"We Do not Know what We are Doing" (First Sunday in Lent)

Luke 23:32-39

32 Two others also, who were criminals, were led away to be put to death with him. 33 When they came to the place that is called The Skull, they crucified Jesus there with the criminals, one on his right and one on his left. 34 [Then Jesus said, "Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing."] And they cast lots to divide his clothing. 35 And the people stood by, watching; but the leaders scoffed at him, saying, "He saved others; let him save himself if he is the Messiah of God, his chosen one!" 36 The soldiers also mocked him, coming up and offering him sour wine 37 and saying, "If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself!" 38 There was also an inscription over him, "This is the King of the Jews. 39 One of the criminals who were hanged there kept deriding him and saying, "Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us!"

            I have a confession to make. I don’t know what I’m doing. Some of you might think that’s a pretty obvious statement, but it’s true. There are times, situations, when all I know to do is pray to God that something will come to my mind, something will make sense, something will show me the way to do what needs to be done. But so often, nothing happens, so I take a deep breath, mumble a quick prayer, and hope I do the right thing. I fail—a lot. I forget things; I overlook other people; I let time slip by and opportunities go unanswered. My failures sometimes hurt others, even though I don’t mean for them to or want them to. I stumble as I try to do the right thing, to find my way when there are no clear directions and the rules and expectations are constantly changing. If I’m completely honest, I feel like I get it wrong way more than I get it right. I’m learning how to navigate this journey called life, this path called faith, this vocation, but so often it seems I’m lagging just a step behind, too slow to keep up, and in the wake of my failures I see the faces of those whom I’ve let down, the faces of those who once looked to me for guidance, for a word of comfort or hope, the faces of those whom I failed to help because I didn’t know what I was doing.

            You see, most of my life I’ve been able to figure things out. That’s sort of how I got into automotive work. With a car, the worst you can do is break something, something that can be replaced with a new part. When I first started, I had no idea what I was doing, but I could figure it out, sometimes—most times—by trial-and-error. That’s how I learned a lot of things in my life, whether it was math, auto-mechanics, plumbing, navigating college life: I just sort of figured it out along the way, and if I failed I could learn from my mistakes. Life itself, however, isn’t always so forgiving when I don’t know what I’m doing. If I fail to speak, if I say the wrong thing, or if I speak too soon or too late, that opportunity may be gone forever. If I fail to act when an opportunity is there, if I can’t stop what I’m doing when it seems a more urgent need arises, or if I’m simply unaware of something important that may need my attention, relationships can be damaged and bridges unknowingly burned. As much as I want to be better, as hard as I may strive to do better, I still don’t know what I’m doing.

            Don’t misunderstand me: I’m not saying I’m incompetent, untrained, stupid, or lazy. I’m not offering excuses or looking for some way out of it all. I’m simply being honest. I have a feeling if we’d all be honest, we might all confess the same thing—we don’t know what we’re doing. We’re all just taking life a day at a time, trying to figure it all out, trying to stay out of the way, trying to make the world a better place, or simply trying to survive. We can put on airs and act as if we’ve got life by the tail, as if we’ve got it all figured out, as if the world is a simply put together puzzle and we’ve got the missing piece, but in the end, we really don’t know what we’re doing.

            As people of faith, we sometimes think we’ve got it all figured out, that we have all of life’s answers to all the hard questions at our disposal. Those things that seem most difficult, most uncomfortable we often dismiss with an answer of watered-down mystery, a bumper-sticker slogan that at least lets us grind away until the next tragedy, the next hardship. Often it seems we’re possessed by a misplaced sense of entitlement, the notion that since we have the answer, since we’ve got it all figured out, the rules no longer apply to us, the common condition of humankind is no longer one with which we are afflicted. Then there are those times, when I read the news reports, when I hear the stories, when I see the images of people of faith acting in ways so counter to that of the Christ whose name the bear that I cannot help but think to myself, “We do not know what we are doing.”  

            We can quote Scripture, citing the psalms, the prophets, the apostles, and even Christ himself, yet there will always be one who knows it better than we do, one with another interpretation, one with another verse to counter our position. We can split over polity, haircuts, worship style, or missions. We can argue with anyone who would disagree with us, and we’ve become experts at the art of arguing amongst ourselves. When we think we’ve got it all figured out, that we have all the answers, and the final interpretation, the truth is we don’t know what we’re doing.

            Now, that might sound hopeless to you, to think that I don’t know what I’m doing, that you don’t know what you’re doing, that together as people and a family of faith, we don’t know what we’re doing. But in a strange, upside-down way, I find hope in that reality. After all, I’m finding more and more in my life that God in Christ through the Holy Spirit often works in upside-down ways. But the locus of my hope isn’t found in some realization that we’re all helplessly crazy—no, my hope comes from this scene we’ve heard from Luke’s gospel this first Sunday morning in Lent. These are the first of Christ’s words from the cross, words spoken from the One whose love for us transcends our ignorance and inabilities. "Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing."

            It would be easy, I suppose, to think that Jesus’ words were for the criminals crucified with him, that Christ’s plea was for the forgiveness of those who so obviously needed it, those who had committed crimes and were at that moment paying the penalty for their maleficence. After all, the criminals didn’t know what they were doing by being crucified along with the Son of God. Of course, it would be just as easy to look at Jesus’ words as being meant for those who cracked the whip, drove the nails, and raised the cross. After all, they had no way of knowing that in the repetition actions of their job as crucifiers they were executing the very God who put breath in their lungs. We could say that Jesus was asking for divine forgiveness for the scoffers who berated him, for those who gambled over his clothes, for those who looked on as if they were seated in a theatre to be entertained. We could say that Christ’s words were meant for all of those captured by Luke in this brief, undescriptive narrative, but we would only be partly right, for while Christ’s words were indeed meant for those who had ears to hear them then, they are also meant for us here and now.

            While some may look upon the crucified Christ and see the wrath of an angry God, while others may see in the beaten, bloodied body of Jesus a vengeful deity desiring to levy every ounce of punishment deserved for humankind on his Son, I see something entirely different. I see the God whose love is so far beyond our comprehension that even in the midst of such agonizing, tortuous death, he grants forgiveness. I see a Christ whose power is shown in the frailty of flesh and bone, as with his dying breaths he still shows his love for us. In Christ death upon the cross I see the hope that can only come from such eternal, divine, real love. I see forgiveness, even though I don’t know what I’m doing.

            I still don’t know what I’m doing, but thanks be to God Christ forgives me anyway. We still don’t know what we’re doing, but thanks be to God that Jesus loves us anyway. We will try to know more, try to do better, try to be more of the people God calls us to be, and there will be times when we fail, times when we’ll pick the wrong side, times when we’ll wage the wrong war, times when we’ll miss opportunities, times when we may hurt others and they may not forgive us. Yet from that place where God’s love was magnified, that hill where the grace of God was proven true, that cross where Christ showed just how powerful the love of God is to overcome all our failures, we hear those words that make this table before us mean something, those words that make life worth the living (failures and all), those words that bring us hope in the eternal love of God despite our ignorance: "Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing." Thanks be to God! Amen.  

