This sermon was preached on Ash Wednesday at Grace Lutheran Church (River Forest, IL). You can watch the livestream recording and follow along in the bulletin. The sermon begins at 41.58. The picture is of the chancel at Grace, taken by me.
Sisters and brothers in Christ, grace be unto you and peace in the name God the Father and our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.
- I’ve encountered many kinds of sports parents over the years. Perhaps you have, too. There are those who always arrived decked out in team clothing and those who bring enough snacks to feed an army. There are those who remain cheerful and encouraging no matter how the team is doing and those who prefer chatting with other parents to watching the game itself. There are always those who give the refs a hard time. But the parents who stand out the most are the ones whose reason for being there seems to be to yell at their own kid. The unrelentingly demanding parents who, for one reason or another, can’t seem to remember that they’re watching children playing a game. A game that is supposed to be fun. Some years ago at a baseball tournament, I saw this play out every time a child on the other team came up to bat. “Elbow up! Stop pulling your head! Eye on the ball! Follow through! Stop chasing!” These were all, no doubt, salient points of advice. Given quietly and caringly during practice, they might have helped the child improve. But yelled from the bleachers, between every pitch in every at bat? Not so much. At one point, the player, all of nine or ten years old, stepped of the box, turned to the stands with tears running down his face, and yelled, “Dad, you’re not helping me!” And then, if I remember correctly, the poor kid struck out. I’m sure he wanted nothing more than to succeed, if only to get his dad off his back. But the weight of it all was just too much. How does one deal with such an assault of demand and criticism?
- What sort of voice are we hearing today? What words come at us on this Ash Wednesday? From scripture and liturgy, the assault comes on. You are sinners and transgressors. You are mortal, you are dust. It is a day of darkness and gloom. To dust you shall return. Beware of practicing your piety like that. No, do it like this. How will you ever earn your Father’s favor in that way? You are dust. It is enough, perhaps, to make us throw our hands up in despair. If we are helpless and hopeless, what’s the point? Have we any hope of getting better?
- If we start with the reality of our mortality and the weight of our sin and try to work our way to God, where will that ever get us? If the voice that we think of as God’s voice is always yelling demands, where do we end up? We might, I suppose, come to a place where a disappointed God loves us anyway, but I’m not sure that’s the gospel, or at least not much of a gospel. This is not to say that we port round the problems of sin and death and pretend they’re not that big a deal. By no means. Instead, we face them head on. On this Ash Wednesday, as we begin the fast of Lent, we hear of a God who doesn’t yell at us from the sidelines or wait for us at the finish. We hear of a God, hear from a God, who joins us in the midst of it all. The One who brings the very treasures of heaven down to us on this earth. We hear of Jesus, this One who enters into our sin and our suffering, into the very dustiness of our death, to do all that is needful for us. Our repentance is not a desperate plea to placate an angry parent but the faithful response of those who know that Christ is with us in all things. It is faith in the promise of forgiveness enables our confession of sin. It is trust in the promise of resurrection allows us to look death in the face. The truth of what God in Christ does for us lets us see the truth of our lives and that world around us, and to see it all not with despair but with hope. The hope we have in Christ, not in ourselves, compels us to live for those around us, seeking false hope not in demonstrating our own worthiness but sharing true hope with those around us, all worthy in the eyes of God.
- Not long ago, a book of correspondence between Miroslav Volf and Christian Wiman was published. The theologian and the poet, friends and colleagues at Yale Divinity School, carry on a conversation about faith and spiritual searching. But the conversation is not one that happens in some sort of pious, intellectual vacuum; it occurs in the stuff of real life, including Wiman’s cancer. At the close of one message, Volf writes, “It seems strange writing this email while you are receiving a bone marrow transplant and putting final touches on it while not knowing how the surgery went. But our love for God and God’s love for us has everything to do with both our strength and our utter fragility.” Friends, on this day we name our fragility. We are dust and to dust we shall return. But God loves us in our fragility. Joins us in our brokenness. Dies that we might live. Pours out the treasures of heaven that we might know them even now. Breathes new life into our frames and gives us new hearts once more. We do not mar our faces with ashes today to show others how pious we are. We are marked with cruciform ash so that we might find one another, fellow travelers, never alone. Yes, journeying from dust to dust, but not only that. Dust is no longer the last word, and so the first word is always one of hope.
