[Sermon preached on 3 December 2017, First Sunday in Advent / 3rd year, ELCF Lectionary]
This past week, Finland had the honor of welcoming three royal visitors: Prince William of the United Kingdom, Prince Daniel of Sweden, and Prince Constantijn of my own home country, the Netherlands. The media followed in particular the whereabouts of prince William: his arrival to Finland by private plane, his reception by President Niinistö, his visit to a Finnish school, and his participation in the Slush event. Everybody praised him for being so casual and friendly, and for the natural way in which he connected with Finnish school children and government representatives alike.
It all looked very spontaneous. But the truth is that everything was planned and fine-tuned beforehand to the smallest detail. The Finnish hosts had dozens of people working out the proper protocol. They all knew how they should receive this royal visitor. Even the children in the schools where he visited knew how to address the prince as “Your royal highness.”
Also our Old Testament reading from Psalm 24 tells us about a royal highness coming to town. Or actually, we should say: “Your majesty”. Because it is not a prince, but a king that honors the city with his visit: the “glorious King”.
Open up, you gates.
Open wide, you aged doors.
Then the glorious king will come in.
Who is this glorious king?
The Lord, strong and mighty.
The Lord, the powerful warrior.
Open up, you gates.
Open wide, you aged doors.
Then the glorious king will come in.
Who is this glorious king?
The Lord of heaven’s armies—
he is the glorious king.
Do you remember who wrote this psalm? It was king David. He was a king himself. His palace was in the city. He was the ruler there. And yet, he was expecting another king to the city. Not as a royal visitor, like prince William was in Helsinki. He was expecting the one to whom he owned his own kingship. He was expecting the Lord God—the one who created heaven and earth, and to whom everything in heaven and earth belonged.
David owed his royal position to the Lord God. He was waiting for him to come and take over the royal throne from him. David realized that compared to God, the King of glory, he himself was nothing.
And how does he want to welcome God, the King? By opening the gates of the city and the doors of the palace as wide as possible. Everything should show God how welcome he is!
I believe that Jesus is coming again in glory one day. And when that happens, this prophecy of Psalm 24 is going to be fulfilled. Because that is what it is: a prophecy. All the gates will be wide open to welcome him into his Holy City. The whole Bible testifies of this, from the books of Moses and the Psalms of David to the promises of Jesus in the Gospels and the Revelation of John.
But on this Sunday in Advent, we look back at his first coming, 2,000 years ago. We look at Christmas.
On the fields outside of Bethlehem, an army of angels from heaven declares the coming of the glorious King to the shepherds. But when the shepherds arrive at the house where Jesus is born, they only find a child lying in a manger and wrapped in cloths. No glory. The shepherds need not look upwards to face a king looking down on them from his throne. They look down into the crib to see this tiny and insignificant baby, not born in a palace, but in a house not his own; not in a room specially decorated to welcome the newborn child, but in a space where the animals normally spend the night.
And then comes Palm Sunday, some thirty years later. Crowds are cheering as Jesus approaches the city of Jerusalem. Their King—their Messiah—is arriving. He is approaching the palaces of King Herod and Pontius Pilate. Something great is about to happen.
The pilgrims that have accompanied Jesus on the way from Galilee have been singing psalms for days on their way to Jerusalem. But now, as Jesus calls for a colt to ride on, the words of Psalm 118—one of the favorite psalms of the Galilean pilgrims—start to take on a special meaning:
“Hosanna! Lord, save us! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!”
By now, they are all convinced that the King of glory is about to enter the Holy City, just like in Psalm 24. But they are in for a surprise. Jesus does not go to the palace of King Herod. He does not go to the palace of Pontius Pilate. He goes to the place where the true King of glory has his throne: to the Temple.
While the pilgrims from Galilee are almost hysterical, the Pharisees from Jerusalem are deeply disturbed. They are afraid of trouble with the Romans. And therefore, they come to Jesus. They ask him to tell his followers to stop singing those words that have such strong political and Messianic connotations.
And what does Jesus say? He tells the Pharisees that it does not help to tell the people to be quiet. Even if they shut up, the stones will cry out!
When Jesus comes to us at Christmas, he lays down his divine glory. In Jesus, God comes to us in humility. He does not overwhelm us with his power and glory. He does not force himself upon us. He simply comes as one of us. And he leaves us the choice: to receive or to reject.
On Palm Sunday, Jesus encountered both attitudes. The Galilean followers accepted him as their king, but the establishment in Jerusalem rejected him. And yet, God turned that rejection into victory one week later when he died on the cross—not just for the ones who had recognized him for who he was, but also for those who gave him over to Pontius Pilate to be sentenced, and for those who shouted, “Crucify him! Crucify him!”
Also at Christmas, we see both worship and rejection. The shepherds and the wise men from the East come to worship the King. But king Herod, who sits on David’s throne unlawfully, rejects him and seeks to kill him.
The New Testament reading from Revelation 3 takes us half a century further in history. By that time, the Holy City has been destroyed. But in Turkey, a thousand miles north-west from Jerusalem, stands a city that beats Jerusalem both in size and in splendor. It is Laodicea, an incredibly rich city.
