Luke
3:7-18
Of
Snakes and Imperatives
James
Sledge December
16, 2012
I’ve
never been very big on poetry and never much cared for the practice of pastors
quoting poems in their sermons, something I heard a bit of growing up. But I am
drawn to song lyrics, my version of poetry I suppose. And a song from my
favorite group, The Mountain Goats, immediately came to mind when I first read today’s
gospel.
I’m not about to
attempt singing it, so I realize that, for all practical purposes, I am going
to subject you to the sort of poetry reading I never much cared for growing up.
Sorry about that. An even bigger
concern; I’m not at all sure what the song means. It has a connection to our gospel reading,
but I’m not really clear about its message.
That might argue against using it, but I’m also somewhat puzzled by our
gospel reading today. So I’ll go ahead
and recite some puzzling song lyrics.
Sun just clearing the tree line when
my day begins.
Slippery ice on the bridges, Northeastern wind coming in.
You will bruise my head, I will strike your heel.
Drive past woods of northern pine, try not to let go of the wheel.
Slippery ice on the bridges, Northeastern wind coming in.
You will bruise my head, I will strike your heel.
Drive past woods of northern pine, try not to let go of the wheel.
Dream at night, girl with the cobra
tattoo
on her arm, its head flaring out like a parachute.
on her arm, its head flaring out like a parachute.
Prisms in the dewdrops in the
underbrush.
skate case sailors' purses floating down in the black needle rush.
Higher than the stars I will set my throne.
God does not need Abraham, God can raise children from stones.
skate case sailors' purses floating down in the black needle rush.
Higher than the stars I will set my throne.
God does not need Abraham, God can raise children from stones.
Dream at night, girl with the cobra
tattoo
And try to hear the garbled transmissions come through.[1]
And try to hear the garbled transmissions come through.[1]
Along with haunting music you didn’t
hear, there’s a lot going on in these verses. A tattoo of a snake, a
viper. A line borrowed from the Garden of
Eden story. A line from Isaiah’s taunt
of those who foolishly imagine themselves equals to God, right next to an echo
of John the baptizer’s warning to “children of Abraham.” Not to mention the line about garbled
transmissions, which could sometimes describe my prayer life.
I’m not at all sure what to make of
it. Is it about someone drawn to the devil, to evil? Is this someone who finds
himself fated to enmity with another, even with God. Is it a lament over patterns
in which he is trapped? I don’t know, but nevertheless I feel myself drawn to
it.
At times I feel much the same about
Luke’s picture of John the Baptist. Last
week Luke told us that John was proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the
forgiveness of sins. And today
we hear that crowds came out, drawn to that message. Now if I were holding a tent revival in the
wilderness and huge crowds showed up, I’d think that a good thing. But John
calls them snakes; not some of them, but all of them; a brood of vipers,
children of serpents.
We Presbyterians don’t know much
about tent revivals. But we will hold
our Christmas Eve services soon, and the crowds will come out. Like the crowds coming to see John, it will
be a mixed bag. Devout members will mingle
with once a year folks who feel some need to reconnect to faith, to tradition,
to old patterns. What if I welcomed all
of that Christmas Eve crowd with, “You snakes, you children of the devil! Who warned you to flee what is coming?” That might thin out the crowd.
But it doesn’t for John. No one seems to object to be called a snake,
to being told that their faith traditions are meaningless. Instead they plead, “What then should we do?”
Does anyone asks such questions in the
church, responding to God’s strange presence with an awareness that change is
required? What should we do? What must we do?
In the wake of the horrific events
of Friday, we do ask questions, but mostly they are questions of “Why?” And very often, we don’t think there is much
we can do.
As the church shrinks and even withers
in this country, I wonder if this is not, at least in part, because we has so
few answers to questions of what we should do, so few imperatives. Not so John
the Baptist. “Have more than enough? Then you must share with those who do not.
Make sure that none are hungry. Do not use your power or authority for
your own benefit.” John begins, with broad
strokes, to lay out an alternative community. “Do this,” he says. “Build
this.”
God knows we need an alternative
community. We need to reshape the world so that it begins to conform to God’s
coming realm, God’s promised kingdom.
John also insists that another is
coming who will baptize with the Holy Spirit and with fire. There will be
divine power to help with the doing, the fulfilling of imperatives, the
construction of an alternative community.
