Sermon for December 13, 2020 - The Sixth Sunday of Advent - Year B - The Rev Jeffrey W. Mello

Isaiah 61:1—4, 8—11, Psalm 126, John 1:6—8, 19--28  

Ww were probably less than a month into this pandemic when I had already tired of the word “unprecedented” as an adjective to describe the time through which we are currently living.  

Yes, the particular details of the trials and tribulations of our day may, some of them, be new to the scene, but the overall anxiety, exhaustion and longing for God to break in and deliver all of God’s creation?  That is all as old as creation itself.

Just listen to the song of the Psalmist and tell me we have not been at this a while:

“Those who sowed with tears will reap with songs of joy.  Those who go out weeping, carrying the seed will come again with joy shouldering their sheaves.”

The hope described so eloquently by the Psalmist and writers of Isaiah is a hope we know well.  The need to endure current pain with the vision of a future joy is a need shared by every generation before us.

When a vaccine is readily available, then will we be like those who dream.

When racial justice flows, like the watercourses of the Negev, then will the prophets’ vision be lived reality.

What exhausts me, what leaves me wondering about what good my weeping is doing, is when I forget what my role in all of this is meant to be.  What’s my job in this unprecedented time, and am I doing it correctly?

In John’s Gospel, the story of John the Baptist isn’t about camel hair and locusts.  It is about the Baptist’s place in the restoration of God’s creation.  It is about who the Baptist is.  And it is about who the Baptist is not.

As the religious leaders come to see and hear this prophet who is baptizing followers in the river Jordan, John is quick to point out that they have the wrong person.  

“I am not the Messiah,” John says, cutting off their line of questioning.  “Elijah?”  “No.”  “The Prophet.” “No.”

John is clear about who he is not.  And who he is.  “I am the voice of one crying out in the wilderness, prepare a path for God.”

I am the voice of one, John says.  Not the Messiah, not the Prophet, but the voice of one.

A favorite saying of mine is, “There is only one Messiah.  And you’re not it.”  

They say preachers are drawn to stories they need to hear.

There is only one Messiah, and I’m not it and, my friends, neither are you.

It is hard, even on a good day, not to get pulled into a little Messiah Complex.  How ego satisfying it is to be the one who saves another.  

Many clergy wrestle with this particular demon.  To make matters worse in my case, I was a social worker first.  Nothing felt better than finding a detox bed for a client, especially when they said none could be found.  

My supervisor, when I did my hospital chaplaincy for seminary, had his work cut out for him with me.  Moving from Social Work to Chaplaincy, without my binder full of resources under my arm as I entered a patient’s room, I felt completely lost, and often utterly useless.  

How often did this patient supervisor need to remind me, “Jeff, don’t just do something.  Stand there.”

We have a Messiah.  And I’m not it.  And neither are you.

It is not your job to save the world all on your own.  It isn’t even your job to save your family, or your small business, or your classroom, or your clinic, not on your own.

Our jobs are not to make God happen as much as they are to let God happen.

We aren’t to be the ONE, but one of many who, together, let God happen, as God aches to, as God will. 

We aren’t God, but we are meant to construct those paths that are needed for God and God’s beloved children to meet.

Make the path, John tells his followers.  Clear the way.  Remove the obstacles.  Level the playing field.  That is the work.  That, and to be one voice of many crying in the wilderness.

I know that any success I had as a Social Worker intervening in a life to make a change for the better, wasn’t ever mine to claim, of course.  

It was God’s.  And it was the client’s.  It was the client saying “yes” to an invitation from God.  On a good day, maybe I yelled a bit in the wilderness a bit on their behalf, or moved a stone or two out of the way. On a good day, I stopped trying to be the Messiah, got out of the way, and pointed others in that direction.

If you are feeling defeated, exhausted or overwhelmed by the enormity of the responsibilities on your shoulders or the tasks the lay ahead of you, I ask you to answer the questioners from today’s Gospel for yourself.  Who are you?  Are you the Messiah?  Are you Elijah?  Are you the Prophet?”

No?  Good.  But you’re not off the hook entirely.

Will you be a voice of one crying out in the wilderness?  God needs you to be.

Will you do everything in your power to make the path between God and God’s children a path that is open and free from obstacles, so rather than trying to make God happen you might let God happen?  The ability for God to to reach us, and for us to reach God, depends upon it.

The day is coming, closer with each passing minute, that our current weeping will be turned to joy.   That all the seeds that are being planted in our lamenting, watered by our exhausted tears, will be sheaves of joy across our shoulders.

And until that day arrives, follow St. Paul’s encouragement to Rejoice always; to Give thanks in all circumstances; to Pray without ceasing.  Follow John the Baptist and be the voice of one crying in the wilderness.  

Until God comes, keep preparing the way, and let God happen anyway.

AMEN.1

1 While all direct and indirect quotes are always cited, there are sources I read regularly in preparation for sermon writing.  Chances are thoughts have been spurred by these sources and so I list the usual suspects here:  David Lose, In the Meantime, The New Interpreters Bible, Sacra Pagina