John the Unsure [Advent 3A - Matthew 11:2-11]

 The Rev. Jeremiah Williamson

Matthew 11:2-11

 

John the Unsure

 

John was born to be a prophet.  Heaven chose his vocation long before his birth, long before the angel Gabriel struck his old dad dumb.  That is what the miraculous conception meant: that he was no accident; he was destiny - a miracle born to do the miraculous.  The song that broke his father’s silence, the song that interrupted John’s bris, was all about how John was the promised prophet of the Most High.  John’s future was scripted before he could even smile, before he realized he had fingers.  His was a dramatic introduction to the world.  And folks in the village never forgot.  People glanced his way when the stories of Elijah were read in synagogue.  He wore the outsized expectations like a mantle. 

 

And he grew into those expectations.  John looked the part.  He dressed the part.  He said prophetic things.  Folks say not to believe your own press, but John never really had a choice; angels wrote his headlines.  He spent his entire life swimming in the enthralling suspense.

 

And now, still a young man, in just his early thirties, John sits alone in a prison cell: a holy man on death row.  His locusts replaced with stale bread and tepid water; his camelhair exchanged for an orange jumpsuit.  His impending fate so very unlike Elijah’s fiery chariot.

 

The chopping block was not the future he expected.  I think most prophets do brace themselves for a bumpy ride; and John was bold, uncensored; I’m sure he anticipated some bumps along the way.  But it wasn’t supposed to end like this – and certainly not this soon. 

 

He had so much left to do, so many lyrics yet to fulfill.  His job was to set the stage for salvation but the Romans were still very much in control.  The Kingdom of God felt no closer than when he first claimed his shore.  In the song of his father Zechariah, it was said that through his ministry God would give light to those who sit in darkness.  And yet, there he was: sitting alone in the dark.  No light; no salvation.  And, apparently, no future.

 

In that incarcerated moment, all John had left were his thoughts – and as you can imagine, given the circumstances, those thoughts were unsettling.  Doubts were creeping in steadily and he no cell phone to distract his spinning mind.  Doubts about the calling that had hounded him since birth.  Doubts about a Messiah who seemed to have stalled out well short of a royal throne.  Doubts about the future he was sure God had promised.  Doubts that any of it mattered.

 

The doubts weren’t always there.  Back at the river, the first time John met Jesus, he was so sure.  It felt so real.  It was awe at first sight.  Because of Jesus: the heavens opened; a dove tumbled from the sky and kissed Jesus’ glistening shoulder.  And God spoke.  I mean, God. Said words. About Jesus.  And John heard them.  And in that moment there was no doubt.  Obviously.

 

But prison gives a man a lot of time to think and reflect.  And ask questions.  Big questions.  Terrifying questions.  And that is exactly what John does: “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?”  Except the waiting “we” did not include John.  His time was just about up.  He had waited as long as he possibly could.  And if Jesus wasn’t the Messiah none of the prophecies were true – or at least not true about John.

 

If Jesus wasn’t the Messiah, all John carried to his death was suffocating regret.  John had placed all his eggs in the Jesus’ basket.  The question he sent from prison must have been the scariest question he ever spoke.  Did he really want to know the answer?  Because the stakes were stunningly high.  Of the two possible replies, one answer is relief and elation; the other is devastating in a way that can never be undone.

 

Embedded in John’s question was an existential crisis – one inspired, I suspect, by his impending doom.  “What if I was wrong?”  “What if nothing I have ever done even matters?”  “What if it was all a waste – of time, of effort, of life?”

 

John was human; he had human thoughts.  And in that moment, he just needed to know that it hadn’t all been for naught.  His entire life he had been told that he was special, that God had a plan, that he was going to change the world.  And now he is in a prison, plagued by doubt, about to be executed.  Wondering what coulda, shoulda, woulda been.

 

None of these questions plagued his mind when he first met Jesus.  But Jesus hadn’t exactly met John’s expectations.  Jesus was an impressive peasant, a good person, kind.  But John, like most of his nation, probably expected the Messiah to make a bigger splash: to reestablish the throne of David, to overthrow their oppressors, to lead the people, like a new Moses, out of bondage.  To save them from their enemies and from the hands of all who hated them.  Jesus showed no evidence of those tendencies.  And so John was forced to ask, to trust Jesus with his biggest question. 

 

Jesus obviously likes John.  But he doesn’t make it easy on John.  “Yes” would have been nice and clear and unambiguous.  It certainly would have put John’s mind at ease.  Instead Jesus hands John a resume and makes him come to his own conclusion.  It is probable that John died believing in Jesus but not sure.

 

It is hard to never know for sure.  Faith is a lot to ask of us – with our limited understanding and anxious minds.  And hope: hope never quite feels like a safe enough bet.  And then God – unseen and as silent as a gentle breeze.  We go through this life and we try our best – to fulfill our potential and meet the expectations; we try our best to listen closely for the enticing whisper of the Holy Spirit.  So that we can get it right, get life right. 

 

But we never get to know; right is never as obvious or apparent as we wish it was.  And that means we carry all these heavy questions around in our souls – including some that are simply too scary to ask out loud, and some we are sure we are not supposed to even allow our minds to entertain. 

 

Like John, we have our doubts; and of course we do: we deal in holy mysteries as ancient as days.  Paul says it well, “For now, we see in a mirror dimly.”  For now, we don’t get to know, not everything, not even some of the most important things.  But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t ask.  Because every question is proof of our faith.  Every question is a profound act of trust. It is our big, bold, vulnerable questions that release us from the idolatry of false certainty and free us to open our hearts to Jesus.