Are you greater than John the Baptist?

 

Text:  Matthew 11.11-15

It’s a scene somewhat reminiscent of President Trump being given the inaugural FIFA Peace Prize! Jesus says, “Among those born of women, no one has arisen greater than John the Baptist”. High praise indeed. If Jesus were handing out awards, John would get “Prophet of the Year,” if not lifetime achievement.

And yet—Jesus immediately adds— “the least in the kingdom of heaven is greater than he.” And you can almost picture poor John—wild hair, camel-hair coat, organic locust in hand—turning round as someone reads that aloud and saying “Well, thanks a lot Jesus!”

John is the greatest—and simultaneously outranked by everyone. What a marvellous Advent paradox.

John is, in many ways, the official Advent mascot. Not the soft one—there are no cuddly John the Baptist toys with removable camel-hair tunics. He’s not the beautiful one—no one puts him on a Christmas card and says “Season’s Greetings from the Judean wilderness, you brood of vipers.” He’s not particularly marketable. No child has ever put “bag of locusts” on their stocking list.

Instead, John stands like the hinge of a great door. All the weight of prophecy and history leans on him; yet he swings open for someone else. That’s the essential thing about John: he isn’t the door—he’s the movement of the door. His entire identity is transition. And that’s Advent.

Advent is movement. It’s also about waiting, yes—but not the waiting of a bored traffic queue on the A27 with Radio 2 on low. Advent is waiting like the pause before the overture begins. It’s the kind of waiting that happens on a cliffhanger at the end of Eastenders.  It’s waiting like smelling the mince pies before they reach the table. It’s that kind of waiting.

But Jesus adds something today which could ruin the mince pies. “From the days of John the Baptist until now the kingdom of heaven has suffered violence, and the violent take it by force.” That’s not very cosy, is it?. Not very ‘Little Donkey.’ Not mulled wine and fairy lights. Because the truth is: when light breaks into darkness, darkness does not applaud. We see it across the world. Conflict grinding on like a rusty millwheel. Truth handled like wet soap—slipping through fingers just when you think you’ve caught it. People harassed, displaced, forgotten. Violence done not just with guns, but with lies, with systems that crush the smallest shoulders.

And into that landscape comes… not a warrior. Not a conqueror. But a child. God’s strategy is so utterly absurd, so completely nuts to human systems, that it simply has to be divine. John looked like a revolutionary. Jesus looked like a baby. Yet Jesus says even the least who belong to him are part of something greater than John ever glimpsed.

But why?  Because John knew that God was coming. But Christians know that God has come.  And is coming still.  Both are true, because the kingdom is stubborn.

It keeps arriving—like a persistent delivery man who knocks again, even though you were in the shower the first time and missed him.  The kingdom never leaves a “sorry we missed you” card—it waits at the door and knocks again.  

That’s why Jesus ends today’s reading with the line: “Let anyone with ears listen.” Anyone with ears. Advent is the annual reminder to check whether our ears have batteries in.  Because we are good at listening to other things, aren’t we?

We listen to the news, loudly.

We listen to our own anxieties, loudly.

We listen to the loud, easy promises of politicians.

We listen to the rumour that Christmas must look perfect to count.

But Advent offers a different frequency.

John cries out, “Prepare the way of the Lord.”

Jesus whispers, “Be not afraid.”

Angels sing, “Peace on earth.”

Mary hums lullabies into straw.

And if you listen closely—in the hush before a service starts, in the quiet when the kettle finishes boiling, in the gentle sigh of someone lighting advent candles—you can hear the sound of something Divine arriving. Something greater than John. Something greater than fear. Something greater than the violent forces that claw at the edges of the world.

Now, I confess: most of us don’t feel like we are “greater” than John the Baptist. We feel more like the understudies who were called up because the star of the show had flu. We look at our worn out faces in the mirror and think… really? This? Me? 

But greatness in the kingdom is not measured like greatness in the wilderness. Out there, greatness was camel hair and wild proclamations of mountains being laid low.  In here, greatness is small things: generosity without applause, forgiveness without conditions, courage in fragile places.

The least in the kingdom is greater than John because the least belong not just to the promise, but to the fulfilment. John prepared the way. We walk in it. And we walk through car parks full of Christmas shoppers. Through hospitals with quiet wards and uncertain futures. Through homes where people long for someone no longer here. Through the noise and glitter and worry and excitement.  And still, the door is swinging open. Still, the kingdom insists on arriving. Still the child waits to be received. Let anyone with ears listen.

And may we, this Advent, learn not merely to wait— but to welcome.

Not merely to wonder— but to receive.

Not merely to admire John— but to walk past him, through the doorway that he opened. And find Christ, waiting on the other side. Amen.