Again this morning, John the Baptist, that odd and frightening figure, probably more than a bit scraggly and smelly. A guy who lives on the fringes. He doesn’t dress like other Galileans (he wears scratchy camel hair); he doesn’t eat what they eat (only grasshoppers and wild honey); he doesn’t do what they do. He doesn’t fit in. and he doesn’t try to. The son of Zechariah of the priestly tribe, he should have simply followed his father’s lead and become part of the Temple establishment. But he wants none of it. He has gone out to a place, loaded with political and religious significance - the Jordan River the final waterway crossed by Israel as they entered the Promised Land centuries before. Recognizing that the end is near, John is calling everyone in Israel to repentance and a change of heart, for they have squandered their calling and will surely be judged by God. A new Exodus has got to happen now. Radical repentance with baptism in the Jordan will be the only thing that can rescue them from a fiery final judgment. So people start coming to him from all sides, their hearts resonate with his message. The religious establishment is flummoxed and alarmed, and with good reason. Envoys are sent to the Jordan to inquire. Who are you? What’s going on? Are you the Christ or not? Just who do you think you are?
Now what is always so moving, even heartbreakingly beautiful to me, is that for all his fame, even with all his fire and fury, shouting at the crowds that come to him at the Jordan, “You brood of vipers! Who warned you? Bear fruits of repentance!” Even with all of that, John the Baptist is always docile and deferential, and truly reverent, when he speaks of Jesus. “Look,” he says. “The Lamb of God. He must increase, I must decrease. He is the Bridegroom whose voice I rejoice to hear, the one who is coming after me, whose sandal strap I am not worthy to untie.” And so he insists this morning, “No, I am not the Christ, I am not the one.” And then these words which are so evocative, “but there is one among you whom you do not recognize.” These words haunt me. Someone we love and long for, the royal Bridegroom foretold by Isaiah, is hidden among us though too often we do not recognize him.
We can recognize him only with the eyes of our hearts. And that is why we have come here in faith and hope to seek him for a morning, a weekend or a lifetime. But so often he eludes our grasp. This is the place where we live as monks, as people who pray, this in-between place, this “land of desire,” suspended between heaven and earth, getting glimpses of Christ’s presence and peace, but more often left hanging in a place of deep, dark faith, never seeing enough to fully recognize him, yet never losing hope and faith in his presence among us. And so we are left stranded in our desiring because we are meant for the more that Jesus is, the more that he draws us toward, the more that is God. And so we wait, and we pray confidently because the Spirit is always groaning on our behalf.
But it can be exasperating. I’m reminded of one night trying to pray, frustrated and cranky, wanting something more and saying to the Lord something like, “Are you around? You know, if I had given my life to someone, I think I’d show up a little bit more often than you seem to be doing with me.” His response, sensed deep in my heart, was something like, “What’s the problem? I am here; I am with you always; I’m not going anywhere.” The message? Trust the relationship. Well, if prayer is indeed relationship, and relationships can truly only exist between equals, this, I suppose, is the great hoax of prayer – puny me lured into intimate relationship with God.
Faith is the assurance of Someone - unseen, not felt but recognized with eyes of faith. Not a place of elation but of quiet confidence. This is where we live and pray, a place of mystery between Christ’s first coming on earth and the full vision of him in majesty to come, this in-between place of his constant coming toward us yet always necessarily detained, because our desire will always outstrip our present ability to see.
Still foolishly we dare to venture out toward Christ Jesus our Lord, our faith always a leap in the dark, “because only this leap respects the dignity of the infinite God,” and we discover ourselves suspended in him, raised up in the arms of his Grace. Then best of all, the life we live is not our own.
All during Advent we have been reminded to be vigilant at all times. Now we know why. Because Jesus’ approach is most often so unassuming, unremarkable, and forgettable. And on this Gaudete Sunday we dare to rejoice because One we love and long for, One who longs for us is drawing near, closer to us than we know. He is the One who has recognized us first, though we do not, cannot always recognize him fully, the One who is always coming to us small, hidden, quiet, almost unrecognizable.
