Preparing the Way of the Lord -- A Difficult but Rewarding Vocation, the senior sermon by Valerie Minton Webster, Class of 2005 from the Diocese of Montana, delivered on December 15, 2004, in Christ Chapel

Psalm 49
2 Peter 2:1-10a
Mark 1:1-8

For a seminary community, Advent is much more than a liturgical season: preparing the way of the Lord is our daily work. Fall term is nearly over. Most seminarians have prepared four or more major projects due this week. Our professors, red pens in hand, are at the ready to do their part. In the mean time, administrators and support staff, continue to tend to the physical and financial necessities of this place. Outwardly, I see the healthy glow of our September faces has given way to pasty profiles, puffy from lack of sleep and too much caffeine. Inwardly, I imagine each of us containing our unique challenges -- financial pressures, unresolved health concerns, and always needy family and friends.

Yes, even we, for whom preparing the way of the Lord is our vocation, need this season to focus on Christ's coming. In the hearing of the Word, in the singing of the hymns, and in the silences in between-let us invite the light of Christ to shine on the shadowy places in our hearts this day.

<Pause In the Name of the Creator, the Redeemer, and the Empowerer, Amen.>

An initial reflection upon our Advent lessons conveys Good News. Psalm 49 tells us not to be afraid in times of trouble: riches cannot save humans from death, but God ransoms the souls of the faithful. Mark 1 affirms God is still at work in history. John the Baptist, a prophet as of old, proclaims the life giving message to repentance for forgiveness of sin and announces the coming of one greater than he, the Messiah. In this time apart, may we bask in the warm glow of God's faithfulness.

Resting in this good news, as into a parent's loving arms, we know, however, God seeks to do more than comfort us as beloved children. Our call also requires a grown-up understanding -- for we are being equipped to do the Lord's work in a harsh world.

The writer of Psalm 49 is not an 'above-it-all' teacher of Wisdom. He has suffered persecution at the hands of the rich and powerful, and he is still smarting. As the psalmist contrasts the values and destiny of the righteous with the values and destiny of the wealthy, he gleefully repeats: "Mortals cannot abide in their pomp; they are like the animals that perish." Wouldn't it be great if we could unreservedly identify with the psalmist? Our citizenship in the most affluent nation in history, however, makes that a stretch. We live in a culture of pomp that puts its trust in wealth. Even though we want to put our trust fully the Lord -- we still have two feet planted on earth. Is this not one of the shadowy places in our hearts that still needs the light of Christ?

Our Gospel text is much more than the reassuringly familiar prologue to Jesus' biography; it makes the radical claim that Jesus is the fulfillment of salvation history. "The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ," echoes "In the beginning," the first phrase of Genesis. The writer of Mark indicates we are making a new start, beginning a new age, marked by God's power of redemption. The 'good news' literally translates "the in-breaking of God's kingly rule, the advent of his salvation." God has broken into history through Jesus Christ. The phrasing of "As it is written in the prophet Isaiah," has a double meaning: It suggests both "as it has been written in the book of Isaiah," and "As it has been written through the instrumentality of Isaiah." This second reading emphasizes the inspiration of the Holy Spirit. God's authorship is further under-girded by the use of the first person, "See, I am sending my messenger ahead of you, who will prepare your way." John is the culmination of the series of prophets whom God has sent into the world. Our academic precision draws our attention to the ancient's use of paraphrased scripture as a vibrant vehicle for God's voice.

But there is more than academic precision at stake here. The gospel claim that Jesus is the fulfillment of salvation history makes a claim on us. God is not a God of randomly disconnected events; God is a God of purpose, who sees the end in the beginning. As Madeleine L'Engle writes, "What we do either moves us towards the Second Coming, the reconciliation of all things, or holds us back." John embraced his role; he also paid a price-his very life. And thus, from John's time to our own, disciples have continued this pattern of baptisms by water and the Holy Spirit, and of paying a price for the privilege of living their part in Salvation History.

