Sermons - December 2024

SUNDAY 8th DECEMBER 2024 11.00 a.m.
ST COLUMBA’S, PONT STREET
(2nd SUNDAY OF ADVENT)

“In the fifteenth year of the reign of Emperor Tiberius,
when Pontius Pilate was governor of Judea … Luke 3:1

In 2011, the funeral of the Otto von Hapsburg,
the last heir to the Austro-Hungarian empire, took place in Vienna.
In the tradition of Hapsburg funerals
when his body arrived at the Capuchin church to be interred,
the doors were found shut.
The herald knocked on the door.
A monk from behind the door asked: “Who demands entry?”
The herald read out the titles of the deceased:

“Otto of Austria; former crown-prince of Austria-Hungary;
Prince Royal of Hungary and Bohemia, of Dalmatia, Croatia,
Slavonia, Galicia, Lodomederia, and Illyria;
Grand Duke of Tuscany and Cracow;
Duke of Lorraine, of Salzburg, Styria, Carinthia, Carniola and Bukowina;
Grand Prince of Siebenburgen, Margrave of Moravia;
Duke of Silesia, Modena, Parma, Piacenza, Guastalla, Auschwitz and Zator,
Teschen, Friuli…..” The list went on.
At its conclusion, the anonymous monk replied: “We know him not.”

The herald knocked a second time:
“Who demands entry?”
“Dr Otto von Hapsburg.”
“We know him not.”
A third knock.
“Who demands entry?”
“A sinner in need of God’s mercy.”
“Him we know,” said the monk. And the doors were opened.

“In the fifteenth year of the reign of Emperor Tiberius,
when Pontius Pilate was governor of Judea,
and Herod was ruler of Galilee,
and his brother Philip ruler of the region of Ituraea and Trachonitis,
and Lysanias ruler of Abilene,
during the high-priesthood of Annas and Caiaphas ….

Seven honoured titles, seven VVIP’s;
powerbrokers of the day, political and religious;
headline-makers in a time of global empire, military occupation and local unrest.
Yet, according to Luke, their significance is their eventual, insignificance;
They are part of the reality of the age, yes;
but, time will tell, they are not the primary thing;
because the thing of real, enduring worth, happens elsewhere,
its key cut from a very different mettle:
“In the fifteenth year….The word of the Lord came to John,
the son of Zechariah, in the wilderness.”

In the midst of a complex and anxious political context,
Luke trumpets: “Pay attention O world.”
What is about to happen, will not be a forgotten provincial footnote,
but a new beginning, to outlast all proud empires that turn to dust.

Out on the edge, before anyone speaks,
“the word of the Lord came to John.”
Contrast: whereas emperors, governors, rulers, and high priests —
the folks who wield power — don’t hear God,
it is the outsider, from the wilderness who does.

Revd William Barclay minister and biblical scholar once referenced
the play of George Bernard Shaw, Saint Joan:
Joan hears voices from God.
The Dauphin (the French King) is annoyed.
“Oh, your voices, your voices,” he says.
“Why don’t your voices come to me? I am the king, not you.”
“They do come,” said Joan, “but you do not hear them.
You have not sat in the field in the evening listening for them.
When the angelus rings, you cross yourself and have done with it.
But if you prayed from your heart
and listened to the thrilling of the bells in the air
after they stopped ringing,
you would hear the voices as well as I do.”

Is there something about the holding of power, influence or privilege
that makes us hard of hearing?
Location is key.
In the wilderness, there’s no safety net. No Plan B.
In the wilderness, life is raw and risky,
and our illusions of self-sufficiency fall apart fast.
To be at the outskirts of power is to confess our vulnerability.
Unless we’re in the wilderness, it’s hard to see our own privilege,
and even harder to imagine giving it up.
In the wilderness, we have no choice but to wait and watch
as if our lives depend on God showing up.
Perhaps only from the wilderness can we
begin to dream God’s dream
of a wholly reimagined landscape. (Dan Clendenin)

So, out in the wilderness, in the tradition of the prophets, a voice cries out.
All four Gospels place John front and centre, in Jesus’s origin story.
Defiant, urgent; he may have been part of the apocalyptic Jewish sect of Essenes
who opposed the temple in Jerusalem.
A radical dissenter - his detractors said he had a demon (Luke 7:33).
In the end, he would pay the ultimate price for faithfulness to his prophetic calling.

His message – “to all the region around the Jordan:
a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.” Luke 3:3

Repent because in Jesus, “the kingdom of heaven is near.”
This is the identical message that Jesus himself will preach
when he begins his own public ministry:
“From that time on Jesus began to preach,
‘Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is near’” (Matthew 4:17).
It’s the exact same message that Jesus instructs his followers to proclaim:
“As you go, preach this message: ‘The kingdom of heaven is near.’” (Matthew 10:7).

Contrary to expectations, the ascetic with the austere message,
draws huge crowds: “The whole Judean countryside
and all the people of Jerusalem went out to him.
Confessing their sins, they were baptized by him in the Jordan River.” (Mark 1:5).
Much later, even in faraway Ephesus,
people submitted themselves to the baptism of John (Acts 19:3).

“Repent and believe the good news,
that in Jesus, God’s kingdom has arrived.”
It’s the message that summons us each new Advent season:
To repent – literally, to turn around - an indictment and an invitation.
Repentance - not to feel miserable, wallowing in past mistakes or poor choices;
but repentance, “as an abrupt end to life on auto-pilot, or to business as usual.”
An invitation to listen, hear, think and act differently.

Each year our Advent preparations hark back to John’s call
to make ready for the coming of Christ.
They acknowledge the politics of his time, (“In the fifteenth year …”)
but ask us to consider that “turn around and make ready”,
in the very specific context and circumstances of our own days.
Where or what are the prophet voices of our day
and what do they ask of us?

Forgive me if what I finish with appears trivial –
and yes, in the face of so much horror and helplessness around the world,
it is absurdly trivial.
But for some reason, like a musical ear-worm,
the scene, as related to me this week, has stuck.

It begins with the question:
“Is it always as bad as this?”
“Oh yes” comes the answer, “and worse.
If you take your crazy pill, come and see us on a Saturday.
You won’t believe it.”

Location? A well-known central London department store.
(Other department stores are available.)
The question askers: Out-of-towners dropping in for some Christmas shopping.
Overwhelmed by the scrum of humanity, preparing for the season,
trying to purchase the perfect Christmas.

And, somewhat fascinatingly, a member of staff,
(the one who explained that No, this was not the worst);
the same member of staff who advised another shopper,
panicking in search for another Christmas pudding:
“Go home, you don’t need a third Christmas pudding.
What are you doing here?”

Which kind of translates as: Turn around.
The kingdom of heaven is already near.
Listen to the bells, after they stop ringing – hear the voice.
The voice who hears, if we would only knock;
that recognises our frailties and yearning for mercy;
recognises and opens the door into life.
Answering, “This one I know.”