The Church does not often celebrate a birthday. She keeps the death-days of the saints, their birth into heaven. Only three nativities are kept: the Lord's, his Mother's, and today, John's — the forerunner. It is as though the calendar itself wanted to say that this child's coming into the world already belonged to the great story of salvation. And the first reading tells us why, in words that could be his and are also the Church's own: "The Lord called me from the womb... and he said to me, 'You are my servant... I will make you a light to the nations, so that my salvation may reach to the ends of the earth'" (cf. Is 49:1.6).
"Now the time for Elizabeth to give birth was completed, and she bore a son. And her neighbours and relatives heard that the Lord had magnified his mercy with her, and they rejoiced with her. And it happened that, on the eighth day, they came to circumcise the boy, and they called him by his father's name, Zechariah. And in response, his mother said: 'Not so. Instead, he shall be called John.' And they said to her, 'But there is no one among your relatives who is called by that name.' Then they made signs to his father, as to what he wanted him to be called. And requesting a writing tablet, he wrote, saying: 'His name is John.' And they all wondered. Then, at once, his mouth was opened, and his tongue loosened, and he spoke, blessing God. And fear fell upon all of their neighbours. And all these words were made known throughout all the hill country of Judea. And all those who heard it laid it up in their heart, saying: 'What do you think this boy will be?' And indeed, the hand of the Lord was with him." (Lk 1:57-66)
Everything in the scene turns on a name. The neighbours want to fold the child neatly into the family line — call him Zechariah, after his father, and let the story continue as stories do. But God had already named him. "John" means "the Lord is gracious," and it had been spoken by an angel before the boy was conceived. So Elizabeth refuses the obvious; Zechariah, struck silent for his earlier doubt, writes the four astonishing words — "His name is John" — and at that act of obedience his tongue is freed and he blesses God. The lesson is quiet but immense: this child does not belong to his family's plans. He belongs to a vocation given before he drew breath. And the moment that vocation is honoured, a mute man can sing.
This is the truth the first reading sang first. "The Lord called me from the womb." Before any of John's preaching, before the leather belt and the locusts, before the crowds at the Jordan, there was a call older than his memory. He did not choose his mission; he was chosen for it, and his whole greatness lay in consenting to be what he had been made to be. Saint Paul, in the second reading, draws the line forward: John "preached a baptism of conversion" and then stepped aside, saying, "I am not the one you think I am. But behold, one comes after me, the sandals of whose feet I am not worthy to untie" (cf. Ac 13:25). The greatest of those born of women spent his greatness pointing away from himself. "He must increase; I must decrease" was not a sad resignation but the very shape of his joy.
There is a particular tenderness in the closing line: "The child grew and was strengthened in spirit. And he was in the deserts, until the day of his showing to Israel" (Lk 1:80). Long years of hiddenness preceded the brief public flame. The desert formed the voice before the voice cried out. God is not in a hurry with those he has named; the call given in the womb may wait decades in the silence of the wilderness before it speaks.
In the spirit of Bethlehem, today's solemnity is almost a self-portrait of any missionary vocation. To be called from the womb — for the call always precedes our deserving. To be named by God rather than by our own plans. To be a "light to the nations," carried not by our brilliance but by the One whose salvation must reach the ends of the earth. And above all, to decrease: to point away from oneself toward the Lord who comes after, content to be the voice and never the Word, the lamp and never the light. The Society that keeps the Child of Bethlehem at its heart knows that the forerunner's whole art — going small, going first, going silent so that Another may be heard — is the art of mission itself. There are still deserts where a named child grows in secret, and ends of the earth waiting for the light. Today the Church asks each of us, as the hill country once asked: "What do you think this child will be?" — and dares us to let God answer.
Scripture text: Catholic Public Domain Version (CPDV), public domain.
Prayer of the Day
God of John the forerunner, you call us by name before we can deserve it, and you form us in long silences before you send us out. Free our tongues, as you freed Zechariah's, to bless you and not to doubt. Teach us his joy: to increase your name and decrease our own, to be the voice that points beyond itself, the lamp that disappears into your light. Make of our lives a light to the nations, until your salvation reaches the ends of the earth. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.
For Meditation
- God named me before I could earn it. Do I live from my own plans, or from the vocation he gave me?
- Where is the Lord asking me to decrease, so that he may increase?
- What desert of hiddenness is God using right now to form a voice he means to send?
