St. John's Episcopal Church

Sermon for Sunday, Dec. 28, 2008 (Year B, Christmas 1)

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.  (John 1:5)

For those of you who like to complain about big government, here’s something else to grumble about.  Buried deep in the bowels of the U.S. Department of Transportation is the Bureau of Transportation Statistics.  I imagine this vital center of government activity to be a subterranean lair filled with statisticians watching data flows on plasma TVs while crunching numbers on their computers.

The Bureau normally churns out publications no red-blooded American can live without.  Consider these intriguing titles currently listed on the Bureau’s web site: U.S.-North American Trade and Freight Transportation Highlights (2005), Freight Shipments in America (2004), and North American Trade and Travel Trends (2001).  I’m sure I saw that last one on the New York Times Best Seller List last Sunday.  

At this time of year, however, I suspect that these hard-working U.S.DOT employees are humming, “Over the river and through the woods to Grandma’s house we go…” as they monitor holiday travel.  As you know, this is the most intense travel period of the year.  In a typical year travel jumps more than 50% over normal levels at Thanksgiving, while Christmas travel generally runs 25% above average.  If indeed the Bureau is preparing a report on this season’s travel trends, it should be ready sometime in 2011.  

AAA is a bit more up-to-date.  Earlier this week Auto Association predicted that 64 million Americans would travel more than 50 miles from home over the Christmas holiday, down 2% from last year, but still the third-highest rate of Christmas travel since 2000.  The economy accounts for this year’s drop in auto travel, AAA says.  At the same time, some 8.1 million Americans planned to travel by air, while 3.3 million said they would use train, bus, or “other mode of transportation” — dog sled, perhaps? — to get where they had to go.  From all reports, a goodly share of the 8.1 million people traveling by air were hung up in the Chicago airports on Christmas Eve.  I assume those going by dog sled arrived on time.

If my math is right, close to one-quarter of the U.S. population went somewhere this Christmas.  For the most part, people went home.  Home, however you define that term, holds a powerful attraction for us — so much so that even in the middle of the worst economic slump since the 1930s, people still go home for the holidays, and in droves.

Isaiah was talking about going home in this morning’s first reading.  He spoke during the Exile in Babylon.  The kingdom of Judah had been crushed, Jerusalem laid waste, and the population herded off to Babylon.  But the Babylonians allowed the Jews to live together in their tribal groupings, to raise food, to maintain their ethnic and religious identity, and especially to write.  It was during this period that much of the Old Testament was put in its present form.  And it was during this period that Isaiah looked forward to a time when God’s people would be clothed in “garments of salvation,” or in garlands and jewels like a bridal couple.  Before long, the prophet proclaimed, Jerusalem would be vindicated, and the faithful would go home for the holidays.

Centuries after the exile, St. John the Evangelist began his gospel with what is essentially a commentary on home.  Spiritually and politically, it was a dark time — the end of the first century.  The Jewish revolt against Rome had been brutally put down.  Jerusalem had been sacked.  The temple had been pulled down, the system of animal sacrifice ended, and the priesthood scattered to the four winds.  God’s home was in ruins.  Moreover, it was an especially difficult time for the new Christian Church.  For its first several decades, Christianity had existed within the body of Judaism as a distinct sect,  Now that relationship had ended with growing anger on both sides.  Persecuted by Rome, driven out by the Jews, Christians like those in John’s community felt homeless and abandoned.

And so, in this dark time, John begins his gospel with a hymn to the light.  “What has come into being in [Jesus] was life,” says John, “and the life was the light of all people… The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world.” (John 1:3b-4, 9)  What John describes here is not a mere candle flickering weakly in the night.  On the contrary, “the Word [of God] became flesh and lived among us,” John continues, “and we have seen his glory, the glory of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth.” (John 1:14)  The light of Christ blazes with the glory of God himself, John says, for it is Jesus alone who makes the Father known to those who believe.

John assures his people that God has not been run out of town.  Rather, God makes his home with all who will receive him, know him, believe in him, follow him.  If we have the light, then God is with us always.

You and I are going through an especially dark time just now.  The bottom has fallen out of the economy, leaving many Americans feeling vulnerable.  We are an optimistic people, always thinking that the future will be better than the past, but now that American dream seems at risk.

