Luke 3:7-18
One of the best things about taking an
early-morning walk this time of year is the chance to see the stars. For millennia now, humanity has navigated by
the stars. They’re always there, always
reliable, always true. And we don’t
always pay attention to them, or at least I don’t. But recently on my walks, I’ve received the
gift of seeing the stars once again in their stunning brightness, piercing
through the nearly-winter sky.
The stars this Advent have reminded me
what needs my attention. It’s sin. As a Church, we’ve moved away from attending
to our sins during Advent, these days preferring the blue of Mary, the blue of expectancy,
to the purple of past years. But Advent
used to be a time we thought about sin, almost a mini-Lent.
The readings both last week and this week
remind us why. In Advent, we hear about
John the Baptist, preparing the way of the Lord. John the Baptist stands in the tradition of
Israel’s prophets, voices from the outside reminding God’s people what they
already knew, deep down. Whether it’s Isaiah
or Jeremiah, Amos or Hosea, the prophets speak for God – not in the sense of
predicting the future, like a fortune teller, but in the sense of holding up a
moral compass for people set aside as God’s missionary presence to the
world. That was the call of the people
of Israel, to show everyone else what it looks like to live out God’s holiness
and love. That’s our call, too, by the
way.
So, John the Baptist tells the crowds, “Prepare
the way of the Lord” (Luke 3:4). The
messiah, God’s anointed king, is coming; and the time to get ready is now. John doesn’t pull any punches, especially in
Luke’s telling: “You brood of vipers,”
he says, “who warned you to flee from the wrath to come? Bear fruits worthy of repentance” (3:7-8) –
and don’t you dare rely on belonging to the right group of people as the source
of your salvation. It’s about your own choices, John says. Repent – turn in a God-ward direction.
The crowds are dumbfounded by his
directness. They stammer, “What then
should we do?” (3:10). It’s not rocket
science, John says. If you have two
coats, share with someone who doesn’t. If
you have enough food, share with someone who doesn’t. Even reviled outsiders come and ask John for
the basics of moral living. He makes it
clear: Tax collectors – don’t gouge people
for more than they owe. Roman soldiers –
don’t demand protection money.
I can’t imagine that people found this very
surprising. Even the tax collectors and
soldiers probably knew they shouldn’t extort money from people. The Jewish people in the crowd certainly knew
God’s call to care for the poor – that’s a longstanding message from the Hebrew
Scriptures. John’s offering little here that’s
new. He’s just saying it out loud.
On second thought, maybe there is something new here. We have to remember the setting: God’s people in Judea and Galilee were living
under the thumb of the Roman Empire. They
were a subjugated people, allowed to practice their religion because the Romans
found it convenient but with little other freedom or power. On the ground, Rome’s reach took the form of
oppressive taxation and military occupation.
And the people who did Rome’s bidding weren’t exactly beloved. Tax collectors and soldiers were hated and feared,
and for good reason.
So, back to the reading: There they are, tax collectors and soldiers,
among the crowd listening to John the Baptist.
John could well have drawn lines between faithful Jews and hated
outsiders. Instead, he turns the
tables. It’s the good guys he threatens
with being chopped off at the root and thrown into the fire. And the hated outsiders? John welcomes them as simply more people who
need to repent. That seems crazy. God’s people were afraid of tax collectors and
soldiers. God’s people hated tax collectors and soldiers. God’s people were sure the tax collectors and
soldiers wished them harm. But John the
Baptist doesn’t write off the outsiders.
He recognizes they, too, are God’s creations, different only by being
broken in different ways.
I say all this because we still, today,
find it easy to hate those whom we
fear wish us harm. And just as
troubling, we find it easy to demonize those with whom we disagree, letting our
language do violence we’d never sanction otherwise. John the Baptist’s prophetic witness reminds
us of the truth about pointing a finger at anyone, even someone you find reprehensible:
the other fingers always point back at you.
John the Baptist is a bright star in the
cold, dark sky. Those stars following me
on my morning walk remind me of the ways I miss God’s mark, which is what “sin”
means. One bright star says to me, “Don’t
judge or reject people with whom you disagree.”
Another bright star says, “Take time to love the people around you, not
just get work done.” The brightest star simply
says, “Trust God more than yourself.” I
don’t know what sins of yours the stars might be illuminating this Advent, but those
are some of mine.
And to each of us, John the Baptist says,
“You know the repentance you need. You know the ways your heart misses the mark
instead of finding the heart of God.” If
we each sat here for a few minutes, I’ll bet a few sins might just come to
mind.
You know, that’s not a bad idea. Today, you get the gift of a short homily,
but it comes with the price of a little congregational participation. I invite you to take out one of the blue-and-white
cards in front of you and write down a few ways you know you miss the mark. Names aren’t necessary. When you’re done, you can either offer the
card in the alms basin as a prayer request, or you can fold it up and take it
with you for your own prayers at home.
But let’s take a couple of minutes of Advent stillness, and offer to God
the chaff of sin you need the Holy Spirit to burn away.
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