A Reflection on Matthew 11:2-11 for Advent
Poet and songwriter Leonard Cohen
writes, “The blizzard of the world has crossed the threshold and it has
overturned the order of the soul.” If we listen closely to the words of John
the Baptist that begin our Gospel reading this morning, “Are you the one who is
to come, or are we to wait for another?” we hear what sounds like a simple
question. But swirling just beneath the surface of his question is a strong
under-toe of painful doubt that threatens to pull him under. After a long
ministry of wandering the Judean wilderness, being ostracized for his strange
clothing, odd eating habits, fiery calls for repentance, and declarations about
the long-awaited Messiah, John continued faithfully in his call to prepare the
way for the Lord. After suffering and
sacrificing for this call, he is thrown in jail for his criticism of the
Tetrarch of Galilee, Herod Antipas. He called him on the carpet for marrying
his half-brother Phillip’s wife…while Philip was still alive. John’s claim that
this union was unlawful meant he would be swiftly locked up to await his
sentence of beheading. He spoke truth to the one at the seat of power,
believing that his call to repentance would make way for the Reign of God—a
Messiah who would come to separate the “wheat from the chafe” and restore
justice on a grand scale.
Yet now, by all accounts, his
Messiah’s public ministry consisted of just the opposite. He was eating at
table with sinners and tax collectors, touching the unclean, and walking from
town to town feeding the hungry. The Messiah of the winnowing hook was nowhere
to be found, and in his place was this peace-seeking, foot-washing, inclusive
healer who eschewed all marks of status and wordly power. This Messiah didn’t
resemble any kind of King they had ever seen before. It’s easy to picture John
the Baptist sitting in his dank prison cell, cradling his head in his hands,
aching from the fear that everything he did was in vain. John was expecting
hope to come in the form of judgment. He expected a clear and comprehensive
regime change, complete with fire and falling axes. So behind his inquiry was
surely a desperate concern that the reign of God he expected he was helping to
usher in was, in fact, not going to happen after all. All of his expectations
were being turned upside-down. The only thing worse than being imprisoned by
iron bars was being imprisoned by doubt and despair.
In this
season of Advent we each come with our own set of expectations. We hope that
our homes will be filled with joy and laughter. We hope that will get the
promotion we have earned. Our kids hope they will get that one gift they have
wished for all year long. We hope that our church will fill with new people to
welcome. We hope for health and healing for the people we love. But even as we
set beautiful tables, wrap gifts, and prepare delicious food, we, like John,
sometimes secretly wonder if the hope and restoration Isaiah prophesied is
really with us after all. With music, lights, greens, and celebration all around
us, we sometimes find ourselves in the desert places—in a wilderness of doubt
and despair that swirl beneath us like an under toe, threatening to pull us
under. To make it worse, as people of faith we often feel ashamed to admit this
doubt. But we are in good company. John
the Baptist, who himself baptized Jesus, expresses doubt and feels he must ask,
“Are you the one, or should we wait for another?”
When it comes to hope, we are used
to waiting for it to happen to us—to find us. We look to our leaders to make
hope happen through sweeping speeches and policy changes. We wait for
inspirational figures to take the stage and change things. We assure ourselves
that if we could just get the right
person in office, or the right set of policies in place, then there will be
reason to hope. We look to all the seats of power and influence, waiting for
hopeful change and transformation. When we find only ineffective policies,
broken systems, corrupt figureheads, cynicism,
and the status quo we are tempted to ask God, “are we to wait for
another?”
We are not alone. John the Baptist,
the one who prepared the way for the Messiah, did the same thing. Jesus did not
shame him for asking such a question. Instead he reminds him that he is looking
for God in all the wrong places. Reminding him of Isaiah’s prophetic vision,
Jesus points him to the very last places he would look—not to the grand palaces
and the seats of power, but to the desert—the wilderness. He redirects him to
the everyday lives of ordinary people who are experiencing healing, feeding,
and renewed strength where they once knew only brokenness, hunger, and
hopelessness. He asks John, and us, to enter the wilderness places with him and
participate in the reign of God there. He asks us to stop waiting for fire and
axes and comprehensive regime change, and instead to go into people’s personal
wildernesses to see and hear what God is doing there—to see what we can do
there. In so many words, Jesus is calling his disciples, and us, to no longer
be consumers of hope who wait for it
to find us. Rather he is commissioning us to fulfill our baptismal covenant and
become instruments and agents of
hope, carrying it out into the wilderness places through simple acts of
connection, compassion, and service.
