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SERMON
(*Preacher's note: I freely acknowledge
my indebtedness to Fred Craddock and his sermon "Have You Ever Heard
John Preach?" on which this message was based.)
On this third Sunday in Advent we turn our attention to John the
Baptist – a man who has long been a fixture in the church's observation
of this season. In fact, the church has long held that dealing with John
the Baptist is somehow necessary if we're going to get Advent right. And
yet in ways both subtle and obvious, most Christians politely refuse to
let John come through the door. Think about it.
John the Baptist never appears in those manger scenes you see on
people's front lawns. Oh, once in a while people will slip a Santa Claus
into their display, but not John. I can't remember ever seeing John the
Baptist on a Christmas card. He's not mentioned in traditional carols. I
doubt that many people have a John the Baptist ornament on their tree;
nor does he appear on those Advent calendars that children use to mark
the approach of Christmas. This season is too full of angels, shepherds,
magi, sheep and cattle for us to have any room left for John. Maybe
we'll give him a seat in the back row, while filling the front rows with
all the regular characters of the season. Even so, John had better keep
quiet back there, lest he spoil our Christmas cheer.
Of course, that's just the problem: John is never quiet. Have you ever
heard John preach? He isn't quiet. He was a spectacle to behold and to
hear in his day. In fact, he was the most famous preacher of his
generation – more famous than his cousin Jesus. Even thirty years after
Jesus' death and resurrection, the apostles kept bumping into clutches
of people on three continents who were devoted followers of John, not
Jesus. In the Book of Acts we read the story about an eloquent preacher
from North Africa named Apollos. In his sermons he talked only about
John the Baptist and his baptism. So the apostle Paul had to bring him
up to speed as to who the real Messiah was. Once he was straightened out
on that point, Apollos did fine.
But the power that John the Baptist had over people's imaginations was
incredible. Have you ever heard John preach? Those who did could never
forget it. Most scholars agree that the Gospel according to the apostle
John was the last one to be written down – perhaps as much as fifty
years after Jesus' resurrection. Most of us are familiar with the
stunning opening lines: "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word
was with God and the Word was God." It's some of the most stirring
lyric poetry you'll ever read. Yet twice in those opening verses, the
apostle interrupts his song to insert the parenthetical qualifier:
"Now remember, I'm not singing about John the Baptist here. This ‘Word
of God' is Jesus, not John!" And you can assume the only
reason he had to make that so clear was because, even a half-century
later, there were still people who thought maybe John the Baptist was
the Christ.
We don't want to make that mistake, of course; but neither should we
overcompensate by blotting John out of the picture altogether. In our
lesson this morning you'll note that Mark took no interest in the story
of Jesus' birth. Mark was probably the first gospel to be written down,
and it completely ignores what we would call the Christmas story.
Instead, Mark wants us to get right down to business; and so in his
opening verse he writes: "The beginning of the gospel about Jesus
Christ, the Son of God." And what is that "beginning" according to
Mark? It's John the Baptist. We have to start here, says Mark, if we are
going to get off on the right foot. In the end you'll wind up at Jesus'
feet, acclaiming him Christ and God. But to get there, you have to deal
with John the Baptist first. Have you ever heard John preach? Mark says
you have to.
But John is not easy to listen to. We're about as eager to hear John
preach as we would be to listen to the hellfire-and-brimstone bellowing
of some sweaty revival preacher. Of course in John's case the first
thing you'd have to overcome is his appearance. He was dressed in
nothing but a camel hair tunic, held together by a leather strap around
his waist. The man never got a haircut. He didn't have a nicely cropped
little ponytail. And as far as his diet… Well, let's just say nobody
ever accepted John's invitation to a lunch of grasshoppers and honey.
John was an oddball, but he was also a live wire. All four gospels tell
us that people came out in droves to hear him. They went out to the
wilderness to watch this strange man hop up and down, call people names,
and urge them to turn their lives around in preparation for some
mysterious Great One who was coming – and coming soon. Have you ever
heard John preach? It was riveting stuff. The axe is laid to the root
of the tree… You brood of vipers… Baptism by fire… His winnowing fork is
in his hand… It got people's attention.
