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Listening Hard, or Hardly Listening?December 17, 2006 Third Sunday in Advent I confess that I was moping about this week as I pondered the fiery message of John the Baptist. Here we are in the middle of our season of over-indulgence, and once more John bursts on the scene to wreck the party atmosphere. Those of you who are long-time regular church-goers know that he re-appears every year about now to bring his grim tidings of no joy as precursor to the glad tidings of great joy on the eve of Christmas. For those of you who are new to the Advent tradition, it’s a bit like taking our bitter medicine today in order to feel really good in about a week. Of course, it’s not as though John doesn’t have something important to proclaim. It’s just that his style has been so parodied over the years that twenty-first century cynics find it hard to take him seriously. His language is arch: “You brood of vipers!” Today, nothing like that would ever be advanced in any school of communications as a method of gaining someone’s attention. The interesting thing to note, however, is that the people of his day went out into the desert to listen to him. And then he verbally beat them up. Still, more came. Evidently, he was quite a popular character. And the people listened hard. They had to scrabble out beyond the towns’ borders and make their way into the wilderness where John held forth. And he attracted followers. They brought friends. And everybody listened. We have a problem with listening hard. It’s a cultural phenomenon. We’re so overloaded with information, and media, and materialism, and whatnot, and hoo-ha, that we barely hear our spouses, or children, or friends, or lovers, when they’re three feet away speaking directly to us. That’s an aspect of our cultural life that I have to consider as a preacher: people’s desire and ability to listen to anything being said. Of course, you’re thinking I ought to say something useful, I suppose. Fair enough. For our purposes today, let’s assume that the first century Jews expected something from John after traipsing out into no-man’s-land. And they did indeed get an earful. He told them a thing or two about their priorities. He said they were all turned backwards. And, because they were turned backwards, they were in for some very tough times. They were headed in the wrong direction – they were headed over a cliff, as a matter of fact. He told them they should wake up and turn around. Repent. That’s what the word from Greek actually means: turn around; take a new direction, and this time, get it right. Now, I’m guessing most of us most of the time wouldn’t put up with such talk directed towards ourselves. That is, unless we went to church during Advent and gave half a listen to John. But as I’ve said, even then, it’s hard to take him seriously. I mean, really seriously. And his words don’t have quite the same ring and cadence said from a marble pulpit amidst glittering mosaics on the corner of Park and 60th, New York City. Sort of incongruous. We’ve got the kids singing in bright red robes for the first time. We’re feeling pretty good about things in here. We made our way into the opposite of the wilderness, right? (Well, I suppose we could argue the point, but you see my meaning.) And in coming, did you expect me to tell you it was time to get it right? You’re headed over a cliff and it might be a good thing to reconsider your direction, your priorities, your ethics and values, your commitments? And that this is a matter of some urgency because God is about to make an appearance? Whatever else we might think about him, John is an agent of change. He thinks change ought to be made and that change can be made. And the change he believes in sets the stage for what God intends for the world. That’s where I wound up this week – thinking about change. How does it happen really? How is it that we can hear/see a new thing and change our direction? I’m wondering if the people who went out to hear John already had a predilection for change, say, more so than we do. I’m thinking, more often than not we’re more likely to have a predilection for keeping things pretty much as they are, unless we’ve already stepped over the edge of the cliff and find ourselves in free fall. John came from the prophetic tradition that called for justice, for all persons to be treated fairly and equitably, and for those who had much to share with those who had little; we should have rigorous integrity, care about the other, live sacrificially on behalf of the whole; in short, we should live righteous, loving lives and a righteous society should be organized accordingly. Sounds good. But then, what does that look like in any given life? Say, your life, or mine. What are the stakes for us? That’s what I was thinking about this week as I read a wonderful essay written by Calvin Trillin, a memoir about his wife, Alice, that appeared in the New Yorker some months ago. I think it’s an exceptional piece. I’ll put the link on the website version of this sermon. [1] Granted he’s biased, but he writes a loving portrait of an unusual woman that is full of rich insight. For instance, at one point he says, “When it came to trying to decide which theories of child-rearing were highly beneficial and which were absolutely ruinous to the future of your child – a subject of some considerable discussion among some parents we knew – we agreed on a simple notion: your children are either at the center of your life or they’re not, and the rest is commentary. Later he relates that “Alice always said that parents had a huge influence on children when it came to what she called ‘the big things.’ Essentially, she meant values. In a letter to the girls [their daughters] she once included among the messages we’d been trying to send them ‘to worry about being kind and generous to other people, to be honest with yourself and with others, to find meaning in the work you do, not to over-value financial success.” No “brood of viper” talk for her children, but when I read those words I swear I heard a translation of John’s harangue in language meant to change the world. The crowds asked John what they should do and he said, “Whoever has two coats must share with anyone who has none; and whoever has food must do likewise.” He said to the tax collectors, “Collect no more than the amount prescribed for you.” To the soldiers he said, “Do not extort money from anyone by threats or false accusation…be satisfied with your wages.” Sounds like Alice, doesn’t it? Be kind, generous to other people, be honest with yourself and with others, don’t over-value financial success…. And I asked myself, “How does that take hold in a life? How does someone change, evolve into a more righteous version of himself or herself? How do we help one another listen to that message?” Trillin continues: “Although we never discussed it in these terms, I think [Alice] believed in the transformative power of pure, undiluted love.” Alice volunteered at a camp for children with genetic disorders. One summer she was especially drawn ‘to L., a magical child who was severely disabled.’ In writing a reflection about her experience Alice reported that L. ‘had two genetic diseases, one which kept her from growing and one which kept her from digesting any food. She had to be fed through a tube at night and she had so much difficulty walking that I drove her around in a golf cart…One day when we were playing duck-duck-goose, I was sitting behind her and she asked me to hold her mail for her while she took her turn to be chased around the circle….I had time to see that on top of the pile was a note from her mom…I did something truly awful…I decided to read the note. I simply had to know what this child’s parents could have done to make her so spectacular, to make her the most optimistic, most enthusiastic, most hopeful human being I had ever encountered…my eyes fell on this sentence: ‘If God had given us all of the children in the world to choose from, L., we would only have chosen you.’ Trillin was sitting next to her at the time. Before L. got back to her place in the circle Alice showed him the note and said, ‘Quick. Read this. It’s the secret of life.’” Though Alice did not express her attitudes from an expressly Christian point of view, I thought that she had it exactly, and that by any other name she had described the case for Christmas. “For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son….” Out of love, for love, so that we might love, Christ came. And his cousin, John, was all about preparing for his arrival. Get ready, he said. Wake up to the facts of your lives. Turn around. Time to get it right. Time to get it right. Time to get it right. I’m thinking, that’s probably a good place to end for the moment.... _____________________ Previous sermon: The Thankful Heart • Next sermon: Hail Mary! All past sermons |
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