I don’t know about you, but the minute we begin the litany of all those names at the start of today’s text in Luke, I catch my mind wandering. My brain starts to hear all those names, and it decides it’s a good time to, I don’t know, make my grocery list or go through my weekly schedule. After all, these names mean very little to us—they are people and places that seem so distanced from where we are today. In the words of one of my former church youth, they “sound more like diseases than people.” And so, we tend to skip over them or dash past them: “In the fifteenth year of the reign of Emperor blah blah blah….” We jump ahead to the part we like—you know, the part that gets us humming Handel’s Messiah, “The voice of one crying out in the wilderness, Prepare the way of the Lord!”

But the author of Luke is not just filling space or trying to get his word count up for his editors. The author of the Gospel takes the time to give us these names because they are actually important. I want to invite us to linger with them because I think, in doing so, they may impact the way we read and understand not just this text but the entire Gospel. You see, Luke wants to make clear early on that this story he is about to unwind about Jesus of Nazareth, about the Son of the Most High God, is not some abstract fairy tale or timeless myth. It is a story that unfolds in a particular place and time: “In the fifteenth year of the reign of Emperor Tiberius, when Pontius Pilate was governor of Judea, and Herod was ruler of Galilee, and his brother Philip ruler of the region of Ituraea and Trachonitis, and Lysanias was ruler of Abilene, during the high priesthood of Annas and Caiaphas, the word of God came.” You see, in the middle of real people and places and events, in the middle of governmental structures and power struggles, God shows up. Luke makes clear that God is not working in abstract, other-worldly time, but in the context of human, historical time—in the middle of real life.

Even more fascinating, perhaps, is that among all the powerful governmental and religious leaders—emperors, governors, rulers, and even high priests—the Word of God came to a relative nobody. Amid all the “big names” that make up this list, God chooses to make the divine presence known to some guy named John. And John was a nobody (or, perhaps, an anybody) by the world’s standards—a man without wealth, power, or status. He didn’t have a fancy title, college degrees, or a seat in the boardroom. God chose to send God’s word to John—the humble son of Zechariah and Elizabeth, a man who made his career in the wilderness. And so, amid all these names, positions, and places of power and prestige, God chooses to show up to regular people like John, and perhaps to regular people like us.

It’s stunning, really, if you pause to think about it. The God of all creation, who can generate life with a mere word, the God of all time, chooses to enter our time, our place, our “real life,” and make God’s presence known to everyday people like you and me. And, friends, that’s why these names matter; that’s why we read them regularly during Advent.

After all, Advent is not only a season in which we anticipate the memory of the birth of a baby in a manger. It’s also the time when we lean into the promise of the second coming, and we claim the ways God is already coming toward us, already showing up. So when we sing “O Come, O Come Emmanuel” or “Come Thou Long-Expected Jesus,” they are not songs only about the historical birth of a baby in Bethlehem but are statements of faith about God’s activity in this time and in this place among regular people like you and me. In singing them, we claim that God is still moving, still speaking, and still at work sending God’s word to us.

And so, John’s invitation, ripped from the pages of the book of Isaiah, is not just for the high and mighty or the powerful and prosperous, but it is for us—the everyday people just going about our business. John’s invitation to “prepare the way of the Lord” is for you and me, for those of us in this time and this place where God might just dare to show up. John invites each of us to live in expectation of God’s presence and movement. And when we are expecting to see and hear God’s word—expecting God’s presence to be with and among us—it changes us; it changes the way we live our lives.

As a child, I was always in awe of how frenetic my mother would get when we were expecting out-of-town guests. She would spend days cleaning the house and bugging my dad to fix all those little things he had been putting off. She would spend hours baking and cooking, dusting and mopping corners of the house I didn’t even know you could dust or mop. My sister and I would joke during those times that if you didn’t get out of the way, she would vacuum you up or throw you in a trash bag. It was when company would come that my sister and I would be charged with raking the leaves in the yard or helping my dad clean out the garage. “They aren’t even going to park in the garage!!” I would always protest, “Why does it need to be clean?” But this is how my mother prepared for company—she would clean out all the old and open a space for company to feel welcomed by laying out her best—the best linens, the best food, the most pristine house possible. Mom taught us to live in anticipation of those who are about to show up. To change our patterns and ways in order to make space for the newness that was about to come.

