Who Said It Was Simple?

Sermon

We have been exploring the phrase “be not afraid” during this Advent season because Advent is often associated with “awaiting”—and when Jesus did arrive, people who had been waiting for Jesus probably felt a little bit of worry, a little bit of anxiety. But they weren’t worried because they thought that Jesus was coming to throw people into the fire. No, they were worried because Jesus was coming to throw a way of life, a way of being, into the fire. And changing a way of being, a way of life, for anybody or any community, can be hard. Especially when that way of being or way of life is the only one you’ve gotten to know, and even when this familiar way is the fire.

And rather than trying to get out of the fire, people have instead been told to find ways to describe it as “warm” and “sunny.” And because people are resilient, they have endured fires they should not have had to—like abusive relationships within families, or with churches, or with the government—just in order to survive.

So, when people learned of Jesus’ arrival, it makes sense they would hold their breath, hesitate before really believing this “promise of new life,” because, at the very least, they were surviving the fire as best they could. And this new life could stoke an even hotter flame.

Be not afraid, the angels say.

Advent reminds us of what this time of “waiting” can feel like. People’s hopes are intertwined with fear, excitement tangled with worry, dreams burdened with anxiety. Because they know what the promise is: that Christ has come to relieve fears, to untangle worries, and to settle anxieties. But when the fire has become familiar, the work of trying to get out can feel like more of a burden than trying to survive the heat just a little while longer. And so, there will still be some fear, some disbelief, some unwillingness, until Jesus, fully divine and a tangible physical human being, comes to be the embodiment of hope and enfleshment of peace on earth.

And this is who John the Baptist says is drawing near.

—

The fear of some underworld fire after death somehow became associated with Christianity even though my understanding of hell is from the Disney movie, Hercules, with James Woods voicing a fairly relatable Hades. Hell has always been associated either with myth or with the present time.

Words like “unquenchable fire” likely have something to do with this association of hellfire, but these authors were also inspired by the same myths that shape their views of the world. Instead, it’s also words like “repent” that have warped our understanding of Jesus and this season of waiting because we are not “waiting” just to get to heaven or to hell once we’ve repented and are Christian.

“Repent, or else…”

Following Christ has been presented to people as having to sign some form to save a seat in heaven after life. But that form isn’t available to everyone, there isn’t really much you have to do before signing, no one’s reading the terms and conditions, and the consequence of violating them is only realized after death.

This might sound like I’m minimizing Christianity, but it’s because what’s been presented just isn’t what John the Baptist is proclaiming. Pushing the consequences of your actions until after you die is an easy way to ignore the consequences of your actions to the people around you. It is an easy way to ignore the hell you might be creating for someone else. And it’s also easier, maybe even comforting, to believe that some people, who we really think deserve it, are experiencing the eternal consequences of their actions.

But “repent, or else…” is not how we are invited into the kin-dom.

I was surprised to learn that even though “repent” is used in almost every English translation, the Greek word is actually “reconsider,” especially with regards to a “change of mind” or “a change of heart.” “Repent” is a huge leap and shifts the entire tone of the Advent message and of Christianity as a whole. “Reconsider,” while less commanding, is a much more accurate representation of why people were drawn to Jesus, not coming to John the Baptist and Jesus out of fear, why even Pharisees and Sadducees, people they were openly calling a “brood of vipers,” believed in Jesus and truly began to reconsider.

Because the good news of the gospel has never been, “Confess, because the King is coming to judge who is good and bad.”

Instead, the invitation reads,

“Reconsider getting out of the fire, because there’s a home waiting for you.”

—

As many may have heard, this past Monday, over 25 people from the Westminster community participated in an evening demonstration of faith down at the ICE facility with over a hundred people from other Presbyterian churches and faith communities. In the early night, over a hundred people gathered outside the walls of a building representing an unjust institution, with electric candles, reciting prayers, hearing messages of hope, and singing hymns in peaceful demonstration hoping to bring down walls. It’s an image reflective of Scripture, and I hope you’ll be able to hear people’s experiences directly.

What is just as hopeful to know is that people have been gathering down there every single evening since June. And as is now known nationwide, people have demonstrated in costume, in song, in ballroom dance, with righteous anger and frustration, and as peacefully as they possibly can. Each night, a group of people—ex-Christians, college students, military veterans, parents, working class people representing a wide variety of sectors—gather in bright costumes, reciting chants and messages of hope and resistance, and dance to music in peaceful demonstration hoping to bring down walls.

