Sermon (narrative essay, actually) for Sunday, Dec. 14, 2025
Matthew 11:2-15
Maybe it was just a sunrise.
Thursday morning, as I was walking with
the dog, I looked up. That doesn’t seem
noteworthy, but sometimes looking up matters. It was nearing sunrise, and Pete and I were
heading back toward the house, walking west. Now, last time I checked, the sun rises in the
east. But as we walked west, I noticed
the edges of the wispy clouds on the horizon beginning to gleam in pinks and
purples. I stopped and looked south. And north. And east, finally. And all around, at about the same level of
brightness, the wisps of clouds at the horizon were being painted in pinks and
purples.
After a few minutes of watching the colors
brighten, I went into the house for breakfast. When I looked out the window, no surprise, the
eastern skyline was brightening gloriously; and the clouds around the rest of
the sky’s dome were growing whiter, beginning to lose their pink and purple. It was as if the artist’s gaze had shifted: Having played with color all around the
horizon, the artist got busy with the canvas’ focal point. As my cereal got soggy, I kept watching; and
the shifting colors crept through the clouds for what seemed like twice as long
as any sunrise I’d ever seen. In divine
slow motion, the artist seemed to say, “You like this? Hang on … wait just a little more. It gets even better, if you keep watching.”
Maybe it was just a sunrise. But on this particular morning – in this season of my own life and our collective life, too, when expectations of goodness and love perhaps have never seemed lower – on this particular morning, it felt like more than a sunrise. It felt like a wonder – an assurance – an embrace.
* * * *
Two thousand years ago, a wandering
preacher and his band of misfits had stopped in a village. It had been a busy few weeks. Heading from town to town, they’d found what
you’d expect: people doing the best they can, living grindingly normal lives –
same as it ever was. Some were doing
well, settled in responsibility and respect, comfort and control. Others weren’t so lucky. Two thousand years ago, the sick and the
broken and the poor and the alone were out there for all to see, not shunted away
but out in front of God and everybody.
So, this wandering preacher and his band
of misfits focused on them – not the folks who had it all together, the ones
who might have offered a meal and a place to stay, but the folks with no
expectations of aid or comfort, and nothing to give anyone.
Now, among these folks with nothing more
to lose, crazy things kept happening. A
guy everybody knew was blind suddenly could see. A woman everybody knew was sick, and therefore
excluded, suddenly felt great and was out with everybody else on market day. A kid whom everybody knew had died wasn’t dead
after all. These things made no sense. Nobody was complaining, mind you, but they
also couldn’t explain it.
Miles away, a guy in a jail cell couldn’t
explain it either. His name was John;
and Herod, the Romans’ local lackey, was letting John rot in prison because he kept
calling Herod a hypocrite for breaking religious rules when they grew
inconvenient. John was the cousin of
this wandering preacher, Jesus from Nazareth; and Jesus had been part of John’s
own band of misfits out in the desert, where John spoke hard truth to people in
power about how they should love God and love neighbor rather than lining their
pockets and pushing people around. Now,
stuck in his dank cell, John was losing hope. He’d seen himself as the next great prophet,
like Elijah, taking down corrupt kings and bringing hope that God’s true king
was coming to set the world to rights. So much for that, John thought.
But still, John had heard these stories
about his cousin and the amazing things that kept happening wherever he went. Back when Jesus had joined John’s band, John
had had a vision and told anyone who’d listen that Jesus was the one they were
waiting for. Maybe that was true after
all. Maybe God was at work here after
all. Maybe this prison cell was just an
ugly stopover on the journey toward life under God’s true king. So, John sent a couple of his old friends to find
Jesus so they could check things out and ask Jesus what all this meant.
They got there just after Jesus had healed
four people, and the local crowd was buzzing. Like always, the folks in control weren’t too
pleased, but the nobodies started daring to think maybe change was finally
coming. After all, they’d always been
taught that, someday, God would send the king who would kick out their
oppressors just like the Maccabees had done 200 years earlier, and restore Israel’s
golden age, and put a new King David on a new Jewish throne. Had David done anything greater than the
things this Jesus was doing? And the
prophets back in the day had said the greatest prophet, Elijah, would return from
heaven just before the king would come – that Elijah would prepare the way for
his victory. So, was Jesus Elijah? Or, even better, was Jesus the king?
The friends of John the prisoner found
Jesus in the marketplace. They knew him
from the old days, so they could trust he’d give it to them straight. “Look,” they asked, “what does all this mean? You’re making folks think they’ve got reason
to hope. You’re making John think God
might break him out of prison. You’re
making the crowds think God’s going to drop the hammer on the Romans. John wants to know what’s going on: Are you the one who is to come, or are we to
wait for another? And if you’re the one,
which one are you – Elijah or the messiah himself?”
Jesus smiled. “You’re asking the right
questions,” he said, “but the story won’t play out the way you think. Look, you want an answer for John? Go back and tell him what’s happening. Blind people can see. Deaf people can hear. Poor people can see a way out of debt. Dead people aren’t staying that way. Sound familiar?” Jesus asked. “You might check out what the prophets said was
going to happen before the messiah comes.”
As John’s friends ran off to share the
good news, Jesus turned and saw the crowd gathered around him. They had the obvious question on their minds,
and someone dared to yell it out: “If
the blind see, and the deaf hear, and the dead are raised, what’s John doing in
prison? Can’t you fix that, too?”
Jesus sighed and looked at his questioner
the way a parent looks at an angry child.
“This isn’t going to work the way you want it to,” he said. “What’s coming won’t follow your script. God is with you, but not as a general
or a magician. You want certainty. You want control. You want miracles everyday,” Jesus said. “Instead, what I’ve got are everyday
miracles.”
“But what about John the Baptizer?”
someone else called out.
Jesus shook his head. “Look, when you fight for a kingdom of love, the violent will take it by force – same as it ever was. Love’s not something God can impose. Love is something you have to choose – you and them, too, the ones holding John in prison. Remember your scriptures,” Jesus continued. “What happened to the prophet Elijah? He told the truth, too, and the king tried to kill him. So, Elijah ran away, hiding out on Mount Sinai, expecting God to send him an army. Instead, God sent him … God, walking with him in person at the edge of the cliff, embracing Elijah with the sound of sheer silence. And in that power, Elijah returned to face down the corrupt king, and defeat the prophets of Baal, and find himself taken straight to heaven. But I think Elijah’s back,” Jesus said. “I think he’s been preparing the messiah’s way. Right now, he’s stuck in a prison cell with worse yet to come, but the story won’t stop there. Remember: The blind now see. The deaf now hear. The poor now look forward in hope. The dead now live. Maybe it’s just a crazy preacher in that prison cell,” Jesus said. “But maybe Elijah’s back. And maybe the messiah looks and sounds a lot different than you’d expect.”
* * * *
Over these next two weeks of Advent, we’re
still going to be walking in the dark. The
wind will still be cold against our faces. Voices will still pipe up with realistic
angst: “Can’t you see how rough this
path really is? You’re on your own, you
know; only the strong survive.”
On those cold, dark days – look up. Look to the edges of the clouds where light’s
not supposed to start breaking through. Look
for the pinks and purples of sunrise coming from the least likely directions.
Maybe it is just a sunrise. But maybe it’s more than you’d expect.
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