I came across this cool little ‘morality tale’. [A morality play, according to the Encyclopaedia Britannica, was “an allegorical drama popular in Europe especially during the 15th and 16th centuries, in which the characters personify moral qualities (such as charity or vice) or abstractions (as death or youth) and in which moral lessons are taught”.]
So, … (read, digest, and locate yourself in the story!)
The only survivor of a shipwreck was washed up on a small, uninhabited island. He prayed feverishly for God to rescue him, and every day he scanned the horizon for help, but none seemed forthcoming. Exhausted, he eventually managed to build a little hut out of driftwood to protect himself from the elements, and to store his few possessions. But then one day, after scavenging for food, he arrived home to find his little hut in flames, the smoke rolling up to the sky. The worst had happened – everything was lost. He was stunned with grief and anger. “God, how could you do this to me?” he cried, and in despair tried to sleep on the sand.
Early the next day, however, he was awakened by the sound of a ship that was approaching the island. It had come to rescue him. “How did you know I was here?” asked the weary man of his rescuers. “We saw your smoke signal,” they replied.
Next time your little hut is burning to the ground, it just may be a smoke signal that summons the grace of God. Whilst lamenting the negative, keep an eye out for the positives that might result, and dwell on them.
When I get my mobilisation orders – from Barry – that I’m to preach on this particular group of readings, on this particular day … Even before I read the readings, ideas start to bleed in to my mind – oh, yes, I recognise that – that’s the passage about …
Today’s New Testament reading is particularly like that … in fact, Barry and I share a real love of Phil 4 – we’ve even reflected on it together, and quoted it at each other. It’s good when you can have a brother or sister to bounce things off, and to illuminate each other’s journey in some pragmatic way.
“Iron sharpeneth iron,” says Proverbs 27:17; “so a man sharpeneth the countenance of his friend.” (KJV)
It’s good to be encouraging, or exhorting each other.
“Therefore encourage one another and build each other up, just as in fact you are doing,” says 1 Thess 5:11. (NIV) Hebrews 3:13 says, “But encourage one another daily, … so that none of you may be hardened by sin’s deceitfulness.” (NIV) Are we doing this to each other, amongst each other? Encouraging and exhorting one another in this way?
And encouraging each other with Phil 4 is a great place to start.
So, then one actually reads the readings given, and again thoughts seep in. Like childhood memories, or forgotten thoughts reawakened by music. You like to think, ah, yes, the Holy Spirit is prompting me, that’s neat … But, I don’t know. I’m not sure how it works, really, but … the end result is what you get on a Sunday morning!
When I first read this passage from Luke, two things surfaced immediately: the way John welcomed the crowds; and John’s advice to various small groups.
Why?
Second things first. John’s advice to the soldiers. Interesting in itself, because it tells something of the crowd’s makeup. There were soldiers there. Along with tax collectors and Pharisees; and who knows whom else. Jewish, or Roman soldiers, I wonder? Anyway, John’s advice to the soldiers is to be content with their wages, and don’t extort money or accuse anyone falsely. Seems a bit random! Not the answer I’d expect to such a question from such men. John seems to be telling them not to misuse their power over ordinary people, not to bully them – which was perhaps a headline issue in those times. But this instruction to the soldiers has been more important to me over time in not so much what he told them, but what he didn’t tell them. [He didn’t tell them to stop soldiering. Or the tax collectors tax collecting.]
As a Christian in the military, one had a constant balancing act, weighing Christian friends who were saying, How can you be a serviceman? with military friends who were saying, How can you be a Christian? Shouldn’t a Christian be a complete pacifist? One tried to find a rational position. One looked for validation, and a way to justify being there. Over time, several arguments for coalesced into a case of, yes, it’s ok for a Christian to be in the services. For me as an individual, at least. And this interaction between John and the soldiers was salient at that time. It was helpful and affirming to me because, far from telling them to stop soldiering, he was saying, Keep doing what you’re doing, but do it honourably, morally, graciously …
And a takeaway for us all this morning – from John’s handling of these thoughtful questions, and from this my own experience shared – is how to ask simple guidance of the Holy Spirit when faced with decisions or dilemmas. We all face them – different quandaries – but the humble approach to the Holy Spirit is the approach to use.
