“Here is your God”

Third Sunday of Advent

Sunday, December 16, 2007

Our culture has been asking a lot of questions about God lately.

Over the past year, we have been subjected to numerous bestselling authors who have been questioning the existence of God, the power of faith and whether there is anything good that has ever been done in the name of religion.  We have listened to countless radio and television interviews about the virulently anti-religious rantings of Christopher Hitchens, Richard Dawkins, and Sam Harris.  More recently, Philip Pullman’s The Golden Compass has provoked a number of different responses to his very thinly veiled attack on faith, organized religion and the Roman Catholic Church.  It sometimes seems that all that one has to do to guarantee success in the publishing world is to demonstrate marked levels of intolerance towards anything religious; and then, on the grounds of defending freedom of speech, resort to vilifying any person of faith who seeks to articulate a reasoned defense.  

But we need not become too concerned.  Every few years, we are presented with some new book or idea that, we are told, will undermine the church or faith.  There is some consolation to be found in the knowledge that none of those supposedly devastating attacks seem to endure for any significant length of time. For those of you who even remember it anymore, about ten or twelve years ago, there was a book entitled The Celestine Prophecy which was supposed to be a great threat to religion; then, a few years later, Dan Brown’s The DaVinci Code; then Tom Harpur’s Pagan Christ. 

I am sure that I am not alone when I say that, though I have read and listened to many of these diatribes against the practices of organized religion – and though I find them frustrating since most are not only unbalanced but intellectually misleading in the caricatures that they present of religion, I do not find that my faith has been particularly undermined or shaken by them.  To me, the mystery of God is so much greater and more expansive than either human thought – or human criticism – can even begin to approach.

Nor do I think that we, in the church, should spend much time trying to win arguments about faith. Very few of these modern critics offer a truly commendable alternative vision of how we might live together and work towards a better world; most are simply interested in finding the most extreme excesses and failures of organized religion, and then suggesting that all religion is therefore suspect and corrupt.  Such attacks are not particularly interested in thoughtful engagement.

And there is nothing particularly new about such critiques.  For centuries, critics and skeptics have questioned, criticized and attacked the church and the faith, and yet the church seems to continue on.  One of my favourite responses to such attacks against religion was offered by the French Protestant reformer Theodore Beza.  In responding to one critic of religion, Beza said, “Sire, it is in truth the lot of the Church of God, in whose name I am speaking, to endure blows, and not to strike them. But also may it please you to remember that [the church] is an anvil that has worn out many hammers.”

Rather than simply dismiss this cultural preoccupation with the question of God, however, we might do well to allow these questions about God to lead us into deeper reflections upon the nature of the God that is being debated.  The church may be an anvil that worn out the hammering of many of its critics, but we still might derive some benefit from also being a place where such questions can be asked, honoured, and explored. 

Our reading from the Gospel of Matthew reminds us that questions about God, and about Christ, are not new to our age or to our culture.  John the Baptist himself had some fairly pointed questions to ask.

We read, “when John heard in prison what the Messiah was doing, he sent word by his disciples and said to him, ‘Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?’”

It is a fascinating scene.  The Gospel texts had led us to believe that John knew that Jesus was the Messiah; and yet, in this reading, it seems that John had some questions to ask.

We cannot completely know the reasons for John’s questions.  Perhaps Jesus was not doing what John had expected the Messiah to do; perhaps John’s arrest had undermined his confidence in Jesus’ power or identity; perhaps John was, like all of us, from time to time, filled with as many questions about Jesus as answers.  And so, the question was asked.  “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?’”

John, and his followers, wanted the answer to be clearly given to them; they wanted definitive confirmation and irrefutable proof that Jesus was who they had been waiting for.

Not much has changed, it seems.  All of us – whether people of faith or the most outspoken critics of faith – would love to have the answers given to us; we all still long for definitive confirmation and irrefutable proof of God’s presence, of Christ’s claims, and of faith’s legitimacy.

So how did Jesus respond to that question?  Did he offer an elaborate and finely nuanced articulation of the doctrine of the Trinity, or an extensive recounting of all of the finer details of biblical interpretation? 

