The last we saw of John the Baptist in Matthew’s gospel, last week, was John by the side of the Jordan River, rendering judgment as the Pharisees and the Sadducees came to him to check out baptism. “You brood of vipers!” he yelled at them. “Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come?” “The axe is already at the root of the tree,” he insisted. He was certain that the coming of Jesus would be a decisive event, that Jesus would bring spirit and fire to the repentance John was preaching. Jesus was the fulfillment of John’s purpose, the fulfillment of his prophecy, the realization of his life of faith.
But this week feels like a whole different gospel. This week Herod, the thin-skinned tyrant who couldn’t bear to have his sins denounced—this tyrant Herod has put John in jail for telling the truth. John may not absolutely realize it yet, but he is going to die at Herod’s hands. He’ll be executed because Herod can’t bear to look foolish in front of his dinner guests.
So this is the fulfillment of John’s calling. Announcing the arrival of Jesus means getting bogged down in a sordid story about Herod and his marriage and his reputation. John is imprisoned until a dancing girl calls for his head on a platter, and then John is served up.
I can’t help but wonder what John thinks when he hears the message Jesus sends to him in prison: “Go and tell John what you hear and see,” Jesus says. “The blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them. And blessed is anyone who takes no offense at me.” I guess the implication is that it should be obvious. The kingdom is at hand, just as John promised it would be, and Jesus is the true King. The day of God’s mercy has arrived. Grace flows out upon humanity.
The word that Jesus sends to John is a word derived from the prophet Isaiah. It’s a word meant to reassure John that Jesus is the one Isaiah foretold. Now, not infrequently, when Isaiah speaks of the healings and miracles that are signs of the coming of God’s chosen one, Isaiah includes the idea that prison doors will be opened. Perhaps John remembers this passage from Isaiah forty-two:
Thus says God, the Lord, who created the heavens and stretched them out, who spread out the earth and what comes from it,who gives breath to the people upon it and spirit to those who walk in it: I am the Lord, I have called you in righteousness, I have taken you by the hand and kept you;I have given you as a covenant to the people, a light to the nations, to open the eyes that are blind,to bring out the prisoners from the dungeon, from the prison those who sit in darkness.
“I have called you,” says the Lord.” I have taken you by the hand. I have given you as a light to the nations.” This is familiar prophetic language, a familiar image. Our psalm for this morning uses it too:
[The Lord] gives justice to those who are oppressed, *and food to those who hunger.
The Lord sets the prisoners free;the Lord opens the eyes of the blind; *the Lord lifts up those who are bowed down.
Much of this is true to John’s experience. Like Jesus, John has been called and chosen, and his life has been marked by sign and miracle. But then there is this possible stumbling block: “I have given you as a covenant to the people…to bring out the prisoners from the dungeon, from the prison those who sit in darkness.” If John remembers his scriptures, John will remember that opening the gates of prison will be part of the sign of the coming of the Lord. “The Lord sets the prisoners free.” And here John sits in prison, the door firmly closed.
“Are you the one,” John asks Jesus, “or should we be waiting for another?” The question is heavy in the air. Note that John doesn’t accuse Jesus of forgetting him, or of failing to bring the promised liberation. John hasn’t made up his mind about Jesus. John actually hasn’t given up hope. John asks Jesus himself for clarification. “Do you understand what’s happening to me?” he might be asking. “As the greater prophet, as the one I recognized and baptized, as the one to whom I testified, what is your explanation for the suffering of the present moment? Why does Herod—bloated, fatuous, frivolous Herod—why does he have this power over me?”
If you are here this morning thinking that the preacher has an answer, that someone here in the pulpit can explain away the torment and failure of John’s moment or of our own, please hear again the response that Jesus sends to John: “What have you seen, John? What do these others tell you about me?” Jesus doesn’t offer an explanation or discount the question John asks. Jesus doesn’t diminish either John’s suffering or the power of the revelation at hand. Both are real. The relation between them is a matter of faith for us and for John and his disciples. What’s so profound to me about this exchange between two anointed prophets—one the son of God—is that John trusts Jesus with the sorrowful question, and Jesus trusts John to bear the mysterious answer: this is the coming of the kingdom, the world is transformed, and your part of that is to experience persecution. It’s striking, then, that Jesus ends this passage with a statement of faith in John, not John in Jesus—“A prophet, yes, and more than a prophet”—and Jesus also makes his statement of faith in us. The least person in the Kingdom of Heaven, he says is greater than John.
What we have known, what we have seen, the falling away of sin and weariness, the quickening of our hearts, the clarity of the vision we’ve been granted, all of that lives side by side with the disheartening and sometimes terrifying reality of the wasted human life all around us. Tyrants rage and tyrants protect themselves from judgment. Prophets suffer. The innocent suffer, in ways too numerous to recount. Creation groans. And God reaches through, still. Jesus is a light to the nations, still. Today. Darkness gathers but it does not conquer light.
Every time I see you here, I know that God has triumphed again. I know it not because all is well in the world, but because grace has acted enough on you to get you on your feet and into the pew. I may not know the details, but I know the general story: either you are here with a fresh sense of gratitude and rejoicing for the coming of God’s kingdom as you have experienced it, or you are here because, like John the Baptist, you trust Jesus enough to ask him for help and clarification and reassurance. From whatever prison you are in. Whatever tyrant has power over you. Whatever your fears or misgivings. Whether it feels real or half-imaginary today, something has set you free to turn to Jesus. And Jesus has trusted you to live into the mysterious, difficult coming of his kingdom. That’s what brings you here, even if you think this is just a casual visit.
So I know that your calling is prophetic. I know that we are here today as a prophetic assembly. We are here as the assembly of the faithful who give innumerable forms of witness to the power of God in Christ. Never take this for granted. Never take for granted the presence of the person in the pew next to you. Never take your own presence here for granted. Comfortable though this may seem, it is an act of prophetic witness. You trust something about the word Jesus has spoken. You brought yourself here to express your gratitude and your need. By God’s amazing grace you brought yourself here, and you keep this happening.
We gather here this morning, on a particularly cheerful occasion—Gaudete Sunday. This is the Sunday when the deep violet of waiting in Advent turns into a fair rose color, a sign of joyful expectation. It’s jarring to speak of John the Baptist on a day like this. It’s hard to think of that wilderness figure, railing against sin, giving his life for truth, suffering the hardship of doubt and anxiety—it’s hard to speak of him when I’m dressed like this, and standing in an exquisite pulpit in a beautiful church in the fashionable section of town, surrounded by people I frankly love. I’d probably want to see you guys this morning no matter what you were doing. But meditating on John’s fierce witness teaches me something about yours. It may look different right now, right here on Sunday morning, but your vocation is the same as John’s. In doubt, in hope, in fear, and in rejoicing, when it’s hard and when it’s easy, you trust Jesus with your life. If you need reassurance you come here to get it. If you are grateful, you come here to show it.
This is a triumph of grace. This is sight, given to the blind. This is cleansing and healing and resurrection. This is a risky, intimate witness to the coming of the kingdom. I marvel at your prayer, at your faith, and at your presence here. This is Guadete Sunday, a day when the church bids us rejoice, so I bid you as the church has bid from ancient times: rejoice in the improbable, miraculous power that you have known, and in everything God has done for the person next to you. Rejoice in what Jesus, the true and living God, has done among us. Rejoice in the Lord, always.
Preached by Mother Nora Johnson
15 December 2019
Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia