faith

Refreshed & Renewed through Baptismal Waters

St. Mark’s, Altadena banner at St. John’s Cathedral, Jan. 11, 2025.

A sermon for the First Sunday after the Epiphany: The Baptism of Our Lord Jesus Christ, January 12, 2025. The scriptures are Isaiah 43:1-7, Acts 8:14-17, Luke 3:15-17, 21-22, and Psalm 29.

Christians have a complicated relationship with water. At the beginning of the creation story in Genesis, the watery void is darkness and chaos, but God’s Word brings light and life. In our day, the precariousness of water is hard to deny. We pray for more water in California. Our hearts break for those affected by the fires in Los Angeles. We pray for those who have lost their lives, their loved ones, their homes and possessions, their businesses, and their life as they knew it. Would that God rain down a steady, calm, beautiful rain to put out all the fires, to begin to bring healing, and to restore a balance in creation.

But at the same time, just days ago, too much water caused havoc and disaster in North Carolina Tennessee, and Georgia; and caused huge calamity in Valencia, Spain. There, the waters came too fast and too strong, overpowering everything in their path.

In our first reading, Isaiah hears God tell the people
Do not fear, for I have redeemed you;
I have called you by name, you are mine.
When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;
and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you;
when you walk through fire you shall not be burned,
and the flame shall not consume you.

But how are the people of St. Mark’s Church, Altadena, where the church burned to the ground, hearing these words today?  How are the people of All Souls, Asheville, who are worshipping in another church because theirs is ruined by water, hearing these scriptures? 

Well, we can pray that they would especially hear the first part of God’s promise, that no matter what, God is with them, and we can pray that those in need would also feel the strength of our prayers and support.

“Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine.” These words of God through Isaiah are similar to the words heard at the baptism of Jesus.

Water plays an equally precarious role in our spiritual lives. On one hand, it challenges. Saint Paul understands baptism as dying and rising again. He says, “We were buried therefore with him by baptism into death, so that as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too might walk in newness of life. For if we have been united with him in a death like his, we shall certainly be united with him in a resurrection like his.” (Romans 6). This means that a life of faith will not always be easy. We don’t go from life to death and to new life without some effect, and at the very least, we will be getting wet. The challenges will come to us—whether they come through relationships, political changes, health crises, or disasters of nature, but the water of baptism strengthens us.

The water of baptism, once we receive it, replenishes itself within us, so that we can offer spiritual water, living water, to others. our baptism carries with it the command as well as the courtesy of offering water to others. At Holy Trinity we literally offer water at Saturday dinners. We offer water at receptions and coffee hours and whenever we welcome people. Especially in partnership with the wider Church, we offer water ever people thirst, in hospitals and soup kitchens; in prisons and parks; and in streets and schools.

But we also offer water spiritually, whenever and wherever we introduce others to Christ. We offer water when we simply help people learn that there IS a source of water, that there is a God of love, and that there is a God of forgiveness and compassion.

Jesus received water from John the Baptist. Jesus received water from the Samaritan woman. And he makes it clear that when we offer water to others in his name; it is as good as offering it to the Lord himself. As the heavens open in Luke’s Gospel, the Holy Spirit descends and the voice of God is heard, it must have seemed at first like a storm, like a great thunderstorm threatening rain and water. The heavens opened and water was given, but it came with a blessings.

Just as Jesus was baptized, we are baptized and we are sent into the world baptizing in the name of the Holy Trinity. Our baptism is where we are initially commissioned, and we live into that baptism, we live out that commission for the rest of our lives.

Yesterday, in Los Angeles, at St. John’s Cathedral, four people were ordained to the priesthood. A little like the ordinations in our diocese soon after 9/11, this service was a powerful gathering of God’s people—wounded and wondering, beaten down but unbroken—and it gave witness to the power of our faith.  Michael Mischler was one of those ordained, and he works at St. Mark’s Church, Altadena, which was completed burned by the fires last week. Some 40 parishioners from St. Marks attended the service to support Mark. Since the congregation’s processional banner perished in the fire, those processing to represent the church had nothing to carry.  And so, the children of the church made a colorful poster that they mounted to a processional pole. It said simply St. Mark’s Altadena, and included the symbol of St. Mark—the lion—strong, resourceful, and valiant.

This is the power of baptismal water—it renews. It enlivens. Even in the midst of death, it raises up. Even when they feel like they have no living water to offer, the Holy Spirit provides, and there’s water to share.

“Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine.” “You are my Child, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.”

The Prayer Book reminds us that “Holy Baptism is the sacrament by which God adopts us as his children and makes us members of Christ’s Body, the Church, and inheritors of the kingdom of God.” (The Catechism, BCP page 858).

On this feast we give thank for the baptism of Our Lord Jesus Christ, for his becoming like us that we might become more like him. And we give thanks for our own baptism, even as we look for more opportunities to live out our baptism and share the living water with others.

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

The Verb Among Us

A sermon for the First Sunday after Christmas Day, December 29, 2024. The scriptures are Isaiah 61:10-62:3, Galatians 3:23-25; 4:4-7, John 1:1-18, and Psalm 147 or 147:13-21.


John of the Cross has poem in which he mediates on the Gospel we just heard. The poem is really an extended meditation on the Incarnation—what it means that God has come among us and God continues to move within us and around us as God-in-relationship, or as we say in shorthand, God as Holy Trinity.

John wrote in 17th century Spanish and the Bible he knew best was in Latin, so there is a lot of room for translation of his words.

The Latin phrase for the beginning of today’s Gospel is straightforward,

            In principio erat Verbum, et Verbum erat apud Deum,
            et Deus erat Verbum.

Typically this translates to what we heard this morning, “In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God and the Word was God.

But instead of translating the Latin Verbum as palabra, Spanish for “word,” John includes some wiggle room, he writes, En el principio moraba el Verbo, y en Dios vivía …

My favorite English translation of John’s poem keeps this nuance and puts John’s poem like this:

In the beginning resided
the Verb, and it lived in God,
in whom it possessed its infinite happiness.

