3rd Sunday in Advent, Dec. 13th, Sermon by The Reverend Loree Reed

John 1: 6–8, 19–28
May the words of my mouth and the meditations of our hearts be acceptable in thy sight, O Lord our strength and our redeemer.

This morning our readings for this third Sunday of Advent are all about joy. But Advent joy is not the unrestrained, innocent joy of small children jumping up and down after receiving some gift. Advent joy is a more mature joy, a joy that has known sorrow before promises are fulfilled . . . has known darkness before light finally dawns . . . has known frost and cold before coming on a rose, unexpectedly blooming. That’s the kind of joy you and I know this Advent as effective vaccines are finally emerging after this long year of Covid pandemic, with many deaths, deep fear, endless wrangling about how best to manage the pandemic and sad isolation from family and friends. And that’s the kind of joy our readings this morning proclaim – a mature joy that has also known the dark side of things – and so is wiser and measured.
In a long poem, the prophet Isaiah proclaims the glory of the Lord, but in every line of that poem God’s glory is revealed not in and of itself but in contrast to some darker situation – when he relieves the deep sorrow of his people, for example; when he releases unjustly incarcerated prisoners; or when he comforts those who mourn. In other words, the glory of the Lord and the sorrow of his people seem to go hand in hand. It’s as if the bright light of God’s glory will best be seen when it’s contrasted to the dark suffering it comes to relieve.
Something similar is happening in Psalm 126. Though the people greet the Lord with great joy as he comes to restore their fortunes, they also remember the days when they went out into the fields sowing their seed weeping. In fact, their sorrow had once been so deep that now it’s hard for them to believe that their fortunes have finally turned and they will reap with songs of joy.
Similarly, when Saint Paul writes to the fledgling church at Thessalonica, telling them to ‘Rejoice always’ and ‘give thanks in all circumstances,’ he’s not writing as a kind of Pollyanna, breezily reassuring them that “everything will turn out just fine.” He knows this young church has already suffered hostility and persecution for their faith. He knows its members are discouraged and confused that the Lord hasn’t yet returned to earth to take them home, as they’d hoped and expected him to. And he knows they are not sure how much more persecution, how much more hostility and uncertainty they can handle. So his admonition to them – that they rejoice always – is given with his full understanding of the spiritual maturity he knows the advice requires. Yet he thinks they can do it, by the grace of God.
So maybe, given these earlier accounts of the glory of God that’s always connected to his peoples’ pain, his peoples’ sorrow and need – we shouldn’t be surprised to encounter John the Baptist this morning – presenting himself not as some great personage, but simply as a humble witness to his Lord’s preeminence. Priests and Levites, sent from the religious authorities at the Temple in Jerusalem, have come out to John baptizing at the Jordan to ask him who he thinks he is. It’s not a friendly question. The Temple authorities have heard that large crowds of people are coming out to the Judean wilderness to hear John preach and to be baptized by him in the Jordan. So they want to know by what authority he thinks he’s doing these things. Who does he think he is? And clearly, when they ask for his accounting of his authority, they’re thinking in terms of worldly personages arrayed in gold brocade, of a Lord that’s high and lifted up whose robe fills the Temple. A humble answer is the last thing they expect.
But a humble answer is what they get, for as he answers them with one negative confession after another – “ I am not this and not that, not what you expect – John refuses to assert any sense of self–importance. Rather, because he knows the humble Lord he serves, he declares that no, he is not the Messiah . . . and not Elijah, either. Nor is he a prophet like Moses, long ago promised to the Children of Israel.
“So who are you, then?” the priests and Levites demand. What they expect, of course, is for John to claim some important role for himself – as the herald of the Most High God. But John refuses to satisfy their expectations. The Lord he serves is not the high and lifted up personage the priests and Levites expect. Rather, he is himself a humble Lord, one who is coming to serve the needs of others, to serve the common good. And John, his herald, strikes the very same note.
“I am simply the Preparer of the Way,” he says, “the one announcing that the Light of the World is finally dawning.”  And the priests and Levites have to be satisfied with an answer they do not yet understand. For it is all John will give them.
What they fail to understand is the joy John finds in lovingly, obediently following his Lord’s commands, as he sacrifices his own self–importance to the greater glory of God. For make no mistake about it, John is making a sacrifice here. But it’s a sacrifice that leads to joy.
It’s the joy of a man who goes every week to the state prison to lead the inmates in a Bible study – because he says that somehow he always receives more than he has given. It’s the joy of a woman who serves at her church’s food pantry every time they open up the doors – because she says she feels closer to Jesus there than she does just sitting in church. It’s the joy you and I know making small sacrifices of love for our children, or for friends or neighbors because we’re caught up in how blessed, loved and accepted we are.
It makes no sense at all – in worldly terms – but giving ourselves away in love always leads to joy. And this is the joy of Advent.
Amen
 
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