An image reflective of Scripture.

On the colder evenings, one quick warming of your hands and someone will come by asking if you’d like a hand-warmer. There are evenings when an employee from Domino’s or a friendly supporter will bring pizzas for anyone still there for the night. There are peacekeepers helping folks not take the bait from instigators just trying to rile people up, and for when they rile each other up, because they’re also human. There are people handing out masks and eye drops for when agents shoot pepper bullets or tear gas because someone took one step over a blue line. There is a person who makes gluten free, vegan burritos each week, because it’s “all” she can do. And for a while, a small community of unhoused people created an encampment there because of how much of a home they had built.

The most marginalized peoples in our society found solace and respite with the community of demonstrators because they knew they’d be fed, they trusted they wouldn’t be judged, that they’d be protected, and that they would have friendships and a home. And the nights that I am down there, I learn a little bit more about what the kin-dom of heaven looks like. God is too big and we are too human to place limits on the breadth of God and God’s people using Christian language.

When I ask people, “Why are you down here each night?” something I’ve heard more than once goes along the lines of: “I’m not really sure. I just know it’s not okay. I feel like I have to do something.” Like making burritos, or giving out chicken and frog costumes, or helping de-escalate against instigators, or even praying with people.

I’m sure that this is something that many of us here have felt—knowing that what’s going on is just wrong, made to feel a little crazy that everyone around us is acting like it’s all normal, and everyone is itching to do something about it. But why it can feel so isolating during this time is because we have become a society of people, as Martin Luther King Jr. described, who prefer a negative peace, which is the absence of tension, as opposed to a positive peace, which is the presence of justice.

When the foundation of peace is the absence of tension, peace on earth becomes an illusion built on untenable ground. It relies on a relentlessness to try to hide tension, to move away from it, to shift blame onto the victim. But as the tension grows and becomes impossible to ignore, this relentlessness can eventually lead to burnout or an apathetic acceptance of tension, leaving us to never be able to fully know peace.

We are people who have been made to reside in the fire, who have been told to describe it as “warm” and “sunny” by saying, “immigrants are criminals,“ “pull yourself up by your bootstraps,” “there’s no such thing as racism,” or “empathy is a sin.”

When the foundation of peace is the presence of justice, peace on earth becomes as tangible and real as Jesus was on earth. It looks like candlelight vigils last Monday and every night that the community of demonstrators has been out there. It looks like the people who walk each Saturday around impacted neighborhoods to keep watch for ICE activity, it looks like the community of volunteers at the Portland Immigrant Rights Coalition, cataloguing all the activity in Portland, groups of friends who help one another stay informed, it looks like people doing all the messiness and joy of life together.

Because peace on earth is tangible and real, it’s also susceptible to tension, far from the idea of “perfect” that the kin-dom of heaven would imply. Because justice is not “perfect.” The very need for justice is because injustice exists between humans, and because God created us as humans to be human, the pursuit of peace won’t look at all “perfect,” nor does it mean there will never be tension.

The kingdom of heaven that draws near is not a destination arriving at its new location, but the reign of Christ-like kinship establishing itself on earth—a reign of kinship that evolves and grows as humans continue to learn just how diverse and large God’s love is for each one of God’s children. It is a home where my humanity is wrapped up in your humanity, where people live in peace, where we realize that we need one another. Where everyone is fed, where everyone is sheltered, where people are protected, people are held accountable, people are given second chances, people create music and art. Each person can pursue their dream, each person is treated with love. No one worries about paying for healthcare, every child gets a birthday party. Each person is surrounded by loved ones when they pass and survived by the loved ones who follow. A home made up of kin who don’t know one another, but can still love each other, made up of kin who we’ve ignored or considered less important.

This is the kin-dom of heaven drawing near that John the Baptist invites us to prepare for today. Just like the demonstrations down by the ICE facility every night, or when we come together on Sundays to be together in fellowship, or when we spend meaningful time with family and friends, the kin-dom of heaven is able to reveal itself through the glimpses captured by the presence of justice, and when we do catch a glimpse, we’ll know it by the hope it inspires, by the peace it pursues, by the love that fills us, and by the joy it exudes.

And the invitation is never: “Repent, or else you’ll never get in!”

And always,

“Friends, reconsider getting out of the heat, you are needed at home.”