A solemn, almost majestic page kicks off this Gospel. From an unnamed place, the narrative launches itself to the heart of the Roman empire, dashing from the Jordan River to the throne of Tiberius Caesar.
He outlines the geopolitical and religious structures and announces that in the 15th year of Tiberius Caesar’s reign, the word of God came—on whom?
Not on the emperor, the high priest, or a minor king, but on a young man, a homeless ascetic who survived by eating the desert’s emptiness of insects and dirty honey, referring to young John the Baptist.
The Word of God departed from the temple, away from the halls of power, reaching the ascetic man in the desert, a friend of the unhindered wind, the watchful silence, where every whisper reaches the heart.
The word swiftly descended upon John the Baptizer, son of Zechariah, as he prepared to deliver his message in the desert.
In the place of silence, where humans cannot even live, the life-giving word descends while preaching in imperatives: Convert, smoothen, fill. The tasks: Never separate or be haughty; simply become a bridge to God, holy and barrier-free. That somewhat rugged young prophet paints a God who never tires of whispering life.
The roads on which God chooses to come are always our roads. We can feel his life-giving pulse when, at the end of the Gospel, John the Baptist reveals the plan: “All flesh shall see the salvation of God,” and out of darkness, we shall move.