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Mark 1: 1–8
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May the words of my mouth and the meditations of our hearts be
acceptable in thy sight, O Lord our strength and our redeemer.
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Each week when I was in seminary someone would preach at our Wednesday
afternoon service. Sometimes it was one of us seminarians – and
mercifully, most of those awkward first attempts are now just indistinct
memories. But sometimes some graduate of the Episcopal Studies Program
would come in – someone who was already out at a church, ordained
and preaching every week. And, of course, their sermons were much better
than any of our fledgling attempts.
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The sermon I remember most vividly was given by a graduate named Jane
Dorr, then a transitional deacon. And the line I remember from her
sermon is this: “With every step we take in life,” she
said, “we know if we’ve taken a step closer or farther away
from home.” That one line has stayed with me over the
years as one of the truest things I’ve ever heard. And maybe it
registered so deeply because I can’t exactly explain why I know it
is true. Its truth lies deeper than mere words can reach. Of course,
the “home” she was talking about is the home we all have in
God, who created us, who knows us best. It’s as if, like
migratory birds, we have some built–in instinct that remembers
where we came from and — every so often — quickens the
summons to come home, to come back to our true Source, our true Sustainer.
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So it’s no wonder that the exiles in Babylon, six centuries before
the birth of Jesus, were excited when, through the prophet Isaiah, the
Lord called them to come home. For they understood he was calling them
back to himself as well as back to Jerusalem. And now they knew the
value of that summons.
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Seventy years earlier they hadn’t been listening. They had
ignored God’s law. They’d taken his blessings for granted.
And they’d turned a deaf ear to his prophets. So the Babylonians
defeated their nation, devastated the holy city of Jerusalem, leveled
God’s temple and drove the Israelites 600 miles across the rough
desert to live as slaves in captivity. Then, finally, God’s people
realized their mistake and they longed for home. They sang the old
songs. They told their children the old, old stories. And they cried.
In Psalm 137 the Psalmist says,
By the rivers of Babylon –
there we sat down and wept
when we remembered Zion . . . .
If I forget you, O Jerusalem,
Let my right hand wither!
If I do not set Jerusalem above my highest joy.
Psalm 137
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So now, when God through Isaiah calls the exiles home they realize what
a great gift they are being given. God is not only forgiving them and
giving them another chance, he is promising to accompany them on the
trip back home – as a strong, tender shepherd leads his flock. He
will gather up all who stumble and fall, all who are sick, all who labor
and are heavily burdened, all who are lonely and homesick. He will carry
them and protect them from all harm. In fact, this is the mercy at the
very heart of God. Forgiveness and grace. Mercy and strength.
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Now it’s one thing to come home, to come back to God when you know
you’ve been away – as the exiles in Babylon knew they’d
been away. They knew the enormity of the grace they’d been given.
And their joy matched their gratitude. But it’s quite another to
come back to God, to come home, when you’ve barely realized
you’ve been away.
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That’s where the people were who came out to the Judean desert to
hear John the Baptist preach. They didn’t realize how far
they’d wandered from God. For they’d been going through the
motions of worshipping Him all their lives — going to the Temple a
couple of times each year, keeping as much of the Law as seemed
reasonable to them.
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But now they were hearing something different in this man’s words,
something new and deeply compelling. So even if they had come only out
of curiosity – even if they’d come only to mock him and
jeer – once they heard John’s strong, comforting message
they realized in what direction home lay – and they left their
skepticism with their tunics and shoes on the banks of the
Jordan – as they waded into the waters to be baptized and have
their hearts transformed.
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That’s why, in our lectionary readings every Advent season we
return to the strong, tender message of John the Baptist.
Tender? Yes, tender. For this too is the mercy that lies at
the heart of God – to craft a strong message – as strong as
it needs to be to get through to us. Repent. Rethink things. Change
your mind. Come home. For like everyone else who comes to hear John
the Baptist, we barely know how far away we’ve wandered –
and we need the course correction. Our exile isn’t just
geographical. Or maybe it’s not geographical at all. It’s
an exile of the heart. It takes some humility to admit that. But to
come back to your own heart, your own Source, the truest self you’ve
ever known – is to come home to God. And know his
peace . . . know his
joy . . . know a new beginning.
That’s the opportunity Advent affords us, every year.
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Come home this Advent season. And hear the angels rejoicing.
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Amen
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