Feel the sun

Zephaniah 3:14-20
Canticle 9
Philippians 4:4-7
Luke 3:7-18

Today, after the 10 o’clock service, the people of this church are throwing me a party to celebrate my fiftieth birthday, which was also the tenth anniversary of my ordination to the priesthood.  I say “was” because the actual date was December 3^rd, ten days ago.  So, I already received birthday wishes from many of you, and had my birthday blessing prayer.  Which makes it’s a little awkward, for someone who grew up in a family where drawing too much attention to oneself was considered a cardinal sin, that we are still celebrating my birthday.  But my wife has issued me several stern warnings over the past couple of weeks that I must be gracious and appreciative about it.  And really, the warnings aren’t necessary, I am appreciative and grateful.  I really am touched. 

Because all of us want to be remembered, and noticed, and cared for, and I’m no different from anyone else in that regard.  Turning fifty is a big deal, and if I had a friend who was doing it, I’d want to throw a party, too, and I wouldn’t care if the most convenient date was ten days after.  So my friends are doing for me what they would do for any other friend.  That is the way I’m looking at it, and I should be content to leave it that.   But, of course, it’s not quite that simple, because I am not simply your friend, I am also your priest.  And because I am, I feel obliged to say that, even as I enjoy the love and attention, and can say that I deserve it as much as anyone else does, I also know I don’t deserve it more.  Every one of you is as essentially important, as worthy of honor and respect, as deserving of a special birthday celebration as I am.  Maybe even a little more.

Because if I am your friend, and I think of you all that way, it is also in part my job.  It’s my job to pray for you, and listen compassionately to your troubles, and visit you when you are lonely or sick.  It’s my job to be kind and encouraging and supportive, and to give alms to the poor.  I have this whole working environment here that is set up for me to do these things.  So I get a lot of credit from folks for just doing my job.  But all of you have to do these things in your spare time, on top of working at your day jobs, and tending to your families, and all your other responsibilities.  You have to figure out how to be Christians in all different kinds of circumstances, some of which are a lot less conducive to it than being here at the church all the time, surrounded by stained-glass windows and people who know that, here, at least, they are supposed to be nice to each other.

And there’s something else I feel duty bound to say, as your priest and as your friend, because part of my job is also to be, in my own small way, like John the Baptizer.  It is my job to point away from myself, and tell you to look for another.  Because as honored and grateful as I am to be your priest, I am not your priest—not really.  I am not your pastor, your teacher, or the head of this community.  I can tell you to get ready, to throw off the things that hold you back, and put on your traveling shoes, but I cannot take you where God wants you to go.  That role belongs to someone else, whose coming is our great hope, our deep longing, and our hearts desire. I need him as much as you do.

Luke’s gospel says that all kinds of people came out to see John at the Jordan, hoping to be forgiven and make a fresh start.  And it mentions two kinds of people in particular—tax collectors and soldiers.  Why tax collectors and soldiers?  Well it can’t be a coincidence that both are what one might call “collaborators.”  They are tools of the Roman regime of domination of the Jewish homeland—lower level cogs in the unjust, unrighteous, ungodly machinery of oppression.  So, maybe it’s a little bit surprising that when they ask John what they should do, he doesn’t tell them to quit their jobs.  He doesn’t tell them to rebel and overthrow the rotten system.  John seems to understand that they may not be able to change the necessary evils that lead them to do the kind of work they have to do.  Not everyone is cut out to be a prophet and live in the desert on locusts and wild honey.  But even in these less-than-perfect circumstances, they can still conduct themselves with integrity.  The tax collectors don’t have to overcharge, and skim some off the top; the soldiers don’t have to run a protection racket.

The opportunity for repentance that John is offering is for everyone.  It is not the prerogative of some exclusive group, and it doesn’t depend on having just the right set of circumstances.  Yesterday afternoon I came back from a few days at a Benedictine monastery at the far south end of Big Sur.  But even though it is in an almost unbelievably beautiful and isolated place, a thousand feet up on the knees of the Santa Lucia Mountains, looking out over the endless sea, the world, with its compromises and imperfections, followed me there.   The thunder of the waves breaking on the rocks is mingled with the sounds of the highway that is the lifeline of the monastery, maintained by a small army of laborers and engineers and a fortune in taxpayer’s money.  The monastery driveway winds for two miles steeply up through a beautiful wild garden of native coastal scrub, but here and there large sections are completely overrrun with invasive, exotic pampas grass.

The imperfect world met me there, and it came there with me.  On arrival, I checked in at the gift shop, which is full of beautiful art, recordings of ethereal music, and books—shelf upon shelf of wise and illuminating books.  One such book caught my eye within five minutes of my being in the place, and the desire to possess it, and the turning back forth in my mind the question of whether I would buy it, lingered with me the whole time I was there.  It disturbed my meditations, like so many other covetous and envious and impatient thoughts, as three times a day I sat in the chapel, while the monks, who have renounced all worldly gain to commit their lives to prayer and charity, asked God for the forgiveness of their sins, and mercy on their souls.

John the Baptist says there is one coming who is mightier than he.  But he also admits that he is not worthy to untie the thong of that one’s sandals, so maybe John doesn’t understand what his might is really like.   John came with the baptism of water to wash away the stink and stain of gross corruption.  But if you’ve ever plunged deep into a cold river pool, you know that when you come up again out of the water, you don’t want to be under a cloud.  You want to feel the sun.  Maybe the one who is coming won’t carry out John’s threats of wrathful judgment.  Maybe he comes to baptize with the fire of the sun; the one and only sun who brightens every eye, and warms every heart, who continually bathes the whole earth in its light, giving life to all things.

That is why his coming does not fill us with fear, but with joy.  “Rejoice,” says the Letter to the Philippians, “again I say, rejoice.  The Lord is near.”  “Sing aloud, O daughter Zion,” says the prophet Zephaniah, “Rejoice and exult with all your heart, the LORD is in your midst; you shall fear disaster no more.”  The justice that John teaches is incomplete and provisional, and so it needs the threat of punishment.  But the Messiah’s justice is perfect, because it heals and reconciles.  He will not destroy unfruitful people, but burn away unfruitful thoughts, twisted inclinations, the mistaken understandings that squander the true giftedness of human life.  He will purify the desires of his people, so they turn of their free will toward the warmth and brightness of God that dawns within.  And then they will be done with waiting, done with making do, and good enough for now; alive with the Messiah’s Spirit, they will bear fruit for the life of the world.