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 25th 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.
