Sermon:
December 5, 1999

Scripture:
Matthew 11:2-11

Introductory Note:

This sermon was preached in various lengths on Sunday, December 5. Worshipers attending the 8:15 service heard the sermon in its entirety. Worshipers attending at 9:15 and 11:00 heard a shortened version, following the choral performance of A Christmas Oratorio by Camille Saint-Saens.

In whatever length it was first heard, the sermon owes a debt of gratitude to Barbara Brown Taylor and her treatment of John the Baptist in an incredible book, God in Pain.

The Sermon:

I am not a lectionary preacher, meaning that I do not follow a list of pre-assigned texts, Sunday by Sunday. Instead, I choose and preach my own. But I am cognizant of what the lectionary says, and why the lectionary says it. Which is why very few congregations ever get to Bethlehem without passing through the land (or should we say "the waters") of John the Baptist. Because the lectionary requires it, don't you see?

To be sure, John and Jesus don't "gather at the river" until both are grown men. But wiser heads than mine have decreed that while Bethlehem was the beginning of Jesus' life, the River Jordan was the beginning of Jesus' ministry. So if we are going to await him in Advent ... and receive him at Christmas ... perhaps we had better prepare our hearts to receive all of him, meaning who he was early, and who he was late. And who better to deliver the "get ready" speech than John the Baptist, even if it be 30 years out of sequence?

You and I have spoken of John before. That's because every three years or so, I tell myself: "If the lectionary demands it, I ought to preach it." But it's never easy. Because John is never easy. Preaching John the Baptist at Christmastime is not like sliding a hot knife through butter. No, preaching John at Christmastime is like dragging fingernails across a chalkboard, or forcing a reluctant patient to take a huge pill without first dissolving it in applesauce.

A colleague writes: "To me, John the Baptist has always seemed like the Doberman pinscher of the Gospel." In the lectionary, John always appears right before Christmas, when no one's defenses are up. Here we are, trying to get to Bethlehem ... not hurrying ... but maintaining a steady pace. Yet while still separated from the stable by several blocks ... several dark blocks ... we hear this "GRRROW-ROW-ROWL." And notice that a big old dog with a spiky collar has got us by the ankle. "Repent," the big dog says, "for the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand." And before he lets go of our leg, our heads are pounding with images of "vipers, axes and unquenchable fire." When all we wanted was to get to the church in time to sing "O Holy Night."

Yet there is no getting around John. Every gospel writer introduces Jesus by introducing John. Which means that this Doberman is (in some way or another) God's idea ... and that this messenger may also be (in some way or another) God's idea. John is like the guard dog who tests all who think they want to take the plunge by growling: "Are you ready to take the plunge?"

By "ready," John means "repentant." That's John's business. Repentance! Begging us to change our ways in preparation for an audience with God ... and willing to scare us half to death (if that's what it will take) to wake us up and see that we are sleepwalking through our lives, confusing our ways with God's ways, while accumulating sin like an empty house accumulates dust. And, to the degree that we are willing, John says: "I'll hose you down." Meaning that if we come out of our comas long enough to see what is wrong ... and say so out loud ... then John will wash it all away.

The way most of us were taught it, repentance means owning up to how rotten we are, and saying out loud (if only in the shower) that we are selfish, sinful, deeply defective human beings who grieve the heart of God ... and that we are very, very sorry about it.

But then Jesus comes along ... in response to the same message (and the same messenger) ... and says: "Baptize me." To which John says: "Well, I never ... I mean, I can't ... I mean, isn't this somehow backwards? ... I shouldn't be baptizing you ... You should be baptizing me."

I mean, John was so sure ... then. So certain ... then. So clear about who Jesus was ... then. "I am not even fit to shine your shoes ... or lace them up," John said to Jesus ... then. Did you ever have your shoes shined at the airport? There you sit in that big, elevated chair (way up high) ... so that down below, someone can go to work with brush and cloth, wax and paste. While you are up there, reading or sleeping, somebody is removing the crud through which you have walked, while shining the leather so that when you look at the ground, you can see your face.

I don't know about you, but I never have my shoes shined at the airport. I can't place myself in one of those seats so that the shiner can do his thing. I can take my shoes off and hand them to somebody for shining. But I can't sit there, towering above them while they do it.

