Baptized In ...

Isaiah 43:1-7; Luke 3:15-22

January 10, 2016

There is a story that tells you who you are. More accurately, there are several stories that tell you who you are. This is not news, though sometimes we are surprised by it – surprised by the way a story comes back to claim us when we had all but forgotten it.
I am a southern boy, a fact I sometimes forget. Last week as Twitter erupted in amusing hashtags mocking the ranchers who seized a federal government building in Oregon I was reminded that the story of proud liberal southeners has claim on my heart when I reacted fiercely to the hashtag “y’allQueda.” Those yahoos don’t deserve the grace of y’all in my book. The southern story has many strange, twisted, and bitter chapters, but those guys are not part of it. So get off of my lawn; my sunny, southern lawn!

Oh, and by the way, get out of my building, or, more properly, our building. Because, you see, I am claimed by another story, as well – the one that begins, “We, the people, of the United States of America ….”

We submit to the claim of these stories by way of rituals: watching fireworks on the 4^th of July; singing This Land Is Your Land in elementary school; listening to Dr. King’s dream of freedom ringing from every mountain side. By such rituals we are baptized into the American story. The baptismal font into the southern story is filled, I believe, with grits.

There are, of course, many ways to read and respond to the stories that claim us. I am quite certain that the Oregon ranchers think of themselves, first and foremost, as patriotic Americans. I am, similarly, more than passingly familiar with the warped readings of the southern story that filled many southern hearts with hatred, racism, and violence. You can’t clean that mess with grits.

It matters, then, what’s in the font, how you enter the rituals of your baptisms, how you read and receive the stories proclaimed in these rituals, and how you are claimed by ritual and story all along the way.

Jesus entered the baptismal waters, the gospels tell us, and as he emerged he was claimed by the story of the One who called to him, saying, “you are my son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.”

We’ll spend some time, in a few minutes, talking about the claim that the baptismal waters of the Christened one have on our lives, but first I want to hear about other stories that claim you, into whose waters you have been submerged and submitted. So, what are some of the stories that have a claim on you, that tell you who you are, that have shaped your life thus far?

I invite you into a time of silence and reflection as you consider what stories claim you. Stories of gender? Stories of race? Stories of sexuality? Economy? Age? Enter a time of silence and let the memories of these stories wash over you.

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What stories came to your mind? How do they shape you?

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Listen again to the words of the prophet Isaiah, speaking a word of comfort and of challenge to a people who have lived in exile and are being called home:

But now thus says the Lord God who created you, O Jacob, who formed you, O Israel: Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you. For I am the Lord your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior. I give Egypt as your ransom, Ethiopia and Seba in exchange for you. Because you are precious in my sight, and honored, and I love you, I give people in return for you, nations in exchange for your life. Do not fear, for I am with you; I will bring your offspring from the east, and from the west I will gather you; I will say to the north, “Give them up,” and to the south, “Do not withhold; bring my sons from far away and my daughters from the end of the earth— everyone who is called by my name, whom I created for my glory, whom I formed and made.”

Put yourself in their place. Honestly, I can’t do that, although if I think for a moment or two about the stories in the news in recent months about Syrian refugees I can begin to get a small sense of the anxiety, the urgency, the fear that must be the shape of such dislocation. Put yourself in such a place. What do you hear in the story of the prophet’s words – I have called you by name, you are mine.

Such compassion, such grace, such love fill the font of the Christened one. That is the story of our baptism because it is the story of the baptism of Jesus. Baptism is an invitation to living love, to living grace, to living compassion. Baptism is an invitation, also, to submit to the demands of love, grace, and compassion.

As such, baptism flows directly from the conversation we had last Sunday about God’s resolutions for the new year. You see, if we believe what we wrote last week about what God desires – peace, healing, justice, radical welcome, joy, love, and all the others – if we believe that, then we are confronted, in these waters, by God’s invitation to submit to the claim of this story as we are submerged in the waters of this baptism.