It shook people up, too. Luke tells us that there were times when John
worked up such a frenzied pitch, that everyone from mothers with small
children to strapping Roman centurions would cry out, "Good grief,
John! What are we supposed to do?" And John replied, in essence,
"Well, it's not rocket science, friends. It's really very simple. You
have two winter coats? Give one away to someone who has none. If you're
a tax collector, just be honest for pity sake and don't charge more than
is due. If you're a soldier, stop shaking people down for protection
money and just do your job honestly and above board. Be good," he
said. "Be nice. Be honest. Do your jobs well. Share what you have."
On one level it sounds about as obvious as what you could read in the
book Everything I Ever Needed to Know, I Learned in Kindergarten.
Yet somehow in this everyday advice was the secret to being prepared to
enter the kingdom of God as changed people.
Have you ever heard John preach? It's persuasive stuff – but it's
distressing, too, because of how hard it can be to really follow through
on what John said. "Be honest!" he said. Ah, but it's so much
easier to slide through life on the grease provided by a few little
white lies. "Be nice," he said. Oh, you don't know my co-workers.
They are just too nasty for me to bother being nice when I'm around
them. "Share what you have," he said. Let's not get crazy here.
Some people lack the basics because they're lazy – and that's not my
problem to fix, is it?
Imagine what John would say to that. He was not a man given to nuance or
shades of gray. John saw himself as the bearer of the bright light of
God's coming kingdom. However, too often we would rather live our lives
illuminated by the moral equivalent of a 25-watt bulb. In the shadows
afforded by the dim light of this world's values, we can all come off
looking pretty good. In that poor light you can't see very well, so you
don't need to worry much about the blemishes on your character. But then
John comes along with the blazing floodlight of God and he forces the
moment of truth on us. And if we start whining and finger-pointing, John
slaps his dirty hand right flat across our mouths.
"It's the government's fault," we say. "It's those church
leaders who did it to us." – "I didn't get a good education."
– "I've never gotten a break." – "My parents didn't raise me
right." – "My spouse doesn't understand me." – "I'm a
victim of circumstance." – "How come nobody ever feels sorry for
me?"
And John just tells us to put a lid on it. Have you ever heard John
preach? Makes you mad. "Stop your belly-aching," he yells. "This
is between you and God; and in that conversation there's just one
question to answer: have you repented? Have you shown God you're sorry
for the messes you've made, and have you therefore resolved to try
harder to bring some glory to God's name?" John shakes us up. John
reminds us of the place to which the road paved by good intentions
leads, and he tells us to start producing some fruit consistent with
repentance. That's tough. In our minds we serve God, but in reality it's
a tough go, isn't it? On Sunday we say, "This week I'm going to do
such-and-such good thing." But then the week slips by and we don't
do it. Or we say, "This week I'm not going to do that shameful thing
again." Then Monday afternoon around 2:30 we do it anyway.
Have you ever heard John preach? He levels the playing field. He tells
us that we all need the same thing. It's not just the crack addict who
wakes up on a urine-soaked mattress at 3:00 A.M. with a can of stale
beer and an ashtray full of cigarette butts next to him who needs the
Lord. Maybe that poor sap does need the Lord, but so do you! John
doesn't care who you are. You can be the decathlon champion at the
Olympics blubbering through the national anthem with a gold medal
swaying from your neck, or the wheelchair-bound person whose legs don't
work anymore. Both people need the same thing. It doesn't matter if your
investment portfolio is climbing all over the Dow or if you're the kind
of person for whom, if the paycheck is delayed a day, so is dinner that
night. You both need the same thing. It doesn't matter if you once bowed
your head to have a doctoral hood slipped around your neck, or if you're
53 years old and enrolled in a literacy class. You both need the same
thing. John knows that. John says that. John cuts to the heart and tells
you to repent, to check and double-check that you love the Lord, and
then to check and double-check that that love is not just so much pious
prattle but that this love makes a difference.
