"What Then Should We Do?"

First Presbyterian Church
December 17, 2006
Peter S. Buehler
Luke 3:7-18

And the crowds asked him, "What then should we do?"
In reply he said to them, "Whoever has two coats
must share with anyone who has none…"

One of the lovely customs of this season of the year is the sending and receiving of Christmas cards. It takes some effort to get them mailed, but it's worth it -- it's good to stay in touch with one's circle of family and friends, many of whom we don't hear from the rest of the year.

The cards themselves are lovely; artistic scenes of the manger, classic paintings of Mary and the baby Jesus. Messages inside the cards evoke the meaning of the season. A sampling of some we've received include generic messages such as Wishing you a beautiful holiday season and a New Year of peace and happiness. Some are religious: May the miracle of Christmas fill your heart with joy. Some cards feature quotations from Scripture, like the angel's words to the shepherds: "Fear not, for behold I bring you glad tidings of great joy which shall be to all people."

I have yet to receive a John the Baptist Christmas card, however. That's a card which, when you open it, yells: You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come?" It would be hard to follow that with "Merry Christmas from the Joneses"!

But while we may prefer a milder message so close to Christmas -- and a more uplifting one -- the scriptures of the church stay right by the Baptist's side. He isn't done yet; we need to listen to what he's saying for one more week. After all, Advent is about preparation. For John the Baptist, preparation is crucial. The Lord's advent is a quiet coming; if we're not prepared we may miss it.
John the Baptist, however, is not quiet! Yet if you have ever been spoken to sternly by someone who understands you and whose desire is for you to do better than you've been doing -- someone who believes in you -- then you will not turn off John the Baptist. He believes God's people can do better.

Though what's interesting -- and at first seems unfair -- is that he's hardest on those who come out to him, angry not with people who've stayed home. You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come?" Like snakes fleeing in front of the flames of a fire, the Baptist sees people escaping destruction -- only they're running the wrong way! His message is not "Stay out here with me in the desert, listen to me preach, keep away from harm, and count yourselves among the saved," but rather "Bear fruits worthy of repentance." And do it back home where you live! And make no assumptions about God being on your side! Who you are, whom you're descended from, however religious you judge yourselves to be -- that means nothing. So don't be complacent. God is able from the stones at your feet to raise up children to Abraham. Even now the ax is lying at the root of the trees; every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire.

I wonder if the opposite of faith isn't complacency. We tend to think that faith's opposite is when faith is lacking, when we doubt; we assume that doubt is opposed to faith, therefore we should never give in to it. Yet so often our doubt is our honesty, our thoughts and fears, our curiosity. Who has never doubted? Barbara Brown Taylor, writer and preacher, reflects on the fact that for her doubt actually serves the truth: "Doubt often brings me to poke at what I believe," she writes. "And when it topples, I realize that was an idol. And so doubt and disillusionment have been the divine gifts that have led me deeper into who God is."

Doubt is no threat; instead, John the Baptist is concerned about a greater problem, complacency. Not wanting any improvement, any change. Complacency says, "Leave me alone. I'm fine the way I am. I like my routine; I have a nice life, an adequate faith, good health insurance. I'm not interested in your rocking my boat or in any changes you think would make me a better person. So keep your ax to yourself and stay away from my roots!"
But on that day in the desert, those who heard John the Baptist were not defensive, they were not proud or resistant. If before they had been running away, here with John they stood still and listened. And they all asked the same question: What then should we do?

Given John's temperament we assume his answer will be a radical one: Sell everything you own! Leave your mother and father! Start your life over again! Instead the message is down-to-earth and practical; it's about simple justice, fairness, and compassion.

To the crowds who were so focused on themselves and their own well-being: Whoever has two coats must share with anyone who has none; and whoever has food must do likewise. To the tax collectors who came forward, the street-level operatives who did the dirty work for the higher-up tax officials, skimming whatever they could for themselves: Collect no more than the amount prescribed for you.
To the soldiers who came forward, notorious for threatening and intimidating the peasants, enriching themselves through intimidation and extortion: Do not extort money from anyone by threats or false accusation, and be satisfied with your wages.

We ask, What about us? The answer to our question, What then should we do -- what does it really mean to repent? -- is a matter of examining our lives, our doing. Are we being productive where we are? Are we using the time we have on this earth to make a difference? Are we giving of ourselves and not holding back? Are we just and fair in all our dealings? Are we content with what we earn?
Do we practice generosity?

And are we sincere? Are our hearts engaged not simply in being good but in being better, kinder, more Christ-like, more interested in our neighbors' welfare, especially those who have little? The quality of our fruit, the goodness of our actions, according to John, has to do with our roots, how deep they are, how much of our selves we give to God.