So by way of conclusion this morning, I invite you to consider what we said and wrote last week – get up and go read the words if you like – and as you recall those resolutions of God consider one step you can take toward seeing this dream become reality.

To symbolize your commitment, and to remember your own baptism, or to look ahead to it someday, I invite you to bring forth the stone you were given when you entered this morning and drop it into the font.

Remember the one who created you. Remember the one who called you by name. Remember that you are not alone as you pass through the waters. Remember, and be remembered.

On the Verge

December 24, 2015

Our session, in effect the board of directors of a Presbyterian congregation, held its final meeting of 2015 last Sunday. In the manner of such things, we cast a kind of two-way glance: back at the past year, and forward to the new one on whose verge we sit.

We could look back at a year of tremendous change here – most visibly right here in the room we gather in tonight. We set out a long time ago in what sometimes feels like a galaxy far, far, away to imagine, envision, and create a space in which we could feed people – all kinds of people, fed in all kinds of ways. Church-going people, people with deep and abiding doubts about the whole church enterprise, young and old, and all the in-betweens, who hunger in all kinds of ways, too.

We live in a neighborhood that is rich in the world’s goods, but among a people who still hunger for deep peace, for real grace, for compassionate community.

So we lived through a season of construction, and survived it pretty well. And, this fall, we began taking some baby steps in the direction of using the space to feed the people on the peace, grace, and community connections found in the simple joy of music, shared food, and opportunities to forge new friendships as we serve the wider community by our work with and fundraising for AFAC and A-SPAN, our ongoing work for justice and equality, our witness for peacemaking.

As session talked about 2015, and looked ahead to 2016, I heard the same phrase used several times: it feels like we are on the verge of something big – on the verge.

Now I want to share something about myself: I am a gifted and talented sleeper. This is important to know, or the rest of this makes less sense.

I went to bed last Sunday night anticipating the gift of another good night’s sleep. But in the wee hours I was startled awake by a dream. In the dream I was walking with my family along a high ridge overlooking a sheer drop. For reasons that only make sense in a dream, we jumped. And I woke up!

I rolled over, went back to sleep, and soon was in another dream, driving a winding mountain road with a rock wall on one side and nothing but air on the other. Again, for dream reasons, we turned sharply toward empty space. And I woke up!

I rolled over, went back to sleep, and did the whole thing all over again, this time on mountains that overlook fjords.

After the third awakening, I lay in bed wondering why the heck I kept having the same basic stupid dream. After many sleepless minutes passed, my mind churned up the phrase, “on the verge,” and I realized that was what was troubling my sleep.

To be on the verge is, also, to be on the edge, and when one wanders too close to the edge it is always possible that a big fall will follow.

Don’t you know that thought had to pass through Mary’s mind at many points in her journey to Bethlehem, and well beyond the crazy birth of her first child. From the moment the angel visited her to announce her pregnancy she had to feel that she was on the verge of something. When she went to see her cousin Elizabeth, and Elizabeth said to her, “blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb,” Mary had to feel that she was on the verge of something. When she felt the baby kicking, she had to feel that she was on the verge of something. When she and Joseph began their trek to the city of David she had to feel that she was on the verge of something.

All along the dusty road she must have felt it. When they couldn’t find a place to stay, she must have felt it. When finally they could rest, even if rest was in among the animals, she must have felt it. And, of course, in the midst of the struggle and pain of labor, she must have felt on the verge of something.

Truth be told, everyone in the wondrous tale of Jesus’ birth must have felt on the verge of something. Shepherds keeping the night watch stunned by angelic messengers must have felt on the verge of something. Wise men following a star must have felt on the verge of something. Even the innkeeper, who offers what he can by way of late-night hospitality to a very pregnant woman and her husband, must have felt on the verge of something. Surely Joseph, confused and befuddled but determined also to remain faithful to the promises he made, must have felt on the verge of something much larger than himself.