- People of God, as Lent begins, we tell the truth. We can’t do it on our own. We are sinners in need of forgiveness. Sufferers in need of restoration. Mortals in need of resurrection. We tell the truth but we can bear it, for we hear also the truth of the gospel. As St. Paul tells us, in spite of all we endure, now is the day of our salvation. Return to the Lord your God and discover that you never managed to get that far away. Jesus doesn’t stay on the sidelines. As we make our way to Easter and to the coming dawn of a new creation, Jesus journeys with you. Sin and suffering and the dust of death linger but they will not last. But Jesus, the Word of God, endures forever. And in him, you will, too. Amen.
And now may that peace that passes all understanding keep your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus, this day and forever. Amen.
This sermon was preached at Grace Lutheran Church (River Forest, IL) on February 8, the Fifth Sunday after Epiphany. You can watch the livestream recording and follow along in the bulletin. The image is the Church of the Beatitudes, built in the 1930s near the traditional site of the Sermon on the Mount. I took the picture on August 16, 2017.
Sisters and brothers in Christ, grace be unto you and peace in the name God the Father and our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.
- I was away last weekend at a hockey tournament with our daughter, Greta. I am always grateful for such times. It’s an incredible thing to have that one-on-one time with a child, watching them do something they love and seeing them becoming the people they are, the people God made them to be. But I was reminded of something else, too. Hockey stinks. I mean, it’s awesome and wonderful and exciting. But it stinks. Hockey gear is not pleasant to be around. Every time I returned to our hotel room, I was surprised anew by the not-so-fragrant aroma. But within minutes, I had acclimated again. You stop noticing such things after a while, only to be surprised all over again the next time you leave and return. It’s amazing what we can get used to.
- There’s a lot in the air these days. Some things are hard to miss. Like many of you, I found myself appalled this week when the president posted blatantly racist content to social media – a video since deleted but not apologized for. Depicting Black people in this way taps into the old, old story of racism. To show people as less than human was a good way to support slavery and segregation, and it’s a good way to advance an agenda of hatred today. But it is antithetical to the way of Jesus Christ, and we speak with both condemnation and invitation. Condemnation because such messaging has no proper place in our public discourse. And invitation because the call is to more than crossing the low bar of basic civility. As people of the gospel of Jesus Christ, a gospel that shows no partiality, we invite all those in positions of power and leadership to leave racism and hatred behind forever. Just because it’s in the atmosphere doesn’t mean we should become acclimated.
- What else have we gotten used to, in the world around us and in our own hearts? As we continue in the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus speaks to his purpose. He has come not to abolish the law and the prophets but to fulfill. Jesus today opens our doors to ourselves with a law that reveals us to be people who have fallen short. God’s law, given to us as gift, teaches us to love God and neighbor. God’s law calls us, as Isaiah tells us today, to stand against injustice and oppression, to work for those who hunger for food and for righteousness. And God’s law makes clear that we have each, in our own particular ways, failed to fully live into God’s ways. I think that sometimes we mistake the message of Jesus as a gospel of tolerance. That because God loves us, God will put up with us and our sin, and therefore anything goes. No. Jesus’ gospel is one of forgiveness. Jesus doesn’t put up with our sin. He puts it away. Takes it to the cross and leaves it in the tomb. You, friends, are sinners. And you, friends, are forgiven, gifted with the righteousness of Christ and transformed by the work of the Holy Spirit. The stench of sin and death is left behind, and a new wind is blowing.
