Advent Week 2 2025: Year A – A Change We Cannot Make – Matthew 3:1–12

(The following was first preached at the 8th Street Church in Oklahoma City, OK, USA)

Matthew 3:1-12

There are places in Scripture where God feels very close—like stepping into a warm room after coming in from the cold.

And then there are passages like this one—

where God feels closer still, but in the way a bright light stings your eyes after you’ve spent too long in the dark.

I once heard someone say the most appropriate Advent greeting is not “Happy Holidays,” and it’s certainly not “Merry Christmas.”

It’s this:

“Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is near.”

That’s how Advent begins.

John the Baptist steps out of the wilderness and wastes no time. No soft introduction. No easing us in.

Just one clear message:

Something in you has to change.

And I’ll be honest—I wrestled with this text all week.

Not because it’s confusing, but because it’s not.

John is not vague. He’s not gentle. He’s not trying to win us over.

He simply says the one thing most of us spend our lives trying not to hear.

Not a small change.

Not a tune-up.

Not a moral adjustment.

A complete reorientation.

The word he uses is metanoia—a change of mind, yes—but deeper than that: a transformation of how you see, how you think, who you believe yourself to be.

And the longer I sat with it, the clearer it became:

John is not preaching against immorality.

He’s preaching against self-sufficiency.

He’s not saying, “You’re terrible and need to be better.”

He’s saying, “You think too much of yourself—and that’s the real problem.”

The Power We Think We Have

If I’m honest, I’ve been trained to think too much of myself.

I grew up in evangelical youth ministry in the ’90s.

You know the environment—loud music, bright lights, emotional highs, promises that everything is about to change forever.

And at one of those events, a speaker stood up and shouted:

“You were made to change the world!”

And something in me rose up—Yes. Me. I can do that.

I think they meant well.

But looking back, I realize we were handed a message that has followed many of us ever since:

The power to save things is inside you.

And we believed it.

We were told that if we were smart enough, committed enough, pure enough, progressive enough—we could fix what’s broken.

In ourselves.

In others.

In the world.

And if I’m honest—I carried that belief right into planting this church.

We’ve said things like, “Our lives can mean something more,” and “We can bring hope and transformation to our city.”

And none of that is bad.

But John stands in the wilderness and tells the truth we’d rather not hear:

You are not the solution.

And you never were.

The Wilderness Tells the Truth

When people left Jerusalem to hear John, they left behind everything that told them who they were.

Their titles.

Their reputations.

Their identities.

And in the wilderness, none of it mattered.

The wilderness has a way of stripping things down until all that’s left is a human being standing before a holy God—with no illusions left about their own power.

But not everyone could let go.

The religious leaders—the Pharisees and Sadducees—held onto their status, their certainty, their systems.

And John calls them out.

Because they had made themselves the message instead of pointing to the Message.

And that’s where this text started reading me.

Because it’s entirely possible to build a church centered on community, justice, and neighborliness…

…and still quietly sideline Jesus.

Not because we don’t love him.

But because we assume we can accomplish our goals without actually needing him.

And John says:

No.

That path leads nowhere good.

The Confession We Avoid

Now, I want to say this carefully.

Some of you have been hurt by the church. Deeply.

You’ve experienced failure—failure to love, to protect, to listen, to reflect Christ.

That’s real. And it matters.

But sometimes, in response, we swing too far the other way.

We lean into activism, community, justice—good things, necessary things—

but we begin to believe we can do all of it without Christ.

And the world applauds that.

But John tells the truth we don’t want to hear:

You can be right—and still be lost.

You can pursue justice—and still be self-reliant.

You can do good—and still believe you are your own savior.

And that belief will exhaust you.

Because you were never meant to carry that weight.

What Baptism Actually Does

When I was baptized at 19, I thought I was doing something for God.

Making a statement. Taking a stand.

But over time, I’ve come to see it differently.

I thought I stepped into baptism.

But the truth is—baptism happened to me.

Christ named me.

The Spirit claimed me.

Grace carried me.

Something in me died.

And something deeper came alive.

Baptism isn’t something you perform.

It’s something you undergo.

It’s a death and a rebirth—something done to you because you cannot do it for yourself.

That’s repentance.

Not moral effort.

Not behavior modification.

Not self-improvement.

It’s surrender.

It’s making space for God to reshape your mind, your assumptions, your fears, your identity.

Metanoia is not something you accomplish.

It’s something you endure.

The Good News in Judgment

So when John says, “The kingdom of heaven is near,” he’s not announcing doom.

He’s announcing rescue.

He’s saying God has stepped into the world and declared:

“This is mine. All of it. Even the parts you’ve broken. Even the parts you can’t fix.”

Repentance is not about becoming better.

It’s about stepping aside.

Because God is coming whether we’re ready or not.

And the fire Jesus brings?

It’s not destruction.

It’s refinement.

It burns away the illusion that we are our own saviors.

And here’s the gospel:

The thing that needs to die in us

is the very thing that’s exhausting us.

The need to prove ourselves.

The pressure to fix everything.

The burden of being enough.

John says: Let it die.

Because someone stronger is coming.

Someone more beautiful.

More whole.

More true.

And he will baptize you—not into performance—but into a new way of being human.

A Word for Wilderness People

So let me say this as clearly as I can:

If you feel like you’re in the wilderness—good.

That means you’re close.

If your illusions are falling apart—good.

That means something real is beginning.

If you’re tired of being your own answer—good.

That means the kingdom is near.

If your world feels like it’s shifting—good.

That means the Spirit is at work.

So release it.

Stop trying to control what was never yours to carry.

Offer it to the One who can actually do something with it.

Repent.

Because this is God’s world.

And in Christ, every wilderness place—even the one you’re standing in—is claimed by the God who says: “This belongs to me.”