The Rev. Allan Sandlin, associate rector> click here for the Scripture for the day
Come, Lord Jesus, come. We wait, we hope, we yearn. Come, find a people who wander in the wilderness. Come, bring hope to people who have given up hoping. Come, be light to our darkness. Come, speak a word into our silence. Come, Lord Jesus. We yearn for you, even when we don’t know it is you for whom we are yearning. Amen.
John the Baptist faithfully shows up on the church calendar every year around this time during Advent. We hear his story told and retold in the gospels and in fact, the same basic outline of the story is told in all 4 gospels—very few biblical characters rated that kind of coverage in the New Testament—and today we’ve listened to part of that story from the 4th Gospel, the Gospel according to St. John.
But did you notice? If you’re familiar with the character of John, did you notice he forgot to wear his camel-hair coat and he wasn’t munching on locusts and wild honey the way he does when Mark tells the story? In the 4th Gospel, the author doesn’t paint him with the same brush that Matthew, Mark and Luke do—we hear nothing about his being Jesus’ cousin, and there’s not a word about his baptizing Jesus. In fact, he’s not even called the Baptist. He’s just “a man sent from God, whose name was John.”
In this morning’s version of the story, his song sounds plaintive, restive, mysterious.
Among you stands one whom you do not know, the one who is coming after me…
We can almost hear him singing…
What is the crying at Jordan? Who hears, O God, the prophecy? Dark is the season, dark our hearts and shut to mystery.
In the dark night, the uncertain crying of this mysterious stranger still catches us off-guard and unsettles us, asking questions, leaving space for us to wonder. Who is he, where did he come from? What is the crying, who can hear it?
He came as a witness to testify to the light…
But he himself was not the light…
He came to testify to the light.
It was the disbelieving clergy, priests and Levites from Jerusalem, who questioned him saying “Who are you?” and he replied, I’m not the Messiah. Well then, maybe you are Elijah? In other versions of the story, we almost imagine that John fancied himself a prophet like Elijah but not today. I am not, he says.
Ok, then, how about the prophet? Are you the prophet? No. Each time his answer gets shorter and shorter. I am not the Messiah. I am not. No.
And then finally he finds his voice. Pointing toward the One who was coming out of the darkness, pointing toward the light breaking into the world.
John the Baptist is particularly important to us in the season of Advent. All around us Christmas has already come. I know some us get frustrated that we aren’t singing Christmas carols in church yet, we’re not talking about baby Jesus yet. Ok, I’ll admit that at home, I’ve pulled our favorite Christmas carol book off the shelf and once or twice, just once or twice, I’ve sat down at the piano and played a few carols.
But John the Baptist helps us keep our eye on the coming light, reminding us of what has not yet come, pointing us in the right direction but saying “not yet” and reminding us that he is not the Messiah, nor are we.
A minute ago Ruby sang the 1st verse of a hauntingly beautiful hymn that reminds us of John the Baptist. It’s a song that sings of the mystery and darkness of Advent.
Who then shall stir in this darkness, prepare for joy in the winter night? Mortal in darkness we lie down, blind-hearted seeing no light.
John could have claimed greatness, he could have reminded the crowds that he was a blood relative of the One who was coming. But John cares nothing for his own fame. Not even to justify the good news he heralds. He is not the light coming into the darkness. He is the voice that announces the coming of that light. He is the trumpet blast, the resounding organ, he is the soft, humming cello that wakes us up, that rouses us from our deep slumber. He is the opening act for the main event.
He refuses to cooperate with his audience but he does have something of earth-shattering importance to tell them. And here’s the thing: If they have been confounded about who he is, if they have had a hard time fitting him into a category, just wait. Just wait for the one who will come after him. The light that is coming into the darkness will be so dazzling, so brilliant that it will shatter their illusions of life in the dimly lit world.