All for the Sake of the Gospel (Fifth Sunday after Epiphany)

1 Corinthians 9:16-23

16 If I proclaim the gospel, this gives me no ground for boasting, for an obligation is laid on me, and woe to me if I do not proclaim the gospel! 17 For if I do this of my own will, I have a reward; but if not of my own will, I am entrusted with a commission. 18 What then is my reward? Just this: that in my proclamation I may make the gospel free of charge, so as not to make full use of my rights in the gospel. 19 For though I am free with respect to all, I have made myself a slave to all, so that I might win more of them. 20 To the Jews I became as a Jew, in order to win Jews. To those under the law I became as one under the law (though I myself am not under the law) so that I might win those under the law. 21 To those outside the law I became as one outside the law (though I am not free from God's law but am under Christ's law) so that I might win those outside the law. 22 To the weak I became weak, so that I might win the weak. I have become all things to all people, that I might by all means save some. 23 I do it all for the sake of the gospel, so that I may share in its blessings.

            What does it mean to proclaim the gospel? Is it an act of public pronouncement, standing before a crowd of others and speaking about the great depths of divine mystery, hoping others will hear and be convinced that something has to change? How does that work if all the people in the room are exactly the same (or at least pretty close to it)? Is it an audacious act of confrontation, wherein one greets a stranger with a list of perfectly rehearsed reasons for seeing things his or her way, a list of bible verses tailored for any so-called sinner to prove their need for repentance and reformation? What does it mean to proclaim the gospel?

Is it standing on street corner with posters and picket signs, blaring through a bullhorn the coming judgment of an angry God? Is it taking a stand for what you believe, of drawing a line in the sand and saying, “this is as far as I’ll go, and you can come no farther?” Is it sticking your chest out, wagging your finger and declaring to the world that it’s going to hell in a hand-basket if it doesn’t get in line with your way of thinking? Is it choosing sides and thus declaring that it’s “us” against “them”? What does it mean to proclaim the gospel?

            Is it “loving the sinner and hating the sin,” all the while ignoring the present sin in your own life and chalking it up to “the way I was raised?” Is it turning a microscope onto the private lives of others and pointing out their moral failings as in need of reform since such shortcomings are far greater (or at least less acceptable) than your own? Is it looking through the telescope of the television and commenting on the horrendous acts of those of other faiths, then claiming that our faith is superior because we would never do anything like that (never mind the crusades, the inquisitions, the colonization of the Americas, or the slave trade)? Is it sharing stories and pictures on social media with captions like “Click ‘like’ if you believe ____?” What does it mean to proclaim the gospel?

I suppose that question may be a bit more difficult to answer in time when the forms of communication available to us are nearly as numerous as the ones doing the communicating. Perhaps we should be asking what it means to “share” the gospel (in terms of social media life Facebook), to “tweet” the gospel, to “snapchat” the gospel, to text the gospel, to “vine” the gospel, to “hashtag” the gospel. However, I doubt the answer is going to be found in contemporary, substitute forms of communication.

In the text before us this morning the Apostle Paul makes it pretty clear that proclaiming the gospel is of the utmost importance. He says in verse 16: “If I proclaim the gospel, this gives me no ground for boasting, for an obligation is laid on me, and woe to me if I do not proclaim the gospel!” He calls proclaiming the gospel “an obligation,” and says “woe to me if I don’t do it!” Pretty stout words, but what does Paul mean when he says “proclaim the gospel?”

I suppose we could look back over the storied accounts of Paul’s ministry through the writing of Luke in the book of Acts or the letters written by Paul and those using his name. We could point to the times when Paul stood before large crowds of people and made grand pronouncements about the mysteries of God in Christ, and we could say “that’s how you proclaim the gospel.” But to simply look at the apostle’s preaching means we’d have to also see his failures (like those in Athens and the various synagogues from which he was less-than-politely asked to leave), the times when—regardless of his eloquent and well-crafted arguments—there were few (if any) real converts. Besides all of that, to simply point to Paul’s public pronouncements and declare them as exemplary in proclaiming the gospel is to relegate gospel proclamation to gatherings like this one, where a single individual stands before a gathered group and “proclaims the gospel.” Such an understanding crams gospel proclamation into a single sliver of time, all the responsibility onto a single somebody, and then, if there’s no one standing at the “altar”, no one making “professions of faith,” no one confessing, repenting, or seeking baptism, then we can chalk the fault up to the preacher and hope that next week’s sermon will really “get folks saved.” If public, ceremonious acts of declaration aren’t the only ways to proclaim the gospel, then what does it mean to proclaim the gospel?

Well, let’s look at the rest of what Paul has to say to us from the text we’ve read this morning. In verses 17 and 18 Paul is essentially making a case for why he does ministry the way he does, with no sort of contractual obligation hanging over his head from any hierarchy or congregational mandate (Paul would have been a good Baptist!). Paul proclaims the gospel freely, without allegiances, without drawing lines between “us” and “them.” In fact, in verses 20 through 22, Paul says, “To the Jews I became as a Jew, in order to win Jews. To those under the law I became as one under the law (though I myself am not under the law) so that I might win those under the law. To those outside the law I became as one outside the law (though I am not free from God's law but am under Christ's law) so that I might win those outside the law. To the weak I became weak, so that I might win the weak. I have become all things to all people, that I might by all means save some.” Now, Paul isn’t making an argument for being some kind of holy “people pleaser:” he isn’t concerned with making everyone happy, making sure people’s feelings aren’t hurt (a particular issue I’m afraid infects more churches than we care to confess). Nor is Paul promoting some kind of “bait-and-switch” evangelism, whereby he casually pretends to relate to others in hopes to gain their trust before really turning on the gospel swagger in order to bring people over to his way of doing things.

I’m afraid both of these misinterpretations of Paul’s words have crept into the Church over the years. We have tried “to be all things to all people” by coddling those who are afraid of change, by giving lip-service to those who hold the power (which itself seems so often to be found in a checkbook), by trying to offer countless programs and events aimed at every imaginable demographic, and perhaps most of all, we’ve tried every way imaginable to avoid being honest with those within our congregations who create toxic division by selfish actions all so we won’t “hurt anyone’s feelings.” We’ve tried for so long to be peacekeeper that we’ve forgotten that Christ has actually called us to be peacemakers.

