Scaring the Shepherds

Christmas Eve, First Lutheran Church of Throggs Neck, Bronx, N.Y.

We are so consumed by the joy of this wonderful night that we sometimes forget that terror was the predominant reaction of the people who lived it.

I’ve never been a shepherd but I can almost feel what it was like for them on that night of nights.

On one bleak mid-winter night long ago, I was walking on a deserted beach in England. A fellow airman and I, both teenagers, had just dropped off our dates after a not entirely satisfying evening. We had less than an hour to catch a train back to the base so we walked quickly on the brightly lighted beach. 

Suddenly, everything went black.

I was terrified. Had I suddenly passed out? Dropped dead? I could see nothing. I could have used an angelic voice telling me to fear not but all I could hear was the rapid breathing of my companion.

“Oh, yeah,” my friend said with a slightly shaky voice. “I forgot. The beach lights are automatically shut off at midnight.”

“Of course,” I said. Our eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness and we walked on.

But I never forgot the fear I felt that night. 

And this night I try to imagine what the shepherds felt when they had an opposite experience: when the comfortable darkness that surrounded them became blinding light. Of course they were sore afraid. And so, I surmise, were the sheep.

Angels scare people. That’s why they announce themselves with an abrupt “fear not” while they wait to see if people will require a change of underwear.

And make no mistake: in the presence of God and the angels, it is good to be terrified. The shepherds are encountering the awesome power that breathed the universe into being and human beings are ill equipped to  comprehend it. 

Whether God speaks to you in a still small voice or in the roar of angels, it’s terrifying. Even when the news brings “great joy for all the people: to you is born this day … a Savior, who is Christ the Lord” (Luke 2:10-11) Still trembling with both fear and joy, they make their way to the manger to behold the miracle. “So they went with haste and found Mary and Joseph, and the child lying in the manger.” (Luke 2:16)

And what else did they find there? A cozy refuge from the capriciousness of the world? A tender scene of motherly love?

Possibly. What did Mary have to fear?

Well, quite a lot, actually.

As we have seen, the fact that she was unmarried and with child created grave dangers for her. She was literally saved by Joseph, who, thanks to the intercession of the angel, stepped in to marry her.

But there were other things to fear. In first century Palestine, the infant mortality rate was 40 to 50 percent. Even knowing that the child in her womb was of God, Mary would be aware that half the women she knew lost their babies. This must have weighed on her mind as she and Joseph made the rough journey to Bethlehem.

And what else was there to fear?

Mary was a first-time mother who birthed her baby alone, far from her mother, far from experienced women who could tell her that it was normal for a baby to cry, and burp up, to fill his diapers with a yellowish mess. 

Some women here know what Mary was experiencing. A little over a year ago, we watched from a distance as our youngest daughter in Atlanta gave birth to a healthy baby.

Separated from her mother by more than 700 miles, our daughter felt devastatingly alone. She and Martha were on the phone at all hours as our daughter asked desperate questions. Was she doing the right thing? Should she let the baby cry herself to sleep or pick her up and cuddle her? Was something wrong if the baby cried? Was something wrong when she stopped crying? Was our daughter was doing something wrong? “I don’t think I’m cut out for this,” she said, weeping. 

Martha flew to Georgia for a week so our daughter and her wonderful husband would have the support they needed. Gradually our daughter’s anxiety subsided. Martha assured her that there was no such thing as a perfect parent. “Be a ‘good enough’ parent,” she said. “That’s all we can do.”

A year and two months later, our daughter is a self-assured, loving, and nurturing mother to her toddler, who is already running around the house. Like all mothers, she quickly learned how to be a “good enough” parent, and now she stands ready to support and advise other new mothers.

We celebrate all our daughters who have had the experience of being mothers for the first time. We feel their joy. We celebrate God’s love and miracles of new life.

On this night of nights, we also celebrate the miracle that Mary brought into the world.

But as we gaze on her pious and contented face in a myriad of manger scenes and art, we remember that her placid surface may well hide a myriad of fears and anxieties.

We may never understand all Mary went through to deliver the savior unto us. But we rejoice that she went through it with faith and courage.

“My soul magnifies the Lord,” she said, “and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior.”

Tonight in carols and candles, our spirits also rejoice in God our Savior.

We rejoice in those who were not deterred by their fears from bringing this holy night to the world.

Happy Birthday, baby Jesus. 

