Our second reading comes once again from the gospel of Matthew – this time from later in Jesus’ ministry. And once again, it may not seem to fit the week’s theme very well, but we’ll get there, I promise.
Scripture: Matthew 11:2-11
When John heard in prison what the Messiah was doing, he sent word by his disciples and said to him, “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?” Jesus answered them, “Go and tell John what you hear and see: the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, those with a skin disease 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.”
As they went away, Jesus began to speak to the crowds about John: “What did you go out into the wilderness to look at? A reed shaken by the wind? What, then, did you go out to see? Someone dressed in soft robes? Look, those who wear soft robes are in royal palaces. What, then, did you go out to see? A prophet? Yes, I tell you, and more than a prophet. This is the one about whom it is written,
‘See, I am sending my messenger ahead of you,
who will prepare your way before you.’
“Truly I tell you, among those born of women no one has arisen greater than John the Baptist, yet the least in the kingdom of heaven is greater than he.
Where does the joy of Christmas come from?
There are a lot of answers to that question. If you ask a child, they’ll say ‘presents!’ For others, the joy of Christmas comes from giving, or spending time with loved ones. For yet others, there is joy in hosting, baking, cooking, bringing people together. For some, there is joy in having some time off from work to relax.
All of those are good things, and good reasons to rejoice.
But what happens when none of that joy is accessible to you?
If you were with us last week, you’ll remember that John the Baptist was a prophet who hung out in the wilderness, preaching repentance and forgiveness and baptizing people to symbolize the washing away of sin. He also baptized Jesus – we’ll hear that story in January – and acknowledged him as the Messiah. But after all that, he also criticized King Herod in public for marrying his brother’s ex-wife, which landed him in prison. And after a while, he apparently starts getting antsy.
So he sends some of his followers to check in with Jesus: “are you THE Messiah, or should I be looking for someone else?”
Given everything we’ve just heard, that doesn’t seem to make a ton of sense. What do you mean “are you the one?”
But there’s a question hiding under the question: “if you’re the Messiah, why the heck am I still in prison?”
Jesus’ answer is, as usual, indirect. He tells the messengers to tell John what they see and hear: the dead are raised, the sick are healed, the poor have good news brought to them.
This is the good news of Jesus, the Messiah—the wounds and heartaches of God’s people are being tended to, one at a time.
We don’t get to hear John’s response. Perhaps this good news was indeed met with great joy. But there’s also a small possibility that he thought to himself: “good for them! I’m still in prison.”
There are hundreds of Christmas movies/books/commercials about how the joy of Christmas is not found in presents or money or lavish celebrations, but the gift of family and togetherness.
This is beautiful and wonderful, and I wholeheartedly endorse a focus on relationships over consumerism. But that message of “family is all that matters for Christmas” does not bring joy to the people who are spending Christmas alone. The ones who have to work instead of making cookies for Santa with their kids. The ones whose families are separated by distance, conflict, estrangement or death. The people in care facilities, hospitals, jail, prison, or detention centers.
I’m not saying there is no joy to be found for these people. There are plenty of Grinches in the world, but some people are depressed at the holidays because they have good reason to be. For many who don’t get a picture-perfect holiday, like John the Baptist, the joy of Christmas has to come from somewhere else.
Nicholas of Myra was a Christian bishop in the early 4th century. He was infamous in the region where he lived (in modern-day Turkey) for being incredibly generous, and a defender for folks without much power of their own.
He came from a wealthy family but lost both of his parents at a young age, and throughout his life gave away most of his inheritance to the poor. He was imprisoned and exiled for a while when Christians were persecuted by the Emperor Diocletian, but was eventually allowed to return.
At one point during his ministry, three innocent men were condemned to death by the local governor – but Nicholas appeared at the very last second, smacked the executioner’s sword out of his hand, removed their chains, and publicly chastised a juror who had taken a bribe to condemn the men.
Perhaps the most well-known story features a local man with three daughters. He couldn’t afford a dowry for one of them, not to mention all three, and they basically couldn’t marry without one. Because of the limited options for women in that day, they risked being forced into prostitution to survive.
But Nicholas heard about this, and as the story goes, he decided to help—just anonymously. So he threw a bag of coins through the family’s window for three nights in a row – and was finally ‘caught’ by the father on the final night. Nicholas supposedly swore him to secrecy, but given that the story persists approximately 1700 years later, he was obviously a terrible secret-keeper.
John the Baptist and St. Nicholas, like many of us, had seen some things, survived some things, been there and done that.
There are two poems that I think represent pretty well the duality and persistence of joy in this season.
The first is a favorite of mine by Emily Dickinson, and it goes like this:
““Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –
And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –
And sore must be the storm –
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm –
I’ve heard it in the chillest land –
And on the strangest Sea –
Yet – never – in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of me.”
The second is a response by Caitlin Seida, titled “Hope is not a bird, Emily, it’s a sewer rat.”
For the sake of the pulpit, I’m changing some of the swear words to their less-punchy counterparts, but you’ll get the idea.
Hope is not the thing with feathers
That comes home to roost
When you need it most.
Hope is an ugly thing
With teeth and claws and
Patchy fur that’s seen some [stuff].
It’s what thrives in the discards
And survives in the ugliest parts of our world,
Able to find a way to go on
When nothing else can even find a way in.
It’s the gritty, nasty little carrier of such
diseases as
optimism, persistence,
Perseverance and joy,
Transmissible as it drags its tail across
your path
and
bites you in the [rear].
Hope is not some delicate, beautiful bird,
Emily.
It’s a lowly little sewer rat
That snorts pesticides like they werestill
Lines of coke and
Shows up on time to work the next day
Looking no worse for wear.
Isaiah and Matthew, John and Nicholas, Emily and Caitlin remind us that when we are disappointed by our circumstances, by the hand that life has dealt us, by the situations outside of our control, the work of God in our midst can still offer us abundant joy. We can still be part of the work of the Messiah: tending to the wounds of God’s people, striving to continue Christ’s healing and hopeful presence in the world, even when we’re not okay.
There are many reasons to be joyful in this season, but one will persist through anything in this world: and that is the joy of knowing that when we could not make our way to God, God came to us.
Thanks be to God. Amen.