On the other hand, we’ve decided that the way to reach people is to pretend to be something we’re not. There are congregations who have removed words like “Baptist” and “Church” from the signs in front of their sanctuaries in order to seem less like a religious institution. They’ve tried every trick from every book to appear “relevant,” yet newcomers eventually find that beneath all the flash and a veneer of meaning is the same old institution that values conformity over acceptance and love. There are congregations whose sings, mission statements, and website headers say “All are welcome,” yet if someone of a certain persuasion, skin color, socio-economic or immigration status should darken the door or (heaven help us!) decide to join the congregation, well…we quickly find out that “all are NOT welcome.” We tell ourselves we want to bring others to be more like  Christ, but too often it looks more like we’re trying to bring others to a place where they are more like us—whether we are more like Christ or not.

So if proclaiming the gospel doesn’t always look like preaching, and it’s not about people-pleasing or “bait-and-switch” evangelism, then what does it look like? What does it mean to proclaim the gospel? I think the key to unlocking that answer is found in Paul’s words in verse 19: “For though I am free with respect to all, I have made myself a slave to all, so that I might win more of them.” This isn’t lip-service. This isn’t people-pleasing. This isn’t “bait-and-switch” evangelism. Paul has made himself a slave to all. Paul hasn’t merely lowered himself for a moment in hopes to make a few converts that will eventually look like him. He hasn’t changed who he is so that he could talk in the dialect of those he’s hoping to change. He hasn’t watered-down or fired-up the gospel in the hopes of coaxing or scaring others into believing. He has quite simply, quite powerfully, quite beautifully, become a slave to them—he has put himself in the place of their servant so that he might know them, love them, share life and the gospel with them, and he’s done “it all for the sake of the gospel, so that [he] may share in its blessings.”

So, what does it mean to proclaim the gospel? It means that we live out those wonderful words of St. Francis of Assisi: “Preach the gospel always; use words only when necessary.” It means we make ourselves servants to all, to those we like, those who are like us, those in our communities, those who are hurting, those who need our help. But perhaps even more, it means we make ourselves servants to those we dislike most, those we believe (if we’re honest with ourselves) aren’t worthy of Christ’s love (as if we are!). Proclaiming the gospel means doing more than just saying we love everyone and actually proving it! It means getting over our hang-ups and hold-ups, letting go of what is truthfully, deep-down, ignorance and hate. It means loving someone without judging them—ever!  Proclaiming the gospel means we have to leave the cozy, familiar confines of this building, this community, our self-constructed bubbles of security, and our own ideologies to meet people—God’s people—where they are, and not so we can bring them to our level, but so we can serve them with the love of Jesus Christ, whose out-stretched, nail-pierced hands have shown us just how much he loves us ALL!

It’s easy to ignore our calling to proclaim the gospel this way. It’s easy to say it’s all up to the preacher’s sermon, the ministry of the church, the persuasiveness of the information we possess. It’s easy to hide behind proof-texts and claim that the Bible says you don’t have to congregate with or serve “those people.” Can I tell you something? If we spent half the energy loving other as we do looking for Bible verses to judge them, friends, I believe we’d be a whole lot closer to the kingdom of heaven!

So let us proclaim the gospel. Let us proclaim the gospel always, and use words when it’s necessary. Let us proclaim the gospel as we seek to serve all people. Let us proclaim the gospel as we seek to live our lives together with those we might otherwise wish to keep at a distance. Let us proclaim the gospel as we work to put an end to ignorance, hatred and oppression. Let us proclaim the gospel as we strive to end injustice, poverty, human trafficking, and hunger. Let us proclaim the gospel as we work together to bring God’s kingdom to its full reality. Let us proclaim the gospel as Paul proclaimed it, as Christ proclaimed it—by taking on the form of a slave. Let us proclaim the gospel, and “Woe to [us] if [we] don’t!” Amen. 

Authority and Fame (Fourth Sunday after Epiphany)

Mark 1:21-28

21 They went to Capernaum; and when the sabbath came, he entered the synagogue and taught. 22 They were astounded at his teaching, for he taught them as one having authority, and not as the scribes. 23 Just then there was in their synagogue a man with an unclean spirit, 24 and he cried out, "What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth? Have you come to destroy us? I know who you are, the Holy One of God." 25 But Jesus rebuked him, saying, "Be silent, and come out of him!" 26 And the unclean spirit, convulsing him and crying with a loud voice, came out of him. 27 They were all amazed, and they kept on asking one another, "What is this? A new teaching—with authority! He commands even the unclean spirits, and they obey him." 28 At once his fame began to spread throughout the surrounding region of Galilee.

             Once upon a time, in a church not too unlike ours: it was Sunday, and the new preacher was really “shucking the corn” as they say. The people in the pews were shouting “Amen!” and grinning ear-to-ear with every turn of phrase the new preacher flung from the pulpit. They liked what he had to say—really, they liked better how he said it. He was different, better than the other preachers they had heard. Those other preachers would climb up in the pulpit with their stacks of notes, their reading glasses perched precariously on their noses, and begin to unravel the linguistic challenges of the scriptures while expounding on dry, historical traditions. To be fair, they were smart, really smart, but they lacked something…something this new guy had. You see, he had charisma: he had a gift. He was able to speak as if God Almighty was beaming it down, directly through the fillings in his teeth. His teaching seemed simultaneously new and yet grounded in something bigger, something more. You could say he had the folks eating right out of his hands. But then somebody had to show up and spoil everything.  

            Before the congregation could get through the first verse of “Softly and Tenderly,” before the preacher could ask for every head to bow and every eye to close, he seemed to just appear in the aisle in the middle of the sanctuary. This man seemed to almost be running to get to the preacher. It was obvious he was disturbed, ill, and as the musicians continued to play through the invitation, the congregation began to mumble the words as they started whispering among themselves: “Who in the world is that? What do you think is wrong with him? Would you look at his hair; I bet he hasn’t bathed in weeks (bless his heart)….” He came directly to the preacher, and in a hurried voice, slurred by his mind and the absence of a few teeth, muttered something indecipherable.

            The preacher, assuming the man was “wanting to get saved,” told him he’d have to clean himself up, get his mind right, and maybe see a dentist before he came back down the aisle like that. After all, if he was going to be a functioning part of that congregation, he was going to have to get in line with the ways and means of the whole bunch—after all, these were God’s people, and God’s people have rules to follow and appearances to keep. So when the song ended, the preacher presented the man to the congregation and said, “This fella’ is going to get himself cleaned up and put right, then he’s going to march himself back down here so we can all welcome him as a full member of this congregation.” And all of God’s people said, “Amen!”

The man never set foot back in the church. He came looking for help, for liberation from the illness that clouded his mind, for love from those who claimed to love everybody, for acceptance from those who were really just as broken and messed up as he was. He just wanted someone to say that he wasn’t alone in his struggle, that there was something more powerful than the oppression of fear and rejection, yet all he got was more of the same—it just happened to come dressed in its Sunday best. He was looking for freedom from the chains of illness and loneliness, freedom from the so-called authorities of this world that tell us how to think and how to act, but instead he got a new dose, a new authority with cleverly disguised “God language.” And he wasn’t the first, and he won’t be the last (even if he exists in a world of my own creation).