Like my mom in anticipation of out-of-town guests, expecting that God will actually arrive—here and now, in 2024—should change us, too. We are called to prepare the way. John invites us in the verses that follow to repent—to clean out the old and unwanted parts of ourselves and our lives that may inhibit our ability to receive God’s word. And then we are invited to clear a way for God, or, as John says, to “make the paths straight.” We are invited to open opportunities for God’s movement. Now, this time of year, most of us actually do change our patterns of living. In anticipation of Christmas, many of us do things we wouldn’t normally do: decorate the house, attend holiday parties, bake, buy and wrap gifts, and perhaps even volunteer. However, even in the middle of the hustle and bustle, we are invited by John not only to prepare for the celebration of Christmas but also to prepare for the coming of God to us. When we slow our pace a bit, refocus ourselves, and open ourselves to the movement of God, we prepare the way of the Lord. We prepare the way of the Lord when we take time away to worship together. We prepare the way when we participate in acts of justice and service to one another and to our community. We prepare the way when we seek to right the wrongs done to the downtrodden and oppressed in our nation and world. We prepare the way when we clean up and re-pave the road for people to more fully experience God’s love and presence. And we prepare the way when we remind one another that God is on the way and, indeed, already moving in, with, and among us.

But this can be so hard to believe sometimes—that God might actually show up. In the midst of contentious and violence-filled days, it is tempting to believe that God is missing. That is sometimes the proclamation the world offers. On April 8, 1966, the Time Magazine cover read in block letters, a simple three-word question: “Is God dead?” The title and article ruffled a nation, and yet it was so captivating and controversial because it is a question that continues to plague us. We, particularly those of us who claim to be people of faith, want assurance of God’s presence and power. We seek proof in burning bushes, pillars of smoke, or miraculous moments that can’t be explained anywhere else. And when they don’t appear, some of us are quick to assume that God is no longer speaking, acting, or moving. In the face of hurt or pain or tragedy, we may begin to question whether God is still choosing to show up in life-giving ways. We look at this world, its wars and worries, its hate and hurt, its trauma and terrors, and it is tempting to believe that God may be dead—or, at best, just doesn’t care. It is tempting to believe that maybe God is just a distant presence, hovering far away. Or that this divine being only shows up to the rich and famous, the powerful and well-connected. And yet, our text from Luke today reminds us that not only is God not dead, we worship a God who chooses to show up in real life amid everyday people like us.

During my time as a graduate student in seminary, I served part-time as a student chaplain at a maximum-security women’s prison in Atlanta. My very first year, I was invited by the head chaplain, Chaplain Sherry, to serve Christmas Eve communion to those who were in lockdown or the infirmary. Eager to serve, I agreed to do so. Now, I had helped serve communion before at my local church and even in seminary worship. I always loved the sacrament because it felt like one of those wonderful ways that the community would come together. We’d come together to hear the words of the prayer prayed over the bread and the wine; we’d see together the loaf broken open and the cup lifted. We would come forward together to receive the elements and wait while everyone was served. It was a time, to me, where we truly, as a community, gathered around the table to share something powerful and meaningful. Yet, this communion—this communion on Christmas Eve in the prison—felt totally different. It was totally different.

