“Do You Hear What I Hear?” Luke 2:1-20

“Do You Hear What I Hear?”
Luke 2:1-20

For many, this night is filled with a romantic picture of the Holy Family nestled in a barn. A couple of clean-shaven shepherds stand, staring in loving rapture at the Babe, wrapped in a blue blanket, tucked into his straw-filled manger. Nearby, a cow rests on her belly in repose and a sheep lays with her head, gently, on the ground, both in worshipful admiration. Slightly off-center, but obviously the focus of the picture, is Baby Jesus glowing in Divine radiance. Overhead, an angel hovers and stands guard while, in the distance, a star twinkles in the dark night’s sky.  You can practically hear the strains of Away in A Manger and O Little Town of Bethlehem emanating from the picture.

This dreamy, Norman Rockwell-esque picture presents us a solemn, yet joyous moment in the history of God’s plan of salvation, one that we traditionally, piously, and reverently treasure this night every December. We gather with family and friends to hear the old, old story and sing the old, old hymns. We light our candles and we sing Stille Nacht, Heilege Nacht knowing that all is calm and all is bright, for in that Bethlehem stable, joy has indeed come to the world in the birth of the Lord.

There is nothing wrong with having this picture in our head, even if it is more simple and sentimental than based in fact. But, if that is all our picture is, an American Greetings moment, we miss something, something important.

Shh…do you hear it? Off in the distance…do you hear what I hear? The cries of a woman in labor carry out a stable and echo down the streets of the town. There is pain in that sound, a hurt that is unlike any other pain a woman experiences; but, hidden beneath the hurt is also joy and hope, knowing that in from this pain comes birth, from birth comes life, the life of a newborn child. There’s also a more subtle sound, harder to hear. It’s lower in register. This is a father’s word of encouragement for his wife, strong but gentle and rich with humility, knowing that in that moment he is helpless to do anything other than support his wife and hold her as best he can.  A final scream from the mother, a word from the father and then, there…do you hear it? There it is: the baby’s cry. A baby’s cry is difficult to describe but, like a good song, we just know it when we hear it. From the darkness of night, in that cry is the sound of life. In that Life is the Light of man.

Do you hear it? That baby’s cry is the same as has been sung since the birth of Cain and Able; it’s the cry you and I gave when we were born. But, this baby’s cry-song is different. This is no normal baby: It’s the sound of God entering into His own created world, Jesus, son of Mary; Immanuel, God with us.

That’s the sound I want you to hear tonight – the sound of a baby. But, not just any baby. No, in this Baby, God comes to us. Conceived, supernaturally by the Holy Spirit; born, naturally, through Mary. In this Baby, the Divine takes on humanity; God dwells among us. Mary’s baby, wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a Bethlehem manger without a home to call His own – He is King of Kings and Lord of Lords, as Isaiah foretold it, but He, of humble birth, is not adorned with gilded blankets and satin linens; He resides not in a castle among kings and princes but in a stable with His mother who considers herself least of all women and Joseph, whom God chose to be surrogate father, appointed caretaker and provider for God’s Son, His only-begotten Son.  

He is a baby, so He is like you in every way. Yet, also He is God, so He is completely opposite you, without sin. As Baby and God, He is Jesus, to be your Savior.

Do you hear this? He is your Savior. Don’t forget this behind the romance of the night with that perfect Christmas card picture. He more, much more than just the subject of art, the muse behind songs crooned by musicians for an increasingly secular holiday that openly mocks its own namesake. Christ is your Savior and Christ-mass is the celebration that recalls that Jesus enters to redeem a sin-contaminated world filled with sin-contaminated people, neither of which can save itself from the damnable condemnation of eternal separation with God.

It has been said that Jesus is the greatest gift of all. This is true. He Himself is a gift of love. Wonders of wonders, the Gift delivers a gift as well.

Do you hear it? Listen closely; listen again. There it is, in the angels’s song sung from the heavens, “Glory to God in the highest and on earth, peace among those with whom He is pleased.” Do you hear the gift? The gift is peace.

We think of peace as the absence of war, the cessation of fighting. The gift of peace that the angels deliver is even greater: it’s the restoration of wholeness between God and man. Peace declares that sin’s separating power is destroyed.