But back to the main strike point: what about the offensive way John greeted the crowds when they came to see him?! “You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the coming wrath? Produce fruit in keeping with repentance … The axe is already at the root of the trees, and every tree that does not produce good fruit will be cut down …”
Bit rough! Did he do this with every speaking engagement? Or just on this particular day that One News was there taking notes? Imagine if I’d started this reflection with, “You brood of vipers”! Even to make a point. For dramatic effect. You’d be shocked. “Shock and Awe”! (Actually, that’s a known military tactic for going on the offensive!)
Some of you might walk out, or throw something. Riot. Do violence.
Then again, maybe our sermons should start this way! Might have more penetration! Shall I try it? “You brood of vipers! Who warned you …”
How does that feel?
Well, it seemed to bring about a change of heart in the crowd. Perhaps John had reason to suspect their motives for being there. So, now – instead of being frivolous; or expecting to be entertained … or looking for smooth, affirming, obsequious words … they were brought up short. Oh! My word! “Vipers”? That’s a bit harsh. Well … ok, Mr Baptist … well, what do you think we should do?
Quite a good reaction really. A short, sharp shift of ego and arrogance, into submission to the crucial message John was really wanting to bring. “Preparing the way of the Lord.” Do you think?
It concerns me to think how many fine sermons we sit through, week after week, and we go away with very little attention to where changes need to be made. We’re typically extremely set in our ways and opinions, and maybe we need to be confronted – more often than we are. We’re among friends here, so we’re nice to each other, and don’t want to offend. But it’s good to be challenged. It’s good when Bruce says to me, “Have you really got something to say, Ken, or do you just want to say something?”! We need to be in such healthy relationship with each other that we can be challenged, without feeling put down or hurt or defensive …
… I suppose, after this, there will be a queue at morning tea all lining up wanting to tell me what’s wrong with me!
We need to be challenged, and that’s partly why I appreciate my iron being sharpenethed by other ironmongers; why I appreciate people like Barry saying, so what about it, Ken? Have you managed to fit into the Phil 4 framework this week? Have you been anxious about anything? Have you managed to fix your mind on things that are lovely and true and positive and pure?
So, John harangues his congregation, then responds to their apparently revised attitude, and … it now seems he has a lot better purchase on their attention. And, it’s interesting that his instruction is not just spiritual – it’s very pragmatic. Or, rather, he counsels them at a pragmatic level first: “Anyone who has two shirts should share with the one who has none, and anyone who has food should do the same … you tax collectors, Don’t collect any more than you are required to. And, you soldiers, Don’t extort money and don’t accuse people falsely—be content with your pay.”
… before he changes depth, from shock and awe, to pragmatic and practical, to, now, ‘deep and substantial’; and gets into his real calling: preparing the way … teaching them about repentance and baptism and the Good News coming: “I baptize you with water. But one who is more powerful than I will come, the straps of whose sandals I am not worthy to untie. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire.” He calls this coming person, “One”, because he doesn’t know who it is yet. Or does he? There’s a question for you to ponder.
But I love the way our passage finishes. Think about this: “And with many other words,” it says, “John exhorted the people and proclaimed the good news to them.”
Great stuff!
Change some habit or practice this week, friends, I challenge and encourage you; and if you haven’t figured it out yet, the ‘coming One’ was Jesus, whose advent is imminent in this Christmas season. The way prepared, let’s welcome him.
Just the other day, when my children were younger, as my birthday approached they would say to me, “Mum, what do you want for your birthday ….? And don’t say, ‘World peace’”! Well, years have passed, and it has become a family catch phrase every birthday and along the way I have discovered that the world peace I was longing for, actually has to start with me. How can I demand peace if I do not live it and give it to others?
