A couple of weeks ago, Grace, my oldest granddaughter, now
fifteen, and I had lunch together. I
felt a little odd and ashamed in the fact that I had not curried the invitation
to have such a one on one time over the past ten years. It did not take but a
few minutes, driving to the restaurant that I thought, “you’re in big trouble
Papa; you really have no idea who this young lady really is!” All the more, I realized my predicament and dilemma
as we placed our order and began testing the personal, shallow waters of life
with conversation. Nearly forgetting her
age and station I came close to asking: so what do you want to be when you grow
up? But I didn’t.
I’ve thought about the correlation of the way Grace and I
are growing up. She's growing up knowing that her life is set apart. I really didn’t come to that realization until
later in life. Grace has been wrapped within the dreams of parents, and it
seems she grows with the assurance of a plan and a purpose for her life—albeit
a purpose shrouded in hopeful mystery.
For John the Baptist, the only son of Zechariah and
Elizabeth, there was much less mystery.
John grew up knowing that he would one day be called a prophet. In fact, he grew up knowing his life's exact
call: "You will go on before the Lord to prepare the way for him"
(Luke 1:76). He was to be a Nazirite,
literally one consecrated to God and separated from the general population.
As I have read and reread over the years I know very little
about John's life outside of his short public ministry. I am told that this miracle child of a barren
womb grew strong in spirit and lived in the desert. He ate locusts and wild honey and wore
clothing made of camel's hair. His
entire life seemed to be marked with the knowledge that he was set apart for a
unique and specific role. I imagine he
thought often of the day he would meet the Messiah whose way he was to
prepare. I imagine he never expected
that it would be someone from his own family, a cousin who grew up beside him.
John was baptizing in the Jordan River when the sky opened
up and the Spirit descended like a dove, the sign that God had told him to
expect. "The man on whom you see
the Spirit come down and remain is he who will baptize with the Holy
Spirit" (John 1:31). The Spirit
rested upon Jesus. Twice, John seems to
note his astonishment; "I myself did not know him." It is safe to assume that John knew who Jesus
was; his mother, Elizabeth, was Mary's cousin.
But John did not know Jesus as the Christ, the one he had been set apart
to proclaim, the one whose sandals he was not worthy to untie.
I have wondered, since that time of lunch with Grace, how
often I do not see the person in front of me—my other loved ones, my cherished
friends, my colleague, the stranger I sell short as an imager bearer of
God. John was so taken with what God
revealed about Jesus that he realized he had never really known him. This distant cousin, present at family
gatherings and near on holidays, was the Lord, the one he had been waiting for
all his life. Without questioning God,
without doubting Jesus, John immediately reframed his perspective and bowed
before the Lamb of God. For the
remainder of his days, John gave this testimony of Jesus: "I saw the
Spirit come down from heaven as a dove and remain on him. I would not have known him, except that the
one who sent me to baptize with water told me... I have seen and I testify that
this is the Son of God" 1:32-34.
I ask myself, Bill, how quick are you to adjust your eyes to
all God would have you see in the person in front of you? Recently, the question is repeated again and
again in the gospels. Fearfully, I’m thinking,
if I am unwilling to let God transform the world before my eyes, there will be
people I will never really know, dynamics that will go unnoticed, signs I will
miss completely. I’m thinking, in the
kingdom of God, astonishment should not surprise me.
The day after John was shown the truth about his cousin, he
introduced two of his disciples to the Christ.
"Rabbi," they said, "where are you staying?" "Come," Jesus replied, "and
you will see." Like Jesus himself,
this exchange has both an element of the spiritual and the physical, something
divine and something human. This reminds
me that there is a vertical quality about my life, a reaching to taste and see
the goodness of God and to know the one in whose image I was formed. But there is also a horizontal quality about
the invitation of Christ to come and see.
As His follower I’m called to see the image of God in all my neighbors,
to be present in a crowd that prefers escapism, to reach out to the world as if
reaching to Christ himself.
The disciples answered Jesus's invitation to come and see,
learning in time that it was indeed a multi-dimensional offer.
Father, I want to go to Your house and see where You are
staying; I want to meet the rest of the Your family. Continue to spark my awareness that Your kingdom
is not of flesh and blood. Please remove
the cataracts from my eyes that I might see that person sitting in front of me.
