Today is "Gaudete Sunday," "Rejoicing Sunday," the one day in Advent when we're allowed to put aside our quiet waiting. It's the day for us to cry out in joyful anticipation of Jesus' coming birth. And yet, today our Gospel lesson is full of painful disappointment. John the Baptizer's plaintive words tug at my heart. “Are you the one,” the imprisoned John asks Jesus, “or are we to wait for another?” Reality is casting a shadow over John's expectations, too.
I can imagine the wild, impetuous John the Baptizer in prison, his camel’s hair robe in tatters and his long hair sticking out in all directions. His strident preacher’s voice has turned to dark, silent introspection. His head is down on his shaking knees, and his once-pointing fingers hang limp at his sides. He had set out to bring his people closer to the saving God of the swirling desert sands. He had preached the dawning of a better age, an age of freedom from sin and from oppression. He promised swift, decisive judgment on God's part. He expected divine intervention in this sinful world. He awaited a God who would come to earth with power and great glory. And yet, here he is in prison—captive to the whims of the self-absorbed King Herod and his greedy court. John's disappointment and doubt are palpable. Where is cousin Jesus, in whom John has placed so much hope? Why isn’t Jesus doing anything about King Herod? Why doesn’t he use his power now, before it's too late? What is he waiting for?
We can all probably identify with John's feelings. Who hasn't asked for God to "stir up God's power," like our collect says, and DO something about a predicament in which we find ourselves? Who hasn't felt that stab of disappointment in God's seeming inability to act with more clarity? Who hasn't asked of Jesus, "Are you truly for real? Or am I just a fool to trust you?"
Preachers like me would love to be able to offer clear, firm answers to explain God's ways. When I was first studying theology as a young girl, I actually thought that I could figure out the answer to the problem of evil, the paradox of a loving God who somehow allows creation to suffer. But philosophy and theology fall short every time when confronted with human suffering. Today, I can only point you to the response that Jesus gives to his cousin John. Jesus doesn't give John a theology lecture on the ways of God. He doesn’t give John a blueprint of what will happen later in the crucifixion and resurrection. Jesus also doesn't give him a pep talk. Nor does he shame John for his question. Jesus' response isn't, “John, old cousin, get a grip. How dare you question the Son of God!” No, without promising certainty, Jesus simply refers to the healing acts promised in Isaiah 35, acts that others have observed in Jesus' presence.
I love the way preacher Barbara Brown Taylor puts it: Jesus' answer to John's question turns John and his disciples around so that they aren't looking at Jesus, but at some of the people who followed Jesus around. "It was a gimpy, twitching group, sure enough, but they were more whole than they had ever been in their lives." Ragged, blind beggars gained their sight. Outcast lepers found wholeness and healing. Stinking corpses took up their lives and paralyzed people took up their mats and walked. Jesus brought about God's Kingdom not through a decisive, cataclysmic intervention, but through changing one, unglamorous life after another. Jesus carries out his ministry one tiny reversal at a time. While John had expected a "tidal wave of a Messiah," what John got instead was "a steady drip of mercy from a man named Jesus, in whom plenty of people saw no Messiah at all."[1]
The image of a steady drip of mercy reminds me of the starfish story. After a storm, hundreds of starfish were washed up on a beach, dying in the sun. A man threaded his way through the creatures, bending over again and again to throw one back in the sea as he made his way along the sand. Passersby laughed at the futility of the man's gesture. They sniggered, "Do you think you're making any difference, with hundreds of starfish out here?" The man leaned over and threw another starfish into the tide. "Made a difference to that one!" he cried out.[2]
Like John the Baptizer, we might never know the final outcome of our actions. We might go to our graves with our questions, our disappointments, and our doubts. And yet, each time we shake the status quo, or peel back whatever covers the truth, or sprinkle love into dark corners, we can know that our tiny reversals, too, are a participation in the kingdom of heaven. We are following a Lord whose power is in quiet transformation, one life at a time.
Later in the service today, we'll be lifting up our "St. Ambrose saints-of-the-year." It's fitting that we celebrate our parish feast day by calling attention to one or two individuals in our community. When I first came to St. Ambrose, I was worried about this custom. It could be used to lift up the most powerful among us, or the richest, or the most pious, or the loudest. And that wouldn't be Jesus' way. It's good that we don't spend our feast day recounting the glorious past or puffing ourselves up over the present. Instead, we point away from the mystery that is God in Jesus Christ. We point instead to a couple of us who are following Jesus around. Holding up one or two members of this community, we can remember, "This year, because of their unique presence among us, we can rejoice that Jesus is Lord." And then, together, we join John the Baptizer, pointing the way as best we can to Jesus and his Kingdom.
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