God was the Verb itself,
the beginning was spoken.
It lived in the beginning and it had no beginning.

It was the beginning itself;
That is why it lacked it;
The Verb is called Son, born from the beginning.

In the beginning resided
the Verb, and it lived in God,
in whom it possessed its infinite happiness.

I love John’s poem version of the Gospel of John because of its movement, its energy, and its life.

The Gospel is beautiful and central to the hearing of the Christmas message.  But it’s easy to hear it passively.  The Word WAS, Was, Is, …. My role is to receive.

And yet, we know from the live of Jesus that to receive without responding is to live without faith. The Letter to the Hebrews reminds us that faith is “the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things unseen.”  But faith is what moves us, it’s what animates us. Faith is what builds bridges and makes peace. Faith feeds and clothes and comforts.

The Word is a verb, and that Verb lives in us and moves us out of ourselves and into the world.

We see the activity of God’s Word at the beginning of time. Our Biblical account of creation happens by a word. In Genesis we read, “The earth was without form and void, and darkness was upon the face of the deep; and the Spirit of God was moving over the face of the waters. And God said, God said, “Let there be light.” And there was light. God said, Let there be this, and let there be that, and after each thing was created, God spoke a single word again: “Good,” God said, “It’s all very, very good.” The Word was busy, shaping and making and proclaiming and blessing.

When John speaks of the “Word,” the Greek term he uses is Logos, and Logos meant more than just a word, more even than all words put together. Way back in Greek philosophy, in the 3rd century BC, Heraclitus said that the Logos “governs all things.” And yet, the Logos is also present in the everyday. Later, the Stoics took up the idea of the Logos and used it to mean “the principle that orders the universe.” So when John uses Logos, or Word, he’s using a term that would have worked as a kind of hyperlink, culturally. To say that the Word was with God and the Word was God, and then to say that this Word, this ordering principle of the universe is completely summed up in Jesus of Nazareth, John is pulling together a lot of different ways of understanding the world.

The Word is a Verb when we allow Christ to be born in our lives. And that frees our bodies and loosens our tongues to be faithful.  So often our politicians and religious leaders offer words, but no actions.  As we end one year and begin another, it might be helpful for us to pray about the ways in which we do the same thing.

Are there ways in which we have offered words, but not acted in any way to follow up, or make the words come alive?  Are there words we’ve used, or thought, or prayed, or framed our lives with that have been mostly nouns, but could accomplish so much more if they were verbs?

The old prayers used in Salisbury, England give shape to words we might use, and so we can pray

God be in our hearts, and in our reaching;
God be in our hands and in our building,
God be in our feet and in our moving,
God be in our heads, and in our understanding;
God be our my eyes, and in our looking;
God be in our mouths
and in our speaking and in our acting.
Amen.

Mary, Magnified

A sermon for the Fourth Sunday of Advent, December 22, 2024. The scriptures are Micah 5:2-5a, Hebrews 10:5-10, Luke 1:39-45, (46-55), and Canticle 15 (or 3).

In an interview in yesterday’s online NYTimes, scheduled to be in print on Christmas Eve, Nicholas Kristof talks with Elaine Pagels, the professor of history and religion who raises eyebrows with just about every book. Professor Pagels is, for me, a model Episcopalian—with almost equal parts faithful and skeptical. Her forthcoming book, Miracles and Wonder raises questions about a number of the Christian miracle stories, but the one that makes the headline in the newspaper raises questions about the Virgin Birth of Jesus. Pagels looks at early rumors of Jesus’s father being a Roman soldier, as always, Pagels, argues that each of the Gospels has its agenda, and especially with Matthew and Luke, that agenda is to explain unsettling questions and rumors about Jesus’ parentage.

That the Virgin Mary makes headlines is no surprise. The Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe, whose celebration was last week, is championed by anti-abortion activists on one end of the spectrum and by those in solidary with Palestinians, on the other. In September, the Vatican finally released a measured and uncommitted opinion on the ongoing appearances of Mary in Medjugorje, Bosnia-Herzegovina.

A couple of months ago in Chihuahua, Mexico, the Virgin Mary appeared in a very 21st century way on the wall of a parking deck so that everyone coming or going from the Chihuahua Cathedral would see her. Activists hung a banner that showed a version of Our Lady of Guadalupe, but around her head was a black-and-white kaffiyeh and her cloak was decorated with tiny watermelons. Beneath the image were the words, “Mi hijo es Palestino,” “My Son is a Palestinian.” The image was a reminder of the way in which the Virgin Mary turns up wherever and whenever there are people who are oppressed, mistreated, ignored, or forgotten.

Far from being the meek and mild Mother of Jesus some traditions might cast her, Mary has created complications, disruptions, questions, and challenges since the beginning.

In describing my own move from the Presbyterian Church to the Episcopal Church, I sometimes make a long story short by explaining that my first theology class in seminary used a textbook by the Anglican priest John Macquarrie. I noticed a footnote about a group called the Ecumenical Society of the Blessed Virgin Mary, and I began to read, and pray, and study about Mary. I began to feel as though the Virgin Mary was a part of what was urging me on, continues to pull me closer God in ways that are sometimes disruptive, often surprising, but always lead me to a deeper faith and sense of God.

Mary is a powerful figure. Not only as Our Lady of Guadalupe, or Medjugorje, Fátima, Lourdes, or a folk-hero of Catholic and Orthodox piety. But some believe (and I agree with them) that Mary might be the best hope forward for us to be in conversation and prayer with people of other faiths. For Jews, she is Miriam. Christians know her as the Mother of Jesus who gave him birth and witnessed his death. Muslims know her as Maryam, and in the Quran, there is an entire chapter named for her.

Mary sings in our place of humility and neediness in her song, Magnificat, the Latin shorthand for the beginning of, “My soul magnifies the Lord.” She begins by singing, “My soul magnifies the Lord,” but really, the Lord has magnified Mary. This is a theme that runs through today’s scripture lessons—this idea that God takes what’s small, insignificant, or weak, and God magnifies it—enlarging and creating more than was ever imagined.