And Merry Christmas to all.

Mother Mary, Untangle Us

December 22, 2025, First Lutheran Church of Throggs Neck, Bronx, N.Y. 

 “My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant. Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed; for the Mighty One has done great things for me, and holy is his name.

His mercy is for those who fear him from generation to generation. He has shown strength with his arm; he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts. He has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly; he has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty. He has helped his servant Israel, in remembrance of his mercy, according to the promise he made to our ancestors, to Abraham and to his descendants forever.” Luke 1:46b-55

Great stuff. It’s hard to believe this speech was uttered by an illiterate 14-year-old who has just been told she is pregnant. In her unmarried state, extra-marital sex and pregnancy could get her stoned.

“Oh, crap,” would be a more understandable response.

But it is foolish to underestimate Mary. With titles like Queen of the Universe, Queen of Heaven, and Mother of God, she is a major player God’s drama.

Less known but equally important is her title, “Untier of Knots.”

Indeed, some of the thornier knots she faces can be detected in the Magnificat, one of the scripture readings designated for the fourth Sunday in Advent. There are no greater tangles than the pride that makes people think they are greater than God, or the arrogant power of politicians who oppress the poor. But the little peasant girl perceives that no imbroglio is beyond the power of God, who casts down the powerful, lifts up the lowly, feeds the hungry, and sends the rich away.

But we all have painful knots in our lives, and one tradition of the church is that Mary has been given the power to loosen, unravel, and untie the bonds which paralyze us. In the words of a novena for Mary:

Mary, my Mother, God has charged you
With untangling the knots in the lives of his children;
Into your hands I place the ribbon of my life.
No one, not the evil one himself,
Can deprive it of your merciful assistance.
There is no knot that cannot be untangled by your hands.

Anyone who has spent a morning detangling a gnarled spaghetti of Christmas lights or computer cables knows that untying knots requires patience. Untying knots is a persistent trial-and-error of inserting ends through likely snags, un-inserting them when the knot tightens, gingerly reinserting in the hopes of loosening the kinks, and resisting the temptation to cast the jumble aside and walk away. Any time a knot is untied, it's a miracle.

If Mary has the power to untie knots, it’s no wonder she’s the Queen of Heaven. 

Sometimes the knots we get in our lives seem beyond untangling.  We sendan email to a trusted friend, complaining about a colleague, and accidentally send it to everyone in the office. We drink too much at an office party and the boss discovers us asleep beneath her desk. We forget to set the emergency brake of our car and it rolls down the driveway into a passing police car. 

But most of our personal knots are less dramatic. We say cruel words to a friend that cannot be unheard. We get overwhelmed by the complexities of our jobs and can’t get out of bed in the mornings. We shun family members because of imagined slights and can’t figure out how to start talking again. We are angry and frustrated by friends or relatives whose political views we regard as neo-Nazi and we build emotional barriers between us. We fall into a morass of boredom and ennui and don’t know how to restore meaning to our lives. 

As a Lutheran with a Baptist background, I know enough to pray to the Lord when these predicaments appear, and I know how to do it: “Lord, we just pray that you will help, and we just pray Lord that you will just make things good again, and we just pray …” In my tradition, the word “just” is used the way “selah” is used by the Hebrew Psalmist. It gives us a sense of timing and sometimes makes us feel better.

Certainly Jesus loves us and understands our pain. But sometimes I wish we Protestants hadn’t forgotten how to pray to an untier of knots who knows what it’s like to be a loving and a long-suffering mother.

Unfortunately, many Protestants have cast Mary aside as if she was a remnant of archaic papist habits we have rejected, like making the sign of the cross or saying vain and repetitious prayers or imbibing actual wine during the Lord’s Supper.

Mary remains, however, an important character in our Christmas pageants. In our little community church in Morrisville, N.Y., we’d find a blonde girl who looked cute with a white towel draped over her head and give her the role of a lifetime: gazing adoringly at a 40-watt light bulb portraying the baby Jesus in the manger.

Even so, one has to wonder why low-church Protestants have been so unaffected by Mary’s charisma. She was, after all, the mother of Jesus. We can't ignore that, but neither do we regard her with the same high status and deep respect as our Roman Catholic and Orthodox sisters and brothers.

