Putting Jesus where he belongs

Luke 3: 7-18
New Ark United Church of Christ, Newark, DE
December 13, 2015

             

            This past Thursday, after our worship committee meeting, someone noticed that in one of the many Nativity scenes around the church, the wise men were headed the wrong way. Their faces were pointed away from Mary and Joseph and the baby Jesus, as if they were just passing through. They’d already done their shopping, dropped off their gifts, eastward leading, now proceeding home before Herod or God or those pesky angels noticed.

            It was then remarked that if this Nativity scene was in their home, their adult child would insure that the wise men would still be at a distance, sitting on an end table or far off window sill, not yet at the manger; that every day, small steps would be taken, the wise men inching their way to the baby Jesus, not arriving and completing the scene until January 6.

            How many of us do the same in our own homes, with our own crèches and nativities?  Even though we know this is a story, in fact two separate stories, and not history, it is the tradition we love.  It’s the long journey from Nazareth to Bethlehem, no room in the inn, the birth in a shelter for animals.  It’s the shepherds in the field with their flock by night, startled by God’s army of angels and the ages-old message of liberation and redemption.  It’s magi from the east who follow a star in search of a king.  

 

          It’s this story that saves us from the hectic busy-ness at this most wonderful time of the year, from losing our cool and our sanity in a season about hope, joy, and peace.

            So why John the Baptist in Advent, with his hoarse, angry voice, loud and obnoxious, calling us snakes, warning us of God’s judgment?  To our ears he sounds more like a bully, proclaiming God as tyrant ruler over people’s lives.  And yet the crowds don’t run away when they hear John’s tirade.  They’re not seriously considering Canada.  For them there is no better place than the land that God promised their ancestor Abraham, even though it’s occupied by yet another empire that could squash them like a bug. 

            The people have come to John because they hear afresh these words of courage and strength from Isaiah, as though it was yesterday they were prisoners in a foreign land.  “Prepare the way of the Lord.”  They’re hungry for good news, for the world to change.  But they don’t know what to do.  God’s people are not in exile, but they’re not free either.  How are they supposed to have the changed life God desires when the life change they really want is to rid their land of the real bullies and tyrants, the Romans?  

             

 

          

           But John isn’t wearing a hat that says “Make God’s people great again”. He’s not fear-mongering for God. He wants people to get right with God. The last thing the crowds want is for God to be angry with them.       

            More often than not, that’s the last thing we care about in our journey with God: whether or not God is angry or disappointed or just plain fed up with all of humanity’s crap and flak.  We don’t want to hear about God’s wrath; we want to hear about God’s unconditional love and forgiveness.  And yet we don’t allow either one—God’s wrath or God’s love—to transform and change our lives.   What is Advent for, if not for this?

            The most significant change we could make is to have Jesus move in with our fear and anxiety, a lowly place if ever there was one.  A few months ago we were all ready to turn our backs on he who shall not be named, relegating him to the entertainment section of our lives.  Now we have comparisons to Hitler and the foment that led to fascism.  Yes, there are some very real things to be afraid of, but as Christians, fear is not our motivation, our first response.  It is not the source of our lives.

            Maybe we’ve got baby Jesus already resting comfortably in the manger or he’s still packed in bubble wrap, waiting for Christmas Eve.  In the story there was no room for his birth in the inn, but in truth, we’ve left him hardly any room in this world.  And so we’ve got John barking at us, waking us up to what’s coming next: a Jesus who comes not with water but with fire to burn away the chaff that covers our lives and insulates our fear.  A Jesus who will upend our lives, reverse our course, and point us directly to Jerusalem.  With Jesus already growing within her, Mary sings of the One who scatters the thoughts of the proud, brings down the powerful from their thrones, fills the poor with good things, and sends the rich away empty.  Did we ever think to see ourselves in these words?

            And so what are we to do?  John advises the crowd not to use their power for harm but for justice.  Power is more than one coat, more than enough food.  Power is using one’s authority to act solely in one’s own best interests rather than in covenant with the interests of all at heart.  In Jesus of Nazareth, God shared power, becoming weak in the eyes of world, but it was through that weakness that Love was unconditional, forgiveness was radical, justice was restorative, and compassion was unbound.

            This is what a radicalized Christian looks like: one who does not take power into their own hands, but rather shares it abundantly with others.  A radicalized Christian gives over their fears that they may be transformed into hope, into peace, even into joy.  A radicalized Christian, when faced with that which is fearful, resists by giving and giving again.

            Today is the Gun Violence Prevention Sabbath, but in truth what it’s really about is fear prevention.  This holiday season, whenever we feel that lump in the back of our throats, when our anxiety threatens to trump our capacity for hope, when we’re confronted once again with the terrible awful of this world, let’s give our time and listen to someone who experiences life vastly different than we do.   

Give away some food.  

Give away a warm coat.   

Share our power.   

Disarm ourselves.   

Lower our weapon-like words that can injure and turn them into seeds of mercy and justice.  

Go into the wilderness, places devoid of joy and love and hope, and tell God’s truth of new things.  

Reach out to someone, love someone who doesn’t deserve it, and find Jesus in our outstretched hands.  

            Amen.