“‘And you, child, will be called the prophet of the Most High; for you will go before the Lord to prepare his ways, to give knowledge of salvation to his people by the forgiveness of their sins.  By the tender mercy of our God, the dawn from on high will break upon us, to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace.’ The child grew and became strong in spirit, and he was in the wilderness until the day he appeared publicly to Israel.”—Luke 1:76-80

And so the Holy Spirit filled Zechariah, father of John the Baptist.  His mouth, which had been miraculously closed up was miraculously opened up.  He prophesied about the coming savior, but he also prophesied about his own son.  It is this son, so intimately tied to Jesus throughout his entire life, who inspires this reflection.

One of today’s other readings comes from Malachi, the very last book in our Hebrew Bible.  Malachi’s final words are, “Lo, I will send you the prophet Elijah before the great and terrible day of the LORD comes.  He will turn the hearts of parents to their children and the hearts of children to their parents, so that I will not come and strike the land with a curse” (Malachi 4:5-6).  Then, as the angel of the Lord declared to John’s father, “With the spirit and power of Elijah he will go before him, to turn the hearts of parents to their children, and the disobedient to the wisdom of the righteous, to make ready a people prepared for the Lord” (Luke 1:17).

It was John, son of Elizabeth, who received the mantle of Elijah.  It was John, son of Elizabeth, who fulfilled the prophecy of Malachi.  It was John, son of Elizabeth, who prepared the way of the Lord.  Who better is there to teach about Advent than John—the prophet, the fulfiller of prophecy, the preparer of the Way?

Over the past three months I have been learning the sacred principle and necessity of interdependence.  I have had to rely fully on people in Zambia and at home to support me.  I have experienced a deepening of relationships to extents that I never imagined possible.  Distance from home has created challenges for me that have in turn made me to value the people from home all the more.  The amazing welcome I have received here has made me to continue to expand my idea of family.  I am imbibing and absorbing the Zulu principle of umuntu—a person is a person because of people, or I am because you are.  Our existence, our life, our thriving are all dependent on the existence, the life, the thriving of others and indeed of all humanity.  Most people here in Zambia live into that principle daily, practicing radical hospitality and care, viewing family as inclusive of anyone even tangentially touching one’s biological family, and sharing resources whenever humanly possible.

I bring up umuntu because the more I read about John the Baptist and Jesus, the more I see how intricately their lives were weaved around each other.  I have come to the conclusion that they were so dependent upon each other that they could not thrive without each other.

Indeed, the nativity story of Luke is really presented as a double nativity.  Two births are foretold by angels of the Lord.  Both births are miraculous.  There is a mere six months between the two conceptions.  Both are heralded with prophecies from a parent.  

From the beginning, John and Jesus are in relationship with each other.  When a newly pregnant Mary visits a six-months pregnant Elizabeth, Elizabeth’s child leaps with joy.  From that point forward their lives are narrated in parallel and intersecting ways.  We know nothing of their lives from childhood to around the age of thirty.  Then, they both enter the scene at the same time with their public ministries.  John comes out of the wilderness and begins to prepare the way for Jesus with baptisms.  Jesus receives one of these baptisms and immediately goes out into the wilderness from which John came.  Thus began the ministry of Jesus upon which our faith, our very lives stand.  Then, although they are fulfilling their ministries in different places and with different disciples, they check up on each other’s progress and wellbeing.  They refer to each other’s lives and mantles as examples.  In short, they remind each other of who they are and what they must do.  Then, they are both arrested and executed by officials of the Empire for daring to challenge the authority of the powerful.  They were so connected to each other that some people even believed Jesus was John the Baptist resurrected after his death.

Just like any other human, Jesus needed other humans to survive.  We see it in his love for Martha, Mary, and Lazarus.  We see it in his partnership with the disciples.  More than anyone else, though, we see it in his deep-rooted bond with John.  They respected each other and trusted each other enough to do their own thing to bring about the Kin-dom, with each stream of ministry being absolutely essential.  Yet, I am sure they maintained a life-giving spiritual connection even in physical absence.  It is this life-giving spiritual connection between people that is at the heart of umuntu, and it is this type of connection that I am coming to understand in my own physical absence from the places I call home.  

It is not recorded, but if Jesus openly wept at the death of Lazarus, I can only imagine the magnitude of his grief at the loss of John.  In Luke, in the same chapter that we learn about John’s death we see the narration of the transfiguration.  Moses and Elijah stand on the mountain with Jesus, preparing him for his journey to Jerusalem and his “departure.”  I am sure that Jesus was once again seeing John in that encounter, as John and Elijah are forever bound together.  I am sure that Jesus was once again ready to move forward with what he had to do, because he had the assurance that his way was prepared by the other human to which he was most connected.

