Scripture Text: John 1: 6-8, 19-28 (Advent 3B)

⁶There was a man sent from God, whose name was John. ⁷He came as a witness to testify to the light, so that all might believe through him. ⁸He himself was not the light, but he came to testify to the light…

¹⁹This is the testimony given by John when the Jews sent priests and Levites from Jerusalem to ask him, “Who are you?” ²⁰He confessed and did not deny it, but confessed, “I am not the Messiah.” ²¹And they asked him, “What then? Are you Elijah?” He said, “I am not.” “Are you the prophet?” He answered, “No.” ²²Then they said to him, “Who are you? Let us have an answer for those who sent us. What do you say about yourself?” ²³He said, “I am the voice of one crying out in the wilderness, ‘Make straight the way of the Lord,’” as the prophet Isaiah said. ²⁴Now they had been sent from the Pharisees. ²⁵They asked him, “Why then are you baptizing if you are neither the Messiah, nor Elijah, nor the prophet?” ²⁶John answered them, “I baptize with water. Among you stands one whom you do not know, ²⁷the one who is coming after me; I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandal.” ²⁸This took place in Bethany across the Jordan where John was baptizing.

Well, it’s Advent so we get more John the Baptizer!  It’s definitely sometimes hard for us to get our heads around John, so to speak.  I mean, a person who wears animal skins and eats locusts is, well, strange.  But putting aside his wardrobe choices or his culinary preferences, John is important to us.  He is called the forerunner, the one who comes not to BE the Messiah but to point us toward the Messiah.  John knew who he was and what he was called to do.  He was called to actually BE that veritable voice in the wilderness that we so desperately need.  He was called to speak the truth about who Jesus was and, at this point, who Jesus would be.  He was called to point to the Light that was just beginning to dawn.    

The Gospel passage that we read for this week uses that image of light.  For the writer of The Gospel According to John, the Logos was the light of humanity, the true light.  It was there from the very beginning.  Now in this Gospel, there are no customary announcements here of Jesus’ coming or angels appearing to Mary.  There is no typical birth story. I guess the writer of this Gospel left that to the other Gospel-writers.  But this is essentially the equivalent:  the coming of Jesus, the Incarnation, is the coming of the true light, the Light that always existed, which enlightens everyone and illumines everything.  We once again see Creation in its splendor, as the light folds into the dark void that was and life begins.  Think about it—it is hard for us to imagine—but there was only darkness before (not “nothing”, just darkness—a darkness that God created) and then God said “Let there be light” and life began.  The earth was from then on bathed in light and seasons.  And now, now God enters and invites us into the Light.  And John the Baptizer is there to wake us up and point us toward it.

We like the image of light.  It’s warm and illuminating and sort of comfortable.  But that’s not what this is.  See, John had a “way” about him and sometimes his words were not very popular.  I mean, he went around like some wild man in the wilderness preaching repentance, preaching that we needed to change, preaching about the one who was coming after him, preaching about the light that was just around the bend, a light such that we had not seen, a Light that would change the world and us with it.  “John,” we want to say, “Shhhh!…you’ll wake the baby.”

Admit it.  That’s where we want to be—at the manger, kneeling before our Lord, basking in the illumination of the star above and singing Christmas carols, and yet we still want to hold onto those shadows in our own life.  For there is familiarity; there is safety; there is that which we can control, there is that place to which we can retreat when life is just too hard.  And the light…We would rather the light be allowed to remain in our thinking depicted as a warm and comfortable place to be.  Just let us sit here awhile with this sleeping baby, the Christ child, there in the manger while the Star in the East dances overhead. 

But John the Baptist, John the Witness, the forerunner, was right.  This light is not a twinkling, intermittent light like those that light our houses this season.  This is not a warm, glowing, candle-lit light that makes us feel comfortable even as we are content to sit silently in its shadows.  And it’s closer to us than any star in the universe.  This light is different.  This light is so big and so bright and so powerful that sometimes it hurts to look at it.  Sometimes it is just too painful.  This light is so pervasive and so encompassing, that it casts no shadows.  The light of Christ, this light to which John pointed, is not a warm glow but is rather a radical illumination of everything around it.  This light shows EVERYTHING.  Yes, EVERYTHING.  The world is about to be unable to hide its shadow side.

