My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord; my spirit rejoices in God my savior (Lk. 1:46-47)

According to Jesus, the Baptist is the greatest of those born of women.  He is more than a prophet, for he is the one sent ahead of the Messiah to prepare his way.

And there is, of course, great contrast between the preacher in the desert and those dwelling in palaces where one eats sumptuously and dresses in fine clothing.  But the Precursor’s austere lifestyle implies his having backbone, something that is lacking in not a few aristocrats.  He is not a reed that is at the mercy of the wind.  He is a daring witness to the way, the truth and the life:  he calls people to confession of sins and to conversion, so that they may overflow with the joyful hope of salvation; he stands up to the “brood of vipers”; he urges hearers to practice righteous generosity; he forbids tax collectors to be greedy and soldiers, to abuse their authority; he reproaches tetrarch Herod to his face for his transgression.

But with all his greatness and integrity, John remains a realist, and therefore, humble.  He makes it clear that someone mightier than he is about to come.  He puts him at the center of attention.  The transparent messenger does not conceal, but rather reveals, Jesus.  Hence, people of good will who see him as a medium of divine communication come away knowing the true message.

But I, on the other hand, let the greatness of my membership in the body of Christ go to my head.  Just like the Zebedee brothers, I jockey for powerful and influential positions.  Like the scribes, I harbor pretensions of grandeur; I go around dressed differently, so I may stand out above the common folks, whose respect I crave, ironically.  Against St. Paul’s advice, I get haughty and do not associate with the lowly, preferring instead the company of the rich, with whom I can wine and dine at their expense (Rom. 12:16).  Presumptuous, I believe myself having the right to enter the heavenly kingdom without doing God’s will, that it is sufficient that I say to Jesus, “Lord,” and invoke his name, or that I eat and drink with him and hear him teach.  Or I play the pampered Vincentian who, after doing extra work, demands—as holy Founder imagines him—that he be allowed the enjoyment of his room, his books, his Mass, or who, very content, folds his arms, without worrying about anything [1].  Also, like the meddlesome false brothers (Gal. 2:4), I impose on others because I am envious of their freedom and fearful that I am losing control of things or that soon I will no longer be handling them.  I even arrogate to myself the exclusive use of the adjective “Catholic,” at the risk of ending up preventing someone endowed by God with the gift of prophecy or exorcism (Num. 11:6-29; Mk. 9:38-40).

And my resorting to brute force or to illogical dictatorship, isn’t it simply my way of compensating for my lack of backbone or of covering it up?  I have to remind myself that to have the firmness that is at once humble, joyful and liberating, I need to be established in the truth of the one who gives his body up and sheds his blood as a ransom for all:  “Whoever wishes to be the first … will be the slave of all.”  Being that little, he is greater than the Baptist.