You could blame it on my husband actually-- the fact that I am once again drawn into the wilderness to look deeply at John the Baptist--or maybe to look through him. John, I don't get you. And that is just the truth of the thing. Don't get me wrong: I like the whole nature-getting-away-from-it-all scene, and I have eaten grasshoppers (they were chocolate covered, but that still counts as insect-eating, right?), and in my teenage years I dabbled with fashion that was, and I confess it now, both uncomfortable and socially remarkable...for the wrong reasons. I have even been accused (rightly so) of neglecting my renegade locks to the point where it looked as if I had taken some covenant to deliberately ignore their maintenance.
But beyond these peripherals, John and I have very little in common, and my attempts to understand his heart cry absolutely fail. See, I am a woman who likes an audience: give me a group of children, teenagers, adults that are willing to listen, and I am a sucker for the spotlight. It is one of my least favorite things about me. I am show-woman--this is my perverse nature. Follow me into the wilderness? You should be so lucky. Give ear to my ramblings? Blessed are ye!
But my thankful reality is that my perverse nature is not my destiny. My spotlight-yearning is not what I have been called to. It is not my purpose. And somewhere on the surface, but gradually sinking into my flesh, is the truth that my real calling is into the shadows. And that is where, in the shadow place of obscured identity, of lost individuality, is where I meet John. He is there. He's sidestepping fame, even though he has it. He's giving up his leadership role, even though so many have followed him, he's stepping out of the spotlight of his story and in to the shadows of God's holiness. His purpose is becoming a footnote, a piece of marginal text around the plot-line of God's greatness and goodness.
And I am longing to long to meet him in there in the shadowlands. I am desiring to desire to want that place where I become tangential, dare I say forgettable, as I point to my Beloved and the Father who sent Him. I want to want that. Not just on the surface of me, but down deep. All the way down. Down in my bones.