Given what we know about Mary, we have vastly underestimated her. She was, among other things, a peasant girl. She was born into a patriarchal culture where girls counted for naught, and her family had to contend each day with an occupying army that regarded the Jews as superstitious bumpkins.

Mary and other girls were inconsequential members of their families, valued only for their cooking and cleaning skills. Mary was not expected to read, have opinions, make decisions, or fall in love. She did not go out and choose her husband because she liked his limpid brown eyes and sinewy pecs.

Joseph, like everything else in her life, was assigned to her by her father. Joseph, one might even say, was forced upon her. Based on what we know about the culture, Mary would have been between 12 and 14 when she was betrothed, which probably happened shortly after her first menstrual period.

What happened next must have been terrifying. Look at it from her point of view. She’s 14. She’s engaged to a stranger. She’s innocent of the ways of the world. She may not even understand what sexual intercourse is, but she’s old enough to know that if she does it before she is married, her parents and her neighbors will drag her out of the house and kill her with rocks.

Then one day Mary is told she is pregnant. That could not have been good news, even if it was delivered by an angel. Her first thought must have been that the angel was delivering a death sentence.

And even when the angel sought to reassure her that everything was all right, it’s hard to imagine she was in any sense relieved. With child, you say? With child? by God? You wouldn’t believe it today if someone said you or your daughter was pregnant by God.

This moment at which Mary was informed of her pregnancy – the Annunciation – has been portrayed in literature, song, Frescoes, statuary and art for two thousand years.

Certainly a miracle has happened, and throughout its history the church has seen it this way: a virgin has conceived by the Holy Spirit, God knoweth how.

But, according to Luke, a new miracle of equal power began to unfold. Once the shock wore off and Mary caught her breath, this 14-year-old peasant girl, this cipher who can’t read and has been told never to think, commences to utter one of the most revolutionary statements in human history.

God has shown strength with his arm; he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts. He has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly; he has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty. He has helped his servant Israel, in remembrance of his mercy, according to the promise he made to our ancestors, to Abraham and to his descendants for ever.’ (Luke 1:51-55, NRSV)

Overthrow the powerful?

Raise up the peasants?

Feed the hungry?

Reject the rich?

The angel must have been as shocked as Mary was when she was informed she was pregnant. No sooner than she opens her mouth than she begins untying the cosmic knots she sees around her.

From the very beginning, demure little Mary far exceeded the expectations of her family and culture.

In the same way, she obviously exceeds the expectations of Baptists and others who set her aside along with the high liturgical trappings and arbitrary hierarchies of the oppressive churches we escaped. 

Ironically, as we can detect from her opening speech, Mary is the one thing we should have held on to.

Many low-church Protestants shed a lot of high-church trappings that reminded us of the Church of England and other oppressors. 

Given the importance Mary’s son assigned to his last supper, for instance, it seems almost heretical that some denominations - and here I'm thinking of Baptists, my former tribe - limit their communion ordinance to once as month. They've abandoned the beautiful litanies and liturgies of the Book of Common Prayer because they think it’s holier to pray from our hearts. And despite their eagerness to be transparent witnesses of our faith, we tossedsaside the most visible demonstration of what we believe: making the sign of the cross when we pray.

Baptists have also exchanged priests, bishops and hierarchs for soul liberty and the priesthood of all believers, and who can say they are not better off?

But when you consider the importance of Mary to the church and to Jesus, I they we had not been so quick to set her aside.

Mary’s first utterance, as recorded by Luke, sets the scene for all that is to come. She quickly grasps what is happening: the God everyone expected to come in shock and awe is actually coming as a mewling, puking boy. But that counter-intuitive revelation preceded the turning of the universe on its head. And with Jesus still zygotic in her womb, Mary knew it all.

But more than that, it was Mary who nursed him, guided his first steps, toilet trained him, and whispered in his ear the Godly secrets that would change the world. 

In a sense better understood by our higher church sisters and brothers, Mary is also our own mother in that she symbolizes a side of God we rarely acknowledge: God’s feminine side.

Years ago I attended the funeral of a good friend on the American Baptist staff. He was young and energetic and his sudden death from a cerebral hemorrhage was a devastating shock.

As we sat sadly in our pews, my late friend’s wife was surrounded by her young children. The children, confused and frightened, began to cry. And their mother reached out her arms to them and hugged them tightly, whispering comfort in their ears.

The minister who officiated at the funeral pointed to the widow.

