My friend, John the Baptizer

John the Baptist appeared, preaching in the desert of Judea and saying … "I am baptizing you with water, for repentance, but the one who is coming after me is mightier than I. I am not worthy to carry his sandals. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire." (Matthew 3:1,11)

Click on internet links for John the Baptist and you may find: 

• a wild looking, scruffy guy, or
• a muscular movie-star handsome fellow, or  
• the semi-starved ascetic as depicted in metal sculpture, or 
• a rather ordinary man pouring water over the head of Jesus as they stand in a river, or …   

Where is John the Baptist in your imagination? Is he standing by the Jordan River, out in a desert or locked in a cell in a palace basement? Who was he to you back then? Wild, hostile, compassionate, deeply prayerful, condemnatory, an energetic teacher with his disciples, a gentle confessor to those who came to be baptized by him? Any, all, none of these? 

I've spent time with John over the years. I've stood in awe before the tapestry painting in the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels in Los Angeles and have sat in prayer with a photo of it many times. I've imagined and "listened" to the conversations John and Jesus might have had before and after the baptism. I've sat beside John in his cell pondering his life as he wonders whether he correctly understood his calling, whether he has done enough, whether he coulda/ woulda/shoulda done things differently. And what his fate will be. I've been there listening to him even as I asked those same questions about myself.

My time with John occurs in my imagination, of course, but I have found that the veil between my world and his is quite thin. A few months ago, two friends each shared with me that a friend who had recently died appeared and spoke to them on the night they died. In their mind's eye, so to speak? Yes. Was it really the person who had just died? Was it an authentic visit from beyond death? Yes, they said; oh, yes. 

I understand. My mother died while I was miles away. Her kidneys had failed; her body was so heavy with the extra fluid. She appeared to me, beautiful and energetic, saying, "Oh, look, Fran, I'm dancing! I'm dancing!" She had left dancing behind when she married my zero-sense-of-rhythm dad, and we never talked about her dancing. Was that really my mother? Was it really the message she would have wanted to give me? Yes, I could never ever have imagined those words. They were the most comforting gift she could ever have given me. That thin veil between us had parted for that special moment.