Last week our road sign was a big yellow U-turn sign. Today is a sign for a runaway truck ramp. I remember as a kid marveling on those mountain roads at those big gravel turnouts for semi trucks that seemed to go straight up. Every once in a while, I see the tire tracks on one of those and I’m really thankful that those safety systems are set up for runaway trucks not to take out a whole line of cars as they go barreling down the hill with their brakes failing.
Runaway trucks are more common
than you’d think. Brakes are going to
fail eventually. I think of the runaway
truck of our holiday spending. We got a
Target catalog just after Thanksgiving and our son spent an hour pouring over
it, circling more than half the toys in there.
Here is a kid who has everything he needs and more than he can play with
and yet the runaway Christmas train says that he needs to have more. This is how it is. This is how it always has been. We couldn’t come between him and traditions
and presents and showing how much we love each other by buying stuff. And our economy depends on this Christmas
buying to employ workers and keep shops open.
In our time and in Jesus and
Paul’s time, there was a runaway train of the prison system. Paul is imprisoned as he is encouraging his
followers to rejoice. John the Baptist
is about to be imprisoned just after this Gospel. Systems of justice and injustice, prisons
employ people, control people, ask for confessions from the innocent,
disproportionally hold people who have been victims of prejudice, and execute
people who have no understanding of what they have done, as well as those who
have done nothing wrong whatsoever. The
prison system is a runaway truck. It
seems that it has always been this way.
We feel helpless to change it.
Fear is a runaway truck. We fear we won’t be enough. We fear rejection. We fear being vulnerable and getting hurt. Sometimes I wake up in the night fearful that
I have hurt someone, that I have forgotten someone or something, that someone will
reject me because of my rough edges. To
those of us who struggle with fear, the prophet Isaiah gives a Psalm today of
trust—not trust in our own powers but in God who loves us. This is a Psalm of joy and gratitude. We get to barreling down that hill of our fear,
and God gives us a runaway truck ramp of gratitude and joy. We turn our eyes from the destruction before
us and we see that gravel path and know that God has saved us. We turn, we slow, we rest, we breathe, we
give thanks, and we rejoice and when difficult days come, we remember that we
are not expected to be perfect and that we are not alone.
The brood of vipers in the
Gospel are barreling down the hill and their brakes are failing. They are on a collision course, out of
control, soldiers and tax collectors doing their jobs the way they are expected
to, but feeling disconnected from community and feeling the weight of the pain
they cause wherever they go. They hear
about John in the wilderness and they go out to see what he has to offer
them. John tells them the truth that
they are out of control. They don’t
argue with him. They agree. They ask what they can do, because they know
he’s right. John doesn’t tell them to
quit being soldiers or tax collectors, but lets them know there are other ways
of serving in these rolls that bring people life. Any task or job we do can be used just to
enrich ourselves. And it can be done in
a way that brings life to other people.
We might not be a soldier or a
tax collector, however, we too see the disconnection and brokenness in our
community in our families. We’re ok with
John naming that. We thought it was one
of those runaway trucks that was never going to change course, that we couldn’t
do anything about it. But there is
something we can do. I will let you in
on a secret about me: I really like to
do something. When I was a chaplain in
the hospital after seminary my fellow chaplains would always like to give me a
hard time because I loved to go grab someone a Bible to a Psalter or a set of scriptures. I could sit and listen and be present, but oh
joy, if I could run go get someone something.
I haven’t changed. My friend was
in the hospital and she needed butterscotch pudding and I had such a need to do
something.
That’s how this crowd felt—that’s
how these vipers felt. Something wasn’t
right in their world and they wanted an assignment which John was more than
happy to give them. If you have two
coats, and you do, give one away. If you
have more food than you need, and you do, give it to someone who doesn’t have
enough. Lutherans know that we can never
earn God’s love by giving away coats or food.
God loves us because of God’s grace and the gift of Jesus who offers us
all new life. But our cold and hungry
neighbor’s life will be improved when we give up the extra and our world will
more resemble the Kingdom of God that is coming near.
Today is “Joy” Sunday, which I
think is hilarious, given John’s grumpiness and sharp rebuke. But he hasn’t said anything that we don’t
know or that the crowd gathered at the river Jordan didn’t know. Our world is a mess. We have been barreling toward our own
destruction, polluting our rivers and air, wasting food, hoarding coats,
blaming victims, and being selfish. What
a relief to see that Runaway truck ramp sign.
It doesn’t have to be this way.
It’s only a slight turn. You slow
down really fast and evaluate if this is serving you or anyone else. Can you continue anymore the way you were? The answer is no. And there is joy, because there is something
we can do about it. It isn’t even that
hard. Take a look at what you have. Take your inventory. Remember that it all belongs to God. Don’t just give 10% away. Give 50%.
Or, God forbid, if you have 3 coats, give 66%, Because Jesus gave 100% of
his life, his teaching, all the food and clothes you’ve ever worn. So instead of feeling deprived or fearful, we
feel grateful.
We also get to give away our
chaff, which God will burn with unquenchable fire so we can’t put it back on
again. The chaff is the seed coat,
important until it is not, and then it is time to let it go. We do keep up a protective layer around us, a
tough exterior. But God in Jesus shows
us that to be vulnerable is to be accessible, open, receptive. Jesus had no chaff, no protection as an
infant born among strangers. He was
vulnerable to Herod’s jealousy. He was
vulnerable to the elements. Yet, in that
stable, shepherds and foreigners could approach him and have access to him,
recognize him as their savior. No matter how lowly, there was no barrier to
keep anyone from knowing him. As he grew
up, he had no special protection. As an
adult he didn’t enclose himself in a castle or surround himself with
guards. He went to all the people,
Jewish and Gentile, across the Sea of Galilee, to someone possessed with
demons, to someone divorced, to children and hungry people, people with
communicable diseases, even tax collectors and centurions. Everyone had access. He was vulnerable and unprotected from
accusation, betrayal, arrest, denial.
All his friends abandoned him. He
didn’t defend himself as he was led out to die.
To live the generous, open, vulnerable way Jesus did was offensive. It was too far off the normal path. It showed the way leadership ought to happen,
what faithfulness to God and God’s vision really looked like. It was so different that it was
threatening. It showed what was
possible—connection, love, hope, and peace.
But the Way could not be killed and so he rose again to new life and
showed a new way, a runaway truck ramp for all who had been on the path of
destruction.
This season, we don’t just give
up our extra coat, but we give up our chaff, our seed coat of protection that
separates us. We are vulnerable and open
with each other, giving freely, sharing gratefulness and joy, and letting God
build the Heavenly Kingdom in our midst in which no one is hungry or alone or
desperate but all know peace, love, and joy.
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