December 8, 2002 - Advent 2
Isaiah 40:1-11
Psalm 85:7-13
2 Peter 3:8-15a, 18
Mark 1:1-8
Messengers: scripture is full of them. The prophets in the Old Testament brought the message of repentance to the chosen people. In the passage from Isaiah today, we hear a voice crying out: In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord, make straight in the desert a highway for our God. Every valley shall be lifted up, and every mountain and hill be made low; the uneven ground shall become level, and the rough places a plain. Then the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all people shall see it together, for the mouth of the Lord has spoken.
Mark’s gospel for today quotes Isaiah and follows that message with the announcement that John the baptizer appeared in the wilderness, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.
Everywhere in the Christmas story we find messengers, from the angel who told Zechariah that he and Elizabeth would become parents of John, to the angel who proclaimed to Mary that she would become the mother of Christ, to the angels who announced Christ’s birth to the shepherds, to the voice that told the Wise Men to go home by a different route.
Messengers. And John the Baptist comes with the message that “The one who is more powerful than I is coming after me; I am not worthy to stoop down and untie the thong of his sandals. I have baptized you with water; but he will baptize you with the Holy Spirit.
This is a powerful message. You know, the roads in Palestine were nothing more than dirt paths. And the sandals that the people wore were merely pieces of leather tied on with leather straps. When it rained, the roads became muddy messes, and the servants had the unpleasant and messy job of taking the sandals off the feet of their masters. And John says that he isn’t worthy even to do that demeaning job for he who is to follow.
John went around baptizing in the manner of his Jewish culture. Baptism was a ritual cleansing, and the Jews were accustomed to frequent baptism. “The Jew,” said Tertullian, “washes himself every day because every day he is defiled.” Symbolic washing and purifying was woven into the very fabric of Jewish ritual. A Gentile was necessarily unclean for he had never kept any part of the Jewish law. Therefore, when a Gentile became a convert to Judaism, he had to undergo baptism to cleanse himself from the pollution of his former life. John was asking the Jews to submit to the same type of baptism. And even more, the one to come after him would baptize them with fire, with the Holy Spirit.
These pronouncements came from a man who lived not in Jerusalem, not in any city, but in the desolate, lonely desert, who dressed strangely and who ate odd food. He was dressed in skins; his diet was locusts and honey. And yet the people, to quote Mark, “from the whole Judean countryside and all the people of Jerusalem were going out to him . . .”
Why did the people flock to see this man, unlike them in life style, dress and eating habits who told them that he was only the messenger to bring them the news that one was coming after him who would baptize them—not with water—but with the fire of the Holy Spirit. Why did they flock to see him?
I thought about what would cause me to follow someone unlike myself with a message that I didn’t truly understand. And then I thought about who had brought me a powerful message in my life. And THEN I thought about what I could do to make people listen to a message that I believe in totally.
And as I thought about powerful messengers in my own life, I recalled two who impacted me. First, I thought about Professor Bettelheimer. Professor Bettelheimer was an instructor I had during my freshman year in college. I enrolled in a class called Introduction to the New Testament. I had taken Intro to the Old Testament during the fall semester from a tall, dignified man, whose name I can’t remember, who was a chaplain at the college. I learned a bit about the Old Testament from him, I think. I believe I even got an A in the class. He had a heart attack, as I remember it, between semesters, so, at the last minute, the college had imported Professor Bettelheimer to teach the spring semester, the semester I took Intro to the New Testament.
Now Professor Bettelheimer was old, or at least he seemed so to me. He was from Russia and his English was barely decipherable. I have no idea where he had been before he came to us. When I walked into class the first day, I thought, “Oh, my, this is going to be a long semester.” But by the end of the first class, I was caught in Professor Bettelheimer’s net. I discovered that he had been an orthodox Jew who had converted to Christianity—and I hung on every word of his message. Every day when I went to class, I looked into the face of this strange old man, who had come from another culture, who dressed in clothes that looked like he slept in them—and I suspect he did—with whom I had absolutely nothing in common, and I listened intently to every word he spoke. He led me into questions about my own beliefs and took me places in my faith journey that I could never have traveled without him. I would have followed him into the desert to hear his message.