No.  He did none of these things. Rather, Christ’s response was this – “Go and tell John what you hear and see; the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them.”

Go and tell John what you hear and see.  Christ simply invited them to assess the truth of who he was by bearing witness to the transforming events that were taking place around him.  People who were suffering were experiencing comfort and healing; people who were poor were experiencing blessing.  It was as if Jesus was saying, “look around – good things are happening because I am here – go and tell John that.”

There is an enduring wisdom in Jesus’ response. Even today, it is usually rather foolish to answers questions about the reality of God and the truth of Christ by unleashing a torrent of dogma and doctrine at those who pose questions about the nature and substance of faith.  Rather, it is often both helpful -- and sometimes even persuasive -- simply to point towards the good that is done in the name of Christ -- to ‘bear witness’ to the transforming effects of the presence of the Body of Christ in this world. 

And there is much good that is being done, not only in this congregation, but throughout the church in every part of the world.  We are so accustomed to lamenting the state of the church that we sometimes overlook the almost incomprehensible amount of kind, compassionate and meaningful service that takes place, each and every day, in the name of Christ.  Without prejudice towards others, nor pride in our own accomplishments, I am nonetheless convinced that the Body of Christ, the church, is the single greatest movement for kindness, justice, peace and compassion that the world has ever known.  Those who are about to join this congregation, today, are recommitting themselves to being partners in the mission and ministry of this incredible worldwide movement whose simple purpose is to increase compassion, love and service, in this world, in the name of Jesus Christ.

But, in the light of all of these compassionate activities, does this mean that we should dispense with Christian theology and doctrine, and simply allow our actions to speak for themselves when faith is questioned or critiqued?  Should we, like Christ, simply invite people to take a look at the good things that are happening and leave the critics, the questioners and the seekers to answer the questions by themselves?

There are those who would suggest that such an approach should be embraced.  There are some who read this passage from Matthew and conclude, quite understandably, that Jesus was suggesting that an activist approach to Christian ministry is the best way to counter the critics.   Rather than getting caught up in the complexities of creeds and doctrines, it is suggested, the followers of Christ should simply follow Christ’s own words and dedicate themselves to tangible acts of compassionate service – the care of the blind, the lame, the sick, the deaf, and the poor.

There can be no doubt that great and noble work is done by those who dedicate themselves completely to such an action-based approach to faith, and leave questions of doctrine and theology to the side. 

But in the fullness of Christian discipleship, we need to realize that it is possible to marry great doctrine with great compassion.  Great theology and great acts of service are not mutually exclusive; they are, rather, mutually enriching.  We can serve God in our activities and in our contemplations; we can love God with our hearts and with our minds.  As the liberation theologians reminded us in the 1960s and 1970s, orthodoxy and orthopraxy – or right belief and right action – not only can, but must go together.  Or, as Dean Samuel Wells from Duke University put it quite wonderfully, “doctrine without justice is God with no heart; justice without doctrine is heart with no God.”

Which may lead us to a very different way of reading these words from Jesus.  That is, what if Jesus’ answer to the questions that were being posed to him was, in fact, a theological statement – and not simply a call to activism? What if Jesus was actually pointing his questioners to the place where proof and confirmation about God’s presence and reality could be found?

That is, what if Jesus was actually inviting the messengers to realize that the presence of God, in this world, is discovered in those situations and places where people’s burdens are being lifted and their lives are being healed and transformed?  What if he was making a statement about how and where God was already at work, and where the truth of Christ’s identity and purpose would be most discernible, most evident, most definitively confirmed – that is, in the midst of struggle?

Our reading from Isaiah, which is set during the Babylonian exile, conveys this very idea that God is most discernibly present in the midst of human struggle. The people of God were living in a time of despair and fear.  They had been conquered by a foreign empire, displaced from their beloved land, and robbed of the confidence and security that they had known in their relationship with God.  The God that they had believed in – the God of victory, of triumph, of power and of might -- seemed to have failed them.

