John 1:6-8, 19-28

'To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive.' — Robert Louis Stevenson.

The Jewish priests and Levites in Jerusalem crowded in around him, 'Who are you?' they demanded. He was the one going around talking about darkness and light; he was the one making a lot of noise and saying he was here to talk about the Light who had come. Even though there was much darkness, he said that it would not consume all. The Light would not be overpowered by the dark.

'Who you are,' they asked. 'What are you talking about?'

He answered, even though he was not asked this specifically, 'I am not the Messiah.' 'Are you Elijah?' 'No.' 'Are you a prophet?' 'I am not.' 'Who are you?'

Last week, we experienced John the Baptist, as the one who calls us to turn around, to get ready for the One who is coming. John, for us, is that rough and tumble guy dressed in coarse attire and eating things which are even coarser.

But the gospel of John is unlike our first experience of this man John and unlike the gospel of Mark who describes John as the Baptizer, or Matthew's gospel where John is John the Baptist and where both those gospels have John preaching of repentance. The gospel of John is unlike the third synoptic Gospel as well; Luke describes John as the son of Zechariah. Luke gives him a family lineage and geographic location. The gospel of John has nothing of this.

John's gospel describes John not as a prophet, baptizer, preacher, or messenger. Here John has no props; John simply comes as a martyria, a martyr, or a witness. He is described in the introduction by the gospel writer as not the Light but rather the one who gives witness to the Light. John himself does not even use his own words to describe himself but says harkening back to Isaiah, 'I am the voice of one crying out in the wilderness.'

John, the man, is an observant man who gives witness to what he sees. The gospel of John uses no props; there is nothing of Bethlehem, stable, shepherds, Mary or Joseph. But simply, through John's witness, presents the coming of Christ as the Light of the world.

Even more spectacularly in a low-key kind of way, in our reading, John answers the Levites' and priests' questioning by saying, 'Among you stands the one whom you do not know….' Again: John is observant where others do not notice.

We are coming down to the wire as Christmas comes closer and closer. One and a half weeks to go. The demands of our attention and time are squeezed into a shorter and shorter time frame. Will we get it all done? Power outages, clean up, illnesses, work deadlines, balancing bank books, and other kinds of inconveniences have interrupted our plans. Can we possibly work and move in a higher gear, and hold it all together another two weeks when Christ will have arrived?

These demands are counter to what we really need to do: to slow down and take in this present time. Our ice storm caused me to stop by the grocery for some foods, as I headed home early on Thursday afternoon. Friday I found myself waking up and first thing, I was looking out the window. I was greeted with ice-covered tree branches, grasses, bushes and driveway; some small cherry trees were downed along the perimeter of the lawn. It all forced me to slow down, skate out to get the newspaper, and watch and listen. Even as I slowed, I did laundry as I read. I cleaned the first floor and I read. I made some coffee and collected some water as we were warned to do; and then as if on cue, the electricity went out. (Instead of just leaning into this opportunity for rest and thought, I questioned - now what can I do with no electricity?) I heard the big maple tree land on the ground with a thud. The enormity of the storm kept reminding me - slow down, sister, just sit and notice what's around you.

I woke up yesterday looking again immediately out the window: the outdoors glistening in the sun. At one point, I looked out into our wooded area thinking I was seeing the reflection of white Christmas tree lights from somewhere. But no, the sun light was captured in little balls of light in the ice sheath of a tree. It was beautiful! Later, Carter and I drove, slowly and carefully, into a wonderland of ice covered trees everywhere. It was magnificent!

John reminds me 'Among you stands the One whom you do not know….'

On returning, I decided to look more closely at this once mighty maple now halved in size while half lay on its branches. And perhaps to survey the rest of the yard, the three cherry trees now cut off half way up their trunks. Not until I came close to the maple did I realize our neighbor's house wires were all tangled in the mess of branches. I walked carefully looking from a safe distance. Twenty-four hours had gone by and I hadn't even realized our neighbors hadn't gotten their electricity back. Walking around, slowing down, another neighbor and I spoke. There were at least five houses on our street still without electricity! Some have generators. One family with young ones and another couple decided to take refuge in a hotel. In slowing down some more, I found that the couple who after 27 years of being together just recently married - in a quiet, small ceremony; she is being treated for stage four cancers. What do we miss in our moving forward each day in following our agendas? The neighbor, yes, but even more - someone greater. John reminds me, 'Among you stands the One whom you do not know….'