The two are connected, roots and fruits. While what John asks of us may seem modest, it's not; changing our hearts never is. Have there been times when your heart has been changed? A time when you have met John the Baptist personally, and have repented, and realized that repentance is a great blessing? That it brings us closer to our human family, to God's family?

Harriett Ritchie, a freelance writer in Anderson, South Carolina, tells a story about a memorable Christmas Eve with her family. After attending their church’s  midnight service, her husband, being a typical male who’d stayed up late, realized that he was hungry.
So as the family was getting into the car he suggested that instead of going directly home they find a restaurant and have some breakfast.
It took awhile, a lot of driving around -- it was after midnight on Christmas Eve -- but finally,  after getting on the interstate, they found a truck stop that was open, though it was nearly deserted.

Harriett’s husband led her and their sleepy children to the door.
As she describes it the juke box was playing something like “when you leave, walk out backwards so I'll think you’re coming in” -- that kind of a place. A strand of blinking lights around a single large window was the sole hint that it was Christmas. The air smelled of coffee, bacon, and stale cigarette smoke. At the counter a one-armed man in a baseball cap was drinking Pepsi from a bottle. Two other men sat around a table talking, eating and drinking; Harriet couldn’t help but wonder where they had come from, where they were going.
Her family chose a booth beside the window as the children wanted to see if the blinking lights would make their faces turn colors.

A woman named Rita came over to take their order, managing a weary-looking smile as she handed them their menus. Harriet’s son was holding the salt shaker upside-down, spilling salt into his hand and licking it; she glared at him, looking up just in time to see Rita winking at him.

The children wanted hamburgers; mother and dad refused, saying “this is breakfast.” They grumbled but complied, ordering pancakes with sausage, though when the food arrived the children defiantly ate the sausage between the pancakes, hamburger-style. Silently to herself Harriet admitted that the snob in her was enjoying feeling out of place. She imagined herself sometime in the future laughing and saying to her family, “Remember that Christmas when we ate breakfast at that truck stop with the awful music and those tacky lights?”

She was staring out the window thinking those thoughts when an old Volkswagen bus overloaded with luggage drove up. A bearded young man with jeans got out; he walked around and opened the door for a young woman holding a baby. They hurried inside the restaurant and took a booth near the back. As Rita, the waitress, took their order the baby started to cry. The father lifted the baby to his shoulder, but it didn’t help. Rita poured them coffee; the mother took the baby and began rocking it in her arms. Still she cried. The mother picked up the diaper bag and started to leave. She held the baby’s head against her neck to try to muffle her crying, when Rita reached over and held out her arms. “Drink your coffee, hon. Let’s see what I can do.”

The way Rita held the child it was obvious that she’d raised plenty of children of her own. She began talking, walking, playing with the baby. Rita showed her to the man in the baseball cap, and he began whistling and making silly faces, and the baby stopped crying. Rita showed her the blinking lights and the lights on the jukebox. She brought the baby over to Harriet and her family. “Just look at this little darlin’,” she said. “Mine are so big and grown.”

The one-armed fellow took a pot of coffee from the burner and started waiting on tables. As he finished refilling Harriet and her husband’s mugs, Harriet felt tears welling up in her eyes. Her husband wanted to know what was wrong. “Nothing,” she replied. “Just Christmas.”
Giving her children a quarter and sending them off to the juke box, Harriet turned to her husband and said, “He’d come here, wouldn’t he?” “Who?” he asked. “Jesus,” she answered. “If Jesus were born in this town tonight and the choices were our neighborhood, the church, or this truck stop, it would be here, wouldn’t it?”

Pausing for a moment, she went on. “When we first got here I felt sorry for these people because they probably aren’t going home to neighborhoods where the houses have candles in the windows and wreaths on the doors. And listening to that awful music, I thought, I'll bet nobody here has even heard of Handel. Now I think that more than anyplace I know, this is where Christmas is. But do I belong?"

Harriet Ritchie's question is a repentance question. Where is Christmas? Where shall we find it? And do we belong? If we find ourselves asking the question, John the Baptist is nearby indeed.
An imposing and frightening figure, yet is there not in us a yearning to go out to the desert to meet him? Our pilgrimage of faith includes meeting this man who holds nothing back, who demands from us the truthfulness and humility he himself shows -- "I baptize you with water; but one who is more powerful than I is coming; I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandals."

The question today is Where is Christmas? We go out from here to find it. John helps us get ready. If we listen to him -- if we open our hearts to humility, if we have compassion -- we will find the place our Savior is born.

Amen.