Baruch 5:1-9

Canticle 16 Luke 1: 68-79 The Song of Zechariah Philippians 1:3-11
Luke 3:1-6

Wilderness Voices

The Christmas Fair was fun, a lot of work, but also a great break from reality. But today I’m back in the pulpit and the issues before us are unbelievably heavy, the weight of our world is almost unbearable.

If you can measure tragedy in terms of numbers, and we count every event in which four or more people have been shot in a shooting spree, without a cooling off period, then we have, as a country, suffered 355 mass shootings this year, (as of San Bernardino.)

As a preacher, I have to wonder how can there be any words left, so soon after the tragedies in Paris and Colorado? So I went to read what my colleague The Rev. David Henson had to say, (I often find his wisdom helpful). He wrote a piece entitled: After 355 Times, Maybe It’s Time to Say Something Different, In the body of the article he wrote: “Our thoughts and prayers are with the victims and families.”
“Our thoughts and prayers are with the victims and families.”
“Our thoughts and prayers are with the victims and families.”
“Our thoughts and prayers are with the victims and families.” …

It went on, one statement per shooting. While they say that repetition is comforting, standing here reading this sentence 355 times is not going to help us or anyone else (which is his point actually).1

So I turned to Jim Wallis and the fine folks of Sojourners. They had a lot to say, they always do. It boiled down to: “Pray… then act.”2 Good advice, but still not exactly what I needed. Solace, strength, perspective, faith; that’s what I was looking for, for ME, to be honest, so that I could then find the words to be present to you.

And then I stumbled across this post, from Goshen college student Jenae Longenecker, a sophomore who is a peace, justice and conflict studies major from South Bend, Indiana. She’s my daughter Mackenzie’s age – it figures that a young adult might say something that gets to the heart of the matter.

Jenae reflects on this Sunday’s Gospel as she writes:
“A voice cried out in the wilderness. It was bold and confident, shaking with raw emotion. She, the owner of the voice, told her story openly. It wasn’t an easy story to hear – it was a story of pain, of abuse and self-harm. It was truly a story of wilderness.

1 The Rev. David Henson, in his blog: edges of faith, “After 355 Times, Maybe It’s Time to Say Something Different,” as posted in Patheos.com, December 3, 2015.
2 By Jim Wallis, https://sojo.net, posted December 3, 2015.

Hers wasn’t the only story of wilderness I’ve heard lately. She’s not the only friend of mine who is struggling. And she certainly isn’t the only one seeking refuge in a world where there seems to be no home.

But it was in listening to her voice, her blending of tears and laughter, that this passage came to mind. It’s that voice, the one crying out in the wilderness, that calls us to prepare the way of the Lord. It’s that voice begging for the way, it’s in that voice that I hear the need for God most intensely. It’s in all the voices of survivors, those who find God in themselves when there seems to be no reason to believe in anyone else.

And it’s in her that I see God too. When she asks me to believe with her, how can I not? When she asks me to prepare the way of the Lord, how can I not? Every valley shall be filled in, every mountain and hill made low. Inequalities shall be bridged, the silenced will be heard. The crooked roads shall become straight, the rough ways smooth. And all people will see God’s salvation.”3

So those are the words of my preacher this week, Jenae Longenecker, who is, after all, majoring in Peace, Justice and Conflict Studies. I expect she’s right, if we want to work toward peace, we have to begin in the hard places, with the disturbing stories, listening to those who cry out in grief and pain.

The voice of one crying out in the wilderness, is not easy to hear, is not easy to embrace. Those who own those voices are rarely clean and tidy, well put together, or easy to hang out with, because the pain that surrounds them, precludes all social niceties, all conventional, empty conversations. When you befriend a wilderness voiced person – you know it. It’s work, often uncomfortable work. And it brings a view of life that is hard to see, hard to imagine. It would be easier to ignore them. To ignore their reality. Just not go there.

How else do we maintain the illusions we rely upon? Particularly at this time of year, we prefer our Hallmark Christmas images. We want the trappings and the glitter, the shimmering artificial lights. Anything to keep us from having to face the really ugly stuff of our world.

