Joy

This year on the second Sunday of Advent, as we greet John the Baptist I want to ask: how would you describe him? How do you describe this John? The Gospel writers bring in different characteristics. From Matthew we get a sense of a wild man, a bit like Old Ben Kenobi in Star Wars a New Hope, an edgy desert character. Matthew tells us about the camel fur, eating locusts and wild honey. But Luke’s Gospel asks us to consider one particular aspect of John, an aspect that might get lost in all the wildness, in all the compelling preaching and ritual. There is something else for Luke which may be the most important characteristic of John the Baptist: joy.

Luke’s Gospel begins in the temple, with John’s Father. Chapter one of Luke’s Gospel finds Zechariah in the temple. Alone before the holy of holies, surrounded by clouds of incense, he encounters an angel. Zechariah is terrified, but the angel says “don’t be afraid. Your prayer has been heard, your wife Elizabeth will bear a son, and you will name him John…even before his birth he will be filled with the Holy Spirit.” The coming of John is a cause for great joy, unexpected joy, Elizabeth had been barren, they had prayed and prayed for a child.

Luke then takes us to the Judean Hill country. Zechariah has returned home unable to speak after the encounter with the Angel. Mary, early in her own unexpected pregnancy, goes to visit her older and wiser cousin Elizabeth. And when Mary greets Elizabeth, John leaps for joy in her womb. John’s life starts out with joy.

I want to offer today, that joy is not a nice additive to the story. Joy isn’t a nice emotion on the side. Joy is at the center. Pay attention to how often you hear the word joy as we approach Christmas. For Christians, the goal is not just pie in the sky in the sweet by and by. For Christians, joy is the whole way home. Joy is that uncrooked road.

I wonder if we can imagine that wild man, in the camel fur, with a wry smile. I wonder if you can hear his laugh. I imagine it would’ve been a bit like Desmond Tutu’s, deep, full of hope. John’s joy isn’t a thin happiness. It’s not “don’t worry, be happy.” Joy is deeper. John’s joy is subversive. All around him the might of Rome is on display. Caesar’s lordship is proclaimed by marching armies, gleaming swords. Caesar’s power is supported by taxes on the poor, taxes which make their way on the Roman highways back to Italy. John preached in a world of suffering, and he preached against his own leader’s corroborating with their oppressors. The world was shouting “hail Caesar” and in comes John, who proclaims a different Lord, who says let’s build a different way. He does so laughing, with the kind of joy known only by those with hope that Rome’s power will not last. Another world is on the horizon.

Joy vs. “The News.”

You wouldn’t have heard about the world John hoped for on the news in John’s day. Pontius Pilate, Lysanias, Herod Antipas, these would have been the prominent names. If there was a nightly news, or worse 24-hour cable news, these would be the names. You’d heard over and over again about their political jockeying. You wouldn’t hear much about John the Baptizer. You might find a three paragraph story on page B-23, in the local section about a local preacher with wild ideas.

I’ve talked to many folks in recent days who have proudly told me, “I’ve turned off the news.” If that’s you: great. I’m with you. But also let me ask “what’s your next step?”

Luke’s Gospel tells us that the Word of God skipped over all the talking heads, the op-ed writers, all the supposedly important characters on the news. The word of God went instead to the wilderness, to a bug-eating, furry, laughing, hermit named John. So let me ask: if you are able to turn off all the endless words on the news, how are you making room for the Word of God, which might yet be found in the wilderness? Where are you hearing the Spirit of God speaking? And how are you holding space for joy? Your joy and your neighbors?

Joy as Protest

Folks who have been on the receiving end of hate, of systemic discrimination, often know about joy. I’ve worked with black leaders who describe joy as an important element of protest. So much of the art, the music, the flavor in our country comes from black communities, indigenous communities, and immigrant communities who refuse to give up their creativity, refuse to water down culture, refuse to give up their joy.

I also think “joy as protest” is part of what makes same-gender weddings, and prayers with trans and gender-expansive folks receiving new names, so special. I’ve never heard as much laughter, or seen dancing as fierce as at a queer wedding. I’ve never heard a congregation respond with more depth than when we’ve asked if you will support a newly out trans or nonbinary person in their new name. There’s something joyful in knowing that we are affirming good news that others are missing. The joy is subversive, it’s a joy that can turn the world right side up.

