Sermon for Epiphany 5

TEXTS:  Matthew 5:13-20 and 1 Corinthians 2:1-13

“You are the salt of the earth; but if salt has lost its taste, how can its saltiness be restored? It is no longer good for anything, but is thrown out and trampled under foot.” (Matthew 5:13)

Some of the Anabaptists of the sixteenth century interpreted those words of Jesus very literally. At the end of their worship service, they would single out the Christians among them that had “lost their saltiness.” Then they would make these hapless folks lay at the threshold of the door. And then, the rest of the congregation—as they were leaving the church—would walk over them … trampling them under foot!

I don’t know how they decided who would trample and who would be trampled—and maybe I don’t want to know! But Jesus does use this imagery. He says that Christians who have lost their saltiness are … well … useless!

“You are the salt of the earth.” This is not a command or a suggestion from Jesus; it is a statement of fact. “You are the salt of the earth.” He goes on to say that we can be good salt or bad salt, but either way, we’re it!

We, the people of God, are the salt of the earth. If we fail to have the effect that salt is supposed to have, there’s no back-up plan. We are the salt of the earth.

Similarly, Jesus says: “You are the light of the world.” Again, we are it! If our light is hidden under a bushel basket, we’re just wasted light—we’re merely consuming fuel for no benefit. But we are still the only light. We are the light of the world.

Remember the beatitudes from last week’s gospel lesson? “Blessed are the poor in spirit … the meek … the merciful … the pure in heart … the peacemakers …”

Remember all of that? Well, today’s gospel lesson—especially the part about salt and light—today’s sayings form a bridge between two parts of the Sermon on the Mount. They are the link between the beatitudes and the Law.

In the beatitudes, Jesus tries to illustrate for us the kind of characteristics God really values in people; and when he speaks about us being “salt” and “light,” he’s leading us into his discussion of the Law of Israel, which takes up the rest of chapter five. Today, we heard Jesus begin that discussion by saying: “Do not think that I have come to abolish the law or the prophets; I have come not to abolish but to fulfill.”   

“You are the salt of the earth … You are the light of the world.”

Eugene Peterson translates Matthew 5:13-14 this way:

“Let me tell you why you are here. You’re here to be salt-seasoning that brings out the God-flavors of this earth. If you lose your saltiness, how will people taste godliness? You’ve lost your usefulness and will end up in the garbage. Here’s another way to put it: You’re here to be light, bringing out the God-colors in the world.” *

God is present and active in the world all the time; we know that. But we also know that God acts through us. The whole world is full of the presence of God—but if nobody is acting on that, then his presence will go unnoticed.

You know how it is with salt. The flavours in our food can be kind of muted and flat unless there’s some salt to bring them out. In just the same way, the Godliness of life will be almost undetectable unless we are living it out—boldly!

We are the salt of the earth. We are the light of the world. The purpose of our life together is to bring out the flavour, the colour, the zest of life—in other words, to bring out the Godliness of Creation.

Sometimes our saltiness will enrich the good that is already present. Sometimes it will enable the preservation of the good that might otherwise be lost. And sometimes it will sting in the open wounds of the world; a healing sting—but painful, nevertheless.

If we lose our saltiness, how will anyone taste Godliness? If we do not mourn the hurts of the world, if we are not humble, merciful and pure of heart, if we do not hunger and thirst for justice and strive for peace, how will anyone see beyond the callous, “me first,” “winner-takes-all” culture of this present day?

The Law alone—the written Word—cannot be salt for the earth. The Word must take flesh in us.

The Good News is not “fake news” and pedantic law-keeping is not life. If we continue to live without mercy, compassion, or integrity, God will not be the least bit impressed by our religious observances—or by the “lofty words” of human wisdom to which the apostle Paul referred.

And yet, Jesus says he has not come to abolish the law, but to fulfill it. The point is this: we do not fulfill the law by counting each commandment and ticking them off religiously. We fulfill the law as we live out of the mind of Christ that is being formed in us. We fulfill the law as we live in gratitude for God’s grace in us.

By all means, read the Scriptures. Every Christian ought to do that. The psalmist gives good advice when he urges us to meditate day and night on the law of the Lord (Psalm 1:2), and to contemplate the God revealed therein.

So read your Bibles, my friends. Read your Bibles! But don’t do it to memorize “proof texts” or lists of “do’s” and “don’ts” to be rigidly executed. Do it so that—as the apostle Paul said—the Holy Spirit can speak to you “in words not taught by human wisdom” (1 Cor. 2:13). Do it so that the mind of Christ may be more and more formed in you (see Philippians 2:5-6). Do it so that the life of Christ may be shown in your life—bursting forth in joyous living, in full-flavoured passion for life and compassion for all your neighbours.

By doing that, you will be living out the Law. That’s how you can be the salt of the earth. And through doing that, you will indeed become light for the world, shining God’s brilliance into the very darkest places of this earth.

Believers, remember this: “we have received not the spirit of the world, but the Spirit that is from God” (1 Cor. 2:12).

There is no greater blessing.

________________________

*(The Message Copyright © 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, 2000, 2001, 2002 by Eugene H. Peterson)

 

 

A sermon for Epiphany 4, Year A

TEXTS: 1 Corinthians 1:18-31 and Matthew 5:1-12

Has not God made foolish the wisdom of the world? (1 Corinthians 1:20)

A Bible Study leader asked his group this question: “What would you do if you knew you only had four weeks left before Judgment Day?”

One of those present responded, “For those four weeks, I would go out into my community and proclaim the Gospel.”

“What a great answer!” the group leader said.

Another person declared, “For those four weeks, I would dedicate all of my remaining time to serving God, my family, my church, and my neighbours with a greater conviction.”

“That’s wonderful!” said the group leader.

Finally, a gentleman at the back of the room spoke up, saying: “For those four weeks, I would go and stay at my mother-in-law’s house.”

“Why your mother-in-law’s house?”

“Because that would make it the longest four weeks of my life!”

There’s a school of thought about sermons … one which recommends beginning every message with a joke. Or even a few jokes, to lighten things up. And there are, after all, plenty of jokes that are clean enough to tell in church.

Some are short and satirical: “Politicians and diapers have one thing in common. They should both be changed regularly—and for the same reason.”

Or: “Television can insult your intelligence, but nothing rubs it in like a computer.”

And then there are riddles … like this one: “What’s faster than a speeding bullet?”

“A Scotsman with a coupon!”

Or … this one: “What’s the difference between God and Donald Trump?”

“God doesn’t think he’s Donald Trump!”

Truth to tell, it’s not all that easy to work jokes into a sermon … because, most often, the theme is anything but humorous. Take our gospel text as an example. Matthew, chapter five. The beginning of Jesus’ “Sermon on the Mount.”

In particular, we’re looking at the “beatitudes.” Ostensibly, these are about blessings … But really, they are somber, and serious, and full of the hard realities of life. When you hear the beatitudes—if you’re really listening to them—they kind of hit you in the gut, don’t they?

They knock the breath out of you—and not because you’re laughing so hard!

No. In the beatitudes, Jesus is speaking honestly and straightforwardly about what the life of a disciple is going to be like.

And here’s something I think is remarkable—especially considering how popular Jesus would become. He is delivering this sermon very early on in his ministry—right at the beginning of his career. To people who had felt distant and alienated from God, he was proclaiming the nearness of heaven’s kingdom.

He was, we assume, trying to convince people to come and follow him. Yet, in one of his first sermons, he tells his would-be followers how hard it’s going to be.

Right up front, he lays it all out, in plain language: being his disciple means accepting some pretty challenging realities.

To be sure, Jesus talks about his disciples being poor in spirit, and being people who mourn … but these are aspects of life that all people experience, disciples or not.

Then he talks about his followers hungering and thirsting after righteousness, being merciful and meek and pure in heart, being peacemakers. Now that stuff is challenging—but it’s also noble. Most would see these as honourable and admirable ideals—even if somewhat counter-cultural.

