Today is a two-sacrament Sunday – Communion on the Table, and baptism on the pulpit.

Not just any baptism, either, but John’s baptism – “a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.” Isn’t that how it always is the second Sunday of Advent, a day given each year to the man with wild faith and wet feet, who foreshadows the coming Messiah? A man, brusque in his actions yet breathing forgiveness?

I’ve read, studied, reread and meditated on the scripture passages for today. Along the way somewhere (I don’t recall exactly when), I saw the name that Luke gives the bold preacher who washed away sins in the Jordan River valley.

Matthew calls him “John the Baptist” (of course). Mark names him “John the baptizer” (slightly different). But Luke identifies him as “John son of Zechariah.”

Ancestry and family connection matter to Luke more than career path or occupation. But that was common in those days, before surnames, in order to tell one “John, Dick or Harry” apart from the others.

The Scandinavian equivalent is to have a last name like Anderson or Larsen. It marks you as a descendant of Anders of Lars. (Imagine John baptizing in an icy cold fjord instead of the muddy River Jordan. He’d have been John Zechariahson. Wouldn’t our Lutheran brethren love that? The “sistren” too!)

Americans in the South use a question to make a similar family connection. “Who are your people?” they inquire when meeting someone new. “So you’re related to the Wilsons over in Blacksburg? I went to school with their uncle. Good people.”

It means you’re okay. The idea is that the apple never falls far from the tree. You’re judged by your kinsfolk. Character is encoded on your DNA.

So, before introducing John, Luke gives us Zechariah. In chapter 1 (and our first reading), he tells us, for instance, that the old man could not speak – he had been struck dumb by an angel – a condition that lasted until after John was born.

That sorry fate was the result of a momentary lapse. Zechariah was ordinarily righteous and blameless, Luke says. Yet once – only once – he questioned an angel for saying that his wife, Elizabeth, was going to have a baby. (Zechariah had less trouble believing in angels than believing his elderly wife could get pregnant!)

In other words, Zechariah believed in faith that unfolds in the heavens, more than he believed in faith that resolves hardship on earth and uproots misfortune.

For that, the angel condemned him to silence. The angel sentenced him to quit talking … and start watching more closely what God was up to.

As I say, that may have been the man’s only shortfall. So God didn’t punish him forever. When Elizabeth’s womb opened, bringing John into the world, Zechariah’s mouth opened too, giving glad praise to God.

The neighbors were amazed and wondered what it foretold for the newborn child. Though it was too early to know how, they quickly realized that John would grow to be someone special.

No ordinary child would he be.

So what shall we say about Zechariah’s offspring, John?

Let’s start by saying, that he was righteous and blameless, like his parents. He spoke truth in a way that crowds from distant cities and villages recognized as authentic and honest. They immediately knew that he bore witness to God. His words pulled them out of the cities…and out of the ruts that their lives had become.

Yet, at the same time, John was hardheaded. Just like his father.

Zechariah’s hardheadedness got him in trouble for questioning that angel. It cost him his tongue for nine silent months. John got in trouble too – questioning Herod. And that cost him … his head … on a platter.

Still, when both men were able to speak, they shared a single message. Both men understood – and believed with all their hearts – that out of the old, God would make something new. For Zechariah, newness proceeded from Elizabeth’s old womb. For John, it took the shape of repentance and forgiveness – a baptism into second chances from God.

I’ll say it another way: for both men barrenness became the ground of fertility. With barren Elizabeth, the breaking of water (pardon me for being so graphic!), gave birth, not only to a son, but to imaginative possibilities, that neither she nor Zechariah could’ve foreseen. Likewise, when their miracle son, John, saw water flowing in the desert, he recognized it as a living metaphor of God’s unceasing promise.

Zechariah – and his offspring – declare that the lost shall be found. Those who were last now can move to the front of the line. Those who “mourn in lonely exile here” will be given a homecoming party after their long ordeal in the desert.

Both men witness God’s power to make things right.

But where Zechariah pushed his religion in the direction of heaven and angels, John keeps faith solidly grounded.

After declaring a day of repentance and heavenly forgiveness, he calls listeners to join God in reshaping the earth.

John-son-of-Zechariah, insists that the time is now to reshape the contours of every mountain and valley.

No longer will injustice prevail. No longer will some select few sit on high, looking down upon others, like mountains towering over valleys. No longer will the elites scoff at the masses beneath them.

The political, social, economic and religious landscape is being leveled.

That’s what John declares in the valley where the Jordan runs through. And those who hear it are lifted up, as if to the mountains. Their spirits soar and arms surge with strength for the road building that must follow.

Amazingly, Luke began this passage of scripture with a roll call of the political and religious aristocracy. He names those who sat in those days atop pedestals and thrones.

But he also makes it clear that the word of God was not given to them. It bypasses them, on high, and goes instead to “John-son-of-Zechariah” in the valley.

Then, through John, it goes to people who hear him and join him at the wild and daring margins – one foot in the dry desert of impossibility, and one foot in the flowing river current of God who brings the impossible to life.

As for the baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins – itself an impossible deed? That baptism, like the food on this table, becomes the source of vitality that funds and sustains kingdom behavior in us.

That is to say, when we hear John’s word of God’s forgiveness – and claim it and embody it – we become Zechariah’s offspring with him. The same righteousness and blamelessness that were in that family get encoded now on our DNA.

We aren’t famous. We aren’t connected to the powers of Rome, like Tiberias and Pilate and Herod were; or Annas and Caiaphas, though they were high priests.

But we don’t have to be famous. We don’t have to be connected to any power other than God’s. Just as we are, we are able to change the face of the earth, leveling it for the least of all people, and preparing the way for a new Ruler to come.

What John gives us is not just an Advent, but an Advent-ure – holistic, all-inclusive, and brimming with God. With it, he gives the promise that the world is being remade before our very eyes. A shift is underway, even as he speak to us today. Authority and dominion, glory and power are moving from a palace to a manger, … from Jerusalem to Bethlehem … and from unsustainable injustice to everlasting peace.

“All flesh shall see it,” John concludes. “All flesh shall see the salvation of God.”

… Which brings us to this table. At the first Easter, in Emmaus, Jesus broke bread … and the eyes of two disciples were opened to recognize him.

In the breaking of bread, may our eyes be opened too, and the scales fall from our hearts … so that we see our salvation draw near.