Matthew 3:1-17, Matthew 11:1-6
Rev. Dr. Deborah L. Clark
January 15, 2023
I don’t know how much longer I will be here—in this prison cell. I’m pretty sure it will be for the rest of my life; that might not be very long. Herod wants to make an example of someone.
You’ve heard the story of my unusual birth. What you might not know is how it set me on the path that led to this prison cell. My parents, Elizabeth and Zechariah, were old—too old to have a child. My father was a priest, and the angel Gabriel appeared to him in the temple to say I was coming. My father couldn’t speak until I was born, and then he made a Nazirite vow on my behalf. I would never cut my hair. I would never drink strong drink. I would not share in the luxuries of this world. From my birth, I was set apart for a holy life.
Even when I was young, that vow gave me a unique perspective on our society. I could see so clearly how people’s lives became twisted as they sought out more and more comforts. Even people who had good hearts—I watched greed seep into their actions until their hearts were no longer good. As I grew older, I saw how that led to injustice and cruelty. Then you add Rome into the picture: the naked power of empire, and the awful things people do when they are afraid. Some people colluded with Rome, growing rich as they betrayed their neighbors. Some thought we could drive out the Romans through our own efforts, and that always led to more cruelty and humiliation. I was still a child when I concluded that the only path forward was for God to come in might to destroy all that was depraved and restore our people.
The other thing about having a miraculous birth to elderly parents is that you end up alone at a tender age. My cousins would have taken me in, but I wanted nothing to do with them. I had heard about this group called the Essenes. They too had concluded that our society was irrevocably depraved. They left and formed their own community in the desert. They were all from priestly families—so was I.
They took me in. After a year, I was allowed to eat with them. I gave up my possessions and was initiated. I had found my people.
It was there I learned about baptism for the forgiveness of sins—practiced over and over so we would be right with God. We followed the Mosaic law with a strictness that put the Pharisees to shame. We only ate food we had produced ourselves, or food we had scavenged in the desert. We knew God was coming in power—soon—and we were ready.
Eventually, though, I found myself wondering about my cousins. Yes, they were living corrupt lives. But shouldn’t they have a chance to change, before it was too late? I asked the leaders. They said no. “We are the chosen ones.”
This wasn’t the God my parents had taught me about. I argued and argued, until they expelled me. Not even with the clothes on my back—they took my white robe. That’s how I ended up wearing camel’s hair. I could have gone back home, but I still believed that our society was beyond repair. I still believed God would break in and restore us.
I found my place on the edge of the wilderness, along the Jordan River. I began to preach: “Repent, for the Kingdom of God has come near.” I was amazed at how many people came to be baptized. There was this deep yearning—to live a good and righteous life, to return to God, to be the wheat instead of the chaff.
One day my cousin showed up–Jesus. I hadn’t seen him in years. There was something about him. A fire in his belly. A passion for justice. Maybe, I thought, he is the one who will usher in this Realm of God. I taught him how to preach. He kept wanting to tell stories, but I refocused him—”warn of the wrath to come,” I said.
When it was time for him to be baptized, I had this dream. I dreamt that when he emerged from the water lightning would strike and set the land ablaze. God would break in right then to destroy and restore.
It’s not what happened. When Jesus came out of the water, there was no lightning. Just a dove. And a voice—not of judgment but of love. I didn’t know what to make of it.
Soon after that, Herod arrested me. I was a threat. My disciples floundered for a while, but just as I had hoped, Jesus took charge.
He started out with my message: “Repent, for the kingdom of God has come near.” He added something about it being good news, and that might have been my first clue that he was going rogue—or that the student had surpassed the teacher.
He moved away from the river and into the villages and cities. He went back to telling stories. I heard about him touching lepers and eating with tax collectors—beforethey changed their ways. I began to wonder if he was going soft, watering down what God demanded.
I sent my disciples to ask him. “Are you the one who is to usher in the realm of God?” My friends came back with his answer: “The blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them.” My first thought was that he hadn’t answered my question. What did any of that have to do with God coming in power to restore our people?
I thought about his seeming non-answer for days, and a few sleepless nights. What if he was answering my question? What if he was telling me that God was coming, with a different kind of power than I had expected? I thought back to the dove. What if this realm of God was coming not through the fire of judgment but with the spirit of love?
It was a hard couple of days. When you’ve been thrown in prison unjustly, the notion that God will come in might to destroy the corrupt and tear down the walls is quite appealing. It was much harder to see how God coming in the power of love would change anything.
And yet Jesus was saying that it had already changed everything. Lepers were restored to community. The poor were lifted up. My friend told me about those meals where everyone was welcome, and the food just kept multiplying. They told me about frightened people who found courage, lonely people who found community, greedy people who opened their hands and hearts.
Jesus had not gone soft. He wasn’t watering anything down. His message demanded more than mine had. I was expecting God to fix things; all we had to do was get ready. Jesus expected us to be part of bringing God’s realm to fruition. Jesus taught—he showed– that God works through human hands and words and hearts. The God Jesus proclaimed had more faith in human beings than I did. That was something to ponder.
And so, in the middle of the night in a dark prison cell, I became a follower of Jesus. I couldn’t walk beside him from village to village. All I could do is trust that, somehow, God’s realm was breaking into this prison. Somehow, God’s love was at work even here. Somehow, I had a part to play.
Once I chose to trust, I began to see signs of the realm of God—in a conversation with a guard, in the food I shared with a hungry cell-mate, in the healing that came when I realized I was not alone, in the peace I found in knowing God’s love was transforming the world.
That is what it means for me to be a follower of Jesus—to be willing to change my vision, to choose to trust that God’s realm is at hand, to dare to be part of it wherever I am. What does it mean for you to be a follower of Jesus?