“Here we see how God comes to us as a mother,” he said. “God shares our grief, our sense of loss, but the Mother God’s first instinct is to embrace and console her children.”

Sometimes we need a divine mother, a goddess, who knew something Jesus didn’t: the experience of motherhood.

One thing the angel did not reveal to Mary at the Annunciation is that giving birth to God’s son would not be all gold and frankincense.  That message fell to a dying old man when the baby Jesus was presented in the temple.

Then Simeon blessed them and said to his mother Mary, “This child is destined for the falling and rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be opposed so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed – and a sword will pierce your own soul, too. – Luke 2:34-35, NRSV)

Throughout history, when a woman is overwhelmed by the joys of motherhood, or when the sorrows of motherhood break her heart, the mother of Jesus understands with an intimacy that transcends the experience of fathers and sons. “I’m a mother so I pray to Mary,” many women say. “She was a mother, too.”

Sometimes I wish I was as comfortable as many of my Catholic and Orthodox friends in relying on Mary as an eternal reminder that God whom we call Father has another dimension we rarely call on: the Goddess. God the mother.

And precisely because she is a mother, Mary has the spiritual and moral power to be the untier of knots.

Advent is a perfect time to remind us of the crucial role this peasant woman played in the life of Jesus and in the foundation of the church, and give her the honor she is due.

Mother Mary, come to us, speaking words of wisdom. Untie our knots. 

Let it be.

Unquenchable Fire

 

First Lutheran Church of Throggs Neck, Bronx, N.Y., December 15, 2024

In today’s Gospel, Luke is running hot and cold.

“[The Messiah] will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire,” John the Baptizer declares. “His winnowing fork is in his hand, to clear his threshing floor and to gather the wheat into his granary; but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire.” (Luke 3:16-17)

Oh boy. 

That’s harsh. And as a sinner, I must ask myself: am I wheat? Or am I chaff? Am I a nourishing member of the community? Or am I a scourge of the gluten intolerant.

Luke continues:

“So, with many other exhortations, [John] proclaimed the good news to the people.” (Luke 3:18)

Excuse me? Which part of that was good news? The winnowing or the unquenchable fire?

On this third Sunday in Advent it’s hard to think about fiery Jesus. We’re focused on the tiny babe in the manger, gentle Jesus meek and mild, the Jesus who looks upon us with love and calls us “little flock.”

But just a few chapters later, Luke’s narrative runs hot again:

Jesus said: “I came to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled! I have a baptism with which to be baptized, and what stress I am under until it is completed! Do you think that I have come to bring peace to the earth? No, I tell you, but rather division! From now on five in one household will be divided, three against two and two against three; they will be divided father against son and son against father, mother against daughter and daughter against mother, mother-in-law against daughter-in-law and daughter-in-law against mother-in-law.” (Luke 12:49-53)

Oh, boy. 

Once Jesus is calling us “little flock” and assuring us it is the Father’s good pleasure to give us the kingdom. (Luke 12:32). Now he’s bringing fire and division to the earth, and he describes a household that sounds like an extended family’s combative Thanksgiving dinner.

We know Jesus’ life on earth was replete with many opponents and divisions. The devil challenged him in the wilderness, The members of the Nazareth synagogue tried throw him off a cliff. The Pharisees tried to catch him in legal conundrums. His own family thought he was crazy and tried to have him taken away. 

Now he is telling his disciples that the divisions will get worse as he brings fire – presumably a metaphorical fire, but who knows? – to the earth.

How we wish Jesus was still offering words of comfort to his “little flock.”

But if we look back on two millennia of church history we see he has a point. Since the earliest days, division and fire have been the most constant threads in church history.

So it was when his mother Mary realized what God was saying in her womb: 

“He has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts. He has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly; he has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty.” (Luke 1:51b-53.)

So it was when the baby Jesus was presented in the temple and Simeon declared to Mary, 

“This child is destined for the falling and the rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be opposed so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed – and a sword will pierce your own soul, too.” (Luke 2:34-35)

So it was years later when the first of Jesus’ followers came to loggerheads over whether uncircumcised gentiles could be Christians.

So it was during the Catholic Church’s Western Schism in the 14th century when popes and antipopes competed for power in Europe.

So it was when Martin Luther’s 95 theses led to the Protestant reformation in the 16th century, forever dividing the church.