Whether you take the birth narrative as founding mythology or as history, all of these characters in this enduring story shared that experience of being on the verge of something, and all of them shared something else, as well: when perched on the edge they did not turn away and flee. Instead, they took leaps of faith, forging forth into something they could not possibly comprehend, but trusting that God had brought them to this liminal space, this thin place, the edge of a precipice from which they did not turn away, this moment when the hopes and fears of all the years would be met.

What edge do you stand on tonight? What step is God calling you to take? What leap of faith is before you?

This year’s King’s College service of lessons and carols had a newly commissioned carol whose text, by poet George Szertes, reminds me of the nature of the steps we are called to take in following the child born in the manger in dusty Bethlehem.

The child on the dirtpath
finds the highway blocked
The dogs at the entrance
snarl that doors are locked
The great god of kindness
has his kindness mocked
May those who travel light
Find shelter on the flight
May Bethlehem
Give rest to them.
The sea is a graveyard
the beach is dry bones
the child at the station
is pelted with stones
the cop stands impassive
the ambulance drones
We sleep then awaken
we rest on the way
our sleep might be troubled
but hope is our day
we move on for ever
like children astray
We move on for ever
our feet leave no mark
you won’t hear our voices
once we’re in the dark
but here is our fire
this child is our spark.

You will know the step that lies beckoning before you is the calling of God if taking it mends something that is broken, feeds someone who is hungry, liberates someone who is captive, clothes someone who is naked. For such is the nature of the steps God invites us to take together.

Such steps do not come without risk. It takes courage to stand in solidarity with our Muslim neighbors these days. It takes courage to welcome Syrian refugees into our community these days. It takes courage to speak out for peace these days. You can lose more than sleep when you take such stands.

There are almost always powerful forces whose interests are served by human brokenness, by human hunger, by waves of refugees, by violence, and war. If you stand against such forces, there will be scars.

Nevertheless, we stand on the verge, and we are invited to take the next step. We may stumble, and we may fall. But there’s another hand to lift us up when we follow this risky call, this invitation to seek, still, the one whose birth we celebrate tonight.

We are called to come to the manger, and to risk following the one we find there.

We could be on the verge of so much, if we are but willing to take the next step. Come and see. Come and worship Christ the newborn king. Amen.

Turning

December 20, 2015

Luke 1:39-56

For the past six months or so I’ve been volunteering most Mondays with the National Park Service greeting visitors to the Martin Luther King Memorial on the Mall. One of the great benefits of my Mondays with Martin is being surrounded by his words carved into the polished granite of the memorial.

During this season of Advent, as the days grow shorter and the sun a bit dimmer at its winter angle, I’ve stopped several times to ponder these words: “Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.”

I read those words and I can’t help but recall the prelude to the gospel of John and its words that we’ve used through this season of Advent to frame our time of prayer, of sharing personal stories, of lighting a candle of hope, of joy, of love, of peace. “A light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.”

Like Dr. King, the author of John drew upon the deep well of scripture and its wealth of metaphorical use of light imagery. As Marcus Borg helpfully pointed out:

Light is an archetypal religious image, found in all of the world’s enduring religions. When the Buddha was born, a great light filled the sky. And “enlightenment” as an image of salvation is central to many religions, including Christianity.

Light as an image of salvation is in the Jewish Bible as well. To illustrate with two passages from Isaiah: “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light” (9:2); and, “Arise, shine; for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord has risen upon you” (60:1).

The claim made by the use of this light imagery is concisely expressed in John’s gospel: Jesus is the light shining in the darkness, the true light that enlightens everyone, indeed the Light of the World (John 1.5, 9; 9.5).[1]

The author of John wrote in a context that King would have understood well, and that might also seem somewhat familiar to us even while remaining ancient, distant, and troubling. The gospel of John is commonly dated toward the end of the first century, and is the gospel most distant in time from the actual life of Christ. John was likely written for a community that was living in the Jewish diaspora after the crushing destruction and defeat of Jerusalem by the Romans in the Jewish War that unfolded a generation after Jesus’ death between the years 66-73 of the Common Era. The author of John addressed a community that was searching for hope amidst overwhelming despair, looking for a light that shone brighter than the darkness in which they dwelled.