But then, Jesus gets down to the final beatitudes. And what he says here should cause anyone to think twice. Because what he says is: “Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven” (Matt. 5:3).

And, “Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you” (Matt. 5:11-12).

Nothing about that is funny, or lighthearted. But Jesus says this will be the lot of his disciples.

Yes, you will be blessed … but first, you will be persecuted and reviled. First, people will utter all kinds of evil against you falsely. Now, that’s not very funny. It’s far from comedic. But there is a certain foolishness about it.

It’s foolish (isn’t it?) to think that blessings come to those who are poor in spirit, mourning, meek, merciful, and pure. It’s foolish to think that those who are persecuted, reviled and lied about, will be blessed.

It’s foolish to link blessings with these things—isn’t it? And it’s foolish to think that anyone would want to follow Jesus, knowing that all these negatives come along as baggage.

Who would want to be Jesus’ disciple, when that means you’re going to be persecuted and reviled? When that means people will utter all kinds of slander against you?

Knowing all that, you’d have to be a fool to follow Jesus … wouldn’t you? And yet, that’s exactly what the apostle Paul commends to us, in our reading from First Corinthians.

Paul tells us that God makes foolish the wisdom of the world. And that the foolishness of God is true wisdom. He says: “the message about the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing—but to us who are being saved, it is the power of God” (1 Cor. 1:18).

And what is at the heart of this divine foolishness?

“… we proclaim Christ crucified, a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles, but to those who are the called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God. For God’s foolishness is wiser than human wisdom, and God’s weakness is stronger than human strength” (1 Cor. 1:23-25).

I think that—in the beatitudes—Jesus is making the same point. In fact, I think Paul is echoing Jesus’ words from the Sermon on the Mount. According to Paul, the salvation of the world comes from the foolishness of a man dying on a cross. He says that “Christ crucified” is the power that turns everything upside down.

According to Paul, it is the very wisdom of God that allows Christ to die upon the cross, to give life to the world. This is what confers blessing upon those who are poor in spirit, blessing upon those who are mourning their dead, blessing upon those who are persecuted and reviled for Jesus’ sake.

It does seem bizarre, doesn’t it? It’s no wonder the world labels God’s plan as foolishness.

Many people today laugh at God’s wisdom. They scoff, as if it were some kind of big, cosmic joke. Some even call it a cruel joke!

But, Paul says, to those who have been called—to us who are being saved—the message of the cross is not foolishness. No. It is the very power of God for salvation. And that is the power that God offers to us. That is the blessing that God gives to us.

It is the message of the cross—the proclamation of Christ crucified—that speaks to us, and calls to us, and draws us to the foot of Jesus’ cross, where all the negatives in life die.

On the cross, all of our pain and suffering and persecution and rejection—all of our mourning and grieving—dies!

Our old lives, our old selves—we die along with Christ. But then we are raised along with him, also. And in him, we are resurrected as new people—as “new creatures” in Christ. That’s what we celebrate every Sunday morning.

Every week, we gather to celebrate the utter foolishness of God—to celebrate the fact that, hey, the joke’s on us!

What the world sees as the foolishness of God is actually wisdom beyond human comprehension.

The weakness of God—the Son of God, dying on the cross—is actually the power of God for salvation.

The sacrifice of Christ has created new life—and eternal life—for those who belong to him.

And while that may not seem funny … while that may not leave you in stitches … I hope that this is what you will remember most from this sermon:

• God does not call us to be wise; and, in fact,
• God does not care whether the world regards us as clever.

No. Whoever we are, God calls us. God calls us to become “fools for Christ”—even if that means we will be persecuted, and rejected, and reviled.

We are called to grab hold of God’s foolishness—the cross of Jesus Christ—and never let go!

Why? Because that is his power for salvation. That is the only message we are commissioned to preach and teach and live … “Christ crucified, the power of God and the wisdom of God.”

We are called to proclaim this foolishness. Why? Because, through it, we are really and truly blessed.

Remember: you do not need a parachute in order to go skydiving. You only need a parachute to skydive twice!

Jesus is our parachute, my friends. Cling to him tight. Amen.

Epiphany 3

TEXT: Matthew 4:12-23 and 1 Corinthians 1:10-18

As he walked by the Sea of Galilee [Jesus] saw two brothers, Simon, who is called Peter, and Andrew his brother, casting a net into the lake—for they were fishermen. And he said to them, “Follow me, and I will make you fish for people.” (Matthew 4:18-19)

Back near the turn of the century, when I was in Montréal training for pastoral ministry, I had several classmates from Newfoundland. One of them had actually been—for most of his life—a fisherman. He came from a place that had been a fishing village for some 300 years.

Often—perhaps while sharing a meal in the college cafeteria, or a bit of dessert in one of the cafés or bistros near the McGill campus—my friend would tell me about his home, and about the joys and perils of being a commercial fisherman.

This was fascinating stuff to hear—especially for a Manitoba-bred prairie boy such as I am.

My classmate painted for me the most vivid word-pictures of violent storms at sea—of breaking nets and threatening reefs, dangerous shoals and rogue waves. All in all, I came away with the impression that the North Atlantic is not the friendliest ocean.

Yet, despite all the risks, the fishermen of Newfoundland continued to ply their trade (at least, until the cod fishery collapsed in the 1990s).

And some of them still do. Generation after generation, they have gone out to sea in their little boats—and they have found and caught an incredible abundance of fish.

Of course, the fishing industry is not what it used to be. Some species of fish are in decline; others are simply not as profitable. But the fishermen of Newfoundland have known hard times before, and they have survived. For the most part, the ones who have been born to fish, continue to fish.

And most of these fishers, even when they have passed the age when other people retire—and even when they themselves have sold their boats or passed them along to their children …

Well, they continue to fish—at least part-time—and they continue to go to where the fishermen gather. They go to the bait sheds and the boat yards. They help mend nets, and they drink coffee boiled on small wood stoves … and perhaps take a nip of that other stuff which warms you …

And there they tell stories about life on the open sea:

• stories about the times when the nets came up empty, trip after trip after trip;
• stories about the times when the boats had barely ventured out towards the Grand Banks and their nets were full to bursting;
• stories about storms and terror;
• stories about the ocean when it is smooth as glass, and the stars and the moon shine so brightly that it seems almost like daylight.

When Christ called his first disciples, he set them a task: the task of being fishers—fishers of people.

Simon Peter and Andrew—and later, two other brothers, James and John—could relate to the image, even if they didn’t understand exactly what Jesus meant by it. They were already fishers. Like the fishers in Newfoundland, their families had been at it for generations.

They were born to it—and they lived to do it—until their dying day. They knew that, in the end, fishers fish—no matter what. And they knew that—whether it be for salmon, or cod, or mackerel, or trout, or even for people—fishing takes hard work, and it takes thought, and it takes prayer. And they knew that there is no life like it.

“Follow me”, Jesus said, “and I will make you fish for people.”

Today—even if we live in a land-locked place like Alberta, as I do, now—we are called to do exactly the same thing. As followers of Jesus, that is our vocation.

We, ourselves, have longed to know the nearness of the Kingdom of Heaven. We, ourselves, have heard and seen the good news of that Kingdom’s coming. We, ourselves, have turned away from the things that destroy life and embraced the one who came to rescue us.

That is the message we carry—and that is the message we are called to share with others. And that message is more than simply bait—it is wonderful, life-saving news.

The Bible speaks often of how—when we decide to follow Jesus—we are made over. It says we become a “new creation.” It says we are—in a spiritual way—“born again.”

And when we experience this “second birth,” we discover that we are born to be fishers—fishers of people. It’s the same thing Jesus did—in Galilee and in Samaria; in Jordan and Judea; and in Jerusalem. And it’s what we are called to do, wherever we find ourselves.