- So, what is God making you to be? Jesus tells us today. You are the salt of the earth. You are the light of the world. In the world of sin and suffering, injustice and oppression, you are the salt of the earth. You are the ones sent by Jesus to season and preserve with love and hope, with mercy and grace. When this world’s brokenness seems overwhelming, remember that you are salt, and that a little goes a long way. And while Jesus warns against losing your flavor, which happened to salt in his day because it would be mixed with other minerals, it’s also true that salt cannot lost its flavor. Salt remains salt, and you remain a child of God, because that’s what Jesus has made you.
- As you are salt for the earth, working for the well-being of your neighbors, you are also light for the world. Just as salt does not exist for itself, but to make other things better, so does light not exist for itself but to make things visible. We do good work in this world not for our own glory or prestige, but to make visible the glory and goodness of God. In this world of darkness, goodness knows we need the light. Among the knickknackery and nonsense on my desk is one of my favorite photographs. I love the picture for two reasons. First, because it’s a picture of Erika, and she’s the best. And second, because I took it in the middle of night without using the camera’s flash. We were sitting on our balcony overlooking the Sognefjord in Norway. It was not long past the summer solstice and the sun never really got around to fully setting. As people of the light, the darkness cannot overwhelm us. A flicker or glimmer is enough. The sun does not fully set because the Son is forever raised. Yes, the shadows are long in this world, but you are light. And with light, like salt, a little goes along way.
- People of God, Jesus has done all that is needful for you. You are forgiven and free. You are salt and light. We cannot fully change the world, but we also need not accept it as it is. We need not acclimate. Called by the covenant of your baptism into the world, fling wide the doors. Air it out. Christ is alive. The Spirit is working. We may have a long way to go, but a little goes a long way. Let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven. Amen.
And now may that peace that passes all understanding keep your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus, this day and forever. Amen.
This sermon was preached at Grace Lutheran Church (River Forest, IL) on January 25, the Third Sunday after Epiphany. You can watch the livestream recording and follow along in the bulletin. The image is of of the chancel at Grace as it looks without the deep-red dossal curtain that is currently out for cleaining.
Sisters and brothers in Christ, grace be unto you and peace in the name God the Father and our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.
- On Wednesday morning, our students arrived for chapel unprepared. They had not been alerted to the dramatic shift in our sanctuary’s appearance. As they noticed the absence of the deep-red dossal curtain, they began to chatter amongst themselves, wondering what this change might mean. A teacher walked past, chuckling, and said, “They seem to be struggling with change.” So, during my homily, I told them that it had been taken out for cleaning and would be back in a few weeks. But I also asked them what they thought about it. One boy raised his hand and said, “I’m glad it’s coming back! When I saw it was gone, I just wanted to cry.” Another hand shot up; the girl to whom it belonged said, “Well, you got my hopes up. I never liked it anyway.” And then another hand, and with it, a question: “Why didn’t you have it cleaned while we were on Christmas break?” Within a few moments, the temporary removal of the dossal curtain had elicited a difficulty with change, diametrically opposed opinions, and a complaint about process. I beamed with pride. We’ve made them into Lutherans!
- Disagreement in the church is nothing new, of course. Years ago, when I was just starting out, a wise mentor said to me, “When churches run out of real things to disagree about, they’ll turn on each other about the color of the carpet.” Fortunately, I’ve never really found that to be true; or maybe I’ve just always served among people with more important things about which to disagree. Nevertheless, this is nothing new. After his buttering-up of a salutation to the Corinthians, which we heard last week, Paul begins his broadside against his readers. In a letter that will deal with sins ranging from sexual immorality to the abuse of the Lord’s Supper, he begins by disagreeing with their disagreement. How can you, he asks, you who belong to Christ, go around boasting about belonging to Cephas or Apollos or even me, Paul? Are you kidding? Are you fools? Or will you come to your senses and remember that you worship Jesus Christ who was crucified? For it is the crucified Christ alone who is the Lord of the church. And this same Christ, who converted Saul to Paul, who died and was raised for those squabblers in Corinth, who stands before the church today. It is this Jesus who calls to us.