In the first reading the Prophet Micah singles out Bethlehem, tiny Bethlehem. “From you shall come forth the ruler in Israel. And he shall stand and feed his flock in the strength of the Lord, in the majesty of the name of the Lord his God. And they shall dwell secure, for now he shall be great to the ends of the earth.”

The second reading is from the Letter to the Hebrews, a kind of poetic argument about the ways in which Jesus is both high priest and perfect sacrifice, who accomplishes salvation for us in a way that nothing else can. Hebrews argues that no amount of offering from us, no amount of sacrifice or work or good deeds or perfect living will ever accomplish what was accomplished by the simplicity and purity of Christ’s faithfulness to God. God is more pleased by the simple act of faithfulness than the complicated scheme of temple sacrifices and offerings.

Far beyond the scriptures we read today, the Bible recounts over and over again how God favors the small and insignificant. Israel was not the mightiest of the nations. Moses was not the most likely to lead the people of Israel out of bondage. David was not the most likely to be king. Sarah was not the most likely to be the matriarch of an entire people. Great things were not expected from Jonah the prophet, Ruth the Moabite, Ezekiel or Esther, and many others.

Mary’s song in today’s Gospel sings with eloquence the song of God’s reversals, of God’s ability to turn everything upside-down and inside-out. The lowly and ignored are seen and appreciated. The mighty are put down and the left out are lifted up. The hungry are fed and those who are full are sent away. God remembers. God shows mercy. God magnifies.

I wonder in what ways we are being called to be like Mary and to magnify the Lord even as we are aware of the way that God magnifies our efforts and prayers? What can we do to lift up the lowly, to help feed the hungry, to offer healing to those who hurt? The scriptures today invite us to do at least two things: First, we can extend the love of God to those who might feel small or insignificant.   And second, we can remind ourselves of God’s ongoing work of lifting up, no matter how far down we might feel sometimes.

Shannon Kubiak Primicerio is a writer who wrote a great little book a few years ago called God Called a Girl.  She writes

Mary was a nobody, yet she found favor and blessing with God.  How many times do we look in the mirror and find a nobody staring back at us?  We often limit what God can do with our lives because we think our upbringing, our appearance, or our life is not a sufficient tool for the hands of God to use….[But] if Mary really was a nobody, all  it took for God to make her “somebody” was one miracle on a lonely day when she was just going about her daily business… God called a girl. And that girl changed the world.  The same God is calling again, and this time He’s calling you.” (God Called a Girl, p. 14-19, passim)

May we sing with the Blessed Virgin Mary the song of God’s reversals, of God’s surprises, and of God’s magnifying love, that we may do our part to magnify the Lord.

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Moved by Joy

A sermon for the Third Sunday of Advent, December 15, 2024. The scriptures are Zephaniah 3:14-20, Philippians 4:4-7, Luke 3:7-18, and Canticle 9.

The Third Sunday of Advent is nicknamed Gaudete Sunday. We light the rose candle, some churches have rose vestments they wear today, and in others, today is the only Sunday in Advent when flowers are allowed on the altar. And, you guessed it, they’re usually roses.

The day takes its name from the Latin minor propers of the day that sing over and over again, “Rejoice! Gaudete!” We hear it in English in our scripture readings, in our music, and perhaps even a little in the air:  Rejoice. It’s almost Christmas!

Last week, the scriptures asked us to prepare—to make room, to clean out, and to get ready for God to do something new. 

This week, the scriptures add another piece:  Prepare for Joy! Get ready not only for what God is going to do, but for the joy that breaks in along the way.

We hear about preparing for joy in our first reading, as the prophet Zephaniah prepares the way for a future of hope. He can preach about what’s coming because he’s filled with the confidence of God. “Rejoice and exult with all your heart,” Zephaniah says, because our God is a God of deliverance and forgiveness. Whatever has happened in the past is over and done. New life is coming. “God will rejoice over you with gladness,” the prophet says. “God will renew you in his love; will exult over you with loud singing as on a day of festival.”

Zephaniah is showing the people of Israel that one way of living into joy is by moving out of the past.

I recently heard a nurse talk about when she did this—when she helped prepare the way for someone, in that same way as Zephaniah, and as John the Baptist. This nurse worked in a drug rehab center and people came in and went out, so one rarely knew what the long-term outcome might be. But she remembered this one man that the other nurses avoided. He was angry and almost violent, and nothing they did seemed to help him move forward. One night, when everyone was just about at their wit’s end, this nurse remembered a left-over cake in the nurses’ lounge. She got a piece, found a candle and put it on the slice and lit the candle, and then she got the other nurses and staff to join her as they went into the difficult man’s room. They sang “Happy Birthday.” The man was so stunned that he didn’t even have a chance to tell them this was not at all his birthday, and the nurse I know explained to him: “This can be the first day of a whole new life for you. The past is over and done, gone forever. Today begins a new life, if you’ll have it.” Through tears and in shock—at least for the moment— the man seemed to catch a glimmer of the possibility. That nurse had helped prepare the way. She didn’t know what the results would be, but she had done her part.

In the Gospel, John the Baptist shows us that another way of living into joy is by doing the small things right in front of us.  John’s words can sound scary and foreboding at the beginning, a little like he’s throwing a bucket of ice water in our face:

“One is coming,” he says, “who will baptize not only with water but with the Holy Spirit and with fire…” and “His winnowing fork is in his hand, to clear his threshing floor and to gather the wheat into his granary; but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire.”  But then the very next sentence is, “So, with many other exhortations, he proclaimed the good news to the people.”

Good news?  What’s the good news that we’re going to be baptized with fire, and one is coming whose job it will be to separate out the good stuff from the junk and will throw all the junk on a fire?  But John gets our attention to wake us up from the past.

John gets really practical.  The crowds ask John what I might have asked John, “Ok, so what do we do? How do we live faithfully? Especially when times are confusing and the bad seem to get more prosperous while the good are steadily losing ground.  What do we do?”