And indeed Luke tells of this community coming to life in the book of
Acts. But John says begin now. Begin now or else.
Did John realize how patient and
tender Jesus would be with us? Did John
realize how loving and forgiving he would be?
Did John realize the lengths Jesus would go to draw us into the work, the
imperatives of the kingdom, that promised day that we point to every Advent
when we speak of swords beaten into plowshares, spears into pruning hooks, guns
melted down for farming implements, and wolves lying down with lambs? I’m not sure. John seems to expect a much
sterner Jesus, but maybe that is just because he has such a sense of
urgency. “Prepare; get ready; start
changing the world. Now!” Regardless, Luke calls John’s imperatives,
his “Do it now,” good news.
I wonder what John would say to us
in this Advent. What patterns that trap us would he name? What names might he
call us? What imperatives would he proclaim to us, a church not much accustomed
to imperatives? “Do this, and do it now!”
“Do this” imperatives, especially if
they are the least bit hard, are not much heard in the church. They might offend someone. They might hurt someone’s feelings. And no mentions of snakes, please. Or at least confine them to an enigmatic poem
or song.
But just what are we waiting for and
preparing for as we move deep into Advent?
Do we not think God’s imperative to be good news?
______________________________________________________________________________
Uncharacteristically, for me, I began this sermon with a
poem, a song. So why not go in whole hog
and end with one, too. This is actually
a prayer by Walter Brueggemann, but it seems to me a poem. I was struck by its
title, “Your command is garbled,” recalling the garbled transmissions in the
song lyrics and my own prayers. And its
words seemed right.
We imagine you coming into the
barracks with your insistent demand.
We
imagine you addressing
the
sun to “move out,”
the
sky – “let there be light,”
the
sea – “stand back.”
We imagine you addressing Israel,
“be my people,”
and
the church “follow me.”
We even imagine you addressing us,
each of us and all of us
with
your order of the day.
We imagine… but the din of other
commands,
of
old loyalties and unfinished business
and
tired dreams
cause
us not to hear well, not to listen, not to notice,
and
your command is garbled.
So come again with your mandate,
with the clarity of your imperative.
We listen, because we know in deep
ways that your yoke is easy
and
your burden light.
Come among us, because we are yours,
and ours is a listening mood.
Give us ears and then hands and
hearts and feet for your good news.
Amen.[2]
__________________________________________________________________________________
The
following prayer was appended to the sermon in light of the tragic Sandy Hook
school shootings in Newtown, Connecticut, two days before.
Had we the chance,
we would have rushed to Bethlehem
to see this thing that had come to pass.
We would have paused at that barn and pondered that baby.
We still pause at that barn--
and ponder that all our babies are under threat,
all the vulnerable who stand at risk before predators,
our babies who face the slow erosion of consumerism,
our babies who face the reach of sexual exploitation,
our babies who face the call to war, placed in harm's way,
our babies, elsewhere in the world,
who know of cold steel against soft arms
and distended bellies from lack of food;
our babies everywhere who are caught
in the fearful display of ruthless adult power.
We ponder how peculiar this baby at Bethlehem is,
summoned to save the world,
and yet also, like every child, also at risk.
Our world is so at risk,
and yet we seek
and wait
for this child named "Emmanuel."
Come be with us, you who are called "God with us."
-- Walter Brueggeman, shortened and edited, in light of the elementary school shooting
we would have rushed to Bethlehem
to see this thing that had come to pass.
We would have paused at that barn and pondered that baby.
We still pause at that barn--
and ponder that all our babies are under threat,
all the vulnerable who stand at risk before predators,
our babies who face the slow erosion of consumerism,
our babies who face the reach of sexual exploitation,
our babies who face the call to war, placed in harm's way,
our babies, elsewhere in the world,
who know of cold steel against soft arms
and distended bellies from lack of food;
our babies everywhere who are caught
in the fearful display of ruthless adult power.
We ponder how peculiar this baby at Bethlehem is,
summoned to save the world,
and yet also, like every child, also at risk.
Our world is so at risk,
and yet we seek
and wait
for this child named "Emmanuel."
Come be with us, you who are called "God with us."
-- Walter Brueggeman, shortened and edited, in light of the elementary school shooting
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