Second Sunday of Advent (Year C), 8 December 2024
Revd Rob Miners
Malachi 3.1-4; Song of Zechariah (APBA, p. 10); Philippians 1.1-11; Luke 3.1-6.
Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ. May the words of my meditation, the meditation of all our hearts, be acceptable in your sight. O Lord, our strength and our Redeemer. Amen.
It’s strange how things come together, but the title for my sermon today was ‘Are We Welcomers?’ And then we have this hymn (‘Let Us Build a House’), where we have five verses, ‘all are welcome, all are welcome in this place.’ Yeah, that’s right.
Now, I’m sure some of you will remember the answer to the most ridiculous question, ‘What is green, has four legs, and if it falls on you from a tree, will kill you?’ I won’t answer, I won’t wait for an answer. The answer, of course, is a billiard table. Though some of you probably thought the answer was Christmas, which is also green and red, and though lacking four legs, is falling upon us at this moment. And not drop bears. Yes, I’ve seen drop bears.
And some may well be fearing what condition we’ll be left in once it hit us. For many of us, Christmas will start with the arrival of the Christmas cards. The first one for Sylvia and myself has always been from Susanna, which arrives in the first week of November every year, without fail, all the way from Adelaide.
I’m sure that mail deliveries from Adelaide have not been made by Cobb and Co coach for many years now. For many of us, it will be the first appearance of tinsel in department stores, which normally happens in October, closely followed by hot cross buns in January ready for the Easter season. For some, it will be the appearance of Frosty the Snowman and other such completely out-of-place characters in an Australian summer, not forgetting the reindeers either flying through the air or up to their fetlocks in snow.
For me, however, the dawn of the Christmas season is always marked by the arrival of that very distinctive yuletide figure, John the Baptist, who comes striding onto the Christmas stage at this time each year, courtesy of our lectionary. He’s hardly a compatible figure when seen alongside the other figures that appear in Christmas pageants and department store windows at this time. John wears no plush red suit, but is dressed in a fetching camel’s hair outfit with matching leather belt. He’s not white and fat, but gaunt and hairy with the distinctive smell of locusts on his breath, although having ever eaten locusts, I’m not quite sure of their aroma. And John is not jolly. Hence, while the Church prepares for the coming of Jesus by introducing us to John, this is not something the rest of the community has picked up on.
We do not find him included in any of the nativity scenes. No Christmas cards echo his message of repentance. No figures of the Baptist adorn our Christmas trees. I thought about producing an original Christmas card for commercial use. It would have a picture of the Baptist on the front with Christmas greetings and on the inside would have John’s own distinctive message. ‘You brood of vipers, who warned you to flee from the coming wrath? Bear fruit in keeping with repentance. Merry Christmas.’ These cards would be much sought after, I should imagine.
John the Baptist was a man of his times, not ours. He spoke in an Old Testament context, the prophetic line, to the desperate needs of a people longing to be freed from Roman tyranny. He was pointing to the coming Messiah, whom the people misunderstood was coming to free them from such tyranny.
John is not the person we expect to meet at Christmas. He is not the one we are looking for. Maybe he is not the character we want to meet at all. He is hairy and abrasive and is more likely to scare the children than to impart Christmas cheer into the household. And that seems almost appropriate, because, when I look at today’s Gospel reading, what strikes me is that John was not really expected or wanted in his day either. Look at the way John is introduced to us, read in the Gospel today. He went into all the country around the Jordan, preaching a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sin.
Luke’s point is that there were a lot of important people striding the public stage at that time, and God it seems spoke through none of them, but instead chose to bring his message through an obscure and unexpected desert dweller by the name of John, son of Zechariah. This is not what anyone had expected, even though from Isaiah 40.4-6, that was before them:
A voice of one calling in the desert: Prepare the way of the Lord, make straight paths for him. Every valley shall be filled in, every mountain and hill made low, the crooked road shall become straight, the rough way smooth, and all mankind will see God’s salvation.