Of course, it could have gone differently. It could have gone more like that meeting at Capernaum some two thousand years ago, where Jesus (fresh from his bout with Satan and the calling of his first disciples) was teaching in the synagogue there. The congregation, we’re told, was “astounded at his teaching,” when “Just then [in the middle of their service] there was in their synagogue a man with an unclean spirit.” Now, nothing can really throw a wrench in the gears of a good service like some giant, obnoxious distraction, and I’m sure to many that were there in the synagogue at Capernaum, that’s exactly what this man was—a distraction. Not only that, but he had no right to be there! This man had an unclean spirit, whether that refers to a demonic possession (though the word “demon” does not appear in this text), a mental illness, or something else entirely is really irrelevant. This man is unclean, which means he is not supposed to be gathered with the others in the synagogue. Perhaps he had successfully kept this unclean spirit hidden from the others and Jesus’ authoritative teaching had forced his hand. Maybe he had snuck into the meeting that day just to test the new rabbi from Nazareth. Mark doesn’t give us a lot of details; we just know he appears and threatens to throw things off track.

The unclean spirit cries out through the man at Jesus: "What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth? Have you come to destroy us? I know who you are, the Holy One of God." But Jesus doesn’t roll up his sleeves and ball up his fists in preparation for a physical altercation. Jesus doesn’t begin a systematic utterance of incantations to expel the spirit. No, Jesus (in a matter-of-fact sort of way) rebukes the spirit and says, “’Be silent, and come out of him!’ And the unclean spirit, convulsing him and crying with a loud voice, came out of him.” Jesus showed his authority over the unclean spirit—over those things which are beyond our control and comprehension—and in doing so gave this unnamed man a new life. No longer was this man ruled by the authority of this unclean spirit, but now he has come face-to-face with the ultimate authority that rests in the Son of God.

That’s all we get about this man; there’s no follow-up. We never even get his name, but we are told in verses 27 and 28: “They were all amazed, and they kept on asking one another, ‘What is this? A new teaching—with authority! He commands even the unclean spirits, and they obey him.’ At once his fame began to spread throughout the surrounding region of Galilee.” Jesus kicks off his public ministry with a bang! His fame begins to spread as those at Capernaum witnessed what Jesus had done to the man with the unclean spirit. It’s really a great testimony, isn’t it? A man who was once tormented by an unclean spirt, a man who was once under the influence of a false authority, a man who was once enslaved to a power outside of himself, a man who was once lost is now found. That’s the kind of story we can get behind. It’s the kind of story we like to share with others. It’s the kind of story we like to tell…but it’s not really the kind of story we want to live.

See, like those first witnesses at the synagogue in Capernaum, many of us are anxious to hear exciting teachings; we’re excited about telling these grand stories of how Jesus saved someone from an unclean spirit, a life of crime, fornication, drugs, evil, and sin. But when it gets down to it, and we have to be a part of that story…well…we kind of lose that excitement. There are those of us who find ourselves standing on the other side of a decision, the other side of baptism, and believe (whether we admit it or not) that we no longer need Jesus to save us, to exorcise those unclean spirits that pollute our lives and cloud our conscience. We would much rather witness that in the lives of others, of those we call unbelievers, sinners, reprobates, different. We’d rather watch it unfold in the lives of others, to watch as the love and forgiveness of Christ becomes real in their lives, all the while we withhold our own love and forgiveness from those who need it. We love to tell to the stories, but we’re not so anxious to live them.

We’re quick to point out the need for Jesus’ authority in the lives of others, but not so quick to confess that our lives aren’t always steered by the presence of Christ within ourselves. In other words, it seems to me that we are always ready and willing to call out the unclean spirits in others, to tell the stories of how someone else has been liberated from a sinful life we were fortunate not to lead, but when it comes to acknowledging that there are blind spots in our own lives, places where we have yet to allow Christ to take control...we’re not so ready to confess that. It’s as if we have some kind of diet, low-cal, fat-free faith: “all the salvation with none of the surrender.” Do we really believe that Jesus has the authority to be Lord of our lives—our entire lives? Do we really believe that Jesus still has the authority to forgive even our darkest, most secret sins? Do we really believe that Jesus has power over those things that are beyond our control and outside of our understanding? Do we really believe that Christ has that sort of authority, that sort of power? Sometimes I wonder…  

I like the way Annie Dillard puts it in her book Teaching a Stone to Talk:

Does anyone have the foggiest idea what sort of power we so blithely invoke? Or, as I suspect, does no one believe a word of it? The churches are children playing on the floor with their chemistry sets, mixing up batches of TNT to kill a Sunday morning. It is madness to wear ladies’ straw hats and velvet hats to church; we should all be wearing crash helmets. Ushers should issue life preservers and signal flares; they should lash us to the pew. For the sleeping god (sic) may wake someday and take offense, or the waking god may draw us out to where we can never return.[1]

            I wonder sometimes if we still believe that Jesus has the power and authority to change this very world, our very lives in an instant, if we’re ready to confess that we still have places in our own hearts we have yet to fully give over to Christ’s authority and power. I wonder if we’re just a bunch of folks who want to tell others’ stories, to make Jesus famous by sharing stories of how he has changed those we believe needed to be changed. Or are we ready to confess that we are still in need of Christ’s love each and every day, that we need to let go of more of ourselves that it may be changed by more of Christ and his love?

May we be people who readily confess that we are not perfect—at least not yet. May we be people who are excited and encouraged by the stories of those who surrender to God’s love in Christ, yet let us also be people who know that there are still parts of our lives we need to surrender to God. May we be people who long to make Jesus famous, but even more than that, may we be people who seek to surrender our whole lives to him, trusting in his authority of love, so that Christ may continue to call us and continue to change us into the people he longs for us to be. Amen.

---

[1]Annie Dillard, Teaching a Stone to Talk. Harper Perennial: New York (1982), pp.52-3.

Leaving Your Nets (Third Sunday after Epiphany)

Mark 1:14-20

14 Now after John was arrested, Jesus came to Galilee, proclaiming the good news of God, 15 and saying, "The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news." 16 As Jesus passed along the Sea of Galilee, he saw Simon and his brother Andrew casting a net into the sea—for they were fishermen. 17 And Jesus said to them, "Follow me and I will make you fish for people." 18 And immediately they left their nets and followed him. 19 As he went a little farther, he saw James son of Zebedee and his brother John, who were in their boat mending the nets. 20 Immediately he called them; and they left their father Zebedee in the boat with the hired men, and followed him.