But light shines in the darkness.  As I drove home from Detroit yesterday I stopped for lunch at the Cracker Barrel restaurant in Lansing.  As I was waiting for my food, I overheard a conversation between the waitress handling the next table and the couple she was serving.  It was a long conversation about the economic crash.  The husband and wife were of retirement age, while the server was a college student.  They talked intelligently about the subprime mortgage crisis, the bank bailout, the auto industry bridge loan, unemployment in the Lansing area, and even the impact of this crisis on other countries.  All three were well-informed, articulate, and insightful.  All three agreed that it will take many months for the economy to be pulled back out of the ditch.  But they also agreed that, with appropriate action by the government and private industry, this wound will heal, even if the medicine will prove very expensive.

I mention this because two things about this conversation caught my attention.  The first is that these three people were not despairing or angry, but essentially hopeful.  They recognized that the roots of this problem lie in greed, bad spending decisions, inadequate government regulation, and much more — with Bernard Madoff and his Ponzi scheme as the current poster child for all that is wrong with our economy.  They had no specific solutions, except to recognize that people need homes to live in and jobs to support their families.  But on the whole, while these are difficult times, all three voiced confidence in the future.

The second interesting thing is that the conversation happened at all.  I found myself asking what a couple of white retirees have in common with an African-American college student working her way through school waiting tables at Cracker Barrel?  In our society, age and race remain powerful barriers.  Would these people have had such a conversation a couple years ago?  Maybe.  Maybe not.  However, I think the current crisis has served as a reminder that we are all in this boat together.  Differences in age, race, class, gender, and all the issues we use to keep others at arm’s length seem a lot less important when everyone’s future is at risk.  The same thing happened during the Great Depression, when the unemployed, the underemployed, and those who felt their jobs were at risk discovered that they had a lot more in common with one another than they ever imagined.

Some might say it’s a shame that it takes a crisis to bring us together.  But I suppose that’s part of our broken human nature.  Jesus spent a lot of time reminding us that we are all in the same boat.  And perhaps we will go back to our old habits when this problem has run its course.  But along the way I wonder if we, who see things differently because we see our world in the light of Christ, will learn something new.

After all, when you go home for the holidays, it’s not so much about the place as about the people.  Amen.

The Rev. John E. Laycock, Interim Pastor

Readings for Christmas 1: Old Testament — Isaiah 61:10-62:3  |  Gradual — Psalm 147  |  Epistle — Galatians 3:23-25, 4:4-7  |  Gospel — John 1:1-18

Collect for Christmas 1:

Almighty God, you have poured upon us the new light of your incarnate Word: Grant that this light, enkindled in our hearts, may shine forth in our lives; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen.

Sermon for Christmas Eve, Dec. 24, 2008

Sing to the Lord a new song;

sing to the Lord, all the whole earth.  (Ps. 96:1)

Part 1

One day roughly a quarter century ago, when I was a second-year student at The General Theological Seminary in New York City, my liturgy professor sternly warned us clergy wannabes about the danger of making changes in the Church.

“The sanctuary is sacred space,” he said.  “Repaint the bathrooms all you want,” he said, “but woe unto you if you take it upon yourself to change the wall color in the church, or move the altar, or put in new lighting.  People don’t like to have their sacred space messed with.

“Time is sacred, too,” he continued.  “You can change the hour of the Vestry meeting to your heart’s content, but go carefully if you want to change the starting time for Sunday services.  The Sunday schedule is what it is, because people like it that way.  Mess around with service times, and the natives will grow restless.”

Dr. Talley was right.  Over the years I’ve painted a couple of churches, and changed service times, and made other changes to liturgy, music, accounting practices, and so on.  Yes, I can assure you that for everyone some of the time, and some people all of the time, change is difficult.  And yes, we Episcopalians do occasionally get restless, and sometimes downright grumpy.  We may hope that Santa will bring us the latest tech toy — like a smart phone that will even fold the laundry — but when it comes to church, we want things pretty much the same as they’ve always been.  That’s why we clergy sometimes preach on the Seven Last Words — to be precise, the Seven Last Words of the Episcopal Church, which are: “We’ve never done it that way before.”

In fairness, however, we Episcopalians are not unique.  Lutherans, Presbyterians, Baptists, Catholics, and the Orthodox churches — we all tend to resist change, especially sudden change.  And I’m told that the same may be said of Jews, Muslims, Hindus, and Buddhists.  The point is, by its nature religion is a conservative human activity.  We religious people generally place a high value on stability in our rituals and traditions and modes of expression.  Even small changes, which might seem utterly inconsequential to a non-religious outside observer, can be a big deal for insiders.  And big, sudden changes are often profoundly disruptive.