- Jesus calls to us in the midst of deep division, in both church and world, and it’s not about curtains or carpet. There are those in our nation who espouse Christian nationalism, who seek to use Jesus to prop up their vision of a world where might makes right. The connection is clear in a recent recruiting video in which ICE makes use of Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount – blessed are the peacemakers, it tells us, as we watch footage of glorified violence. In the broken world in which we live, some level of immigration laws are needed. But the current methods of enforcement are cruelty and violence. Yesterday, in Minnesota, Alex Pretti was killed in cold blood by ICE agents. Although the government is doubling down by telling us not to believe the evidence of our own eyes, all the video footage released so far tells a clear story: Alex Pretti was shot multiple times without good reason. Blessed are the peacemakers? The division in the broader church is not an honest difference of opinion; it is a reminder that there are contrasting visions of the gospel and that some of them are wrong. And I know nothing in scripture that tells me that the Jesus we worship is likely to be on the side of a heavily-armed paramilitary force operating against a civilian population.
- Where do we go from here? Things are never as hopeless as they seem. Isaiah, writing in a time of violent upheaval, reminds the people of God’s decisive victory on the day of Midian. What is the day of Midian? I’m so glad you asked! During the time of the Judges, Gideon’s force faced overwhelming odds against the Midianite army. But instead of reinforcing Gideon’s army, God reduces it. Left with only 300 men, Gideon sends them against their enemy with torches, trumpets, and clay jars. With light and crashing sound, they terrify the Midianites, who turn in terror upon each other, engulfed and defeated by their own violence. As God acted in the past, Isaiah promises, so will God act in the future. But the force of 300 is reduced further. Now only One comes forth, and he brings nothing to the fight except grace and mercy, forgiveness and love, and a nonviolent willingness to lay down his life for his enemies. Jesus will go to the cross and to his death. In taking his life, the forces of sin and hate and violence and evil and death will devour themselves. Such forces cannot give life, and will always lead to their own end, whatever damage they create along the way. We worship the God of Gideon, and we do so by following the ways of Jesus. His cross may look foolish to this world’s powers, but we know it is our salvation.
- This Jesus stands before us, fresh off his victory over Satan in the wilderness. His first word? Repent! Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near. Turn, peoples and nations, from your wanton ways and seek now the ways of peace – not a cheap peace that goes along to get along but the real peace of God in which life can flourish for all. To follow Jesus will cost us everything, as Dietrich Bonhoeffer knew well. Living under the Nazi regime, in 1937 he wrote, “When Christ calls a [person], he bids [them] come and die.” In Christ, we meet our end. But we also meet our beginning, the new life that comes only from Jesus. Where once we were entangled in the nets of sin and violence, now we are caught Up in the reign of peace and love. Caught up in peace and love – not wishy-washy emotions but powerful forces that can and will one day have the last word over sin and death.
- What does this discipleship look like? For Andrew and Peter, James and John, it looked like dropping everything, trading one set of nets for another. For 100 or so clergy in Minnesota on Friday, it looked like putting their bodies on the line while publicly praying, being willing to be arrested as peaceful witnesses against ICE and state-sanctioned violence. What will it look like for us in these days? I don’t know that we fully know yet. I pray we will be faithful. I know Christ will be faithful to us, and to all who take up the witness of his cross. For this is the gospel: When the people sit in darkness, in the region and shadow of death, the great light of Christ will shine forth all the brighter. However long seems the night, dawn is coming. Christ who was dead is alive. Your sins are forgiven and you are alive. Live now in freedom and light. Never mind the dossal curtain; the temple curtain is torn, and nothing can stop the light shining through. Jesus is calling. Will you follow him? On my own, I’m not always so sure. But I’m not on my own, and neither are you. Together, Christ, we follow you. Amen.
And now may that peace that passes all understanding keep your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus, this day and forever. Amen.
