And now, introducing ...
Commentary
In the United States just now, we're in the period between the election and the inauguration of the president. In our system, by the time they are inaugurated, our leaders are fairly familiar faces. Months of primaries and campaigning, debates and speeches, and conventions and commercials, all contribute to a fairly high degree of familiarity. We may wonder what kind of president someone will be, but we have certainly heard many promises, and we have had plenty of opportunities to get to know the candidate.
We experience a sense of newness when a president is inaugurated, but we do not experience a sense of permanence. We have seen other presidents before, and we will see still other, different presidents after. A given administration is, by design, a short-term thing.
Because of the design of our political context, therefore, it may be hard for us to imagine the political climate of ancient Israel at the time of John the Baptist. The present administration -- Rome, with its occupying forces, its appointed governor, and its handpicked local "kings" -- was certainly not elected. Even if the ever-hopeful people of Israel did not fear that the Roman rule was permanent, it surely must have seemed indefinite.
Meanwhile, there was this long-standing promise and hope of another ruler -- a ruler sent by God, with a perfect and a permanent administration. But, the timing of his inauguration was uncertain. For that matter, his very identity was uncertain. Who was he? What would he be like?
Far from the high-profile familiarity of our elected officials, Israel's promised leader was virtually anonymous. Unlike the constitutionally scheduled timing of our elections, inaugurations, and term limitations, the reign of Israel's promised leader could not be pinned down on the calendar.
That is the hopeful uncertainty of Advent. The season is a marvelous mixture of question marks and exclamation points. On the one hand, there are the magnificent promises of what the anticipated and anointed leader will be and what he will do. On the other hand, there is the complete mystery of who he would be and when he would come. That is the setting of the season, and that is the context of the passages we preach this Sunday.
Isaiah 11:1-10
The people of ancient Israel did not know who their promised ruler would be, but they at least knew his family tree. "A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse." Jesse, of course, was David's father, and as such represented the source of the royal line that reigned in Jerusalem.
Obviously, it was all descendants of Jesse that reigned in Jerusalem during the entire life and ministry of Isaiah. Such a promise in New Testament times would have had a different feel, for David had no descendant on the throne in those days. For that matter, what throne there was in Jerusalem did not represent a sovereign Israel anyway. But, there already was a member of Jesse's family tree on the throne at the time this promise was made. What, then, would be so spectacular about this promised branch grown from Jesse's roots?
The key lies in the image of a "stump." The promise of God's perfect future contains within it the imagery of a judgment in between: Namely, in order for a shoot to spring from Jesse's stump, Jesse's tree has to be cut down.
That imagery with which chapter 11 begins is a carryover from the imagery that concludes chapter 10.
Isaiah 10:28-32 sounds an alarm: The enemy is in the midst of Israel, ravaging the towns, threatening and terrifying the people. Then, in 10:33-34, the final two verses of the chapter, we find the promise that the Lord will "lop the boughs with terrifying power," that "the tallest trees will be cut down," and that "he will hack down the thickets of the forest with an ax, and Lebanon with its majestic trees will fall."
The promise in our lection that a "shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse" follows next.
The larger theme of Isaiah 10 is God's guaranteed judgment on Assyria; so it's possible that the image of God chopping down tall, proud trees is a reference to that judgment. In the immediate context, however, between the threatening enemy of 10:28-32 and the image of Jesse's stump in 11:1, it seems that the tree-felling in 10:33-34 may be a reference to judgment on God's own people.
In any event, when chapter 11 opens, Jesse has roots, but no tree; just a stump. That imagery is the bad news. The good news is that there is still life there, and that God will bring from those roots and that stump a new branch, and his reign will be perfectly glorious.
We have mentioned the American political context of presidential administrations. While almost every candidate promises greatness from his or her administration, history's sieve produces only a few great presidencies. Yet, whether the hyperbolic promises of a candidate on the campaign trail or the post facto affirmation of an historian, no other human reign compares with this description found in Isaiah 11. This promised ruler will be characterized by wisdom, knowledge, justice, and righteousness, and his time will be marked by unprecedented peace -- or at least a quality of peace only previously known to Eden.