Our shared hope, as a seminary community, is to fulfill our part … remembering all the while that this process of formation is a messy, and at times painful, business. I don't know about you, but for me, living in Christian community can be as much a fore taste of hell as of heaven. Before I started my ministry formation process, I knew what was what -- or thought I did! Now, I have to consider all these different voices -- contemporary authors, the ancients, my professors, my fellow students … that still, small voice I can only hear when I quiet myself. I then have to examine what I know to be true all over again-discarding, reclaiming, reintegrating. Throw-in reaching consensus in group projects, hearing about your off-putting qualities in CPE, and exposing your soul to your Spiritual Director, and if you're like me, you will feel bloodied and bruised. … Yes, we each have hurting places -- perhaps hidden in the shadows of our hearts, perhaps all too obvious in the light of day -- hurting places that need the healing power of Christ's light.

Reading the scriptures with both our hearts and our minds is critical. Being formed through centering prayer as well as unsettling outreach is essential. Living in relationship with the Redeemer and with the Redeemed is vital. Preparing the way of the Lord can feel like a real disconnection between our interior life of faith and our exterior life in action. Sometimes stories can be the bridge between the two. In this spirit let me offer a story.

When I was a child my dad talked me up and down the most thrilling rock ledges you ever saw. The untrained eye might have only seen rubble left by the last ice age, but for us it was a grand adventure. "Three points of contact." "Keep in constant motion." "See where you are going." My father's words became a part of me as I found foot holds where none appeared visible, jumped across chasms, and defied gravity with tiny fingers in still tinier cracks. I could and did climb anything, confident in the strong hands I knew would guide a poorly placed toe. Where Olympian and missionary Eric Liddell felt the pleasure of God when he ran, I felt the love and affirmation of my father when I climbed.

Several years later, I rediscovered my joy of climbing. Mr. Morgan, faculty leader of the Outing Club, believed in rigorous preparation. From learning to set up a tent in the winter at night, to tying a Bolin behind our backs, to saying all the climbing commands before breakfast, we had to prepare for each new situation. Mr. Morgan was not interested in how we felt about him; he was too busy preparing us to survive in the outdoors and to lead others safely.

After my high school graduation, I followed in my father and grandfather's footsteps. My dad's worn climbing knickers in my pack and visions of the Alps from family albums and home movies in my head, off I went.

One day following a refreshing night camped on a glacier, our group of four ascended a mountain with a sheer face. Nearing the summit, the wind came up and black clouds appeared. We moved laterally to a rock shelf to prepare our descent. Suddenly the air turned yellow brown. The metal zipper on my vest started to emit sparks. Hearing a loud crackling and popping, I looked up to see an oblong mass of exploding light, then a bolt. <PAUSE> Some indeterminate time later, drops of cool rain helped me regain consciousness. We all came too throwing up. Literally stunned, we slowly stood up, fell into formation, and following our ingrained protocol made our descent. Thirty-six hours later, most of that time spent asleep, I found out we'd been hit by Saint Elmo's Fire.

St. Elmo's Fire, is literally a plasma, a hot ionized mass, that forms around the tips of raised, pointed conductors like mountain peaks. This 'corona discharge,' as physicists call it, occurs during thunderstorms when the air reaches a very high voltage. And I can attest to this high voltage: it gave my muscles quite a work out and dulled my brain. After the adrenaline rush to get down, all I could do was sleep. Thanks be to God, our rubber soles kept us from grounding the current, and our excellent training got us down. … Yet even during my healing rest, my desire to ascend new heights rose up within me. I survived and now I needed to live more fully -- to see the places my father had shown me in words and pictures, to feel his pleasure mixed with my own.

In ministry we will encounter our equivalent of Saint Elmo's fire. Hot ionized particles, plasma, form around pointed conductors, like church steeples. The ionized particles of our time -- from how we view human sexuality to how we name God to you fill-in-the-blank -- are building energy right now around our church steeples. I've been zapped by heart-breaking, disappointing, even disgusting events in the church -- and so will you, if you haven't been already. We'll take shelter in the loving arms of our Lord, we'll rest, regroup, and reassess; and then that desire to live fully in the Lord, to feel God's pleasure in us, and through us, and around us will draw us out again. Our compelling vocation, with all its challenges and disappointments, is to prepare the way of the Lord. Amen.