Do we slow down enough to notice that One? It doesn't need to be Advent to ask that question of ourselves. But it is Advent. It can be a time to begin. Are we attentive to what's really important? Do we slow down enough to notice God at play, at work, at home? The One does not come just on Christmas Eve when we hope for a few snowflakes, a candle lit Silent Night, Holy Night, a perfect Martha Stewart gathering, and a babe wrapped in swaddling cloths.

The New York Times on Friday devoted its lead Escapes Section with an article entitled The Simple Life. The article told of the increased numbers of folks who are stressed, harried and not necessarily religious who are taking advantage of weekend get-a-ways to many of the Catskill Mountain ashrams and monasteries. One person said, 'It wasn't fun in the traditional sense, but it was the opposite of my life in New York City and a return to a very uncomplicated way of living. It gave me the rest and relaxation I was looking for.'

We're a people who hunger after de-stressing our lives; we dream of relaxation. We even take advantage of mini weekends as we take advantage of an hour or two at one of the many new spas promising to take us away from the routine.

A monk might say that we are looking for an opportunity to get in touch with our self again, or looking to have an opportunity to meet the holy. John reminds us 'Among you is the One whom you do not know….'

Mark Burrows writes of Vigils and the Rest. He speaks of how he got away from his harried life seeking renewal in a Kentucky monastery; this is something the United Church of Christ pastor and professor from Andover Newton does regularly.

At 3 A.M. the great bell tolls, rousing monks and guests alike from their sleep. The bell is a reminder of the psalms to be sung - even in the deep of night, in seemingly lonely solitude. It is early winter; there is fresh snow on the ground. The moon shares its light across the land. In the distance, Mark can see farm house and barns - still dark and asleep. Two owls sing to each other; their song similar to the antiphonal psalm singing, back and forth, among the monks, that they sing and pray. 'Hoooo-ooo-ooo.' The owls sing. The monks: 'I will bless the Lord at all times/his praise always on my lips.'

'Perhaps the antiphonal singing of owls and that of the monks as they begin to make their way through the two nocturnes express a common truth,' Mark writes: 'both contribute while the world sleeps on. Monks and owls alike shape the echoes of praise even into the night.'

Mark Burrows, a student of Thomas Merton, had come to Gethsemani Monastery for some quiet days of retreat, not to lecture or teach, but to be released from his own and others' expectations of him. He became immersed in the mundane and the routine; he was called by the nocturnal song of the owls and the psalms of the monks. The owls are not easily deceived, nor are the monks in choir as they resume their prayer of the psalms that had been interrupted by a few hours of sleep. 'Look at the birds of the air.' was the Scripture which caught Mark Burrows' attention in the silence of those nights, enticing him to keep his window ajar despite the frigid temperatures so he could hear the calls back and forth. John reminds him 'Among you stands the One who you do not know….'

We may not have the luxury or perhaps the inclination to take time and go on retreat. How might we pay attention to John's reminder? Slowing down, yes. Living fully in the present, yes. Being thankful. Even gathering here, once we've gotten everyone together and we're here - to worship, to be with others who worship in song, in prayer, in this space.

Prayer, too, can be a vehicle for us to slow down, to step off that treadmill of have-to's, to offer blessing and praise; it can be a mini retreat to put everything in perspective for the day about to begin and the day that has just ended. It can be, too, a way of noticing more in life then the to-do's that we have to check off our lists. Praying regularly brings on a rhythm to life. It brings us deeper into the here and now and beyond what we believe from ancient history, it brings us into closeness with the holy so that we can begin to recognize the One we did not know. The Holy then becomes Emmanuel; God with us - not just on Christmas but again and again, here, now, Jesus, yesterday, today and always.

Maybe then we see the One who stands among us.