             Have you ever had to just drop everything you were doing because you got a phone call or a text message? Perhaps it was your brother calling to tell you that your mother has been rushed to the hospital by ambulance, and she asked for you by name. Maybe you were at work and the school called to tell you that your son has had an accident in class, and you need to come pick him up right away. Or maybe your phone vibrated in your pocket, and there on the screen were simply the words “Help. I need you.” You left everything where it was—tools on the ground, books and papers all over your desk, milk on the counter—because you know some things are more important than the things right in front of you, and because there’s something in the back of your mind that tells you that it’ll be alright soon and everything will get back to normal in time. You’ll eventually return to the jobsite, to your office, to clean the mess you left behind in such a hurry. You may drop what you’re doing, but you’ll pick it back up again eventually.

            There are those in our world, however, who are forced to drop everything, to leave it all behind, but not because of a phone call or a text. They are forced from their homes at gunpoint. Some are driven from their countries by the threat of war and persecution. Still others are forced to leave it all behind as devastating floods wash away their homes, as droughts dry up what is left of hope, and natural disasters erase their previous existence from the landscape.

Over these past months we have heard news of Ukrainian refugees who are leaving their homes during destructive military actions and political unrest.[1] In the African country of Malawi, flood waters have displaced over 200,000 people,[2] and just two weeks ago we marked the fifth anniversary of the earthquake that struck Haiti killing thousands, leaving thousands more displaced, and still that country has yet to fully recover.[3] There are too many stories to count of those in our world who have dropped everything, left it all behind, to never see it again, to carry on into an uncertain future. Unfortunately, the stories of these refugees, of these misplaced brothers and sisters, are stories of desperation, stories that speak of those who have no other choice, those whom the ways of war and weather have forced to move. Their stories are not stories of choosing to relocate; theirs are not stories of the free decision to trek into the unknown in search of something new, something exciting.

At first glance, the story before us this morning may seem like such a narrative. Two sets of two brothers, bored with the monotonous rhythms of the fishing life out on Lake Galilee, decide to seek adventure with the wandering rabbi from Nazareth, so they leave their nets, their boats, and their father to set out on some “coming of age” adventure, from which they’ll return wiser and more adjusted to the realities of adulthood. Yes, perhaps this story seems like the telling of a quartet of men ready to leave behind the family business in order to strike out on their own…but it’s so much more than that.

I’m sure many of you here this morning have heard this story before in VBS, Sunday school, or maybe even from this very pulpit. You’ve likely heard it recounted as an exemplary tale of how we all ought to respond to the call of Jesus, how we all ought to be willing to stop what we’re doing, listen to Jesus, and follow him. While that’s a great lesson, I don’t necessarily think it’s the point of this story, at least not the whole point.

I suppose one could chalk this scene up to a necessary bit of exposition, a way to explain how Jesus got his first few followers. It seems pretty short and to-the-point: “Jesus passed along the Sea of Galilee, he saw Simon and his brother Andrew casting a net into the sea—for they were fishermen. And Jesus said to them, ‘Follow me and I will make you fish for people.’” Straightaway, we’re told that “immediately they left their nets and followed him.” Nearly the same thing happens when Jesus is within earshot of John and James, the sons of Zebedee; in fact, it takes fewer words to express the interaction between Jesus and Zebedee’s boys: “Immediately he called them; and they left their father Zebedee in the boat with the hired men, and followed him.” No discussion among the brothers is mentioned. There’s no conversation about the consequences of following this man from Nazareth. The author of this gospel (as the author so often does) simply states the facts in order to move the narrative along: Jesus called four fishermen to follow him and they left their stuff and followed him.

Now, hang on a minute…before we get too swept up in where this story is going, let’s take a minute to really think about what just happened. While those of us reading this story some twenty centuries later may know where this is all going, Andrew, Peter, James, and John had no way of knowing what they were signing up for, but they definitely knew what they were leaving behind. You see, while Mark’s gospel may be short on intricate details and plot points, the details it does give us are ones worth our attention. In verse 16, the gospel tells us that Jesus passed by Simon and Andrew casting their nets into the sea “for they were fishermen.” Perhaps that seems pretty obvious, but the intention here is to point out that these men are not simply out on the water on their day off—these are professionals, men whose job it was to haul the catch from the water, to the boat, to the market. In fact, all four of these men are professional fishermen, and they are all presumably part of their respective families’ businesses. They are providers for their families, their communities, but when Jesus comes along proclaiming, “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news,” they take him at his word, answer his call, and leave everything there on the shore to follow him.

For so long, the immediate response of these four has been held up as the example for how to respond when Christ calls—and it should be! But I’m afraid we’ve missed something; I’m afraid we’ve watered down the response of these four men to an example of immediate response and nothing more. That is to say, it seems to me we’ve held this story up as proof that conversion (or to use a better word, discipleship) is something that happens immediately and internally. We’ve based that all on the immediate response of these fishermen to Christ’s call, while we’ve all but ignored the call of Christ itself, and in doing so, have missed the real point of these men’s obedience.

In verse 15 we hear of Jesus proclaiming the good news in Galilee saying, "The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news." His message builds upon the message of John the Baptist’s message of repentance. Then, when Jesus comes upon the fishermen, his message is simple: "Follow me and I will make you fish for people." It is at this request, this call, that these men leave their nets, their father, the hired men…hear that again, they leave their nets, their families, and their employees. In a very real sense, they leave their security in an instant to follow Jesus. This isn’t simply “asking Jesus into their hearts.” This isn’t a just cognitive acceptance of the divinity of Jesus. This isn’t four men simply agreeing that their collective theological assumptions about salvation are correct. This is four men actively, physically, leaving behind what they know to be secure, comfortable, and their societal obligations in order to follow Jesus. And here’s the thing…they can’t possibly know where that will take them! Sure, we know all about the sermon on the mount, the feeding of the five thousand, the healing the blind, the bringing Lazarus back from the dead, the cross, the tomb, the resurrection…but these four men have no way of knowing what’s in store for them. Yet they actively choose to follow Jesus as he calls them.

That’s the other thing: When Jesus calls them, he doesn’t call them to simply tag along and watch. No, he says, “I will make you fish for people.” The call of Christ is not simply a call to private, individual salvation—it is a call to a public, active vocation![4] When Jesus calls us, it is not simply so that we can rest assured that our souls may rejoice in the comfort of knowing we’ll go to heaven when we die. When Jesus call us, it is a call to actively leave behind more of who we are so that we may take hold of more of Christ, that we may actively set out into the world—not simply to decry its sinfulness and point out its shortcomings, but—to change it for the better! It is a call to actively draw others into the net of God’s all-sufficient love. It is a call that comes in a moment, but requires a lifetime of commitment, obedience, and trust.[5] It is a calling that beckons us to follow Jesus to places we haven’t been, into situations we have yet to experience, to those we have yet to meet. It is a call that come ringing with hope, joy, and love, but it is also a call that comes with the risks of bold action, the risks of following one who loves the unlovable, cares for the forgotten, the one who, though he is God, poured himself out into the world and got his hands dirty washing feet and playing with children.