Joy and Repentance?

I know joy doesn’t always come easily for us religious folk. Too often we imagine John as grumpy authoritarian, like too many of the preachers we have known. If you were to associate one word with John, (I mean before I so thoroughly convinced you today that John’s word is “joy”), if I had asked you yesterday what one word would you imagine John saying: it would probably be “repent.” Repent!

We had an experiment last summer with the newest translation of the Bible approved for use in the Episcopal Church. I admit, I like the Common English about 70% of the time. But there’s one decision the translators made that I find particularly fascinating. You see, through the whole translation, they don’t use the word “repent.” John does not appear in the wilderness saying “repent.”

That word, “Repent,” it is loaded for us isn’t it? It comes with both medieval and modern baggage. But the word in Greek doesn’t come so loaded. The word John uses in his preaching is metanoia, and the Common English Bible renders it more literally, “change your hearts and minds.” Change your hearts and minds John invites them.

How many of us could use a prophet who comes with the voice of God to say, “Change your hearts and minds?” We’re not so different from the people of John and Jesus’ day. I don’t believe in the first century all those throngs of people were walking a full day’s journey from Jerusalem to hear a preacher of doom and gloom. I don’t think they came to get yelled at about their sins. I think what John offered was a vision that was hopeful to a people who needed hope, a vision full of joy to a people with weary hearts. I imagine John the Baptist laughed as he talked about the coming of the Messiah, the one who would right the wrongs, the one who would usher in a reign of peace, a reign of love, a reign of joy.

I imagine the smile on John’s face came because that same Holy Spirit that caused him to leap in Elizabeth’s womb, that word of God that came to him in the wilderness, helped him to know deep joy was coming. Despite all Rome’s banners, John could see the signs of God’s joy being born. That’s why he imagined baptism not just as a forgiveness of sin, but as a new birth, a new beginning, a chance for change.

The writer Sue Monk Kidd published a novel a few years ago called “The Book of Longings.” I don’t want to spoil the book for you, so I won’t give you all the details, but I will tell you that at one point Ana, the main character, is with Jesus at the Jordan and they are both baptized by John. In the novel, Ana describes her baptism this way.

“I didn’t go in hungry to turn back to God’s law–I went desiring to cleanse myself of fear and deadness of spirit. I went repenting of my silence and of the meagerness of my hope.” – Ana in Sue Monk Kidd’s “The Book of Longings.”

What if, in these anxious days, what we really need to repent is the meagerness of our hope? What if we are invited to change our hearts from fear and deadness of spirit? What if what we are asked to change our minds about our collective silence in the face of hate?

What if our sin, the way we are missing the mark, is our subtle belief that the world as it is can’t change? Could preparing the way of the Lord be about fasting from hopelessness, fasting from apathy, fasting from believing we can’t make a difference? Even in days like ours, what if being a faithful people means refusing to allow anyone, anyone, to steal our joy?

I wonder if that is why John, like Isaiah before him, used such wild images: Every Valley shall be filled. Every mountain and hill shall be made low. I wonder if shaking us from our gloom takes a spiritual earthquake. Sometimes it takes a trumpet blast to wake us up and invite us to dance.

This Advent, I wonder if we can find, deep down, a smile, a sense of hope, a subversive joy. The joy of our faith is not dependent on the cycles of the news, or the political cycles. We work in deeper time. We can turn off all that noise, and tap into the sound of a laugh that echoes across the millennia, to the words of hope from a preacher who knew God’s grace, God’s justice, God’s joy was breaking through, even now.

This Advent, I wonder, if we can hold more space for joy.

Yes, there will be times when we, like John the Baptist, will need to speak truth to authorities. There will be times when we need to stand up for our beliefs and times when we need to stand up for our neighbors. But could we imagine doing so with a measure of joy? Could we know, deep down, that our joy is a gift from God that no one can take away.

Joy my friends. Joy.