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Believe me, it’s a long way to the Jordan river: a slow, dusty road,
with the relentless heat making each mile feel longer than the one
before. Setting off, we were full of hope and fervour. Somewhere
in the fifth hour, hot, dirty and footsore, I wondered what had possessed
me. But then the road crested a hill and we could see the shimmer of the
water in the valley below, snaking through a green ribbon of foliage,
glinting in the heat. All I could think was how blissful it would be to
plunge into that cool water. I forgot for a moment that the object of our
journey was a person, not a bath.
To understand why we went, you have to remember that things have
been getting more and more uncomfortable in Judaea. With every passing
year the pressure builds up a little, until it’s simmering on the edge of
revolt. When you’re turned off land that your family has farmed for
generations so an occupying army can build a road, the sting of that
doesn’t go away. When they replace your king with a foreign governor,
who barely speaks your language and cares even less about your way of
life, you know you were right not to trust their promises of peace. When
the dirty collaborators who collect taxes for the Romans demand more
every year, making themselves rich on the proceeds while honest families
starve, is it surprising that tensions start to rise? People have started to
ask if God has deserted us. How can Israel’s protector allow us to be
enslaved on our own soil? And if God abandons us, who will rescue us?
In the old days, the stories say, there were prophets, wild men with
untameable messages of destruction, vengeance and glory. They pointed
God’s people back to the right path, filling them with courage for battle
and wisdom for life. They were larger than life, characters to fill your
mind with wonder and strengthen your resolve: Elijah calling down fire
from heaven; Samuel seeking out and anointing great King David when
he was nothing but a scrawny shepherd boy; Isaiah the visionary who
looked into the face of God himself. But there are no prophets now; only
rabbis poring over the scrolls to tease out their meaning, and a high priest
in Jerusalem who does what the Romans tell him. So when we heard
there was a preacher by the Jordan with a message of renewal, a man of
the wilderness with fire in his eyes, it felt like a flicker of hope for our
nation. The least we could do was go and see for ourselves.
It turned out we weren’t the only ones. As we approached the river,
we met throngs of people heading the same way, arguing about who or
what they’d come to see. A leader, said some. A rabbi, said others. A
prophet was what we were hoping for, someone to point the way to a
better future.
Believe me, it’s a long way to the Jordan river: a slow, dusty road,
with the relentless heat making each mile feel longer than the one
before. Setting off, we were full of hope and fervour. Somewhere
in the fifth hour, hot, dirty and footsore, I wondered what had possessed
me. But then the road crested a hill and we could see the shimmer of the
water in the valley below, snaking through a green ribbon of foliage,
glinting in the heat. All I could think was how blissful it would be to
plunge into that cool water. I forgot for a moment that the object of our
journey was a person, not a bath.
To understand why we went, you have to remember that things have
been getting more and more uncomfortable in Judaea. With every passing
year the pressure builds up a little, until it’s simmering on the edge of
revolt. When you’re turned off land that your family has farmed for
generations so an occupying army can build a road, the sting of that
doesn’t go away. When they replace your king with a foreign governor,
who barely speaks your language and cares even less about your way of
life, you know you were right not to trust their promises of peace. When
the dirty collaborators who collect taxes for the Romans demand more
every year, making themselves rich on the proceeds while honest families
starve, is it surprising that tensions start to rise? People have started to
ask if God has deserted us. How can Israel’s protector allow us to be
enslaved on our own soil? And if God abandons us, who will rescue us?
In the old days, the stories say, there were prophets, wild men with
untameable messages of destruction, vengeance and glory. They pointed
God’s people back to the right path, filling them with courage for battle
and wisdom for life. They were larger than life, characters to fill your
mind with wonder and strengthen your resolve: Elijah calling down fire
from heaven; Samuel seeking out and anointing great King David when
he was nothing but a scrawny shepherd boy; Isaiah the visionary who
looked into the face of God himself. But there are no prophets now; only
rabbis poring over the scrolls to tease out their meaning, and a high priest
in Jerusalem who does what the Romans tell him. So when we heard
there was a preacher by the Jordan with a message of renewal, a man of
the wilderness with fire in his eyes, it felt like a flicker of hope for our
nation. The least we could do was go and see for ourselves.
It turned out we weren’t the only ones. As we approached the river,
we met throngs of people heading the same way, arguing about who or
what they’d come to see. A leader, said some. A rabbi, said others. A
prophet was what we were hoping for, someone to point the way to a
better future.
Upper room Prohet Journeyeye witness
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