The cross is still years into the future for Jesus. The hill of Calvary cannot be seen from Bethlehem, both because of distance and time. The truth of Jesus as already being a living sacrifice has not registered in Mary or Joseph’s heads. Jesus fulfilling the Law for us, living perfectly for us, remaining sinless for us; His miracles, His teaching, His life of sacrificial love; His proclamation of repentance and forgiveness; His challenging the people’s idea of religion – all of these are to come, completely unknown to Jesus’ mother and step-father and the entire world. Yet, remarkably the promise of peace, the word of restoration, is already proclaimed by the heavenly messengers. Peace is already being fulfilled in the Baby. In Jesus, born in the Bethlehem, resting in a stable manger, perhaps surrounded by barnyard animals, with dirty, stinky shepherds who almost assuredly were anything but clean-shaven, with a tired yet joy-filled mother resting nearby under the watchful eyes of a curious but obedient father – this is for you.

Did you hear it? For you: for you whose life doesn’t shine with social network perfection, whose story isn’t glamorous, whose closet contents you pray never see the light of day, whose families are less than holy in appearance, who are tested to remain faithful, who see the intersection of faith and life as less of a struggle and more like a collision, who remembers the sins of this past year with shame and guilt – Jesus is for you. He comes for you. He was born for you. He lives for you. He dies for you. He rises for you. In this, His death and resurrection, He saves you from your sins and guilt, all those things that tarnish us and out thoughts, words and deeds, our relationships, and our families. His peace declares that you are forgiven of all these, and more, and none of these shall separate you from the love of God.

Perhaps this isn’t the typical Christmas sermon that you’ve grown used to hearing over the years. That’s OK. This isn’t the typical Christmas, either. In fact, most of the things we consider to be part of a “normal” Christmas has been stripped away this year. Instead of family get-togethers, we have family stay-aparts. Instead of full Frasier Firs we have scraggly Charley Browns, even in Rockefeller Center. Piles of gifts have been replaced by one or two carefully chosen gifts that were scrimped and saved from an already tight family budget. Kids’ wish lists, that normally have things like 4-wheelers and the newest gaming systems, now list a job for mom, full-time work for dad. Merle Haggard’s song, “If we make it through December” seems a lot more poignant than “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas.” “Joy to the world,” indeed…for many, it’s difficult to feel joy in times like this.

If you read my Christmas letter, I said there is a left-handed blessing in our “normal” Christmas being stripped away. Don’t get me wrong – there is nothing good in not being able to be with family, in people being sick and dying, in loneliness and heartache, in the losses we continue to endure. But, as I’ve said before, when life narrows down and it comes at you hard, there in the middle stands Jesus. With everything else stripped away from Christmas this year, we are more clearly able to see Jesus. Not the mere caricature on Christmas cards, the romantic scene that comes to mind, but Jesus, the Son of God made flesh who comes to dwell among us. With much of the noise and hulabaloo of the secular Christmas silenced, we can hear the sounds of the Nativity. Nativity comes out of Latin; it means birth. Not just any, but Jesus’ birth. “Fear not, for behold, I bring you good news of great joy which shall be for all people. For unto you is born this day, in the city of David, a Savior which is Christ the Lord” (v. 10-11). 

So, tonight, here in the Lord’s house; this evening at your home with a few family members; tomorrow, by yourself, let’s not celebrate Christmas. Instead open your Bible to Luke 2 and remember and celebrate the Nativity – the birth – of Jesus, your Savior, who brings the gift of peace between you and God, and God and you.

Shhh…do you hear it? It’s no mere picture on a card emanating imaginary sounds. This is the Nativity, the birth of Jesus, “this thing that has come to pass, which the Lord has made known to us,” (Luke 2:15)

Blessed Nativity to you all.
In Jesus’ name.
Amen.

 

A Truly Miraculous Announcement of a Truly Miraculous Birth of a Truly Miraculous Baby - Luke 1:26 - 38

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.

We often use the world “miracle” to describe the arrival of a newborn child. The birth of a child – the nine-month-long development from microscopic but living cells into the dramatic arrival of a flesh-and-blood, seven pound, two ounce, nineteen and one-half-inch long baby (that’s the statistical average in the United States, by the way, per Google) who is vocally making his or her arrival known to everyone present – well, yes; yes, we can understand how that would be described as a miracle. The arrival of life is a wonderful and humbling moment to witness. Don’t tell anyone, but it’s possible I may have said the same at the arrival of our three children.