So John is saying to Jesus: "I am not worthy to shine your shoes, yet you come to me for baptism." To which Jesus says, in effect: "Just do it." That's how sure John was then. About Jesus, I mean.

But then is not now ... at least the "now" of Matthew 11. Months have passed. We are nowhere near a river. John is in jail. And he sends "his people" to see Jesus. I bet you didn't know John had "people." But he did. Even then, John was a big deal. John's people come to Jesus with a question: "Are you the one who is to come, or should we wait for somebody else?"

What's going on here? Where is the old John ... the early John ... the convinced and utterly certain John ... who was there at the riverside saying: "I know who you are." Why is John asking such a thing? Has his memory failed? Or did somebody get to John? Sure, something got to John. But it was not an individual. It was life. Which is what gets to us all from time to time.

John is in jail, remember. Put there by Herod. Not for preaching on street corners without a license. Not for entering rivers without showering. John is in jail for disapproving of Herod's marriage to his brother's wife ... whose daughter will soon ask for John's head on a platter (a silver platter) and get it. But if God's Kingdom really was around the corner ... and if Jesus really was the one to launch it (as John told everybody he would be) ... why was he (John) in hotter water now than the water into which he pushed Jesus, just months earlier?

After all, the Messiah was supposed to change things. He was supposed to burn all the human trash of the world. He was supposed to take an ax to the dead wood of the world. He was supposed to take a gleaming pitchfork and separate the wheat from the chaff in the world. And he was supposed to clean the world up, so that men like Herod were no longer in power and men like John were no longer in prison. But he hadn't. And, perhaps, couldn't.

In a moving and brooding book (The Last Temptation of Christ), Nikos Kazantzakis paints a picture of Jesus and John that is hard to forget. They are sitting high above the Jordan, where they have been arguing (all night) about what to do with the world. John's face is hard, and (from time to time) his arms go up and down as if he were actually chopping something. Jesus' face (by contrast) is tame and hesitant ... eyes full of compassion.

"Isn't love enough?" he asks John.

"No," John answers angrily. "The tree is rotten. God called me and gave me the ax, which I placed at the roots of the tree. Having done my duty, I now ask that you do yours. Take the ax and strike."

To which Jesus responds: "If I were fire, I would burn. If I were a woodcutter, I would strike. But I am a heart, and so I love."

Had such a conversation actually occurred, I am not certain how John might have taken it. Or how you might take it. For there are latter-day Baptists among us ... even now ... who once numbered ourselves among the certain, but now number ourselves among the disillusioned. Why? Because life has ground us down, that's why. And the deliverer didn't deliver ... at least with the immediacy of the tooth fairy. I mean, when life kicks us in the teeth, she shows up with a quarter. That very night.

I don't know where life may be defeating you this Advent. I don't know how Jesus may be disappointing you this Advent. But I would suggest to you ... this Advent ... that any disillusionment you feel may not necessarily be a bad thing. For what is disillusionment if not, literally, the loss of an illusion? And, in the long run, it is never a bad thing to lose the lies we have mistaken for the truth.

Did Jesus fail to come when you rubbed the lantern?

Then perhaps Jesus is not a genie.

Did Jesus fail to punish your enemies?

Then perhaps Jesus is not a cop.

Did Jesus fail to make everything run smoothly?

Then perhaps Jesus is not a mechanic.

Over and over again, our disappointments draw us deeper and deeper into who Jesus really is ... and what Jesus really does.

* * * * *

"Are you the right guy," John's people ask, "or should we look for somebody else?" Which sounds like a "yes" or "no" question if I ever heard one. Except that Jesus, upon hearing it, answers neither "yes" nor "no." Instead, he says: "Go and tell John what you see and hear."

• Blind people seeing.
• Lame people walking.
• Deaf people hearing.
• Dead people reviving.
• And poor people hearing news that, for a change, doesn't depress the daylights out of them.

Which, you could say, is no proof of Messiahship that you ever heard. Unless, that is, you are blind ... lame ... deaf ... poor ... or dead. In which case, I think you'd probably be impressed. Maybe even convinced.