Compassion is the On-Ramp to the Way of the Lord — December 14, 2025, Third Sunday of Advent

Compassion is the On-Ramp to the Way of the Lord

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Matthew 11:2-11

When John heard in prison what the Messiah was doing, he sent word by his disciples and said to him, “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?” Jesus answered them, “Go and tell John what you hear and see: the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, those with a skin disease are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them. And blessed is anyone who takes no offense at me.”

As they went away, Jesus began to speak to the crowds about John: “What did you go out into the wilderness to look at? A reed shaken by the wind? What, then, did you go out to see? Someone dressed in soft robes? Look, those who wear soft robes are in royal palaces. What, then, did you go out to see? A prophet? Yes, I tell you, and more than a prophet. This is the one about whom it is written, ‘See, I am sending my messenger ahead of you, who will prepare your way before you.’  “Truly I tell you, among those born of women no one has arisen greater than John the Baptist, yet the least in the kingdom of heaven is greater than he.”

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I can’t imagine the fear of being confined in Herod’s prison. His father, Herod the Great, had terrorized the Bethlehem countryside when Jesus—and presumably John—were toddlers. Each Herod had Rome breathing down their necks, a decree to keep the peace—or else. I can’t image how that felt, either, if I’m honest. I can’t imagine how it feels right now, as grim new reaches of us shootings in Rhode Island and Australia. I can’t imagine John’s disciples’ confusion, as they approached Jesus, turning their back to the crowds to disguise their mumbled message, to hide John’s fear and doubt. But still they ask—still, John asks. Even from prison, he leans toward hope. Fear constricts the heart and dulls the imagination. But faith, however small and limited it seems, by means of compassion opens our heart so joy may enter.

Despite the mumbled question, Jesus seems to give an answer within hearing of the crowds. Tell John what you see and hear, he says. But then, instead of telling John, or John’s disciples, or the crowds, waiting with baited breath—instead of telling them who he is, he tells them who he cares for. Look, he says, the blind see! The lame walk! Folks are cleansed! They hear again! The dead rise! The good news, it just rings out everywhere, even where it was never expected or hoped for. Jesus’s excitement fills the air, but I can still imagine the crowd’s reaction, the puzzled looks they give him, hoping, like John for clarity.

Sensing they still have questions, Jesus continues, but, again, instead of telling the people more about who he is, he tells them who John is. He says, “Come on, you knew that there was something more about John. You didn’t go out into the wilderness to look at the landscape. You didn’t go out there for a red carpet show. You went out there because you knew he was a prophet. And, seriously, I tell you not only that, but he is the one Malachi wrote about: a messenger, a way-preparer.” Of course, this cleared everything up for everyone, and they all went away joyous and well-informed. 

But here’s what I think Jesus is pointing at. When we think about John the Baptist preparing the way, we imagine him rolling out the red carpet, preparing the parade route for Jesus. I think of like, I don’t know, a flower girl. But that’s not what the prophets meant. When Isaiah draws the image of the way, he’s talking to, well, it isn’t clear if he’s talking to Israel the evening before Assyria conquers it, or if he is talking to the people of Judah in their Babylonian exile. Isaiah covers a lot of time, a lot of ground, so much that scholars talk about First Isaiah and Second Isaiah. 

Regardless of which Isaiah we’re talking about, he is speaking to people who are afraid, people who cannot imagine what the morning will look like, people who cannot imagine what home is like anymore. When Isaiah talks about “the way,” the way is a highway for the people—all the people. Not the parade route for the conquering general, it is the road home for everyone. It blossoms, it sings; the way reverberates with laughter. The fearful, the traumatized hear a promise—a promise that says, whatever has happened, whatever tomorrow holds, God is making a smooth, even path—a path to home, a path of joy. 

So, when John asks Jesus if he is “the one to come,” when he asked out of fear—and of course he is afraid, body confined, heart closed. But when he asks, Jesus says, Look around! It looks like Ol’ Isaiah’s vision around here! John, you made the way. Look who I’m bringing to walk on it: the redeemed, the repaired, the restored, the resurrected—so much more than you can imagine. It is okay to be afraid, because, in the midst of fear, the on-ramp to the highway of God is compassion. And compassion opens our hearts so that joy may enter.

In compassion, Jesus meets John in his fear, but assures him that joy doesn’t come in pretending like the bad things never happen. Joy comes from the compassion that is honest about suffering. In his conversation with the Dalai Lama about joy, Archbishop Desmond Tutu explained, “If you are setting out to be joyful you are not going to end up being joyful. You’re going to find yourself turned in on yourself. It’s like a flower. You open, you blossom, really, because of other people. And I think,” Tutu said, “some suffering, maybe even intense suffering, is a necessary ingredient for life, certainly for developing compassion.”

This is the time of year where we try to manufacture happiness: we’ve got holiday decorations and gift-giving and concerts and school dress up days and shopping, shopping, shopping. But at some point in time, all of us are going to be exhausted and no more joyful than when we started. We’ve got the news blaring in the background. We want to be happy, but we’re fearful of the future, fearful of our neighbor, fearful for our neighbor. 

All week, Beloved, I tried to write something about joy that didn’t sound like “slap a smile on your face and get on with it.” That isn’t joy. I don’t know what that is, but it isn’t joy. The reason why I know it isn’t joy is because there is no compassion in it. No compassion for others, and no compassion for ourselves. In reflecting on Mary Oliver’s poetry, Ross Gay said, “joy is not what happens when we win the game-winning shot, but it is what happens when we are with each other in the midst of our sorrow, which is immense and on-going and abiding.”

When the exiles take to the highway, there is no denying what has come before: the fear, the suffering, and the sorrow. They carry it with them. But there is this stubborn insistence, this joy that this is God’s way, that God is leading them, that God walks with them—walking with them through it. Joy is an act of resistance—refusing to deny fear, meeting it always with honesty, with compassion.

So, Beloved, in the waning days of Advent, I invite you the kind of joy that begins quietly. That begins in doubt and fear, that begins even in confusion and frustration. I invite you the kind of joy that blossoms because it is honest about what is not right in the world, honest about what is not right in our lives. I invite you to the kind of joy that turns on compassion and finds its way in singing, in being opened to one another, in community, in the feast that has no ending. Amen.