To those broken and dispirited people, the prophet Isaiah spoke.  “Strengthen the weak hands, and make firm the feeble knees.  Say to those who are of a fearful heart, ‘Be strong, do not fear!  Here is your God.” 

Here is your God – with you in the struggle and the uncertainty; here is your God – with you in your sorrow and your sadness; here is your God – not absent from your exile, but with you, giving you hope to sustain you and peace to comfort you 

And, as the passage unfolds, we realize that the prophet’s claim is that the consequences of God’s presence with the people, in their exile, was that they were about to be led back, again, through the wilderness, to their homeland.  As verse 10 states, “the ransomed of the Lord shall return, and come to Zion with singing; everlasting joy shall be upon their heads; they shall obtain joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.”  To put it another way, God was at work, making the preparations which would be necessary to lead them from sadness to joy, from brokenness to wholeness, from despair to hope, from estrangement to reconciliation, from exile to restoration.

Such a claim was not, ultimately, about telling the exiled people to embrace an activist approach to their faith.  Rather, the prophet’s words offers us a profoundly theological statement about how God works in this world.

Where, then, is God?  God is where people’s lives are being transformed; where the exiled, the poor, the sick, the hopeless, and the despairing are being restored to life and to joy.  And, like the messengers sent from John, our calling, therefore, is to see; to be witnesses -- and to bear witness -- to the ways that God is at work. 

But herein is a challenge, as well.  In order to bear witness to those places of divine activity, we must expose ourselves to situations where such observations can take place. 

There are the obvious places to look.  Those of you, for example, who have offered your time and energy to the Out of the Cold programme, or the Boarding Homes Ministry, or the work at Evangel Hall and Portland Place, or the visitation of sick, shut-in, elderly and hospitalized people – places where the poor, the despondent and the suffering are being served -- will know that you are often led into moments of insight and grace as you bear witness to the presence of God in such situations of struggle and of compassion. 

But not all are able to participate in such ministries.  A few weeks ago, following our worship service, an elderly woman came up to me and told me that she no longer had the energy to be quite as active as she would like to be, and as she once had been.  “But,” she said, “I can always pray.”  How right she was.  Regardless of whatever else we can or cannot do, prayer has the power to help us to bear witness to the presence of God in this world.  We may not be able to feed the suffering, visit the sick and serve the poor directly, but our prayers for them and for those who serve them can lead to an increased faith, a renewed endurance, and a deeper awareness of the ways that God is at work. And true prayer often grants us the opportunity to slow down enough to ponder not just what we should be doing, but more importantly the ways that God is at work in our lives and in our world. 

Which helps us to realize the important distinction between activism and discipleship.  Whether it is in our prayers, or in our activities, a life of discipleship is not about pondering what we should be doing.  Rather, a life of discipleship is about seeking to be present and aware of what God is doing in this world.  The messengers who came from John wanted Jesus to tell them whether he was the One sent from God; Jesus’ response invited them to find the answers to their questions by taking a look at what God was accomplishing in and through him.

And so it is today. To best way to explore the answers to the questions that our modern culture seems to frequently set before us, it to simply ask where God is at work, lifting people’s burdens and healing their wounds so that they, too, might join in God’s great work that is the redemption and salvation of this world.  The presence and the proof for such a God is not found merely by debating well enough, or winning arguments with critics – rather, to be witnesses to the transforming presence of such a God requires that we go to unexpected places and keep our eyes open to the liberating, healing, surprising grace of God at work in this world.

The Advent and Christmas seasons pointedly remind us that the God before whom we bow is not a God who always makes things quite as obvious as we might like.  In the vast and mighty Roman era, God was most fully revealed in a tiny baby born in a cattle stall in a non-descript town on the margins of the empire. 

And, ever since the moment of that birth, people have been asking the question.  “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?’”

And Jesus’ response?  Go and tell them what you see.  God’s transforming power is at work in this world.  

A manger has been transformed into the birthplace of a king; the poor, the suffering and the sick are finding healing and strength; the hungry are being fed; a cross stands empty; a stone has been rolled away from a tomb.  God is at work in this world. 

Are you the one who is to come? 

Answer the question yourself.