Here is an opportunity to explore the person and work of Christ in terms that our people may not be accustomed to. The first five verses are descriptive of the person, and the remaining verses might be a way of describing his work. In the passage itself, there is no expressed connection between the promised ruler and the peaceable kingdom described in 11:6-9, yet the implicit connection is obvious: this marvelous ruler will be in place, and a certain kind of realm will be the natural extension of his reign.
Romans 15:4-13
On the first Sunday in December, most of the people in our pews are thinking about Christmas. We may talk deliberately about Advent, but they are thinking about Christmas. For weeks now, they have been seeing Christmas displays and hearing Christmas music in stores. Now, with just twenty shopping days left, they're thinking about Christmas. A reading from the end of Romans, therefore, with no reference to mangers or shepherds or wise men, may seem to them out-of-place.
Some themes are tied to a season -- whether a season of the liturgical calendar (for example, the Transfiguration or the Ascension) or a season of an individual's life (for example, a wedding or retirement). On the other hand, some themes rise above the particularity of any season. They are for all seasons, and one of those themes is hope.
On any given Sunday in any given congregation, hope is an issue. In any life or heart or home, hope is relevant. This season of Advent gives us good opportunity to talk and to sing about hope. And Paul's words to the Christians in Rome give us good insight into hope.
It would be an interesting exercise -- though perhaps more suited to a small group discussion than a worship service -- to explore with our people the relationship that exists in their minds between the past, the present, the future, and hope. Our first instinct is to associate hope with the future, for by definition the future is the concern of hope. And yet, in reality, the degree to which we are hopeful about the future is usually a product of the past and the present.
Paul begins with the past -- "whatever was written in former days" -- and observes that "by the encouragement of the scripture we might have hope." Our first key to hope for the future, then, is found in what may seem to some a surprising place: in the dusty pages of ancient writings.
Here is where a diminished view of scripture proves costly to our people. As the Bible declines from God's living word to exemplary stories and teachings, to great literature, to persona non grata in our culture, it has lost its capacity to give hope to people. If the words of scripture are no different than Aesop's Fables or Caesar's Commentaries, then I will sift through many pages before I find a scintilla of hope for my everyday life. If, however, those pages reveal God, his heart, his will, and his word, then those stories, teachings, and promises become vibrant with hope that speaks to my heart and applies to my life.
Paul moves on to reference "promises given to the patriarchs" that have been fulfilled in Christ. Promises fulfilled ought to foster hope the way that timely payments produce a good credit rating. We human beings have no basis for judging the probability of a promise from God apart from his past performance. If I tell you that I can throw a baseball through a tiny hole in a wall a hundred feet away, you might not be inclined to believe that guarantee. If, however, you've seen me do it twenty times in a row, then you have a different view. Likewise for us: our hope for the future is rooted in the promises of God, and our confidence in his promises is based upon what we have seen him do before.
That fact brings us, then, to the real issue of hope. Paul quotes Isaiah's reference to the one in whom "the Gentiles shall hope." When push comes to shove, our hope is not vested in pages or in promises, but in a person. The Gentiles shall hope in him, and next Paul refers to the Lord as "the God of hope."
We have been thinking a bit about the American presidential election, and we are reminded just now of the political reality that people like to feel hopeful. The enthusiastic voters will tell you that the candidate they supported is the one who gives them hope. It is hope for the future, but hope vested in a person.
Most people, of course, are risky investments for much of our hope, but we are not directed to just any person. We are directed to "the God of hope."
Finally, Paul concludes with this compelling image: "that you may abound in hope by the power of the Holy Spirit." In our vernacular, we speak of hope in terms of volume. Hope is not an either/or proposition. For us -- it is a matter of degree: a little hope, not much hope, no hope, very hopeful, and so on. Paul contributes to that understanding of hope with this large-scale statement -- "that you may abound in hope."
Christians are not sentenced to tiny and distant hope. We do not cling desperately to small and weak shreds of hope. Rather, we are to abound in hope -- like Niagara Falls abounds in water or the clear night sky abounds in stars.
