The Baptist's Prophecy
Sermon
God in Flesh Made Manifest
Cycle A Gospel Lesson Sermons For Advent, Christmas, And Epiphany
Object:
In her Pulitzer Prize winning book, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, author Annie Dillard recalls this chilling remembrance:
"I see tonight the picture of a friendly member of the forest service in Wisconsin, who is freeing a duck frozen onto the ice, by chopping out its feet with a hand axe. It calls to mind the spare, cruel story Thomas McGonigle told me about herring gulls frozen on ice off Long Island. When his father was young, he used to walk out on Great South Bay, which had frozen over, and frozen the gulls to it. Some of the gulls were already dead. He would take a hunk of driftwood and brain the living gulls; then, with a steel knife, he hacked them free below the body and rammed them into a burlap sack. The family ate herring gull all winter, close around a lighted table in a steamy room. And out on the bay, the ice was studded with paired red stumps."1
It is not an uncommon occurrence. Water fowl descend upon frozen lakes and bays in winter. The warmth of their feet and bodies melts the ice which then refreezes, trapping them helplessly in an icy grip from which there is no escape except death or outside deliverance. It is not a pretty thought -- but it is real. And it is equally real that some hungry opportunist should bash and hack the birds instead of attempting to set them free from their life-or-death predicament.
Today is the Second Sunday in Advent and we encounter in our gospel lesson John the Baptist, prophet and precursor of the promised Messiah, mysterious man of Advent.
What are we to make of a man who suddenly simply "appears" in the wilderness clothed in camel's hair with an animal pelt for a belt, eating locusts and wild honey?
Very little is actually known about this enigmatic figure. And consequently, many opinions are offered. But one thing at least is certain: In his vision of the coming one, he saw a mighty judge, an awesome and exacting king, someone of uncompromising righteousness who would no more hesitate to consign a sinner to the unquenchable fire with senses undiminished than you or I would hesitate to squash a cockroach.
In terms of the Tinker Creek image, John saw a figure walking across the ice, club in hand, ready to brain and bash every frozen soul and hack them from the ice with a steel knife, leaving a lake studded with paired red stumps.
As for the day that such a one would usher in, recall John's inaugural sermon: "You brood of vipers -- who warned you to flee from the wrath to come? The axe is laid to the root of the trees; every tree which fails to bring forth good fruit is hewn down and cast into the fire. He is coming with his winnowing fork in his hand to clear the threshing floor and the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire."
Matthew and Luke tell the story quite similarly, and in both cases John comes off like a wild man, a desert wanderer, a religious fanatic, an "end-of-the-world-is-near" prophet -- judgmental and impatient. Indeed, this is usually how he is portrayed in movies and dramatizations.
The Baptist in Mark and John's Gospels is decidedly more restrained, but still with an unqualified emphasis on repentance and sinfulness, on the approaching day of judgment, on the power of the coming one who will baptize with the Holy Spirit and with fire and storm.
Again, to use the Tinker Creek image, you who hear the prophet are a helpless herring gull, frozen fast to the ice. And for all your flapping, flailing, and crying you are unable to free yourself. The coming one of the Baptist's prophecy is the Righteous and Almighty, crossing the ice with driftwood club and steel knife in hand. When he comes to you he will stop. He will examine you and judge you.
If you are found wanting -- and you will be! -- he will bash your brains out with the club, hack you from the ice, ram you into a burlap sack and leave behind a lake studded with a pair of red stumps. In short, my friends, we stand not a chance.
The Baptist's prophecy was a prophecy of the coming Judge, and his dreaded day of wrath. Doesn't it seem at least a little strange to you, then, that Mark should choose to begin his Gospel with the proclamation of this prophet, and even introduce it with the words: "The beginning of the Good News of Jesus Christ, the Son of God"? It does indeed seem strange, until we recall one crucial fact: the Gospel was not written until after the events of Good Friday and Easter Sunday.
Mark wants to show that the Baptist was the last of the great prophets, in line with those who untiringly called God's people back to the Lord, threatening them and warning them of the consequences of their actions.
