In the fifteenth year of the reign of Emperor Tiberius, when Pontius Pilate was governor of Judea, and Herod was ruler of Galilee, and his brother Philip ruler of the region of Ituraea and Trachonitis and Lysanias was ruler of Abilene, ²during the high priesthood of Annas and Caiaphas, the word of God came to John son of Zechariah in the wilderness. ³He went into all the region around the Jordan, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins, ⁴as it is written in the book of the words of the prophet Isaiah, “The voice of one crying out in the wilderness: ‘Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight. ⁵Every valley shall be filled, and every mountain and hill shall be made low, and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough ways made smooth;⁶and all flesh shall see the salvation of God.’” Luke 3:1-6

This passage is Luke’s tantalizing intro to what comes next—it is the reprise of the old words from Isaiah’s prophecy spoken about John the Baptizer in the wilderness as Luke pulls those old words forward and into his own day and time, filled with real empires and injustice and shattered morality. Who are these people in this litany of names with which he begins this part of the story? They are the big guns of the empire– Tiberius Caesar, Pontius Pilate, King Herod and his brother Philip, Lie-sin-is—tyrants and murderers all—and Annas and Caiaphas, religious leaders filled with corruption and greed. Friends, Luke’s audience would have heard those names rehearsed and their eyes would have widened in fear and anger. Imagine if you read this passage and inserted the names from our time—the tyrants, the liars, the empires, the powers, the corruption. But Luke’s purpose is to sound alongside these awful names, a subtle, hopeful note–reminding his readers that it was precisely in the middle of that dangerous and broken time, that a voice cries in the wilderness to remind them of what also is and is becoming. John’s message is to demand repentance–a change–and to make a way for peace– Advent as pothole repair on the road to equity and justice—leveling the situation for balance so that those who have been lowdown, pushed aside, and kept out will be invited home. Every valley filled, every high and mighty brought down and all flesh shall see it together. And you shall name the one who is to come, Emmanuel, which means God-with-us. Theologian Walter Bruggemann says that Emmanuel, God-with-us means that when we enter and find the heart truth at the center of this story, that we have the chance to ponder anew and then to move toward the coming—move toward what it means to be fully human, fully alive, that that is what God-with-us means.

That is the name given by the prophets and angels for the baby Jesus, a name we hear a lot this time of year. How extraordinary it is that our cranky and damaged religion has as our heritage such a humble, odd, in the middle-of-the-bad-news-of-the-empire little birth story. For many world religions remember the birth of the deity very differently, and they have great names that befit the majesty: names like, the Supreme Being, Allah, Wonderful Teacher, Absolute Truth, Adonai, Most Compassionate, and my personal favorite (and the one you’d want to sit near at a cocktail party,) the Supreme Personality of the Godhead. There are many stories about God’s being and expectations, but in this story, a wild man in the desert cries out for change. Reminds us that God-with-us speaks truth to power—and that the powers always believe that truth can ultimately be silenced. This is the unlikely story about a homeless couple having a baby, poor animal herders, rich travelers, and other characters who all come together–who meet up by coincidence or divine providence, who end up playing a part in the holy journey.

They are familiar teachings—we read them and sing them, every Advent at this time of year. Tonight, our sisters and brothers and many of us will rehearse other old stories and light the candles for the first night of Hanukkah. To remind us that the light cannot be overcome by the longest nights—that the Holy One is here in the resilience of the people. Our teachings invite us to find our way in the dark wildernesses of this present time. But this year, more than ever, it resounds, this certain hope: that the teachings also are tangible.

Tangible means the bulletin cover that we will sit with for four weeks in Advent. Heidi Stein made it and I asked her if I could share with you what she wrote when she sent it in to the church office. She said, “I used a friend’s maternity pictures to guide the silhouette. I handwrote in the background her husband’s words describing his emotions as they waited for their son to be born. The curtain on the right is literally ripped from the headlines on the day I created the piece. I randomly included a variety of positive and negative headlines like the Springs Summit, people of different religions coming together to mourn with a local synagogue, the shooting in Tallahassee, and the story of the immigrants. As I worked on the piece I realized the couple, my friends mentioned earlier, are a family themselves formed by immigration. The dad has legal status and his parents are living with him, his wife, and their new baby trying to get legal status. The immigrant headline in the curtains was a coincidence, but totally made the piece for me. Thanks for this opportunity.” No, Heidi, thank you, for this opportunity.

Tangible means that in this context of evil abounding, there are profoundly touchable realities that push back against the pain, loss, fear, and suffering. It means that these sweet old Christmas stories have shown up to claim us this year. Us. Not in theory, but tangibly. What if–“What child is this” is not just a song, but a real question with a real answer. What child is this, who may be shot, detained, starved for food and love and family? Gassed by the empire? What child is this, being born, being invited to grow, needing to find safety in the home and in the streets, in our church, to recover from trauma, to learn, to find joy, to know love, to find their greatest potential, to live. What child is this?

The old stories say that this, this is the voice of one crying out in the wilderness and the one proclaimed. That we must turn aside and learn war no more, that each one is the beloved. The child of the poor, incarcerated, separated. What child is this? The child is a refugee, the child is Emmanuel–

There are others of our faith stories that tell us grand and glorious things about God–cosmic Christ, Alpha and Omega, Great Spirit, but what child THIS IS–this story is about Tangible, view-able, smell-able, US… all of us… homeless after a hurricane living in a tent in the parking lot of a church, in a detention cage, on death row, young and struggling in school or with addiction, trying to figure out who and how to love, moving homeward or running away, trying to be employable, worthy, trying to share a soul-identity that is other than formerly incarcerated, longing to be free to be and to become. Tangible—God-with-us, in us, is us, the one seen–in the church and synagogue and the mosque, God in the nursing home and the hospice and the hospital and the shelter. God with us as we grieve and as we live with our fear and uncertainty, and God with us as we grow and as we age and get wiser and God with us when we get sick and when we die, and God with us as we delight and surprise one another with grace and generosity and a second chance, and while God also may be the Prime Mover and the Ground of Being, what child is this is Tangible, God-with-us in the swamps and the fires and the storms and the springs and the tortoise and the tarantula and God with us in the old people whose names are forgotten and in babies whose names we don’t know yet, and in you and in me.

The invitation of this Advent season is to prepare a way so that others and we ourselves can continue to find the gracious blessing of abundant life. To not give up and be resigned to hopelessness in this hard context when every day, nearly every hour is a new outrage and danger. The challenge still is to incarnate the hope and peace and joy and expectation and blessing and God-with-us for Earth and for others—because that is what we are here to do–to keep listening, to keep crying out in the wilderness—to keep those protests loud and proud. To keep up our inner work—growing more self-aware and awake, and attuned to every moment we are given– to mourn and to laugh and to live deeply into our own holy days and nights in this blessed season of light shining in darkness—to incarnate—to be the tangible evidence of integrity and justice and truth.

Please know that this year, the stories and songs of Mary and Joseph and baby Jesus remind us that in the poorest places and the saddest moments, beyond the evil empires, and breathing in the beauty of the wetlands and by the sea and in the mountains and the valleys and the prairie and the plain, singing in the rivers and between us here and now is born the one who always invites us too—to break open and gift our own selves for the sake of the world, living into our own beloved flesh and blood and bones—being for the world and for one another–God-with-us. Tangible. Amen.

Benediction: by Jan Richardson

Bless the young one, the tender one, the wise child who comes with hands open, with eyes wide, with heart of wonder; whose blood runs fresh with you, whose lungs breathe with you, whose limbs dance with you. May we see the star that calls her. May we protect the path he walks. May we follow where they lead us. Amen