Not many years earlier, there was a devastating earthquake in the city. It was almost completely destroyed. The Roman Emperor was so kind to offer financial support to help rebuild the city. But the citizens declined. They decided that they don’t need his help. They didn’t want his help. They didn’t want the Roman Emperor to get involved. They could do it on their own. And they did. In about five years, the city had been largely rebuilt—more beautiful and impressive than ever before.
There is a Christian church in Laodicea. Like the city itself, the church is rich and large. Unlike many other churches in those days, Laodicea enjoys complete freedom of religion. There is no persecution in the city. Outwardly, the church is doing great. They have all it takes. But inwardly they are poor. They are on the brink of spiritual bankruptcy. Why? Because they have lost the connection with Jesus. Jesus is no longer in their midst. Somehow, they have managed to push him out the door. And now the door is locked, and he stands outside.
And then, quite unexpectedly, there is a knock on the door of the church. A voice calls out to them. They should recognize the voice. They should realize that the one who should be at the center of their Christian community is standing outside, knocking and calling out to them to open the door.
It is somehow shocking to realize that Jesus has been locked out of his own church. We don’t want to think that this could be possible.
As long as I remember, these words from Revelation 3 have been used as an evangelistic appeal. When the famous American evangelist Billy Graham was speaking to a large crowd in the Olympic Stadium in Helsinki thirty years back, he used this text to call upon unbelievers to accept Jesus Christ as their Lord and Savior and to give their lives to him. That’s great! That’s fine!
But originally these words were spoken to a church of people who had given their lives to Christ already—to people who were Christians already, at least in name. These words were spoken to a church with a successful ministry and luxurious premises, with interesting programs and enough funds to do whatever they wanted. But in their success and their self-reliance and their security, they had thrown Jesus overboard without even noticing it.
And now, in Revelation, Jesus reveals to them what they look like from his perspective. He reveals to them their true condition: the grim reality behind the façade of success. And he appeals to them to be let in again.
When churches are successful—measured in terms of number, growth, finances, programs etc.—and when they receive recognition and respect in society, they are in great danger of gradually moving Jesus to the margin. We have seen it happen so many times in the 2,000-year history of the church. We see it happen right now.
It is easy to look around us and point our finger at churches that we believe have done just that: pushed Jesus aside and forced him to leave. But the church in Laodicea was not asked to look at how other churches were performing. Jesus wants them to look in the mirror. They must face their own condition—their own spiritual health.
In the same way, we are not encouraged to judge other churches. Jesus calls us to think about our own congregation here at St. Matthew’s. Where is Jesus in our community, in our worship, and in our service to the people of Helsinki? Is he the Lord of our church, or is he just someone we talk about here? Is he inside or outside?
I believe we have to take the question one step closer still. We have to take it personally. What about you and me as individuals? Where is Jesus in our lives? What is his status? Is he king of our life, or is he an outsider knocking on the door and calling us without us noticing it?
Even if we have been Christians for a long time—perhaps even all of our lives—there is a risk that we give less and less space to Christ in our lives. We take his presence for granted and we communicate with him only when we happen to remember him: perhaps in church on Sundays, or perhaps when we have an issue that we need God’s help for.
The Jewish philosopher Martin Buber speaks about the problem of speaking about God in the third person. And he doesn’t mean the third person of the Holy Trinity. After all, as a Jew he doesn’t believe in the Trinity. He believes according to the Jewish confession of faith that “God is One”. But Buber writes in his famous book “I and Thou” that we too easily think of God and speak of God in the third person: “He”.
When I teach the Bible or I preach, I speak of God in the third person. But when I pray or I worship, I use the second person: I address God with “You” or “Thou”. When we use the third person, we primarily think of him as an “object”. In theology, for example, we talk and write a lot about God, because he is the object of our theological studies. And when we think of God as an object, we take distance from him. He is somewhere outside. We are not connected.
But in prayer or worship, God is the second person. God is “the significant Other” in our life. We communicate with him, and he with us. There is a relationship between God and us. We are connected. We have fellowship, to use a somewhat old-fashioned word. When we have fellowship, we hear his voice and listen to what we hear him say. And then, when we read the Bible, for example, we don’t just read about God, but we hear God speak to us through the Bible.
That is what Jesus is after in Revelation 3: to have fellowship with us and to have us listen to his voice. He speaks about having a meal together.
In many cultures still today, fellowship over dinner is such an important way of connecting with others on a very intimate level. Jesus wants to connect with us on that level. He wants to communicate with us from heart to heart. Are we ready for that? Are we tuned in to him? Can we hear his voice when he speaks to us: through the Bible, through dreams and visions, through other people, through situations and observations?
Today, we celebrate Holy Communion, the Lord’s Supper. It is a very special meal. In Holy Communion, we can experience the intimacy of being with Christ, of connecting with him in a mystical way. In Holy Communion, Jesus is the host of the meal, inviting us to the table. But he is also the “menu”. In the bread, we receive his body, which was given as a sacrifice for our sins. In the wine, we receive the blood that seals a new covenant of forgiveness and reconciliation with God.
Advent is a time of preparation for the celebration of God’s greatest gift ever. That great gift came in a small and insignificant package. But it is so valuable! Because God gave himself. Let’s then receive and cherish that gift through a personal relationship with Christ, a relationship in which we recognize him as the Lord of our lives and as the Lord of our community. Let’s make sure that we never get out of touch with him. And let’s help one another to stay close to him. Let’s remind one another of the need to stay in touch. Amen.