There are a lot of different ways to fish. You can use a net, or you can use a rod and lure. You can angle for trout or trawl for cod—or you can set out traps for lobster. But what all these fishing methods have in common are purpose and action—the actual doing of things to achieve that purpose.

Our purpose—our mission—is to catch people with the love that God has given us. Our purpose is to bring those people to Jesus—the one who is the owner and the captain of our boat.

What does this kind of fishing look like?

It looks like forgiveness—forgiving our enemies; blessing those who curse us; loving those who hate us.

It looks like compassion—healing others even when we ourselves are wounded; feeding others even when we have little to offer; doing justice, and loving mercy, and all the while walking humbly with our God and testifying to His power and His goodness.

Those are some of the ways we can fish for people; those are some of the ways we can become the fishers Jesus has promised to make us.

James and John, Simon Peter and Andrew—they were boat fishermen, and part of a crew. And they, like all the fishers on every boat in Newfoundland, received a share of the value of the catch.

But you know, in the Kingdom of Heaven—and in the Church, which is the boat of Christ in this world—the fishermen not only receive a share of the catch; the catch itself begins to fish!

The catch itself begins to multiply.

There is a miracle happening here. We who were fish are turned into fishermen. We who were lost and seeking to find a home become guides for others, bringing them to our true and eternal home. We who needed blessings are now able to share the greatest of all blessings—the blessing of knowing Jesus and the new life he gives.

The great miracle here is the miracle of transformation—the miracle of God doing through us what we cannot do on our own, the miracle of small things becoming great.

In his First Letter to the Corinthians (1:10-18), the apostle Paul writes to the crew of the good ship Corinth. He writes to the crew of that boat of Christ Jesus in that place, to remind them of a simple and important fact.

He reminds them that they were not called to form the “Peter Group” or the “Apollos Party” or to become the disciples of Paul. They were not called to become part of an elite association. They were not called to become spiritual superstars and celebrities in their own right.

No. They were called by Peter, and by Apollos—and by Paul, himself—to follow Jesus, and to make Jesus the captain of their souls and the master of their destiny.

Paul writes to the Corinthians to remind them of their calling and of their mission. And in the rest of that letter, he tells them that everyone in the crew is important to getting the job done; that everyone has a role to play if the fish are to be caught.

He writes to them to remind them that the central fact of our faith is the cross—and that while that cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, it is the power of God to those who are being saved.

That is the truth with which we are equipped by Christ as we, his church—his crew—set forth day by day to fish for people.

It is wonderful to be able to show and share with someone the fact that God is eady and able to help them. It is wonderful to be part of a crew that works to demonstrate God’s love to those in need. It is wonderful, and it is thrilling. And, at times, it is dangerous, exhausting work.

Our little boat can get badly tossed about in the storms of life. And our nets can come up empty many, many times before we get a big strike. And when the nets come up full … Well, then we have to strain and struggle to haul them in. But—as fishermen of all kinds know—there is nothing better than doing what you have been born to do.

Christians are born to fish. We are born to share the good news. We are born to bring people to our captain and into his boat—into his Kingdom, so that they may know the love we know and receive the life that we ourselves are receiving: the life that is stronger than death.

TEXTS: Isaiah 49:1-7 and John 1:29-42

[The Lord] says, “It is too light a thing that you should be my servant to raise up the tribes of Jacob and to restore the survivors of Israel; I will give you as a light to the nations, that my salvation may reach to the end of the earth.” (Isaiah 49:6)

When Jesus turned and saw them following, he said to them, “What are you looking for?” They said to him, “Rabbi” (which translated means Teacher), “where are you staying?” He said to them, “Come and see.” (John 1:38-39a)

Did you notice that both of the Scriptures for today share a common theme? It’s the theme of “calling.” It’s the idea of being “called.”

The reading from Isaiah begins with words about being called—about being set apart by God. And that fits right in with the gospel lesson, where Jesus calls his first disciples. John the Baptist points to Jesus and says, “Look, here is the Lamb of God.”

On hearing this, two of John’s disciples decide to check out this Jesus guy—and they wind up abandoning John and going off with Jesus, instead.

But that seems to be the very thing John intended. Anyway, this call—the call of these first two disciples—is noteworthy.  Here is a glimpse of what it’s usually like to be called by God.

Yes. “Called by God.” When we hear that phrase, we usually think about accountable ministers, don’t we? You know. Pastors. Priests. Diaconal ministers. Evangelists. Missionaries. We tend to conceive of someone being “called” in terms like those Isaiah used.

The Lord called me before I was born,


   while I was in my mother’s womb he named me.

He made my mouth like a sharp sword,


   in the shadow of his hand he hid me;

he made me a polished arrow,


   in his quiver he hid me away.

And he said to me, “You are my servant,


   Israel, in whom I will be glorified.” (Isaiah 49:1b-3)

In other words, we think of a “called” person as being told by God to do some specific thing—and usually a rather significant thing! When we speak about someone being “called,” we generally mean some kind of special service—usually full-time and professional, and almost always within the institutional church.

And that’s a comfortable way of looking at things, because it shields us from any personal challenge when we hear the Bible talk about Christ calling people to follow him. We can listen to the gospel story and neatly separate what happened to them from what’s going on with us.

“After all, they were called! But we’re just ordinary folks.” So we’re safe from all that “call” business. It’s about somebody else.

However, this whole way of looking at—and looking for—a call from God as a summons to a specific job or task really sort of misses the point. Certainly, there is such a thing as a special call to a specific ministry or type of service. But that’s not usually what the Bible means when it talks about being called. That is not what’s going on in our gospel passage—and it is not what is usually going on with us, when God calls us.

Being ordained, or commissioned, or designated, or recognized—or being a missionary, or a monk, or something like that—is quite secondary to the real, central, call we each have from God. Those two followers of John the Baptist whom Jesus invited to “come and see” were called exactly as we are called. They were called to be disciples, just as we are called to be disciples. They were called to be disciples in their place and in their time—and for the sake of their generation.

Consider what this means. It means that Jesus’ call to Andrew and the other disciple is like the call of Christ to each of us—and to all of us.

In his first encounter with them, Jesus did not call them to carry out a particular task or to fill a particular role. Instead, he invited them into relationship. He did not say, “Do this.” He said, “Come and see.” Only later did he give specific content and direction to where that might lead.

There’s a big difference between a call to a task and an offer of relationship.

To respond to a call for relationship—for intimacy—is a very different thing from contracting to do a piece of work. It’s like the difference between falling in love and landing a job. Setting out to do a job requires some clarity about what is involved. Not only that, but terms of employment are negotiable. A job has its limits, and you usually know what the finished product is going to look like.

To be called into relationship, however … to be called in love … that is something else entirely. That is an invitation to enter into a mystery. It’s a summons to move out—blindly—into uncharted waters.

When Jesus says, “Follow me,” he is calling us first of all unto himself. Following Jesus means knowing him intimately and sharing his life. That’s the important thing. Everything else is left behind; everything else becomes secondary.

Now, if we look at Jesus’ call from the perspective of what’s left behind … Well, that is a call to repentance. But if we see that same call from the perspective of what comes next, then it’s a call to seek Jesus above all else. It’s an invitation to get to know him better, and to make our relationship with him the central focus of our lives.

When we are called—and we are called, each and every one of us—Jesus simply asks us to abide with him for a season: not going anywhere, not doing anything. It’s a call to find out where Jesus lives, and to spend some time living there. To be sure, eventually this will lead us somewhere. But we won’t know where, right away—and maybe not for a very long while.

This is why a sense of call can be as frightening and frustrating as it is inspiring and exciting. We might know something very important is going on—something that involves us. And that creates a sense of urgency. Immediately, we begin looking around for an assignment. We want some great thing to do! After all, if something is important, it has to produce … right?