 We know there are risks in following such a savior, for the very first words of the text before us this morning color the rest of the passage with its subtle shade: “Now after John was arrested…” John the Baptizer knew the risks of following this Jesus. He knew the risks of proclaiming repentance to those who believed they were already in the right. He knew the risks of calling to action those whose inaction and apathy had made them comfortable. He came to learn that following Jesus isn’t always the easy choice. These fishermen would come to learn that lesson as well, as have so many others through the centuries who have taken up the call of Christ, those who have put their faith to action by living their lives in very real ways for the gospel, those who left their nets. They learned those lessons, but most of all they learned that living a life in obedience to the call of Christ is the ultimate source of joy, for it is a call to actively be loved by God, to love God, and to draw others into that love.

Jesus is calling each of us today. He’s calling us to be “fishers of people,” to leave our nets on the shore, to leave behind what we know to be safe and comfortable in order to follow him. That means leaving behind our fears of what we don’t understand. That means getting up from the sidelines and getting in the game. That means actually actively getting involved, rather than sitting back and pointing out what you see as shortcomings. The call of Christ is to be more than an observer, more than a critic, more than a passive participant in the ways of this world—it is a call to do something!

May you be fishers of people. May you be one who leaves your nets on the shore. May you be one who takes the risks of following Jesus into the unknown. May you get up, off the sidelines, and into the game. May you trade in your critiques for actions, your observation for engagement, your stillness for movement, your indifference for love. May you hear the voice of Jesus calling you to come and follow, and may you live each moment from this one forward in obedience to that call. Amen.

---

[1]You can read more from the UN Refugee Agency about Ukraine here: http://www.unhcr.org/54c22c589.html

[2]You can read more about the flooding in Malawi here (accessed 1/23/15): http://www.theguardian.com/global-development/gallery/2015/jan/21/malawi-floods-cause-devastation-in-pictures

[3]Having seen the recovery effort in Haiti firsthand, I can say the earthquake there was devastating. You can read more about it here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2010_Haiti_earthquake

[4]Lee Barret, “Third Sunday after Epiphany, Mark 1:14-20: Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word: Year B, Volume 1. Westminster John Knox Press: Louisville, KY (2008), p. 288.

[5]Elton W. Brown, “Third Sunday after Epiphany, Mark 1:14-20: Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word: Year B, Volume 1. Westminster John Knox Press: Louisville, KY (2008), p. 286.

Here I Am (Second Sunday after Epiphany)

1 Samuel 3:1-10 (11-20)

1 Now the boy Samuel was ministering to the Lord under Eli. The word of the Lord was rare in those days; visions were not widespread. 2 At that time Eli, whose eyesight had begun to grow dim so that he could not see, was lying down in his room; 3 the lamp of God had not yet gone out, and Samuel was lying down in the temple of the Lord, where the ark of God was. 4 Then the Lord called, "Samuel! Samuel!" and he said, "Here I am!" 5 and ran to Eli, and said, "Here I am, for you called me." But he said, "I did not call; lie down again." So he went and lay down. 6 The Lord called again, "Samuel!" Samuel got up and went to Eli, and said, "Here I am, for you called me." But he said, "I did not call, my son; lie down again." 7 Now Samuel did not yet know the Lord, and the word of the Lord had not yet been revealed to him. 8 The Lord called Samuel again, a third time. And he got up and went to Eli, and said, "Here I am, for you called me." Then Eli perceived that the Lord was calling the boy. 9 Therefore Eli said to Samuel, "Go, lie down; and if he calls you, you shall say, "Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.'” So Samuel went and lay down in his place. 10 Now the Lord came and stood there, calling as before, "Samuel! Samuel!" And Samuel said, "Speak, for your servant is listening." 11 Then the Lord said to Samuel, "See, I am about to do something in Israel that will make both ears of anyone who hears of it tingle. 12 On that day I will fulfill against Eli all that I have spoken concerning his house, from beginning to end. 13 For I have told him that I am about to punish his house forever, for the iniquity that he knew, because his sons were blaspheming God, and he did not restrain them. 14 Therefore I swear to the house of Eli that the iniquity of Eli's house shall not be expiated by sacrifice or offering forever." 15 Samuel lay there until morning; then he opened the doors of the house of the Lord. Samuel was afraid to tell the vision to Eli. 16 But Eli called Samuel and said, "Samuel, my son." He said, "Here I am." 17 Eli said, "What was it that he told you? Do not hide it from me. May God do so to you and more also, if you hide anything from me of all that he told you." 18 So Samuel told him everything and hid nothing from him. Then he said, "It is the Lord; let him do what seems good to him." 19 As Samuel grew up, the Lord was with him and let none of his words fall to the ground. 20 And all Israel from Dan to Beer-sheba knew that Samuel was a trustworthy prophet of the Lord.

            I swore I heard something, something other-worldly. I asked my cousins if they had heard it, and they all said no. I asked my aunts and uncles, and they all just looked at me like I was some crazy little boy who needed to go outside and play. When I asked my dad, well, he just did what so many parents do when it seems their son is being annoying in the rush of preparing Sunday dinner, he told me to go sit in the living room with the rest of the “youngins” until the food was ready.

            You see, for a very brief period of my life (maybe the first four or five years), my family all got together on Sundays to go to church and, afterwards, meet at Grandma’s house for dinner (not lunch, because as you likely know, the noontime meal in the South is called dinner). I can remember one particular Sunday hearing this great growling, this mysterious mumbling. It didn’t sound like any language nor did it sound like any animal: it was a low, rumbling, what I thought to be…well, I thought it was the voice of God. Maybe the sermon that Sunday had been about God’s voice or the way God speaks to us, but I was certain after hearing this noise and questioning everyone in the house that the noise I heard was surely God speaking to me, trying to communicate through this strange grumbling that apparently only I could hear.

            When it came time to eat, we gathered around the table, elbows flying everywhere and wooden spoons diving into bowls of butterbeans and potato salad—that’s when I heard it again. So with my “outside voice” I said, “What do you want God?!” Elbows ceased flailing, dishes no longer clattered with the sound of silverware. Everyone looked at me, and my dad said, “Boy, what in the world is wrong with you?!” I looked at him, serious as anything and said, “God is trying to talk to me. But it just sounds like growling.” That’s when my uncle David started to laugh and said, “Boy, that’s just my stomach!” Instead of a divine calling, it turns out I was hearing digestive discomfort. There is, however, something to be said for the way young ears are tuned to listen for the voice of God.