This sermon was preached at Grace Lutheran Church (River Forest, IL) on January 18, the Second Sunday after Epiphany. You can view the livestream recording and follow along in the bulletin. The image is San Juan Bautista by Francisco de Zurbarán (circa 1638-1639, public domain).
Sisters and brothers in Christ, grace be unto you and peace in the name God the Father and our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.
- Did you see that? With three kids and only two of us, Erika and I are often not in the same place, and we are often missing out on what one or another of the kids is up to. While it is not quite the same as being there, we find ourselves resorting to the next best thing, zipping photos and videos of this hockey game or that band concert to one another. Did you see that? Just yesterday, I found myself suit shopping with Anders, who is somehow almost done with middle school at Grace and is therefore in need of a new suit for eighth grade pictures and graduation. While I do trust my impeccable sartorial instincts, I nevertheless texted his mother a photo before buying. Just to make sure. Of course, there was a time before cell phones. Remember that? On McArthur St., where I grew in Appleton, WI, there were lots of kids around my age, and we were all obsessed with sports. We’d be watching this or that game in our own homes, but when something remarkable happened – Kirk Gibson’s walk-off homer, Doug Flutie’s Hail Mary, George Brett’s pine tar histrionics, some team from Chicago winning the Super Bowl – we’d run outside simultaneously, asking each other a question to which we already knew the answer: Did you see that? You bet we did. And not only did we see it, we had a deep-seated need to share the moment with one another. Seeing isn’t enough. It’s seeing and sharing that marks and makes the moment.
- It is this sort of invitation, this epiphanic sharing, that ripples out today after Jesus leaves the waters of the Jordan and returns to dry land. First, twice, we hear the Baptist’s cry: Look, here is the Lamb of God! Then, as Andrew and another disciple leave John to follow Jesus, they discover another truth: Jesus is the Messiah, God’s Anointed, the One who will restore God’s reign in and over this world. These early professions of faith – Lamb of God, Messiah – point with incredible clarity to Jesus’ purpose and identity, evocative as they are of the history, hopes, and expectations of their people. But one wonders if John, Andrew, and those to whom they spoke, including Simon Peter, truly grasped the meaning of the words coming out of their mouths. Whatever their understanding, their confession of faith, even at this early stage, is remarkable. They are pointing away from themselves to Jesus. He alone is the Lamb of God. They are pointing away from all others who might pretend to such a position. Jesus alone is Messiah. And they are pointing away from all that would seek to hurt and harm them – from their own sin to the oppressive empire – and professing the hope that God is doing a new thing. Are you looking for hope, something that will help you finally lift your eyes up from drudgery, despair, desolation? Looking for something – someone – who will meet your gaze in return? Come and see.
- Our eyes, however, are haunted by visions unwanted. The same technology that helps Erika and I share images of our children enables us to see anywhere in the world. And while I am by no means suggesting that we shouldn’t be watching, these images sometimes threaten to overwhelm us. From the scenes on the streets of Minneapolis to those on the streets of Tehran, we are reminded that there is so much that is so wrong in this world. Such scenes emerge for different reasons, of course, and are vastly different, but we are reminded of worldly truths. That power is rarely benevolent. That sin is rampant and life valued too little Do we dare look up? Do we dare to hope? Do we, as one of you asked this morning, even have the strength to get out of bed in the morning?
- We do, if our gaze rests upon Jesus. Tomorrow, our nation will pause to honor the memory of the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Dr. King reminds us to point away from ourselves. He was more than an activist. He was a proclaimer of the truth, a pointer toward hope, a signal showing forth the hope of this world. In a sermon more memorable than this one, “The Drum Major Instinct,” Dr King preaches: “Nineteen centuries have come and gone and today [Jesus] stands as the most influential figure that ever entered human history. All of the armies that ever marched, all the navies that ever sailed, all the parliaments that ever sat, and all the kings that ever reigned put together have not affected [life] on earth as much as that one solitary one” in whom “we can make of this old world a new world.” Dr. King reminds us, calls us, in the midst of all that would seek to beat us down or steal our hope, to look to Jesus. We look to Jesus and we see God come to earth. This God, Dr. King proclaims, “is not a weak God, He is not an incompetent God and consequently He is able to beat back gigantic mountains of opposition and to bring low prodigious hill tops of evil. The ringing cry of the Christian faith is that our God is able.”
