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Sermons at Saint Mary's
The Third Sunday of Advent They were two men. In the end, they were no more or less than this. The momentous events swirling around them made them seem larger than life. Their motives, their personal beliefs, their character, all of it was up for grabs in the public eye. The masses fed off their celebrity and their circumstances. But they were simply two men, no more, no less. Nearly identical in age, their social backgrounds ran on parallel tracks. They came from notable families with a proven pedigree. From an early age, their personal destinies were meticulously charted. They were marked for greatness. That much was certain. For a long time, it seems, they were able to pursue their own paths, measuring their personal aspirations, living in their own orbits of influence. But then the day came when their paths converged. In such a way, that one’s star would have to diminish so that other’s could shine forth. Two men, on the world’s stage. And how they behaved would make all the difference. How they treated each other would mean everything. How they saw themselves in the light of destiny, in the light of truth, would affect the course of history. And friends, in this holy season, if we really want to know how God is made incarnate in our world, if we truly want to embrace the kind of humility and grace that will save us a people, we do well to look again at the two men of our Gospel as a model for us to emulate. The facts are hazy, but this much we know. John the Baptizer and Jesus were second cousins, close in age, raised in the same culture, the same religion, the same tribal practice. There is no record of them meeting each other when they were boys, but we read that, while both were in the womb, they quickened when their mothers Mary and Elizabeth met each other. So little is known of their formative years, but we can assume they both had a rigorous religious upbringing, schooled in the Torah, and reared in the faith of the synagogue. John was the first to leave home, perhaps much earlier than Jesus. His path was the way of Israel’s prophets. From Galilee, he traveled south into the arid desert of the Dead Sea, where tradition has it, he met up with the ascetics known as the Essenes. It was, indeed, a Spartan life for John. He lived off the land. A camel skin was his robe, locusts and wild honey and anything else he could forage was his daily bread. Like his predecessors, John railed against the injustices of a class system that favored the rich and powerful over the poor. He saw a new day coming, in which the tables would turn. The people must repent, he preached, they must turn their lives around, and prepare for the reign of God. Throngs came from near and far to hear John and receive his baptism of repentance at the Jordan River. For a considerable time, John’s star was on the rise, and from all quarters, came talk about the Baptizer being the Messiah, the long awaited One who had finally come to save his people. Now, as for Jesus, he stayed home much longer. Perhaps it was because his father Joseph had died, and as the oldest son, he was charged with the care of his mother Mary, and his younger siblings. It was not until his thirtieth year that Jesus left home. How and why he did we do not know exactly, but his path also took him to the desert. To the Jordan River, and to his cousin John. Jesus, to that date, had no following. He had no reputation. For all anyone knew, when he arrived at the Jordan, he was just another face in the crowd, just another pilgrim looking for redemption. And when he descended the river bank that momentous day, this is how he must have appeared to John. Yet, in his heart, John knew what was to be. Over against the deep urging of those around him, to accept the mantle of being the Savior of his people, over against the popular sentiment that he was indeed God’s Messiah, John knew that one more powerful than he was coming, one he was not worthy to stoop to untie his sandal, one who would baptize with the Holy Spirit and fire. Imagine John’s surprise, then, when instead of a conquering hero, instead of a majestic Messiah, instead of a mighty savior, John saw a dove from heaven descending and alighting on his very anonymous, very obscure, but very familiar cousin, Jesus. John, you see, was the first of millions of millions to recognize the Christ, to behold the Son of God. But think for a moment if he had hesitated, even for a moment, then none of us, not one of us, would know Jesus our Lord. “Behold the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world,” he cried out when he saw Jesus. And the world has never been the same. It was the first day of the ministry of Jesus, and the last day of John’s. Soon thereafter, John was arrested, imprisoned, and executed, his head cut off and placed on a platter to honor one of King Herod’s orgies. And this, my friends, is what true power is. True power is not what the world claims is to be. True power is not to claim the throne by coup d’etat. True power is not to ramrod oneself into the palace courts. Not to give into ambition. Not to be served but to serve. This kind of power is as the ancient Chinese proverb said, If you bow at all, bow low. True power, the kind of power that is made incarnate in this world, the kind of power that saves us, is made known in our frailty, our weakness, our vulnerability as human beings. “Stir up thy power and with great might come among us” we pray to God in our collect today. The power of God reveals itself in humility. In service. For God’s power is made manifest in our humanity. God’s power stirs up in us when we, like John the Baptist, receive the Incarnation as it comes to us in Jesus, a man, like you, like me, in whom the glory of God shines. top | home | site index |
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