Waiting to Fly: Sermon for 3 Advent, Year C

This week I needed a short break, so I stopped at Creve Coeur Lake to clear my head. I arrived at twilight, and had just enough time to park near the dripping springs and then walk a short way onto the rough sand that lines the banks of the lake as the sun set.

It didn’t take long for my attention to be drawn to the seagulls taking advantage of the weirdly warm weather we’ve had this week, squabbling with each other out on the surface of the water. Although seagulls are terribly ungainly on land, they really are not much better on the water-- nothing more than giant white corks bobbing on the waves kicked up by the squabbling of their brother and sister gulls, jealously fighting with each other as they drifted together.

It is only out on the open air that they seem at all graceful. Only when they dare to rise up into the darkening skies does it become apparent how long and graceful their wings are. Only when they dare to fling their wings out and embrace the air with every square millimeter of wing surface are they able to rise, and proclaim fully how beautiful they can be. How joyful they can be.

I wonder how often many of us have felt as leaden and earthbound as those gulls looked bobbing on the water. And yet, in passages such as those we heard today, we are given words of comfort spoken from the midst of turmoil that call us to lift up our hearts nonetheless—calling us not just to endurance but to rejoicing.

As some of you may know, this third Sunday in Advent is called “Gaudete” or “Joy Sunday.” When we look at the first three readings, there it is: Zephaniah telling the people to rejoice; Isaiah predicting that when God comes to reign and live among us, we shall draw water from the springs of salvation, ringing out our joy that God has chosen to live among us; Paul telling the church at Philippi to “rejoice in the Lord always,”—and just in case you missed it, he immediately repeats it, because God is near. And Luke’s gospel has six different songs of praise in the first few chapters alone.

So here we are, bobbing along on the waves, and then like a bucket of cold water, what do we hear from John? “YOU BROOD OF VIPERS!” Talk about a literal killjoy. He didn’t call them something cuddly-but-not-quite bright, like a litter of puppies, or a chatter of parakeets, or even a congress of baboons—or is it “baboons of congress?”

Nope. John’s impatience practically glows from the page. He knows the Messiah is near, and yet the people stay stubbornly on the ground rather than preparing themselves to rise to welcome the Messiah.

But I’m blown away by what happens next. The crowds don’t get angry and storm off. No, they ACCEPT those names tossed their way, and consider. They are willing to accept that they need to repent, and a couple of dunks in the muddy Jordan River is not going to accomplish much unless they stop doing the things that have brought them to seek answers from this wild man in the desert.

So, they accept John’s impatience. Why is that?

Because they believe that John is a prophet. And a prophet’s job is not to be popular, but instead to tell the unvarnished truth—which is usually wildly UNpopular. Anyone who’s ever had a loved one walk into the room wearing something absolutely hideous and ask, “How do I look?” will know that telling the truth can get you into trouble. A LOT OF TROUBLE.

John is being the prophet we were promised last week in his father Zechariah’s song. If you remember, Zechariah gave this prediction about his son:

And you, child, will be called the prophet of the Most High,

for you will go before the Lord to prepare his ways,

to give knowledge of salvation to his people

by the forgiveness of their sins.

So John has to try to call the people to turn toward salvation, to prepare for the coming Messiah. And the crowd responds. Instead of turning aside John’s correction, they not only stay, but they swallow hard and ask to be taught how to fly. They ask John a question:

So what should we do?

Three times today, John is asked “What should we do?” And in each case, he answers based upon traps that are so easy to fall into. To a crowd filled with people who struggle to survive, he urges them and us to nonetheless share what we have with those who have less, to care for the poor and the homeless, to treat others fairly and with dignity, and to care for the helpless rather than take advantage of them.

This is the good news that John preaches: God continues to reach into time and history to call to us, and is sending God’s son as Messiah, as savior.  But there is one “What should we do?” that echoes throughout the preaching of John and indeed in the entire gospel of Luke. What should we do to receive our savior? Are we ready to welcome him to take hold of us as much as we say we hold onto him?

Look: this blue-green ball of rock and salt-water that we depend upon, that carries within its embrace so much of what we love will continue to spin through space, and December 25^th will arrive one way or another. But will we strive to welcome Christ into our lives at Christmas?

John is calling us to focus on what really matters. What matters is turning around, turning from all that separates us from the love of God and love of our neighbor. Once we put down those burdens, our arms are free and open to receive Love Incarnate, and to embrace and welcome each other in loving-kindness and peace.

John’s message, regardless of its opening words, is a message of anticipation: the savior is coming! He who was and is and is to come will have his own song sung by his mother, and even Mary’s song of joy also contains words of correction for those who have turned in upon themselves rather than opening themselves to God and all of God’s creation. John’s message is one of hope of salvation at a time when fear and division set one person against another.

Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?

So, what should we do?

As Pamela noted in her sermon last week, we are too prone right now to throw names at each other, and it’s almost impossible not to get caught up in that.

We are being tempted to transfer our faith from the gospel of grace and love to the gospel of suspicion and hatred. We are being tempted to believe that we can save ourselves by simply excluding entire groups of people from being among us. But that won’t work—and would be accomplished only at the expense of our call as people of faith to welcome the stranger and the refugee—people who are fleeing the same terror that has grasped parts of our own country in its talons.

Singer/songwriter Tracy Chapman has a beautiful song, called “Change,” that ends with this repeated question: “If you saw the face of God and Love, would you change?” Advent is a time that reminds us that change is coming, but that change requires our agency, if only through being willing to persevere, to hope and then to act. Chapman’s song asks, “What chain reaction, what cause and effect makes you turn around, makes you forgive and forget?”

Too often we are told that nothing will change.

But what if Zechariah’s song last week and John’s preaching this week point us toward an answer? What if we turn away from the darkness and hopelessness that weighs us down, and instead turn our eyes toward the shattering light of hope, and then put our feet on the path of peace and justice instead? The light of God is not just comfort but strength, strength to envision a better world for ourselves, and to act to bring it to birth.

Believing in God certainly does not solve our problems or eliminate threats and enemies. But turning our backs on the helpless has never worked to keep us safe, although it has, throughout history, made us at the very least guilty bystanders rather than explicit opponents of evil. We are called to be people of hope and courage, who have Love Incarnate as our sure defense.  That’s our good news, our hope, our joy—the good news that John preached, and for which the world still hungers today.

The face of God and Love is appearing before our eyes.

What if we dared to believe that, by being the best versions of ourselves rather than the worst, we could take hold of the promises of salvation? Our hope during Advent is a waiting, watchful hope for the coming Light, mighty to save, yet who will come into the world as one of the most helpless creatures of all. What if we dared to believe enough in our Savior that we could welcome the helpless of today into our midst? What if we dared to believe in the radical grace we receive from God enough to embody a glimmer of that grace into the world? We can remember the lesson of the gulls: why walk, or just drift, when you can fly?

May we dare to believe, to cast away our fears, and rise on wings of faith and joy to embrace with confidence the true freedom and fearlessness embodied in Christ.

Amen.