Now, I don’t mean to pour cold water on any romantic ideas we have, but, in the strict sense of the term, is childbirth really a miracle? After all, by definition, a miracle is when the laws of nature are changed – not just bent, but completely turned upside down. With a miracle, the naturally impossible becomes not only possible but a present actuality. So, instant water-to-wine without the process of fermentation; the raising of a decaying, four-day-dead man back to life; a sea parted by the winds so that thousands can cross over dry land; leftovers after feeding 5000 with a boy’s lunch; the sun hiding in shame at the death of the Light of the World. These are miracles in the truest sense of the world.

But, by and large, pregnancy and childbirth are a normal process of human reproduction that can be simply – albeit wonderfully – explained through normal, biological and medical ways and experienced daily at any hospital. As a rule, while spectacular and wonderful and enthralling, childbirth isn’t truly a miracle.

I fully agree that there are births that seem to defy explanation. For example, a dear college friend of ours was told by doctors since she was a teenager that there was absolutely zero possibility of her being able to have a child, but she and her husband are proud parents of two beautiful girls. 

But then, there are pregnancies and childbirths that are so extraordinarily contrary to all natural possibility that they can only be described as miraculous. I can think of three quick examples in the Bible.

Remember, in the Biblical world, being unable to have a child, and especially a son, was considered to be a curse from God Himself. For a woman, who desperately wants to be a mother but is biologically unable to have a child, it was as if God had turned His very back on her, shunning her, condemning her to a lesser class of womanhood.

In Genesis, Sarai wanted a son desperately, pleading and praying for God to be merciful to her. Since He didn’t seem to be listening, she took matters into her own hands, having her maid-servant be a surrogate mother. But, she grew so jealous of the servant, who was able to have a boy with Sarai’s own husband, further demonstrating her seeming cursedness, that she drove the mother and baby out into the wilderness to die. Finally, the Lord sent three angels to deliver the news that she and Abram would have a son. Her laughter at the impossible news turned to joy when she gave birth to a son, naming him Isaac. Isaac means laughter. In a terrible twist, the Lord would demand Isaac be sacrificed by his father’s own hand, later rescued by the vicarious substitution of a ram caught in the brush.

Or, how about Hannah? In my mind, she’s an older woman but the book of first Samuel doesn’t actually tell us her age, only that she was barren. Nevertheless, she was deeply loved and cared for by her husband, Elkannah. Hannah sat in the temple courtyard, murmuring her prayers, that the Lord would grant her a son. Finally noticed by Eli, who thought she as drunk, God promised through Eli that she would have a son. When the boy was born, she set him apart, dedicating her firstborn son to service in the Lord’s temple. A mother who wanted a son so desperately surrendered her son to the Lord.

And then there’s Mary’s cousin, Elizabeth. Like Sarai, Elizabeth and her husband, Zechariah, were both “advanced in years,” Luke notes in his first chapter, and she, like Hannah, was childless. This time the Lord delivered the news to her husband, that he would be a father. Not believing it, he was struck mute, unable to celebrate the gift of God’s promised blessing with anyone around him. But Elizabeth does believe, thanking God for taking away the reproach against her. You and I know this child as John the Baptizer who goes before Jesus as the one who prepares His way, calling people to repentance and baptizing in the wilderness.

Sarai, Hannah, Elizabeth. All three were women who begged and pleaded in prayer for the gift of a son and the joy of motherhood. All three were women unable to have children; at least two of the women – possibly all three – were advanced in years and beyond the normal age of childbirth. All three were given the gift of sons. All three had births that were truly miraculous.

But of all the miraculous births in the Bible, there is none more miraculous than story of Mary. In almost every way, she was opposite these three other women. She was young – possibly as young as 14 or 15. (While that makes us shudder today, it was not an uncommon thing in that day and age, so please understand it in the context.) She was betrothed – we would say engaged in modern parlance – but unlike modern engagements, their relationship had not yet been consummated; she remained a virgin. Being practically a child herself, having her own child, her own son, was most likely far, far from her mind as she had many years ahead of her to rejoice in the gift of a baby.