I belabor this point because what you and I celebrate tonight is a big, sudden, profoundly disruptive change — by far the most significant change this business of religion has ever seen.  It came, of course, in an obscure place, in a time long past, in an event so commonplace that hardly anyone noticed.  The birth of Jesus to a Nazarean carpenter and his wife — which tradition tells us happened in Joseph’s ancestral home town, in a cattle shed — was a matter of no consequence to most people.  But in time people of faith would come to see that it was here, in the birth of this boy, that God fundamentally and permanently changed the rules of the game.

For generations beyond count, God had called his people to walk in his ways — that is, to live according to his commandments.  Basically, God asked his people to do what was right and to not do what was wrong; to respect each other; and to care for the poor and vulnerable.  When we proved to be slow learners, he sent us prophets and sages to show us the proper path.  But we ignored the prophets.  We made war on our neighbors, abused the innocent, and sought to feather our own nests at the expense of others.  If God were really smart, he would have concluded long since that we were a risky experiment gone bad, a mess not worth sorting out.

But that’s not what God did.  Quite the contrary, God decided that if the old song wasn’t working, then he would sing a new song, and ask us to sing along with him.  That new song was his Son Jesus, whose birth would, in time, prove to be a sudden, largely unexpected, and profoundly disturbing change in how people of faith relate to God and to each other.  Before long, this Jesus would become the model, the exemplar, of a life lived in obedience to God’s commandments.  This Jesus would challenge us to oppose lies with honesty, selfishness with generosity, callousness with compassion, and violence with peace.  This Jesus would assure us that loving God is not enough, for we must love our neighbors, too.  And this Jesus would make clear by his own deeds — his life, death, and resurrection — that love is, in the end, not just something we feel, but most especially something we do.

In short, in this incarnation, in this brash intrusion of the divine will into human affairs, God changed the rules, the game, and the players.  Now you and I, who claim to be people of faith and followers of the Master, must be different, even when the required changes strike us as disruptive or even offensive.  Let me suggest that we are going through a time now, in the life of our country and our world, when playing the game according to God’s rules is especially necessary:

Here at home, we have listened too well and too long to the siren song of greed and self-indulgence.  This behavior has led us to the brink of economic disaster, and inflicted suffering on those least able to cope.  We must now invest our resources intelligently in order to pull back from the brink, recognizing as we do that before long you and I will have to pay down the outstanding balance on our national credit card.  

Again, we have spent the past three decades bogged down in a political process which places higher value on ideological purity and party loyalty than on government decisions that promote the common good.  We have turned politics into warfare, and the process of governing into a shambles.  Perhaps our new President can lead us out of this mess.

Overseas, we must find a way to protect ourselves and other innocent people from the ravages of terrorism and war without alienating those whose help is essential to our mutual success.  

And as people of faith, we must make common cause with those in all faith traditions, especially the community of Islam, who seek a peaceful world built on tolerance, mutual respect, and compassion for those in need.  Our Lord teaches us that good will overcome evil when good people work together for the common good.

This, then, is what Christmas is about.  Long, long ago, in an obscure part of the world, in a commonplace event, God changed everything.  Tonight, as we celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ, may we also look beyond the cattle shed and manger to see where the Prince of Peace is leading us, and be ready to follow.  Amen.

Part 2

Our celebration of Christmas Eve calls to mind a very special Christmas gift created 186 years ago by a seminary professor in New York City.  In fact, he taught at the same General Theological Seminary I mentioned a few moments ago.

Clement Clarke Moore was born in 1779, the only son of Benjamin Moore, President of Columbia College (now Columbia University) and the Episcopal Bishop of New York, and his wife Charity Clarke, at the Moore’s country estate on the west side of Manhattan Island.  After graduating from Columbia in 1798, Moore joined the College’s faculty as professor of oriental and Greek literature.  Some years later, on the death of his parents, Moore inherited Chelsea, as the family estate was called.  In 1819 he gave a large parcel of land to the Episcopal Church as the site for the Church’s first seminary.  General Seminary erected its first building two years later, and Moore soon became its first Professor of Biblical Learning and Classics, a post he held for nearly 30 years.

Moore was a poet as well as a linguist, and he especially enjoyed composing poems for his children.  In 1822, probably at Chelsea, Moore wrote “A Visit from St. Nicholas.”  This little poem delighted his children, and then all of Moore’s relatives, one of whom had it printed in an out-of-town newspaper.  As we might say today, it was an immediate publishing sensation.  

