Am I the bad guy?

Thumbnail image: Detail from a fresco by Blessed Fra Angelico, in the Chapter Room of the Dominican convent of San Marco in Florence; photographer: Lawrence OP; used under license: https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/

Clare L. Hickman

St. Luke’s Episcopal Church

December 12, 2021–Advent 3C

Zephaniah 3:14-20; Canticle 9; Philippians 4:4-7; Luke 3:7-18

          “Am I the bad guy?” It’s internet shorthand, though (I must admit) not in those exact words. With just the acronym, “AITA” (“Am I The … Bad Guy?”) a person can tell a story about something that has happened, and ask everyone’s opinion about whether they are the problem in a given situation: are they at fault, or is it the other person?

          AITA. In many ways, it’s the core of the ethical teaching I have sought to instill in my own children. Ethics, of course, are complicated things. But at their core, I want to be sure that my kids remember one guiding principle. Sure, that guiding principle could be “love one another.” It could be “do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” But I chose a pithier summation, with the joy of alliteration but not so much poetry: “Don’t be a – Don’t be a jerk” … essentially. Try not to be the problem, in any given situation.

          And sometimes I fear that this is a bit simplistic, as far as ethical teaching goes. Like maybe it’s not enough. But then I hear John the Baptist today, and I feel at least a little vindicated. Because after all this huge buildup—with the brood of vipers, and the wrath of God, and all our useless parts being thrown into the fire—and clearly, he is not engaging in any ethical half measures here! But when it comes to explaining what the people need to do in response, he essentially boils it down to “don’t be a – … don’t be the problem!”

          Don’t hoard your good fortune, he implores them. Don’t let other people go cold or hungry if you have more than enough food or things to keep you warm. And don’t cheat other people, or use the threat of force against other people, to make yourself wealthier.

          And … that’s it. Nothing about sexual ethics or personal purity. Nothing about religious piety or practice. Just some very simple reminders about generosity and basic decency and fairness. Which is how the Baptist brings us to the rejoicing of Gaudete Sunday. He might have begun by calling us a “brood of vipers,” but here, in his own circuitous way, he gives us some concrete advice about joy.

          Because joy isn’t some long-awaited arrival of perfect bliss. It’s more of an attitude and a way of being that remind us of God’s presence even in the midst of everything that’s raining down around us. Like Paul writing about joy while in prison; like Zephaniah taking hold of joy while the Jewish people were in exile. Joy is rooted less in the quality of your own particular circumstances than in the choice to align your ways with God’s ways. To do the things that bring God joy.

          Share what you have. And don’t overcharge, or threaten, or cheat, just so you can have more. Essentially, act unselfishly, and you will have joy. Which perhaps challenges our secret fear that it is somehow selfish to be joyful. Awful, unacceptable, to feel joy (by which we probably mean happiness), when there is so much suffering in the world.

          But the thing is, joy is not an insult to suffering. It is, in many ways, the antidote to suffering. Because joy beckons to us from beyond fearfulness and anxiety, beyond the destructive forces of selfishness. And in moving beyond an obsession with our own needs, we journey not only towards joy, but the healing of the world.

And once we have opened ourselves up to care about and tend to the concerns of others, we can embrace more fully the happiness that comes our way. Can rejoice in our own good fortunes. Can see the good. Can appreciate the beautiful. Can delight, luxuriate, discover, and laugh!

God wants this for us. Because these are the signs that we have been healed, that we’ve been made whole. I may be a little odd. You may be a seriously misfit toy (and if so: hooray!), but we are as whole as the world could possibly need us to be, when we are open to concern, and open to delight. Which is to say, when we are able to feel joy.

For some reason, this makes me think of a show from England called The Repair Shop. In which people bring their damaged treasures to a workshop of skilled restorers: folks who work with wood, metal, paint, and fabric. And what’s remarkable to me about the show is that these objects are not necessarily valuable in their own right. Many have purely sentimental value, and some of them, to my eyes, are just plain hideous. But they are treasured by those who bring them in. They carry history, and connection, and beauty and usefulness. And those who repair them treat them all with equal dignity and care: lovingly and painstakingly restoring them.

That’s us, I’d say, in the hands of God. Us, in the hands of a God who uses all manner of skills to repair the damage, and bring us back to working order. Us, with divine intervention, given the ability to open up to the world around us: made strong enough to care, and thus made healthy enough to delight.

Maybe it’s hard to see what God sees in us, why God would even bother to repair us. Most of us, after all, have little but sentimental value. And yet, God treasures us. And God will keep working on us until our selfishness is sanded off, until our compassion shines through, and our capacity for joy is restored. Right in the midst of this mixed up mess of a world.

FOR JOY

A Blessing

You can prepare,

but still

it will come to you

by surprise,

crossing through your doorway,

calling your name in greeting,

turning like a child

who quickens suddenly

within you.

It will astonish you

how wide your heart

will open

in welcome

for the joy

that finds you

so ready

and still so

unprepared.

—Jan Richardson

from Circle of Grace: A Book of Blessings for the Seasons 

May we regain our capacity to rejoice, my friends. Amen.