More good news from John:  Do the simple, faithful thing that’s right before you.

Whoever has two coats must share with anyone who has none; and whoever has food must do likewise.” Even tax collectors came to be baptized, and they asked him, “Teacher, what should we do?” He said to them, “Collect no more than the amount prescribed for you.” Soldiers also asked him, “And we, what should we do?” He said to them, “Do not extort money from anyone by threats or false accusation, and be satisfied with your wages.”

John the Baptist, with all of his slightly scary talk about the end of times and the beginning of new days, of one who is coming who will sort things out and given people their due—when it comes down to it, the way we prepare for God’s coming more fully into our world is through simple acts of kindness and mercy.

And so, we prepare for joy by having the courage to move out of the past, and by doing the little things right in front of us, but also by allowing for God to surprise us.

Last Thursday was the Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe, and you might have seen some of the gatherings or processions around town as people carry images of the Virgin Mary, flowers, candles, and make their way to churches and shrines. The stories around Our Lady of Guadalupe are filled with joyous surprises, but they all begin with a simply, indigenous man in 16th century Mexico named Juan Diego.

It was in 1531 that Juan Diego, Juan was walking on the outskirts of what would become Mexico City. There, he say a vision of the Virgin Mary. But she looked different. Mary appeared as a mestiza, a mixed race young woman and she asked Juan to go to the Bishop and ask permission to build a little house, a place where people could come and meet Mary’s son Jesus. This first appearance was on December 9, but Juan had trouble convincing the bishop. Then also, Juan’s uncle was dying, and Juan felt like he needed to tend to him. And so, after some coming and going, trying and failing, Mary gave a sign. She told Juan to go to a particular hill, and there he would find roses in full bloom.  He went, found the roses, and gathered them up in his work apron, his tilma. He went back to see the bishop.

But again Bishop Zumárraga doubted, but then Jean unfurled his tilma, and out fell all the roses, but even more, on the garment there appeared the vision of the Virgin Mary—as a mixture of the well-known Virgin of the Immaculate Conception, that would have been recognizable to Europeans, but also with the unmistakable darker skin and features of an indigenous woman, recognized by the people who had long inhabited the land.

The symbol of the Virgin of Guadalupe would become a central point for people of mixed backgrounds and histories to find a common welcome to the little house, the place of welcome, where they could meet Jesus in a new way.

Juan Diego was clear that his mission was to relay the news—first to the bishop, but then as a protector of the house, the chapel outside Mexico City, where for days leading up to last Thursday, and still, people are celebrating God’s surprising and joyful grace in Jesus through Our Lady of Guadalupe.

Our job is to prepare—like Zephaniah, like John the Baptist, like the Virgin Mary in scripture and through Guadalupe, and to keep forging ahead in joy, like Juan Diego so that there can be a space, a place, an openness, a peace, in which Christ can be born again.

John the Baptist proclaims, “One who is more powerful (than us) is coming …. And he will baptize you with the Holy Spirit.” We have that Holy Spirit. At our baptism we receive the Holy Spirit who protects us from any harm. Who strengthens us for whatever lies ahead. Our baptism, the ongoing presence of the Spirit, and the power of Christ in community, empower us to turn again and again to God.

As we move through these days of December, may God show us how to prepare for joy—to move out of a frozen past, to do the little things right in front of us, and to be open to God’s surprise, whenever it comes.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Helped out of a Ditch (of Sin)

A sermon for the Second Sunday of Advent, December 8, 2024. The scriptures are Baruch 5:1-9, Philippians 1:3-11, Luke 3:1-6, and Canticle 4 or 16.

Today’s scriptures ask us to prepare ourselves for the coming of God. They invite us to make ready, to allow God, in the words of Malachi, to “refine us like gold and silver, until we present offerings to the Lord in righteousness….until we are “pleasing to the Lord as in the days of old and as in former years. ” We are invited to a way of “repentance for the forgiveness of sins.” “Repent so that sins are forgiven.” All these words that sound familiar for the language of the church, but what do they really mean?

At some level, it’s all clear enough, probably. Just like when we were children, if we took something that didn’t belong to us, or hit a sibling or playmate, or acted out in some way, our parents taught us what it is like to say we’re sorry. The saying of “sorry” opened up a door to forgiveness, and a way to restore the relationship. We could play again with our friend. We could feel again the closeness and warmth of the love of the parent. But as we grow older, sin becomes a little more confusing sometimes.

How do we repent when we’re not even sure if we have sinned? How do we know if something is our fault, or the fault of someone or something beyond us? How do we know if God is listening, when we say we’re sorry? And what does forgiveness feel like?

In our culture, I think we’ve inherited a combination of attitudes around sin. Some would simply dismiss any talk of “sin” as something outdated and leftover from a time when the church used superstition and power to rule over the lives of the faithful. And so, a lot of people don’t really think much about sin, or reflect much on their part when things seem to go wrong.

But for people who are at some level involved with God, people who seek to be in relationship with God, people who want to follow the way of Jesus Christ, one of two attitudes toward sin often prevails. The first attitude toward sin is intensely personal. The belief is that God has shown us what God expects of us, through the 10 Commandments and other laws, through the life of Jesus Christ, through the preaching of the apostles, and through the teaching of the Church. So, when we break a rule, it’s my fault, it’s the fault of the individual. It’s my responsibility, then to approach God and ask for forgiveness.

This can happen through silent confession (me and God), or might happen through the church’s sacrament of reconciliation (whether using an old fashioned confessional, or sitting aside a priest in the chapel).

And yet, some have pointed out that there is no such thing as an individual Christian. To be a Christian is to be a person of faith in community, and so everything about the living out of our faith involves other people.

At the other extreme of attitudes toward sin is to view sin as primarily communal or social. When we see a tragedy on the news of a person who goes on a shooting rampage, such a view moves beyond the perpetrator to think about the societal forces that might have moved the person to do such an awful thing. One is unlikely to say the kind of thing that might have been said in other ages: “that person has a demon,” or “that person is evil.” But instead, we’re more likely to hear, “that person must have grown up in a bad family, and must not have had other options. They must have been driven to do such evil.”

