Birth of John the Baptist

Acts 13:14-26 and Luke 1:57-66, 80

Today, the Church remembers the birth of John the Baptist [which also means that it is six months till Christmas, cousin John being six months older than Jesus].

Zechariah and Elizabeth have a son, and name him John. What’s in a name? Well, in the Bible, quite a lot actually: names are important; they have meaning; and they often have significance to the life-story of the person with the name.

For example, ‘Zechariah’ means ‘Yahweh has remembered’. Specifically, Yahweh has remembered his people. And it carries a certain weight. ‘Yahweh has remembered’ is not ‘Yahweh had forgotten about us but now he has remembered us’. It is the timely reminder, when we have been waiting ages for God to move, ‘Despite appearances to the contrary, God has not forgotten or abandoned us’.

Zechariah is married to Elizabeth. ‘Elizabeth’ means ‘God’s oath’. That is, God’s covenant promise. The promises God made, for example, to Abraham or to David. God stands by his oath. But that oath is contractual: it invites Abraham and his descendants, and David and his descendants, into faithful committed relationship with God. If ‘Zechariah’ is a reminder to the people that Yahweh has not forgotten them, ‘Elizabeth’ is a reminder to the people—every time someone called out her name—that they should not forget God. That they shouldn’t look around for a better god-offer when the honeymoon shine had worn off their love.

So, Zechariah and Elizabeth both mean something. But there is more: biblically, when a man and a woman marry, they become ‘one flesh’...so, Zechariah and Elizabeth become ‘Yahweh has remembered his oath’. That is, ‘the time has come for Yahweh to act on his oath to rescue his people’ who have once again found themselves in need of rescuing and have once again found themselves calling out to their god.

And the result of Zechariah and Elizabeth becoming one flesh is John. And ‘John’ means ‘Yahweh is gracious’. So, when the time has come for Yahweh to act on his oath to rescue his people, the result—that is, the action—is grace.

And that grace looks like provision of a fresh start, in a renewed kingdom-of-God with a renewed faithful king, Jesus, descendant of David. A fresh start, symbolised by John in baptism, in an historical re-enactment of passing through the Jordan into the land. But now the kingdom is not limited to Galilee and Judea, and the reign of the king is not limited by death.

When Paul is invited to bring a word of exhortation for the people—a word that urges that we do something in response—he rehearses stories of Yahweh remembering his people and acting on his oath. Stories of leading his people out of slavery in Egypt, of acting to give to them the land he had promised to give to Abraham’s descendants, of giving them judges to deliver them from the surrounding nations who contested that land, of king David and God’s promise to king David. A story that culminates in John the baptiser holding out grace, setting the scene for Jesus.

And to discover what happens next, you will have to read on in Acts. But the promise is that by Jesus everyone who believes is set free from all those sins that hold us captive. From fear and greed and everything that comes between us and loving God and loving our neighbour as ourselves. You see, the name ‘Jesus’ means ‘Yahweh saves’.

Today, the Church remembers the birth of John the Baptist. Today, we retell the story of Zechariah and Elizabeth and John. Today, we reaffirm that God has not forgotten us, even if some days it feels as if God has forgotten us. Today, we celebrate God’s promises, and reaffirm our commitment in response. Today, we rejoice at God’s grace, birthed in our midst, much to our amazement, starting small and vulnerable and growing strong—grace that is hidden away, perhaps for years, until in God’s time the day comes when it appears publicly and has a wide impact.

A truth, carried in a story, we need to come back to year by year. And where we find ourselves again today. And where are you in the story? Elizabeth’s neighbours heard and rejoiced and came and assumed that they knew the same-old story and challenged the new chapter and enquired and found out and were amazed and a little bit afraid and gossiped the news everywhere they went and pondered what would come of it all. Elizabeth stood her ground, trusting God. Zechariah experienced freedom and used his freedom to praise God. John grew and became strong in spirit, in the hidden and even lonely place. And you, as a congregation? And you, personally? And me? Where are we in the story, this time of hearing? Because it is a gift to us, a means of God’s grace, to find us where we are and to draw us deeper into the mystery of God.

Second Sunday after Trinity 2018

Genesis 3:8-15 and 2 Corinthians 4:13-5:1 and Mark 3:20-35

Paul wrote, we believe and so we speak. That isn’t just a description of Christian witness in the world. It is a profound observation into the human condition. What we believe determines our speech – and how we speak reveals what we believe. What we believe about God, and human beings, is revealed in the tone of voice we hear and use.

Turn with me to Genesis chapter 3. This is part of our Origins myth. By myth, I do not mean an entertaining tale, or a downright lie, but an account of the world that is so deeply true that it transcends its original context and expands to fill all of time and space.

If this were a play, the stage directions for this scene would begin [noises off]. God is walking in the garden at the time of the evening breeze. And God calls out to the humans, ‘Where are you?’

When you read those words, what tone do you hear? Is it playful, like a parent playing hide-and-seek with their children? Is it enquiring, like a friend who has called you on your mobile phone because they expected to meet you at a certain time and place, and can’t spot you – are you delayed? Is there an edge to it, a busy person somewhat exasperated to be kept waiting? You see, it matters: because what you hear reveals what you believe concerning God’s fundamental disposition towards us, and about our fundamental position in relation to God.

