Luke 3. 1-6 Advent 2 (2024)
Debie Thomas reminds us that Advent is a good time to remember the Bible as a “wilderness text.” It’s a book born out of trauma, displacement, and loss. The people who wrote scripture and the characters in its stories were often on the margins—persecuted, displaced, enslaved. They lived through war, famine, natural disasters, and exile. They weren’t generally the powerful or the privileged. Instead, they were desperate, crying out in the wilderness.
If you were to cry out in your wilderness, what would your cry be about?
What would it sound like?
Would it be a cry of sorrow, naming the losses that weigh heavily on your heart? Would it carry the fear and uncertainty that come with feeling lost, out of control, or alone? Or would it be a cry of anger—a raw expression of frustration at injustice, broken relationships, or unfulfilled dreams?
A cry of hope?
In the wilderness, our cries become honest. Stripped of distractions and pretenses, we confront the deepest longings and pains of our hearts. But whatever the cry, the wilderness reminds us that these raw, unfiltered prayers are holy.
And here’s the remarkable truth: God hears them all. Whether it’s a whisper or a wail, our cries reach the ears of the One who is near to the broken hearted.
The ancient Israelites knew this and they cried…..cried their sorrow, pain, and fear.
I have just finished reading a paper about Psalm 88 by Brent Strawn and I’ve learnt a lot from it. Psalm 88 is often called the darkest psalm, ending not with hope but with the stark declaration, “Darkness is my only friend.” It’s a cry from the depths of despair, full of imagery of the pit, isolation, and abandonment.
At first glance, it feels out of place in a book filled with songs of praise, thanksgiving, and trust. Yet, precisely because of its raw honesty, Psalm 88 can be seen as the centre of the Psalter—a profound acknowledgment of our human condition.
The Psalms reflect the full spectrum of life’s experiences: joy and sorrow, triumph and failure, faith and doubt. Psalm 88 anchors this collection by reminding us that God’s presence is not limited to moments of celebration or clarity.
Even in the pit, when God seems absent and hope feels out of reach, the psalmist prays. His cry of despair is still a form of faith, a reaching out to the God who hears—even in silence.
This psalm reminds us that lament is sacred. It gives us permission to bring our deepest pain to God without needing to wrap it in resolution. In its darkness, Psalm 88 I believe declares this central truth: God can handle our worst and still hold us close.
So the Israelites cried out in despair and pain as seen in Psalm 88 - yet, remarkably as already mentioned, they also cried out in hope—a fierce hope in a God who cares, vindicates, and saves. Somehow, being in the wilderness opened them up to a hope beyond their suffering.
On this second Sunday of Advent, we’re invited into the wilderness to hear another voice of hope: John the Baptist. He’s not someone you’d expect to see in an Advent calendar, but all four Gospels place him at the centre of Jesus’ story. John, clothed in camel’s hair, is the gateway to the Christmas story. His bold, rough voice prepares the way for the gentle scene at the manger.
Luke begins John’s story with a list of powerful figures: emperors, governors, and high priests. These were the movers and shakers of the time, the ones with influence and authority. Yet, God’s word doesn’t come to them. Instead, it comes to John in the wilderness—far from the halls of power.
Why is that? Debie Thomas suggests this is perhaps because power can make us deaf to God’s voice. When we rely on wealth, status, or tradition, we might feel like we don’t need God. In contrast, the wilderness strips us of those illusions. It’s a raw, vulnerable place where we’re reminded of how much we depend on God.
The wilderness is also a place for repentance. John’s message was one of turning back to God, and people left their familiar lives to join him. Something about the wilderness—the openness, the honesty—compelled them to face their flaws and seek forgiveness.
I know “sin” and “repentance” can feel like heavy words. They’ve been misused to shame and divide us. But at its heart, repentance isn’t about punishment—it’s about freedom. It’s about admitting we’re not perfect, that we mess up, and letting God’s love meet us in that truth. Repentance frees us to hope in a God who restores and forgives.
Repentance is freedom because it liberates us from the chains of guilt, shame, and self-deception, opening the door to grace and renewal. St. Augustine famously wrote, “You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our hearts are restless until they rest in you.” This restlessness often stems from living out of alignment with God’s will, weighed down by the burdens of the things we have got wrong. Repentance invites us to name those burdens honestly, lay them at God’s feet, and experience the profound relief of His compassion and grace.
Far from being punitive, repentance is an act of hope. It acknowledges that we are not stuck in our failures but can turn toward a God who longs to restore us. St. John Chrysostom encouraged believers, saying, “repentance is medicine.” Like a healing balm, repentance sets us free from spiritual ill health, allowing us to grow into the fullness of life God desires for us.
Repentance also frees us to be honest with ourselves and others. St. Teresa of Ávila wrote, “Humility must always be doing its work like a bee making its honey in the hive: without humility, all will be lost.” Repentance, rooted in humility, removes the exhausting pretence of perfection. We no longer need to pretend we have it all together because God meets us in our brokenness with grace, and love - not condemnation.
In repenting, we turn away from the narrow paths of self-reliance and self-destruction to embrace the abundant life God offers. It is a journey from bondage to liberty, from fear to love, and from despair to hope—a liberation that only God’s grace can bring.
Finally, the wilderness helps us see the bigger picture. Quoting Isaiah, Luke describes a vision of God levelling the landscape: valleys filled, mountains brought low, crooked paths made straight. It’s a radical image of justice and equality. From the wilderness, we can see these inequalities clearly—where privilege isolates and oppression crushes. And we’re invited to join in God’s work of making things right.
A few final questions and thoughts to leave you with:
So, where are you this Advent season? Are you close to power, or are you willing to step into the wilderness to hear from God? What might repentance look like for you? And where is God inviting you to help level the ground, even when it’s uncomfortable?
What is your wilderness cry today? Have courage to voice it. Cry out in hope, like the prophets and saints before us, trusting that the God who hears also comes to restore, redeem, and make all things new.
The word of the Lord came to John in the wilderness.
May it come to us, too. And like John, may we become voices of hope in desolate places, preparing the way for the Lord.
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