Scripture
Manuscript
A voice cries out in the wilderness: Prepare the way of the Lord.
…
Today, we pause from awaiting the coming of Christ, and turn for a moment to the coming of his cousin.
John the Baptist is introduced as a hermit, a prophet, and a very strange man. In other versions, we hear that he eats locusts (yum.) and wears itchy animal skins. He spends his time in the desert, calling people to repentance and to be baptised.
In other words, we would probably assume he was insane.
But his words were compelling. He warned of coming trials, but his advice for surviving them was simple: Share what you have. Take no more than you need. We’re gonna need each other in the days ahead.
And in that message, the people heard an echo of another prophet, five hundred years before, speaking words of comfort in the midst of exile in Babylon:
The voice of one who cries out in the wilderness: Prepare the way of the Lord.
…
Here’s the thing.
As far as Babylon was concerned in Isaiah’s day (chs. 40–55), there was peace. They had had a war, and they had won. The conflict was over. Their people were safe. Their soldiers were policing the land, and they had all the elites in exile so their enemies were no longer a threat.
Peace. For them.
But for Judah? The war might’ve been over, but there was certainly no peace. They were torn apart. Their Temple was destroyed, their land, their culture.
Their people had been taken into exile, and their every move was now prescribed by the very people who had been their destruction. Those who remained now farmed their lands under the watchful eye of enemy soldiers, to make sure they never rose up.
Families were separated, traditions were lost, and people were in pain.
There might’ve been peace on the battlefield, but there was no peace in their lives.
…
A voice cries out in the wilderness: Prepare the way of the Lord.
…
The Hebrew word for peace means so much more than just the absence of war.
It means peace of mind, safety, and rest. Health and well-being. Wholeness.
It means having plenty to eat, clothes to wear, and a place to sleep.
It means a community to call your own, and people to support you each day.
It means lying down in green pastures, by the still waters, in the presence of God.
Peace. Shalom. It’s physical and spiritual. Concrete and abstract. This moment and forever. Body, mind, and soul.
Some even call it a name of God.
And these people desperately needed it.
…
A voice cries out in the wilderness: Prepare the way of the Lord.
…
Now, the Book of Malachi was likely written after the exile, maybe a century or more. Babylon was no more, the exile was over, and the Temple was rebuilt.
And you might’ve hoped that that meant the people were at peace again. But it wasn’t so easy.
They were constantly at odds with each other, actually.
Was it okay to marry foreigners, or not?
And if it wasn’t, did you need to divorce your foreign wives, or not?
Did the Judeans who didn’t go to exile with the rest of them count as foreign now, or not?
And how were the sacrifices supposed to be done in the Temple these days?
Prophets and pundits and people were arguing, back and forth and back and forth, and it never seemed to improve. In fact, the divisions only got deeper, until the people started seeing each other as enemies.
They started calling each other misguided, and then evil, and then unholy. The conflict became more than a debate, and then more than a fight, more even than a human war. No, it started to become a contest of good and evil, a contest for the sake of God’s own righteousness, and it could not be lost.
They were home. They were safe. The Temple was rebuilt. There should have been peace.
But there wasn’t.
…
A voice cries out in the wilderness: Prepare the way of the Lord.
…
The thing about conflicts like this is that someone always gets caught in the middle.
While the sages were off debating the validity of foreign marriage, real families suffered. Real people became talking points. Real wives were divorced by husbands who were told that’s what they needed to be faithful.
And then while the governours were deciding whether exile made you Judean, real Judeans suffered. Real people were treated as less-than. Real farmers were cast aside by their neighbours because they hadn’t been considered “important” enough by Babylon to be exiled.
And all the while, the hungry went unfed. The hurting went unhealed. The widows and the orphans and the immigrants went unsupported. While the faithful were distracted by the abstract points of theology, real people suffered.
Someone always gets caught in the middle.
And when they do, they cry out. They cry out to their nation.
And when their people ignore them, they cry out to their churches, their families, their friends.
And when their own community ignores them, they cry out to each other.
And then, when they have nothing left to give to each other, when they are alone and abandoned and it feels like there is no one left still helping, they cry out to the last One still listening.
And God listens. God always listens.
Again and again, Scripture tells us a story of a people who were hurting, trapped, oppressed, or ignored—and when they cried out, God listened.
When Hagar cries out in the wilderness, God answers with a covenant.
When the Hebrews cry out in slavery in Egypt, God answers with freedom.
When the exiles cried out in Babylon, God answered with restoration.
And when these people cry out for peace, God answers with a promise.
See, I am sending my messenger to prepare the way before me, and the Lord whom you seek will suddenly come to his temple. The messenger of the covenant in whom you delight—indeed, he is coming, says the LORD of hosts.
Malachi promises a messenger that will herald a refining fire—a passionate God who steps in to stand up for those who have been left behind. A God who will demand justice for all who have been oppressed.
Malachi puts it in concrete terms: Fair wages for workers. Support for the widows, the orphans, and the immigrants as the Torah commands. Honesty and integrity from the people’s leaders. And no more religious leaders manipulating their people.
Because an end of war can mean peace all you want, but it doesn’t mean shalom. Shalom doesn’t come until there is justice for the oppressed, mercy for the hurting, and abundance for all. Until every valley is lifted up, and every mountain made low, and every path to the house of God made safe for anyone to travel.
In that day, a new Voice will cry out in the wilderness: “You are my child, the beloved. In you I am well pleased.”
May it be so.
Amen.