Yet, Gabriel appears to her with the angelic message and Divine announcement of a miraculous pregnancy and birth: Mary would conceive and bear a son and call his name Jesus. Mary identified the first impossibility of this – she was a virgin. Gabriel’s answer to that question identified the second miracle: not only would it be a virgin birth, but the Holy Spirit – God Himself – would be the father. The Baby would be her son; the Baby would be God’s Son. Virgin birth – impossible. God becoming flesh in the womb of a woman – impossible.

There is yet one more miracle that takes place in Gabriels’ announcement: “Mary said, ‘Behold, I am the servant of the Lord; let it be to me according to your word.” The miracle is that Mary believes the angel’s news for her, that she would be a virgin mother; she would be the mother of the Son of God, and all this would come true as the Lord promised.

A trinity of miracles, as it were, all in Gabriel’s announcement to Mary and in Mary’s faithful acceptance of the message for her.

I have to wonder, although Mary believed the angel, what was going through her head. Amazement and wonder, I’m sure. When you go home this afternoon, you can get a sense of this by reading the rest of Luke 1. You’ll read the song Mary sings to her cousin, Elizabeth, a song speaking of the mercy of God, singing His praises for rescuing and redeeming Israel through her Baby, a song remembering His promises to His people of old, now coming to fruition in her womb.

But, I do wonder if she understood what the name “Jesus” would all mean. Did she consider her miraculous pregnancy in light of the other miraculous births, especially Sarai and Hannah? Did Mary wonder if her Son would also be sacrificed, but unlike Isaac, Jesus’ life would be demanded and the sacrifice complete, that His life would be the vicarious substitute for the world and no one – not even His heavenly Father – would intercede? Could Mary begin to imagine how her Son would be set apart, not merely for service in the temple, but that He would be the fulfillment of the Temple, itself, God enfleshed to dwell among us?

No. Not yet. That was all ahead, all on the horizon. Faith is not the same as understanding. She may not have understood it all – she certainly did not yet know all that would happen in the life of her son – but she believed that with God, all things, including this miraculous message of a Child, were possible.

But even on that day, with Gabriel’s words still hanging in the air of the Galilean afternoon, the cross is already ahead. It’s hiding, but it is present. It’s hiding in the very name of Jesus, that He will be the Savior. His throne will be greater than David’s – not encrusted with gold and jewels, but with slivers and His own blood as He reigns in glory from the cross. And He will reign and rule without end.

In the name of Jesus.

Amen.

A Christmas Epistle - 2020

10 December 2020

Dear friends in Christ,

This year has been one for the history books. I suspect that Christmas will follow suit and likewise be very different. Usually, Christmas cards have a catch-all letter of the family’s travels, accomplishments, and additions over the previous twelve months. This year’s letters will be pretty dull, I imagine, without words like vacation, adventure, party, graduation, and reunions. Instead, they’ll be loaded with words like Covid-19, quarantine, lock-down, toilet paper, remote learning, and isolation. Other words like scared, lonely, unemployed, broke, depressed, and uncertain round out the story. 

We’ve heard it for weeks now: the celebration of Christmas is in danger! Officials are discouraging family gatherings unless all are socially distant, in open air, with faces covered in masks and hands dripping in stinky alcohol-based sanitizer. Questions abound: Will there be a family Christmas dinner? Will grandparents be able to snuggle with their grandsons and granddaughters while opening gifts? Will adult children watch and listen to their aging parents tell the story (again!) about the winter of ’48 when the water froze? Will Christmas trees be empty underneath, or will they even be put up at all?

There is a very (very, very) left-hand blessing-in-disguise in all of this: the chicanery, the noise, the distractions, and the hullabaloo of the Christmas event is being stripped away. The secular festival of Christmas, with the focus on Rudolph and Frosty, mistletoe and eggnog, leaping lords and roasting chestnuts, and tiny tots with eyes all aglow, is being pushed aside. That leaves a vacuum. Nature abhors vacuums. Something needs to fill the space. 

Set aside Christmas. Instead, fill the space with the Nativity of Jesus. 

One of the phrases of the Luke 2 narrative always catches me: “Mary treasured all these things and pondered them in her heart.” Imagine all that she witnessed in the past year: her aged cousin having a baby; an angel appearing in her own home, telling her she would also have a baby; having that conversation, “Uh, Joseph…we have to talk…there was this angel…”; this baby would be God’s Son; a trip to Bethlehem; lost reservations leading to housing in a stable; a manger as her son’s bassinette; and their first guests being a bunch of stinky shepherds who spoke of angels sending them to town to see a newborn babe. Oh, and make sure to name the Child “Jesus,” for He will save His people from their sins. 