And so it was when Lutherans splintered along ethnic lines: German Lutherans, Norwegian Lutherans, Swedish Lutherans, liberal Lutherans, Missouri Synod Lutherans.

Is it possible that God’s plan for growing the church is schism?

I spent several years on the staff of the World Council of Churches and the U.S. National Council of Churches. For both councils, Christian unity was an idealistic goal. The staffs spent much of their time preparing resources for the Week of Prayer for Christian Unity, an event that is observed each January in concert with the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops.

The prayers for unity have not been entirely successful. It has never been possible for all Christians to sit down together at the Lord’s common table to celebrate the Lord’s Supper. Catholic churches will not allow Protestant Christians to receive the Eucharist. Most Orthodox churches, even those who are members of the World and National Councils, will never sit down with other members to receive the blood and body of Christ. And as we all know, many Protestant churches and congregations bar non-members from the communion table.

Too, the churches cannot agree on styles of baptism – dripping or dunking – and Catholics, Orthodox, Pentecostals, and others refuse to ordain women as pastors and bishops, no matter how clear the call of the Holy Spirit may be.

The divisions are exhausting.

But are they exhausting because, as Jesus said, we do not know how to interpret the present time? (Luke 12:56)

It is a maxim of our time that our country has not been so divided – politically and spiritually – since the Civil War.

What do we make of the rising clouds, the south wind, the scorching heat that are signs of our times?

For many years we have been feeling the scorching heat:

The heat of sisters and brothers in many of our churches who support political views based on lies, white supremacy, racism, antisemitism, islamophobia, and ethnic hatreds.

The heat of racially motivated attacks and mass shootings aimed at African Americans, Muslims, Sikhs, Asians, Jews, and others.

“I came to bring fire to the earth,” Jesus said, “and how I wish it were already kindled. I have a baptism with which to be baptized, and what stress I am under until it is completed!” (Luke 12:49-50)

When Jesus talks about fire, we know very well he is not referring to the glowing logs in our fireplaces on a cold night. That kind of fire soothes us and makes us sleepy. It lulls us to quiet inaction when we are surrounded by threats and dangers all around us.

Could it be that Jesus is calling us to feel fire in our hearts – a burning commitment to be witnesses for justice?

Professor Troy Trofrgruben of Wartburg Seminary in Dubuque, suggests that when John calls his listeners to repentance, he’s not merely addressing unrepentant sinners. He’s not leaving anyone out. 

Sure, he’s calling out devious and corrupt politicians. 

Sure, he’s calling out unscrupulous landlords who won’t waste money turning on the heat and leave their tenants to suffer in the cold. 

Sure, he’s calling out drug dealers who profit on the suffering of their customers. 

Sure, he’s calling out health insurance providers who make billions in profits while denying their customers what they need to fight their diseases. 

Sure, he’s calling out American oligarchs for spending billions to send their rockets into space while so many people – including their own employees – live on the edge of poverty.

But John is also calling out the Church Lady – and thank you, Lorne Michaels for bringing her back – who has lost her passion for faith and judges those around her with a dismissive, “Isn’t that special?”

He’s calling out hard-working dudes who keep their faith a secret among their co-workers and sleep in in Sunday mornings instead of going to church.

He’s calling out those who stay quiet as persons of different races, ethnicities, faiths, and sexual orientations are ridiculed or abused by bullies.

He’s calling out you. He’s calling out me.

But if he’s asking all of us to face our sins, where is the good news?

Professor Trofrgruben writes, “In today’s world, where polarizing caricatures of others are easier and more self-assuring than nuanced appreciations of their humanity and experience, the audiences who respond to John—and the way he takes them seriously—invite us to lay our stones down. The good news in Luke’s Gospel is for all—even those we deem threatening.  While a call to repent may not seem like “good news,” it marks an invitation to a life better aligned with God’s purpose—and on that path, there is joy.”

The call to repentance may truly be good news. It invites us to take practical steps toward aligning our lives more squarely with God’s purposes—not just in theory, but in practice. “

The call to repentance is for us to reignite the fire in our own hearts, the fire that inspires us to celebrate that while we were in sin, Christ found us. The fire that compels us to live Christlike lives. The fire that compels us to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with our God.