And so, when I thought about Professor Bettelheimer as messenger, I decided that I followed him because he spoke what he believed. I knew that he was not spouting information that he had processed the night before and formed into neat outlines to lecture from. When he shouted, “What difference does it make if Mary was a virgin?” I was forced to think about what difference it did make. Professor Bettelheimer was a messenger in my life whose life was a message.
And just a couple of weeks ago, I encountered another messenger whose life was the message. It was a strange encounter indeed. As most of you know, the last few months have been a desert time for many of us. My life has been busier than ever and darker than I would like. Anyway, I received a phone call from the chaplain’s office at St. Luke’s Hospital saying that there was a patient from the Cathedral there who wanted to see a member of the clergy. This was an unusual phone call for a couple of reasons. First, St. Luke’s never calls us to let us know that a parishioner is in the hospital. Second, I didn’t recognize the name of the person who was hospitalized. I asked around the office, but no one else recognized the name either. Oh well, I thought, this must be a relative of a parishioner or a new person in the congregation that I don’t yet know. It was a particularly hectic day, but I decided to go to St. Luke’s and see who this person was who wanted to see one of us—who wanted to see one of us badly enough to ask the chaplain’s office to call the Cathedral.
When I got to the hospital and acquired the room number, I realized that this patient was in the maternity section of the hospital. Well, I thought to myself, this must be a daughter of a parishioner and I don’t recognize her married name. My mind was on many other activities that I was involved in that day, and I admit that my total attention was not on this visit. I was brooding about the circumstances that were unfolding in our parish life, and I was distracted. This shouldn’t take long. I knocked on the door and went into the room. A lady whom I didn’t recognize was sitting on the edge of the bed. I introduced myself and mentioned that I was there because she had asked to see someone from the Cathedral. But she told me that she had not asked to see someone from any church, that she had indeed attended the Cathedral when she was a child, but that she was a member of another Episcopal church in Kansas City and reported her satisfaction with that congregation. A bit embarrassed, I was just getting ready to make a polite exit when I inquired about her baby. Oh, she said, I had a baby boy. He doesn’t like to sleep in the little bed they bring him in, so I keep him in my bed. She moved slightly and then I saw him: this tiny gift from God, pink and beautiful, snuggled in a little nest that she had formed for him amid the sheets. And that’s when I couldn’t catch my breath, for I recognized this tiny, squirming bundle as a messenger and a message. He was a message of hope, of love, of joy, of light that I needed very badly. And so, I stayed awhile—not for the mother, but for me. And we welcomed him into the world with prayers of thanksgiving.
I still don’t know why St. Luke’s called or how the message got to me, but I know that I would have gone anywhere to receive this message.
And as I reflected on both Professor Bettelheimer and the tiny baby, I decided that the purity of the message and the messenger himself or herself are what urge us to follow. Why, then, I asked myself, would people listen to my message on Sunday morning? And I came to this conclusion, for myself, and for you, too: If we have a story to tell that we believe in with all our heart and soul and mind, people will listen. And if we live the message we have to deliver, people will see and listen. What we must do before we can expect others to listen to our message is to believe in our message ourselves. If we do truly love God with all our heart, soul and mind, and our neighbors as ourselves, others will see that we do. If we do truly love God with our heart, soul and mind, and our neighbors as ourselves, that is the life we live. And if we do love God with our heart, soul and mind, we will want to share the message. And then, and only then, will others listen.
We are having healing once again today in the service. Many of our hearts need healing for many reasons, some of us so that we are freed to recognize the message and the messenger. I hope that you will consider coming to the altar rail for the healing that comes from God.
So, what is my message this morning? If we want others to know that we are Christians and if we want the world to live Christ’s commandments to love God and to love one another, we must believe and live that message ourselves.
And, also, we must always remember that the message can come when we least expect it, even in the form of a tiny babe.