If I had been a newspaper reporter in the first century, I would have asked my editor to assign me to cover John the Baptist. It would have been a fun assignment. John was colorful. He dressed in his own outrageous way, so as a reporter, you could do a story on John’s wardrobe, with an analysis as to what made John dress that way. He had his own peculiar diet, too — locusts and wild honey; there’s certainly another story there. And, of course, there’s a story in the crowds: how John, against all odds, began preaching in the wilderness and how attendance grew from a trickle to a torrent, and how the crowds included everyone from Roman soldiers to the Jewish intelligentsia.

            And then comes the shocker. As the crowds and the enthusiasm mounted, a question grew. What was John running for? He was a prophet, no doubt about that. The people were hungry for a prophet, because there hadn’t been a real prophet for four centuries or more, and some already said John was the greatest prophet since Elijah. So what, exactly, did John have in mind? He was building a following — a passionate, excited following — but to what purpose?

John’s job was to introduce

            John’s answer was a letdown. My only job, John said, is to make an introduction. I’

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