Henry M. Nouwen wrote: 

“Jesus’ whole life was a witness to his Father's love, and Jesus calls his followers to carry on that witness in his Name.  We, as followers of Jesus, are sent into this world to be visible signs of God’s unconditional love. Thus we are not first of all judged by what we say but by what we live.  When people say of us:  ‘See how they love one another,’ they catch a glimpse of the Kingdom of God that Jesus announced and are drawn to it as by a magnet.”

It’s not going to be easy. There are still going to be people we can’t stand. There are still temptations we can’t ignore. There is still the potential that we will make terrible mistakes.

But “in a world so torn apart by rivalry, anger, and hatred,” Nouwen writes, “We have the privileged vocation to be living signs of a love that can bridge all divisions and heal all wounds.”

It takes fire in out hearts to assume that privileged vocation. It takes the unquenchable fire that will burn away the chaff in our hearts and set us on the path top discipleship.

Professor Jerusha Matsen Neal quotes the poet Mary Oliver in her book, What I Have Learned So far.

The fire that Jesus brings “is a fire that, like Simeon’s piercing prophecy to Mary, tests the heart – revealing the thoughts of many and calling for a baptism of commitment.

As we strive to represent God’s truth and Jesus’ love amid the divisions and dangers of our times, may God give us the courage to be ignited.

As Oliver says:

“’Be Ignited or begone.’”

Advance Prophet

December 8, 2024, First Lutheran Church, Throggs Neck, Bronx, N.Y.

As many Christians observe the second Sunday of Advent, we find ourselves re-reading beloved stories of Jesus’ coming and the appearance of John the Baptist.

(John) went into all the region around the Jordan, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins, as it is written in the book of the words of the prophet Isaiah, “The voice of one crying out in the wilderness: ‘Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight. Every valley shall be filled, and every mountain and hill shall be made low, and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough ways made smooth; and all flesh shall see the salvation of God.’” (Luke 3:1-6)

John the Baptist appears in all four Gospels, and he is mentioned by a first century historian, Flavius Josephus, in his Antiquities of the Jews. The Romans knew more about John than they knew about Jesus.

John was, to put it in modern terms, the greatest second banana in history.

We know from practical experience that second bananas are not always content with (to expand the metaphor) their second fiddle fare, nor are they enamored with their charismatic superiors in whose shadows they musty dwell. Examples of resentful subordinates abound in history.

As Lin-Manuel Miranda has reminded us, Aaron Burr was so outraged by Alexander Hamilton’s obvious superiority that he became “the damn fool who shot him.”

Vice President Thomas Jefferson smiled sardonically as his followers accused President John Adams of having a “hideous hermaphroditical character, which has neither the force and firmness of a man, nor the gentleness and sensibility of a woman.” Jefferson may not have used the words, but he could have said, “I’m Thomas Jefferson and I approve this message.”

During the Second World War, British Field Marshall Bernard Law Montgomery dismissed his superior, General Dwight D. Eisenhower, with four words: “Nice chap, no soldier.” More than once, Monty tried to usurp Eisenhower’s job as allied field commander in Europe.

Vice President Harry S Truman described his boss, President Franklin D. Roosevelt, as “the coldest man I ever knew,” and “a faker.”

Vice President Richard Nixon, who owed everything to President Eisenhower, called Ike “devious,” although he added a Nixonian qualification that he meant the word in its “best sense.” 

Vice President Lyndon Johnson hid his contempt for President John F. Kennedy, whom he regarded as a callow playboy who was physically not up to the job. According to his biographer Robert Caro, LBJ would put his thumb and forefinger together to demonstrate the circumference of JFK’s ankle, suggesting Kennedy was neither physically nor temperamentally fit for power.

Historically, Second Bananas had a bad habit of knocking First Bananas off their pedestals. In England, Prince Stephen usurped the throne from Queen Matilda in 1135; Henry IV from Richard II in 1399; Edward IV from Henry VI in 1461; Richard III from Edward V in 1483; Henry VII from Richard III in 1485; Mary I from the legally designated Queen Jane in 1553; and William III and Mary II from James II in 1689.

In fact, virtually every empire and geopolitical entity in the world has had its usurpers. Second Bananaship inevitably fuels a drive to the top job.

Church historians and cynical observers have wondered if John the Baptist was content with the role. Did he, in fact, actually think of himself as a Second Banana?

The biblical and historic record suggests he was an extraordinarily gifted man with a magnetic personality who attracted thousands to his watery warren in the Jordan River and acknowledged no authority but God’s. He had innumerable disciples who followed him faithfully.

