Welcome to the Wilderness

Jesu Juva
St. Matthew 3:1-12
December 8, 2019
Advent 2A

Dear Saints of Our Savior~

6021 North Santa Monica Boulevard. That’s where we are. This has been our location since the late 1940s. Before that, there was a time when the saints of Our Savior worshipped right down the street at Richards School. And our original location was a building on Silver Spring Drive. You know what they say: Location, location, location, right?

On this Second Sunday of Advent John the Baptizer always comes calling. He’s quite a character: a little eccentric, somewhat uncivilized, kind of quirky. He’s unemployed. He’s unmarried. He’s unkempt, to put it kindly—long hair, weird diet, his only clothing made of camels’ hair. And, perhaps most troubling of all is his location: John lives in the wilderness. He’s off the grid somewhere in the Judean desert.

Turning his back on both city and village, John’s ministry takes place in the wilderness. The Judean backcountry is his bedroom—the desert his dining room. Scorpions keep him company. Although John was born from a priestly line, yet, his temple is under the sun, his altar is the Jordan River, and his vestments made of animal skin. Even though he’s the grand finale of the Old Testament prophets and—as Jesus said—the greatest man ever born of woman, John spits in the face of flattery, deeming himself unworthy to even carry the Messiah’s sandals with his sinful fingers.

My fellow city-slickers, welcome to the wilderness of Advent. John calls us to leave behind civilization with all its distractions and temptations. He wants us to hear the warning he heralds. He wants us to follow his bony finger that’s always busy pointing at the One who is to come. John is the Advent man, preparing you for the coming of the Christ. One writer suggested that a psychiatrist might diagnose John as a monomaniac—someone with an excessive interest or an irrational preoccupation with one subject (kind of like my labradoodle gets whenever I shake the bag of treats). But for John, it’s all about Jesus.

But why the wilderness? What’s so appealing about the desert? Why force folks to hike for miles through unforgiving territory, under a blazing sun, to hear what you have to say? Why not set up shop in a more civilized suburb, or at least set up a soap box on a street corner? What’s up with the wilderness? C’mon John! Where are we supposed to get our venti, coconut milk, extra hot, no-foam, chai lattes with vanilla syrup and cinnamon sprinkles?

But honestly, John had no choice in the matter. Seven centuries earlier the prophet Isaiah was already pointing ahead to John as, “the voice of one crying in the wilderness.” Of course, God’s people had been in the wilderness before. It had taken a full forty years of wilderness wandering for the Israelites to make it to the Promised Land. Now John was calling them back into that unforgiving location.

Civilization, it turns out, is overrated. Civilized sinners are too easily duped by demons into believing the most outlandish lies. This is why we need to get out—to make an Advent escape into the wilderness. Leave behind that place where you are so easily deceived into believing that your career is your life—that your family is your life—that your possessions are your life—that your grades define you—or that social media defines you. (No Wi-Fi in the wilderness.) Leave “civilization” behind, where urban planning has made pleasure into a god—and where death masquerades as life.

John’s Advent call into the wilderness isn’t just a call to get back to nature. He’s not calling us to go camping. That would be easy. It is, rather, a call to come and stand coram Deo. Coram Deo is one of those handy Latin phrases; and it means “in the presence of God.” Just you. You and God. Mano a Deo. To stand coram Deo requires you to empty your pockets, your purse, your hands. You have to let go of all the non-essentials and extras—especially your good works and even your church membership. Do not presume to say to yourselves, ‘We have Martin Luther as our father,’ for God is able from stones to raise up children for Martin Luther.

Standing in the wilderness, coram Deo, is both clarifying and terrifying. We quickly see how comfortable we’ve become with our love of money, how good we are at blaming and shaming other people, and how easy we are on ourselves. In the wilderness, coram Deo, you begin to see the real desert of your own heart, which is filled only with the monsters of your sin. In the wilderness there’s only dust and dirt. That dust and dirt points to your beginning . . . and to your end: Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Coram Deo, pride evaporates, hands are emptied, hearts are broken, and parched voices can only pray, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.”

Welcome to the wilderness. It is, in fact, a very good place to be. It’s a great location. One universal truth about the wilderness is that life is found where there is water—only where there is water. Thankfully, the one who calls us here isn’t just called “John,” but “John the Baptizer.” He’s the water-guy. John drags you out of the civilization of sin, into the wilderness of repentance, to lead you ultimately to the river of life. And once he’s got you to the water, he’s done his job. For right there, standing in that eight-sided oasis is your Savior, Jesus Christ. John just points. And you know what he says: Behold the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world—who takes away your sin—who died to give you life.

That font, or one like it, is where you first stood coram Deo—where the sinful monster inside you was exorcised, and God the Holy Trinity named you and claimed you as His own dear child. Our Lord has located Himself right there, in that precious liquid of life. Jesus Christ suffered the unquenchable fire of His Father’s wrath on the cross, as your sacred substitute. But the blood He shed quenches the fiery wrath that you deserve, and brings instead absolution, compassion, and comfort for all who trust in Him.

Welcome to the wilderness. It probably didn’t even occur to you this morning as you schlepped to church that your destination was the desert. Here in this place you are called coram Deo. All you are required to pack along on this trip are your sins for confession and absolution. Your wilderness preacher might not have much leather on today, but I’m pointing you to the same salvation and the same Savior that John did. In this wilderness your provisions are few, but they are all you need: the Word of God, the liquid of life, and a meal of our Lord’s body and blood for the forgiveness of sins. You are never more Coram Deo than you are when you kneel at this Communion rail.

From here, it’s back to the “civilized” world out there. But we leave here different than we arrived. To stand coram Deo always changes us. Our broken hearts are now full—full of faith and hope and love. Our ears have heard the truth proclaimed and the devil’s lies exposed. Now we have clarity and comfort—and the confidence that we are in Christ’s keeping—that our location is with Him—now and forever.

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.