Matthew 3:1-12
In our American political system, some favored member of the particular political party has the honor of introducing the presidential nominee at their convention. That introduction usually concludes with the bold proclamation that he or she is "the next President of the United States," which leads inevitably to a great ovation. And, about half the time they're right.
In the New Testament, John the Baptist is the one who makes this introduction. After centuries of prophetic pictures and promises, the time -- and the man -- have finally come, and John is the one to "prepare the way" for him.
Artists, authors, advertisers, moviemakers -- virtually anyone involved in communication -- all talk about the relationship between message and medium. That relationship is a particularly interesting study in the case of John the Baptist.
As John is described here, he is the embodiment of rough, tough, and wild. Is it essential for one whose jurisdiction includes "the rough places" to be a little rough himself? The reference to "the rough places" comes from Isaiah 40:4, which follows immediately after the verse quoted in reference to John earlier in our lection (Matthew 3:2). Surely John's greeting to the Pharisees and Sadducees is rougher than you and I are inclined to be with the folks who come to hear us preach or to be baptized.
John's threat that "even now the ax is lying at the root of the trees" is reminiscent of the context of our Isaiah lection. John's word of judgment, however, may have a still more devastating and permanent quality to it. In the case of Jesse in Isaiah 11, you recall, there was a stump and roots still in place, which suggests that the tree was cut down somewhere at its trunk. In the case of John's threat, by contrast, "the ax is lying at the root of the trees." If the cut is made there, there's very little chance of anything growing back.
Finally comes the introduction. In the books we read and the pieces we write, the "introduction" comes first. But that's not the order in this writing. Here the introduction is a kind of climax. The introduction is the moment we've been waiting for. And in this case, the wait has been hundreds and hundreds of years -- arguably since Eve's promised offspring in Eden (Genesis 3:15).
The people had come to John to be baptized, and John skillfully uses that connection to segue to the Christ: "I baptize you with water ... but one who is more powerful than I is coming after me ... he will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire." John's introduction of Christ is a kind of "you ain't seen nothing yet" promotion. The coming attraction is greater. The coming baptism is greater. And, the coming judgment is greater.
John illustrates the comparative greatness with this startling statement: "I am not worthy to carry his sandals" (or "untie the thong of his sandals" in Mark 1:7 and Luke 3:16). The picture is that of a servant -- one who would stoop down and take care of the master's footwear. It is the most subservient imagery John could have used. Yet the extreme statement from this reputed prophet of God is that he is not even worthy to be subservient to the one who is coming.
If a person is invited to do something that they are not worthy of, then it is understood as a very great honor. If John the Baptist was not worthy to be Christ's servant, then we and our people might be invited to understand what a very great honor it is to be invited to serve him.
Application
In preparation, this may be the season and the Sunday for introductions.
The Advent season recalls the anticipation of Christ's coming, and this Sunday's lections introduce us to him. Isaiah's introduction is from far away: a promise about this one who would come, what he would be like, and the beauty of his reign. John's introduction has a greater sense of imminence, although it still has an anonymous quality to it. The figure who is about to appear from out of the shadows is, as yet, unidentified. Then Paul's introduction to Christ is post facto. The promises have been fulfilled -- or at least have begun to be -- and Christ has been revealed.
Perhaps the people to whom we preach this Sunday and this season might fall into the same camps as the original audiences for our lections. For some, like the people of Isaiah's day, Christ is unknown and far away. For others, like the crowds who came to hear John, Christ feels close, but unfamiliar. For still others, like Paul and the Christians in Rome, Christ is known, and he becomes for us the source of our unity, our praise, and our hope.
Alternative Applications
1) Isaiah 11:1-10; Matthew 3:1-12; Romans 15:4-13.
What Can We Expect? Advent is a season of expectation. The flipside of expectation, of course, is disappointment. Perhaps we might explore the expectations and the potential disappointments involved in this season of the year.