This year, may I encourage you to follow in the footsteps of Mary. Make the sign of the cross over yourself (forehead, chest, right shoulder, left shoulder). Read Luke 2, by yourself or you’re your family. Sing the Christmas carols that speak of Jesus and His birth. Pray for “peace on earth; good will among men.” Then, be still and ponder the wonderful mystery of God becoming flesh in the baby Jesus. Pray the Lord’s Prayer. Sing Silent Night. Make the sign of the cross again.

The sign of the cross. It reminds us of Jesus’ purpose. His name gives it away: Savior. He was born to die, to rescue and redeem that which was lost. The greatest gift of all is a baby wrapped in swaddling cloths, lying in a manger. Wonder of wonders, that swaddled baby wraps you in His grace and mercy, clothing you in His righteousness so that God sees you through Him. Baptized into Jesus, you follow that same cross path from font through today and into tomorrow and tomorrow’s tomorrow. 

Then log in and Zoom with the family. Have a glass of the ‘nog – add a shot of old Saint James’ finest while you’re at it. Sing Feliz Navidad off-key and Joy to the World in harmony. Open the gifts that were mailed to you. Watch The Miracle on 34th Street or Die Hard – great Christmas movies, both. Laugh. Smile. Rejoice.

And have yourself a very, merry celebration of the Nativity of Jesus Christ. 

“Unto you is born a Savior…Christ, the Lord.”

Walk with Light. See You Next Sunday. John 1: 6-8, 19-28

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.

There are two men named John that we hear of this morning. The first you know as John the Baptizer. He’s the camel-coat wearing, leather-belt tying, locust-eating, honey-dipping son of Zechariah and Elizabeth. He’s a second cousin of Jesus – their mothers were cousins – and he made a name for himself out in the wilderness by preaching and baptizing and calling out the Jewish leaders with such cute nicknames as “brood of vipers.” Ah, yes – the anti-Dale Carnegie of how not to win friends. His boldness would wind up costing him his life when he calls out King Herod for his sin of adultery with his brother’s wife and the woman’s daughter, quite literally, asks for John’s head on a platter in revenge.

The second John is the Evangelist, the apostle, the one whom Jesus loved. This John was one of the twelve called by Jesus to follow as a disciple and then be sent out as an apostle into the world. He’s part of the dynamic duo with his brother James, also named the Sons of Thunder, who foolishly think they can sit at Jesus’ right and left sides. This John wrote the Gospel and the epistles that bear his name as well as the book of Revelation. John is the only one of the Twelve to die a natural death, an old man exiled on the island of Patmos, separated from the congregations he helped begin years earlier.

John the Baptizer; John the Evangelist. Two distinct and different men whom God used in distinct and different ways for the same goal of pointing the world to the good news of Jesus.

First, the Baptizer. I can’t say I blame the Jews, the priests and the Levites who thought that John the Baptizer was a prophet in the line of the Old Testament greats. Like Elijah, he spoke the Word of the Lord with clear forth-telling, “Thus saith the Lord,” calling God’s people to repentance. And, like Moses, the greatest prophet of all, Elijah thundered with the very voice of God himself out in the wilderness.  Likewise, the Baptizer was the last of the Old Testament prophets, in a way, the last one to fore-tell of the One to come after Him whose sandals he would be unworthy to untie.

Nor could you quite blame them for thinking John might be the Christ. With his teaching, his preaching, his baptizing, and his unique flair he certainly did appear to be anointed as a servant of the living God. He most certainly command attention.

But, on the other hand, these are the religious leaders of the people. Priests and Levites have the responsibility to serve as an intermediary, an intercessor, a go-between between God and man, between man and God. They are the ones who are to be students of the Scriptures, searching out the truth of God’s Word for His people. They are the ones – more than anyone else who might be out in the wilderness, watching and listening to John – they are the ones who ought to be watchful, waiting, well attuned to just who and what the Messiah will be, what his message sounds like, what he will behave like, who he will be. If anyone should have even an inkling of an idea of who Messiah is, it should be the Jewish leaders. While they seem to be aware, at least on the periphery, that this is a Messiah-like person doing Messiah-like things, or at a minimum, a prophet-like person doing prophet-like things – if they were in my Bible class, I might call this a purple star moment – they miss the gold-star mark. Messiah-like is not the same as Messiah. Prophet-like is not the same as prophet.