However, for over 20 years Moore refused to take credit for his poem.  Perhaps he felt that a faithful Episcopalian and dignified seminary professor ought not to be writing odes to a jolly, fat Christmas elf.  Only in 1844 did he publish “A Visit from St. Nicholas” under his own name, as part of a book of poetry.  This particular poem he dismissed as “a mere trifle.”

Mere trifle or not, “A Visit from St. Nicholas” made its author famous as “the reluctant poet of Christmas” and helped transform the way we think about Christmas.  I think it’s also fair to say that Clement Clarke Moore’s little poem is a wonderful Christmas gift from a child of the Episcopal Church to children across the generations.

‘Twas the night before Christmas….

The Rev. John E. Laycock, Interim Pastor

Readings for Christmas Eve (Year B): Old Testament — Isaiah (:2-7  |  Gradual — Psalm 96  |  Epistle — Titus 2:11-14  |  Gospel — Luke 2:1-20

Collect for Christmas Eve:

O God, you make us glad by the yearly festival of the birth of your only Son Jesus Christ: Grant that we, who joyfully receive him as our Redeemer, may with sure confidence behold him when he comes to be our Judge; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen.

Sermon for Sunday, Dec. 21, 2008 (Year B, Advent 4)

Mary said to the angel, “How can this be, since I am a virgin?”  The angel said to her, “…nothing will be impossible with God.” (Lk. 1:34, 37)

The Annunciation in St. Luke’s gospel is masterful storytelling by an accomplished literary artist.  Luke tells us that “In the sixth month” — that is, in the autumn of the year — the angel Gabriel is dispatched to the town of Nazareth in Galilee.  Here he finds Mary, a virgin engaged to Joseph who was of the “house” of King David and a carpenter by trade. (Lk. 1:26-27)  What follows is one of the more remarkable conversations recorded in the Bible.

Now, generations of Christians have romanticized Mary’s interview with this angel.  No major art museum’s collection is complete without at least one, and perhaps several, paintings of a handsome, richly garbed archangel interrupting a beautiful virgin, clothed in blue, as she does her embroidery while seated in a carefully tended garden.  If the divine emissary is not floating in mid-air, he is kneeling respectfully before her, as if by his words he offers her the most precious of all gift — the opportunity to bear God’s Son.  It’s a delightful vision, and you’ve probably sent, and surely received, Christmas cards exactly like this.

But a closer look at the text reveals a different scene.  First, it’s hard to say what Gabriel might have looked like.  In scripture angels sometimes appear as luminous, lighter-than-air celestial beings, and sometimes as human beings.  Gabriel tells Mary not to be afraid, so we can assume that his appearance was overpowering.  Perhaps, as the hymn puts it, he had wings like snow and eyes like fire.

Second, I would guess that Mary herself was plainly dressed, perhaps even in blue.  However, as a peasant woman she was certainly not wearing anything expensive.

Third, the interview almost certainly wasn’t in a garden.  If Mary was doing needlework, it would have been of a practical nature, like making clothing, rather than ornamental stitchery.  More likely she was busy fetching water, gathering firewood, or making the daily bread.  In other words, she was no lady of leisure.  I’ve often wondered if the angel’s visit wasn’t regarded, at least at first, as a less-than-welcome interruption.

Fourth, Mary was not the mature woman so often pictured by the great painters.  Joseph, her betrothed husband, was most likely an older man, perhaps in his 30s, and perhaps a widower.  Matthew describes him as “a righteous man” who, when he learns that Mary is pregnant, intends to “dismiss her quietly” so as not to expose her to “public disgrace.”  (Matt. 1:19)  His moderation and sensitivity suggest a man of some age and experience.  But Mary is just a girl of perhaps no more than 14 or 15 years.  That’s not an age when we, in our day, would marry off our daughters, but in the ancient world it was not unusual for women to marry and bear children at an age we consider “tender.”

Finally, and most significantly, what the angel proposes to Mary is absolutely outrageous!  In this culture a betrothed woman was, for all practical purposes, already married, save only for the waiting period of the betrothal, the wedding ceremony, and the consummation of the relationship.  To be found pregnant at this point was considered evidence of prostitution, for which the penalty was death.  If Mary, in her defense, had claimed that she had become pregnant by the Holy Spirit, as an angel of the Lord foretold… well, no one would have taken her seriously.  They would have stoned her for a liar as well as a tramp.

