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O Sapientia — “O Wisdom”
The Third Sunday Of Advent (Gaudete)
Stir up thy power, O Lord, and with great might come among us; and, because we are sorely hindered by our sins, let thy bountiful grace and mercy speedily help and deliver us; through Jesus Christ our Lord, to whom, with thee and the Holy Ghost, be honor and glory, world without end. Amen.
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O Sapientia -- “O Wisdom”
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Scripture citation(s): John 1:6-8, 19-28
A Sermon by
Fr. Daniels
on
John 1:6-8, 19-28
✛
What to do during Advent
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There is an old Anglican practice at ceremonies of Holy Baptism for young children.[1] After going through the customary back and forth—the readings of scriptures, the examination of the sponsors, prayers and the blessing of the water—there is an instruction for the priest to take the child and say to the godparents, “Name this child.”
It’s a silly thing to say, practically speaking, in this day and age. The parents fill out paperwork to set up the baptism, after all. Certificates are usually prepared in advance. The names are known. But so goes the practice anyway. In that moment of adoption into Christ’s family, it is important to state clearly, without ambiguity, who this new brother or sister in Christ is. Name this child.
That name is the answer to the question that, once the child can speak for himself, he will be asked ad infintum, for the rest of his life: Who are you? What’s your name? Ordering coffee from the barista; filing taxes; signing your will—over and over being asked, Who are you?
In our gospel today, we hear that priests and Levites went out from Jerusalem to find John the Baptist—this crazy man in the wilderness—and they confronted him with that essential question: “Who are you?” Are you Elijah? The Messiah? A prophet? Who are you?
And so it is today. The world asks, Who are you? What are you about? What matters to you? Tell me. Show me.
Given the opportunity, the world will try to answer that question for us, too. The world will say that you are defined by where you work, for example, or what you can buy. It will say that you are the power that you have; you are how invulnerable you can make yourself to the vicissitudes of life.
Scripture says differently. Who are you? You are one for whom Christ was born in Bethlehem; you are one for whom Christ died outside Jerusalem; you are one whom the Father has loved from your very beginning. The name given to you at your baptism will be the name with which Christ himself greets you, at his coming again. A question the world asks; the answer the Scriptures give. Who are you? You are the beloved of God.
* * *
If you spend much time in our fair city’s subway system, there is a scene you may walk past occasionally. Periodically you may see small groups of (usually) women standing quietly beside a table covered with pamphlets. Simply, but well dressed, they stand receptively, welcomingly. Next to their table are a few chairs, usually empty, if you want to sit and talk, and next to the chairs is a sign. And the sign says, “Will this suffering end?” The world asks, Will this suffering end?
The question isn’t usually put that baldly, which is why it can be somewhat jolting to see. But, in another sense, every other commercial sign we see is an affirmative, if inadequate, answer to those ladies’ question. Whether advertising automobiles, or bubble gum, or dermatology, the other signs all say, yes, this suffering will end, once the right product is obtained, and your life is like this, and your face is like that. This is their promise: that this suffering will end. And they lie. Which is why the chairs next to those ladies aren’t always empty.
Now, for some of us, this may not be a particular problem, if we are fortunate enough to live with some degree of safety and comfort. But, even if that’s the case, one doesn’t need much of a moral imagination to know that it is the question of others: the poor; the sick; those who mourn. Even if you and I sit comfortably in clothing soft and warm, with the best seats at the best banquets, when we walk the streets of this city, or scan the headlines of the newspaper, we see that some do not share this luxury. Many do not. And, without the distance that resources afford, they ask, “Will this suffering end?” Not just for a minute; not just for a few days; but will this suffering, one day, end, forever?
A question the world asks; the answer that Scripture gives. Will this suffering end? Yes, it will end. Because when God himself was born of Mary, then God himself said yes to his people. To those who suffer, God promises that one day justice will cover the world like water from a rainstorm. One day, righteousness will come to the world like a mighty river bringing life to a parched earth. Goodness, and mercy, and justice, and peace: filling the world, covering it, saturating it, making it new. And the Church, as Christ’s body, is straining forward, reaching forward, longing for that day, when all will be set right, and there will be
no more sorrow, nor tears, nor suffering.
But not yet. Over against the billboards and worldly promises—indeed, in direct opposition to them—the promise of the Christian faith is that this suffering will end, but only because of the fact that, one day, the world will end. The world will end, and suffering will end, because those endings will inaugurate a new beginning, a new world, announced with trumpets sounding, and angels singing, and the glory of the Lord being revealed again as the Word made flesh returns to his people, returns to his beloved, returns to those whom he calls by name. This is the Good News; this is the Advent promise; this is the foundation of our hope.
Will this suffering end? Yes, because one day God will come and live in the midst of his people again.
* * *
So that’s good. For the people in the subway, and for those who are struggling, and for those who remember them—for everybody—that’s really good. But to stop there is to stop too soon and the people who had gone out to see John the Baptist knew that. In the Gospel of Luke, after they figured out who he was, and heard what he had to say, they followed up with the right question: well, “what, then, shall we do?” (3:10).
What shall we do? One thing we do is rejoice at the coming of Christ. It is Gaudete Sunday, after all. Rejoice in the Lord always; again I say, rejoice.
But Advent rejoicing is inseparable from Advent repentance. Repent as well as rejoice, because the King who will return to end all suffering is also the judge who will judge all nations. All will be set right, on that last day, but that should be, for many of us, a terrifying thought—things being set right. God says yes to his people, in Jesus, but he does not say yes to our sin. He sees it, and he will judge it. The Christ foretold by John the Baptist does not overlook sin. He destroys it.
What, then, shall we do? A question we should ask; the answer Scripture gives. What, then, shall we do?
We should repent, in word and in action. When the people ask John the Baptist what they should do, he gives them an eminently practical list: they should share their coats with the poor, share their food, take only that which is appointed to them, don’t be violent, don’t lie, don’t complain about things that don’t matter.
So, we too can get ready for Christ’s return in eminently practical ways, undertaken, during Advent, with some urgency. So, for example, if there is someone with whom you need to make amends, by all means, make amends. Today. If there is someone you need to forgive, do it, right away. If you’ve been blessed with abundant crops, and you’ve kept them locked up in your barns without considering the needs of the poor, practice charity. Quick! Do you know someone lonely? Reach out and wish them a Merry Christmas.
Because the extent to which you forgive is the extent to which you will be forgiven, when the King comes. And that which you give to the poor, you give to Jesus himself. Those whom you care for are the image of Christ.
And we should do all of this soon, really tomorrow at the latest, because it’s going to be a hectic week and we’ll all be very busy. And then we’ll put it off, maybe to the New Year, and put it off again… And then, one day, it will be too late.
There’s a parable in Luke, about a rich man, who had been indifferent to the cries of the poor during his life. And he finds himself, after his death, suffering in Hades. He asks Abraham, “If nothing can be done for me, can I at least warn my brothers?” And Abraham says, “No” (Luke 16:19-31). We’ll put it off and then, one day, it will be too late.
What, then, shall we do, today? Forgive. Ask for forgiveness. Practice charity. Do justice; love kindness. It can be hard, but it’s not impossible; with God all things are possible for us.
Because, who are we? We are the beloved of God, whom he knows by name.
Will the world’s suffering end? It will end.
What, then, shall we do? Rejoice. Repent. Forgive. Say yes to the God who has said yes to you.
But do it quick!
_______________
[1] Included in the 1662 Book of Common Prayer, the practice is reflected in the American book of 1928, though not retained in the 1979 version.
