Luke 3:1-6
In the fifteenth year of the Emperor Tiberius, while Pontius Pilate was governor of Judea, while Herod was ruler over Galilee, and his brother Philip was ruler over the region of Iturea and Trachonitis, Lysanius was ruler over Abilene, during the high priesthood of Annas and Caiaphas, the word of God came to John, son of Zechariah, in the wilderness.
He went out around the region of the Jordan, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins, as it is written in the book of the words of the prophet Isaiah, the voice of one crying out in the wilderness: “Prepare the way of the Lord and make his paths straight. Every valley shall be filled, every mountain and high place shall be made low, the crooked will be made straight, and the rough ways made smooth, and all flesh will see the salvation of God.”
Some of you know this, because you’ve been part of them, but when I lead discussions on race relations, racism, and diversity, I often suggest that participants, in order to get familiar with a perspective different from their own, they be more deliberate about reading, listening to, even following on social media, voices from different walks of life.
For me – a straight, white, middle-class man in the United States, it has meant that I do simple things like follow People of Color on social media and read Black authors like Ibram X. Kendi, Colson Whitehead, and Isabel Wilkerson. (I can’t recommend her latest book, Caste, highly enough.)
It’s why I learn so much from female theologians like Rachel Held Evans, Nadia Bolz Weber, and colleagues who are women, too.
It’s why I am as entertained as I am informed by the music of gay and lesbian artists like the Indigo Girls and Brandi Carlile.
And it’s why I’m so blessed and better for the perspective I gain about poverty and wealth from my friends in Haiti.
And thinking about this with today’s Gospel on the brain made me think about John the Baptist in a new way, too.
See, for a long time, I believed all those names listed in this chunk of Luke’s Gospel, were nothing more than date stamps; historical markers; ways to establish the place in time that all of this took place; “all of this” being the beginning of what we know of John the Baptist’s ministry. And it is that to some degree. It’s interesting and telling – especially for people who know their history – to know that all of this happened when Tiberius and Pontius Pilate and Herod and Philip and Lysanius and Annas and Caiaphas were doing their thing, all of which happened sometime in the late 20’s or early 30’s of the first century, according to smarter people than me. I was never great with dates and timelines.
But it’s even more interesting to me to understand that Luke’s Gospel is up to something much more meaningful than recording history by time-stamping his Gospel with the names of political and religious leaders; emperors, governors, high priests, and whatnot. Luke was also pointing out that God’s word and God’s ways were not always proclaimed to – or by the likes of – the people in high places.
Instead, the word of God came to and came through the likes of this camel-fur-wearing, honey-and-locust-eating, crying-out-in-the-wilderness, down-by-the-river-baptizing, repentance-and-forgiveness-preaching Jesus freak, named – not Tiberius or Lysanius, not Pontius Pilate or Herod, but John. Just John, the son of Zechariah. And he wasn’t from anywhere that mattered or that you could find on a map, like Judea or Galilee or Iturea or Trachonitis or Abilene, either. He was out in the wilderness … down by the river somewhere … if you could find him.
It might go something like this today: in the first year of the presidency of Joseph R. Biden, when Eric Holcomb was governor of Indiana, and Joe Hogsett was mayor of Indianapolis, during the papacy of Pope Francis and the bishopry of Bill Gafkjen and Elizabeth Eaton, the word of God came to Steve … or Stacy … or Jamaal … or Jesula – over the river and through the woods; on the other side of the tracks; or under the bridge; or maybe “down at the B.A.R. with the B.U.M.’s,” as Christa’s favorite aunt used to say.
Because what John was saying was the same thing the prophet Isaiah proclaimed: that God would show up first, for those who needed God most. That Jesus would be a welcome guest for those who were suffering and struggling and sick and in need. And that Jesus would be a fly in the ointment, a thorn in the side, a pain in the behind for those in power; for those in high places; for those with titles before – and with letters after – their names.
Which is to say, those in low places will be lifted up; those in high places will be knocked down; those doing wrong will be righted; those who are rich will be made poor; those who are poor will have enough; and any other way you can think to promise that the status quo would, could, and should be upset for the benefit of those who rarely benefit from the status quo, such as it is.
And all of that is why we do so much of what we do as God’s people in the Church – especially during these holiday days. It’s why we give gifts to foster kids. It’s why we pack Thanksgiving dinners for our food pantry families. It’s why we send a little something extra to our Agape Alliance friends and give so generously to the Grace Quest students to buy all of those animals from the ELCA Good Gifts program. And every bit of that is good and gracious and holy. Don’t get me wrong. But let’s not break our arms patting ourselves on the back about it.
Because I think the reason John named – and the reason Jesus challenged – the likes of emperors, governors, rulers and religious leaders of all shapes and sizes, is because the kind of confession and repentance John called for, the kind of challenge and change Jesus championed, was meant to be deeper and wider and structural and systemic in such a way that it would last longer than the holiday season and have impacts so far-reaching, so culture-shifting, so world-rocking that heaven and nature might sing at the results and ramifications of it all.
“Every valley shall be filled,” remember. “The mountains and the high places shall be made low.” “The crooked made straight and the rough ways made smooth,” after all. And, you realize, none of this “prepare the way of the Lord” stuff is about landscaping or road work or the new round-about over at Gem Road and 300 South. John is talking about the repairing and restoring and reinventing the broken social, cultural, political, religious systems of the world as we know it.
He’s talking about God’s desire to create a level playing field of justice and mercy… of healing and hope… of peace and prosperity that would, could, should be available to all of God’s children – especially for those relegated to the valleys; especially for those who get screwed by the crookedness of corruption and injustice; especially for those who can’t ever seem to get over the rough road of their station in life.
Like, what if, among other things, we could smooth out the rough, rocky roads in the Holy Land by having great compassion for our Jewish brothers and sisters there, yes, but without also condoning or ignoring the plight of the Palestinians, too.
Like, what if, among other things, the glass ceiling of sexism in this country could be brought low, so that women don’t make a mere 82 cents for every dollar that a man makes?
What if the crooked ways of systemic racism could be hammered flat so that, among so many other things, people of color weren’t incarcerated for longer sentences than white people for the exact same crimes?
What if the low places of homophobia were raised up so that, among other things, gay and lesbian people didn’t have to call me, before showing up for worship here, just to be sure they’ll be safe and feel welcomed, if they muster the courage to give it a go?
See, God knows it’s so often the emperors and governors, the rulers and religious leaders, the people of power and privilege, who rest easy in the status quo and who resist change for the sake of others because of it. It’s why God’s word comes to the likes of John down by the river, and sends people like him to cry out in the wilderness, to prepare the way of the Lord, and to make his paths straight.
Tupac Shakur, a Black rapper from my generation – a voice in the wilderness of his day, for sure – wrote something that made me think about all of this:
So let’s stop long enough to listen, you and I, during these Advent days, and beyond. Let’s hear the cry of John’s voice and others like it these days: voices different from our own; voices different from the powers that be; voices that tell of struggle and oppression and suffering and a life’s experience many of us can’t fathom or fully grasp. And let’s respond to God’s invitation to confess, repent, and do something to change what’s broken in this world until all flesh – all flesh – shall see, receive, and experience the salvation God brings in Jesus Christ, our Lord.
Amen.