The point is, what Gabriel proposes is no gift.  No wonder Mary is “perplexed by his words”!  The idea that angels bring good news is not quite on target.  And yet, in the face of such an outrageous proposition, Mary says, “Yes.”  At the risk of life and limb, Mary says, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.”

It should be clear, then, that Luke doesn’t give us this story simply as an explanation of Jesus’ birth — although our Lord’s family-of-origin was probably a matter of interest for Luke’s community.  Rather, what we have is the recognition that God often makes outrageous requests of those who believe.  In response, those who believe are called to say, “Yes” at the risk of reputation, fortune, and even life itself.  Indeed, this may have been the principal issue for Luke’s community.  Luke wrote his gospel as the Jewish insurrection against Rome was coming to a head.  The country was in turmoil.  Believers were oppressed and probably being killed.  In such times, what are the faithful to do?  Luke would say, “Look at Mary, the mother of our Lord.  Look at what she risked.  Look at what she said and did.  You must do likewise.”

Risk is very much at the heart of this story of the Annunciation, and of the story it introduces.  Like mother, like son.  The public ministry of Jesus would prove to be risky business, and so also the ministry of the Church in the years following the resurrection.  In all ages Christians have risked much to be faithful to their Lord and his work.

That’s not something we North American Christians think about very often.  After all, we live in a religiously pluralistic and tolerant society in which the right to practice one’s religion is legally protected.  The greatest risk most of us run for the sake of religion is driving around on a snowy Sunday morning in order to attend services.  And some of us won’t even run that risk!

But being a practicing Christian in some parts of the world is very risky business indeed.  For example, this past fall nearly 1000 Christian families fled the city of Mosul in northern Iraq because Muslim extremists had ordered them to convert to Islam or face possible death, according to a story carried by CNN in mid-October.  The same story reported that a Christian businessman had been killed and his nephew wounded in a drive-by shooting.  A major exodus of Christians from Iraq has been a notable result of the war and the sectarian stress it unleashed.

A few days ago Reuters carried a story about Christian missionary work in Morocco, where in the past decade the number of Moroccan Christians has grown from about 100 to nearly 1,500.  These conversions have begun to alarm local Muslim leaders who say that missionaries “prey on the weak and threaten public order.”  The writer points out that Jesus told his friends to “go and make disciples of all nations,” but converting to Christianity in Islamic countries is typically against the law and subjects converts to persecution by the authorities and alienation from one’s family.  

For decades, Israeli Christians, most of whom are Arabs, have been leaving Israel in a steady stream.  Harassed by both the Israeli authorities and their Muslim neighbors, these Christians have concluded that there is little hope in the Middle East for a better life for themselves and their children, and so they have emigrated to Europe and North America.  If this trend continues, it is likely that before long there will be hardly any Christians left in the land of our Lord’s birth.

Again, this past September the Christian Science Monitor reported that in the city of Bangalore — India’s “silicon valley,” famous for its “glittering high-rises and harried executives in designer suits” — some 20 Christian churches were vandalized in just a few weeks by Hindu extremists.  These attacks appear to be part of a complicated and sometimes violent political contest among Hindu groups, with Christians caught in the middle.

So, as we prepare to celebrate Christmas, and to remember again the great blessing of Jesus’ life among us, we would do well to remember that the Christian story begins with an outrageous proposition made by an angel to a young girl in Nazareth.  It was risky business that God offered, and risky business that Mary accepted, confident that “nothing will be impossible with God.”  It was risky business that her child undertook on our behalf, and risky business that his friends carried on in his Name.  Even today, in so many places, to bear the name of Christ is not a right to be exercised, but a choice which subjects oneself and one’s family to great risks.    

Therefore, when God comes to us and suggests a course of action that seems a bit out of the ordinary — something that requires that we move outside our “comfort zone” — let us be mindful of what the angel proposed to this Nazarean teenager in the midst of a busy day.  As Mary was faithful to her share of God’s work, let us be faithful to ours.  Amen.

— The Rev. John E. Laycock, Interim Pastor

Readings for Advent 4:  Old Testament — 2 Samuel 7:1-11, 16  |  Gradual — Psalm 89:1-4, 19-26  |  Epistle — Romans 16:25-27  |  Gospel — Luke 1:26-38

Collect for Advent 4:

Purify our conscience, Almighty God, by your daily visitation, that your Son Jesus Christ, at his coming, may find in us a mansion prepared for himself; who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen.

