The Dawn from on High

A sermon preached at St Martin-in-the-Fields on December 3, 2023 by Revd Dr Sam Wells

Reading for address: Luke 1: 68-79

When I joined St Martin’s in 2012 one thing that confused me was that when I asked what we called the upper church seating area, I was told, ‘the gallery,’ but when I then asked what the area at the back of the crypt café was called, I was told, ‘the gallery.’ When I asked, I thought quite reasonably, ‘How is one to tell the difference?’, I just got a ‘How can you be so stupid?’ expression and no explanation. That’s how institutions work. You’re just supposed to know. You may be aware of the same phenomenon at work in the liturgy. We often speak of ‘the Gloria,’ but if someone asks, ‘Do you mean the coda we sing at the end of each psalm, or the angels’ song we stand to sing after the confession at the start of a Eucharist?’, you get the same blank look: ‘You’re just supposed to know.’

When we started livestreaming Morning Prayer from St Martin’s in March 2020, we had no idea that we were creating a phenomenon that all this time later 100 people would be joining us every weekday. The elements of the service change through the church’s year, but apart from the Lord’s Prayer, about the only element that doesn’t change is the Benedictus. But you could be forgiven for saying ‘I thought the Benedictus was the short song we sing after the “Holy, Holy Holy” in the middle of the Eucharistic Prayer.’ To which again the answer is, ‘Yes.’ And if you quite reasonably ask, ‘How am I to know the difference?’ you could get the same passive-aggressive answer – ‘You’re just supposed to know.’ But you could get a more thoughtful answer, which says the words in the Eucharistic Prayer are shouted by the crowd on Palm Sunday at the climax of the gospel, whereas the canticle at Morning Prayer is sung by Zechariah, the father of John the Baptist, at the beginning of the gospel.

It might be fair to describe Zechariah’s song as the most familiar but least talked-about feature in all Anglican liturgy. So I’m going to talk about it tonight, because it’s the perfect Advent canticle. Advent is a time for resdiscovering who God is and who we are, and these are the two foundational questions the canticle addresses. In fact, these are the two simple but vital questions at the heart of Christianity: ‘Who is God?’ and ‘Who are we?’ Let’s start with ‘Who is God?’, because that’s the question the first half of the canticle addresses.

Who is God? Zechariah’s song gives us four answers, all in the past tense, which is strange for him, but makes sense for us as we read and sing the song today. Number one, ‘He has looked favourably.’ Deep down there’s a fear in most of us that God doesn’t look favourably: God looks unfavourably, disappointedly, angrily, even cruelly. Think about that word ‘favourably.’ It has in it the word ‘favour,’ which suggests the Holy Spirit going out of its way to come near to us; but it also suggests the word ‘favourite,’ which suggests we are the child who can never lose God’s good opinion, whatever we might do. Feel that sense of how God regards you: favourably. Number two, ‘He has raised up.’ For Christians, these words always have a double meaning. In the foreground is that God looks most favourably on those who are most oppressed, most downtrodden, most alone, and is in the business of raising them up in body, mind and spirit. But in the background is always the anticipation that raising up is what the Holy Spirit definitively does to Jesus when he is oppressed, downtrodden and alone to the point of agonising death, and raise up is what God will do to each one of us because we were created to be Christ’s companions forever.

Now to number three in our account of who God is. ‘He has shown mercy.’ We all say we want justice. We want everyone in society to be treated the same. We want the violent and exploitative to be held to account, and the weak and vulnerable to be protected. But when we’re in the wrong, we don’t want justice. We want mercy. The trouble is, mercy without justice is chaos – it’s the breakdown of order and the law of the jungle. But this is the miracle of God in Christ. Here we find justice and, beyond justice, mercy. People don’t get away with things; the poor are vindicated. But God doesn’t cast people away or reject them. Mercy isn’t overlooking injustice: it’s providing a future on the other side of justice. And then number four: ‘He has remembered.’ Again, this has two senses. Specifically, it means God’s promises, including the covenants with Noah, Abraham, Moses and David, have not been revoked. God is not absent-minded or two-faced. God does not let us down. But more generally, it means nothing in our lives is wasted. Everything will finally be redeemed, the desperate regret, the humiliating failure, the painful separation: God will heal, transform and restore every single tiny thing. God re-members: God puts back together what life has torn apart.

So that’s who God is: God looks favourably, raises up, shows mercy, and remembers. That’s the God who is just about to be fully revealed in a manger in the very next scene after Zechariah sings this song. God doesn’t just do these things long ago, but right now, this very moment, in the midst of all the mess and chaos of the world and our lives. It’s an Advent song, because it points equally to Christ’s return on the last day and to his coming as a baby at Christmas. It’s about now and forever. That’s something to sing about. But it’s only half the song.