People want to know what they can expect from their new leader. That is central to how we do campaigns and elections in the United States. But it is not unique to modern democracies, for even back in the ancient monarchy of Israel the people wanted to know what to expect from their new king (see 1 Kings 12:1-4).
In the wake of a recent election, and in anticipation of an inauguration, we might be able to tap into our people's natural curiosity about their leaders. Let's explore what we can expect from this one "born to reign in us forever" (Charles Wesley, "Come, Thou Long-Expected Jesus"), whose coming we anticipate during Advent.
We can expect certain things from him in terms of his character. The first section of the Isaiah passage offers insight there. We can also expect a certain quality from his reign and his realm, as articulated in the peaceable kingdom part of the Isaiah lection. Beyond that, however, we must also expect judgment from him (see Isaiah 11:4 and Matthew 3:12). The reality of his judgment brings us to a different set of questions: What does he expect from us? Do we disappoint him?
The picturesque imagery in Isaiah gives us an Edenic view of what perfect coexistence in nature might look like. Closer to home, however, is Paul's word to the Romans, where peaceful coexistence is meant to characterize the church ("live in harmony with one another," "with one voice glorify God," and "welcome one another"). That is what he expects from those who live in his kingdom. John, too, gives us some sense of our King's expectations: "Every tree that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire."
2) Isaiah 11:1-10; Matthew 3:1-12. The Clothes Make The Man. We know how apparel affects appearance, and how appearance influences first impressions. What we assume about, and expect from, someone who is well groomed and well dressed is quite different from someone who appears unkempt and sloppy.
Our selected lections present us with an interesting juxtaposition of apparel. Not necessarily a contrast, but a fascinating comparison.
When John the Baptist appears on the scene, he is described as wearing "clothing of camel's hair with a leather belt around his waist." The image is rough and outdoorsy. His clothes reflect his surroundings and his lifestyle, and we find that his message and style are also rather rough.
In Isaiah, meanwhile, we are given a quick glimpse of Jesse's promised descendant: "righteousness shall be the belt around his waist, and faithfulness the belt around his loins." His clothing, too, reflects his style. In his case, what he "wears" is not the product of his surroundings, but rather influences and determines the world around him.
Preaching The Psalm
Psalm 72:1-7, 18-19
This psalm is addressed to God in the form of a prayer. The setting is the coronation ceremony for a king. The psalmist offers this prayer in the hearing of the congregation, but also in the hearing of the new king designate. As such, the words become more than just a prayer; they also serve as a reminder to the community of faith of what is expected of the new king. The words also serve as encouragement for the new king to live up to his high calling.
And the calling is exceptionally high. In the first verse, the psalmist calls on God to give the new king "your justice," and "your righteousness." In other words, the psalmist prays that the new king will be imbued with the very character of God.
The reference to "justice" and to "righteousness" put us in mind immediately of the needs of the poor. The biblical idea of justice, fleshed out profoundly by the prophets, operates out of the belief that God has created the world with an abundance of resources for sustaining life. The presence of those in our midst who do not have the resources they need means that there are others in our community that have more than they need. The king, enlightened by God's own passion for fairness and mercy, was expected to right these wrongs. The poor in the congregation would be heartened by these words even as the new king would be challenged. All of this is made explicit in verse 4.
The psalmist also prays that the mountains would yield "prosperity" (v. 3). The word here is shalom and is normally translated "peace." The word is rich in meaning, however, and "prosperity" is certainly one of the shades of meaning included in the word. It is the association with the "the mountains" that prompt translators to use "prosperity" as the word's meaning in this context. It is from the mountains that the crops and flocks would thrive and bring material blessing for God's people.
However, we should not overlook the other meanings associated with shalom. While economic interests are important, as the opening verse clearly reflects, we humans do not live by bread alone. We need the other characteristics promised by shalom. These include healing, wholeness, peace, prosperity, and continued health.
In other words, the king is challenged in this prayer to preside over a portion of God's creation in a manner that brings help and hope to all who reside in the community.