John, however, was quick to identify that he was, in fact, neither the Christ nor Elijah nor Moses reincarnate. Unique, yes, but he was neither prophet nor Messiah. John’s job is to prepare, to set the stage, for the one who is arriving. The Jews, the priests and Levites don’t recognize John the Baptizer for who he is and what he is doing. They’re worried about his authority – who said you could do this, they wanted to know.

So, in a twisted sense of irony, the Jews, the priests and Levites not only don’t realize John the Baptist isn’t the Messiah, or Elijah, or Moses, they also don’t yet realize that the Baptizer is also the first of the New Testament evangelists – the Good News tellers – who will both confess that which is believed and testify to who he knows. And, they don’t recognize the one whom John the Baptizer points to: Jesus, who is the Christ, the Son of God, standing among His own. They can’t see because they’re trapped in the darkness.

The darkness. The darkness is scary space. Two weeks ago, I was driving home late in the evening, after 8pm. It was a dark night, overcast, so there was no moon to illuminate the night’s sky, no stars that twinkled in the distance teasing a romantic fool’s thoughts. It was just dark. I didn’t notice it in town – there are street lights and house lights and car’s lights and business lights and traffic lights and even the lights of a flashlight while someone walked their dog. Poor substitutions for the light of the sun, that’s for sure, but at least these lights let you see what’s in front of you, what’s behind you, what’s next to you, where people are, giving direction to you and fellow travelers. But outside of town, and then onto 447, it didn’t take long and I was swallowed into the darkness. Headlights only penetrate the darkness so far at 60 miles per hour. And, at 60 miles per hour, if something comes at you from out of the darkness – a frightened deer, an ornery hog, a lost dog – things don’t end well.

John, the evangelist, does not mean the Jewish leaders are trapped in the darkness that is opposite daytime. He is talking about the darkness that is absent the light of Christ. They are lost in the dark. Lost, absent Christ, that is a scary space. Things don’t end well for those without the Light of life.

Not so the Baptizer – he knows who His cousin is. He knows Jesus is the Light of the world, the One whom darkness cannot overcome. He knows that the darkness despises this Light, but he, John, will bear witness to that Light so that the Light shines.

Yet, John knows his place. Although Jesus will, later, say that John is the “greatest of all the prophets,” John says of himself that he is unworthy to untie Jesus’ sandals. That is such a menial task that historians tell us that, in that day, not even servants were tasked to untie a master’s shoes. Yet, John sees himself as below even the most menial of servants. He has the greatest of respect, the highest levels of awe for Jesus. After all, Jesus is Immanuel – God among us, God in the flesh, God enfleshed, but God nevertheless: God who spoke everything into existence with “Let there be,” God whose voice made the mountains shake and the waters roar and the thunder crash, God who sent prophet after prophet into the world to prepare the way for His Own. Jesus is the Light of the World.

But if you want to see the power of God in the person of Jesus, there is a strange place to look for Him. Not out in the wilderness, in plain sight, with John’s bony finger pointing, calling others to follow the Lamb of God. You see the power of God, the power of Jesus, in the darkness. Not just any darkness, though. On God’s Friday, on a small mountainside outside Jerusalem, called Golgatha, the light of the sun was blacked out and creation shook in recognition that the Light of the World was quickly dimming. The darkness of men’s evil was on full display. Men, who truly were not worthy of untying Jesus’ sandals, stripped Him naked and crucified Him for that which He did not do because they did not know Him, receive Him, welcome Him, or love Him. These men raised the Light high, not in glorious praise and recognition, but in mockery and dishonor.

Jesus doesn’t wait for their recognition. There in the darkness, the Light shines forth, for this moment – His crucifixion and death – is where His glory is seen, in fulfilling His Father’s plan for the salvation of the world.

The Baptizer’s witness and confession pointed people to Jesus. The Evangelist’s preaching and writing of the Light of the World shone into the darkness so that others, too, might see and believe.

