A homily for the third Sunday in Advent in year A on Matthew 11:2-11 and Isaiah 35:1-6a, 10.

Last week, John the Baptist was a voice crying out in the wilderness, “Prepare the way of the Lord,” announcing that the kingdom of heaven had come near. And he was not subtle. He demanded repentance. He was not interested in excuses or explanations — he wanted action, and he wanted change. John spoke of the wrath to come, of the axe lying at the root of the trees, of unquenchable fire.

This week, however, is different. Today John is no longer in the wilderness. He is in prison. And the man who once proclaimed with such certainty now sends a hesitating question to Jesus: "Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?”

Last week there was no question in his mind, no doubt in his heart, no hesitation in his words. It was wrath, axe, and fire. This week we hear a question shaped by longing, exhaustion, and hope pressed thin: Are you the One? Is the promise unfolding? Is the world changing in the way you said it would? Was I wrong about you? John, the fore-runner, John the way-maker, now needs direction himself.

When I think of John's prison cell I like to imagine a window. Small. Set high in the wall. It gives him a view of the world outside, but only a glimpse — enough to notice movement, enough to see light, enough to remind him that the world is still moving without him, but not enough to allow him to step into it. John’s world has shrunk to what he can see from that window.
 
 The sand, the wind, the crowds — they are all gone. And with them, his confidence seems to have slipped.

This is where the story turns. John, who once called us to turn, now needs turning himself. The one who once pointed the way can no longer point the way.

The question echo around the walls of his cell Are you the One? And into that silence, Jesus sends an answer — not in the fierce language John used, but in the gentle language of Isaiah’s hope: “Go and tell John what you hear and see…” These are not things that John can see from his window. No fire in the sky. No armies on the move. Only stories — carried by messengers — of bodies healed,
 of lives widened again. The kingdom comes to John by report, not by spectacle. All the signs John expected — wrath, axes, unquenchable fires, judgment — are not the signs Jesus offers.

John was waiting for a revolution. Jesus sends a résumé, filled with healings, not headlines. The blind see. The lame walk. The poor hear good news. Not exactly the overthrow of Rome — but unmistakably signs of the work of God. Signs that Isaiah once dreamed of — life rising where none was expected.

Walls don’t just confine our bodies; they narrow our vision. They have a way of closing us in, 
 slowly shrinking what we can see and what we dare to hope. And wall are not just stone and mortar, sometimes they are flesh and blood. And so I wonder: In what ways have walls closed in on your life, 
 restricting what you can see, restricting what you can do? And what is the good news you need to hear today?

From John’s window, he could glimpse these things.  And through your own life’s window — however narrow or restricted — you can glimpse them too. God’s kingdom comes not with spectacle, but with small, persistent, transforming signs.

This is the vision Isaiah dreamed of: “The desert shall rejoice and blossom… waters shall break forth in the wilderness… the lame shall leap like a deer, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.” Somewhere beyond that window, deserts are blooming. Somewhere beyond his reach, the lame are leaping. John must trust that spring is happening even if he cannot step outside to feel it, and so must we. This is the heart of Advent faith.

John preached the coming of a God who arrives like a storm. And Jesus answers with a God who comes like spring. And I cannot help but wonder if in that prison cell, John may have been thinking “This is not what I meant…  but I suppose it’s better.”

Then Jesus turns to the crowds and asks the question that reveals everything: “What did you go out into the wilderness to look at?” Not a reed shaken by the wind. John never bent to the breeze of public opinion. Not someone dressed in soft robes. John wore the raw honesty of the land — camel hair, belt, dust, desert. “What then did you go out to see? A prophet? Yes. And more. So much more.

But here’s the mystery: Jesus praises John — even as John’s ministry seems to have come to
 an abrupt end. The one who prepared the way is now unable to walk it. The voice that cried out,
 “Make straight the path!” is silenced behind walls.

It is a holy and painful truth: that sometimes the ones who guide us cannot finish the journey with us.
Sometimes the one who once lifted their arm in certainty must lower it in surrender. Sometimes the prophet becomes the one who needs assurance. And lets be honest, most of us know what it is like to live by a window — watching life move while we wait for something to change.

And Jesus does not rebuke John, he does not say, “John, how dare you doubt after all you proclaimed!” Instead, Jesus gives him signs — living signs, healing signs, quiet blossoms opening where no blossom belongs. This is how God prepares the way: not with spectacle, but with transformation. Not with thunder and lightning, but with life rising from dry ground. John expected fire. What he receives is a flowering desert.

And maybe that is what Advent is for — to teach us to look again, to listen again, to notice the subtle movements of grace beneath the hard crust of our expectations. For even when the prophet falls silent, the Word continues to speak. Even when the way-maker can no longer lift his hand, the Way Himself walks forward. Even when indifference tries to close our hearts, the holy blossoms keep pushing through.

And so the question Jesus asked the crowd echoes through the ages and reverberates in our Advent days: What are you going out to see? What signs of life are emerging around you? Where is the desert beginning to bloom? The messenger may be imprisoned. The familiar guide may fade from view.

But the Way does not stop unfolding. Advent does not always throw open the door. Sometimes it gives us a window — and just enough light to trust that the world is still being healed beyond what we can see. John never leaves his cell.  Yet the kingdom reaches him —  through a word, through  witnesses, through grace. For the kingdom of heaven has indeed come near — not with the fire John once imagined, but with life quietly and stubbornly taking root in the wilderness.