Beware the Dog!

Her name is Diane and she was talking about the gifts registry at Toys R Us, the huge toy store chain. Here’s how it works: Instead of talking to their parents or writing to a certain jolly old elf, all children have to do is sign up, take an infrared scanning gun, and go up and down the aisles of the store, zapping the bar codes on the boxes of the stuff they want for Christmas. The Toys R Us computer records their choices and stores their list in a centralized data bank. Even if she lives 500 miles away, all Granny has to do is go to her local Toys R Us, get a printout, see which items have not already been purchased by some other relative, and shell out her money (or more likely, swipe her credit card).

The printout for a typical child is four pages long.

Diane is the mother who happened to be in the store the day the radio reporter came to interview parents about the system. She said she loves it because it eliminates any possibility of disappointment. "I don’t like to see disappointment on their faces," she said. "My kids know what they want. I want to make them happy by giving them what they want. That’s the whole purpose of Christmas."

I actually screamed at her in my bathroom mirror, "No, Diane! That isn’t the whole purpose of Christmas!" Then my heart went out to her. I could see her hauling the kids down to Toys R Us in the mini van, signing them up, and escorting them as they run up one aisle and down the next like rats in a maze, searching for their heart’s desire. I could see her in my mirror, pushing her youngest in a stroller as her two older children pick out their action heroes and their computer games.

"This year," she’s thinking, "They won’t be disappointed. The purpose of Christmas will be satisfied. This year they’ll get what they want."

Barbara Brown Taylor calls John the Baptist "the Doberman pinscher of the gospel." He appears in the lectionary a couple of weeks before Christmas, just when we’re getting into the "holiday spirit." We’re on our way to Bethlehem, just a few blocks from the stable,

I suppose that’s what John the Baptist becomes in next week’s passage from Luke. But this week, he’s more like a coyote howling in the woods in the vacant lot behind Toys R Us. OOOOOLLL! "Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight." I’m not sure Diane can hear him over the squeals of anticipation from her scanner-wielding children. I’m not sure we can, either.

The problem with John is, he’s not the kind of person we’re used to listening to. Luke is keenly aware of that. You can tell by the way he sets the stage for John’s appearance.

Back in chapter one, Luke has old Zechariah break his nine-month silence to brag about this little boy who has just been born to him and Elizabeth in the geriatric wing of Beth Israel Hospital:

. . . you, child, will be called the prophet of the Most High;

Coming as it does on the lips of an old country priest in a backwater of the Roman Empire, Zechariah’s prophecy sounds like parental wishful thinking. The old coot didn’t make the grade as a priest himself, so he’s hoping his son John will restore the family honor.

That’s in chapter one. Then comes chapter two with its tales of shepherds and angels and strange goings-on in Bethlehem.

Then, sure enough, in chapter three, here comes John – all grown up into a bug-eating wild man about as relevant to the powers that be as Tallahassee’s own King Love (of blessed memory) with his red cape and bullhorn at the corner of Monroe and Tennessee.

If John is the hand-picked messenger of the Most High, then the Most High must have a unique sense of humor.

Luke tells us who’s not listening: Caesar on his imperial throne back in Rome, Pontius Pilate in the Governor’s palace, Herod and his kinfolk in their puppet provinces, Annas and Caiaphas in the executive suite of the temple. None of them is listening to this flea-bitten son of Zechariah who comes out of the boonies "proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins."

Caesar has his legions. Pilate has his commission from Rome. Herod has his palace guards. Annas and Caiaphas have their old-time religion. What need have they for John’s baptism of repentance? Why change course when you’re on a roll?

Because, John tells them, you’re playing on borrowed time. Someone’s coming soon – someone who will change all the rules. He’ll show how useless your armies are. He’ll expose your pitiful attempts to make yourselves important. He’ll show the world what rogues and charlatans you are, and he’ll do it without lifting a sword or cutting a single deal.

I didn’t intend for this to be the predictable clerical complaint about the commercialization of Christmas. I mean it to be more like a voice crying in the commercial wilderness which exists all year round, but gets a lot thicker and harder to plow a road through this time of year.

I’d like to think that few people are quite so lost in this wilderness as Diane, who really does seem to think that a Barbie Bling Bling Styling Head or a Elmo TMX will make her children happy. Most of us can still hear old John the Baptist back in the woods, howling his disapproval at that kind blatant consumerism.

However, I’m not so sure that Diane is the exception. I fear she’s becoming the rule.

I once heard an expert on the state university system address a roomful of FSU faculty members about the future of higher education in Florida. He talked for thirty minutes non-stop about "customers" (meaning students) and "products" (meaning courses and degrees). Never once did he speak of "wisdom" or "truth," or "beauty," or the "joy of learning." He spoke only of giving students what they want so that they can graduate quickly and get good jobs.

I got the feeling that if this fellow could figure out a way to encode what was inside those professors’ brains, he would do it. Then he could tattoo bar codes on their foreheads and issue scanners to incoming freshmen. All they would have to do is go from department to department between keg parties and football games, acquiring everything they need to get a good job and be happy.

"Repent!" howls John from under a tree in the quadrangle. "There is more to knowledge than this."

It’s easy to fault Diane for her shallowness, but she’s just teaching her children the lessons they will need to be good consumers in the 21^st century. She’s teaching them that happiness is found by acquisition: The more you acquire, the happier you will be.

That’s a lie, of course. The Big Lie. We all know it’s a lie, but lately we Christians seem less willing to say so because the lie seems to have done us so much good. Most of us have risen with the tide of a booming economy, low inflation, and a high rate of employment. Never mind that the rest of the world cannot support our escalating acquisition.

This dynamic is present all year round. It’s just that, at Christmas, there is so much more – more hype, more glitter, more homage paid to the Big Lie.

John cries to us in this wilderness of acquisition that God’s kingdom is bearing down on us right now. It’s a kingdom of judgment, to be sure. But for Luke especially it’s a kingdom of hope and of forgiveness, too, and the best way to join up is to turn around and face in a new direction.

We can begin with our own children, who don’t need everything on their four-page list nearly so much as they need us to lead them out of this wilderness. Unless we show them the way out, they might actually believe the Big Lie. They might spend their whole lives trying to gain happiness by acquiring more stuff.

There was an elderly lady in a church I used to serve up in Virginia. She lived in a wonderful old house filled with vintage furniture and antique figurines. She had the same answer to everyone who asked her what she wanted for Christmas. "Oh, just give me a kiss," she used to say. "I don’t want anything for Christmas that needs dusting."

There is a way out of this wilderness. If you don’t know the way, follow John. The Doberman pinscher of the gospel will lead you in the right direction.