THE DETAILS MATTER

It is easy to wonder – at least it is for me – why St. Luke in this gospel goes to such torturous detail in telling us the extent of the political and social circumstances under which God first spoke to John the Baptist.  Does it really matter how long the Emperor Tiberius Caesar had been on the throne at the time?  Does anybody care that Herod Philip was the tetrarch of the region of Trachonitis? Maybe it did then, but why would it be of interest to anybody since then? 

I can only wonder that it might matter because God finds us, as he found John, not in some vague and general way, but rather in a very particular moment and in a specific situation, often through very particular people and events that change our lives.  Think for a moment—and I’m going to give you a moment—What have been your most enduring and important and transforming God encounters?  Who was there?  Where were you?  What happened?  And what did that call out of you as a new way of being in the world?  

John the Baptist was in the desert at a very identifiable moment in time.  The desert, of course, is not only a particular place by the Dead Sea in Israel.  It is a metaphor for whatever place we are that is desolate and desperate for the inbreaking of the divine.  One of my earliest remembrances of such a thing was my freshman year at college.  I’d never felt so lonely and sad in all my life.  I was in a desert place, even though I was surrounded by lakes and cold.  I could still tell you the story of who God sent to me in a very particular way one day, and I could tell you the month that it happened – it’s now about 45 years ago.  God’s outreach to me was not vague and general.  It had places and people’s faces connected to it.  That’s how God works.  That’s why I think it matters that St. Luke’s gospel finds it so important to recall the particulars of the call of John the Baptist.  That’s how God works.   

And the result of all those encounters is life-altering, if we allow them to be, even when we may least expect it.  That’s what this Advent season calls us to—an opening to something that is utterly surprising and unexpected and new.  Who would have imagined that the Savior of the World would arrive here as a little baby, born of the lowly Virgin Mary of Nazareth? 

It is not at all rare for God to reach out to people in desert places.  In fact, in the scriptures, God is surprisingly regular and good at it.  Which means that when it feels that we may be out there, disappointed, tempted to despair, God may well be closer than ever, wishing to encourage us, to lift us up, and to change our whole lives by his arrival. 

But there is also something required of us as a response to all that compassion.  The bible refers to it as repentance, or as the Greeks refer to it, a “turning around,” a metanoia.  In fact, for us the word “repentance” may even be a bit misleading because we tend to associate that word with ideas of regret or sorrow.  And while that may be part of it, the more important aspect of repentance is to live in to a new way of being, a new way of life, with the help of God’s grace – to live with new confidence in God’s ever-present love, and therefore to live with new generosity toward others who also need to see God’s love in us.  We are not the only ones who live in the desert, and for many others we may be the loving invitation out of it.  We may be the particular faces and friends for those who dwell in sadness and hopelessness.  Our Advent acts of repentance may be invitations into more intentional solidarity with those who feel alone or grieving or estranged or marginalized. 

Today the profit Baruch issues more than an invitation – it’s really a command; and it’s not issued to God, it is directed at us – all of us who take The Word seriously:

“Take off your robe of mourning and misery; be wrapped  
in the cloak of justice from God, so that all the earth  
may be convinced of God’s splendor.”

In this Advent time, this is our opportunity, this is our responsibility, this is our call.