I love the first Mission: Impossible film for many reasons. It stars the wonderful Vanessa Redgrave. It offers a fun sequence of thrilling scenes in the Chunnel, aboard the speed train linking London and Paris. It has a massive tropical fish aquarium, and I love those. (Of course that aquarium explodes, but … this is a Mission: Impossible film, what do you expect the end game will be for a giant aquarium?) But my very favorite reason to love this film is the line Ethan Hunt says when he’s telling his rogue crew what their mission is. It’s just a line from a movie, but it’s a line that informs my spiritual life, a line that communicates neatly what I think the Bible is always trying to teach us, a line that just preaches.
Ethan, our hero, is telling his friend Luther how they’re going to break into the CIA and steal a file from a computer that is protected by several layers of state-of-the-art security equipment. Luther is understandably looking more and more worried … even terrified, by the immense danger of the mission. And then, with Tom Cruise’s irresistible smile, Ethan simply says,
“Relax, Luther. It’s much worse than you think.”
Two figures stand tall in the Good News according to John.* We hear about the first one today. If you look at these two people carefully, you may see that in an odd way they may resemble Ethan Hunt. For one thing, both of them seem to deflect your attention: as the superspy Ethan Hunt is trained to blend into the furniture while doing something crucially important, so these two figures are mostly lost in the blinding glare of someone else. They point our attention toward another person, toward the central Figure of our faith. Further, like Ethan, these two individuals are engaged in a mission that seems impossible. They are inspired to assemble a team for this difficult, dangerous mission. They do not pretend anything will be easy — in fact they tell us it will be even harder than we may think. Yet through all the daunting challenges, they are confident, if not in themselves alone, perhaps in their team, but certainly in the One who sends us all on this mission.
The first figure is John the Baptist, and the second is the Beloved Disciple. In the Gospel according to John, these two people stand at either end of Jesus’ ministry, one at his baptism, the other at the cross. They witness to others, and to us, about Jesus, telling us who he is, revealing his dreadful purpose, proclaiming his divinity.
John is directly confronted by the hostile religious authorities, who quickly notice the threat that Jesus surely is: Jesus is a threat to the establishment of his time, and of ours. He threatens all who enjoy privilege in an unequal system, all who are fine with “the old normal,” all who thrive at the unjust expense of others, all who tolerate the damage done to others so long as they themselves will make it through the crisis in good shape — all, ultimately, who act at cross purposes with God, who comes to set things right here on earth.
I wonder if we can see ourselves in these religious authorities, at least some of the time.
These two figures on either end of the life and ministry of Jesus — John the Baptist and the Beloved Disciple — they are not casual and pleasant. They do not begin their speeches with words of comfort. Their personal stories are stories of great challenge and difficulty. They call us to serious purposes.
And like I said, they can be hard to see clearly, let alone understand. John the Baptist, especially in John’s Gospel, persistently deflects honors and attention. In the marketplace of baptizers along the Jordan, John sounds modest in a way that’s likely bad for his business: he is here for someone else, not for himself. His disciples end up turning from him to follow Jesus.
But the Beloved Disciple at the foot of the cross in John is an even more enigmatic figure. Our text assumes he is male, but there is a serious (if minority) view in biblical scholarship that she may have been a woman. Whatever their gender and sex, we do not know much about this person at all. They stand with the mother of Jesus at the cross, bearing witness to this execution not as a humiliating defeat, but as a glorious victory of life over death, justification over sin, the triumph of God’s fierce peace over the violence of war and greed.
So we see, then, that in the great journey that Jesus Christ, the Word of God, follows, from the majesty of his presence in the Godhead, down to the depths of human frailty and mortality, and up, up again into glory—in this great journey, there are two sentinels, two witnesses who give us Good News, exemplify the self-effacing humility we should all practice, and deliberately do not sugarcoat how hard it will be to follow this Jesus.