The use of this psalm during Advent, of course, allows us to extend the expectations for the local king to the coming of Jesus as the Messiah. What the local king was expected to do for Israel, the Messiah is expected to do for the world, and the peace that is possible from the wise reign of a good local king is multiplied infinitely when the one who reigns is the King of kings.
We experience a sense of newness when a president is inaugurated, but we do not experience a sense of permanence. We have seen other presidents before, and we will see still other, different presidents after. A given administration is, by design, a short-term thing.
Because of the design of our political context, therefore, it may be hard for us to imagine the political climate of ancient Israel at the time of John the Baptist. The present administration -- Rome, with its occupying forces, its appointed governor, and its handpicked local "kings" -- was certainly not elected. Even if the ever-hopeful people of Israel did not fear that the Roman rule was permanent, it surely must have seemed indefinite.
Meanwhile, there was this long-standing promise and hope of another ruler -- a ruler sent by God, with a perfect and a permanent administration. But, the timing of his inauguration was uncertain. For that matter, his very identity was uncertain. Who was he? What would he be like?
Far from the high-profile familiarity of our elected officials, Israel's promised leader was virtually anonymous. Unlike the constitutionally scheduled timing of our elections, inaugurations, and term limitations, the reign of Israel's promised leader could not be pinned down on the calendar.
That is the hopeful uncertainty of Advent. The season is a marvelous mixture of question marks and exclamation points. On the one hand, there are the magnificent promises of what the anticipated and anointed leader will be and what he will do. On the other hand, there is the complete mystery of who he would be and when he would come. That is the setting of the season, and that is the context of the passages we preach this Sunday.
Isaiah 11:1-10
The people of ancient Israel did not know who their promised ruler would be, but they at least knew his family tree. "A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse." Jesse, of course, was David's father, and as such represented the source of the royal line that reigned in Jerusalem.
Obviously, it was all descendants of Jesse that reigned in Jerusalem during the entire life and ministry of Isaiah. Such a promise in New Testament times would have had a different feel, for David had no descendant on the throne in those days. For that matter, what throne there was in Jerusalem did not represent a sovereign Israel anyway. But, there already was a member of Jesse's family tree on the throne at the time this promise was made. What, then, would be so spectacular about this promised branch grown from Jesse's roots?
The key lies in the image of a "stump." The promise of God's perfect future contains within it the imagery of a judgment in between: Namely, in order for a shoot to spring from Jesse's stump, Jesse's tree has to be cut down.
That imagery with which chapter 11 begins is a carryover from the imagery that concludes chapter 10.
Isaiah 10:28-32 sounds an alarm: The enemy is in the midst of Israel, ravaging the towns, threatening and terrifying the people. Then, in 10:33-34, the final two verses of the chapter, we find the promise that the Lord will "lop the boughs with terrifying power," that "the tallest trees will be cut down," and that "he will hack down the thickets of the forest with an ax, and Lebanon with its majestic trees will fall."
The promise in our lection that a "shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse" follows next.
The larger theme of Isaiah 10 is God's guaranteed judgment on Assyria; so it's possible that the image of God chopping down tall, proud trees is a reference to that judgment. In the immediate context, however, between the threatening enemy of 10:28-32 and the image of Jesse's stump in 11:1, it seems that the tree-felling in 10:33-34 may be a reference to judgment on God's own people.
In any event, when chapter 11 opens, Jesse has roots, but no tree; just a stump. That imagery is the bad news. The good news is that there is still life there, and that God will bring from those roots and that stump a new branch, and his reign will be perfectly glorious.
We have mentioned the American political context of presidential administrations. While almost every candidate promises greatness from his or her administration, history's sieve produces only a few great presidencies. Yet, whether the hyperbolic promises of a candidate on the campaign trail or the post facto affirmation of an historian, no other human reign compares with this description found in Isaiah 11. This promised ruler will be characterized by wisdom, knowledge, justice, and righteousness, and his time will be marked by unprecedented peace -- or at least a quality of peace only previously known to Eden.
