The Scandal of God's Method
Elia Carrai - On this Sunday, purple fades into pink, reminding us of the sky softening at dawn just before the sun rises. Dawn is here. This is the meaning of the Apostle's invitation: “Be steadfast, my brothers, until the coming of the Lord.” Be like the farmer who steadfastly waits, hopes, and desires the precious fruit of the earth. Be steadfast, too, like that farmer; “take heart, do not complain.”
In essence, the Apostle and the liturgy invite us today to a steadfastness that differs from our usual idea of forced perseverance or stubborn tenacity. We often think of steadfastness as a capacity for resistance—a sheer strength to face obstacles. However, today we are shown a different kind of tenacity: a constancy that takes the form of waiting, the form of desire. The invitation reaching us today is to be constant in our desiring—to live out our relationship with ourselves, others, and created things with an attitude of expectation.
Only those who live this waiting will be surprised in their daily lives by a path—as Isaiah says, a real, possible road finally suited to our needs. We call it the “Holy Way.” Only those tenacious in their desire will “escape lamentation, sadness, and weeping,” for they will recognize the One who comes to meet this waiting.
Let us look closely: living in the expectation of one’s desire means undergoing the impact of reality, because the relationship with reality shakes us and fills us with questions. John the Baptist is in prison; his hour is near, and he is about to die. He hears of Jesus’ deeds. Some disciples—perhaps sneaking into Herod's palace, sending trusted emissaries, or whispering through a window grille—tell him what is happening and what Jesus is saying. The echo of Christ's words and gestures reaches him in his imprisonment.
But the Baptist does not understand. He cannot grasp what is unfolding. For one thing, he does not understand why he is in prison. And it would seem that Jesus himself... yes, He is doing great things, but they differ from the Kingdom John had imagined. John had announced that “the axe is already at the root of the tree” and that the Lord is coming with a winnowing fork to finally cleanse the great threshing floor of history. Instead, he receives this news about Jesus and... well, John is not entirely convinced.
A question gnaws at John from within: “Is it really Him?”
This doubt is not a bad thing; it is life! John’s questions resurface in us from time to time: “Are we really sure? Is it really so?” Faced with the pressures of life, with ever-present troubles and pains that never seem to cease, our questions reopen, and our needs resurface. This is where we understand James' invitation: when our humanity resurfaces powerfully, we need to persevere—that is, we must stay in front of these questions.
Skepticism in life does not come from having questions, but from having them and ignoring them—from shelving them or tucking them away in a drawer because we are unwilling to face them. The Baptist, overcome by doubt in his final hour, is willing. He sends the disciples who reported these events to seek Jesus. He wants to know! He wants a definitive word from Him: “Are you the one who is to come, or should we wait for another?”
John asks this question—he who had first pointed to Jesus! He who had said to his disciples, “Follow Him, follow Jesus!” In this moment of discouragement and questioning, John sends them to ask.
Jesus' answer is incredible. He does not answer with a simple "yes" or "no," much less with a theory. Nor does He want his disciples to return to dear John with a speech. He wants the answer to be what the disciples see and hear—which is, paradoxically, exactly what gave rise to John's question in the first place!
“At that time John was in prison, and when he heard about the works of Christ through his disciples, he sent word...” So, the disciples return to John, and the only thing Jesus has told them is to bring John back to the facts: “The blind receive their sight, the lame walk...” and—above all—“the poor have the Gospel preached to them.” The newness of life, the salvation of life, is proclaimed.
“Blessed is he who takes no offense at me.”
Jesus loved John and knew the drama he was enduring. What He sends through the disciples is a message from a friend. It is as if Jesus is saying: “Look, there are no secrets between you and me that I need to explain. What you recognized at the beginning is no less true now than it was then. Everything was in that recognition; it simply must be renewed today. I have no special instructions for you; the facts your disciples reported speak for themselves, because the Happening of the Kingdom is found within those very facts.”
The blessedness of life is found in not being scandalized by God's method—this way He makes Himself present in facts that seem of little importance. By placing John back in front of the facts, Jesus is saying: “I know this is different from what you had in mind. I know that now, when the Lord God is asking everything of you, you are full of doubts. You wonder if you missed something, or if you pointed out the wrong person.”
In short, Jesus understands him to the core. But the only thing He offers is an invitation to return to the facts—to be loyal to them, just as John was in the beginning.
The beatitude of life is precisely this: allowing ourselves to be moved away from our own preconceived images. To “take no offense,” friends, is not a moralistic issue. It implies enjoying the fact that God’s way is different from what I, or you, have in mind. Fortunately, His way is greater! It differs from the small, limited way I would do things. It is not a matter of scolding ourselves, saying, “We must not be scandalized,” but of beginning to experience the pleasure that God moves us away from our own deductions. Every time.
Even the last bit of life we have to live, like the Baptist, will not be played out on what we think we understand about God. Life will be played out, even in the final moments, on whether we are willing to let ourselves be moved again, once more, by Him who happens—by His Presence.
This is why Jesus offers him nothing but the facts. And this is why Jesus tells us: the greatness of John the Baptist is that he was not afraid to ask questions until the end. And so should we. We must not be afraid when life presses us, when circumstances become difficult, and we are filled with questions. The issue is whether we are willing to take those questions seriously—to ask ourselves again if there is someone who can answer them. We need our eyes filled with facts that correspond, to find someone who has words that correspond to life's questions, just as the disciples followed Jesus solely because of this exceptional correspondence to their truest needs.
Let us ask, then, for the grace to persevere in our desire and in our questions. Not the rhetorical questions to which we think we already have answers, but the real questions—those that awaken from deep within us every time we grapple with reality. Let us ask to be like the Baptist, who was not afraid to let himself be struck by the question so that he could place himself before Christ. Christ, in turn, places us before the facts, before our experience, before what happens with Him and becomes possible in life.
Let us ask to live without taking offense: to desire that every day, from within our questions, the Mystery of God present in humanity moves us. May it bring us into a truer awareness of ourselves and of the things of life. In this way, even we—perhaps smaller than John the Baptist in human genius—can share in his fate, the fate of the saints and friends of God: “No one greater than John the Baptist has arisen, but the least in the kingdom of heaven is greater than he.” The last to arrive, like us, can share in the same destiny and the same recognition as the greatest man God raised up at the close of the Old Covenant.
Unrevised notes by the author.