But … instead of that … especially at the beginning, all we are asked to do is get to know Jesus a little bit better. It’s a call to listen, and it’s a call to wait. It’s a time to imitate the psalmist, a time to “listen to what the Lord God is saying” (Psalm 85:8). We need that first. We need that most.

That’s what those first disciples did. They stayed close to Jesus for a while. They learned what they could and came to know him better. Then—admittedly, long before they thought they were ready—then Jesus gave them things to do. For some, these tasks were dramatic. For others, the tasks were quite mundane.

Listen: the call of Christ will always, in one form or another, find expression in ministry. It is ministry in which we all must participate—but the call comes first. There can be no real, abiding, and sustaining ministry apart from a relationship with Jesus. To put it another way, there can be no Christian discipleship without Christ.

Each one of us is called to be a disciple. If we try to ignore that call, it will haunt us. That call will track us down. It will disrupt our sleep. It will whisper in our ears at the worst possible times. It will grow stronger, and weaker, and stronger again. It may seem to go away … but it always comes back. Because, finally, it is our Lord who calls us to himself. He calls us into life. He calls us into struggle and sacrifice. He calls us into joy—and into real and lasting peace.

It’s a call Jesus makes to each and every one of us. So, please … don’t let it go to voicemail. Pick up the phone!

Baptism of the Lord

TEXT: Matthew 3:13-17

Then Jesus came from Galilee to John at the Jordan to be baptized by him. —Matthew 3:13

Before Jesus officially began his public ministry, he had to take a couple of very important steps. The first was to be baptized.

Sometimes that troubles people. Why should Jesus have to be baptized?

The idea certainly bothered John the Baptist.

Matthew tells us that when Jesus came to be baptized, “John would have prevented him, saying, ‘I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?’” (Matthew 3:14).

We can understand John’s consternation. The Gospel of Luke tells us that John preached “a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins” (Luke 3:3).

Since Jesus was without sin—and therefore had nothing of which to repent—what purpose would his baptism serve? Why should someone who never sinned undergo a baptism for the forgiveness of sins? John knew of Jesus’ spotless character, and so at first he opposed Jesus’ request.

So why did Jesus ask John to baptize Him? Before suggesting an answer, perhaps it would help to recall something of John’s background and importance.

The Gospel of Luke tells us that Jesus and John were cousins. By his early thirties, John had emerged as a major national figure.

It’s worth noting that Josephus, the renowned Jewish historian, wrote more about John than he did about Jesus. Why? Because since the death of the prophet Malachi—a period of some 400 years—Israel had not heard from a genuine prophet of God … until John.

John shook a nation with his bold words and unusual actions, drawing huge crowds eager to hear him preach his uncompromising message of repentance and faith in the Messiah.

John came at a strategic time in human history, when the old covenant was about to roll into a new one, and when all the law and sacrifices were to be fulfilled in the life and ministry of one man—a man like no other who had ever walked the earth.

That man was Jesus of Nazareth. Yet at this point, John’s fame was much greater.

John, however, clearly knew his role. He was to pave the way and point people to Jesus, and he humbly accepted his role.

His motto in life was, “He must increase, but I must decrease” (John 3:30). He was content to speak as a herald of the coming King.

When John clearly understood Jesus to be the Messiah, he directed even his own disciples to start following him. Once he did that, he was ready to fade into obscurity. His role was to point people to Jesus and then step aside.

For all these reasons, Jesus proclaimed John to be the greatest prophet who ever lived. “I tell you,” Jesus said, “among those born of women no one is greater than John” (Luke 7:28).

None greater? How can that be? We know of no miracles that John performed. Unlike Moses, he never turned the Nile into blood. Unlike Elijah, he never called fire down from heaven. He never stopped the rain or raised a single person from the dead. He left behind no written record, like Isaiah did, and Jeremiah did.

So why would Jesus call him the greatest of prophets? Only one reason: his nearness and connection to Jesus. As God’s appointed herald of the Messiah, John had no equal among the prophets.

How many of us think of greatness in terms like these? Too many of us wonder how God can enrich our lives, make us feel better about ourselves, or help us achieve success in business. We ask what God can do for us to make us greater and better.

John had a very different attitude. He constantly asked himself, “What can I do to prepare people for the coming of the Messiah? How can I direct them to him? How can I decrease and he increase?”

John’s godly character and unique mission help explain why Jesus came to his cousin to be baptized.

For a long time, John had been preparing the people to receive the coming Messiah; at the baptism of Jesus, he would publicly identify him as God’s Anointed One.

Jesus also was baptized because he had come into the world to identify with the human race. So it was that he who was without sin submitted to a baptism designed for sinners. “Let it be so now,” he told John, “for it is proper for us in this way to fulfil all righteousness” (Matthew 3:15).

When the day finally came for Jesus to make his very public stand, John welcomed him into the waters of the Jordan River.

As Jesus prayed, “the heaven was opened, and the Holy Spirit descended upon him in bodily form like a dove. And a voice came from heaven, ‘You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.’” (Luke 3:21-22).

In this way, John found true greatness before God and with all humanity—and his life stands as an example to us.

May we adopt John’s philosophy of life as well! May Christ increase, and may we decrease. If we really lived like that, who knows how it would affect others for their good?

May the Word of God burn in our hearts as we, too, prepare the way for the Lord.

The Epiphany

TEXT: Matthew 2:1-12

In the time of King Herod, after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, wise men from the East came to Jerusalem, asking, “Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews? For we observed his star at its rising, and have come to pay him homage.” (Matthew 2:1-2)

When you hear this piece of the Christmas story, what do you think of? A Sunday School pageant? You know: three youngsters in costume—wearing makeshift crowns—proceeding down the centre aisle to take their places next to the shepherds and the angels and the baby Jesus and his parents.

Is that what you think of?

Or do you wonder about the real “wise men”—the “Magi” of history and poetry?

Let’s re-examine our understanding of the Christmas manger scene. In actual fact, the shepherds and animals were there—but the wise men probably were not.

If you look carefully at chapter two of Matthew, you’ll notice it says the wise men visited Jesus in a “house”—not in a cave or a stable, which is where a manger would have been. It sounds like they’ve arrived some time after Jesus’ birth—but before Mary and Joseph had thought about returning home to Nazareth. This is later on.

Here’s something else. Even though we love to sing, “We three kings of Orient are”—with or without an exploding cigar—these men probably were not literally kings (although to the local Bethlehem peasants they might as well have been). They are more accurately described as “wise men” or Magi. That is, they were scholars or sages—learned men who sought to understand wisdom and unravel mysteries. Think of them as astronomers, or scientists, or mathematicians.

The sky was their business. They studied the stars and planets, making careful observations of heavenly bodies and their movements. And so—when one particular star started doing odd things—they were intrigued. Here was something their science could not explain.

By the way, our science can’t explain it, either! Nobody knows what the Star of Bethlehem truly was. Some early Christians thought it was an angel, or the Holy Spirit, or even Christ himself in celestial form. More recent theories include a comet or a supernova.

Then there’s this idea that there were three of them. The Bible does not actually say that. Matthew tells us the wise men brought three kinds of gifts (gold, frankincense, and myrrh), but he says nothing about the quantity of these gifts, or about the number of men who came bearing them. Some paintings in Christian catacombs depict two Magi, others have four. One ancient text, called The Revelation of the Magi, lists 12 men—and gives their names—while other Christian writings imagine an entire army of Magi!

So there’s no real agreement on the number of “wise men” who made the journey to visit the Christ Child. Neither do we have a clear idea of their nationality. The most popular theory is that they were from Persia—but some traditions hold that they came from Babylon or Arabia or even China. We don’t really know. And therefore, we also don’t know for sure how far they had to travel, or for how long they were on the road. Many early Christians thought it took them two years, based on Herod’s asking the Magi when the star appeared, coupled with his subsequent command to kill all male infants under the age of two (if you recall that terrible part of the story).