Here is an opportunity to explore the person and work of Christ in terms that our people may not be accustomed to. The first five verses are descriptive of the person, and the remaining verses might be a way of describing his work. In the passage itself, there is no expressed connection between the promised ruler and the peaceable kingdom described in 11:6-9, yet the implicit connection is obvious: this marvelous ruler will be in place, and a certain kind of realm will be the natural extension of his reign.
Romans 15:4-13
On the first Sunday in December, most of the people in our pews are thinking about Christmas. We may talk deliberately about Advent, but they are thinking about Christmas. For weeks now, they have been seeing Christmas displays and hearing Christmas music in stores. Now, with just twenty shopping days left, they're thinking about Christmas. A reading from the end of Romans, therefore, with no reference to mangers or shepherds or wise men, may seem to them out-of-place.
Some themes are tied to a season -- whether a season of the liturgical calendar (for example, the Transfiguration or the Ascension) or a season of an individual's life (for example, a wedding or retirement). On the other hand, some themes rise above the particularity of any season. They are for all seasons, and one of those themes is hope.
On any given Sunday in any given congregation, hope is an issue. In any life or heart or home, hope is relevant. This season of Advent gives us good opportunity to talk and to sing about hope. And Paul's words to the Christians in Rome give us good insight into hope.
It would be an interesting exercise -- though perhaps more suited to a small group discussion than a worship service -- to explore with our people the relationship that exists in their minds between the past, the present, the future, and hope. Our first instinct is to associate hope with the future, for by definition the future is the concern of hope. And yet, in reality, the degree to which we are hopeful about the future is usually a product of the past and the present.
Paul begins with the past -- "whatever was written in former days" -- and observes that "by the encouragement of the scripture we might have hope." Our first key to hope for the future, then, is found in what may seem to some a surprising place: in the dusty pages of ancient writings.
Here is where a diminished view of scripture proves costly to our people. As the Bible declines from God's living word to exemplary stories and teachings, to great literature, to persona non grata in our culture, it has lost its capacity to give hope to people. If the words of scripture are no different than Aesop's Fables or Caesar's Commentaries, then I will sift through many pages before I find a scintilla of hope for my everyday life. If, however, those pages reveal God, his heart, his will, and his word, then those stories, teachings, and promises become vibrant with hope that speaks to my heart and applies to my life.
Paul moves on to reference "promises given to the patriarchs" that have been fulfilled in Christ. Promises fulfilled ought to foster hope the way that timely payments produce a good credit rating. We human beings have no basis for judging the probability of a promise from God apart from his past performance. If I tell you that I can throw a baseball through a tiny hole in a wall a hundred feet away, you might not be inclined to believe that guarantee. If, however, you've seen me do it twenty times in a row, then you have a different view. Likewise for us: our hope for the future is rooted in the promises of God, and our confidence in his promises is based upon what we have seen him do before.
That fact brings us, then, to the real issue of hope. Paul quotes Isaiah's reference to the one in whom "the Gentiles shall hope." When push comes to shove, our hope is not vested in pages or in promises, but in a person. The Gentiles shall hope in him, and next Paul refers to the Lord as "the God of hope."
We have been thinking a bit about the American presidential election, and we are reminded just now of the political reality that people like to feel hopeful. The enthusiastic voters will tell you that the candidate they supported is the one who gives them hope. It is hope for the future, but hope vested in a person.
Most people, of course, are risky investments for much of our hope, but we are not directed to just any person. We are directed to "the God of hope."
Finally, Paul concludes with this compelling image: "that you may abound in hope by the power of the Holy Spirit." In our vernacular, we speak of hope in terms of volume. Hope is not an either/or proposition. For us -- it is a matter of degree: a little hope, not much hope, no hope, very hopeful, and so on. Paul contributes to that understanding of hope with this large-scale statement -- "that you may abound in hope."
Christians are not sentenced to tiny and distant hope. We do not cling desperately to small and weak shreds of hope. Rather, we are to abound in hope -- like Niagara Falls abounds in water or the clear night sky abounds in stars.