As we do our own preparing for the coming of Jesus this Advent, may we honor those connections that give us life.  May we strengthen those connections.  May we truly understand that we are because others are.  For, this is the way of the Kin-dom.

“Lord, you have been our dwelling place in all generations.  Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever you had formed the earth and the world, from everlasting to everlasting you are God.  You turn us back to dust, and say, ‘Turn back, you mortals.’  For a thousand years in your sight are like yesterday when it is past, or like a watch in the night.  You sweep them away; they are like a dream, like grass that is renewed in the morning; in the morning it flourishes and is renewed; in the evening it fades and withers.  For we are consumed by your anger; by your wrath we are overwhelmed.  You have set our iniquities before you, our secret sins in the light of your countenance.  For all our days pass away under your wrath; our years come to an end like a sigh.  The days of our life are seventy years, or perhaps eighty, if we are strong; even then their span is only toil and trouble; they are soon gone, and we fly away.  Who considers the power of your anger?  Your wrath is as great as the fear that is due you.  So teach us to count our days that we may gain a wise heart.  Turn, O LORD!  How long?  Have compassion on your servants!  Satisfy us in the morning with your steadfast love, so that we may rejoice and be glad all our days.  Make us glad as many days as you have afflicted us, and as many years as we have seen evil.  Let your work be manifest to your servants, and your glorious power to their children.  Let the favor of the Lord our God be upon us, and prosper for us the work of our hands—O prosper the work of our hands!”—Psalm 90

Psalm 90 is listed for three days in the daily Adventen readings for the Revised Common Lectionary.  One of those days, today, happens to be World AIDS day.  As I read the words of the Psalm over and over, I realize that they address this day perhaps better than any other words out there.  

Zambia has one of the highest rates of HIV infection and AIDS diagnosis in the world.  Hardly a day has gone by since I have been here on which I have not heard about somebody who has lost a loved one to the syndrome, who is in the process of losing a loved one, or is facing the possibility of losing one’s own life.  The language of testing and ARVs is part of everyday discourse.  Aggressive media campaigns for prevention and treatment frequent the airwaves and cover billboards.  Even with such extreme sensitization, though, stigma reigns supreme.  People often die of “being sick” instead of complications related to AIDS.  Partners are often suspicious of each other.  This seems to be in large part because of the legacy of the Church.  Even though churches today are sometimes active in addressing stigma and promoting prevention, the sexual mores and taboos brought by missionaries have left their mark.  As with so many communities in the West, sexuality is demonized and repressed.  People are judged for behavior rather than character.

As a result of the high prevalence, the loss, the fear, and the stigma, there is a general brokenness.  The Psalmist is struggling to cope with a strikingly similar brokenness—a brokenness that does not make sense if we are indeed loved, a brokenness from which God seems distantly removed, a brokenness that feels terminal.  The Psalmist goes through stages so common to the afflicted: 1) seeking a refuge in God that once seemed unshakeable but now seems to be collapsing, 2) questioning God’s wrath and anger, for surely the affliction must be the result thereof, and 3) begging for God to turn back and express compassion and love.

Throughout this entire process one thing is constant: the distance felt between the Psalmist and God.  God views life through an eternal perspective.  The Psalmist is necessarily concerned with mortality.  If God sees one thousand years as one day, how could God possibly be concerned with a life that lasts 70-80 years, a life that makes up the entirety of what we humans know and care about?  If God is operating through the lens of cosmic and eternal justice, how can we humans possibly cope with the resulting anger and wrath?  In the language of the Psalmist, our life is simply a sigh.  

So, in the final stage we see the Psalmist begging for God to meet us at our level.  There is a longing for God to be aware of days and years, not just eternity.  There is a plea for a type of justice that makes sense, for which there is at least a balance between joy and suffering according to the short time of human life.  There is a request for physical blessing, that the fruits of life’s labors might pay off.

In short, the Psalmist—like so many who suffer with HIV and AIDS and like so many who are broken in this world—is crying out for God to understand.  There is an all-consuming need for God’s immanence.

With the coming of Christ we got that immanence.  God experienced the fullness of humanity—mortality, suffering, joy, loss, fear, and everything else in our deep well of emotions and concerns.  God finally understood.  

I imagine that many of us have lost sight of that immanence, that assurance that God does indeed know what we are going through.  With the help of the ever present Holy Spirit, may we practice expectant hope for our very present God.