How do we balance the two extremes—the one that only blames the individual with the one that gives quick and easy absolution to the individual and blames society?

Our scriptures give us a clue. John the Baptist quotes Isaiah by saying, ‘Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight. Every valley shall be filled, and every mountain and hill shall be made low, and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough ways made smooth; and all flesh shall see the salvation of God.’” John, through Isaiah, shows us that sin is indeed personal, but it has communal effects. In the same way, when I repent and am restored to new fellowship with God, that also brings with it a restoration to right relationship with other people. It makes the way not only for justice, but it also makes the way for peace.

One of the best images for dealing with sin, for me, comes from the 14th century holy woman, Julian of Norwich (1342-1416). When she was 30 years old, Julian almost died from a fever or some other ailment, and while she was sick, she received a vision from God. She wrote down the vision, but continued to pray to God for more insight. Twenty years later, she wrote down an extended version of what she remembered and how the Holy Spirit helped her understand its meaning.

In a part of her vision, Julian is shown a great Lord who has a devoted servant. The Lord sends the servant off on some errand, and the servant is excited to do it. But then the servant falls into a ditch. And the servant “is greatly injured” as Julian writes.

[The servant] groans and moans and tosses about and writhes, but cannot rise to help himself in any way . . . And all this time his loving lord looks on him most tenderly . . .with great compassion and joy.” She explains that the servant “was diverted from looking on his lord, but his will was preserved in God’s sight. I saw the lord commend and approve him for his will, but he himself was blinded and hindered from knowing this will. And this is a great sorrow and a cruel suffering to him, for he neither sees clearly his loving lord, who is so meek and mild to him, nor does he truly see what he himself is in the sight of his loving lord.

We can probably identify with the moaning and tossing of the servant who has fallen. Sin can be painful. When we’ve fallen so low that we can’t see out, we feel cut off and alone. It can feel like death. But if we remember that God is watching, God is smiling at us, we can gain the encouragement to begin to try to get out of the ditch. We pray. We ask for help. We look for creative insight. Sometimes we need a boost, and we ask for others to help us. Sometimes, we simply need to do some climbing, get dirty, use our spiritual and physical muscles and simply get up and out. It is the work of spiritual discernment for us to learn to know what is needed to get out of the ditch. God gives us the church for help, the Bible for help, the saints and tradition, and God gives us one another.

The Collect for the Second Sunday of Advent has us ask God that we might be given the grace to heed the warnings of the prophets “and forsake our sins, that we may greet with joy the coming of Jesus Christ our Redeemer.”

May God help us not to be paralyzed by sin, and not to ignore sin that could make us stumble later on. But instead, may God help us believe the words of Jesus when he says, “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.”  Jesus extends his hand to help us out, to pull us up, and to enable us to stand, walk, and run again.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Christ the King

A sermon for Christ the King Sunday, November 24, 2024. The scriptures are Daniel 7:9-10, 13-14, , Psalm 93, Revelation 1:4b-8, John 18:33-37.

Today we celebrate the Feast of Christ the King. It is a little like a New Year’s celebration in the church, since this day works as a kind of exclamation point to the church year. A new church year begins next Sunday with the First Sunday of Advent, as we slow down a bit, breathe deeply, and begin to think about what it means that God has come into the world in the flesh, as a little baby named Jesus.

But today is Christ the King and in the scripture readings there runs the steady theme of the Kingdom of God.

In the Book of Daniel there are some frightening images. There are fires and flames, beasts and burnings. There is conflict and warfare, but the end result is a kingdom, a kingdom that is glorious and everlasting and serves the Ancient of Days for ever.

The psalm invites us to sing the praises of the Lord God who is like a king. So mighty is our God that all creation rises up to praise him, people, nations, even the waters themselves lift up their voices.

The Revelation to John also celebrates the king as victor. While it gives hope to the scattered Christians being persecuted in the first century, it also describes a cosmic battle of good and evil, where the victory is so complete that even we, living much later, become royals. John gives glory, “To him who loves us and has freed us from our sins by his blood and made us a kingdom, priests to his God and Father, to him be glory and dominion for ever and ever.” This is a vision of victory that stretches to everyone, making us all kings and queens, princes and princesses, people created in the very image and likeness of God.

In the Gospel, Jesus explains to Pontius Pilate, “My kingdom is not from this world. If my kingdom were from this world, my followers would be fighting to keep me from being handed over to the Jews; my kingdom is not from here.” “My kingdom is not from this world.”

From the calling of the disciples, through the healings and parables and teachings, even as they enter into Jerusalem for the celebration of the Passover, there is confusion over this kingdom of God as it pertains to Jesus. He explains his kingdom by what it is not, rather than by what it might be. When asked, Jesus gives simple images. The kingdom is like a mustard seed. The kingdom is a like the yeast used by a woman baking bread. The kingdom is like a pearl of great price. The kingdom is here, but it is not here.
How we perceive the kingdom of God will directly affect how we live out our lives in faith.

The Church over time has understood the kingdom of God in different ways. At some points, it has understood the kingdom of God as a goal for the here-and-now. The idea of Christendom, a civilization ruled by Christian kings, following Christian laws and fighting for Christian ideals allowed for and encouraged the crusades.

It has allowed for the persecution of Jews and Muslims and anyone perceived not to fit into the prevailing understanding of what it means to be “Christian.” There are, of course, still those who would have this nation be an overtly Christian one, with so-called Christian laws on the books, just like people in other places advocate for another religion’s laws to rule the day. But whenever people begin to try to create the kingdom of God in time, before long, the kingdom of God often seems to look a lot like us. It becomes a reflection of our own values and beliefs, and often the uglier side of those believes. However, the words of Jesus are clear: “My kingdom is not from this world.”

