I’m jealous of John the Baptizer. In today’s gospel (Mark 1:1-8) he experiences what every preacher dreams of. 

He has been “the voice of one crying out in the wilderness: ‘Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight.’” He’s been pushing the people to rethink, reevaluate, reconsider their lives. And darned if they didn’t do it. “People from the whole Judean countryside and all the people of Jerusalem were going out to him.”

I wonder what he thought when they started showing up. Was he surprised? Shocked? They didn’t thank him for his message. They didn’t smile politely and shake his hand. And they didn’t quietly pass by and go to lunch. They heard his words and they acted on them. They took his words to heart. They left what was familiar, safe, and comfortable. They went to the wilderness, were baptized, and confessed their sins.

What would it mean for you and me today to take John’s words to heart, to act on them, and go to the wilderness? 

When I say the wilderness I’m not talking about a specific geographical region or a particular type of landscape. I’m taking about the wilderness of our own lives – the unexplored and undiscovered parts of ourselves; the unmet longings; the parts that seem barren and empty of life; the untamed emotions that frighten us; the hurts, losses, guilts, disappointments, and regrets that are too painful to walk through. 

“The interior landscape is the most dangerous territory [we’re] likely to explore.” (Belden Lane, Backpacking With The Saints, xv) But it just might be the most fruitful. It is a land teeming with hope and promise. 

What do you imagine took the people out to John? Why would they risk themselves to the wilderness? What were they looking for? 

In last week’s sermon I said that Advent is a season of beginnings and the beginning is near. I also quoted W.E.B. DuBois who said, “The most important thing to remember is this: To be ready at any moment to give up what you are for what you might become.” 

I wonder if that’s what we are seeing in today’s gospel. I wonder if that’s why “people from the whole Judean countryside and all the people of Jerusalem were going out to [John].” I wonder if they were ready to make a beginning. 

What about you? Are you ready to make a beginning? Before you answer let me explain what I’m asking. Not all beginnings are the same. Some beginnings are more like restarting our computer or phone. When it’s stuck, frozen, not working, we restart it hoping it will work again. We’re not looking for something new or different. We want what is known and familiar, what we used to have. We’ve probably all had those kind of restarts in our lives. That’s not what I’m talking about. 

I’m taking about the kind of beginning that invites us to change and opens us to something new and different. I’m talking about the kind of beginning that reorients our life and shifts the way we see, think about, and behave toward ourselves and one another. I’m talking about the kind of beginning that takes us to the wilderness of our own lives. 

I saw that kind of beginning in a young woman last week. She came to the office asking for help with her next three months of rent. She explained that she was going to rehab for three months to deal with her substance abuse and get her life back. She said she wouldn’t be able to work, that she was leaving her son with her mother, and she wanted to make sure that when she got out she and her son still had a home. That’s not a restart, that’s a beginning worthy of her time, effort, fear, and all she will risk. She is walking toward the wilderness of her own life. 

The beginnings that are worthy of us happen in the wild, chaotic, and untamed places. And just as it did for the people who went out to John and the woman who came to my office, the beginnings that are worthy of us require making a confession. Confession, however, is so much more than simply listing things done and left undone. I learned that from Fr. Kelly, one of my spiritual mentors. 

Several years ago I was on retreat at the place where Fr. Kelly was the director. I scheduled an appointment with him to make a confession. When the day came I didn’t want to do it. I was scared, ashamed, and second guessing everything, not just about the confession but about my whole life. I walked to his cabin as slowly as I could thinking of all the reasons why I couldn’t and shouldn’t confess. 

When I got there he welcomed me and invited me to sit. “Thanks, but I probably won’t be here long,” I said and then I started on my excuses. “Fr. Kelly, I’m not Catholic and.” He interrupted before I could finish. “That doesn’t matter,” he said, “have a seat.” “Well, it’s been a long time since my last confession and I don’t want to take up.” He interrupted again. “I have all afternoon, have a seat.” “Thanks,” I said, not really meaning what I said.

I sat down and after a long silence said, “Fr. Kelly, I don’t even know where to begin.” He looked deeper into me than I wanted to look and said, “Just tell me where it hurts.”

“Where it hurts.” As soon as he said those words my tears fell and my words flowed. Hurting and healing mingled. My watery words flooded his porch and I made a beginning. 

I didn’t want to go to the wilderness place. Maybe you don’t either. Most of us probably don’t. It’s either too painful and frightening or we assume (incorrectly) that the past is in the past and our hurts are the end of the story. But what if every hurt holds a new beginning? And what if every new beginning opens us to “the one who is more powerful”? 

That’s what I discovered. I think it’s what the people who went out to John discovered. And it is, I hope, what the woman who came to my office will discover. 

So, what about you? Where does it hurt? What beginning might you make today that is worthy of your life? 

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Image Credit: Photo by WantTo Create on Unsplash.