Samuel was a young boy when he first heard something, a voice calling his name. His mother, Hannah, had been barren before she prayed to the Lord in the presence of the priest Eli, who observed her prayer and told her that God had heard her petition and she would at last bear a son. When Samuel was born, Hannah offered him to be set apart for the Lord that he might stay in the temple with the priests and grow to become God’s servant.[1] Samuel grew “in stature and favor with the Lord and with the people”[2] as he stayed in the temple with Eli, but it was during a time when “The word of the Lord was rare [and]…visions were not widespread”[3] that Samuel heard his name. Is it any wonder then, that when Samuel hears the voice calling in verse 4 the boy assumes it is Eli’s? It happens three times until Eli realizes what’s really going on in verse 8. He tells Samuel (in verse 9), “Go, lie down; and if he calls you, you shall say, ‘Speak Lord, for your servant is listening.’” Samuel does exactly as Eli had told him, and in verses 11 through 14, the Lord tells Samuel about the coming punishment to Eli’s house. You see, Eli’s sons (also priests) had been abusing their positions: they had been eating the fat of the sacrifices, which was specifically reserved for God, and taking advantage of the women who came to worship at the tent of meeting.[4] Their corruption and disobedience drew the judgment of God upon the house of Eli, and the news of this judgment was to be delivered to Eli by the boy who lived there in the temple with the aging prophet.

            One can surely understand Samuel’s hesitation at delivering such a message to Eli. After all, Eli practically raised Samuel; Eli was the one who was charged with caring for Samuel and brining him up as one dedicated wholly to the Lord. Eli, however, commands Samuel to tell him everything, to hold nothing back from him. Eli wanted to know every word, no matter how harsh. “So Samuel told him everything and hid nothing from him” in verse 18. It is immediately after this that we’re told in verse 19 and 20: “As Samuel grew up, the Lord was with him and let none of his words fall to the ground. And all Israel from Dan to Beer-sheba knew that Samuel was a trustworthy prophet of the Lord.” Samuel’s faithfulness to relay God’s message to Eli, stands in stark contrast to the ways in which Eli’s sons have abused their calling as servants and priests to the Lord.

            There is something to be said here about Samuel, even though he is young, even though this is only the beginning of the new work God is going to do in Israel through this prophet. There is something to be said about the way Samuel responds to God’s calling. In this brief story, this short glimpse at the beginning of a life lived in obedience to the call of God, we see—not the rose-colored picture of a vocation lived in the admiration of many and the joy of proclaiming comfort, prosperity, and happiness to those who eagerly gather to listen—but the reality that a life lived in obedience to God’s call can be a life lived with the duty to deliver a hard word to those who may not be so anxious to listen. In other words, a call from God is not a call to a glamorous life of prestige and honor, but a call to be the bearer of God’s words, the proclaimer of God’s good news and a witness to the ways of God’s kingdom. This call is not always an easy one to answer.

            If I had been told twelve years ago, when I first felt called to ministry, that as a pastor I would be constantly criticized, cussed out in hospital rooms, cornered by ego-driven church leaders, menaced by anonymous letters, bullied by Bible-thumpers, yelled at in a church parking lot, insulted behind my back by fellow believers, or threatened by wealthy givers to have their money taken away so my salary would be cut unless things started going their way, I may have told God that he had the wrong number! As it turns out, God doesn’t always give us an easy word to share; God doesn’t always give us a clear and easy path to tread when God calls us to the work of the kingdom. Sometimes (maybe most times), when God calls us, it is because the work to be done requires someone willing to do it, one who can stand and deliver a difficult word to those who may not want to hear it. Often the word God has for God’s people is a harsh word, one born out of apathy, hatred, or injustice, and when the one called by God stands to deliver such a word, those whose ears that were once tingling with the good news of heaven and the sweet bye-and-bye take their attendance, money, and their comfortably-conformed opinions, and leave for what they see as greener pastures, places where hard truths are not spoken, where their own idolatrous ideologies are upheld and proclaimed as God’s own truth.

            Often the call of God is not to just proclaim the good news to unbelievers: it is often the call to proclaim the whole gospel to those who call themselves believers. It is a call to proclaim a difficult message to those who don’t want to hear it in the first place. And this calling is not just for those of us with the title “Reverend.” God is calling all of us to stand and deliver the message of God’s kingdom, that the ways of this world—ways that so many of us see as comfortable because we have been privileged by a culture and its systems that have denied justice and opportunities to so many others—are no longer acceptable, that Christ has come to set the world right-side-up so that the love of God may reign, and all people may know that the God who created the universe loves each of them beyond the power of death and sin.

We are all called by God. Whether we hear that calling in the growling of hungry stomachs, the pain of those suffering with illness, the eyes of those longing for compassion, the trials of those who society has cast to the margins, or the cries of those longing to be free from oppression, we are ALL called by God. To be called a Christian is to be called by God. It is not always easy. It is not always wonderful or filled with accolades and admiration. But to be called by God means that God will surely use you to change the world, to change the world for the good, for the gospel, for God’s kingdom. Today, God is calling you, just as he called Samuel. May you respond just as Samuel did. May you say this morning, “Here I am…Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening,” and may God call you by name to the work of God’s kingdom. Amen.

---

[1] 1 Samuel 1

[2] 1 Samuel 2:26

[3] 1 Samuel 3:1

[4] Richard Boyce, “Second Sunday after Epiphany, 1 Samuel 2:1-10 (11-20): Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word: Year B, Volume 1. Westminster John Knox Press: Louisville, KY (2008), pp.243-245.

Water and the Spirit (Baptism of the Lord)

Mark 1:4-11

4 John the baptizer appeared in the wilderness, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins. 5 And people from the whole Judean countryside and all the people of Jerusalem were going out to him, and were baptized by him in the river Jordan, confessing their sins. 6 Now John was clothed with camel's hair, with a leather belt around his waist, and he ate locusts and wild honey. 7 He proclaimed, "The one who is more powerful than I is coming after me; I am not worthy to stoop down and untie the thong of his sandals. 8 I have baptized you with water; but he will baptize you with the Holy Spirit." 9 In those days Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan. 10 And just as he was coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending like a dove on him. 11 And a voice came from heaven, "You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased."

           

            “We have a problem,” he said. There wasn’t much context to his declaration, nor any reason given as to why he was telling me instead of someone familiar, someone in charge. “What kind of problem?” I asked. He pointed towards the roof of the three-story structure and said, “We’re almost out of water.” I remember saying, “Well that’s not good” (an understatement if there ever was one).

            This quick conversation took place this past summer, when seventeen of us travelled to the Christian Light School in Port au Prince, Haiti. There in the small, paved yard of the school was a cistern. That cistern was periodically (and expensively) filled with water from a tanker truck. Then, the water in that cistern would be pumped up three stories to several black, plastic storage tanks that each held about 500 gallons. Some of those tanks were then plumbed throughout the building to be used for washing and waste removal, while the others were plumbed to a shack on the second floor that held all kinds of filtering equipment. Now, the water that was run through that filtering equipment (including a system that treated the water with ozone) would be pumped back up to the third floor into separate tanks, so that gravity could then send it through separate pipes for drinking water. Apparently, the tanks on the roof were getting low.

