Step aside, says the Baptist, for Jesus - meditation - Lent - Column

National Catholic Reporter, March 21, 1997 by Anthony T. Padovano

It happened on this side of the Jordan, we are told. It was the last time he bore witness. A good man. One of the best. Fading. Melancholy and miracles.

I am, he says, the bridegroom's friend. The best friend, the best man, perhaps. Watching at the door of the bride's house. Waiting for the bridegroom to arrive here and marry the bride.

I watch. I wait. Not for me. For someone else. I stand. I listen. How I long to hear!

When, at long last, or so it seems, the voice of the bridegroom is heard, the friend is overjoyed.

It is, of course, John, of whom we speak. A baptizer. A clearer of rough roads. A voice raised in the wilderness. A reed not shaken by the wind. A prophet. More than a prophet. A friend of the bridegroom.

You see, John observes, I am the one who hears the voice of the groom and steps aside.

Everything is in that stepping aside. It is done partly in humility but mostly in joy. All that the friend wishes is that the bridegroom be celebrated. Humility is never very good without joy.

"The same joy the friend feels, I feel," John tells us. I was called to wait, to watch, to listen, to rejoice, to step aside. My joy is complete now. Complete. I could not be more happy.

The bridegroom of whom we speak is, of course, the Lamb of God, the Messiah we longed for, the Savior we feared would never come, the only-begotten of the Light. Light from Light.

And I, I was a witness for the Light. Not the Light. Just a witness. And that was enough for me. It was, already, more than anyone could want. To have borne witness to the Light. To have waited for the Light and seen it. Is not this all that life could possibly bring?

Some bear witness to the darkness. Or they suppose they are the Light -- which is, of course, another form of darkness. The true Light shines in the darkness. And the darkness cannot overpower it.

I was not that, John says.

I never thought I was the Light.

A Light no darkness could touch. I was not that.

And then John speaks words that sum up a lifetime and echo through the centuries with their grandeur and their challenge.

"He must increase; I must decrease."

Words of love in its purest form.

"He must increase; I must decrease."

Every parent who bears a child in love, every pastor who serves a community with affection, every teacher who nurtures a student in hope knows that others must grow even if they themselves are less.

In the decrease, in the lessening, there is joy and peace, humility and magnanimity, freedom and grace and light. So much light.

In the crucified darkness of Calvary, the Messiah surrenders to the greatness of God, to the light beyond the darkness. Sometimes the light is impossible to see. And we find our way through the darkness only by faith. God must increase even if I be less. To die for the light. Is that not everything?

The last cry from the cross, in the darkness, is surrender. I trusted you. Into your hands, I give everything. I am nothing now. It is only in the final surrender, when nothing is left to give, that the limitless light dawns.

There is no Easter until God is the only source of light. Easter does us no good until we have learned to step aside. Humility only counts if it is done in joy.

All of this happened on this side of the Jordan, we are told.

The baptisms. The preaching. The voice in the wilderness. The arrival of the bridegroom. Even the sadness. The cross. Melancholy and miracles. But also Easter.

Most of all, the Light. The Light before whom we are darkness. The Light that makes us its own.

Before the Light, the darkness willingly relents. In becoming less, the darkness is more.

Baptism and Easter. One now. The friend hears the bridegroom. On this side of the Jordan.

Oh, Rabboni! Humility in joy. We were taught by John to listen, to wait, to watch. And now our joy is complete. For we have just found everything.