When I arrived, Chaplain Sherry and I collected the elements together and, standing in her office, we prayed over them—not the community, just the two of us. After all, those who were to receive this blessed feast were currently locked behind doors or laying in hospital beds. They couldn’t witness or participate in the prayer or the blessing of the elements. It was just the two of us—Chaplain Sherry and I. And it felt…anemic, incomplete, even spiritless. But once the elements were blessed, we gathered them together and began our rounds. Upon arrival at the first floor of lockdown, I expected that the inmates would come out of their rooms to take communion in the common room or in the hallway. Or, at worst, Chaplain Sherry and I would get escorted into each room by the officer on duty to give these women the elements. That was not the case. We got to the first cell and, instead of unlocking the door, the officer simply unlocked and unlatched the little slot in the door—about 12 inches wide by 4 inches tall—something that looked more appropriate for the delivery of mail than the Lord’s Supper. Chaplain Sherry invited me to bend down and, looking through the opening, I saw two eyes peering out. “Would you like Christmas Eve communion?” Chaplain Sherry asked. And with a muffled “yes,” two hands appeared, reaching out as far as they could through that same slot in the door. I couldn’t believe it. Was this really how this was going to go? Was this really how we were going to share this “glorious feast of the Kingdom of God”? One by one through a slot in a door? But we did. We went door by door, cell by cell, with eyes and hands peering out, reaching for the morsel of bread dipped in juice, a small taste of something barely resembling the sacrament I knew.

When we got to the end of the first hall—about 30 doors in all—I secretly hoped we were done. I found this practice both demoralizing and heartbreaking. But that wasn’t the case. “OK,” Chaplain Sherry piped up, “one hall down, six to go. And then there’s the infirmary.” Chaplain Sherry read the look on my face and she set her hand on my shoulder. “Remember, Kim,” she chided, “this is Christmas for these women. The reason we serve them here is because they aren’t able or allowed to come to worship. This is their Christmas. We are bringing Christmas to them right now.” While I think she was trying to offer me encouragement, I just felt more devastated by that realization. I thought of my Christmas—filled with family and gifts and food, filled with corporate hymn-singing and candle-lighting and the telling of the story of the birth of Christ. But this—this chunk of bread shoved through a 12x4 slot in the door—this was their Christmas. It was almost too much to process.

But on we went. We began our procession down the next corridor, accompanied by the guard, unlocking slots, handing out communion, saying a quick prayer, and locking up. My sadness began to change to numbness as I followed Chaplain Sherry to each door. And then, all of a sudden, a melody wafted from the end of the hall where we had just come. A woman with a wispy soprano voice began to sing the first words of the hymn “Silent Night.” And every few words, a new voice would join in—some raspy and low, some high and melodic, some on key, some off key. But they sang together: “Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright.” And in the physical and emotional darkness of that prison hallway, Chaplain Sherry and I stopped. And we listened. For the first time, I noticed the beam of moonlight—soft and powerful—breaking through the high windows of the cement structure. The women kept singing. Eventually, Chaplain Sherry and I joined in the song, prompting verses two and three. And then, we sang the first verse one more time. And then I stopped singing and just listened. And, suddenly, there they were—the communion of saints, gathered together to share the feast. And even more, there it was: the divine presence in our midst, showing up on December 24 in a lockdown hallway in a maximum-security prison in Atlanta.

Friends, we are people who are summoned to live in expectation that God is showing up. But it can be easy to miss. It can be tempting to believe that God may not make it, particularly in the face of so much loss, grief, pain, and devastation. However, the author of Luke and John the Baptizer remind us that we worship a God who shows up in the midst of it all—to ordinary people like you and me. And so, this Advent, we are invited to prepare the way of the Lord, to clear a way so that we might notice God’s presence more powerfully and fully. We are invited to clean out the house, to pull out our best, to sit by the door ready to invite the holy in—for we never know how, when, and to whom God might show up.

For, in the fourth year of the presidency of Joseph R. Biden, when Kathy Hochul was governor of New York, Gavin Newsom was governor of California, and Greg Abbott was governor of Texas; when Muriel Bowser was mayor of Washington, D.C.; during the papal leadership of Pope Francis, the word of God came to the likes of you and me.

Let us prepare the way! Amen.