Advent is a good time to remember that the Bible we read is not a peaceful read. It is a text borne of trauma, displacement, and loss. The ancient writers who penned sacred scripture — and the vast majority of characters who populate its pages — were not, by and large, history’s winners. They were the persecuted. The dislocated. The enslaved. The desperate. They lived through periods of famine, war, plague, and natural disaster. They suffered starvation, violence, barrenness, captivity, exile, colonization, and genocide. They were, in countless ways, the wretched of the earth. Brave, lonely voices, crying in the desert.
But what did they cry? They cried their sorrow, of course. They cried their rage, fear, horror, and pain. But here’s the remarkable thing: they also cried their hope. Their fierce, strong hope in a God who cares. A God who vindicates. A God who saves. Hope beyond hope.
So perhaps it’s fitting that on this second Sunday in Advent, we are invited to listen to just such a voice — a voice of full-bodied hope, crying out the truth of God’s faithfulness in the most bereft and desolate of places.
Setting the scene, Luke writes at the beginning of this passage of seven seats of wealth, power and influence in just one sentence. Seven centres of authority, both political and religious. Seven Very Important People occupying seven Very Important Positions. But God’s word doesn’t come to any of them. The story of the Incarnation begins elsewhere. It begins in obscurity, off the beaten path, appallingly far away from the halls of dominion and might, and highlights dramatically the contrast between those who experience God’s speaking presence and those who don’t. In Luke’s account, emperors, governors, rulers, and high priests — the folks who wield power — don’t hear God; but the outsider in the wilderness does. The word of the Lord comes to John, the one who gives up his hereditary claim to the priesthood, trading its clout and comfort for the hardships and humiliations of the desert.
What is it about power that deafens us to the Word? Maybe Tiberius, Pilate, Caiaphas and Herod can’t receive a fresh revelation from God because they presume to hear and speak for God already. After all, they’re in power. Doesn’t that mean that they embody God’s will automatically? If not, well, who cares? They already have pomp, money, military might, and the weight of religious tradition at their disposal. They don’t need God.
But in the wilderness where we find John today there’s no safety net. No Plan B. No fallback option. In the wilderness, life is raw and risky, and illusions of self-sufficiency fall apart fast. To locate ourselves at the outskirts of power is to confess our vulnerability in the starkest terms. In the wilderness, we have no choice but to wait and watch as if our lives depend on God showing up. Because they do. And it’s into such an environment — an environment so far removed from power as to make power laughable — that the word of God comes.
But Luke goes on. Not only is the wilderness a place that exposes our need for God. It’s also a place that calls us to repentance. “John went into all the region around the Jordan,” Luke tells us, “proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.” Elsewhere in the Gospels we read that crowds streamed into the wilderness to heed John’s call. In other words, they left the lives they knew best, and ventured into the unknown to save their hearts, through repentance. Something about the wilderness brought people to their knees. Something about the possibility of confession and absolution stirred and compelled them to turn their staid lives, routines and rituals upside down.
Yes, I know that “sin” and “repentance” are loaded words. I know that we’re wary of them, for good reasons. They are words which have been weaponized to frighten and diminish us. They are words that have been deployed in very narrow ways to pit us against each other, politically, economically and culturally. But here’s the thing: We can’t get to the manger unless we go through John (the Baptist), and John is all about repentance. Is it possible that this might become an occasion for our liberation? Maybe, if we can get past our baggage and follow John, we’ll find comfort and peace in the fact that we don’t have to pretend to be perfect any more. We don’t have to deny the truth, which is that we struggle, and stumble, and make mistakes, and mess up. We can face the reality that we are fallible human beings, prone to wander, and incapable of living up to our own ideals. And — most importantly — we can fall with abandon and relief into the forgiving arms of a God who loves us as we are. We can live into the same tenacious hope of our Biblical ancestors — the hope of restoration. The hope of abundant and overflowing grace. The hope of peace. The hope of salvation.