Sermon for Sunday, Dec. 7, 2008 (Year B, Advent 2)

The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God… John the baptizer appeared in the wilderness, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins. (Mark 1:1, 4)

I think the chances are pretty good that you won’t receive a Christmas card this year with a picture of John the Baptist on the front.  Religious Christmas cards typically feature shepherds on their hillside… or a choir of angels singing a Christmas oratorio… or the Holy Family in a barn… or the Three Wise Men following their star.  But I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Christmas card featuring “John the baptizer” ranting at people in the wilderness.

That’s probably because the John the Baptist story, with which St. Mark begins his gospel, comes some 30 years after Christmas Day.  Many scholars suggest that it’s not at all clear that Mark knew about our Lord’s miraculous birth.  In any case, he doesn’t mention it, while Matthew and Luke do.  Nevertheless, Mark begins his account of “the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God” when Jesus is a young adult, far from Bethlehem, and with absolutely no mention of cattle sheds, shepherds, angel choirs, or wandering Magi.  For Mark, the beginning of the good news takes place in the wilderness along the Jordan River, and in the activity of a man who by any standard is passing strange.

We know that the Baptist was an historical figure.  His work is described by Josephus, the Jewish historian.  From the gospels we can assemble the bare outline of a biography.  John was of priestly descent.  His father Zechariah was a priest, and his mother Elizabeth was a kinswoman of Mary, the mother of Our Lord.  John was drawn to the wilderness, rejecting the spiritually corrupting influence of city life.  He dressed in the skin of a wild animal, ate wild foods, and lived (as we might say today) “off-grid.”  Professionally, John was an anachronism.  Although prophecy had long since died out in Israel, John found his prophetic vocation and voice, declared God’s judgment on his people, and called for sinners to repent.  As an outward sign of repentance John offered baptism in the Jordan, a ritual normally reserved for converts to Judaism.  John didn’t mince words.  The judgment of God is imminent, he declared, and so the need for repentance was urgent.

John attracted large crowds, who came out into the wilderness to hear him preach.  He also attracted a following of disciples, one of whom may have been Jesus.  His work did not go unnoticed by the religious authorities, who were threatened by his eccentric ways, his teaching, and especially his blunt criticism of the nation’s leaders.

We know that the Baptist was arrested, imprisoned for a time, and then executed by Herod Antipas.  Whether this resulted from John’s objection to the king’s relationship with the wife of his brother Philip is debatable.  However, if John followed in the footsteps of the classical prophets and criticized the powerful for their abusive ways, then he would have made enemies in high places.  Besides, the Herods had a nasty habit of doing away with their critics.  Antipas probably saw John as a disposable nuisance.

John seems to have understood himself, and was clearly understood by his disciples, to be “the forerunner,” the one who announces the coming of the Messiah.  Thus Mark opens his gospel by quoting Isaiah: “See, I am sending my messenger ahead of you, who will prepare your way; the voice of one crying out in the wilderness: ‘Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight.’” (Mark 1:2-3)  When Jesus began his public ministry after John’s imprisonment, John followed his activities closely.  He was perhaps the first to connect the dots.  From prison he sent Jesus a message, asking if he was, in fact, the promised Messiah.  If he asked, he probably knew.

I like John the Baptist.  He is a fascinating character.  In my mind’s eye I see him as he is depicted by American fresco painter Ben Long at St. Mary’s Episcopal Church in West Jefferson, North Carolina.  In this fresco John is leaning on his staff in the wilderness, clad in a ratty animal hide, with an extremely wild look in his eyes.  He is not someone you would invite home for dinner!  In our day he would probably be packed off to a hospital for observation.

Just as interesting is the background against which Ben Long poses his John the Baptist.  It’s a wild, windswept void — a wilderness.  To understand who John was and what he was about, we have to appreciate the setting in which he operates.  The Hebrew term for wilderness describes a variety of landscapes — sandy desert, wild places inhabited by animals rather than humans, and even the kind of “lonely place” Jesus would seek out as a place of prayer.  It was in such a locale — the wilderness along the Jordan River — that John peached.

For John the wilderness was a place of refuge from the political and spiritual degeneration he associated with cities, where important people grew rich and soft by exploiting the widow, the orphan, and the vulnerable.  If for John the city was symbolic of spiritual corruption, then wilderness was symbolic of spiritual purity.  And most importantly, wilderness was the place where one could encounter God.  It was to this kind of place that John called people, perhaps because he felt it was here that they could most clearly hear his message of repentance.