And, then, there’s you. We’re living in strange times. All around us, people are living in darkness, absent the light of Christ. For some, it’s a deliberate decision to not know Him. For others, it’s ignorance. For others, it’s an admixture of reasons, excuses really, to not receive Him – I’m too busy, it’s inconvenient, Christianity is boring, Jesus is so irrelevant, I can do this myself. This is the world in which we live. Yet you, who have received Jesus by grace through faith, believe in His name, you who are children of God, you walk in the Light.

Your confession follows the witness of both John the Baptizer and John the Evangelist, and in your words and in your actions, the Light continues to shine. These last days of Advent, as the world muddles and wanders in the darkness, be bold with your confession of the Light. Speak of Jesus who came in time, who comes in Word and Sacrament, and who will return. As others lament the sadness and sorrow and confusion of the time, speak of He who is the Light of Life. When others talk about feeling helpless, show them wherein is the Light of hope. Put your faith into loving action and let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify the Father in heaven.

My advisor at Concordia Lutheran College in Austin was the Rev. Dr. Milton Reimer. Although he was listed as a professor of English, he was first and foremost a theologian, a pastor. Dr. Reimer would end every class with the phrase, “Walk with light. See you next class.” I asked him once why he did that and his answer was simple: to remind each student, in a subtle but consistent way, that their journey in this world is guided by faith in Jesus Who is the Light. When I finish Bible class, that’s how I end as well. Partly as a tribute to my advisor and friend; mostly as encouragement.

So, walk with Light. See you next Sunday.

In the name of Jesus.

Amen.

The Simple Complexity of John the Baptizer: Repent! - Mark 1: 1-8

When I am reading a book, sometimes I like a very simple character to follow – no major surprises. Maybe that’s why I like St. Mark’s portrayal of John the Baptizer. He’s simple; there’s nothing complex about him. “The beginning of the Gospel of Jesus Christ,” Mark says, and then there’s a conflation of Malachi and Isaiah from the Old Testament to show the foreshadowing of John’s ministry, and then – Bam! - Mark just drops John into the story and out we go with John, out into the desert him preaching and baptizing. Even his ruggedness is a little less complex, I guess you would say, only getting a quick nod to his rustic appearance and paleo diet. St. Mark’s sermon notes of John’s preaching are simple, also, as he describes John’s sermons: “There is one coming after me who is mightier than I, whose sandals I am not worthy to stoop down and untie.”

Yes…that’s the kind of Baptizer that I like: rugged enough on the outside, but kind of soft and cuddly down deep. Simple: not too challenging; not too edgy. None of that “Brood of vipers” preaching as recorded by St. Matthew. None of that discussion about how Jesus can raise up sons of Abraham from stones as St. Luke notes. No, Mark gives us a John who is safe. I like him – we like him – because he seems, well…safe.

And, that’s how we like God’s Word, too – isn’t it? We like the 23^rd Psalm, and the Lord’s Prayer, and the Beatitudes. We like Jesus’ baptism, and we like His miracles. We like Peter preaching at Pentecost and Paul converting the Corinthians. We love the romance of the Christmas narrative, and our hearts pound on Easter morning with the cries of “Christ is risen, He is risen indeed, Alleluia!” We like taking our Scriptures a sentence at a time for Portals of Prayer, and we like a quick recollection of a Sunday school story we heard – it’s fuzzy in our memory, but we remember the simple color cartoon-like picture of Jesus laying his hands on the children. To paraphrase a Sears commercial from 20 years ago, we like the softer side of the Word. Don’t push me, don’t challenge me, and no matter what you do, don’t correct me and call out what I want to do. Don’t call my freedom into question, don’t dare declare my choice a sin and everything is going to be A-OK.

A safe John the Baptizer, delivering a safe and fuzzy word of God…Easy-peasy, Advent squeezy.

Or is he? Is John safe? Is he going to just let us be, leave us alone, to do what we want to do while he sits idly back and watches? If that’s your idea of John the Baptizer and his preaching, then be prepared.

That’s exactly what John came to do: prepare. John was anything but safe, soft, and gentle. He was the last of the Old Testament prophets who spoke into the wilderness, declaring “Thus sayeth the Lord!” He was big and bold, even for a prophet, preaching the way Jeremiah and Ezekiel and Isaiah preached. There was thunder in his voice and fire in his words. He saw the lives of his contemporary Israelites – both people and leaders – and it wasn’t a life of faith, but a life of farce. It was no longer about trusting in the promises of God given to the prophets of old; it was about trusting that they were doing all of the “right” things to please God. It was about living their lives as sons of Abraham, instead of living as children of God.