God calls out, ‘Where are you?’ This is not a distant God who has created the world and left, having more important things to be concerned with than mere people. And it isn’t an all-seeing all-knowing Big Brother, who has filled the garden with security cameras. This God is genuinely interested in getting to know both the garden and the humans.

Was asking this question a new experience for God? Or had God called out, ‘Where are you?’ before, as he came looking for us? Was the difference not so much that the humans were temporarily hidden as before, but that they were deliberately hiding, in the hope of not being discovered?

How we hear God matters; as does how we hear the humans. The man says, ‘I was afraid’. Note that fear was not necessarily a new experience. The man has already known loneliness; has already experienced being overwhelmed by the enormity of the task of tending the garden, so needing a helper. The gift of man and woman clinging-together in the face of the enormity of the world is rooted in an earlier scene. But now, the fear relates to himself, to his nakedness. It is a fear of being ourselves – he is literally not at home in his own skin – without something external that projects a character into the world.

This is new. And God responds, ‘Who told you that you were naked? Have you eaten from the tree of which I commanded you not to eat?’ And, again, what tone do you hear? Anger? Or genuine interest? Or concern? This is fundamental to how we view God, goes towards what we believe God’s disposition to be towards us and others. And as we believe, so we speak.

If you believe God is angry with you, you will believe that to be true in relation to others. And if God is angry – as fundamental disposition – towards others, then we ought to be, too.

If you believe God is genuinely interested in you, you will believe that to be true in relation to others. And if God is genuinely interested in others, then we ought to be, too.

If you believe God is concerned for you, you will believe that to be true in relation to others. And if God is concerned for others, then we ought to be, too.

But it is hard to be genuinely interested in, or concerned for, others if we believe that God is fundamentally angry with us all. That isn’t to say that God doesn’t ever get angry – as the story unfolds, we will see what makes God angry, and how God responds in ways that are not volatile and unpredictable, but measured and dependable.

How we hear God matters; as does how we hear the humans. The man says, ‘The woman whom you gave to be with me, she gave me fruit from the tree, and I ate.’ The woman says, ‘The serpent tricked me, and I ate.’ What do you hear? Is this blame-shifting: the man shifting blame on to the woman, or, indeed, on to God; the woman shifting blame on to the serpent? Or, are they genuinely trying to work out what has gone on: to make sense and find meaning? Or, is it all these things?

The wonderful thing about myth is that it is so deeply true that it is big enough to embrace our humanity. When we read these verses, we need to resist the temptation to indulge in caricatures: ‘typical man, blaming the woman!’ or ‘typical woman, seducing the man!’ What we see here is not typical man and typical woman but archetypal humans: complex, and often conflicted, in our motivations.

God says to the woman, ‘What is this that you have done?’ And, again, what tone do you hear? Does God have an angry voice, an I’ll-give-you-something-to-really-be-afraid-of-young-lady! voice? Or is it the voice of anguish, because God knows the consequences?

God’s response is to curse – that is, to severely restrict the freedom of – the serpent. And if you read on from where we left the story hanging, if you pay close attention, you will see that while God goes on to address the woman and the man, God does not curse them. God curses the serpent, not the humans. What follows, for the woman and the man – for humanity – is not punishment. God sets out the inevitable consequences of what has occurred – that is to say, God shares with them divine knowledge. And while this is not an omnipotent God, any more than an omnipresent and omniscient God [those ideas come from Greek philosophy, not the Bible], God sets out the ways in which, out of divine mercy and compassion and determined commitment to humanity, those consequences will be moderated. But that is a story for another sermon.

Turn, if you will, to our Gospel reading. In it, Jesus is accused of representing a god: Beelzebul, the ruler of the demons. In refuting this, Jesus gives this god not a name but a title, the Satan, or Accuser: the (possibly self-appointed) Counsel for the Prosecution in the court of heaven. Jesus makes it clear that he comes, according to the character of his God, to oppose and utterly defeat the Accuser. He goes on to clearly identify himself as being with and for the offspring of the woman, in enmity with the offspring of the serpent. For those of us who are Jesus’ disciples, Jesus’ family, this also speaks to how we hear the voices of God and of the man and of the woman: what we believe, and so what we speak.

Finally, let us revisit Paul, who tells us that the God who went looking for his friends in the garden will not let even death get in the way of bringing us into his presence (verse 14). Not even death, the ultimate consequence. And not just us, but – through what we believe and so speak – more and more people (verse 15). We have been caught-up in a story of being searched-out and found and reconciled. Reconciled, not only with God, and with one another, but within ourselves. Remember the fear, of being naked, of not being at home in our own skin? The glory we had from the beginning was too much to bear; but God is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all measure – that will not crush us, but provide us with an eternal home, or body to inhabit. For now, perhaps, we stand at the door and look in, unable to comprehend. But this hope wells up to fill all of time and space, and beyond: it is uncontainable.

That is the glorious God whose Spirit speaks to our spirit, who draws us out from our hiding-places, from start to finish. The God who frees and restores us. And that is truly, and in so many ways, good news.