Let Me Tell You a Story
3rd Sunday of Advent - Let Me Tell You a Story
In the second and third weeks of this season of Advent, we have back-to-back passages about John the Baptist. Sometimes it’s easy to paint John as this one-dimensional caricature; the wild, bold, self-assured radical out on the fringe. What I love about having these two texts back to back is that we see John’s complexity, his messy three-dimensional humanity.
Last week John was outside the city, in the wilderness. There John spoke with such certainty and conviction. Last week, we heard John say “The Lord is coming! One who is more powerful than I. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire.” Speaking of humans like harvested wheat, John says, “This One will gather the wheat into the granary; and the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire.” This is a John who brims with righteousness, sure of his mission, sure of Jesus mission, sure of the coming condemnation of the religious leaders coming out to see him at the river Jordan.
All of us have likely stood by our own river Jordans, overflowing with righteous conviction and absolute certainty? I know I have. It feels so good. Self righteousness actually lights up certain parts of our brains, releasing chemicals that make us feel good. John is like us. Deeply human.
But the John we have in today’s passage is so different. This John is speaking three years later. This John has now been confronted with the reality of Jesus up against his imagined picture of Jesus. Over the last 3 years, Jesus has not been emphasizing condemnation and fire. Yes he has had some very harsh words for hypocrites, for those in power. But this has not been the primary focus of Jesus’ ministry. John is also now in prison, the wild creature caged and facing a sentence of death. And this John has let go of boldly making proclamations and now he is humbly asking questions. John sends his messengers to ask Jesus, “Are you the One who is to come. Or are we to await for another?”
In other words, Have I misplaced my hope? Should I have even hoped in you at all? John is still so earnest; still someone who does not mince words. But now those words are riddled with doubt. “Jesus, do I need to look elsewhere, do I need to place my faith in something or in someone else?”
Maybe you know something about this doubt, too. Maybe you have experienced something that seemed so sure and certain which later failed, a job, a career, a marriage. It is so easy to think “I was such a fool for believing, such a fool for hoping.” Maybe you have this gnawing sense that none of this faith stuff is real. Maybe you were let down by the death of someone you love. That hope is naive, and hope in the Lord, is just a tired, old concept from another time. I know I have been there. And sometimes I still go there.
I love Jesus’ response to John’s question, his doubt. Notice that there is absolutely no condemnation. Jesus does not reprimand John for doubting. Jesus actually speaks high praise of John, the whole John. The one who was a bit too sure, and now the one who is confused and tentative. “No one born of a woman is greater than this man,” says Jesus. I am comforted and encouraged by the grace Jesus shows John. I think it extends to you and me in our doubts.
But then the second thing, I notice about Jesus’ response is that when John comes to him with doubt, Jesus responds with stories. These tiny micro-stories: Jesus says, “Go tell John, the blind see, the lame walk, lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, the poor are brought good news. Jesus does not respond with dogma. Jesus tells stories of human life transformed by his healing and love.
For many of us stories are the life-blood of our faith. We gather each week around the sacred stories of the faith. We remember stories of the saints or stories of the Church down through time. In times of doubt many of us go back to something that has happened to us, maybe something that has happened to another. Maybe these stories are not big, flashy, stories of miracles...and yet they speak to us on a deep level. I bet we are a whole library of personal stories.
I have known a person who says, “Let me tell you a story of what it is like to feel shunned like the leper, and I know the cleansing love of God that comes from a community which embraces me, accepts me, opens to me.” I know another who says something like, “Let me tell you a story about how my spouse was absolutely deaf to the truth about his addiction, he would not listen to anyone or anything while he laid waste to many things. But now he has been sober for 5 years, now he asks for forgiveness. Now he prays for strength. By God’s grace the deaf can hear.
When I watch you all treating those who are poor with such dignity and respect, ministering to Christ in the one who is hungry, this holds up my faith, this is Jesus taking my doubts and responding with a story. Jesus says to me, “I hear your abstract doubts and fears about where the world is heading. But let me tell you a story about the beginning of a new realm of deep peace and justice beginning here and now.”
I think stories of faith from our own families has such a deep impact. My mother turned 70 a few days before Thanksgiving and I went down to be with her. My brothers and I had offered to do anything she she wanted for her birthday, some big fancy fun vacation. But she thought about it and she came back and said, No what I really want is for you to all come together and to help finish cleaning out your dad’s study. My father had this sort of musical man cave. This hi-fi stereo system with vacuum tube amplifiers and big speakers in which he had poured 100 pounds of lead shot into the bottom of each one to minimize the vibration and to get a better sound. We boxed up 5400 cd’s - I think he probably only listened to about 200 of them over and over. We cleared out all of these random beautiful little things, pieces of glass, a pear carved out of marble over here, a little mosaic of an Indian elephant over there - most of it had been bought at garage sales around the neighborhood. We took down 24 cork billboards all filled with pictures he had clipped from different magazines, beautiful images, in which he liked the form or the line or the color.
And he had books. He was a reader, he devoured all kinds of books. One of the books I found was an old Presbyterian hymnal. Most of my growing up my dad did not go to church. He had his doubts, some about God, about the doctrine, but most about the church itself. He did not think he would fit in, some of that was pride, self-righteousness. He was also quite introverted and fiercely independent. After leaving his job in theoretical mathematics he taught himself architecture and construction and he literally built houses by himself. And he liked it that way.
But something happened to him when I was in 6th grade. He realized something was missing. And so one day he said I am coming to church. We were going to a Presbyterian church at the time. And I know I was supposed to be happy that he was finally coming. A better kid and son would have thought recognized and rejoiced over this spiritual awakening. But the problem was that there in the pews of that church he would take up the hymnal and the organ would start up and he would sing so loud. Like when I go to church with my family they think I use my rector voice from the pews and they think I respond and sing too loud. But it’s NOTHING like my dad. And he was also a little off-key. I think it was the beauty of the music - he was making it, not just listening to it. I think it was that he was immersed in the spiritual energy of all these other people. And I think most significantly, something had shifted deep within him. He had been asking, “Are you there? Are you the One?” And the Yes which came back was resonating through him for all to hear. A part of him that was somehow dead was now very much alive.
When our faith is flagging and doubts are mounting, may we know that we are not condemned in our doubts. And maybe our faith needs less rational analysis and more jumping into the fray - living working praying singing in the midst of other people, people who in a thousand ways could say, “Let me tell you a story.” The blind see, the lame walk, the dead are raised. Thanks be to God.