December 2, 2007

Advent 1 A

Isaiah 11:1-10; Matthew 3:1-12

I begin with the opening lines of a long poem by John Shea.

Legend says, the cave of Christmas where the child of light burns in the darkness is hidden in the center of the earth.

Access is not easy. You cannot just amble to the mantle, note the craft of the crib child, and return to the party for more eggnog. You may see a figurine in this way, but you will not find the child of light. The center of the earth is not the surface. You must journey and, wayfarer, you need a guide.

A prophet appears out of the wilderness of Judea, materializing at a distance out of the rippling waves of heat that rise from the desert floor. John the Baptist walks toward us, calling us to prepare ourselves for the coming of the Messiah of God. Dressed in animal skins, foraging for locusts and wild honey -- he looks a lot like Elijah. Speaking of the highway of the Lord and of trees about to be turned into stumps, of snakes and spirits, of harvest and judgment, he sounds like Isaiah.

John is the first prophet in Israel in 400 years, and he makes an impression. His message contains both announcement and invitation: "A page in history is turning," he shouts. "The One we've been waiting for is here. Repent! God's kingdom has come near." From the capital city and every corner of Palestine, people journey to the river Jordan to be baptized by this odd man in his odd get-up. Many hear John's message and, filled with hope, serious about changing their ways, are plunged into the waters of John's baptism to seal their vow.

And here we are, having come from the far corners of Carver County, Hennepin, even...having made our way to church on snowy roads, the usual landmarks cloaked in white...A mixture of anticipation and a sense of duty brings us here. Now we sit at rest, perhaps for the first time in a long while, hands cupped to receive the promises of God.

Even when we think we know the way, "it's easy to get lost on a journey. But it seems to be a regular occurrence at this time of year. As the calendar page turns to December, we tend to get preoccupied with Christmas, and miss the anticipatory season of Advent." Fortunately for us we have John the Baptist, whose job it is to point us in the right direction. He is not the Messiah, but he shows the way to the Messiah.

Out of the desert John the Baptist comes to remind us of the consequences of our procrastination. And it ain't pretty. Whole trees axed down to the ground, violently reduced to ugly, shameful stumps. Dead branches thrown into the fire of judgment. "Even now," he warns, "the ax is lying at the root of the tree." Like the prophets before him, John's voice is shrill, searing the soul: It sounds like it may be too late for the trees.

But John doesn't just spit nails and flash his eyes in judgment. He has something positive to offer to those tuned into his warning: A baptism of water for repentance. A baptism of preparation. His baptism cleanses and refreshes, lifting weary people to a new self-understanding, a new way of living, clearing the highway that will carry them to the kingdom of heaven, clearing the pathway of debris, of slithering snakes and jagged stumps to stumble on.

"Repent and keep on repenting," is the sense of Matthew's language. Much more than psychological re-framing, repentance is not just changing our minds about something, but changing our ways, turning or returning to God with our whole selves, with all our heart and soul and might. "Repent of your wolfish ways," is the Baptist's cry.

In repentance there is promise. It is a hopeful activity...opening the self to God, opening oneself to the One who is able to raise up children from stones, the One who raises the dead. "Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand." A promise.

When we hold Isaiah's vision of God's kingdom come alongside the Baptist's call, we see that our repentance as individuals and congregations and communities is tied to the reconciliation of the whole of God's creation. We catch a glimpse of a violent world transformed, the orders of creation overturned: predators co-existing in harmony with their prey, poisonous serpents posing no threat to baby humans. Nature is changed at its core: No more food chain that favors the strong over the weak, ensuring the "survival of the fittest." No more "dog-eat-dog."

Which comes as a relief to all of us wolves in sheep's clothing.

You know what I'm talking about.

Chances are good that in the past 24 hours or so, you have been in touch with your wolf side, the savage predator within, the part of you that erupts, rages, shreds, and runs...

Even children have a wolf side. Studies show that bullying affects 1 in 7 youngsters, either as victim or perpetrator, leading to anxiety and sleep disturbance.

And as citizens of a nation at war, we are daily reminded of our complicity in bringing destruction upon a people brutalized by decades of cruelty and terror at the hands of a tyrant, a nation struggling to birth itself, ravaged now at the hands of their occupiers and wild, self-destructive forces within.

This Christmas, our world looks less than ever like the peaceable kingdom of Isaiah's vision.

Out of the wilderness of Judea, across the deserts of our politics and our self-promotion schemes, the Baptist calls to us to look in the mirror, see our wolfish profile, and confess our sins.

In just a few moments, We will respond to John's invitation, joining in a prayer of confession, hearing the assurance of forgiveness, and sharing peace with one another.

"The Christmas season can go wildly wrong. It can degenerate into mindless consumerism and an excess of food and drink. Instead of being life-giving to relationships, it can be a time when relationships are under too much pressure and too many demands.

But the Christmas season can also go stunningly right. It can bring us back to the hidden truth about ourselves" ...that we are wolves and beloved children.

It is John the Baptist, the prophet of Advent, who leads us to the cave of Christmas in the center of the earth.

Hear now the finale of John Shea's poem, "The Man Who Was a Lamp":

The cave of Christmas is hidden in the center of the earth. You will need a lamp for the journey. A man named John is a step ahead of you. His torch sweeps the ground so that you do not stumble. He brings you, at your own pace, to the entrance of the cave. His smile is complete, perfect, whole, lacking nothing.

Inside there is a sudden light, but it does not hurt your eyes. The darkness ahs been pushed back by radiance. You feel like an underwater swimmer who has just broken the surface of the Jordan and is breathing in the sky. John is gone. Notice from whom the light is shining, beloved child.

[Others step into the holy river in their waders, not quite ready to be washed from head to toe, but willing to latch onto John's baptism as an insurance policy, just in case their by-the-book living isn't enough. Stripped of pretense by desert living, John's eyes are clear and his tongue is sharp, and he goes right after these high-minded toe-dippers, warning them against clinging to the automatic privileges of family or ethnic origin or religion as their safeguard. All, says John, must repent.]

Rev. Kristie Hennig
Chanhassen, Minnesota

John Shea, "The Man Who Was a Lamp," Starlight, 237.
John Shea, Starlight: Beholding the Christmas Miracle All Year Long, 251.
John Shea, "The Man Who Was a Lamp," Starlight, 248-9.