Have you ever heard John preach? It is properly clarifying. It realigns
everything the way ultimate moments of truth always do. You see it
sometimes on the news: somebody's house burns down, taking with it a
lifetime of precious heirlooms, family photo albums, all those
videotapes of birthday parties, and so many other treasures. But when
the reporter sticks a microphone under the father's nose, all he can say
is, "It doesn't matter. The main thing is that we all got out
safely." And he means it. Things happen and ultimate issues suddenly
loom large. The important things of life sometimes get lost in the
shuffle of doing laundry, getting groceries, dropping the kids off at
soccer practice. But at other times those ultimate issues loom on the
horizon of our hearts in ways we can't miss.
"This is the beginning of the gospel," says Mark. If it starts at
all, then it all starts here. The gospel begins not with the cry of a
baby in a manger – not when shepherds hear the angels sing – and
certainly not when the stockings are hung by the chimney with care, or
any other such cozy holiday image. Mark says that the gospel begins with
John. The gospel begins out in the wilderness, out in that place that,
throughout the Bible, is associated with danger and death. The
wilderness is not the place to go if you're looking for a good time. The
wilderness isn't safe. But Isaiah predicted it, and John the Baptist
fulfilled the promise, that it would be in the wilderness, the place of
death, where God would build a highway to new life. You go into the
wilderness to die, John says. But in your baptism, you not only drown,
you rise to new life.
Have you ever heard John preach? It's the most refreshing thing in the
world! It's new birth, gospel-style. It's a fresh start. It's good news.
It's like going to the doctor convinced you've got a tumor the size of a
basketball pressing on your abdomen only to be told that it's gas.
"Take some Tums and go home." It's a new start. It's good news! It's
like getting called into the boss's office convinced a pink slip was
coming, only to get promoted to head up a whole new department in the
firm. It's a turn-around – a reversal of fortune – good news. You get on
the phone and gush, "Honey, you won't believe this but…" And then
you go on to make her believe it because it's true.
John offered that – a new start – a fresh beginning. "The Messiah is
coming," he says. "He's coming soon and he's going to baptize you
in the life-giving waters of no less than the very Holy Spirit of God."
Don't misunderstand. None of this means that everything will become
instantly fine in your life. For instance, if you are celebrating
Christmas this year without a certain loved one who died since Christmas
last came and went, that's going to hurt. The gospel doesn't say it
shouldn't hurt, but only that through the hurt shines the light of
Christ. Even the gospel doesn't fix everything right now. Relationships
fracture. People up and die on us before we get the chance to say we're
sorry. It hurts. John the Baptist knew that. The One for whom John
prepared the way knows that, too. Jesus doesn't leave the room in
disgust if you find yourself weeping in front of the Christmas tree – as
though your sorrow is ruining his birthday. Instead, Jesus catches a
salty tear or two on the tip of his finger and quietly whispers, "I
know. I know. That's why I came in the first place."
John helps us to see and remember that. John takes a chainsaw to the
tinsel and glitter of it all. But he's not wrecking anything worth
keeping. He's building something more lasting, more real, more full of
the gospel. John is the beginning of the gospel of Jesus Christ, the Son
of God. It starts here or it starts nowhere. Because if it starts here,
the gospel will have some longevity to it. If it starts here, the gospel
can endure long after we put the decorations away on January 1. If it
starts here, the gospel will have depth to it even if we find ourselves
merely going through the motions this month because of how sad we feel
on the inside. If we start out right, we may finish right. And perhaps
between the start and the finish, our lives will bear the gospel fruit
of repentance, showing that we really do get it.
Have you ever heard John preach? If you haven't, you should. Because the
gospel tells us that the only way to get to Bethlehem is to travel
through the wilderness first. Well, that's not really true. You can get
to Bethlehem without going through the wilderness. But if you do, I'm
afraid that once you get there, you won't find Jesus.
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