John saw it and he called the people out – out of their sins, out of their comfort, out of their daily routines – and he called them out to the wilderness. The wilderness. There’s a stark reality to wilderness. Get down to deep, deep south Texas or west, west Texas and get off the main roads. There, you get a sense of wilderness. There is nothing there – no one, nothing to trust except God’s mercy and grace. And, there in the wilderness John preaches, thundering, calling God’s people back to faith, back to trust, away from their self-centered lives of contentedness and back to what God has declared will come.

His message was harsh to soft ears; the words hard on his tongue, cutting deeply into the hearts of the people. Repent. Return to the Lord your God. Turn away from your sinfulness. Turn away from your soft-serve reading of the Prophets. Turn away from your selfishness. Turn away and turn to God’s grace and mercy. He is faithful; He is always willing to receive those who repent, in faith, and return to Him.

As a sign of God’s faithfulness and His mercy, John baptized those who came out to him. A washing of repentance, it was more than just a symbolic gesture. It was delivery of God’s grace – the same grace that had poured out abundantly on the ancient Israel in the wilderness at the rock of Moriah, when water rushed forth to quench thirsty mouths, John stood in the Jordan river, baptizing to quench the aching hearts, souls and consciences troubled at His preaching.

This gift is for you, John was saying. God’s mercy is for you – all of you who know, believe, and trust that God has your eternal welfare at heart; who trust the promises of God in Messiah who is to come; who believe that God will rescue and redeem in His marvelous way; who wait for His arrival – God’s mercy is for you who realize how desperately you need a Savior. He is coming…He is coming soon.

That was John. He was not safe, nor was he soft. But He was God’s faithful servant of the Word. John was the last of the breed – the final Old Testament prophet who would preach a Messiah to come. He was foretelling how God would act in time in sending the one long-ago promised to Adam and Eve, Moses, David, Isaiah and Malachi.

In our modern day and age, there are too many who are content to follow after the soft-and-fuzzy John the Baptists, with sugary sweet speeches of encouragement that are far, far removed from the John of the Jordan. John will not let us do this. John will not let us be lackadaisical in our lives of faith. He calls us back to the wilderness – back to God’s Word – and John speaks to us with the same message for today: Repent. It’s a word we don’t like to hear. Our itching ears lead to believe that our freedoms, our choices, our opinions, our feelings are paramount. The world tells us it’s all about the unholy trinity – me, myself and I. Our own sinful flesh bites and believes, hook line and sinker, that whatever that trinity wants, it should get. John calls us and says “Repent. Turn away from your selfish desires. Turn away from your wants. Turn away from your greed. Turn away from your arrogance. It’s not about you; it’s about Jesus.  Stop pretending you can save yourself. Stop pretending that you can be your own Messiah. Repent. Return to the Lord your God for he is gracious and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love.”

We hear that word “repent,” and we think that means we have to be sad all the time to show how sorry we are. That’s not it at all. Repent means turning away from our sinfulness and, by the grace of God’s Spirit, be returned to following  His Word. It means trusting that we live in God’s grace and we are fully and freely forgiven – not because we demonstrate how sorry we are with hang-dog looks, but because Jesus died for you. His death covers all of your sins. Your greed, your arrogance, your self-trust…in faith, trust that Jesus died and carried all of that to the cross.

There was nothing “soft” about that moment. It was the harsh, hard, reality of God’s justice: the perfect payment of an innocent man for the sins of the unfaithful, sin-stained world. Jesus, taking into Himself the sins of the entire world, dying the condemned death of the damned so that you and I would not have to.

Repentance turns to the cross where Jesus died and says, “I believe that cross is where Jesus paid my price. And because He did that, I am forgiven.”

That’s the John the Baptizer that St. Mark gives us. Simple, yes, but not simplistic; neither soft nor fuzzy. He keeps John as a simple character so he doesn’t get in the way of Jesus.

Is John safe? Of course, not. But he is good. He’s the Prophet, the baptizer, the forerunner who calls us back to the coming King.