In her book, Lighted Windows, Margaret Silf tells the story of when her daughter was born and how one of the first problems that they encountered was light.  She said that “to make sure that [our daughter] would always experience the presence of a gentle, comforting light if she awoke during the night, we installed a little lamp close to the nursery door.  It also meant that if she cried we could grope our way to her even in a half-asleep state.”  But they soon realized that even the little nursery light burned their eyes, especially after the third or fourth time they went into the nursery during the night, groggy from sleep with eyes burning.  “So,” she says, “we went to the local electrical shop to ask whether they had any bulbs lower than 15 watts!”  “It’s strange,” she comments, “how light that is so needful for growth and life can also be so hurtful when we are unprepared for it.”

In this Advent season, the way that we prepare ourselves for the coming of the Light is by abiding in that light.  Abiding is a strange word.  It means to await but is more of an action word.  I think abiding in the light means that we have to go and be in it.  That’s what John was doing.  It was as if John was saying, “you there, come now, come into the Light that is even now dawning.” You can’t just stay in the shadows.  God invites us into the Light.  That is why God came and burst forth into our humanness—to show us what full illumination looks like and to call us into the light.  So, during this season, we squint and rub our eyes.  But we continue looking even if sometimes we’re squinting at the light.  But the Light will remain as we get used to it.  We keep looking for the Light thinking it will lead us home but what if, just what if, the Light IS home, the place where we’re called to be.  It is glorious and uncomfortable, illuminating and clarifying.  But what if that’s where we’re actually supposed to be while we wait for whatever God is doing next?

And John the Baptizer?  He kept pointing toward the Light, kept loudly proclaiming who the Messiah was.  He was the voice in the wilderness.  It would end badly for him.  His life would end with his head literally on a platter.  He would die midway through Jesus’ ministry, the victim of a world that thought he was too loud and too zealous and because he actually understood what abiding in the Light meant.  But through it all, he was always standing in that light.  He understood that he was not the Light.  But he always understood that the Light was where he should be.  In this season, we need to go toward the Light.  We need to abide in the Light.  God came and showered Light upon the world.  And this season of waiting, this season of preparation, beckons us into that Light.  Go now.

In faith there is enough light for those who want to believe and enough shadows to blind those who don’t. (Blaise Pascal)

Lyrics: “Abide” by Carrie Newcomer

I will bring a cup of water
Here’s the best that I can offer
In the dusk of coming night
There is evidence of light
With the pattering of rain
Let us bow as if in grace
Consider all the ways we heal
And how a heart
Can break

Oh abide with me
Where it’s breathless and it’s empty
Yes abide with me
And we’ll pass the evening gently
Stay awake with me
And we’ll listen more intently
To something wordless and remaining
Sure and ever changing
In the quietness of now

Let us ponder the unknown
What is hidden and what’s whole
And finally learn to travel
At the speed of our own souls
There is a living water
A spirit cutting through
Always changing always making
All things new

Oh abide with me
Where it’s breathless and it’s empty
Yes abide with me
And we’ll pass the evening gently
Stay awake with me
And we’ll listen more intently
To something wordless and remaining
Sure and ever changing
In the quietness of now

There are things I cannot prove
And still somehow I know
It’s like a message in a bottle
That some unseen hand has thrown
You don’t have to be afraid
You don’t have to walk alone
I don’t know but I suspect
That it will feel
Like home

Oh abide with me
Where it’s breathless and it’s empty
Yes abide with me
And we’ll pass the evening gently
Stay awake with me
And we’ll listen more intently
To something wordless and remaining
Sure and ever changing
In the quietness of now

Grace and Peace,

Shelli