Others in the history of the Church have taken our Lord at his word and understood his kingdom as only having to do with heaven, far, far away. Therefore, those who hunger and thirst for righteousness in this world, simply need to wait: they’ll get their justice in the next life. But to believe that the kingdom of God only exists in heaven leaves us with little or no responsibility for the earth where we live.

But there is another view. Instead of the kingdom absolutely now or the kingdom way away in heaven, Christ calls us into a more unpredictable place, to live between the “already” and the “not-yet.” Wherever there are signs of justice and hope and faith, there is a breaking-in of the kingdom. But it’s partial, not yet fully realized.

The season of Advent will give us opportunity to explore this further as we look at what it means for Christ to have come into the world as a child, but also for us to look forward to his coming again in glory at the end of times.

So the kingdom, in some sense, is Christ himself. As he reveals himself, the kingdom unfolds. The kingdom of God spreads out as we receive Christ and come to know and love him and continue to embody his kingdom-goals in our lives. As Saint John realizes from the Revelation, “God has made us (with Christ in us) to be a kingdom.”

This kingdom is not of the world. It is a kingdom of reversals. Our Lady, herself, sang of this kingdom, “He has scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts. He has put down the mighty from their thrones, and exalted those of low degree. He has filled the hungry with good things; and the rich He has sent empty away.” To live with Christ as King is to live with an awareness of this reversal.

His is also a kingdom of welcome. When we read the Gospels it is a wild array of people who come to hear Jesus, who follow him, and who make him their Lord. Some are prostitutes, some are tax collectors, some widows, some soldiers; some are very rich, some are very poor, but they are unlikely to meet except in the presence of Christ. To live with Christ as King is to live in continual welcome of the outcast, of those who have nowhere else to go.

And finally, his is a kingdom of possibilities. To live with Christ as King is to live in expectation, to live in hope, and to live in faith. It is a kingdom of second chances, and third chances and fourth and fifth and sixth chances.

Especially on this day, we give thanks for Christ our King. And we give thanks that it is a kingdom that has been given to us, for us to extend to all of those who might believe. May we rejoice in this kingdom of reversals. May we open our doors to a kingdom of outcasts. And may we open our hearts to a kingdom of possibilities.

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

A Cross of Healing

A sermon for the Fourth Sunday in Lent, March 10, 2024. The scripture readings are Numbers 21:4-9, Psalm 107:1-3, 17-22, Ephesians 2:1-10, and John 3:14-21.

The San Damiano Cross in Assisi.

If you’ve noticed the windows of bars and restaurants around New York, you may have seen decorations for next Sunday. Though we will observe it as the Fifth Sunday in Lent, for many outside the church (and quite a few inside) it will be St. Patrick’s Day, all day long. People will wear green, decorate with shamrocks, fountains will be dyed green, and legends told again about Patrick, the 5th century bishop and missionary.  A few years ago, at my church in Washington, DC, the Men’s Fellowship had a meeting in mid-March. There was a wonderful parishioner named Louis, who made special table decorations for the event, depicting some of the legends and stories about Patrick.  The one I still remember was a poster that sat in the middle of a table. From one side, it had a view as though one were looking into the front windshield of a car.  Behind the window, seated in the driver’s seat, was a man wearing a miter on his head. In the passenger’s seat was a large snake.  And Louis explained the picture to anyone who didn’t immediately get it:  This was (of course) St. Patrick driving the snakes out of Ireland!

Though it was long before St. Patrick came along, I think the people of Israel in our first reading would have really liked Patrick and Patrick’s reported power to get rid of snakes. Because there in the wilderness, God’s people had a serious snake problem. 

Our first reading from the Book of Numbers is a strange old story.  It’s one of a number of Old Testament passages in which the people of God are “murmuring.”  They are impatient, restless, and whiney.  They’re complaining against God and against God’s leader in their midst, Moses. They miss what was familiar back in Egypt—even though they had been enslaved, there had been a certain predictability about it all.  And now, there isn’t much food or water at all, and when there is, the food is dreadful.  But then it gets worse. 

These poisonous snakes show up.  The snakes bite the people, and many of them die.  And so, the people pray to God, and ask God to forgive their murmuring, their whining, and their lack of faith.  God hears them, and then God gives them a symbol of healing.  God uses the very thing that has hurt them, and God turns that hurtful thing into a symbol of healing.  This new, strange but powerful symbol is of a serpent raised up high on a pole.  When the people look up at this image, they are healed. 

In some ways this story has in it a kind of symbolic vaccination, like in modern vaccinations, when a little part of a disease is put into us.  When things go correctly, our body’s immune system fights the intruder and we become protected from the illness. 

In the Old Testament lesson, the image of the serpent reminds the people of risk involved in life, itself—especially in living a life that tries to be faithful to God.  But the story also tells of God’s protection, of God’s promise to deliver them, and save them.  It is this image of death that is converted to life, that foreshadows the salvation we have through the death of Jesus Christ on the cross. 

In the image of the cross, there is suffering and pain. There is danger and death.  But on the other side of Easter morning, there’s healing.  There’s resurrection.  There’s new life for ever.  The very thing that has hurt (the cross) provides the means for helping. 
 
The fancy, theological word for what happens on the cross is Atonement.  The word implies that Jesus’s action on the cross is some way atones, or makes up for, or is the cure for, our sin.  Some have defined Atonement as “at-one-ment” with Christ—it all comes from the idea of being at-one, of being reconciled, of being brought into harmony and friendship with God through Jesus Christ. 

The cross can’t be explained scientifically.  It can’t even be explained very clearly through theology.  But the cross is understood (if one can use that word) by experience.  What happens on the cross is a mystery that must be explored, experienced, and approached through faith. 

I should say clearly, that I in no way mean to suggest that I understand the full power of the cross. I don’t. But what I do understand is that part of the mystery of the cross involves God turning pain into power.  God uses wounds to bring about healing. 

