New Hope from a Dead End

This coming week we vote in the general election and we as good
citizens face the question of how best to engage in politics. Perhaps
we can gain some wisdom from the prophets, those uncomfortable tellers
of truth to power.

The prophet Isaiah has this wonderfully evocative metaphor that
re-imagines kingship. The Jewish community had arrived at a dead-end;
it’s described as the ‘stump of Jesse’. The image is of the
impossibility of anything new coming from a terminated stump. This
stump is dead: no life is possible. Into this scene Isaiah offers
hope: from this dead stump, a sprout will come issuing new life. The
irresistible, energising ‘Spirit of the Lord’ will raise up a new sort
of ruler, a different sort of kingship. Where there was no hope and no
possibilities, the ‘spirit’ generates new life.

What are the marks of this new king? We know these words well from
Handel’s Messiah: ‘Wonderful counsellor’, ‘Everlasting Father’,
‘prince of peace’ (Isaiah 9.6). This coming king is going to judge, to
sort out conflicting interests and claims, to intervene on behalf of
the poor and vulnerable (widows and orphans) who are unable to supply
their own social leverage’ (Brueggemann, Isaiah, 100). [And in rather
strong poetic language, the king comes to ‘smite’ the wicked: in other
words, to put a stop to those who prey upon, exploit and abuse the
weak, vulnerable and poor.]

In short, the prophet’s message was deeply political. This was not
about a private spirituality, what they might do once a week at
Temple/ synagogue.

It’s a reminder that being Christian isn’t simply about our own
spiritual life; it’s not just about an hour in church on Sunday. Jesus
was received, celebrated and eventually crucified because he embodied
and practiced a path that challenged the status quo. This good news,
the Gospel, involved a new way that included all – Jew, Gentile,
women, men and children, Roman citizens, slaves – a radically
inclusive new way.

So, I wonder what would the prophets Isaiah and John the Baptist say
to our politicians today? Perhaps something along the lines that any
practice of public power must attend to issues of economic justice for
the vulnerable. What are the significant issues for us as a nation at
the moment?

How best can we cherish and support our NHS so that our doctors and
nurses don’t burn out. How do we resource our schools and teachers to
offer the best education? How do we enable young people to find
suitable and affordable rental accommodation or even to purchase
property given spiralling cost of property prices particularly in
London? How do we arrange our society and its structures so that
businesses can flourish whilst providing a living wage? How do we
ensure that tech companies pay their fair share of tax? And how do we
do all this without going bankrupt as a country?

These are some of the challenges we as good citizens must hold our
politicians to account. But working for the common good isn’t just
about ‘them’, politicians in power. Creating a healthy society is also
about us, and John the Baptist words are uncompromising: ‘Repent, for
the kingdom of heaven has come near.’ For us 21st century Christians,
‘sin’ and ‘repentance’ are loaded words we try to avoid. We dislike
the word ‘sin’ because we associate it with shame, guilt, and
condemnation.

But what is sin, really? Growing up, I was taught that sin is
‘breaking God’s laws’. Or ‘missing the mark’, as an archer misses his
target. This doesn’t name the fullness of what we struggle with. Sin,
at its heart, is a refusal to become fully human. It’s anything that
interferes with the opening up of our whole hearts to God, to others,
to creation, and to ourselves.

Sin is a fearful resistance to an engaged life. Sin is the opposite
of creativity, the opposite of abundance, the opposite of flourishing.

John underscores his message of repentance with a harrowing
description of the coming Messiah: ‘He will baptize you with the Holy
Spirit and fire. His winnowing fork is in his hand, and he will clear
his threshing floor and gather the wheat into the granary; but the
chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire.’

Gosh, this is hard-hitting. Is this the good news that Jesus brings,
someone who judges, sorts, and burns us?

I wonder if we squirm because we misconstrue the meaning of judgement.
One of the themes of Advent is judgement – but we don’t tend to hear
many sermons about it! And I think it’s because we equate judgement
with condemnation. Perhaps we have in mind strict head teacher who
carries a red book with all our misdemeanours. Let’s look at it in
another way. To judge something, is to see it clearly — to know it as
it truly is. What if John is saying that the Messiah who is coming
really sees us? That he knows us at our very core? Maybe the
winnowing fork is an instrument of deep love, patiently wielded by the
one who discerns in us rich harvests still hidden by chaff.

The invitation this Advent to offer to God every part of our lives –
the wheat and the chaff – and to give him permission to ‘clear’ us —
to separate all that’s destructive from all that is good, beautiful,
and worthy. So, I wonder what repentance looks like for you this
Advent? Where is God levelling the ground you stand on, and what will
it take for you to participate in that uncomfortable but essential
work?

And if you feel you’ve reach a dead end in life, or that you feel
spiritually dead or impoverished, I want to encourage you today to
have hope. The transformation that Isaiah held out to his people – of
a dead stump that brings forth life – is possible for each of us
today. It’s the Spirit who gives life where isn’t – it’s the Spirit
who transforms. We just have to be willing to open our hearts to her
generative, energising work.

Reference: Debie Thomas

Revd Dr James Heard
Vicar, United Benefice of Holland Park