John’s father, Zechariah, foresaw a starring role for the boy:

“And you, child, will be called the prophet of the Most High; for you will go before the Lord to prepare his ways, to give knowledge of salvation to his people by the forgiveness of their sins. By the tender mercy of our God, the dawn from on high will break upon us, to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace.” (Luke 1:76-79)

Later, Luke introduces John with historical precision, marking for posterity the time and place he first appeared:

In the fifteenth year of the reign of Emperor Tiberius, when Pontius Pilate was governor of Judea, and Herod was ruler of Galilee, and his brother Philip ruler of the region of Ituraea and Trachonitis, and Lysanias ruler of Abilene, during the high priesthood of Annas and Caiaphas, the word of God came to John son of Zechariah in the wilderness. 

If there was ever a religious or political leader qualified to think of himself as number one, it was John the Baptist. He is one of a small handful of bible characters who appear in accounts outside the bible. In addition to his appearance in Josephus’ histories he plays a prophetic role in the Qur’an. According to the Encyclopedia of Islam, Sufi Muslims hold John in high regard because of the Qur’an’s account of his astute wisdom, unfailing kindness, and sexual purity.

John’s significance as a prophet and first century evangelist has led some scholars to theorize his Second-Banana-to-Jesus status was an after thought made up by uneasy Christians seeking a credible cover story. The fact that Jesus was among several thousand who came to John for baptism suggests to some – including scholars who work so hard to destroy the faith of innocent seminarians – that Jesus initially thought of himself as a disciple of John. All the prophetic references casting John in the role of the “voice crying in the wilderness” to prepare the way for the Messiah came later, these cynics say, to explain why Jesus was baptized by John, a mere Second Banana. 

There is even biblical support for the notion that John was never fully persuaded of Jesus’ messianic role: “He sent word by his disciples and said to (Jesus), ‘Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?’” (Matthew 11:3).

So John had moments of doubt. So do I. So do you. Christian writer Frederick Buechner said, “Doubts are the ants in the pants of faith. They keep it awake and moving.”

And the testimony of Holy Scripture always reveals the truth. John knew who he was, and he knew who Jesus was. 

When crowds came to him asking if he was the Messiah, John put them straight.

“I baptize you with water; but one who is more powerful than I is coming; I am not worthy to untie the thongs of his sandals. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire.” (Luke. 3:16)

We may find it hard to respect Second Bananas, or to trust them to be loyal to the person at the top. History is too full of Second Bananas who were driven to push their bosses aside and snatch the power away.  

And the markedly loyal Second Bananas we know were hardly threats to the throne. I remember with fondness Andy Divine’s “Jingles” who rode with Guy Madison’s Wild Bill Hickock, or Gabby Hayes’ humorous subservience to Roy Rogers and Hopalong Cassidy, or Leo Carrillo’s Pancho who rode with Duncan Reynaldo’s Cisco Kid, or – lest we forget – Ed McMahon who loyally laughed at Johnny Carson’s funniest – and weakest – ripostes. 

Ideally, Second Bananas should not threaten their bosses. And John the Baptist was no comical sidekick, so some scholars have had difficulty thinking of him as a number two.

The skepticism is understandable because it is so difficult to accept the logic of Jesus’ oxymoronic declaration: “So the last will be first and the first will be last.” (Matthew 20:16)

Jesus also made it clear what happens to Second Bananas who seek to usurp power:

“You know that the rulers of the Gentiles lord it over them, and their great ones are tyrants over them. It will not be so among you; but whoever wishes to be first among you must also be your slave; just as the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many.” (Matthew 20: 25-28)

Perhaps no one in history had a more important supporting role than John the Baptist.

“The voice of one crying out in the wilderness: ‘Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight. Every valley shall be filled, and every mountain and hill shall be made low, and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough ways made smooth; and all flesh shall see the salvation of God.’” (Luke 3:1-6)

He was, by his own declaration, not the Messiah. His role was to prepare the way, to call people to repentance, to remind them of the preeminence of God in human lives, and to open their hearts and minds to the coming of Jesus.

That may be only a supporting role, but it’s a great one.

John the Baptist is no Messiah but neither is he a Second Banana. 

In the eyes of God and all who seek to emulate his role every day, his status in the divine hierarchy is clear.

John the Baptist is banana number one.