I admit, I’m guilty of wanting those illusions, absolutely… do I look like a prophet? Someone who enjoys shouting unpleasant and difficult pronouncements while being physically uncomfortable? Personally, I want the world to stop the madness, so people will be safe (of course) and so that I can preach sermons with happy, cute Advent stories. What’s a preacher have to do to get a week that isn’t filled with tragedy and bloodshed, I mean, it’s Advent after all. When we light candles for hope, for peace, for joy and love.

But Advent starts with the prophets, and that voice in the wilderness. What if our lesson this Advent, in yet another extraordinarily violent and painful year, is that it’s no longer enough to hear the voice crying out, we need to stand with the prophet, proclaiming loudly in our own voices.

3 Jenae Longenecker, A voice crying out in the wilderness, Goshen College Advent and Lenten Devotions, December 4, 2015.

Crying out from this place of faithfulness, rage, and grief, on behalf of the whole of humanity, on behalf of God’s broken heart. Lifting the voice of human suffering on behalf of those who have been silenced, whose loved ones are buried by grief. Sounds noble, but let’s be honest, it’s difficult to muster the energy, to hope that our voice could possibly matter.

This year we have been here in the wake of violence so often that we are numb, both afraid to get used to this as our new normal, and afraid to be vulnerable to more heartache. It’s relentless, merciless.

And this place is far too familiar. We were here almost exactly three years ago – when we were all brought to our knees by the mass shooting deaths of the children and their teachers and principal at Sandy Hook Elementary. We were shattered by the violence, ripped apart by the insanity, and we promised ourselves, those children and their families, and our entire human family that we would somehow make a change. That that moment would be the last moment of collective regret because we had been too afraid to act.

And the fact that we are still here in this place of agony is intolerable. The fact that we have allowed that to happen 355 times this year by mass shootings is beyond bearing.

We desperately need to find our way out of this wilderness place. But first we have to admit where we are, we have to admit that this kind of senseless violence is by its nature senseless. Meaning we can’t protect ourselves from it, we can’t rationalize the many ways in which those who were killed did something to put themselves in harms way, so we can pretend that there are ways to keep ourselves and those we love safe.

We won’t be safe, we’re already not safe, we are already affected. I know, I don’t want to really engage this dangerous wilderness reality, but maybe we have to engage it. Maybe that’s the only way through it. Maybe that’s the way to say something different, to act, to proclaim the way of the Lord in a meaningful, wilderness shifting ways.

From this wilderness place we can claim the power of the prophet. We can say what those in power won’t say, we can proclaim what they don’t want anyone to know, that there is a better way, the Lord’s way.

Consider our prophet John this morning, after that long list of important power people, Luke says, the Word of God came to a nobody – John. Who speaks truth to power, and explains how the Lord’s ways are different than the world’s ways, and that we have the option to choose that other path. The way of the Lord, which is justice and mercy, and a very hard fought peace. John’s road is not an easy road, but it is the way to God’s road. If we are to prepare the way of the Lord, it will take courage and a willingness to confront the powers of this world. It may take sacrifice, and discomfort, and being very unpopular with those who wish to silence us.

Preparing the way of the Lord will require us to speak up, to face the inevitably difficult battles ahead if we are to significantly strengthen our gun control laws, if we are to solve this problem of gun violence, as so many other countries have done before us.

It is possible, we can get there, to a safer, less violent place. But we will have to choose that hard path. We can be prophets of peace, if we decide to make the sacrifice, wade into this uncomfortable place, and face our fear. Because the path toward peace will trigger violent reactions from those who fear losing their right to bear arms. And the truth is we have reason to be afraid. Our choosing this path may incite actual violence, causing more bloodshed. But there is violence NOW, there is bloodshed NOW. Unless we make this choice for peace, and follow through with the hard work, the courage required, then nothing will change. Lives will continue to be lost, we will all suffer. Standing in this wilderness, we can no longer be silent.

It’s time, long past time, to repent and return to the Lord, to raise our voices, cry out from the wilderness. Together we can make the crooked places straight, lift up the valleys, make it possible for the people of God to come to a better place, a safer place, make it possible to find our way home. To bring God’s salvation to the world, and to ourselves. It’s possible, just not easy.