The green of Ordinary Time is not the color of boredom but of slow growth. Today’s readings open this season by returning us to first principles: who Jesus is, who we are because of him, and what our lives are for.
“Behold, the Lamb of God”
John the Baptist points and says, “Behold, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world.” It is a sentence we hear at every Mass just before Communion. John’s testimony gathers the great currents of Israel’s hope: the Passover lamb whose blood marked deliverance, the daily sacrifice at the Temple, and the Servant who bears the sins of many. In one word; Lamb; John names Jesus as the one who carries what we cannot carry, who frees in a way we cannot manage.
John also models the posture of a disciple: not self-promotion but witness. “I did not know him,” he admits; twice. He knows Jesus truly only because “the Spirit came down like a dove from heaven and remained upon him.” The Christian life begins not in our clarity but in God’s revelation. Our part is John’s imperative: Behold. Attend. Fix the eyes of the heart on Jesus and let that act reorder everything else.
When the priest lifts the host and repeats John’s words, we are not invited to behold a religious object but a living Person whose self-gift is for the “sin of the world.” Not only my failures, not only our community’s limits; the world’s deep ache. To receive him is to consent again: I am not the savior; I am a witness. He carries the weight; I carry his name.
The Spirit who remains
John says he recognized the Messiah when he saw the Spirit “come down…and remain” on Jesus. The verb matters. The Spirit does not simply touch down for a religious thrill. He abides. Jesus, in turn, “will baptize with the Holy Spirit.” Our Baptism is not a past ceremony but an entrance into this mutual abiding; God dwelling with us so that we may dwell in him.
This abiding pushes against a culture of the temporary: hot takes, disposable commitments, spiritual novelties. Holiness is not a flash of intensity but a slow remaining; showing up for prayer when it’s dry, keeping a promise when no one is watching, staying in the conversation when disagreement would be easier to end with a block or a snub. The Spirit who remains makes remaining possible.
“It is too little…”: Light to the nations
Through Isaiah, God speaks to his Servant: “It is too little…to raise up the tribes of Jacob… I will make you a light to the nations, that my salvation may reach to the ends of the earth.” In Christ, this promise is fulfilled; in his Body, the Church, it continues. Notice the divine impatience with small horizons. God is not content with a merely tidy people. Salvation strains outward.
Our age is painfully connected and painfully fractured; global in reach, tribal in temper. To be a light is not to dominate the room but to be clear and true within it: to seek the good of those unlike us, to refuse contempt, to bear wrongs without returning them, to tell the truth without cruelty. Light clarifies; it does not scorch. It makes paths visible; it does not blind the traveler.
“Here am I”: From offering to obedience
The psalm gives us the interior music of the Servant: “Sacrifice or offering you wished not, but ears open to obedience you gave me… ‘Behold I come… to do your will, O my God, is my delight.’” God does not disdain offerings; he desires something deeper: a listening heart. In Scripture, obedience is not servility but attentive love. The ears are opened so the will can align, not merely comply.
In practice, this means learning to hear before we act. Before sending the email, posting the rebuttal, making the purchase; pause. Ask: What is God’s will here? Where is love calling me? The psalm ends with proclamation in “the vast assembly,” reminding us that listening ripens into witness. Silence before God does not muzzle the mouth; it purifies it.
Called to be holy; together
Paul opens First Corinthians with a startling address: “To you who have been sanctified in Christ Jesus, called to be holy… with all those everywhere who call upon the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.” Corinth was famously messy, yet Paul names them by their truest identity before he addresses their faults. Holiness, then, is first a gift; sanctified in Christ; and then a call to grow into what we have received.
This guards us against two temptations: despair at the Church’s imperfections and solitary heroics. We are not holy because we are flawless, nor are we holy alone. We belong to a communion that spans parishes and continents, centuries and languages; “all those everywhere.” In a polarized climate, that sentence is medicine. It invites us to treat fellow Christians; including those who irk us; with the greeting Paul gives: “Grace to you and peace.”
Ordinary Time as a vocation
If the Christmas season proclaims who has come, Ordinary Time asks how we will live because he has come. The canvas is simple: weekdays and weekends; commutes and conversations; work that is seen, care that is not. In that ordinariness, the Servant’s mission becomes ours: behold the Lamb; remain in the Spirit; become light; learn obedience; receive grace and extend peace.
A few practices can anchor the week:
- Pray John’s words before Communion or in a quiet moment each day: “Behold, the Lamb of God.” Name before him one burden you carry and one wound of the world you wish you could fix. Hand both over.
- Make Psalm 40 your morning posture: “Here am I.” Then pause once midday for sixty seconds of true listening; no requests, just availability.
- Guard the Spirit’s remaining: choose one small fast from the scroll; fifteen phone-free minutes to read the day’s Gospel and sit in silence.
- Light for the nations, locally: do one hidden act of service for a neighbor or coworker; offer one courageous, non-icy word of truth where flattery or avoidance feels safer.
- Remember your Baptism: bless yourself with water on Sunday evening and ask for the grace to live one concrete work of mercy this week; reconcile with someone, pray for an adversary, or refrain from a cutting remark.
John did not save the world; he pointed. The Servant did not cling to safety; he offered himself. The Spirit did not pass by; he remained. If we take up these postures; beholding, offering, remaining; Ordinary Time will prove anything but ordinary. It will be the place where God stretches our small radius toward the ends of the earth, one willing “Here am I” at a time.