The eerie call of John the Baptist
His followers realized there was no quick exit from the discomfort of his words.
Saint John the Baptist in the Desert, by Lucas van Leyden (National Gallery of Art / Rosenwald Collection / Creative Commons)
I’ve never understood who gets to decide how patron saints are assigned their causes. The process looks to me about as arbitrary as the way sub sandwiches get named at my local deli. John the Baptist is patron saint of (among other things) bird dealers; spasms and convulsions; Savannah, Georgia; hailstorms; and tailors. He’s your intercessor when you can’t find a buyer for your cockatoo and your go-to protector the next time you get your pants hemmed.
Speaking of clothing, John must be amused at the way modern preachers dwell on his camel hair outfit, the insect parts stuck in his teeth, and his consumption of wild honey. What other kind of honey was there in the middle of nowhere?! Pasteurized? Filtered? Costco packaged?
Perhaps you’ve heard that John is the guy we all have to go through in order to meet Jesus. He’s the forerunner, the precursor, the cold shower you have to take before you’re allowed to jump into the big public pool. Did I mention he’s also the patron saint of baptism?