When we attempt to know God apart from the divine self-revelation in Jesus Christ, we, too, encounter only a wrathful God displeased with our innumerable violations of his will and his law; a stern God sorely disappointed in the failure of his creatures; a judging God approaching us with driftwood club and steel knife poised and at the ready.
But when we take in the entire perspective of incarnation, crucifixion, and resurrection, we see that John's prophecy is indeed the beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ. And it is only the beginning.
It is the beginning because it points up sharply that human sinfulness is a radical problem which cannot go unchecked, and from which mere mortals cannot extricate themselves.
It is the beginning of the gospel because it points up that God has decided to come among us not simply because he thought it might be nice to do so, but because nothing short of his coming could turn this mess around.
It is the beginning of the gospel because it points up the fact that implicit in the very incarnation of God in Christ is a judgment and condemnation of human injustice and unrighteousness.
The Baptist's prophecy is the beginning of the gospel, but it is only the beginning of the gospel. By evangelical insight, it is the preaching of the law, the wrath of God, which necessarily precedes the preaching of the gospel which is the end of the law.
There are two things you can do when a herring gull is frozen to the ice: You can bash its brains out and hack it from the ice. Or you can chop the ice around its feet and thereby set it free.
From the perspective of John the Baptist, we would have no way of knowing which course God would choose with regard to us, frozen in our sin.
But from the perspective of the cross and empty tomb, we see that God chooses to free us from our helpless predicament at great cost and not to brain us because we got ourselves into the predicament in the first place.
The Baptist's prophecy is truly the beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God. It serves as a constant reminder of what God could have done to us. But thank God it is only the beginning. The rest of the gospel tells us what God has indeed done for us.
An Advent hymn concludes with these words: "He comes to judge the nations, a terror to his foes, a light of consolation and blessed hope to those who love the Lord's appearing. O glorious Sun, now come; send forth your beams so cheering and guide us safely home."
Like newly released herring gulls, we thank our liberator for using the two-edged sword of his word on the ice and not on us. We appreciate our freedom to fly and soar like we've never appreciated it before. May we vow never to freeze ourselves solid by standing too long in one place again.
_____________
1. Annie Dillard, Pilgrim At Tinker Creek (Bantam Books, 1974), pp. 42-43.
"I see tonight the picture of a friendly member of the forest service in Wisconsin, who is freeing a duck frozen onto the ice, by chopping out its feet with a hand axe. It calls to mind the spare, cruel story Thomas McGonigle told me about herring gulls frozen on ice off Long Island. When his father was young, he used to walk out on Great South Bay, which had frozen over, and frozen the gulls to it. Some of the gulls were already dead. He would take a hunk of driftwood and brain the living gulls; then, with a steel knife, he hacked them free below the body and rammed them into a burlap sack. The family ate herring gull all winter, close around a lighted table in a steamy room. And out on the bay, the ice was studded with paired red stumps."1
It is not an uncommon occurrence. Water fowl descend upon frozen lakes and bays in winter. The warmth of their feet and bodies melts the ice which then refreezes, trapping them helplessly in an icy grip from which there is no escape except death or outside deliverance. It is not a pretty thought -- but it is real. And it is equally real that some hungry opportunist should bash and hack the birds instead of attempting to set them free from their life-or-death predicament.
Today is the Second Sunday in Advent and we encounter in our gospel lesson John the Baptist, prophet and precursor of the promised Messiah, mysterious man of Advent.
What are we to make of a man who suddenly simply "appears" in the wilderness clothed in camel's hair with an animal pelt for a belt, eating locusts and wild honey?
Very little is actually known about this enigmatic figure. And consequently, many opinions are offered. But one thing at least is certain: In his vision of the coming one, he saw a mighty judge, an awesome and exacting king, someone of uncompromising righteousness who would no more hesitate to consign a sinner to the unquenchable fire with senses undiminished than you or I would hesitate to squash a cockroach.
In terms of the Tinker Creek image, John saw a figure walking across the ice, club in hand, ready to brain and bash every frozen soul and hack them from the ice with a steel knife, leaving a lake studded with paired red stumps.
