Scripture can be found here…
The child has become the man, and he is on fire. He’s on fire like your personal trainer is on fire—he wants you to do the right thing, the thing that will be good for you, and he isn’t above calling you a lazy bum if you don’t keep up.
Last week we delved into the background, the foundation of Jesus’ coming in the birth of his cousin John—born to be a prophet, born to pave the way, make clear the highway for Jesus.
This morning it is 30 years later, and the gospel writer carefully lays the scene for us: Tiberius is Caesar now, and Pontius Pilate—don’t forget that name—is governor, and the family of Herod is nicely settled into their roles as “tetrarch,” which is to say, each of them rules one-quarter of a region.
The gospeller further introduces John by invoking the prophet Isaiah: A voice cries out in the wilderness: prepare the way of the Lord! John is preaching a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins—turning around, starting over, but this time, in a better direction. And you better keep up.
But man, the first words out of John’s mouth in this gospel of Luke are harsh. “You brood of vipers!” On the one hand, John is settled firmly in the tradition of the great prophets of the Bible: prophets are truth-tellers, and sometimes the truth is ugly. Vipers are known for their exceptionally long, hinged fangs, very effective at injecting venom, and venom can kill you if left untreated. All kinds of people come out to see John, everyone from subsistence farmers and fisherfolk to people in long fancy robes, people with some kind of rank and power. Are they all vipers, or just some? John doesn’t discriminate, his message is for all. The path they are on is dangerous; they will cause grievous harm if they continue.
But then, John starts talking about what he means by repentance. He wants to see the fruits of the people’s repentance—results! If they’re really changing their lives, the difference should be visible and dramatic. And the first thing he criticizes is the very human tendency to identify with a particular tribe. God can turn stones into descendants of Abraham, he snipes. Don’t think you’re special.
This is troubling rhetoric. This does not sit well. Prophets give good news, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy news. Jews are already oppressed by a good number of those individuals and structures already mentioned—Tiberius, Pilate, Herod and the Tetrarchs (which, I must say, would make a great name for a punk rock band). The people gathering for baptism have seen their share of contempt for their faith. But John’s not talking about faith in God of Israel. That’s not the problem. John’s talking about tribalism—that way of thinking about our gene pool that tells us we’re the superior ones. Jesus is about to break all that open—his message is going to go beyond his own people to those considered beyond God’s notice or care.
And it’s already happening, right there in the crowd listening with rapt attention to John. The famous question is asked—“What then should we do?” And the askers are identified, first, as the generic crowds, and then, as tax collectors—the hated, reviled tax collectors, considered the Ancient Near Eastern version of the Vichy French collaborators of World War II: traitors to their people. And finally, soldiers. Roman soldiers. The very face of the Empire that has its boot on the neck of Jews in their own land. Those attending to John—those being made ready for Jesus—already include those outside the covenant people. It’s happening.
As for what they should do? Give away what you don’t need to those in need. Don’t use your job to take advantage of others. Don’t bully or extort or threaten others. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.
All these behaviors John is trying to encourage are pushing against other behaviors—hanging onto what you don’t need, taking extra because you can, fluffing up your feathers to make sure someone else knows you’re in charge—these are all based in fear. And right now our world is caught in a cycle of fear—there’s fear for our health and well-being, fear for the health and well-being of those we love. There’s fear that expresses itself in conspiracy theories and toxic displays of belligerence and threats. And there’s fear for our future—what will it look like? When will things get back to normal? If ever?
John, for all his fire and brimstone, is urging the people in front of him to stop living in fear. When we’re fearful, our inner vipers come out, and then we’re all lost in an ongoing cycle of poisonous hurt and retribution.
What if we could just step out of it that cycle, step away? What would be waiting there for us? How much easier would it be to breathe deeply, if the tension of fear didn’t keep our shoulders up around our ears? (I say this as someone whose shoulders are quite often up around my ears.) Maybe what God has in store for us, what God has in store for everyone—maybe a life that is not defined by fear, but by joy.
My Advent 2 playlist kicked up an Ellis Paul song that I hadn’t heard in a while. It’s called, “Home.” He sings,
Home is the woman across the table
Home is dreaming in my sheets
Home, home
A house is just an address. You’re my home.
I know this is a romantic love song. But it contains a broader truth: we create home for one another when we care for one another, when we love one another. John’s instructions, to the crowd, to the tax collectors, to the soldiers: they’re the necessary first steps towards making the world a home for all. When you don’t find the world a habitable place, a house is just an address. When the color of your skin, or your accent, or your religion, or your gender presentation… when any or all of these are met with hostility, how can you be at home in this world? When the world softens its heart towards you—and our are the only hands Christ has on earth now, so its our hearts that must soften towards one another—when the world softens its heart, it’s then that you can find yourself at home, no matter your surroundings. (There might be a mutual softening that needs to take place.)
And imagine what joy there will be, when each person finds themselves at home. When all people have safe shelter, when all people experience unlimited welcome and affirmation of their goodness, their worth. John, even “You brood of vipers” John, even fire and brimstone John, has this image of home, of God’s unlimited welcome, at the heart of all that cold prickly preaching. And that’s why we can hear it and know that it is good news, the best news, the news that changes everything.
Thanks be to God. Amen.