SERMON 14Dec2025 “Watch and listen”

John the Baptist lived a short but intense life. He was unusual living in the wilderness, wearing camel’s hair, eating locusts and wild honey. He followed a distinct path, deeply solitary, but committed to his calling. Single-minded. Uncompromising. There weren’t many like him.

The friendship of John and Jesus began in their mothers’ wombs. When Mary came to see Elizabeth, Luke reports that the baby in Elizabeth’s womb leaped with gladness. Two children have not yet born. One would prepare the way, the other would walk it.

Even before they met, John began pointing to Christ. “The one who comes after me is more powerful than I,” he said. As a voice crying out in the wilderness, John called the crowds to prepare for the coming kingdom.

John the Baptist is often painted pointing, not to himself, but to someone beyond him.
Look at this painting, Leonardo da Vinci’s St John the Baptist. John stands half-hidden in shadow, smiling gently, his finger lifted upward, directing our gaze beyond the canvas. As if he were saying, “That! Not me. Look at him.”

John’s mission was never about personal glory. It was about glorifying the One who would come after him. When Jesus came to the Jordan to be baptised, John recognised him immediately. “I need to be baptised by you, why are you coming to me?”  That’s how convinced he was.

In today’s Gospel, after John is arrested and imprisoned and we are left to wonder:
that confident finger- in da Vinci’s painting- did it begin to tremble? John once said: “He will clear his threshing floor… gathering the wheat into his barn but burning the chaff with unquenchable fire.” Was he expecting judgement and purification?

He had completed his task of paving the way for Christ. But now, in the darkness of his prison cell, John seeks confirmation. He sends his followers with a question: “Are you the one who is to come, or should we expect someone else?” The man who spent his whole life pointing, now he needs to know: Did I point in the right direction?

Jesus does not reject the question. He is not offended by John’s enquiry. And Jesus does not give a direct explanation. He may have replied, “Yes, John. I am the Messiah. You were correct.” But he doesn’t. Instead, Jesus says, “Go and tell John what you hear and see.”

Jesus asks them to pay close attention to their surroundings and take note of what is going on. And he follows up with quotes from Isaiah 35: “The blind receive sight, the lame walk, those who have leprosy are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the good news is proclaimed to the poor”.

“That!”

It’s as if Jesus is teaching them and us to point. To become observers. To see for ourselves: the blind receiving sight, the dead being raised. And to draw our own conclusions about what it means.

Faith is not blind acceptance; it’s trusting what we ourselves have witnessed. We can trust what we have seen. We can trust what we have experienced. Even in a world where lies spread faster than truth, where quiet goodness gets buried—even there, the evidence of Christ at work is present. Each of us can see it, point to it, and tell the story.

Blessed is anyone who does not stumble on account of me. “Blessed”: happy, flourishing are those who can see and point and say: “That!” It sounds like the Beatitudes, doesn’t it? Jesus turns John’s disciples and us into witnesses. Not people who simply receive answers, but people who learn to read the world. Not spectators, but pointers.

But what about when we can’t see? When grief or confusion clouds what we should be able to read? Then others may point the way for us. Students may sometimes teach their professors. Kids may sometimes show grownups the way. Voices that you didn’t expect may tell you why you should have hope.

We live in this tension: We see. We point and say, “That!” And yet, waiting remains part of our story. Waiting for complete healing, complete restoration, for the one who will come again. Seeing and waiting—these two go together.

James speaks of this kind of waiting: “The farmer waits for the precious crop from the earth, patiently waiting until it receives the early and the late rains. A farmer’s waiting is not just sitting about. It is active labour. The farmer tends the soil. Pulls weeds. Keeps the crops safe. Prepares the ground.

James adds, “Strengthen your hearts”, that is, prepare your hearts, like a farmer prepares the soil. The rain hasn’t yet come. But hope has already been planted. This is Advent waiting, seeing what God is already doing, while longing for what is not yet complete.

And Mary shows us what this looks like. Nothing is settled. Nothing is secure. The baby hasn’t arrived. And still, when she meets Elizabeth, Mary bursts into song: “My soul magnifies the Lord…”

She sings: “He has scattered the proud. He has brought down the powerful. He has lifted up the lowly. He has filled the hungry with good things.” All in the past tense. And yet, none of it has come true. The powerful are still powerful. The hungry are still hungry. The proud are still proud. But Mary sings like it is already done.

“That!”

Mary points to what can’t yet be seen. Because God’s promise is so sure, we may sing about the future as if it has already been fulfilled. This is active waiting. Not doing nothing but pointing. Naming. Singing hope before it arrives.

Dear friends,
this Advent, may we become people who say, “That!” May we point to small acts of kindness and say, “There!” May we rejoice when someone rises again. May we sing hope even when the story is not finished. And when we cannot see, others will point the way for us. Unexpected hands will stretch out, and unexpected voices will call hope into being. This Advent, watch for those who are pointing. Follow the outstretched finger. And you may find yourself pointing too: “That! the Son of God.” Amen.