Zephaniah 3.14-20, Luke 3.7-18
The Third Sunday of Advent,
12 December 2021, Keasden
Where does the expression ‘Jacob’s Join’ come from? I was in conversation about this recently and we couldn’t find a conclusive answer. It’s been lost in the mists of time and Northern English folklore. But because it’s often churches who host these occasions - which are elsewhere called ‘Potluck Suppers’ or ‘Faith Suppers’ or ‘Bring-and-Shares’ - it got us thinking about the Jacob of the Bible. Turns out that his main culinary episode (in Genesis 25) was to offer a lentil stew to his hungry brother Esau in exchange for Esau’s birthright, a wily act far from the spirit of a shared meal to which everyone contributes.
The other incident involving food (in Genesis 42) was at a time of famine in his land when the elderly Jacob sent his sons to Egypt having heard that grain was available there. We know that they returned not just with grain but with news of an unexpected reunion with their brother - Joseph - who they’d left for dead years before and whose fortunes had since revived in the court of Pharaoh.
The thing about a Jacob’s Join is that we all bring something to the table. There are those who think nothing of putting together a massive pot of steaming stew or curry; others who may bake a loaf or biscuits or a cake; and people like me, in my single days, who’d have to make a last-minute trip to the Co-op to find something to take along (and surreptitiously, sheepishly, remove the packaging on arrival). Some might bring something different you’ve never tried before, which you taste, and love.
We all bring something to the table. And whatever we bring is welcome. It’s a metaphor for the Church itself, the community of people who gather around this shared life of love, hope and faithful practice. In the Church of England there’s a general air of respectability, our people tend to bring friendliness and niceness along, church is a place to be comfortable. But there is also room in the church for those who are given less to comfortableness and are more driven - the activists, the agitators, the John the Baptists.
Imagine sharing a Jacob’s Join with John the Baptist. What could he bring to the table but locusts and wild honey; and more to the point, if he sat next to you, you’d not be talking about the weather or the state of your health. He’d be straightaway into the state of your soul, and whether you were living the way that God requires. If you were a tax-collector he’d be checking that you were collecting no more than you should; if you were a soldier he’d be making sure you weren’t extorting money from anyone, and were satisfied with your wages. John was all about making sure that people got themselves right with God by righting themselves with others. He wouldn’t rest until he’d got his point across, he really wouldn’t ever rest, for the fire in his belly in the end got him imprisoned and gruesomely executed for casting judgement on the goings-on in the court of King Herod.
Now, we are thankful of course for friends who help us feel the comfort of belonging, who we can relax and be ourselves with, who we know accept and value us as we are. But today we might also take a moment to give thanks for the John the Baptists among us, those who may make us feel uncomfortable by their challenging words and behaviour, in recognition that there’s highly likely something life-affirming, something of God, to be found where that discomfort starts. We might take a moment to give thanks for the activists, the evangelists, the agitators for change.
So we are thankful for those who will take a plate of warm food to their neighbour in a power cut; and for those who will spend their days chasing the Electric Company to get things fixed as quickly as possible.
We are thankful for those who donate to Foodbanks; and for those who volunteer at them. And we’re grateful for those who train to be counsellors helping people to get themselves out of debt, and those who tackle the Government on unjust social policies, who challenge businesses about low wages and harmful practices, and who hold the church to account on issues of poverty and justice.
We are thankful for those farming friends who help out when their neighbours find people have been fly-tipping on their land or when they have stock or equipment stolen. And we’re grateful to those like NFU reps who campaign on issues of rural crime, taking these issues to decision-makers in the police and government.
Now, let’s be clear, we don’t all have to be activists, if that’s not our gift or calling. Particularly in these uncertain and confusing times in which many of us are finding it just exhausting simply living right now. We don’t all have to be activists, but we might pray for, listen to, and appreciate those who are.
I’m in conversation these days with a friend whose stance on Covid-19 is very different from mine. He’s an active anti-vaccination campaigner and much of what he says disturbs and challenges me. But I want to engage, to learn to appreciate another’s point of view. Turns out that there are deep personal reasons behind his stance; one member of his family died after having a severe reaction to a vaccine many years ago; another was disabled for life after a similar injection. No wonder he’s cautious at the very least. He’s been doing the science on this for years; some of what he says seems to border on the quack conspiracy side of things and I’m not convinced of the ethics of herd immunity or natural immunity, but nevertheless I’m grateful to be learning from him.
We all bring something to the table. And whatever we bring is welcome. So when we encounter those John the Baptists of today whose challenging words are not what we would say, whose extraordinary behaviour is not what we would do, let us open our hearts to them, in expectation that by listening well we will find something life-affirming, something of God, in them.
‘So, with many other exhortations, John proclaimed the good news to the people,’ writes Luke. Rejoice, for the good news comes in many forms, and often from the most unexpected sources.
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