Hope in the Desert

                          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.