For the first sentinel, John the Baptist — for him, preaching the Good News of Jesus will mean sharing in his martyr’s death. Tradition says the Beloved Disciple died naturally, but the community that they inspired was riven with conflict, beset by struggle with authorities, ejected and driven into exile ... yet persistent and faithful, proclaiming a message of God’s complete triumph over evil. And so, both John the Baptist and the Beloved Disciple bear witness to a Mission: Impossible that is excruciatingly difficult, but will finally work out quite well, particularly for the poor, the outcasts, and all who thought that hope was lost.
We stand between these two figures in this crucible season of Advent, this time of already and not-yet, this time when we look for the presence of God in the here and now, and recall the coming of God in Jesus long ago. But most importantly, in Advent we anticipate the approach of God from the future, beyond the horizon of our attention, beyond our awareness, even beyond our ability to hope that the forces of evil will, finally, be defeated.
Already and not-yet: that is the theme of our Advent contemplations. John the Baptist says, “Look! Here is the Lamb of God!” But he also says that God is still in the future, still on the way. Already and not-yet.
But ... what should we do during this time-between, this time of already and not-yet? We begin by setting aside our fears. “Relax, Luther,” Ethan says. Over and over our bible tells us not to be afraid. Today we are looking over the shoulders of the Thessalonians and reading their mail, a letter from Paul that tells them to “Rejoice always!” This command can be heard as a fairly enthusiastic way to say “Do not be afraid!” I have always believed that exclamation marks should be used sparingly, but I can’t help but hear a few of them in Paul’s words today. Rejoice always! Pray without ceasing! Give thanks in all circumstances! Do not quench the Spirit! Hold fast to what is good! Abstain from every form of evil!
Okay, that last one doesn’t sound too exciting. But through all of this we hear Paul’s energy, his enthusiasm, his sanguine confidence that this will all work out, that the war has already been won, that the two sentinels at either end of the Jesus story are pointing to a moment of immense and permanent victory.
But … “It’s much worse than you think.” That sounds more realistic than all these biblical commands to relax, to step out of our fear. But the two teachings hold together. They interact with each other. They really don’t work without each other. If we don’t lay aside our fears and place our trust in God, then we will hardly be able to participate in the reign of God that is surely coming. But if we do not appreciate the difficulty of God’s mission, we will hardly be able to authentically lay aside our fears and trust God alone.
Do not be afraid: it is going to be hard.
Lay aside anxiety: this struggle is excruciating.
Trust in God: God’s mission is a dreadful challenge.
Relax: it’s much worse than you think.
This is the essence of Advent, and Advent is the essence of our Christian life. And here, finally, is where we get the strength to relax, the wisdom to step outside our fears, the courage to join together in this struggle. Here’s how we can let go of fear and join the mission: Paul tells us, “The one who calls you is faithful, and he will do this.”
In a time of global plague, we need not fear, because the Creator who calls us is faithful, and will bring life from death.
In a time of racial unrest and racialized violence, we need not fear, because Jesus who calls us is faithful, and will set things right.
In a time of climate crisis and mortal peril, we need not fear, because the Spirit who calls us is faithful, and will restore this good creation.**
Ethan and his band of rogue agents accomplish their mission, of course. A few close calls, but this is a movie. We know the ending. For us out here in Real Life, we know actual lives are at stake, and the damage done to living beings and this living planet is real, and devastating. But when we look across the zoom miles at one another this morning, we see but one small portion of God’s beloved worldwide community, and we are assured once again that God is here, and God is coming. This old world may not have a movie ending at the end of history, but we embrace each other this morning with this authentic, sure hope that dispels all fear:
God is coming, and God will set things right.
—
* New Testament scholar Raymond Brown articulates the idea of these two figures in John’s Gospel in his book, The Gospel and Epistles of John: A Concise Commentary.
** Thanks to Sam Sheridan for content-editing suggestions throughout the sermon, but particularly here.
Preached on the Third Sunday of Advent (Year B), December 13, 2020, at Grace Episcopal Church, Bainbridge Island, Washington.
Isaiah 61:1-4, 8-11
Psalm 126
1 Thessalonians 5:16-24
John 1:6-8, 19-28