“There was a man sent from God, whose name was John.
He came as a witness to testify to the light, so that all might believe through
him. He himself was not the light, but he came to testify to the light.” John
1:6-8
‘THE MAN WHO WAS A LAMP’
BY JOHN SHEA
Legend says,
the cave of Christmas
where the child of light
burns in the darkness
is hidden
in the center of the earth.
Access is not easy.
You cannot just amble to a
mantle,
note the craft of the crib
child,
and return to the party for
more eggnog.
You may see a figurine in
this way,
but you will not find the
child of light.
The center of the earth is
not the surface.
You must journey
and, wayfarer,
you need a guide.
Even the Wise Men had to risk
the treacherous courts of
Herod
to consult the map of
Scripture.
They knew that a star, no
matter how bright,
could not take them all the
way
It is true
that sometimes angels hover
in the sky
and sing directions,
but they cannot be counted on
to appear.
Besides, you are not one
to keep watch over a flock by
night.
There is another pointer of
the way,
a map of a man,
who when you try to read him,
reads you.
Unexpected angels are
pussycats
next to this lion,
a roar that once overrode
Judea.
You may not heed
but you will hear
his insistent,
intruding,
unsoothing voice.
Some say this thunder is
because his father
stumbled mute from the Holy
of Holies,
tongue tied by an angel who
was peeved
by the old man’s stubborn
allegiance to biological laws.
The priest was silenced in
the temple
because he thought flesh
could stop God.
The son of the priest shouted
in the wilderness
because he feared God would
stop flesh.
His open mouth was an open
warning.
His name is John,
a man who was a lamp,
at least that is what Jesus
said,
“a burning and shining lamp.”
The implication is clear:
The lamp is a torch through
the darkness
to find the Light of the
World.
As the lamp comes closer to
the Light,
its radiance is overwhelmed.
It is in the presence of a
stronger shining.
It decreases as the Light
increases.
Yet there is no comparison.
The child cannot be found by
competition.
The lamp and the Light meet
in the mystery of communion.
The two become one
while remaining two.
Follow John and find Jesus.
Find Jesus and find the fullness
of John.
But John is not so easy to
follow.
He is no toady
He lacks senility
and does not work for pay
In truth,
he is more guardian than
guide,
more dragon at the gate than
porter at the door,
more fire on the earth than
lamp on a stand.
Opposite of the sought-after
child in every way
The child is round,
this one has edges;
the child nurses on virgin’s
milk,
this one crunches locusts;
the child is wrapped in
swaddling clothes,
this one is rubbed raw by
camel hair.
Yet they know one another
even exchange smiles.
They share a mystery,
this hairy man and smooth
child.
Jesus came out of John
as surely as he came out of
Mary.
John was the desert soil
in which the flower of Jesus
grew.
John was the voice in the
wilderness
who taught Jesus to hear the
voice from the sky.
John would push sinners beneath
the water
and Jesus would resurrect
them on the waves.
John was the fast
who prepared for Jesus the
feast.
No man ever less a shepherd
than John,
yet loved by one.
If you are surprised that
Jesus came from John,
imagine John’s prophetic
puzzle
when the predicted “wrath to
come” came
and he said, “Let’s eat!”
John expected an ax to the
root of the tree
and instead he found a
gardener hoeing around it.
He dreamt of a man with a
winnowing fan and a fire
and along came a singing seed
scatterer.
He welcomed wrathful
verdicts,
then found a bridegroom on
the bench.
When John said, “There is one
among you
Whom you do not know,”
he spoke from experience.
So from prison
John sent his disciples to
Jesus.
He will send you too.
Despite his reputation,
he is best at introductions.
It is simply who he is,
preparer, primer, pointer,
a tongue always on the verge
of exclaiming,
“Behold!”
His question was, “Are you
the One Who Is to Come
or should we look for another?”
This arrow of a question was
sent from prison
but the bow was bent in the
desert
by “none greater born of
woman”
who was awake before the sun,
waiting,
watching the vipers flee
before the morning
his eyes welcomed.
“Are you the One Who Is to
Come”
is the question of John
highway,
his road under construction,
hammer and pick and hardhat
song,
“I have leveled a mountain
and raised a valley
to make even the path of the
Lord!”
You
are the mountain
his sunburnt muscles
are slamming to cracked rock.
You
are the valley
his tattooed arms
are filling with broken
earth.
He will trowel you to smooth,
and when there is no
impediment,
when there is nothing in you
which would cause a child to
trip,
you will yearn for someone to
arrive
and ask the question
that guards the cave of
Christmas,
“Are you the One Who Is to
Come?”
So do not go fearfully
into John’s wilderness,
beaten from civilization by
others
or driven by your own
self-loathing.
Go simply because it is the
abode
of wild beasts and demons
and, given all you are,
you will most certainly feel
at home.
Wrestle with the rages of the
soul,
talk to the twistedness.
Try no tricks on him.