But—however many of them made the trip, or how long it took them—it must have been an arduous journey, fraught with peril. Especially since they were transporting gold and other valuables, they could have been targeted by robbers. Not to mention being in danger from wild animals, inclement weather, sickness, accident—and possibly even starvation, if they lost their way in a desolate region.

I find myself wondering about these travellers. Why would they undertake such a journey?

I suppose it might have been scientific curiosity. As I said, the Magi were among the most learned people of that day. But still, to make a journey of perhaps two years’ duration under those conditions … that’s remarkable. They would be risking their fortunes and their reputations, as well as their lives. And for what? In the end, these men who had travelled so far and so long to see royalty found themselves kneeling before a tiny child born to impoverished parents in an out-of-the-way place.

What stirred in their hearts to compel them to risk so much? What led them to travel so far? What deep yearning for something other than what they had known?

As I ponder those questions, I find myself thinking about … all of us. I find myself wondering about other journeys taken … and about what it is that makes such journeys possible. Or necessary. Or preferable to simply living the life that is set right before us.

What sign in the sky—what communication from God—would make me go that deep, that far, to discover its meaning?

And then it strikes me that those travellers to Bethlehem were simply living out their lives to their natural conclusions. After all, their life’s work was studying the heavens. And so—when they saw a star which appeared to hold such significance—all they could do, if they were to be faithful to their calling … Well, all they could do was follow it.

So—having studied the stars and having felt the prodding of one particular star to make this incredible journey—when they came to the place to which the star led them, they were met there by … God!

Now, that couldn’t have been at all what they expected. At least, they wouldn’t have expected to meet God in the form and circumstances presented to them there. And it may well have been true that things were never quite the same again for them. Yet, in that baby—or, in that toddler, as he may have been when they saw him—they met the Holy One, face-to-face.

All they were doing was what they believed they were made to do. And yet, at the same time, this was probably much more than they bargained for. I mean, packing up to travel to far-flung places was probably not in the job description of a first-century astronomer. No. They were accustomed to life in the academy—to sitting in a quiet, familiar place, making observations and taking notes and sharing their insights with others.

This journey they set out on, though … and all they experienced through it … it must have changed them, stretched them, transformed them. Their epiphany was not only about God being revealed to them; it was about discovering their own true purpose. They might have said it was about fulfilling their destinies. Following a star, they encountered the Maker of stars.

Perhaps this is so for all of us. As we use and develop the gifts that God has planted within us … as we become all we were made to be, with eyes and hearts open … perhaps we will encounter God there, as well.

When we follow a star—especially one which leads us out of our most comfortable zones—we, also, may end up in an unexpected and surprising place. And we just might discover that there—perhaps even within the surprise itself—there is where God resides.

And so …

• for those who teach, and those who preach;
• for those who visit, and those who build;
• for those who nurture children, and those who clean;
• for those who invent and those who heal and those who cook and those who … well, you fill in the blank …

For all of us and for each of us—like those Magi so long ago—our first calling is simply to be who we were made to be, keeping our eyes and ears and hearts open to the Spirit’s beckoning.

When we are called to step out in faith, let’s take our giftedness with us. Let’s carry with us our gifts from God—taking them to their natural conclusions.

Because you know, God will call us. In fact, God will continue to call us, for as long as we continue breathing the air he has made. That’s guaranteed. That’s what discipleship is all about. And when we answer that call, and when we follow God’s leading, it is also a sure thing that we will encounter God. Perhaps in surprising ways and unexpected places, we, too, shall meet the Holy One, face-to-face.

So, then, in this new year—and always—let us keep faith as a quest for a guiding star. Let’s keep moving forward, as the Spirit of God leads us.

Our journey is not finished yet. Thanks be to God.

 

 

 

First Sunday After Christmas

TEXT:  John 1:1-18

Christmastime is an occasion for people to get together. Family. Friends. People you haven’t seen since last Christmas … or for many years. And of course, when people gather together it’s a time for remembering and reminiscing.

But have you ever noticed that when you start telling stories about when you were growing up—or what happened years ago—the same events sound quite different as various people tell the same story?

Depending on who is describing the case, the next-door neighbour was either a saint or a psychopath. Moving from one town to another was either a disaster, or a wonderful escape.

Apparently, some 86 years ago, my mother—who was about four at the time—took a trip out of the second floor window of her home, then staggered into the kitchen to announce to my grandmother that she could “fly like a bird.” According to my mother, her sister—my aunt—threw her out the window! But according to my aunt, my mom jumped out the window on her own because “even then she was crazy.” This was an often-aired disagreement between them, often told at Christmas family gatherings. I never did figure out which was the true account … but I could easily believe either version.

Same event. Different storytellers. Different points of view.

Consider the opening verses of John’s gospel: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God … and the Word became flesh and lived among us” (John 1:1, 14a).

This is the Christmas story, the third time the Bible tells it. Luke’s version includes the familiar story of the manger and the shepherds and the angels. In his gospel, Matthew records Joseph’s dream, the visit of the wise men, and the escape into Egypt. However, John’s point of view is rather different. In his account, there are no shepherds or angel choirs. Neither do we hear about dreams nor Magi nor a jealous king. There is no overcrowded inn, and no manger for the baby to sleep in.

Why? Because John has a different perspective—so different, in fact, that most people see no connection between John’s account and the more familiar birth-stories in Matthew and Luke.

But, you see, each gospel writer has his own unique perspective—as well as his own special priorities.

For example, Luke—as well as being a physician—was something of an historian. He was very concerned with getting the dates and times right, and with locating everything geographically. He was also clearly very interested in those who were regarded as outsiders. That’s why Luke is eager to include the shepherds in his account of Jesus’ birth.

Shepherds were social outcasts, and Luke is happy to memorialize them. But the “kings of Orient” are left out entirely. Not only that, but Luke tells the story from the perspective of Mary—a radical move, since at that time women were even lower on the social ladder than shepherds.

Matthew, however, is more traditional. He may even have been trained as a scribe. Matthew wanted to make it clear that Jesus fulfilled all of the Old Testament prophecies about the Messiah. So, shepherds did not interest him as much as the (possibly) royal wise men from the East.

In Matthew’s account, the Christ Child—Christ the King—is surrounded by his peers. And Matthew paid a lot of attention to the flight to Egypt because he saw a parallel between the Exodus and Jesus’ own return to Israel from Egypt. Also—more conservative than Luke—Matthew tells the story from a man’s point of view. He describes Joseph’s dream, but never mentions Mary’s conversation with Gabriel.

And then … there’s John. John probably knew about the stories in Matthew and Luke, and perhaps he felt no need to repeat them. However, the main thing to remember about John is that he’s neither an historian nor a Jewish royalist. John is a theologian and a mystic. So he writes about the meaning of Jesus’ birth. He writes from his theology, and he writes from his experience. But he is telling the same story as the others. All three are talking about the same birth.

Mind you, John does begin the story much earlier. He reminds us that Christmas really begins where Genesis begins: “in the beginning,” with God, in creation. John starts off by talking about the Word of God—God’s active, creating, revealing Word. This Word was with God, and this Word was God.

In one short sentence, John tells the Christmas story: “The Word became flesh, and lived among us.” The One who was with God in creation—the One who is God, revealing himself to humanity—this One took on our flesh and blood, becoming as completely human as you and me. This was not God in human disguise; not a really good person whom God rewarded and made special; not a super-angel God created early and saved up for Bethlehem.

No. This was a genuine, human person. And at the same time, he was the incarnate Word—God’s very own self. Soaring language, John uses. Exquisite poetry … to describe the very down-to-earth occurrence of a human birth. However, it is still the Christmas story, the same story Matthew and Luke tell: the story of the birth of Jesus.

For all of their differences in perspective, Matthew, Luke and John do share one thing in common. There is one image, one symbol—and only one—that they all use.