Most of you may know about an
not-for-profit organization here in Kansas City called “Operation
Breakthrough.” This organization, started by two women, sister Berta and sister
Corita, has grown to become the largest single-site early education, child care
and social services facility in the state of Missouri serving over 400 children
daily from the urban core. Their stated mission is to help children who are
living in poverty develop to their fullest potential by providing them a safe,
loving and educational environment. They also support and empower the
children’s families through advocacy, referral services and emergency aid. In
the modern wilderness of central Kansas City, 238 calls are made to the Child
Abuse and neglect hotline; 25 teens drop out of school, 24 teens give birth;
212,369 children live in poverty, and one child or teen dies
violently…everyday. It sounds hopeless and overwhelming. In the face of such brokenness
it is easy to feel the under toe of doubt and despair pulling at us. But sister
Berta won’t let that doubt and despair have the last word. Instead she will
invite you on their bus tour called, “The City You Never See.” While on this
hour-long bus tour through the central city, you will make several stops. At
each stop a parent of a child being served by Operation Breakthrough will get
on the bus and tell his or her story. Some will talk about what it is like to
try and get through the coldest parts of the Winter without electricity.
Another will share what it means to have to turn down a higher-paying job offer
in order to keep receiving her Federal assistance, since the promotion will not
be enough to cover the loss of the assistance. All of these families will share
what it has meant to them to have a place like Operation Breakthrough for their
children—the unbelievable relief of knowing that their children are in a safe
and caring place while they are working two and three jobs. They will testify
to the gift that is it to have advocates in their wilderness who refuse to let
them go it alone—who remind them that they have companions in the desert. When
Sister Berta visited a local church recently, she shared a story of a young boy
at Operation Breakthrough who said to her one day, “If I ever grow up, I will
be a firefighter and help people.” “If” I ever grow up, he said. Not when, but “if”.
Talk about a different set of expectations.
Taking a bus tour into the central
city may not be the first thing we think of when we think of the hope and
expectation of Advent. But Jesus asks the crowds, “What did you go out into the
wilderness to see?...a man clothed in soft garments? Behold, those wearing soft
garments are in the houses of Kings.” The good news of the Gospel is that doubt
and despair do not have the last word. In Christ we are not asked to wait,
helplessly, for healing and transformation to find us. Instead we belong to a
household of faith that can’t be contained by walls. In Christ we are called to
enter the desert—to enter people’s personal wildernesses—offering the
companionship, compassion, healing and hope of Christ. When we do, God does not
promise us that the desert will turn into a lush tropical rainforest. It will
still be a desert—a wilderness. But it will no longer be a place of fear,
danger, desolation or death. Instead it will be transformed into a seedbed for
new life.
Cactuses are desert plants. They
are used to growing in conditions of neglect: little water and poor soil. While
all cacti are capable of blooming, it is a somewhat rare occurrence since
blooming requires atypical care. To bloom, a cacti needs just the right light
conditions, watering and fertilization. Left on its own in the wilderness, it
rarely receives all of these elements at the same time. But with care and
attention this painfully prickly plant will produce a magnificent bloom. In
some the bloom will boast vivid colors and open generously into the shape of a
chalice. To experience this exquisite blooming, you have to be looking for
it—you have to know where and when to expect it and be there in the desert when
it happens. When it happens, the desert becomes no longer only a place of
desolation, but the bearer of new life. What seemed only to be a thorny
nuisance to be avoided becomes a gift—a thing of beauty.
Pastor and writer Todd Weir, in his
poem “Wilderness Rhapsody,” writes,
“The
wilderness will rejoice and blossom.
I
did not expect that. I thought the wilderness was punishment—my exile—
But I
discovered I liked wandering in its stark beauty,
so I
decided to stay…
My
favorite cacti is the Night-Blooming Cereus, which only blossoms one night a
year.
Wilderness
finds virtue in hiding its light under a bushel.
If
you want to see the wonder you must care enough to endure.
It
is the same in the human wilderness. Not all beauty flaunts.
Down
in the church bowels where capital campaigns never reach,
a
voice says, ‘My name is Bill W. and I’m an alcoholic.’ ‘Hello Bill.’
One
day at a time adds up to new forever…
When
my son started to walk I realized my heart just grew feet
and
is going to places where I can no longer protect it.
Please
bloom, dear wilderness, in my cactus heart.”
This Advent, may we not be consumers of hope, waiting for it
to find us. May we make ourselves instruments of hope, following Christ out
into the desert places. May we journey there knowing that doubt and despair
will not have the last word. Let us go expecting to behold the exquisite
blooming of companionship, compassion, healing and hope. May we let our heart
grow feet and go to places where we can no longer protect it. Christ has gone
there before us and will meet us there.
