Christopher Thomas
Sermon for the Second Sunday of Advent, Year C – 12/05/21
Malachi 3:1-4
Canticle 16
Philippians 1:3-11
Luke 3:1-6
“In the fifteenth year of the reign of Emperor Tiberius, when Pontius Pilate was governor of Judea, and Herod was ruler of Galilee, and his brother Philip ruler of the region of Ituraea and Trachonitis, and Lysanias ruler of Abilene, during the high priesthood of Annas and Caiaphas, the word of God came to John son of Zechariah in the wilderness…”
Who said,
“Who, me?”
“Turn.”
I am fascinated, captivated, motivated by this notion of “turn.”
Oh, you can call it “repent,” or “metanoia.” But for me, it’s as simple, and yet as complex, as “turn.”
“Turn” is pivotal to the God-story!
I’m more specifically interested in what motivates “turn.”
Journey stories, all of our stories, are fraught with “turn,” twists and turns, ups and downs, forward and back, from one side to the next. Somehow, I fear that the holiness of the journey stories that we all share, the stories that are the holy grounds of our lives, are marked by sheer holy moments of “turn.”
It goes back to our earliest bonds, between parent and child, when we push out on our own, straying from mother and father, eagerly stretching toward the unknown, crawling toward separation, kneeling, standing, then walking into that which we cannot see. Every so often, though, we turn, either when we fall, or something is affright, turning into the face of blessed assurance, the voice, the look that says, “Everything was ok. Everything is ok. Everything will be ok.”
My own fascination with “turn” roots in the prodigals, both son and father. What gives voice, ah voice, toward this urging into “turn,” the path that I am currently on is not working, is not sufficient, maybe another would be preferable? I am tired of this literal or proverbial pig-sty.
What catalyzes “turn?” If only I knew, then this whole endeavor of Christian witness might seem so much easier, so much less resistant, at the very least, more predictable. Heck, if I could bottle “turn,” I could be a rich man! At the very least, I could control, “turn.”
But alas, I cannot, control “turn.” Of all the things that I am, I am not God.
I do know that voice plays such an integral role in the “turn” process, either having voice, or lack thereof. For how many different ways does one proclaim the gospel, recognizing the word (small w) and the Word (capital W, Logos)? THE WORD, after all, bypasses emperors and rulers, kings and queens, priests and deacons, magisterium of every sort and shape and kind, landing squarely in the desert at the foot of an ascetic donning hirsute dining on bugs. This is where God chooses to plant God’s word of proclamation?
(Stay tuned. It gets better. I hear tell in a few weeks God’s Word shows up in a barn!)
God plants gospel in the queerest of places, with the strangest of people.
John. “Yahweh is gracious.” Merciful God, give us grace (give us some John) to heed warnings and forsake our separation, that we might greet with joy the Advent of our Redeemer!
This puts me in mind of another John, who also baptized but denounced hirsutes and bugs, but was lovingly referred to as curmudgeon. This John was my 93-year old mentor, and priest, and friend, who transitioned into glory earlier this year. This John seemed grumpy and grouchy to the point of unhappy most all of the time, but the Cathedral, and the Diocese, and I, loved this John dearly. Somehow, this baptizer, the Rev. John A. Logan, Jr., sometime Canon for the Diocese of Texas, heard God’s call in his own wilderness, and the many wildernesses in which he found himself, and “turned” toward that same good news proclamation of John the Baptist.
In John’s voice, and it was his voice, every time John read the Gospel, or delivered a sermon, or celebrated the Eucharist, those who were in earshot heard the comfort and succor of God God’s self. In that voice, they heard mercy, and grace, and forgiveness, and the promise of new and unending life. In that voice, there resided stability. In that face, there was blessed assurance. In that voice that rang out at so many graves the proclamation was made that tombs everywhere were and would always be empty, Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia, and you knew that it was (and is) so.
The greatest gift that Canon Logan, John, gave to all of us in the Diocese of Texas was the confident assuredness, in the “turn,” that God is God, and resting in that knowledge, everything was, is, and will be ok.
Confident assuredness of God’s gospel good news. Yahweh is gracious.
Is that part and parcel of the turn?
I wonder, during this season of Advent, if, in the “turn,” as we look for the confident assuredness of God’s return, Immanuel, God dwelling among us, if there is some fear as to what we might see, what we might find, underneath the tree? For we are so fascinated, during Advent, with all the lectionary talk of Christ’s second coming, in fire and great glory. Will the skies open up, will the heavens split, will the temple cloth tear in two, will the earth shake? Is judgment day at hand, when some rise and others are condemned, where justice is finally meted out? Is that what we “turn” toward when we “turn” to see God?
If so, I can understand the reluctance to “turn.” I’m ok with going to the Galleria to do some Christmas shopping if the second coming of Christ looks that apocalyptic. I don’t need to be John the Baptist, or John the anything. I just want to go about my little routine, and get my stuff done, and have a holly, jolly Christmas.
It is perfectly understandable why nice, polite folk, most especially Episcopalians, don’t want to talk about the second coming of Christ.
Here’s why.
I can absolutely guarantee you that any direction that you turn, you are going to turn into the face of Jesus Christ. If you are looking for the second coming of Jesus Christ in power and great glory, I would bid you to very simply turn to your right, and/or turn to your left, and let me introduce you to Jesus Christ.
And what are you going to do with that?
A baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of separation begins with turning toward Christ and saying, “I am sorry. Forgive me.”
That’s how we go around raising up valleys and lowering mountains. When we go out from here, we go out into the world, and we see Jesus, literally everywhere we turn, left and right, the second and third and fourth, and the five hundredth coming of Jesus Christ, and we preach repentance for the forgiveness of our separation, simply by turning and saying, “I am sorry. Forgive me!” “What can I do to help make it right?”
Again, I can completely understand why this is frightening. I would much rather Jesus Christ sweep in in a cloud of fire and glory and do this work himself. But the truth of the matter is, when you see Jesus in each and every other person, Jesus is sweeping in and doing that work in you. And guess what? If Jesus does that work in you, and each one of us, then all of those mountains get made just a little bit more low, and all of the valleys get raised up just a little bit more, and the pathway for the triumphal entry of God’s kin-dom finally begins to become less crooked and rough and choked, being smoothed out and straight.
Do you know how we will know when that has happened? Do you know how we will know when the second coming of Jesus Christ has been fulfilled?
When ALL FLESH see the salvation of God, and not one moment before.
If you want to see Christ, just look around. What are you going to do with him?
One of downtown’s homeless found her way into Eucharist, making her way toward the altar, claiming to be Jesus Christ.
The Dean “turned” to John, asking, “What should we do?”
His response, “Look busy!”
Amen.
