Subscribe
Share
Share
Embed
A weekly sermon podcast from Ojai, California. Grounded in scripture and open to the world, these reflections invite you to listen, wonder, and live the story.
There’s a reason John the Baptist shows up in the wilderness.
It’s the one place where everything unnecessary falls away.
No walls to echo back your assumptions.
No distractions to drown out the truth.
Just wind, sky, dust, and that fierce clarity
that only comes when you’re standing far enough from town
to hear your own heart again.
People streamed out to him not because
he was polite, or polished, or easy to listen to,
but because something in them already knew
they needed what he was offering.
They were tired of carrying things that weren’t theirs.
Tired of living smaller than God made them.
Tired of trying to hold together lives that felt frayed at the edges.
And John meets them with an image that still startles us:
a winnowing fork, a threshing floor, a fire that burns.
For many, these words were taught as threat --
fire as punishment, fire as wrath.
But John is doing something far more beautiful.
He is naming the deep mercy of God.
The mercy that burns away what clings to us.
And the mercy that frees us from what we cling to.
Because the chaff is never the person.
The chaff is what attaches itself to the person:
fear that whispers we are alone,
shame that runs deeper than words,
old stories we inherited and never questioned,
defenses that once kept us alive but now keep us from living.
Every one of us knows what that feels like.
The pieces of our past or our personality that seem fused to us –
not because we want them,
but because we’ve carried them for so long
we can’t imagine ourselves without them.
And John says, gently and fiercely:
The Messiah comes to free you from that.
His fire is not the fire that destroys.
It’s the fire that disentangles.
The fire that loosens the knots and softens the grip of everything
that keeps us from being fully alive.
And if that were all John said, it would be enough.
But he also turns his gaze toward
the religious leaders who come to watch –
not to be changed, but to stay in control.
And John says to them:
“Do not presume… do not cling to your old securities.”
Because sometimes the chaff isn’t just what clings to us.
Sometimes the chaff is what we cling to --
the pride that protects us,
the control that comforts us,
the patterns that once helped us survive but now keep us from growing.
This is a word not only for individuals but for communities.
Churches, too, have their clinging places --
ways of doing things that once carried life but now carry only weight,
identities shaped more by memory than by calling,
habits that made sense in a harder season
but cannot lead us into the next one.
And here, I think,
John’s voice meets us exactly where we stand at St. Andrew’s.
We have come through years of repair and rebuilding --
replacing the roof, restoring the HVAC,
getting a new stove in the kitchen;
tending to the literal bones of this place.
That is holy, necessary work. And it will continue.
But now, we have the opportunity to turn toward beauty.
Next week, we’ll speak more fully about Mary –
and about the new “Mary of the Ventura Coast”
installation that now hangs in our little chapel,
created by our community member Sarah Fuller.
But I hope you’ll take time today to look into that small space
and let Mary’s presence meet you.
It is a sign of where we are heading:
a church not only repaired, but revealed.
Not only functional, but radiant.
Which is why Advent invites a shift in posture.
From repair to readiness.
From surviving to listening.
From managing what is functional
to preparing for what is beautiful.
And on this First Sunday –
when our children have their own time of wonder
as we engage with scripture and pray –
I want to say something plainly:
Here we do not preach a God who burns people.
Here we do not pass on to our children a doctrine of eternal torment.
Here we do not use fear to teach them how to love.
John’s fire is not that fire.
It is the fire of freedom –
the fire that burns away every burden that tells them
they are anything less than God’s beloved.
And if our children need to know anything
about this fierce God of Advent, let it be this:
God’s fire is the heat of holy love,
setting us free from whatever keeps us bound.
Because the same question John asked in the wilderness
is the question Christ asks us now:
What needs to be released -- in us and among us –
so God can make room for new life here?
Maybe it’s old anxieties still lodged in our bones
from the years of “just holding it together.”
Maybe it’s habits of shrinking ourselves.
Maybe it’s the instinct to protect rather than imagine.
Maybe it’s an assumption that the church we can manage
is the same as the church God is calling forth.
John’s fire is the fire that frees us from all of that.
And Isaiah’s dream –
wolves and lambs,
children leading creatures of danger and gentleness –
is not a sentimental scene.
It is the landscape that becomes possible
when God’s refining fire has done its work.
It is peace on the far side of release.
It is beauty rising in a cleared and spacious heart.
Advent isn’t a season of striving.
It’s a season of loosening.
A season of letting God burn away what keeps us tangled --
so when Christ comes, there is room for him to land.
And if you listen closely to John’s voice,
beneath the urgency, you can hear something tender:
John never asks us to burn our own chaff.
He says Christ will do it.
Christ will do the freeing.
Christ will hold the places in us that feel
too knotted, too brittle, too precious to expose --
and he will unbind them with the fire of holy love.
This is not fire as threat.
This is fire as healing.
Fire as clarity.
Fire as the warm, persistent insistence of God’s love
refusing to let us stay trapped in smallness.
So, on this second Sunday of Advent, maybe the question is:
What in your life is ready to be released?
What is clinging to you that Christ desires to lift away?
And what are you clinging to –
old fears, old stories, old securities –
that God invites you to loosen your grip around?
And for us as a church:
What can we entrust to God so that beauty may flourish here?
So that wonder may grow in our children,
courage in our community,
and space in our hearts for the world Christ is bringing?
The One who comes after John
comes not with threat, but with freedom.
With fire that liberates.
With love that clears the way for peace.
May we dare to welcome that fire.
May we be a people released.
And may the peaceable kingdom Isaiah saw
take root among us
in the very places we have opened
for Christ to come and dwell.
Amen.