Chaos and Calling

Second Sunday of Advent – Luke 3:1-6

At the beginning of the gospel for the second Sunday of Advent, Luke the Evangelist really takes his time setting the scene, placing Jesus and John the Baptist in a clear political and historical context. He kicks things off by naming the key rulers of the time, starting with the big picture: the mighty Roman Empire, under whose rule the Holy Land was living in fear. Then, Luke zooms in to describe the political setup in Palestine, and finally, he highlights the leading Jewish religious authorities of the day. Essentially, he’s saying, “Here’s where we are, here’s who’s in power, and here’s how it all connects to what’s about to unfold.”

Luke plants Jesus and John solidly in human history, and in doing so, he prevents the story from turning into a legend or fairy tale. These are real people, in real time. (And I know this to be true because each of these guys has his own entry in the 26-volume Encyclopedia Britannica set that my mother-in-law was determined to unload on me.)

Real people in real time… I can’t decide if this is inspiring or daunting.

By virtue of my vocation, I should be able to put myself into John the Baptist’s shoes. (In some ways, it’s not all that hard, because I’m probably every bit as weird as he is.) I have one job, and that’s to tell the world that the story of salvation is ongoing: Jesus is in our midst. Get your act together, kids, because he’s here. Right here, right now! And as I fulfil this role as a hometown prophet, my baptism and discipleship mean that I am every bit as qualified as John is to have my own entry in the history books:

In the ninth year of the reign of Justin Trudeau,
when Scott Moe was premier of Saskatchewan,
and Charlie Clark was mayor of Saskatoon,
as councillor Cynthia Block, overseer of Ward 6, prepared to succeed him,
during the episcopate of Bishop Mark Hagemoen
and the pontificate of His Holiness, Pope Francis,
the Word of God came to Darcie, the daughter of Don and Cheryl,
in her kitchen, as the smoke alarm blared because toast was burning,
and the dog threw up on the linoleum. 

I know. Impressive.

But who am I that I should be counted worthy to have my name printed in the same paragraph as the Word of God, much less the same story?

I can empathize with John. On one hand, I know exactly how it feels to be compelled into the public square to tell people about the Messiah. And on the other hand, I know how John feels when he says, “I’m not even worthy to untie the guy’s shoes” (cf. John 1:27) as I’m running late for work, wiping toothpaste off my blouse.

Yet, isn’t that the beauty of it? The story of salvation doesn’t wait for us to be flawless or perfectly prepared – it meets us right in the middle of our messy, wet-socks, overcaffeinated, can’t-find-my-car-keys kind of lives. John knew he wasn’t worthy, and he owned it. He didn’t pretend to be something he wasn’t. Instead, he pointed relentlessly to the one who is worthy.

And maybe that’s the point. I don’t need to be the hero of the story. I just need to play my part – to point, to proclaim, to prepare the way – even as I shriek after stepping on a rogue Lego block in my bare feet on my way to empty the litter box. Because if Jesus can enter the world in a dusty manger surrounded by animals, then surely he can work through me, even on my clumsiest, most harried, least glamorous days.

So, whether it’s daunting or inspiring – or a bit of both – the challenge is to embrace the role I’ve been given. Like John, I’m called to be a voice crying out in the wilderness, even on the days when the wilderness is my kitchen with smoke billowing from the toaster: He’s here. Jesus is here. And the story isn’t over yet.

By Darcie Lich