King’s words were similarly addressed to a community searching for hope. The lines that have spoken to me of late were written at the height of the Civil Rights Movement, in the context of massive resistance to desegregation and vigilante violence inflicted on anyone with the temerity to insist on justice and equality for people of color. King was in jail in Georgia when he wrote of the transformative power of love to drive out hate.

Writing there in a southern jail cell, his life under near constant threat, and having witnessed already the deaths of more than a few of his fellow workers in the Movement, you would think that you would find anger in his words. You would think he might lash out at the white folks who violently opposed him or at the moderates who enabled the extremists. You might think he would name names and condemn his enemies. You might think that.

Instead, he wrote a sermon entitled “Loving Your Enemies.”

Why, he asked, should we follow Jesus’ instruction to love our enemies? “The first reason,” he wrote, “is fairly obvious.”

Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that. Hate multiplies hate, violence multiplies violence, and toughness multiplies toughness in a descending spiral of destruction.[2]

The second reason, King often argued, lies in what hate does to the one who hates. It distorts the soul, and causes one “to describe the beautiful as ugly and the ugly as beautiful, and to confuse the true with the false and the false with the true.”[3]  

Finally, loving enemies is practical because it is the only way to stop the cycle of enmity. King insisted, “We never get rid of an enemy by meeting hate with hate; we get ride of an enemy by getting rid of enmity. By its very nature, hate destroys and tears down; by its very nature, love creates and builds up. Love transforms with redemptive power.”[4]

This redemptive transformation is the heart of the song that Mary sings as her soul magnifies the Lord. Bringing the mighty down from their thrones, filling the hungry with good things to eat – that is the transformative power of love in action.

The transformative power of love in action is the meaning of the incarnation. Christmas invites us into the mystery of incarnation and deep into the heart of God. The path into the mystery is not lined with gifts under Christmas trees. The path into the heart of God is not made plain by our songs nor by our worship. The path into the heart of God is certainly not made by trampling out the paths made by those who seek God by other names and through other traditions. No, the path deep into the mystery of God is made as we love our enemies.

This seems a particularly powerful word to us just now as the drums of war beat more loudly, as so-called leaders whip up fear among us, and as scapegoats are made of the most vulnerable among us. Into all that, the gospel speaks an invitation to turn the world around.

In Matthew’s gospel Jesus goes up to a high place to teach his most enduring lessons, and there he instructs his followers: “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, to that you may be children of your Father in heaven” (Matthew 5:44).

As King pointed out, this verse from Matthew contains the key concern with nonviolence for followers of Jesus: it’s about our relationship with God. God draws close to us in the life of Jesus, and invites us closer still. “We are called to this difficult task [of transformative love even of our enemies] in order to realize a unique relationship with God.”[5]

The incarnation – the story of God drawing close to humankind in and through the life of Jesus – is about a unique relationship with God. That’s what the gospels are all about. Advent is preparing a way in our lives for just such a relationship. Advent is beginning the great turning of the world. Advent is understanding that “in a dark, confused world the Kingdom of God may yet reign”[6] in all our hearts.

Light just one candle – or two, or three, or four, or a thousand, and prepare the way of the Lord. Amen.

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[1] Marcus Borg, Jesus: Uncovering the Life, Teachings, and Relevance of a Religious Revolutionary (San Francisco: Harper, 2006) 62-3.

[2] Martin Luther King, Jr., Strength to Love (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2010 edition, originally published in 1963) 47.

[3] Ibid. 48.

f[4] Ibid.

[5] ibid., 49-50.

[6] Ibid., 164.