If Jesus was John’s cousin, they would have had a lifelong relationship.  If Jesus was one of John’s disciples in the years before our Lord’s public ministry, then we may assume that Jesus and John spent considerable time together in the “outback.”  Jesus probably developed an affinity for the wilderness, even if his own ministry would be largely in the villages and cities of Palestine.  Jesus would have known, for example, that the concept of wilderness has deep roots in Judaism:

>> When God brings his people up out of slavery in Egypt, they wander for 40 years in a wilderness area that might have taken only a few weeks to cross, as the crow flies.  It was during those years in the wilderness that Israel’s commitment to the Lord was tested, and that Israel was formed into a nation.  

>> For Jesus himself, wilderness is the place of temptation, where his own commitment to God is tested.  That temptation would be renewed later, in the wilderness of the Garden of Gethsemane and on a hill called Golgotha.  

>> This appreciation for wilderness persists in Christianity even today.  In the Western Church, beginning in the 3rd century in Egypt and continuing for more than a thousand years, hermits were a common feature of the spiritual landscape.  These desert fathers withdrew from society and devoted their solitary lives to prayer and fasting, because it was out there, in the wilderness, that they believed they could most readily meet God.  Aspects of their lifestyle is perpetuated in Western monastic orders, and hermits are still part of the Orthodox Church’s life.

Most of us have little direct experience of wilderness, certainly in the sense that the Baptist did.  My great-grandfather Samuel Geil was a surveyor,  In the mid-19th century he produced the first complete map of the State of Michigan.  In his day and line of work, my great-grandfather had a relationship with wilderness that my own backpacking trips to Isle Royale never quite duplicated.  Today, Michigan has only isolated patches of the original wilderness my great-grandfather trod, and elsewhere we rely on the national park system to preserve what little wilderness remains.  Even that may disappear in our oil-starved economy.

But, please note, there are certain kinds of wilderness that don’t require traveling to distant places.  From a spiritual standpoint, wilderness is more than geographic.  We experience wilderness throughout our lives, especially at times of loss.  At a personal level this may include loss of friendship or love, the collapse of one’s marriage, loss of employment, illness, an addicted person hitting bottom, and much else.  At another level, it might include disagreement with the actions of the government or of one’s church.  Each of these are “lonely places” where we may feel abandoned, cut off from friends and loved ones, and even from God.  We may experience such wilderness in a sleepless night, the middle of a busy day, or in the hustle and bustle of getting ready for Christmas.  But for all the difference it makes, at these times we could be wandering alone in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge or the Gobi Desert.

If I read scripture correctly, John the Baptist would have us understand that it is at precisely in such a place — in such a moment of loneliness and loss of hope — that an encounter with God is not only possible, but likely.  It is here that John would urge us to look around, sense the nearer presence of God, and begin to make ready for his arrival.  John calls us, in the words of Isaiah, to make a straight pathway in the desert — and in our hearts — for the Lord whose advent is at hand.

How do we do this?  John says “by repentance” — by returning to God’s way.  Repentance is essentially a change of direction.  I suspect that each of us can see some part of our lives that need a bit of repentance, where a change of direction would be healthy.  Perhaps we’ve been putting off going to the doctor.  A new direction would be healthy.  Perhaps we’ve let an old friendship grow cold.  A new direction might restore it.  Perhaps the current economic situation has increased our anxiety about the future.  A new direction in our thinking might bring a measure of peace while we weather the storm.

Spiritual wilderness is highly individual, and our responses to that wilderness will be very individual, too.  But we are all alike in that God calls us in the wilderness to make ready for the Lord who is coming.  So then, let us use this time of Advent to make ready to greet the Lord with joy.  Amen.

—The Rev. John E. Laycock, Interim Pastor

Readings for Advent 2:  Old Testament — Isaiah 40:1-11  |  Gradual — Psalm 85:1-2, 8-13  |  Epistle — 2 Peter 3:8-15a  |  Gospel — Mark 1:1-8

Collect for Advent 2:

Merciful God, who sent your messengers the prophets to preach repentance and prepare the way for our salvation:  Give us grace to heed their warnings and forsake our sins, that we may greet with joy the coming of Jesus Christ our Redeemer; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, now and for ever.  Amen.