We experience this whenever people gather with others who have suffered as they have.  When we meet others who share the same wounds—whether that be a traumatic event, a loss, an addiction, some experience of violence, or any other common hurt—we can begin to find healing in the experience of being with each other, of hearing others’ stories, of sharing others’ strength.  If you’ve ever been a part of such a group, you’ll know that while the individuals differ and may not agree on anything else, the common suffering can create a kind of energy, a kind of power, and a kind of strength.  Whether one calls it a higher power or something else, I believe that it’s God who is behind that power.  It is God who is behind the conversion of pain into power. 

We experience healing through the combined experience of pain, but we also come to understand it in ourselves sometimes.  When we are able to be honest, to be vulnerable, again— we begin to move toward healing and toward being what Henri Nouwen and others have called “wounded healers.”

With the Academy Awards happening tonight, I’ve been thinking about movies a lot lately—especially the movies I’d like to give awards to, some of which don’t become all the well know.  One of those movies came out a few years ago with William Hurt, called, “The Doctor” (1991).  The movie begins by showing a heart surgeon, played by William Hurt, who’s at the top of his game.  Dr. Jack MacKee is shown early in the film instructing his interns, “There is a danger of feeling too strongly for your patients,” he says.   “There is a danger in getting involved.  You have to be detached.”   Dr. MacKee’s way with his patients is clinical.  It is cold, objective, and detached. 

That is, until the doctor, himself, discovers that he has throat cancer.  Slowly, he begins to see what it is like to be a patient.  He learns what it’s like to have to wait for hours in a waiting room, what it’s like to fill out endless paperwork, what it’s like to have all the important decisions made on your behalf, as though you—the patient—are not even a part of the process.  You can probably guess the ending of the movie.  It is Hollywood, after all.  Dr. MacKee learns from his experience.  He realizes that the very best healer, the one who can offer the most, will be the one who is aware of his or her own wounds, the one who is aware of one’s own pain.

Prevailing themes in our culture suggest otherwise, of course.  Strength is admired more than weakness.  We’re encouraged to bandage up wounds quickly, and to hide grief.  How often do we hear someone who is grieving, “holding up well.” We say this as though there is some shame in crying, grieving, or showing emotion. In our heart, behind closed doors, in the quiet and at night, we know that real grief is messy.  We know that suffering, disease and illness are disorganized, unpredictable and can almost get the best of us.  There are tears, emotional outbursts, confusing physical effects— in short, as long as there is life, there is life with all of its untidiness. 

There is pain and heartache in life, but God promises to be with us. Today’s Gospel reminds us that God SO loved the world that he entered into it at a fully human level, to walk beside us, to experience what we experience, to know love and heartbreak, and pain, and suffering.

But then, God-in-Jesus goes through the pain of death. Some theological traditions imagine that sometime between his death and resurrection, Jesus even went into hell and freed everyone who might have been bound there, opening the way for all to be born again into new life.

When the people of Israel were making their way through the desert, they were healed when they looked up a the serpent on the pole.  As Christians, we find healing when we look up at the cross of our crucified Lord, but when we walk in the way of the Cross.

There are many images of the cross for our gazing, but one of my favorites is the San Damiano Cross, often called the cross of St. Francis.  Tradition says that when Francis heard God’s initial call, he was looking at a particular crucifix in the church of San Damiano. I love this particular cross because it neither ignores the suffering of Jesus, nor glorifies that suffering.  On the St. Francis cross, Jesus is not alone. He is surrounded by all kinds of people. The crucifix is a kind of icon, including the friends of Jesus and even outsiders. It includes Mary and John the Baptist, but it also includes Peter and John running from the empty tomb on Easter Day. There are angels and patriarchs. There are saints.

The great thing about the St. Francis cross is that there is also room for you and me. The cross of Saint Francis reminds us that even in our darkest times, we are never alone, just as, even on the cross, Jesus was never totally alone.  The cross reminds us of many things, but among them it reminds us of God’s power, God’s intention, and God’s promise of healing and resurrection. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen.

Ashes to Rainbows

A sermon for the First Sunday in Lent, February 18, 2024. The scriptures are Genesis 9:8-17, Psalm 25:1-9, 1 Peter 3:18-22 and Mark 1:9-15.

“The Rainbow” by Grandma Moses, 1961.

This year, on Ash Wednesday, we again offered ashes on the front patio, at the gate. Between the cold weather and the competing activities of Valentine’s Day, I don’t think we had quite as many people outdoors as some years. I did meet a Turkish neighbor who explained that while she’s not Christian, she likes the idea that ashes remind her to live each day to the fullest. “It’s a kind of ‘memento mori,’ right?” she asked.  “Well, yes, in a way,” I tried to explain, and gave her what I hoped was a good, proper ash cross on her forehead.

Christians took up ashes from Jewish customs around grief, the idea being that ashes show one’s remorse for sin, and one’s reliance upon God for life and renewal.

Today’s scriptures give us another important symbol, and one that the scriptures tells us was given by God: the rainbow.

The rainbow serves as a reminder, pointing to something in the past, but it also serves as encouragement, pointing a way forward. Even if we can’t see the end, even if the end of the rainbow shifts as we move along, it still urges us to look, to dream, and to imagine what lies ahead. It encourages us to trust where God leads. The rainbow is a good image for our beginning of a new season of Lent.

A contemporary hymn writer captures the tone of this season as he sings,

This is the day for new beginnings.
Time to remember and move on.
Time to believe what love is bringing;
laying to rest the pain that’s gone.
[This is a Day of New Beginnings, by Brian Wren]

A “time to remember and move on.” It’s the rainbow, again. Remembering and moving on. Both are central to the spiritual life and the season of Lent itself can help us to remember and to move on.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus is baptized. A voice is heard from heaven saying, “You are my Son, the beloved; with you I am well pleased.” And before the water even dries or the voice of God fades away, Jesus is led by the Spirit into the wilderness. Into the desert, he goes for 40 days and there he comes face to face with all kinds of temptations. Does that not sound a whole lot like the life we live? At some point we all probably know that phenomenon of one minute, knowing we are God’s beloved (we can feel it, we don’t doubt it, everything is going right), but then in what seems like all too after, we find ourselves surrounded by temptation. There are all kinds of temptations, but most of them are symptomatic, nagging, sorts of things. Perhaps the greatest temptation is more subtle—it has to do with forgetting. In the midst of temptation, we can forget who we are, and momentarily, we can forget who God is.