They all talk about light: the light of the star; the light that shone around the shepherds; the true light that enlightens every person. When Christ appears, witnesses talk about light. They have to. There’s no better image to describe what’s going on.

“The light shines in the darkness,” John proclaims. Somehow we understand this, and we realize that this truth cannot be expressed in any better way.

Perhaps we understand this because we all know about darkness. We know what it’s like to live in and with darkness. Most of us remember being afraid of the dark as children. Or recall the experience of wandering through a completely darkened room, feeling for the light switch.

We know what it’s like when we don’t know where things are, or what we’ve just tripped over, or whether we’re even going where we want to go. We understand how easy it is to go around in circles in the dark, and to get turned around and disoriented.

Yes, we know about darkness. But we also know (don’t we?) what it’s like to live just this same way in broad daylight—to be confused and frightened and lost, even while the sun is shining.

What John, Luke, and Matthew all say about Christmas is this: in Jesus, a new light begins to shine. And if we allow ourselves to be drawn to this light—whether it shines from a stable, or burns in the sky, or surrounds us when we pray … If we embrace this light, then—gradually or suddenly, quietly or accompanied by an angel choir—this light grows brighter. It increases in brilliance until, finally, we can see everything as it truly is.

By that light we can begin to see who we are—and who we were created to be. Because, in Jesus, we see not only the fullness of God—but also the potential fullness of ourselves.

In the person of Jesus, what it means to be human finally becomes clear. In him we see that our lives become whole only as we surrender in love and service. In him, we see that eternal life—really being alive—means risking everything for the love of God and for the Kingdom of God. In the brilliant light of Christ, we see that hope need never be abandoned. As Jesus illuminates our way, we discover ourselves capable of more than we ever imagined.

Also—by that light that has come into the world—we begin, for the first time, to paint a picture of God. “No one has ever seen God,” John reminds us (John 1:18). But God is made known to us in Jesus. This means that everything we ever imagined about God—everything we thought we had figured out, everything that we were sure we knew about God—all of this is put to the test in Jesus.

Who God is—in relationship to us—is fully and finally revealed in Jesus. In him. In he, himself. Not in one saying or one parable, or one miracle, but in all of him—in his life, his ministry, his teaching, his death and his resurrection.

In all of these things together, we have, at last, the light we need in order to see holiness. In Jesus of Nazareth, true humanity—and true divinity—are made clear.

The light of Christ—the Word made flesh—this is what comes among us at Christmas. What we celebrate as believers is the coming of this light into our world. On that first Christmas, the light shone brightly. To this very day, it continues to shine. Through that light, we have become children of God. And in that light, we shall take our places.

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has never put it out. This is the Christmas story. This is our story. Thanks be to God. Amen.

 

Advent 4

… an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream, saying, “Joseph, son of David, do not fear to take Mary as your wife …“

TEXTS:  Isaiah 7:10-16 and Matthew 1:18-25

Advent is a season of expectation. So far, our Advent gospel lessons have focused on Jesus and John the Baptist. Jesus, telling us the Son of Man will come when we least expect it. John telling us the expected Messiah has come. And then, John, in prison, disappointed because his own expectations of Jesus have not been fulfilled.

Today, finally, we hear something like a Christmas story! But it’s kind of low-key. There’s no thundering angelic choir. No guiding star. There’s just one man … and a dream. Today, we hear about Joseph.

Yes. Ordinary, quiet, faithful Joseph. Shortly before we gather to celebrate the birth of Christ, the mystery of God coming to us as a child, we hear about this man, who … Well, this man who very quickly disappears from the gospel narrative.

He is mentioned in the second chapter of Matthew and the first two chapters of Luke … And then he just sort of fades away.

But that seems to be his lot. In Christmas pageants, Mary has the starring role. While we’ve all probably heard plenty of stories about little girls who felt slighted because they did not get to play Mary in the Christmas pageant, we rarely hear about little boys who were upset because they did not get to play Joseph.

No. If you are a little boy, you want to be one of the three kings—or, if not a king, at least a shepherd.  That way, you can wear a bathrobe in church—with your dad’s necktie wrapped around your head!

When you think of Christmas pageants, the images that come to mind are of Mary and the baby Jesus, of the three kings bearing gifts, of shepherds and angels … maybe even oxen and sheep.

Poor Joseph! He almost seems like an afterthought.

If Mary was the first to hear the good news of Jesus’ birth, Joseph must have been the second. But for Joseph, the revelation that Mary was pregnant was—at first—anything but good news. In fact, it must have been quite a shock, because he knew the child could not possibly be his. As the gospel tells us, “Mary had been betrothed to Joseph, [but] before they came together, she was found to be with child …”

In those days, there were two steps leading to marriage. The first was betrothal. This was a legally binding arrangement that lasted for one year before the couple actually married and started living together. If anything happened during the betrothal to dissolve the relationship, it was legally the same as getting a divorce.

Mary and Joseph were in this first stage—legally bound to one another, awaiting the day of their marriage. So when Joseph found out that Mary was pregnant, it was not good news. It was very bad news.

Joseph must have felt hurt—and betrayed. He must have been humiliated, disappointed … and angry! At least, that’s what you would expect. The woman to whom he was engaged was pregnant—and not by him. What more was there to say?

However, Matthew tells us that Joseph was a righteous man. That meant he loved God. It meant he tried to follow God’s law. In all things, a righteous man would try to follow the commands of God. So, when Joseph got the news about Mary, he turned to God’s law for guidance.

According to the law, he had two options. His first option was to bring charges against Mary in public, accusing her of the sin of adultery. According to the law, the penalty for adultery was … death.

His second option was to divorce Mary privately. In the presence of two witnesses, Joseph could draw up a paper of divorce and present it to her. In that case, there would be no public charges against her—and no penalty.

Mary would eventually be exposed to public disgrace, as people found out that she was pregnant and unwed, but at least she would be spared capital punishment.

Because Joseph was a righteous man, he had to choose one of these options. As much as he might have loved Mary, he could not disregard the law. Still—as Joseph certainly would have known—God’s righteousness is always tempered with mercy. So, he resolved to dismiss Mary quietly.

However, at this point in the story, something extraordinary happens. This simple, righteous man has a dream. And in this dream an angel of the Lord says: “Joseph, Son of David, do not fear to take Mary as your wife, for that which is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will bear a son, and you shall call his name Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.”

Wow! That was some dream. I’ve never dreamed about an angelic visitor, have you?

I’m not sure what I would do if I had a dream like that. But we know what Joseph did. When he awoke from his dream, he did as the angel of the Lord commanded. Period. No questions asked.

Does that seem remarkable? It is! And it points out something about Joseph’s character. Here was a man who had spent his entire life trying to do what God had commanded. Out of a lifetime of devotion to God—and to the law of God—Joseph recognized a message from the Lord when he heard it. He needed no further explanation.

Young Mary, when told she was about to give birth to the Messiah, quite naturally asked, “How can this be?” Joseph, though … well, he was older. A lifetime of devotion to God—and to God’s law—had had an effect upon Joseph. He was tuned in to God’s channel.

Joseph would surely have known the passage from Isaiah: “Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and shall call his name Immanuel—which means ‘God with us.’”

And so, when Joseph awoke, he did exactly what the angel of the Lord had told him to do. He took Mary as his wife, and they named their child Jesus.

Here is the wonder of this story. Through the faithfulness of an ordinary man, God was able to something extraordinary. The good news that God is sending his Son to be born of a virgin, to be the Saviour and Redeemer of the world … this amazing news is worked out in the faith and obedience of a humble man like Joseph.

The angel proclaims the miraculous news that God is coming among us as a little baby, and—unlike Mary, who responds with joyful exuberance, saying, “My soul magnifies the Lord and my spirit rejoices in God my Saviour”—Joseph says … well … nothing! Apparently, Joseph was not a big talker. He was a carpenter. He was a practical man.