Finally, Luke suggests that the wilderness is a place where we can see, and participate in, God’s great work of levelling. Unless we’re in the wilderness, it’s hard to see our own privilege, and even harder to imagine giving it up. No one living on a mountaintop wants the mountain flattened. But when we’re wandering in the wilderness, we’re able to see what privileged locations obscure. Suddenly, we feel the rough places beneath our feet. We experience what it’s like to struggle down twisty, crooked paths. We glimpse arrogance in the mountains and desolation in the valleys, and we begin to dream God’s dream of a wholly reimagined landscape. A landscape where the valleys of death are filled, and the mountains of oppression are flattened. A landscape so smooth and straight, it enables “all flesh”, everyone, to see the salvation of God.
No one living on a mountaintop wants the mountain flattened. But when we’re wandering in the wilderness, we’re able to see what privileged locations obscure. Suddenly, we feel the rough places beneath our feet. We experience what it’s like to struggle down twisty, crooked paths. We glimpse arrogance in the mountains and desolation in the valleys, and we begin to dream God’s dream of a wholly reimagined landscape. A landscape where the valleys of death are filled, and the mountains of oppression are flattened. A landscape so smooth and straight, it enables “all flesh”, everyone, to see the salvation of God.
So. Where are you located during this Advent season? How close are you to power, and how open are you to risking the wilderness to hear a word from God? What might repentance look like for you, here and now? Could it indeed save your heart?
The word of the Lord came to John in the wilderness. May it come to us, too. Like John, may we become hope-filled voices in desolate places, preparing the way of the Lord.
Amen.
With acknowledgement to Debie Thomas’s Journey with Jesus: A Voice Crying.
Earlier this week the jarring chatter of a concrete cutter woke me from my dozing reverie. Groan … What is that? At this time of the morning. Make it stop!
What’s the point of setting the alarm for nine if the Council is going to start their machinery at eight thirty?
Not thinking a call to the Council would be well received, much less a threatening scowl at the big man in the fluoro jacket at the roadside, I closed my curtain again and checked my Facebook while the concrete cutter cut on. Suddenly I realised my earworm had gone. My wife calls it that, although I think of it more as a brain invasion, with its own associated concrete cutter. That tune has occupied my brain with its sweet noise, like a neighbour’s stereo at 3am, since 3am the day before last, it seems. But suddenly it’s gone. One concrete cutter shocked out of residence by another.
Oh, no, wait … it’s back again. My sudden realisation of an empty-head has invited the damn tune right back in again. I draw my curtains again, hoping the roadside concrete cutter will displace the inner one once more.
It’s a pretty tune … that’s not the point … but … stop thinking about it! Make it stop!
Unlike my crisis tunes, which are prized. Does anyone else have crisis tunes?
Crisis management began for me in my final year of school. At the end of couple of days of studying (one had not the skills in those days) and a fortnight of Bursary exams, I remember escaping to the top field and lying back luxuriously on the grass, gazing luxuriously up into the blue sky. Such delight, such flight, after such suffocating masochism all fortnight in the exam hall.
I’ve done that many times since, post-crisis; and I’ve bolstered my toolbox with pre-crisis things like music, squash and guitar – the commonality in the second two apparently the wild thrashing of hands and arms, racquet and pick – all guaranteed to purge any built-up lactic acid in the brain cells. Works for me.
And in case a reader would like to sample my medicine, my particular crisis musical infusions are Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture and Diamond’s Jonathan Livingstone Seagull. Stomach-calming, firmament-soaring masterpieces that, now I think about it, involve a certain frenzy of hand waving and thrashing too, if more disciplined. Conductor-like. Risky when you’re driving though. But wonderful before a big test; or a wedding.
Oh, yes, there are some things one wants stopped – tooth-drilling, headaches, late night parties, earworms, political blather, memories of the 2007 Quarter Final … Cowering in a bath or basement, head covered, in the middle of a hurricane … Concrete-cutting at 8.30. Getting to the end of pointless blog articles. But other things, one wants to go on and on. The trick seems to be to displace the one, fuel the other.
I shall take my own medicine now. Stopping typing. The machinery out there is silent. The neighbours seem to have gone to bed at last. The earworm … no! … is back. Putting the 1812on.
stfrancischurchtairuanz 