Preacher par Excellence

 

Jesu Juva

St. Mark 1:1-8                                                       

December 10, 2023

Advent 2B                        

 Dear saints of our Savior~

          Just in case you missed the big wreath hanging from the ceiling, or the sky-blue paraments, or even the two trees behind me—you know you’re deep in the heart of Advent when John the Baptizer shows up.  Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight. 

          John is our guest preacher every Advent.  He preaches not from the pulpit, but from the wilderness, draws us to the water of baptism, pointing his prophetic finger at Jesus, imploring us to behold the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world.  And that’s it.  That’s all John is good for—preparing a royal highway of repentance.  John is part bulldozer and part chainsaw—a bit of a “bomb-thrower” we might say today—leveling the high places and filling in the low places, making the uneven ground level and the rough places a plain.

          St. Mark introduces John in his typical barebones style, with two words:  John appeared.  John’s appearance out of nowhere marks a transition from old to new, from prophetic time to the fullness of time—the dawning kingdom of God.  He’s cut from the same cloth as the prophets of old.  His clothing evokes images of Elijah.  He even appears in the same spot from which Elijah was whisked away to heaven in a fiery chariot.  John is Malachi’s “messenger” who goes before the Lord to prepare His way.  He is Isaiah’s “voice” calling in the wilderness.  He is God’s final word . . . before the coming of the Word made Flesh.

          John may be standing with the prophets of the past, but his finger and his focus are fixed on the future.  He doesn’t come like Moses—with commandments and sacrifices—but he comes with a baptism (something new!), a washing of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.  This is how the way of the Lord gets prepared.  Not by making a list and checking it twice—not by pious platitudes and feeble attempts at being a “better Christian,” but by baptismal repentance.

          John calls us away from our false securities, our false identities, our false gods, and all the ways we try to justify ourselves and prove that we’re better than everyone else.  He exposes all our religious bargaining, by which we try to bribe God and manipulate Him so that He does our bidding.  John will have none of that.  It doesn’t matter whether you are a priest or a prostitute, a teacher of the Law or a tax collector.  It doesn’t matter whether you a part of the religious elite or just the riff-raff on the margins.  John is no respecter of persons or reputations.  His message is the same:  Repent, for after me comes he who is mightier than I.

          In many ways John is the patron saint of pastors and preachers.  He shows the way for the rest of us mumbling bumblers.  John’s the master—the mentor—the pastor/preacher par excellence.  His singular devotion to duty is marvelous.  I said earlier that he wasn’t good for much besides preaching and baptizing.  That’s true for a lot of us pastors:  We can’t rebuild your transmission or clean your teeth or do your taxes.  Our “wheelhouse” is a rather small structure.  We’re not qualified to do anything other than prepare the way of the Lord.    

          It’s a good thing John showed up when and where he did—out in the middle of nowhere.  Because today we’d ignore him, lock him up, or write him off as a religious extremist.  The FBI, the CIA, and the NSA would all be surveilling.  He’d be banned from social media for defying community standards.  Best construction?  John’s an oddball lacking in sensitivity, in people skills, in social graces.  Look at what he’s wearing!  Camel’s hair and leather.  Look at what he eats!  Locusts and wild honey.  That was unusual behavior even by the standards of the First Century.  Today we wouldn’t know what to do with him.

          But let me suggest this when it comes to John:  Learn from him.  He’s the best at what he does.  And what he does is teach us to live in Advent—in the hope and expectation of our Lord’s coming.  He’s in the world but not of the world.  His cares and concerns are elsewhere.  He doesn’t worry about what he will eat or what he will wear—unlike all of us.   No need for closets full of clothes.  Locusts and wild honey are his daily bread.  John is the fast before the feast.  He is Advent before Christmas.

          Go ahead and let John make you uncomfortable.  (Technically, that’s my job; but John’s much better at it than me.  He’s the preacher par excellence.)  Let John’s laser-like focus remind you of just how distracted you are—how lazy and complacent you can be—of how much you focus on the things of this world—of just how badly you want to fit in with this world—while ignoring things eternal and the life of the world to come.  Let John expose your anxiety for what it really is—a staggering lack of faith that the Lord will provide.

          The thing about John that makes us most uncomfortable is that he dares to preach the law of God in its full severity—that he preaches a God with a winnowing fork who burns chaff with unquenchable fire and cuts down trees that don’t bear good fruit.  We’d rather not hear that sort of thing; and, honestly, it’s not a lot of fun to preach it. 

          But if repentance doesn’t get preached and heard, then you won’t be prepared.  Prepared hearts are hearts that have been plowed through, turned over, and broken up by the Law.  A broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise.  We need to know just how deep the sickness of our sin really goes.  (By the way, it goes death deep.)  The Law needs to pull down our most cherished idols and bring our hearts to despair, so that we can be ready to receive the tender comfort of our God, in Christ.  

          Listen to John.  Learn from him.  Soak up the sounds of this Advent preacher as he calls us to repentance.  You can’t save the world.  But you can repent of your idolatries and your adulteries.  You can’t heal the brokenness of your family.  You can’t build the church.  You can’t rescue our nation from violence and unrest.  But you can repent of your faithlessness to your family and to your church, and all the ways you duck and dodge your civic duties.  Listen—listen to that voice crying in the wilderness.  Repent.

          St. Mark describes this whole scene as, “the beginning of the gospel of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.”  And this is where the gospel always begins.  It always begins with preaching and baptism.  That’s where the good news begins for each of us.  The Word of God has reached your ears, bringing forth repentance and faith.  You have been baptized into Christ, filled with the Holy Spirit.  You have confessed your sins.  And those sins are forgiven through the Savior’s blood shed on His holy cross.  Your iniquity is pardoned.

          What John did back then—the preaching and the baptizing—is still going on today here in the church.  We’re all standing in John’s sandals here this morning. We have been prepared by Christ . . . even as we prepare the world for Christ.  Like John, we’re not terribly fashionable—not in-step with the world or the times.  Confessing sins, being absolved, hearing the Word, eating and drinking the Lord’s body and blood, loving and serving our neighbor.  That’s what we do here.  But as far as the world is concerned, we might as well be eating bugs.  No wonder the world thinks we’re losers.

          But John, I think, would approve.  You have been gifted by God to join the ranks of those like John who have lost their lives in Jesus—who are nothing in themselves so that Christ might be everything.  It turns out, the way of the Lord is a very straight path—a highway that leads directly to the cross and the tomb, and then on to resurrection.  And that’s where you’re headed—by grace, through faith in Jesus Christ, the Son of God.

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