Yet, the light will not fit their expectations, conform to their carefully drawn plans, submit to their domination. In his response to the religious leaders, John turns out to be a very good witness to the light. But neither John nor the One coming after him will ever fit into anyone’s little box. John cannot be classified or catalogued—as such, he is witness to the indefinable, unknowable Messiah. No one can define this Lord, no one can conform this Lord to a pre-determined mold. John simply invites us to pay attention to the light that is coming into the world, to watch and wait. And trust that God will open our eyes when the time comes. It is enough to trust the light to be light enough to see…
We’d been waiting awhile. I think Mom knew the end was coming and maybe I knew it, too, though we’d not spoken about it. Shortly after we ate lunch in their apartment, Mom went back to Dad’s bed-side in the nursing home and found his breathing was becoming more and more shallow. She called the apartment and just said, “You should come.”
We stood around his bed, the priest prayed the Litany with us, Mom and I sang a hymn, we told him how much we loved him. And he died. I’d arranged with a local funeral home for someone to come immediately to take his body to the hospital so they could do an autopsy requested by his doctor. Two hours went by and no one came. They said they were short on ambulances and no one was available.
Finally, someone from Hospice said she knew a man could help. “He works for himself and he works by himself. Lawrence is a strong, black man and he’ll probably come dressed in overalls. Oh and he’ll probably want to say a prayer with y’all.” 20 minutes after my phone call asking him to come, Lawrence came around the corner, pushing a gurney with a dark red velvet body bag folded on top. As he approached us, he offered his outstretched hand, introduced himself and went straight into the room. My brother and his wife were standing with Mom at the bed.
While were waiting for someone to come, we’d been playing a Willie Nelson cd that Dad loved, crying one minute and laughing the next at the strangeness of it all: the family of this Baptist preacher, gathered around our dead father, listening to “On the road again” as we kept vigil.
Lawrence came into the room, gathered us all together in a circle and announced “We’re gonna have a prayer now.” And we grabbed each other’s hands and this big man prayed. He prayed that God would take Dad and welcome him home and bless his family and I don’t remember any more of his words but I’ll never forget the certainty of his presence, the certainly we all felt that God was very near.
When he finished praying he asked us to step out of the room so that he and the nurses could do their work. I was told later that he treated Dad’s body with care and reverence and in a few minutes, he was done and on his way. We never saw him again.
Now, Lawrence wasn’t Jesus. I told one or two people I thought he might have been an angel. But now I’m not even sure I’d go that far. But he was certainly a witness. At a moment when we most needed it, he pointed us toward the light and that light filled our hearts and brought comfort and relief and courage.
Lord, give us grace to awake us, to see the branch that begins to bloom; in great humility is hid all heaven in a little room.
Lawrence was a little like John the Baptist—one who’s willing to stand where few are willing: alone, in the wilderness of people’s lives, in the darkness.
You know, John the Baptist never said, Just follow Jesus and everything will turn out the way you have always wanted it to. No. That is not the promise of John. That is not the promise of Christmas.
Methodist Bishop Will Willimon once said, In order to see the fragile light of Christmas, one has first got to become accustomed to the dark. In order to see the stars in the highest heavens, one must sit for a while in the darkness here on earth. Are you up to such honesty?
If you are experiencing the wilderness this Advent, if you are feeling lost and cut-off, alone and bewildered, wandering in a sea of uncertainty…God is making a way. God will come again and will bring good news to the oppressed, God will bind up the brokenhearted, God will proclaim liberty to the captives and release to the prisoners, God will comfort those who mourn. God is making a way in the wilderness of our hearts, our lives.
So, stay awake. Wait and hope for the coming of our Emmanuel, our God who comes to be with us. Come, Lord Jesus, come.
Now comes the day of salvation, in joy and terror the Word is born! God gives himself into our lives; O let salvation dawn!
*The hymn is St. Mark’s, Berekley (“What is the crying at Jordan?”), #69 in the 1982 Hymnal.
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