I’ve noticed recently that we’re starting to crack, many of us, under the losses and stresses of this year.
Not all of us. Some of us cracked long ago, and papered over, and moved on – maybe repeatedly. Some of us are genuinely doing better than we expected.
But I’m noticing just how much traditions and transitions, expectations and exhaustion, are rolling together right now with the ongoing strains and challenges of this pandemic, pushing many of us to become what we never wanted to be – and just can’t.
Extroverts, living like introverts.
Parents having to be teachers; teachers having to become tech wizards.
Actual tech wizards having to be in multiple places at once like Harry Potter wizards….
Pastors and principals and HR departments having to become disease transmission experts; actual medical experts having to become pastors and family to the ill and dying.
And so much more.
So many of us, in this pandemic – and in the economic, social, and political dangers of this year – find ourselves with identities and responsibilities we didn’t choose, or prepare for.
And into the middle of all this today this walks John: calmly, clearly and persistently – maybe forcefully –saying No.
I am not the Messiah.
I am not Elijah.
I am not the prophet who leads the people.
It starts before John ever opens his mouth. The narrator introduces John by pointing out explicitly that “he himself was not the light.”
The first thing we know about John is who and what he is not. John’s introduction is all about clearing away the clutter of expectations, so that we can see not what we expect to see, but instead what John does, and most of all, who John points to: God, coming into the world.
Every year (every non-pandemic year!) I attend a conference of clergy leaders in the Episcopal Church. And at each gathering, the first thing we do as we come together is to spend about half an hour talking to one another about what we have to leave behind to focus on the work at hand.
What do we have to set aside, say no to for a while, to be fully present in this sacred time and space?
We talk to each other then about roof repairs and budget revisions, about soccer schedules and worship changes, cable companies, loose teeth, sometimes about a loved one’s cancer treatment or impending childbirth – all the things we can’t affect for a day or two, from a conference center with limited wifi.
And by naming them, recognizing their claim on our hearts and minds, recognizing the truth that these things are out of our control right now, we let go of their hold on our attention, and help one another to be focused on, and open to, the holiness of the here and now.
John’s introduction does the same thing. He proactively, deliberately cuts loose the identities and expectations that keep him or us from being fully present to his mission: to announce the coming of God.
You and I may need to be doing exactly that, right now. It’s the primary task of Advent, of preparation for God’s coming: to clear our hearts and minds to focus on, and be open to, God coming into our here and now.
So what do you have to leave behind, this year, to be fully present to Christ?
What do you have to clear away, what do you have to set aside – for a time at least – so that you can focus on the coming of God?
If that question triggers a racing to-do list in your head right now that has the force of an oncoming train, you’re not alone. Standing here in the middle of December – a difficult December, in a year that constantly demands attention for new dangers, tasks, tragedies, and precautions – and asking you – and myself – what we’re going to stop, set aside, and leave behind feels like a ridiculous thing.
But it may be the most important thing.
Even in the best years – and especially in this year – hundreds or thousands of things grab at our attention.
And naming them, recognizing their claim on our hearts and minds, and acknowledging the truth that they are out of our control right now, can help us let go of their hold on our attention, and help us be focused on and open to the coming of God into the here and now.
I can’t ask you to gather round and talk to one another right now, but I can ask you to think about this now:
What are the things on your to-do list that you cannot do, but are holding your attention away from the quiet coming of Christ?
What are the anxieties that clamor for your time, the responsibilities demanding effort, the expectations and information that snag your heart? What are the things limiting the time and attention you have to focus on the powerful and immediate presence of God, bursting in to the world?
And I can ask you to make some time today to talk to someone else: to name those things, acknowledge their value, recognize the limits of our control, and help one another to set them aside awhile to focus on the coming of Christ.
Because sometimes, we have to say No in order to say Yes.
John said no, repeatedly, to identities that defined what people could expect of him:
I am not the Messiah, not Elijah, not the prophet, not the One.
So that when he does say yes, he can clearly claim an identity that points to our expectation of God.
“I am the voice in the wilderness, calling out the arrival of God.” Yes.
Every time John says yes, says, “I am….” he says “yes, behold, here is God.”
You and I may need to say no not only to tasks and worries that grab for our attention, but to identities and expectations that others have for us, so that we can say yes to the work of God.
I am not a miracle maker, but Jesus is.
I am not the host, the leader, the comforter for all situations, but Christ is, and Christ is coming.
I am not responsible for salvation, but God is. And God is coming, soon, here, now, always.
The “no” that makes space for God can be very freeing in a fragile and difficult time, full of challenges we cannot overcome alone. The no that leads to yes is how we open our lives to let God take up the burdens we cannot carry, and receive our own much lighter share in God’s work of healing and transforming the world.
John came – two thousand years ago, and again today – to help us clear away everything that stands between us and the coming of Christ, God vibrantly among us both then and there and here and now.
So what do you and I have to set aside, or set free, to join John in that joyful focus, that healing clarity, where we are completely, constantly aware of the insistent, powerful, glorious coming of God into our world and hearts and lives?
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