Sermon for Sunday, December 8

 December 8, 2024

By Kristin Berkey-Abbott

Luke 3:1-6

When I looked ahead into the lectionary for Advent this year, I felt a bit of despair.  I wanted angels announcing good news—this year, more than ever, I felt hungry for that message.  Instead, we get passages that seem more fitting for the Baptism of Our Lord Sunday that we’ll celebrate in January.  I found myself asking, as you might be asking, “How is this an Advent text?”  Let’s take a deeper look to answer that question.

Luke begins by naming every important ruler, along with religious leadership.  In doing this, the Gospel writer anchors the story of Jesus in a particular place and time.  Unlike Greek and Roman mythology, God doesn’t act here outside of time or in an otherworldly way.  In fact, the audience for the Gospel of Luke would likely remember these rulers and the mighty deeds they had done and the mistakes they had made.

How might this passage sound if we transposed the names into more modern ones?  Let’s give it a try:  In the fifteenth year of the reign of President Trump, when Ursula von der Leyen was governor of Europe, and Xi Jinping (Shee Jin Ping) was ruler of China, and his brother Putin ruler of the region of Russia, and Netanyahu ruler of Israel, 2 during the high priesthood of Pope Francis, the word of God came to John son of Zechariah in the wilderness.  

To get the full symbolic impact of what Luke does, however, it’s not enough to think about these rulers in geopolitical terms.  Luke’s passage begins by naming the most murderous rulers, not necessarily the ones with the most political power or the ones governing the biggest chunks of land.  We could have an interesting conversation about whether or not I’ve picked the correct names, in light of that insight, and in the spirit of honesty, I’ll admit that I was choosing names that matched countries that seemed important in our own geopolitical discourse, not the names of the most bloodstained leaders.  I chose these rulers from our own time as I thought about one of the main themes of the Gospel of Luke—throughout this Gospel, Luke reminds us of the differences between earthly power and Divine power.

In this passage, by linking the religious leadership with worldly leadership, the Gospel of Luke reminds us that God is not contained in human temples and palaces.  Like other Advent stories, in this one we are reminded that God will come where we least expect to find God:  not in the corridors of political power, not in the beautiful cathedrals where religious authorities rule, but in distant outposts, in places that are untamed, with rivers that serve as borders, not the city walls.

Twenty-first century readers might miss the significance of this river:  a river is a river is a river, at least until its banks overflow.  But first century readers would understand the symbolism:  the Jordan is the river that the Israelites cross when they finally are ready to leave Egypt behind, after 40 years of wandering in the wilderness, taking the most circuitous route to the promised land.  Bible commentator Charlene P. E. Burns notes that in the book of Joshua, the Jordan is seen as cleansing the Israelites from “the disgrace of Egypt (Josh. 5:9)  and the river also figures prominently in the Elijah-Elisha stories of 2 Kings, where its crossing sanctifies Elisha as Elijah’s successor (2 Kgs. 2:6–14).”  Here, too, in the Gospel of Luke, the river Jordan is a marker between two time periods, just as John is a marker between two ages, the time before Jesus and the time of the coming of the Messiah, the fulfillment of an ancient promise.  Here, too, we wait and hope—a very Advent theme. 

The river Jordan also symbolizes a cleansing, a return from exile, and the words that John speaks in this passage hearken back to an earlier passage from a different time of exile, the one addressed by Isaiah.  Bible commentator Mariam J. Kammell  says, “Isaiah 40:3–5 was originally a word to the exiles in Babylon and so brought comfort to the people of Israel, that their time of oppression would end with God’s rescue— that God had not forgotten them and would not neglect them.”  Here’s another Advent message that many of us need to hear.  We are not waiting and watching in vain; God will act, promises will be kept, justice and mercy will be delivered.  

There’s an interesting connection and contrast between worldly power and Divine power in the idea of making straight pathways.  When I read this passage this year, I thought of all the winding roads that can take me from the Asheville area to Bristol; I am grateful for the quick restoration of I 26 which makes it possible for me to be here to be part of worship and to be part of this community.  I was grateful for it before I took the winding, twisty roads that Sunday several weeks after the hurricane.  I see the passage in our text today as praising direct routes, and judging by the roads we build and rebuild, most of us in the 21st century feel the same way.

But first century hearers of this text would have a different connection to Roman roads.  Roman roads were straight, but they weren’t built for every day people.  Indeed, most people would never be given permission to use a Roman road.  Roman roads were built for armies and for officials who needed to respond to an emergency, much the same way as our interstate system was designed.  All others would use the dirt paths and other routes in between places.  A path made straight would not be a sign of easy travel.  A path made straight would be a sign of impending war.

If we make the mountains low, how will we see the approaching armies and prepare?  If the paths are smooth, we seem even more likely to be killed in a war or carried away as a captive to be sold into enslavement.  First century readers might be puzzled by this symbolism in this speech of John crying in the wilderness.

In the many intervening centuries, we’ve seen John’s speech as declaring that we need salvation, and that salvation is coming soon.  But John is preaching something far more profound than feeling sorry for the ways we’ve sinned.  The Greek word is metanoia, a turning around, and this idea is so important that we get a fuller exploration of it in next Sunday’s Gospel reading.

Like first century people made anxious by the idea of straight pathways, we have an Advent message that might make us nervous, much as we need to hear it.  John the Baptist reminds us of all the answers we thought we had, all the power we thought we understood.  Like the Israelites, we might feel that we’re in exile, cut off from home.  Like ordinary people during the time of Roman empire, we might feel like all our protections have been taken away, like we’re sitting ducks on a wide highway.  Like John, we might be finding ourselves in a wilderness.  Perhaps it’s a wilderness of our own making, like a move to a new job or maybe it’s one that descended on us, like illness or death or loss.

Hear the good news again.  Your salvation is at hand: your grieving heart will be comforted, your anger and irritation will lift, the planet will heal itself, God will take care of you.  In short, everything you need is on its way.

In this year, in every year, that’s the Advent message so many of us yearn to hear, whether delivered by angels or in dreams or in the mouth of a prophet.  This year, hear the message again and believe.