of waiting and anticipation and hope. It’s the
season where we know something is coming, but really, we shouldn’t know what it
is. If we’re being honest to the tradition of hope-filled expectation we should
practically forget about Christmas and wake up December 25th
to a big surprise: God come into the world. Of course, that’s impossible. We
all know it’s coming. We have the television and radio and store fronts and
billboards and trees and lights and lutefisk and egg nog to remind us—not to
mention the music and the wreaths and the green and red M&Ms and the
Christmas programs where you get out of a sermon for once, and the presents,
and the cards, and the stuff—all the stuff. It’s hard to forget about
Christmas. But it wouldn't be such a bad idea. We
should wake up on the 25th to the surprise of all surprises. How can
we sing Joy to the World when the events have become so commonplace? True joy--authentic joy--can only come as a surprise. If you know something particular is
coming at a particular time it is difficult to be truly joyful about it.
If I
were in charge of the church calendar—and this is going to demonstrate why I
shouldn’t be—I would have Christmas once a year but never exactly when you expect it.
You would just wake up one morning and find that “Hey, it’s Christmas!” No
school. No work. Just a baby in the manger. But even that doesn’t really
capture the surprise of that first Christmas morning.
You see,
we’ve made a crucial mistake in how we treat Advent. We’ve tried to re-create
that first Christmas, but instead of focusing on the suspense we have focused
on the events. We have focused on shepherds and angels rather than sleepless
nights in wonder of what may come. It’s hard to put sleepless nights on top of a tree, but
that only means we have to try harder to keep it in our imagination.
And this
is why Daniel in the lions’ den is an Advent story; not because of what
happened to Daniel and not because of the miracle of faith it took for him to
emerge safe, but because of King Darius, awake all night, tossing and turning
without any assurance of what he will find in the morning. The king was discovering Advent. The king was discovering what it meant to live in hope. It’s hellish. That
night he knew nothing; he had only hope. He didn’t know if Daniel’s God was real.
He didn't know if Daniel would survive, but he hoped he would; he hoped there was
a God, and that is what Advent is about. Darius hoped that Daniel would come out of
that den because it would mean that there is a god more powerful than the
king—a God who needs no silly exhortations to live forever. He hoped because
that’s all we have when it comes down to it. Just hope.
For now, that’s enough.
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