- How? Come and see. Jesus defeats sin and death itself by first climbing the lonely hilltop Calvary’s evil. Behold the Lamb of God! Faced with death on Moriah, God gave a ram in Isaac’s place. Heavy laden with sin, God provided a scapegoat each Day of Atonement, that the people would find another year of forgiveness. From the lamb of Nathan’s parable for David to the Servant Song’s lamb that goes silent to the slaughter, John’s profession of faith evokes a rich tapestry of images, of the many and various ways God stands in the gap for us. But none is more powerful than the communal meal eaten by a fearful people in haste on their last night in Egypt. Taking a young, unblemished lamb, the people found nourishment for their flight to freedom and hope for the future. Marked by the blood, their homes became gateways to freedom. And so, as he goes willingly to the cross, Jesus – unblemished, legs unbroken – gives his own blood and becomes the lifeblood of this world. In this feast, we are reminded once more of the lengths to which our God would go to save us. Our Good Shepherd is the Lamb of God, who lays down his life for the sheep. Come and see this Messiah who makes a way to life and freedom, who frees us to work for life for all in this world, trusting that our life in the world to come is held irrevocably in God’s hands. Our lives and been caught up in the ripples from the Jordon, baptized into his death and resurrection, into the great Passover from death to life.
- Of course, in our reading today it’s still early in the story. Can this all be true? Has Jesus really come for this? With Andrew and the other disciple, we ask, “Where are you staying, Jesus?” It turns out, he’s staying with us. Or as he’ll say later, he abides. Jesus has come to make God’s home with us. The sin of the world is real, but it is also already defeated. Hang in there, for Christ is with you. As the psalmist sings, God will lift you up from the pit again. Keep working, for you are already forgiven and free. What might God Jesus do through you? Drawn together in Christ, come and see. Amen.
And now may that peace that passes all understanding keep your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus, this day and forever. Amen.
This sermon was preached at Grace Lutheran Church (River Forest, IL) on January 11, the Baptism of Our Lord. You can watch the livestream recording and follow along in the bulletin. The image is Baptism of Christ by David Zelenka (2005, used with permission).
Sisters and brothers in Christ, grace be unto you and peace in the name God the Father and our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.
- On Friday morning, I dragged myself out of bed a bit earlier than usual on my day off. In an inversion of Christmas morning, I grabbed my cup of coffee and made my way to the Christmas tree. There were no gifts below, no stockings hanging nearby, no carols playing. Its daily donation of needles to the floor had been steadily increasing. The tree was engaged in its own version of dry January and hadn’t had a drink in days. Without ceremony, I unscrewed the pins holding it in its stand, dropped it on its side, and dragged it outside. I had to do all this early to make sure that it was ready for collection by the village for its journey to the chipper. As I dumped it in our alley in the gray light of a rainy morning, I took one last look at what had been, for us, a good tree. But now it was, cold, lifeless, cutoff. And the thought I had in that moment was simple: I know how you feel, tree. I know how you feel. Cut off, the joy and purpose gone, helpless and hopeless. Like Green Bay in the fourth quarter…
- The people of God were well acquainted with such a state of affairs, having lost much more than a football game. We find them today in exile, strangers in the strange land of Babylon, victims of the neighborhood bully who took them over because it could. Temple destroyed, homes far behind, the people wonder if this is the end of the story. Has the light finally gone out? Are they cut off forever? The prophet sings them a song, the first of the four Servant Songs of Isaiah. And who is the servant? The servant is the whole people of God, the people of Israel. The Lord sings to the chosen, the people in whom God delights. Yes, like a reed the servant is bruised but will not break, is faint but will not be crushed, burns dimly but will not be quenched. The same God who stretched out the heavens will use the servant to bring justice to the coastlands, not to work violent revenge upon the nations but to bring them into the promise of a new covenant that will one day come. The people, far from home, wonder in Psalm 137 how they can sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land? With their own voices cut off, God sings a new song to them – a song of promise, hope, and life when all seems lost. When will the servant of whom God sings rise up?
