December 4, 2011

Beginnings matter. Memorable beginnings can make all the difference. “Call me Ishmael.” What novel is that from? “It was the best of times; it was the worst of times.” Recognize that? “It was a dark and stormy night,” the first sentence of a novel by Bulwer-Lytton, a nineteenth century English novelist, made famous by Charles Schulz in the comic strip Peanuts. That sentence is so famous that there is now a contest each year for the best worst opening of a novel.

If novels aren’t your thing, what about movies? Are there any opening shots in movies that are fixed in your memory, or even fixed in our cultural consciousness? For people of a certain age, perhaps the opening sequence of 2001: A Space Odyssey, or perhaps Star Wars. Long, long ago, in a galaxy far far away.

Beginnings are difficult. The first sentence of a paper or a sermon can make all the difference in the world. It’s why those of us who are writers have so much trouble starting. The blank page, now the blank screen sits in front of us waiting for our input, the cursor blinks, we may think it is taunting us. How we begin may determine how we will end, and whether we will be able to pull it off, whether we will manage to tame all of our unruly thoughts and bring them into some focus and some larger meaning.

Beginnings matter. Some times, in some of our greatest literature, the writer begins in the middle of things. So Paradise Lost, Milton’s great English epic that recounts the story of the creation and the fall of Adam and Eve, begins, not with God creating the universe, but with the fall of the angels from heaven. Milton was following the great epics before him—Homer, Virgil, Dante, all began their epics in the middle of things.

That way of telling stories may make great literary sense, but it can be confusing, or even disorienting to the reader. We aren’t quite sure where we are when a story begins in the middle, so the great fantasy epics of our day, Star Wars and the Lord of the Rings have accrued around them lengthy tales of their own that explain how things got to where they are.

Abrupt beginnings beg a lot of questions. Mark’s gospel has a very abrupt beginning: “The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ” reads the first verse, and then he begins speaking about another character—John the Baptizer. Why would he tell the story that way? Presumably he thinks that this story is important—he calls it the good news, the gospel. The greek word suggests an imperial proclamation, probably the announcement of a new emperor. The story is important, the person, Jesus is important. But with no introduction, no explanation, no transition, he then speaks of John the Baptizer.

Mark was probably the first gospel to be written, and it’s pretty clear that the others, Matthew, Luke, and John, weren’t satisfied with his version of the story of Jesus. At least Matthew and Luke pretty much stuck to Mark’s script, filling it out, adding details and content. But here, at the beginning, is one of the places where Matthew and Luke diverge the most from Mark’s version.

Where Mark launches immediately into the story of John, Matthew, Luke and even the fourth Gospel provide what Hollywood calls “backstory.” From Matthew and Luke we get the familiar story of Jesus’ birth. But Mark begins his story with John the Baptizer. He says nothing about Jesus’ birth or background. Oh, Mark knows that Jesus comes from Nazareth. Later in the gospel Mark will mention Jesus’ mother and siblings, but not now. The story of Jesus’ family background is a story that Mark isn’t interested in; he doesn’t think it important.

Instead, Mark tells a different story, beginning at a different point. In his story of Jesus, in the good news he has to tell, the first thing that matters is John the Baptizer. So our attention should focus on their relationship, on what it is about John the Baptizer that Mark thinks provides insight into Jesus. Of course, part of the answer to that question is obvious—John baptized Jesus. But there is more that matters about John. It’s partly in the way Mark describes John. He is a prophet. Clad in camel’s hair, at work out in the wilderness, a thoughtful reader will be put in mind of the Hebrew prophets, Elijah, for example, who also was clothed in camel’s hair and spent considerable time in the wilderness.

Mark also gives us some sense of what the content of John’s preaching was. He preached a baptism for the forgiveness of sins. He also preached about the coming of another figure, who was mightier than he. Now, Mark, and the whole Christian tradition has identified this figure with the Messiah, with Jesus Christ. That may indeed be a legitimate interpretation, however, as important as that identification may be, it is also important to remember that John was an apocalyptic prophet. His message was one of judgment. Why else would his listeners repented of their sins and sought baptism?

There is another important link between Jesus and John for Mark. It’s not just that John prophesied his coming and baptized him. Mark also wants to stress their continuity. Luke has more to say about John’s preaching, and some of what he relates sounds almost identical to Jesus’ words in Luke. Without providing specifics, Mark draws the same parallel. He makes it clear that Jesus began his public ministry only after John’s arrest, as if to say that Jesus is John’s successor. Even more striking is Mark’s description of the content of Jesus’ preaching: “The kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe the good news.”

To be sure, there are important differences in the messages of the two men. There are differences in their effects and following, but for Mark what is important is the continuity between the two. That continuity is sometimes hard for us to grasp. Even though John the Baptizer dominates the season of Advent; next week’s gospel will again focus on him, he does not play an important role in how we think about the season. There is something too rough, too challenging about him for us. We want Advent to be a comfortable season, a time of preparation for Christmas. We don’t want to be confronted by a message of gloom and judgment.

Still, Advent challenges us. It’s not just the imagery of the Second Coming which pervades the season. There is more. We hear a message of hope and promise, but that message comes to us, not in the comfortable places of our homes and families. It comes to us in the wilderness.

We are in a wilderness. We live in uncertain, difficult times. The economy is struggling and many of us are struggling as well. We have members who have lost their jobs; many of us have seen our 401(k)s shrink. We are in the midst of a severe economic downturn and all of that brings fear and uncertainty as well. Our political system seems broken, we aren’t sure whether anyone is willing to confront the problems we face as a society. Instead, we hear sound bytes. It might seem that like John we are in a wilderness, with little to hope for.

In this wilderness, in this world of uncertainty, the call of the prophet comes to us again: “Comfort, comfort my people. Speak tenderly to Jerusalem.” Advent promises us a new beginning. We look forward to both the first and second comings in Advent. Both of them are new beginnings. All the promise that we have for the coming of Christ, all the hope that we invest in that event, must be tempered by the reality that in spite of Jesus’ coming, in spite of all that changed, many things stayed the same.

Jesus came, not in clouds of glory to transform the universe, but as a baby to a couple who were homeless. The love he brought came into a world that rejected him. We hear John crying in the wilderness, we experience the wilderness of our own lives and the wilderness of our culture. To hope in God’s coming in that wilderness does not mean that everything will change. What may change is our hearts and our lives. May this Advent be for us a word of comfort in the midst of the desert. May it be a new beginning.