Voice in the Wilderness
(Sermon by Russell Stannard for Advent 2)
In the gospel for today we hear about John the Baptist preparing the way for Jesus.
‘The voice of one crying in the wilderness.’
He lived in the desert, dressed in camel hair, and ate locusts. A strange and lonely man. And yet, believe it or not, we Christians, living here in comfortable Leighton Buzzard, in 2020, we have much in common with John. We too are voices crying in the wilderness.
We live in an increasingly secular Britain - indeed an increasingly secular Europe. We Christians belong to the small minority of people who go to a place of worship once a week. Most people today regard us as odd. They get embarrassed at any talk of God or religion.
It was not always so. In Victorian times it was automatically assumed that most people believed in God. The churches were packed with everyone, more or less, going to church. How different that was. Or we might similarly look enviously across the Atlantic today at the teeming numbers going to church in America. Being a believer under those circumstances is not a lonely business - there one is not ‘a lone voice crying in the wilderness’. Or is one?
The first time I spent a year working in the States I thought the packed churches there were wonderful. I wondered why we in Britain were failing so abysmally to attract crowds into our churches. But then I realised that things over there were not quite what they seemed. For example, I got talking with a friend who went to another church - one just as successful as the one I attended. Their minister was leaving and their equivalent of a PCC was trying to produce a profile of the kind of person they wanted as a successor. He light-heartedly said how the only thing they could agree on so far was that the new minister should not be black.
‘Not be black?’ I asked incredulously. ‘Whyever not?’ He looked at me as though I was stupid or something, and replied. ‘Well, it’s obvious. A black minister? We’d lose our congregation overnight.’ And there was I having come from a church in Harrow where we had a wonderful vicar from India. I suddenly realised how shallow was the so-called success of that American church.
Later, in a more recent visit to USA I was interviewed by the TV evangelist Robert Schuller at the magnificent Crystal Cathedral in Pasadena California. 9.30am a capacity congregation of 3000. 11am a repeat performance for a second congregation also of 3000, to say nothing of a worldwide TV audience of 20 million. In the courtyard outside there were brass plates set in the floor with someone’s name on it. I asked Schuller who these people were. He told me they were people who had subscribed at least a million dollars to the church. What an extraordinary success story. I couldn’t help but ruefully compare all that with a typical Sunday here at St Barnabas.
But when I left I got to wondering what was going to happen when the charismatic Robert Schuller retired (he was already over 70 at the time). He did retire. And I later heard how the church promptly went bankrupt owing over 50 million dollars, and the Crystal Cathedral had to be sold off. Again, the outward success was illusory. Oh I’m sure that some of the regular church goers were faithful believers, but they, like us, were a minority. Just as was the case in Victorian Britain. The church here was packed with those who were here because it was the done thing. If you were the owner of a shop on the High Street, for example, and you wanted to continue in business, you had better be seen in church of a Sunday along with everyone else. Most of the congregation were here for social reasons, not spiritual ones.
It has always been so. Jesus knew all about this. On Palm Sunday I don’t suppose for a minute he was fooled by the huge enthusiastic crowds that greeted him on his way into Jerusalem. Where were they on Good Friday when he was on the cross with only his mother and a few in attendance?
Jesus had earlier said ‘Small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few - note that - only a few find it.’ And on another occasion he said ‘many are called, but few are chosen.’ He knew that although he was to send out his disciples to preach the gospel to all nations, only a small minority of the hearers of the word would become true, genuine, life-changing believers. So what I am saying is this: No matter where or when you live, whether the times appear to be friendly or hostile to belief, we dedicated followers of Christ are always lonely voices crying in the wilderness. And even in the bleakest, most secular of times, like those we are experiencing now in Britain - we should never be discouraged. We have Christ as our companion, and that is all we need.
(Sermon by Russell Stannard for Advent 2)
In the gospel for today we hear about John the Baptist preparing the way for Jesus.
‘The voice of one crying in the wilderness.’
He lived in the desert, dressed in camel hair, and ate locusts. A strange and lonely man. And yet, believe it or not, we Christians, living here in comfortable Leighton Buzzard, in 2020, we have much in common with John. We too are voices crying in the wilderness.
We live in an increasingly secular Britain - indeed an increasingly secular Europe. We Christians belong to the small minority of people who go to a place of worship once a week. Most people today regard us as odd. They get embarrassed at any talk of God or religion.
It was not always so. In Victorian times it was automatically assumed that most people believed in God. The churches were packed with everyone, more or less, going to church. How different that was. Or we might similarly look enviously across the Atlantic today at the teeming numbers going to church in America. Being a believer under those circumstances is not a lonely business - there one is not ‘a lone voice crying in the wilderness’. Or is one?
The first time I spent a year working in the States I thought the packed churches there were wonderful. I wondered why we in Britain were failing so abysmally to attract crowds into our churches. But then I realised that things over there were not quite what they seemed. For example, I got talking with a friend who went to another church - one just as successful as the one I attended. Their minister was leaving and their equivalent of a PCC was trying to produce a profile of the kind of person they wanted as a successor. He light-heartedly said how the only thing they could agree on so far was that the new minister should not be black.
‘Not be black?’ I asked incredulously. ‘Whyever not?’ He looked at me as though I was stupid or something, and replied. ‘Well, it’s obvious. A black minister? We’d lose our congregation overnight.’ And there was I having come from a church in Harrow where we had a wonderful vicar from India. I suddenly realised how shallow was the so-called success of that American church.
Later, in a more recent visit to USA I was interviewed by the TV evangelist Robert Schuller at the magnificent Crystal Cathedral in Pasadena California. 9.30am a capacity congregation of 3000. 11am a repeat performance for a second congregation also of 3000, to say nothing of a worldwide TV audience of 20 million. In the courtyard outside there were brass plates set in the floor with someone’s name on it. I asked Schuller who these people were. He told me they were people who had subscribed at least a million dollars to the church. What an extraordinary success story. I couldn’t help but ruefully compare all that with a typical Sunday here at St Barnabas.
But when I left I got to wondering what was going to happen when the charismatic Robert Schuller retired (he was already over 70 at the time). He did retire. And I later heard how the church promptly went bankrupt owing over 50 million dollars, and the Crystal Cathedral had to be sold off. Again, the outward success was illusory. Oh I’m sure that some of the regular church goers were faithful believers, but they, like us, were a minority. Just as was the case in Victorian Britain. The church here was packed with those who were here because it was the done thing. If you were the owner of a shop on the High Street, for example, and you wanted to continue in business, you had better be seen in church of a Sunday along with everyone else. Most of the congregation were here for social reasons, not spiritual ones.
It has always been so. Jesus knew all about this. On Palm Sunday I don’t suppose for a minute he was fooled by the huge enthusiastic crowds that greeted him on his way into Jerusalem. Where were they on Good Friday when he was on the cross with only his mother and a few in attendance?
Jesus had earlier said ‘Small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few - note that - only a few find it.’ And on another occasion he said ‘many are called, but few are chosen.’ He knew that although he was to send out his disciples to preach the gospel to all nations, only a small minority of the hearers of the word would become true, genuine, life-changing believers. So what I am saying is this: No matter where or when you live, whether the times appear to be friendly or hostile to belief, we dedicated followers of Christ are always lonely voices crying in the wilderness. And even in the bleakest, most secular of times, like those we are experiencing now in Britain - we should never be discouraged. We have Christ as our companion, and that is all we need.