Matthew 3:1-12
In our American political system, some favored member of the particular political party has the honor of introducing the presidential nominee at their convention. That introduction usually concludes with the bold proclamation that he or she is "the next President of the United States," which leads inevitably to a great ovation. And, about half the time they're right.
In the New Testament, John the Baptist is the one who makes this introduction. After centuries of prophetic pictures and promises, the time -- and the man -- have finally come, and John is the one to "prepare the way" for him.
Artists, authors, advertisers, moviemakers -- virtually anyone involved in communication -- all talk about the relationship between message and medium. That relationship is a particularly interesting study in the case of John the Baptist.
As John is described here, he is the embodiment of rough, tough, and wild. Is it essential for one whose jurisdiction includes "the rough places" to be a little rough himself? The reference to "the rough places" comes from Isaiah 40:4, which follows immediately after the verse quoted in reference to John earlier in our lection (Matthew 3:2). Surely John's greeting to the Pharisees and Sadducees is rougher than you and I are inclined to be with the folks who come to hear us preach or to be baptized.
John's threat that "even now the ax is lying at the root of the trees" is reminiscent of the context of our Isaiah lection. John's word of judgment, however, may have a still more devastating and permanent quality to it. In the case of Jesse in Isaiah 11, you recall, there was a stump and roots still in place, which suggests that the tree was cut down somewhere at its trunk. In the case of John's threat, by contrast, "the ax is lying at the root of the trees." If the cut is made there, there's very little chance of anything growing back.
Finally comes the introduction. In the books we read and the pieces we write, the "introduction" comes first. But that's not the order in this writing. Here the introduction is a kind of climax. The introduction is the moment we've been waiting for. And in this case, the wait has been hundreds and hundreds of years -- arguably since Eve's promised offspring in Eden (Genesis 3:15).
The people had come to John to be baptized, and John skillfully uses that connection to segue to the Christ: "I baptize you with water ... but one who is more powerful than I is coming after me ... he will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire." John's introduction of Christ is a kind of "you ain't seen nothing yet" promotion. The coming attraction is greater. The coming baptism is greater. And, the coming judgment is greater.
John illustrates the comparative greatness with this startling statement: "I am not worthy to carry his sandals" (or "untie the thong of his sandals" in Mark 1:7 and Luke 3:16). The picture is that of a servant -- one who would stoop down and take care of the master's footwear. It is the most subservient imagery John could have used. Yet the extreme statement from this reputed prophet of God is that he is not even worthy to be subservient to the one who is coming.
If a person is invited to do something that they are not worthy of, then it is understood as a very great honor. If John the Baptist was not worthy to be Christ's servant, then we and our people might be invited to understand what a very great honor it is to be invited to serve him.
Application
In preparation, this may be the season and the Sunday for introductions.
The Advent season recalls the anticipation of Christ's coming, and this Sunday's lections introduce us to him. Isaiah's introduction is from far away: a promise about this one who would come, what he would be like, and the beauty of his reign. John's introduction has a greater sense of imminence, although it still has an anonymous quality to it. The figure who is about to appear from out of the shadows is, as yet, unidentified. Then Paul's introduction to Christ is post facto. The promises have been fulfilled -- or at least have begun to be -- and Christ has been revealed.
Perhaps the people to whom we preach this Sunday and this season might fall into the same camps as the original audiences for our lections. For some, like the people of Isaiah's day, Christ is unknown and far away. For others, like the crowds who came to hear John, Christ feels close, but unfamiliar. For still others, like Paul and the Christians in Rome, Christ is known, and he becomes for us the source of our unity, our praise, and our hope.
Alternative Applications
1) Isaiah 11:1-10; Matthew 3:1-12; Romans 15:4-13.
What Can We Expect? Advent is a season of expectation. The flipside of expectation, of course, is disappointment. Perhaps we might explore the expectations and the potential disappointments involved in this season of the year.
People want to know what they can expect from their new leader. That is central to how we do campaigns and elections in the United States. But it is not unique to modern democracies, for even back in the ancient monarchy of Israel the people wanted to know what to expect from their new king (see 1 Kings 12:1-4).