Parade no pedigree.
Who you know will not help
you.
If the children of Abraham
and stones
have equal standing in his
eyes,
you will not impress him
with anything you pull from
your wallet.
Also do not ready your brain
for debate.
He is not much for talk.
He has washed his mind with
sand.
Injunctions are his game.
If you have two coats or two
loaves of bread,
share them.
Do not bully,
do not exploit,
do not falsely accuse.
Do not object that these
actions are
economically naive,
culturally inappropriate,
insufficiently religious.
Just do them.
Afterwards,
you will be unencumbered,
yet lacking nothing,
freer to move, to bend.
The entrance to the cave is
low.
John’s desert is the place
between slavery and promise,
out of Egypt but not yet in
the waters of the Jordan,
Your sojourn there will burn
away
the last marks of the
shackles
and you will stand
unfettered.
You will be between the
castle and the crowd,
between fine garments and
reeds shaken by the wind.
You will not lord it over
others
and you will not be pushed
around.
Prophet?
Yes, and more.
But in the thrill of freedom
it will take you a moment to
notice
what that more is.
In the emptiness of John’s
desert
you will find yourself
waiting,
like a bowl that waits for
wine,
like a flute that waits for
breath,
like a sentinel that waits
for the dawn.
You are a highway ready for
traffic,
and here comes One
who seems also to have been
waiting,
waiting for the construction
to be complete.
The more is arriving,
and there is only one
question,
“Are you the One Who Is to
Come?”
Jesus answered,
“Go and tell John
what you see and hear.”
So they did.
The disciples of John
returned on the night of Herod’s birthday
The music and laughter of the
celebration
twisted down the stairs to
the dungeon
beneath the earth.
They talked to John through
the bars.
They could barely make him
out
in the shadows.
“We saw a blind woman staring
at her hand,
first the palm, then the back,
over and over again,
twisting it like a diamond in
the sun,
weeping all the time and
saying,
“I can see through tears! I
can see through tears!”
We saw a lame man
bounce his granddaughter
on his knee.
We saw a leper
kiss her husband.
We saw a deaf boy
snap his fingers
next to his ear
and jump.
We saw a dead girl
wake and stretch
and eat breakfast.
The poor we saw
were not poor.
They paused.
Although there was no light
in the dungeon,
there was a glow around John.
It softened the fierceness of
his face
yet took no strength away
When he had preached on the
banks of the Jordan,
they could not take their
eyes off his fire.
Now this new light made them
look down.
“Jesus said
we would be blest
if these sights did not
scandalize us.
John was silent.
When he spoke,
the words had no urgency.
There was no strain in his
voice.
It was no longer
the voice in the wilderness.
“The guards tell me that
Herod,
panting,
has promised Salome
half a kingdom
if she will dance for him.
Surely she will ask for me
for I am half a kingdom.
I can denounce a king
but I cannot enthrone one.
I can strip an idol of its
power
but I cannot reveal the true
God.
I can wash the soul in sand
but I cannot dress it in
white.
I devour the Word of the Lord
like wild honey
but I cannot lace his sandal.
I can condemn the sin
but I cannot bear it away
Behold, the lamb of God
who takes away the sin of the
world!
Yet he came to me
to go beyond me.
He entered the water
to rise out of it.
He knew I would know him when
he came
even though I did not know
him before he came.
The fulfillment is always
more than the promise,
but if you hunger and thirst
in the promise,
you will welcome the One Who
Is Not You
as All You Are,
and more.
Go back
and tell Jesus
what you see and hear –
John,
not scandalized but
fulfilled,
witness to his coming.
When you told me
what you saw and heard,
I knew who I was:
the cleanser of eyes but not
the sight that fills them,
the opener of ears but not
the word that thrills them.
A prophet?
Yes, and more.
Friend of the Bridegroom.
And more.
It was love in the desert and
I did not know it.
It was love by the river and
I did not know it.
It is love in this cave and
now I know it.
Bridegroom myself!”
The guards clattered down the
stairs,
their impotent swords drawn.
They pushed aside the
disciples
and unlocked a dungeon of
light
to find John dancing,
his feet moving to the
long-ago memory
of womb kicks.
Who was about to lose his
head to Herod
had lost his mind to God.
The cave of Christmas
is hidden
in the center of the earth.
You will need a lamp for the
journey
A man named John
is a step ahead of you.
His torch sweeps the ground
so that you do not stumble.
He brings you,
at your own pace,
to the entrance of the cave.
His smile is complete,
perfect,
whole,
lacking nothing.
Inside
there is a sudden light,
but it does not hurt your
eyes.
The darkness has been pushed
back by radiance.
You feel like an underwater
swimmer
who has just broken the
surface of the Jordan
and is breathing in the sky
John is gone.
Notice
from whom the light is
shining,
beloved child.
– John Shea, Starlight:
Beholding the Christmas Miracle All Year Long (New York: Crossroad, 1993), 174–183.
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