As for the day that such a one would usher in, recall John's inaugural sermon: "You brood of vipers -- who warned you to flee from the wrath to come? The axe is laid to the root of the trees; every tree which fails to bring forth good fruit is hewn down and cast into the fire. He is coming with his winnowing fork in his hand to clear the threshing floor and the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire."
Matthew and Luke tell the story quite similarly, and in both cases John comes off like a wild man, a desert wanderer, a religious fanatic, an "end-of-the-world-is-near" prophet -- judgmental and impatient. Indeed, this is usually how he is portrayed in movies and dramatizations.
The Baptist in Mark and John's Gospels is decidedly more restrained, but still with an unqualified emphasis on repentance and sinfulness, on the approaching day of judgment, on the power of the coming one who will baptize with the Holy Spirit and with fire and storm.
Again, to use the Tinker Creek image, you who hear the prophet are a helpless herring gull, frozen fast to the ice. And for all your flapping, flailing, and crying you are unable to free yourself. The coming one of the Baptist's prophecy is the Righteous and Almighty, crossing the ice with driftwood club and steel knife in hand. When he comes to you he will stop. He will examine you and judge you.
If you are found wanting -- and you will be! -- he will bash your brains out with the club, hack you from the ice, ram you into a burlap sack and leave behind a lake studded with a pair of red stumps. In short, my friends, we stand not a chance.
The Baptist's prophecy was a prophecy of the coming Judge, and his dreaded day of wrath. Doesn't it seem at least a little strange to you, then, that Mark should choose to begin his Gospel with the proclamation of this prophet, and even introduce it with the words: "The beginning of the Good News of Jesus Christ, the Son of God"? It does indeed seem strange, until we recall one crucial fact: the Gospel was not written until after the events of Good Friday and Easter Sunday.
Mark wants to show that the Baptist was the last of the great prophets, in line with those who untiringly called God's people back to the Lord, threatening them and warning them of the consequences of their actions.
When we attempt to know God apart from the divine self-revelation in Jesus Christ, we, too, encounter only a wrathful God displeased with our innumerable violations of his will and his law; a stern God sorely disappointed in the failure of his creatures; a judging God approaching us with driftwood club and steel knife poised and at the ready.
But when we take in the entire perspective of incarnation, crucifixion, and resurrection, we see that John's prophecy is indeed the beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ. And it is only the beginning.
It is the beginning because it points up sharply that human sinfulness is a radical problem which cannot go unchecked, and from which mere mortals cannot extricate themselves.
It is the beginning of the gospel because it points up that God has decided to come among us not simply because he thought it might be nice to do so, but because nothing short of his coming could turn this mess around.
It is the beginning of the gospel because it points up the fact that implicit in the very incarnation of God in Christ is a judgment and condemnation of human injustice and unrighteousness.
The Baptist's prophecy is the beginning of the gospel, but it is only the beginning of the gospel. By evangelical insight, it is the preaching of the law, the wrath of God, which necessarily precedes the preaching of the gospel which is the end of the law.
There are two things you can do when a herring gull is frozen to the ice: You can bash its brains out and hack it from the ice. Or you can chop the ice around its feet and thereby set it free.
From the perspective of John the Baptist, we would have no way of knowing which course God would choose with regard to us, frozen in our sin.
But from the perspective of the cross and empty tomb, we see that God chooses to free us from our helpless predicament at great cost and not to brain us because we got ourselves into the predicament in the first place.
The Baptist's prophecy is truly the beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God. It serves as a constant reminder of what God could have done to us. But thank God it is only the beginning. The rest of the gospel tells us what God has indeed done for us.
An Advent hymn concludes with these words: "He comes to judge the nations, a terror to his foes, a light of consolation and blessed hope to those who love the Lord's appearing. O glorious Sun, now come; send forth your beams so cheering and guide us safely home."
Like newly released herring gulls, we thank our liberator for using the two-edged sword of his word on the ice and not on us. We appreciate our freedom to fly and soar like we've never appreciated it before. May we vow never to freeze ourselves solid by standing too long in one place again.
_____________
1. Annie Dillard, Pilgrim At Tinker Creek (Bantam Books, 1974), pp. 42-43.
