Wild thing

1 Lent B 2012
Gen 9:8-17; Ps 25:1-9; 1 Peter 3:18-22; Mark 1:9-15


Before Jesus could go forth, he had to go wild.

As we begin our own walk through Lent, we hear how Jesus, at the start of his own journey, is shattered first by love, then by wildness, then by loss.

Jesus walks to the riverbank seeking his kinsman John. John himself is a wild man living on the fringe of society and on the edge of the wilderness. The wild man John plunges the young man Jesus into the flowing, living water of the river.

The Jordan River, which marks the border between God’s land of promise and the wild, unmarked land where Israel once wandered. The water—the same water welling out of the earth which once burst forth in a flood at God’s command—a wild rush of water whose chaos snuffed out one creation to make ready for another creation.

This water was so wild that, long ago, God himself regretted his own wild choice and swore never to destroy the earth with a flood. But the wild water was still near, beneath one’s very feet, cruising above one’s head in the clouds, welling out in springs and streams, an ever-present reminder of God’s presence and God’s otherness, God’s own wildness.

From out of that primal water Jesus rose dripping. Did he feel the weight and power of the water and of the God who was drenching him with a new and mysterious life?

The heavens were torn apart. Up there where the wild waters of the ancient flood were kept, a voice, a dove. Noah’s dove brought news of new land and a second chance. This Spirit-dove brings news of a new reign and a second chance for us all.

Still dripping, Jesus runs—that dove “drives” him out into the wilderness, into exile, into the wild.

Why the wild? Why not a nice school where Jesus could learn his Scriptures in peace? What was there for Jesus to learn that he could not find at the feet of wise old rabbis?

In the wild, one faces life uncontrolled, unmanaged. In the wild, one realizes how small one really is. In the wild, one realizes that it is a big world after all, and it does not spin around us—in fact it can do just fine without us and one day soon it will. In the wild, one either faces oneself with withering honesty, in our earthy humanity, without illusions, or we go mad with delusion.

In the wild, it is not safe. There are angels, and there is God. There are wild animals. There are demons. And there is we ourselves. I am not sure which of these is the most dangerous.

In the wild, God can actually make something of us.

In the wild, we are tempted. Jesus was. Temptations arise from our own hearts. They entice us or frighten us with delusions of all kinds. Temptations either suggest that we are superhuman, with control over the wildness of the world and of God, or that we are insignificant and without meaning and value. Temptations address our greatest strengths or our profoundest weakness. They draw us into patterns that, once embraced, leave little or no room for God.

When we’re tempted, we learn that our greatest weaknesses are actually our deepest strengths.

At home with the wild things, where the wild things are, at home with his own wild self, the part that burns only for God, Jesus is even now not ready. His heart had to be broken.

John and Jesus shared a communion of blood kinship and of vision and purpose. They shared a passion for God and God’s justice that can burn hotly in the souls of fine, idealistic young people. They had even shared the strangeness of that baptism experience.

Perhaps John hoped that he and Jesus would be allies, that Jesus would support John in his ministry. Perhaps Jesus hoped the same of John.

But John’s tale was cut short by his imprisonment and eventual execution by a corrupt and violent king. What could this mean, that a righteous man and a living prophet could be arrested and killed by a tyrant? Where was God? What was the sense?

But after John’s arrest, Jesus began to proclaim the good news of the reign of God.

Wild water, wild animals in the wilderness, and a broken heart and broken hopes: that is the way of our Master. And so that is our way.

The New Testament and the ancient church taught that the path of a believer is the path of Jesus the Master himself. He is the teacher and his life is the pattern. And so we too are plunged into the wild waters of baptism, where we learn that we are beloved but that God is wild and the realm of God is not predictable or safe. We are flung into the wilderness of Lent, away from the predictability of life-as-we see it in order to meet God, the tempter, and ourselves. We are asked “what do we believe?” and “whom do we follow?” And our hearts are broken, again and again, by loss or life itself or betrayal or, worst of all, by our own selves and the disappointment caused by our lack of faithfulness and courage.

When all this happens, when we enter deeply the wilderness of our lives and the devastating things we learn in the wild, when we drink deeply of sorrow and our hearts are broken open, then we can begin. We can begin to understand the heart of the Son of God. We can begin to walk in the ways that his feet have also trod. Our lives and our words can begin to proclaim the wild, astounding vision of the Reign of God.