In the wake of a recent election, and in anticipation of an inauguration, we might be able to tap into our people's natural curiosity about their leaders. Let's explore what we can expect from this one "born to reign in us forever" (Charles Wesley, "Come, Thou Long-Expected Jesus"), whose coming we anticipate during Advent.
We can expect certain things from him in terms of his character. The first section of the Isaiah passage offers insight there. We can also expect a certain quality from his reign and his realm, as articulated in the peaceable kingdom part of the Isaiah lection. Beyond that, however, we must also expect judgment from him (see Isaiah 11:4 and Matthew 3:12). The reality of his judgment brings us to a different set of questions: What does he expect from us? Do we disappoint him?
The picturesque imagery in Isaiah gives us an Edenic view of what perfect coexistence in nature might look like. Closer to home, however, is Paul's word to the Romans, where peaceful coexistence is meant to characterize the church ("live in harmony with one another," "with one voice glorify God," and "welcome one another"). That is what he expects from those who live in his kingdom. John, too, gives us some sense of our King's expectations: "Every tree that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire."
2) Isaiah 11:1-10; Matthew 3:1-12. The Clothes Make The Man. We know how apparel affects appearance, and how appearance influences first impressions. What we assume about, and expect from, someone who is well groomed and well dressed is quite different from someone who appears unkempt and sloppy.
Our selected lections present us with an interesting juxtaposition of apparel. Not necessarily a contrast, but a fascinating comparison.
When John the Baptist appears on the scene, he is described as wearing "clothing of camel's hair with a leather belt around his waist." The image is rough and outdoorsy. His clothes reflect his surroundings and his lifestyle, and we find that his message and style are also rather rough.
In Isaiah, meanwhile, we are given a quick glimpse of Jesse's promised descendant: "righteousness shall be the belt around his waist, and faithfulness the belt around his loins." His clothing, too, reflects his style. In his case, what he "wears" is not the product of his surroundings, but rather influences and determines the world around him.
Preaching The Psalm
Psalm 72:1-7, 18-19
This psalm is addressed to God in the form of a prayer. The setting is the coronation ceremony for a king. The psalmist offers this prayer in the hearing of the congregation, but also in the hearing of the new king designate. As such, the words become more than just a prayer; they also serve as a reminder to the community of faith of what is expected of the new king. The words also serve as encouragement for the new king to live up to his high calling.
And the calling is exceptionally high. In the first verse, the psalmist calls on God to give the new king "your justice," and "your righteousness." In other words, the psalmist prays that the new king will be imbued with the very character of God.
The reference to "justice" and to "righteousness" put us in mind immediately of the needs of the poor. The biblical idea of justice, fleshed out profoundly by the prophets, operates out of the belief that God has created the world with an abundance of resources for sustaining life. The presence of those in our midst who do not have the resources they need means that there are others in our community that have more than they need. The king, enlightened by God's own passion for fairness and mercy, was expected to right these wrongs. The poor in the congregation would be heartened by these words even as the new king would be challenged. All of this is made explicit in verse 4.
The psalmist also prays that the mountains would yield "prosperity" (v. 3). The word here is shalom and is normally translated "peace." The word is rich in meaning, however, and "prosperity" is certainly one of the shades of meaning included in the word. It is the association with the "the mountains" that prompt translators to use "prosperity" as the word's meaning in this context. It is from the mountains that the crops and flocks would thrive and bring material blessing for God's people.
However, we should not overlook the other meanings associated with shalom. While economic interests are important, as the opening verse clearly reflects, we humans do not live by bread alone. We need the other characteristics promised by shalom. These include healing, wholeness, peace, prosperity, and continued health.
In other words, the king is challenged in this prayer to preside over a portion of God's creation in a manner that brings help and hope to all who reside in the community.
The use of this psalm during Advent, of course, allows us to extend the expectations for the local king to the coming of Jesus as the Messiah. What the local king was expected to do for Israel, the Messiah is expected to do for the world, and the peace that is possible from the wise reign of a good local king is multiplied infinitely when the one who reigns is the King of kings.
