Advent 3, Year C
Well, fellow vipers … My first time to
stand here in this pulpit, and wild-eyed John the Baptizer is calling us “Viper
spawn!” When I hear John’s words, I don’t picture myself clothed in the scaly
indifference of a well-fed schoolroom snake. Being from the Gulf Coast, I picture
myself as part of a nest of baby water moccasins. I imagine a whole community
of those small black vipers, tightly entwined under a dock in murky lake water
somewhere: A dark tangle lying silently in wait for a hapless victim to wade
into its poisonous nest. The brood of vipers seems to me a perfect image of my fear:
of churning, writhing, hidden, dark, deadly fear. Fear of God, fear of messing
up, fear of others, fear of death, fear of life … all cowering beneath the water’s
surface, all fleeing from a wrath of my own devising.
Kids, what does your fear look like? Like
snakes? Or all weak and bug-eyed like the cartoon Fear guy in the movie Inside Out? If you have crayons or a
pencil, I invite you to draw or write your image of fear in the space on the
paper in your clipboard. Once you’ve drawn a good “fear” picture, just hang
onto your paper and I’ll tell you what to do next.
While the kids are drawing, we do have to
wonder: What’s with all this fear talk, anyway? Isn’t today Gaudete Sunday? Isn’t
it the joyful day of the Pink Candle? Kids, that’s what we learned when we made
our Advent wreaths, right? That today we’re putting a smile on our serious
Advent faces. We’re celebrating! Christmas is almost here! The waiting for
Jesus is almost over! So why does our Gospel lesson burden us with fear and
wrath and judgment? Can we really be saying, “Rejoice! You brood of vipers!”
As a matter of fact, it’s not just John. Even
our other bright and joyful readings today are lifted from dark backgrounds.
The entire book of Zephaniah is full of scary, depressing poetry that makes
John the Baptist sound tame. The prophet Zephaniah spends whole chapters
telling the people of Israel how rotten they are—and yet he ends with the beautiful, hopeful words
that we hear today. The prophet Isaiah, too, is full of doom and gloom in the
chapters surrounding today’s hope-filled verses. And then the apostle Paul, with his “Rejoice
in the Lord always?!” He’s writing from a dank, dark Roman prison cell, far
from his beloved Philippians.
Our rejoicing is never completely separate
from our sorrow, is it? Even as we rejoice with hearts overflowing before the
birth of a child, there are the aches and pains of pregnancy. I remember well
the waves of fear for the health my unborn children, the worries over the
changes that a baby would bring to my life. Expectant joy, mixed with worry and
pain. The light of the world, born in the dismal shadows of a stable. Moments
of joy seem to rise upward out of the gray everyday world, like the glorious body
of Christ, reaching out from a simple loaf of bread.
To rejoice in the Lord seems to be a
choice. A chosen response. A hopeful response. A response that moves our bodies
and quickens our souls. There’s a recent helpful article from the Washington
Post called, “Fifteen Things to do When the World Feels like a Terrible Place.”[1] The author suggests that a
series of small actions will bring welcome light to our dark fears about
terrorism and racism and refugees and natural disasters. Buy socks for the
homeless, she suggests. Give away those extra clothes in your closet. Be kind
to those who serve you. Share food. Visit an animal shelter. Honesty, kindness,
simple things. Easy things, really. “Do what you can,” she states to end her
list. Amazingly, it works!
What’s interesting to me is that this
quest for finding joy in the midst of life’s darkness seems to parallel the
quest of the crowds in Luke’s Gospel to find favor with God. Do we decide to
repent in the same small ways that we choose to live with joy?
When the brood of vipers comes out from
under the dock and asks John the answer to their predicament, notice what the Baptizer
tells them. John doesn’t tell them to grovel before God on their knees. He
doesn’t tell them to believe a certain way or to do impossible tasks. His
advice is surprisingly simple: in order to turn your life around, share your
things—give away that extra coat or some of the food from that full cupboard. Tax
collectors were members of a dishonest profession in John’s day, a profession
full of Jews who collaborated with the hated Roman oppressors. Notice that John
doesn’t even require that the tax collectors give up their cushy, lucrative
jobs. “Just don’t cheat anybody,” John advises. Really, is that all? And the
soldiers, probably Jews forced into the army by the Romans, shouldn’t they be
required to rise up and refuse to fight? To kill their generals in the Name of
Israel’s God? No, nothing like that! “Just be satisfied with your wages,” John
tells them, “and don’t use your power to throw your weight around.”
That’s pretty basic stuff, isn’t it? Kids,
isn’t that just the kind of stuff that your parents and teachers talk about all
the time? Share your stuff. Don’t cheat. Be honest. Be kind. Work hard. Do what
you can.
Now, what I want the kids to do is to draw
a picture or write a story underneath your fear picture. I want you to show
yourself or your family doing what you can to be kind. Making a choice to live
joyfully. The kids and moms who came to bake Christmas cookies last week for an
ill parishioner did what they could. It wasn’t hard at all. Actually, it was
rather fun! What are some other things that you have done, or could you do, to
grow your joy? Just something tiny. Something simple. God doesn’t ask us only
to do hard things. No kindness is too small to make God rejoice.
Indeed. God rejoices. Even over a
brood of vipers! Listen to the prophet Zephaniah speaking to his wayward people:
“God will rejoice over you with gladness; he will renew you in his love; he
will exult over you with loud singing as on a day of festival.” God singing
about me! Can you imagine? Throwing a huge party for me like the one that the
Father gave for his prodigal son? That’s our real reason to rejoice. God
rejoices over us, even when we disappoint God. Even when we hide in fear. Pope
Francis wrote this past week: "Let us set aside all fear and dread, for
these do not befit men and women who are loved. Instead, let us experience the
joy of that grace that transforms all things."[2]
Kids, fold your papers now to cover up
the fear picture with the picture of love. I invite you to put it in the
offering plate later. You don’t need to put your name on it. But remember, as
you offer your work up to God, that you are loved: by God, by your parents, by
all of us here at St. Andrew’s. And love is the one thing that is always
stronger than fear.
Adults, you too. Let’s cover up that nasty water moccasin
image with some true joy. Let’s put this image in its place: Years ago, I was
serving as chalice bearer and watched a toddler from the congregation come up
for communion. Confident
in the love that upheld him on every side, the boy stood teetering on tiptoe at
the rail, waiting patiently for the Cup of God that floated above his determined
gaze. Like a master painter mixing perfect colors for a creation of love, he
slowly swished the wafer back and forth across the wine’s deep purple, watching
it fill with God’s presence just for him. As he finished, this tiny boy whispered
a solemn “Amen,” and his baby face was lit by a burst of pure pleasure. As he
turned to walk back down the aisle, he did a little happy jig, just for a second,
as if he were unabashedly dancing with unseen angels. Time stopped. This little
child was rejoicing in the Lord. Rejoicing because he knew how much he was
loved.
So just do what you can. “Let your gentleness be known to
everyone. And the peace [and love] of God, which surpasses all understanding,
will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” Amen.
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