Yes. A down-to-earth, practical man. And also—though he didn’t make a big deal about it—he was a faithful man. He listened for God’s word, and he tried to obey it.

And when God spoke to Joseph in a dream, Joseph got up and did all that the Lord commanded. He took Mary as his wife. He got her to Bethlehem. He named the child Jesus. Through Joseph and his no-nonsense, faithful response, God was working out his plan for the salvation of the whole world.

This is amazing, isn’t it? When God came among us, he chose to take on the flesh and blood of an ordinary human baby, born to very ordinary people. Born not in a mansion or a palace—but in a barn, for goodness sake! Who would have expected that?

And yet … that seems to be the way our God works. Unexpectedly. Through a stuttering fugitive who led his people out of slavery. Through a shepherd boy whose own father did not believe he was kingly material. Through rough, unsophisticated fishermen. Through a hated tax collector, and a tentmaker from Tarsus, and the son of a Nazarene carpenter. And—finally—through ordinary, unremarkable people like you and me.

Throughout Advent, we are called to prepare the way of the Lord by preparing our own very human hearts. We are called to be vigilant, because we do not know the day or the hour when our Lord may return. We are called to bear fruit in keeping with repentance, doing good to others and loving our neighbours as ourselves. We are called, even in our moments of doubt and fear, to look for evidence of the risen Christ at work in the world—and then to bear witness to what we have seen, and what we have heard. We are called to practice—daily—a discipline of regular contact with God, through prayer and the study of his Word.

If we answer that call, we will grow into the kind of faith that Joseph had—faith that is not only strong, but also discerning, and courageous, and wise.

May it be so for us—whether we hear from an angel, or not.

TEXT: Matthew 11:2-11

When John heard in prison what the Messiah was doing, he sent word by his disciples and said to him, “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?” (Matthew 11:2-3)

“Are you the one? Or should we look for somebody else?” That’s what John the Baptist sent his disciples to ask Jesus.

I am reminded of a story about a woman who was searching for the perfect anniversary card for her husband.

On the rack in the drugstore, she saw a card that she thought might do. On the outside it read, “Sweetheart, you’re the answer to my prayers.”

Then she turned to the inside, where it said: “You’re not what I prayed for, exactly … but apparently you are the answer.”

In Jesus’ day, the Jewish people had been praying for a Messiah—a deliverer, a Saviour—who would conquer their enemies and establish a kingdom of righteousness.

This Messiah would be a mighty warrior and king, and through his power the Jews would reign supreme in the region—in a land of peace and prosperity.

With force of arms, he would drive the occupying Roman armies out of Israel, and the nation would be once again great, as it was in the days of King David. That’s the kind of Messiah the people had been praying for.

Then along comes Jesus, a poor carpenter with questionable friends. He claims to be the long-awaited Messiah—but he wants to set up a very different kind of kingdom. And so we can forgive even Jesus’ strongest supporters for asking, “You’re the answer to our prayers? Really?”

For his whole life, John the Baptist had been praying for—and preparing for—the advent of the Messiah.

In anticipation of the arrival of this great figure, John had been harshly criticizing the ruling religious establishment; and to the ordinary people, he had issued a stern call to repentance.

John’s idea of the Messiah was of a warrior-king, someone who—like John—would preach hellfire and brimstone. John had even said the coming Messiah would baptize his hearers with the “Holy Spirit and with fire.”

But in today’s gospel, John is languishing in prison. King Herod had put John there because he wanted to shut him up. Herod Antipas, you may remember, was the puppet-king whom the Romans had put in place.

More than that, Herod had stolen his own brother’s wife, Herodias—and John had publicly condemned the king as an adulterer. Herod saw John as a threat—and Herodias hated him!

So, John surely must have known his days were numbered—unless the Messiah could pull off a revolution … and quickly! But it didn’t sound like Jesus was putting together an army.

In fact, from the reports John was hearing, Jesus was doing exactly the opposite. Far from preaching hellfire and brimstone, this Messiah was performing acts of mercy, and telling people, “Turn the other cheek … Love your enemies … Do good to those who are persecuting you.”

John was confused. Jesus simply did not look like the Messiah he had been expecting.

At this time of year, as Christmas approaches, we also have expectations about how things should be—don’t we? We have idyllic visions of the yuletide season: of families coming together; of happy people singing Christmas carols; of full churches; of love and happiness everywhere. But it rarely works out that way.

And, when the often-grim reality of life collides with our idealistic visions … Well, it’s disappointing. It leaves us with a sense of emptiness and—very likely—with a great many questions.

Some of these questions may be very troubling. We are told that the child born in Bethlehem came as the Prince of Peace. He was born to usher in the Kingdom of God, but the world is still not peaceful, or just, or happy. If the Kingdom really is here, then why can’t we see it?

Has the coming of Christ into the world really changed anything? Before Jesus, there was famine, sickness, violence, and injustice. After Jesus, there is still famine, sickness, violence, and injustice.

Perhaps the human race is a bit more civilized and more sophisticated now than it was 2,000 years ago, but our basic nature appears to have remained untouched.

We are still selfish, prideful, and hostile toward those who are different. If Jesus brought in a new era … where is it?

These same hard questions came into the mind of John the Baptist. John, you remember, was supposed to be the forerunner of this new era. He was, after all, the first person to declare the arrival of the Kingdom. John said it even before Jesus did!

John said other things, too. Things like: “Even now the axe is lying at the root of the trees; every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire” (Matt. 3:10).

The wheat and the chaff will be separated, John said, and the chaff “will burn with unquenchable fire.”

John envisioned a mighty and powerful Messiah who would come to sweep away wickedness and destroy everything that was evil.

He thought Jesus would set the world straight, so that justice and righteousness would become the status quo. The oppressed would be liberated, and the hungry would be fed. Those who resisted—those who refused to believe, those who continued to sin—they would be swept away and cast into the fire.

That’s what John expected. That’s what John proclaimed. That’s what drew crowds to hear his message and be baptized.

Then Jesus arrived on the scene. John stepped aside and said, “O.K., Jesus—go for it! Bring in the Kingdom! Wipe out the old age, and bring in the new!” And …

Nothing happened. Jesus did not throw anyone into unquenchable fire. He did not wipe out the sinners. No. Instead, he visited them in their homes and ate dinner with them!

Instead of finding himself living in a new era, John found himself in a prison cell, alone with his questions and doubts. Sitting in the forlorn squalor of Herod’s dungeon, John knew that his time was running out. He did not want to die still wondering about the Messiah, so he sent word to Jesus: “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?”

What a sad question. It is a question that cries out for an answer.

“Are you who I thought you were? Are you the Messiah, or should I wait for someone else?”

John’s question might just be our question, too. It’s a question that is compounded by two millennia of dungeons, injustice, suffering, disease, abuse, exploitation, and death. Is this really the new world of Jesus Christ? Like John did so long ago, we wonder about these things. And who can blame us?

Still, perhaps John’s questioning—and ours—is due (at least in part) to a lack of patience. Ours is an era of fast food, instant coffee, microwave dinners, and the internet. We know what we want; we want it now, and we usually get it now. God’s timetable seems much slower than ours.

But, look—as Jesus himself might say: you cannot plant a seed one day and harvest a crop the next! Maybe that’s the message we need to hear.

Oh, I know … even saintly patience has its limits. In the face of agonizing questions and frustrated longing, to simply say, “Be patient” …

Well, that sounds all too glib, doesn’t it?

“Are you the one, or should we look for somebody else?”

In response to John’s despairing question, Jesus offers a re-examination of current events.

Remember what he told John’s disciples? He said: “Go and tell John what you hear and see: The blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them.” (Matt. 11:4-5)

Jesus invites John—and he challenges all of us—to consider the positive happenings in the world. Our natural tendency is to ask, “Why is there so much suffering in the world?”