As it was then, so it is today. When we’re looking for leadership, we look to our leaders. Perhaps we don’t expect our great political leaders like Joe Biden or Albo to be prophetically announcing the word of God to us. But surely, when it comes to the Church, we do expect our leaders, be it the Pope, our Bishop, Archbishop, or some high priestly figure, to be the channels that God will use to get his message through to us. And yet it seems that this is not always the case. There were plenty of high-profile, well-credentialed ecclesiastical figures strolling about the first century stage at the time of John, and it seems that God chose to bypass them all and instead entrusted his message to a complete unknown.
This is rather an uncomfortable picture, of course, for a person with good ecclesiastical pedigree like myself. I can spell my name on the front of the exam paper. People assume that I, being an ordained priest in the household of God, must inevitably be closer to God than the average pew-warmer, and that I must be able to speak for God in a way that other people cannot.
Question: Where does a ten-ton gorilla sit when he comes into a church? Answer. Anywhere he likes.
So when it comes to ‘Who does God speak through when he wants to get his message out,’ the answer is, ‘Through anyone he likes.’ And in this case, it was through an absolute non-entity in the ecclesiastical rankings, John. This is by no means unique to the first century, because I know that in 39 years in the ordained ministry that I’ve been humbled to have learnt some of the most important things I’ve learnt about God and life generally from beautiful, quiet, Christian folk when visiting them in their homes and we start to talk in depth.
God speaks through those God chooses to speak through and works through those whom God chooses to work through. The wind blows where it will, and so it is with the spirit. Now, I’m not suggesting that our work here at St Philip’s O’Connor will be the epicentre of God’s work in this city, but what I am saying is that we can’t anticipate where God is going to be active, and we shouldn't expect God to work through traditional channels always.
Indeed, we should expect from God the unexpected and assume that God will most likely turn up at the very places where we do not expect to find him. At times, we do not anticipate speaking and working through people who don’t seem to be remotely appropriate. Are those thoughts encouraging or disturbing? A bit of both probably, which is appropriate.
I think John the Baptist is a man who both encourages and disturbs. There he is, loud and outspoken, rough looking, smelly, hairy. He’s not the man we expected God to work through. Probably not the guy we wanted to hear from. Not the figure that can be squeezed into our Christmas pageant. But still God’s messenger. A voice crying in the wilderness. The one who prepared the way for the coming of Jesus into the world and his call of repentance is still applicable today. I finish with two true stories.
In the parish of Nelson Bay in the Diocese of Newcastle some 40 years ago, the well-known and respected youth leader and the rector put together a little experiment to test the reaction of the congregation. The youth leader arrived late for worship, torn and shabby clothes, hippie-type wig, false beard, acting strangely, taking his seat in the middle of the congregation. A few whispers, awkward moments, much embarrassment, as people endeavoured to move as far away from this strange person as possible. Why, he even had the audacity to put his bare feet up on the book rest at the back of the pew in front. But even more embarrassment when he revealed who he was at the end of his service. Point made.
Anglicans, or maybe church people generally, don’t welcome people who are different to themselves and generally speaking, perhaps the community doesn’t either.
A beautiful Gothic cathedral in London: service just started, men in pinstripe suits, jewel-encrusted ladies, fully robed choir, majestic praises being offered in the singing, thunderous pipe organ. But shock, horror, dismay. A tramp has walked down the centre aisle, clutching a few plastic bags which contain all his worldly possession. He sits on the floor in front of the first pew.
‘Oh, why doesn’t someone remove him,’ most of them think Oh good, here comes the cathedral precentor, moving down the aisle; he’ll remove him. But what did the precentor do? He pulled up his robes and sat down with the tramp for the rest of the service, on the floor. Many of the prophets came in varying forms.
John the Baptist came as the odd desert dweller. Jesus himself came in the form of a helpless baby. But the one who is himself the good news might also deign to darken our church doors in some other guise—the tramp, the alcoholic, the homeless mother, the battered wife, the refugee. Then what?
Oh, I guess the world has had two millennia to practise its rejection of the gospel.
Let’s pray.
Almighty God, we thank you for the message of repentance. We thank you for second chances. As we prepare our hearts to come to this communion table, instil within us a repentant heart for opportunities lost and hurts caused. Give us the greatest of convictions: that now is the time. Here is the place and God is speaking to us now. Thanks be to God for such an opportunity. In the mighty and powerful name of Jesus Christ we pray. Amen.