The second half shows us five things that answer the question, ‘Who are we?’ Now you may say the rest of the song isn’t about us, it’s about John the Baptist. Well clearly Zechariah originally was singing about his son John. But when we say or sing these words today, as 100 people in this community do on our behalf every weekday, as Christians have done together for centuries back to not long after Luke’s gospel was written down, and as we have tonight, we make these words our own. So let’s see who we are called to be according to Zechariah’s song.

Here are our five callings. Notice how the tense changes from God’s action in the past to our response in the future. First, we will be called prophets. A prophet isn’t a soothsayer who gets out a crystal ball and foretells the future. A prophet is someone whose words and actions today anticipate the way things will be with God forever. A prophet doesn’t wail and finger-wag, ‘You mark my words’; a prophet lives a life different from the norm because their life will be the norm in the realm of God. A prophet lives God’s future now. John the Baptist lived simply because he wanted to represent how we all stand naked before God. How are we called to live such that our life proclaims visibly but humbly to the world the character of God?

Second, we will prepare Christ’s ways. Advent is about looking in two directions: back to the Jesus who was revealed as a tiny vulnerable baby among us; forward to the Jesus who will return on the last day and bring us into the everlasting life of God’s realm. We’re not preparing the way for one we’ve never previously seen. We’re preparing the way for one who’s coming back, and whose character hasn’t changed since his last visit. Think of it like this. We don’t know where in the world Christ will return to: but we want to make jolly sure that if Christ returns to our postcode, we’ve prepared pretty thoroughly. We’ve addressed inequality, we’re responding to climate change, we’re exposing exploitation, we’re giving underserved young people opportunities in life, we’re housing refugees, we’re living lives of holiness and kindness: and the way is clear for Christ’s return. How are we called to live such that our life prepares Christ’s ways?

Third, we will embody the forgiveness of sins – what Zechariah calls the knowledge of salvation. All of us know how impossible it is to live if we can’t find a way to move beyond the terrible things we’ve done and the ghastly things people have done to us – even, perhaps especially, when we struggle to recognise each other’s sense of hurt and grievance. But this isn’t just an interpersonal thing. Our government spent £6 billion on prisons in the last year. It spent £2 billion on excluded children. Our national failure to find a way to reintegrate those who’ve wandered on a wayward path is crippling our whole economy. I can think of no more worthy calling than working in restorative justice and finding ways to help excluded children reintegrate in society. It’s called embodying the forgiveness of sins. How are we being called to live the forgiveness of sins?

Fourth, we will give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death. Picture the scene: we’re sitting in a very dark place through a very long night. By the tender mercy of our God, the dawn from on high will break upon us. But before that happens, it is still dark. We are called to sit with one another at those moments of despair and in those times of desolation. The heart of being a friend is not finding wise words to say but continuing to sit in silence and not running away even when there is nothing to say. We trust that God’s tender dawn will come. But when it feels a long time coming, we are called to sit beside one another until it does. God’s tender mercy came before in Jesus. It will come again. In the meantime, it can sometimes feel pretty dark. But that doesn’t mean God’s mercy isn’t coming, or that God’s mercy isn’t tender. How are we being called to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death?

And fifth, we will guide feet into the way of peace. Note the word ‘guide.’ You can’t magic peace into existence. You can only guide feet into the way of peace. Think about what that means. It means asking, ‘Can you help me understand how acting in that way will lead to everyone behaving more graciously and respectfully towards each other?’ Or saying, ‘I can see how doing that discharges your sense of fury and frustration, but don’t you think you’re jettisoning others’ sense of compassion and sympathy toward you and replacing it with a sense of distaste and dismay at your actions?’ Or saying, ‘Surely you know we’ll all have to live together after all this. So won’t you join me in starting to live beyond this conflict rather than further deepening its scars?’ We’re called to be a reconciling presence in the life of our neighbour: to guide feet in the way of peace. How are we being called to guide feet into the way of peace?

Every weekday morning 100 people in this onsite and online community, like two millennia of the faithful before them, gather to read Zechariah’s song together. Why? Because this song tells us who God is and who we are. We could say to each other, ‘You’re supposed to know.’ But the truth is, we forget – or, perhaps worse, we do know, but we don’t turn our knowing into acting. It’s a song, so we’re best off singing, as singing makes things easier to remember than just saying. Let me just say the words of this precious song one time.

God looks favourably. God raises up. God shows mercy. God remembers. And we? We are called to be prophets, to prepare Christ’s ways, to embody forgiveness, to give light in darkness, and to guide into the way of peace. May this Advent be a season of rediscovering who God is and who we are, now and forever.