            As it turned out, the jet pump that provided the tanks on the roof with water from the cistern had malfunctioned. A few adjustments to the pressure switch on the pump, and water was once again flowing from the cistern to the black tanks on the roof, through the filter systems, so we could all have safe, clean water to drink (even if it did occasionally taste like hot plastic).

            I tell you that story because I remember thinking how fortunate we are to have clean drinking water at the turn of a knob on any faucet in our homes, how vital water is to our everyday lives. I remember thinking how something so common, so plentiful, so natural and ordinary, could be so precious, so scarce, so important. As I think about it now, with the baptismal waters still a bit damp on my skin, I am in awe to think that Christ used such an element to inaugurate his ministry, that God chose to begin the ministry of Christ—not among the marbled columns of a palace, not in the gold-gilded halls of a temple, not even under the gem-bedazzled crown of royalty, but—in the shallow, muddy waters of the Jordan. There, in the water, surrounded by people from the whole Judean countryside and all the people of Jerusalem, God initiated the great ministry of Christ, the proclamation that God had indeed intervened in history and had come to show us the way, the way that leads through water, through bread and wine, through suffering and death, and on through hope and resurrection.

            Perhaps John the Baptizer thought things would go differently. After all, in verses 7 and 8 he says, "The one who is more powerful than I is coming after me; I am not worthy to stoop down and untie the thong of his sandals. I have baptized you with water; but he will baptize you with the Holy Spirit." One gets the notion that John may have expected Jesus to show up and do something completely different, something that would make everyone take notice, something flashy and powerful, but instead we’re told in verse 9: “In those days Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan.” There are no flashy tricks, no grand speeches nor acts of power: Jesus is baptized by John in water.

Of course, what happens next is a divine confirmation of what has taken place, a sign from God that what has happened there in that water is only the beginning of things to come. “And just as he was coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending like a dove on him. And a voice came from heaven, ‘You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.’" Through water, the Son of God begins his ministry and the Spirit of God announces it to the world.

There, in the water, God proclaims that Jesus is God’s beloved Son; the Spirit comes upon him. From this point forward, Jesus begins declaring the good news; he begins proclaiming the present kingdom of God. When Christ came out of the water, he stepped onto the path that would lead him to healing the sick, giving sight to the blind, caring for the poor, welcoming the stranger, challenging the powerful, and raising the dead. When Jesus stepped out of the Jordan, he stepped on to the way that leads through rejection, agony, and suffering. We Jesus came out of the water, perhaps he knew what lay before him, and perhaps he knew that at the end of that path were a cross and the pain of death. Maybe that’s why the dove came, why the sky ripped open, and the voice of God spoke of Jesus as God’s beloved Son. Maybe the signs were for Jesus, to comfort and encourage him in the face of what awaited him. One thing seems to be clear: the water of baptism marked the beginning of something powerful for Jesus, the beginning of Christ’s journey towards the cross. That’s what baptism is, the beginning of something powerful.

For whatever reason, however, over the past few generations, baptism has become quite the opposite (especially for Christians who identify as “Evangelicals”). Baptism has become something we use as a tally mark, a signpost in our lives on which we can look back and reassure ourselves that we are actually Christians and we’ll get into heaven when we die. Baptism has really become a sort of “ending,” something we do when we’ve proven that the one to be baptized has jumped through all the hoops and answered all the questions with the right answers. It is as if we’ve said to those who have been baptized, “You’ve been dunked, so now it’s really just a matter of coming to church pretty regularly, giving a little money, and maybe serving on a committee or two.” Baptism has become a mere rite of passage, something one does to prove he or she is willing to be a part of the group, an action that is required in order for one to be able to fully participate in all the perks and benefits of the institution.

Think about it: what do we ask of a person beyond baptism when it comes to church membership? What do we really expect of an individual before we add him or her to the role aside from proof of baptism or the undertaking of the act itself? Even congregations with elaborate “new members” classes place baptism at the end of that process, as a goal to be reached in order to prove that one is now genuinely a Christian and the kind of Christian that is allowed to be an official part of that congregation. It just seems to me that we have made baptism an ending of sorts, but baptism isn’t an ending. Baptism is a beginning of something powerful, a life driven by the ever-present Spirit of God.

Look at it this way: baptism is not just a symbol, a proclamation of something that has changed inside of you; it is a visible, public promise of what God is going to do through you. What if we reflected on our own baptisms that way? What if we looked back to that day we were wet with the waters of baptism as the beginning of something powerful, the beginning of God’s work in our lives? Has much changed? How far have you come since that day? How have you allowed the Spirit of God to dwell in you, to move and work through you in the lives of others? What if we saw baptism as the first, brave step on the way of following Jesus? What if we saw our own baptisms as the first movement in a life redefined by the gospel, a life lived for the kingdom of God? Would it change how we live even now?

For years I’ve heard defensive Baptists say things like, “We baptize because Jesus told us to, not because we believe it saves us:” that’s why so many Baptists refer to baptism (along with the Lord’s Supper) as an “ordinance.” I believe we baptize (and take communion) because Christ did call us to do it, but I also believe that when we follow Jesus through the waters of baptism we are united with him in his baptism AND his life, death, burial, and resurrection. That’s more than just a baptismal formula to speak while standing in the pool—it’s a call to live lives worthy of such a baptism! It is a call to be united with Christ in the very way we live our lives each day, for baptism is not an end in and of itself—it is a beginning of something powerful.

Today, we have witnessed such a beginning, and on days like this, when the baptistry is full, when one has taken the bold step to publicly show his desire to follow Jesus, those of us who have been baptized cannot help but reflect on our own baptisms. We recall what that day was like, the nervousness as we stood in front of so many, the sensation of the water closing in around us or being poured over us, the feeling of emerging from the water as a new person, wet and cool. As you reflect on that day, that beginning, how have you changed? How have you let God use you since that day? Perhaps you’ve witnessed this beginning today and realize that God is calling you to such a beginning, that Christ is calling you to follow him through the waters of baptism and on to a life lived in the power of God’s Spirit, for the good news of God’s kingdom. If you feel Christ calling you to follow him through the water, I encourage you to tell somebody, you can even come and share that with us here during our time of response.

As we all have witnessed the beginning of something powerful, the beginning of God’s work in Brody’s life here today, may we all allow God to use us. May we be used by God to share the love and the message of God’s kingdom with our words and our actions as we live each day following Christ. May those of us who have passed through the waters of baptism see that day as a beginning of something powerful and each day from here on as a day to live for Christ and God’s kingdom. And may those of us who have yet to be baptized with Christ, listen for the voice of God as it speaks to us, as it assures us of God’s love in Christ Jesus, and may you take the first step towards something powerful and a life filled with the love of God. Amen.