But Jesus wants us to ask another question: “Why is there so much good in the world?”

How do we account for prosperity and liberty? How do we account for compassion and concern? When it comes to our personal experience of life, how do we account for our own good health and—when they occur—for amazing recoveries from illness? How do we explain unexpected good fortune? How do we account for the love and support of family and friends? Or for the compassion of complete strangers?

Here’s what I think. It seems to me that the good and just and joyful aspects of life are bits and pieces of the Kingdom of God—a kingdom that comes, not by force, but by the birth of a child in a barn located in the back lot of a cheap hotel.

The Kingdom of God was present then, in that common—yet extraordinary—birth. Today, the Kingdom of God is present within each of us. And every time we reach out to others with love, the Kingdom grows a little bit larger. Each time we stand up for justice, the Kingdom’s arrival is that much closer.

In this Advent season, let’s not forget that the Christ-child is indeed waiting to be born—born within our hearts. And yes, he is the One!

Even so, come, Lord Jesus, come! Come to our hearts. Come to our homes. Come to our nation, and to our world.

In God’s good time, may it be so. Amen.

Advent 2

TEXTS: Isaiah 11:1-10 and Matthew 3:1-12

In those days John the Baptist appeared in the wilderness of Judea, proclaiming, “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.” (Matthew 3:1-2)

I’m curious: How many of you have ever heard of a man called Edwin L. Drake? Even here in Alberta—where our economy runs on oil—very few people have ever heard of Edwin Drake. And that’s puzzling, because Edwin Drake is the man who founded the modern petroleum industry. Drake pioneered a new method for extracting oil from the ground by drilling for it, using piping to prevent borehole collapse—thereby allowing the drill to penetrate further and further into the ground.

Previous methods for collecting oil had been limited to harvesting it from places where it naturally percolated to the surface. People knew it could be used to make useful products like kerosene, but it wasn’t available in sufficient quantities to be commercially useful.

On August 27, 1859, all that changed. A well that Edwin Drake drilled near Titusville, Pennsylvania struck oil, thereby demonstrating that a dependable supply of petroleum could be obtained through drilling—and the rest, as they say, is history. But it might never have happened, because the drillers whom Drake first approached with his idea scoffed at him.

“Drill for oil?” they said. “You mean drill into the ground to try and find oil? You’re crazy.”

When John the Baptist appeared in the wilderness crying out, “Prepare the way of the Lord. He’s coming right after me,” a lot of people thought he was crazy—a screwball who lived in the desert, scavenging for food and pretending to be Elijah the prophet. John was announcing a new vision—a vision of One coming after him to establish God’s Kingdom of justice and righteousness and peace—but to many, he sounded like a madman.

When Isaiah came announcing the vision he received from the Lord, I imagine he got a similar reaction. “The wolf shall live with the lamb, the leopard shall lie down with the kid, the calf and the lion and the fatling together” (Isaiah 11:6a). The cat will curl up with the budgie, and the cougar will graze with the caribou. The small child shall take a rattlesnake for show and tell, and the politician shall speak the truth!

How can you ever believe such things? They’re not reality. They go against basic nature. They’ve never happened before. They defy comprehension. Isaiah was a nut!

Or was he?

It’s a very strange thing, reality. It is not nearly as fixed as we like to think it is. Our beliefs about the limits of reality get tangled up with our expectations—with what we have experienced. Yet, what is seen in one place or time as being outside the realm of possibility is taken for granted as reality in another place or time.

Once, people who thought heavier-than-air craft could fly were called “unrealistic.” People who thought that the earth was round were locked away because they had clearly lost touch with the “real” world. But if Nelson Mandela can become president of South Africa, who’s to say the lion cannot lay down with the lamb?

Beware of those who want to define reality for you. Beware of those who tell you what is or is not realistic.

Beware and be aware. If someone else is trying to define the limits of reality for you, ask what it is they have invested in the present reality. Why would they be threatened if you believed that something was possible that is not yet in place?

Why do the forest industries tell us that investing in timber plantations instead of old growth forests is unrealistic? Why do the arms manufacturers tell us it’s ridiculous to speak of loving your enemies? There’s money to be made. There’s power to be kept. There are vested interests to be protected.

That’s why—for decades after they themselves knew better—tobacco companies insisted that cigarettes were harmless. That’s why—for decades after they allowed military personnel at CFB Gagetown to be exposed to Agent Orange, the Canadian Forces insisted—indignantly—that they would never do such a thing.

Hell hath no fury like vested interest masquerading as moral principle.

But you know, this manipulation of our views of reality does not just happen on the world stage. I’m sure we’ve all experienced it personally. We’ve all been told:

• “It can’t be done.”
• “It’s unrealistic to think you can change it.”
• “You’ll always be like this.”
• “That’s the way it’s always been.”
• “Get your head out of the clouds, this is the real world.”
• “This is the only place you’ll ever fit.”
• “This is your lot, and you might as well accept it.”

If somebody’s telling you that stuff, you should ask yourself why. Why do they want to keep you in your place? Maybe it’s nothing more than the fear of seeing someone else achieve what they are afraid to try—but often it’s more sinister than that. Always be wary of anyone who tells you your dreams are impossible.

Sometimes, of course, the things which hold us back are not external. Sometimes the demons are inside us. Often, we resign ourselves to the inevitability of things. We have heard so often that history repeats itself—and that “the more things change the more they stay the same”—that we believe it. We take it for granted that the way things are is the only way they can be. Our experience limits our vision:

• “I’ve never seen a leopard change its spots—therefore, it can’t.”
• “I’ve never seen a lion lay down with a lamb—therefore, it could never happen.”
• “I’ve never known someone I could trust—therefore, there isn’t anyone.”
• “I haven’t been able to change this pattern in my life before—therefore, I never will.”

We end up as our own worst enemies that way. A mixture of fear and short-sightedness keeps us inside the prison of our present circumstances. The voices whisper away within us:

• “Every time you’ve tried to get out of this before, you’ve failed.”
• “Don’t risk being a failure again.”
• “You can dream your dreams, but they’re only dreams.”
• “You always have to go back to reality when you wake up—back to the real world, where nothing ever changes.”

But look … The realm of the possible is always bigger than we think it is. If your relationships have always been disasters, it doesn’t mean that you are incapable of having good relationships. It may mean that you’ve been approaching them in the wrong way. If a mountain climber fails to conquer a certain peak, he tries a different route the next time. Just because it can’t be done this way doesn’t mean that it can’t be done. The fact that conflict persists does not mean that the lion can never lay down with the lamb! No. It means that we have not yet found the way to peace.

John the Baptist was right. There was One coming after him who would change all of our realities. No longer is it true that you are only acceptable to God if you are a descendent of Abraham. God can turn rocks into children of Abraham!

The One who came after John said anything could be possible, if you could believe in it. He called us to take up the vision of Isaiah—to look for the day when there will be justice for the needy and equity for the poor. Jesus lived and died to let us know that we can expect better than just more of the same. He was raised from the dead to show us that even death is not the end of hope. Even death cannot limit the scope of reality. Change and rebirth are not only possible in the here and now, but they are no longer confined to here and now.

Jesus Christ has kicked open the doors of all our prison cells. We are free to believe and strive for and achieve what was once believed impossible. But the prisoner whose dreams and vision have never extended beyond the closed door will tremble at the prospect of venturing beyond it. And that’s a pity, because the Christ who burst open your prison door also promises to travel with you in the unknown territory beyond it.

You may have never seen beyond that door, but there is a beautiful world waiting to welcome you there: a world where the lion will lay dawn with the lamb; a world where snake pits are safe playgrounds for children; a world of justice for the poor, freedom for the oppressed, and comfort for the broken-hearted.

That is the message of Advent—and it is the gospel we preach. Thanks be to God for this good news!