- Perhaps you come into this space today feeling cut off, overwhelmed, wondering not just where the joy of the season went but whither to go now. The news cycle has been relentless, from last weekend’s military incursion into Venezuela to the killing of Renée Good by an ICE agent in Minneapolis on Wednesday. In between these two events, a high-ranking government official spoke with CNN, offering not just his understanding of the role of government but a theological, cosmological, vision of how the world works. A world, he says, “that is governed by strength, that is governed by force, that is governed by power. These are the iron laws of the world since the beginning of time.” What is striking is that there is no particular defense of this or that action, no nuanced articulation of this or that policy. It is a simply a vision of a world in which might makes right and power is to be used, always, to dominate and subjugate others. To further the interests of one people at the expense of others. To be fair, this is too often how the world has always worked, but that is a result of our sin, not God’s intention. If we live in a world governed by brute force and who can wield it best, we are left with limited options. In that light, are we left with limited questions? Less why Venezuela and more who’s next? Less why was Renée Good shot to death and more when will it happen again, and to whom? If the iron laws of the world are strength, force, power, where does that leave us? Shall we all be driven by fear to seek domination over one another? I desperately hope not. The words of the poet, Rilke, come to mind: “Perhaps everything that frightens us is, in its deepest essence, something helpless that wants our love.”
- This morning, we see the new servant come at last, Jesus, the hope of all people in our helplessness. He goes down to the Jordan and, over the protests of John, is baptized. One unique feature of Matthew’s account of this baptism is Jesus’ explanation that he must be baptized to fulfill all righteousness. Not because he is sinful, which he isn’t, nor even to begin to address our individual sins, although that is, of course, part and parcel of his saving mission. In going under the waters of the Jordan, Jesus does so as one who stands behalf of the whole people of God, to bring them back into right relationship with God so that they – in Christ – may now fulfill their call of bringing sight to the blind nations, and with it, justice and peace. Just as this world was created by God out of the watery chaos, so now does Jesus go under the floodwaters to begin the renewal of creation. He will complete this work on his cross and be vindicated by his resurrection. And throughout his work, from the Jordan to Calvary, Jesus will make it clear that this world’s ways of strength, force, and power are not God’s ways. Jesus makes it clear that we were made for love – a love, Peter will discover later in his encounter with Cornelius, that shows no partiality.
- The baptism of Jesus is the beginning of God’s endgame in which creation will be reborn, put back to rights. There is a second element of Matthew’s narrative this morning that is unique. Mark and Luke tell of the heavenly voice speaking to Jesus, but in Matthew the voice is for us: “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.” This, God tells us, is the only One to whom we can look for forgiveness and life and hope for the future. And this One to whom we look is the Lord who brings peace and love.
- Michael Gorman writes of the cruciform nature of our baptismal faith, that we are justified “by means of God’s faithfulness expressed in love, to which humans, moved and enabled by God’s Spirit, respond in faithfulness that expresses itself in love.” Friends, in baptism we have been drawn under the waters with Jesus and find ourselves alive in him. As Jesus goes under the waters and under death for us, alive in Christ even now, so do we now in Christ give of ourselves for others. We seek not to dominate, always to serve. All is not lost. We suffer, but the song of the servant goes on. The power and the glory belong to God alone, and God’s reign is marked by love. Forgiven of your sin, go forth as bearers of the light, that all may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven, the God who shows no partiality. The God working for peace and hope and love. Amen.
And now may that peace that passes all understanding keep your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus, this day and forever. Amen.