“Remembering” is so much a part of our faith tradition. Over and over, again, scripture says, “Remember!”

Remember this day on which you came out of Egypt.
Remember the covenant I made with your ancestors.
Remember not the former things.
Remember the devotion of your youth.
Remember the law.
Remember those in prison.
Remember, I am with you always.
Remember me when you come into your kingdom.

In Mark’s version of the temptation story, we’re not told how exactly how Jesus was tempted, or really how he faced down the temptation. But we know that he survived it alongside the wild beasts, and he even felt the presence of God’s holy angels.

Matthew and Luke both give us more details about Jesus’ temptations. They say that when the devil suggests that Jesus ignore hunger, listen to his stomach, and turn stone into bread; Jesus remembers. “It is written,” he says to the devil, “‘Man shall not live by bread alone.’” The devil shows Jesus the kingdoms of the worlds and suggests to Jesus they could be his for the taking, but again, Jesus remembers the first commandment, that God alone is Lord of Heaven and Earth. God’s will be done. And then when the devil tries to get Jesus to jump off the tower of the temple and summon up angels to carry him to the ground, Jesus again remembers scripture. 

But he also remembers more than scripture. Jesus remembers who he is, he remembers his baptism and that he is a child of God. He remembers whose he is, that God is watching, is waiting and is even now, aware and present and offering his love.

Martin Luther writes that he sometimes fought off the devil by shouting at him, “I am baptized.” That’s what we do when we make the sign of the cross, and when we dip our finger in holy water and place a little on our foreheads: we are reminding ourselves that we are baptized, that we are loved, and that God is in charge. In the same way, when we see a rainbow, we can recall the covenant God has made—that God will always take care of us and that God is with us. We have not only the old covenant (God’s promises to the people of Israel), but we also have the New Covenant, God’s promise in Jesus Christ sealed and shared with us in the sacrament of bread and wine. Memory keeps these signs and sacraments close by us.

Baptism, Holy Communion, symbols of faith help us to remember. But God also gives us other “memory helps.” Spiritual disciplines like prayer, meditative reading, fasting, keeping a journal, studying, hospitality, almost any activity that is given over to God, and that allows us to give ourselves over to God can be a spiritual discipline. Practiced– that is done over and over again– spiritual disciplines remind us of God. They remind us of our reliance on God, of our need for God, of our connection with God.

In the days ahead, as we practice spiritual disciplines, as we notice the symbols of the season, perhaps giving some things up and taking on other things, may God sharpen our memory and make us alert and awake to temptation, that we might remember the covenant God has made with us. May God strengthen us in the face of every temptation.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

More into Healing

A sermon for the Fifth Sunday after the Epiphany, February 4, 2024. The scriptures are Isaiah 40:21-31, Psalm 147:1-12, 21c, 1 Corinthians 9:16-23, and Mark 1:29-39.

Yesterday was a somewhat obscure date on the church calendar—unless you might happen to be a singer, an actor, or someone else who relies on their voice.  February 3 is the day for commemorating St. Blase, a fourth century bishop and physician in Sebaste, a part of present day Turkey.  As a doctor, Blase was known to have a particular gift of healing when it came to objects stuck in the throat, such as a chicken bone fish bone.  And so, on his day, throats are sometimes blessed, often with a special contraption made of two candles.  An opera singer used to always come to the church I served on St. Blase’s Day, and she affirms that in all her years of singing, she has never missed a performance due to a sore throat!

When we think about healing, we’re moving into complicated territory.  So many things come together when one feels healing—medicine, general condition of the body, the state of the soul, the community, the general condition of one’s surroundings, one’s emotional condition (whether one is worried, or anxious, or free of such burdens).  And then there is God—God stepping into our world in some way, making a miracle, and doing the unexpected, unearned, unmerited, unpredictable thing.

What we do does not replace a medical doctor.  It doesn’t make up for eating a balanced diet, getting some exercise and generally trying to live a good life.  We do not deal in superstition and we don’t offer magic.  What we offer is sacramental—a blessed combination of prayer and touch and love.  This is what the church of Jesus Christ offers when it offers healing:  it offers prayer, touch and love.

In today’s Gospel, Simon Peter’s mother-in-law is healed by Jesus.  He takes her by the hand, lifts her up and the fever leaves her.  Later that same day, people bring to Jesus those who are sick and those who have demons. The sick and the possessed were not allowed in the synagogue or the temple.   These were people who had run out of options.  They didn’t have anywhere else to turn, and so they turned to Jesus.  And he healed them.  Jesus then continues to heal throughout Galilee, in the towns and in the synagogues.  Praying, touching and loving.

Jesus healed people from sickness and from demons.  But he also healed them from and with their surroundings.  He healed public reaction to those who were feared because they were sick, feared because they were different, feared because society had labeled them “unclean.”  I wonder if we ever need that kind of healing, when we encounter another who is sick?  How do we respond to the sick?  What do we say to someone who is newly diagnosed?  What do we say when someone’s treatments are not going well?

So often, if we’re not careful, unconsciously we can begin to pull back, and to move away ever so slightly.  We might justify our distance by saying that we don’t want to say anything stupid, or we think our friend might just need a little space.

But the way of healing (for Jesus and for us) is to move forward.

Jesus always moves toward people—into their neighborhoods, into their homes, into their lives with prayer, touch and love.

Prayer is the first part, and it may seem like the easy part, but it’s the foundation, and we’ll lose our nerve to go any further if we are grounded in prayer.  When I pray for someone to get better or to be healed, I try really hard to be honest with God.  I know that part about “praying that God’s will would be done above all,” but I’m honest when I pray for someone and I ask God to make the person better, to take away the sickness, to make the person strong again.  One way I pray for another’s healing is simply to picture the person in the fullness of health—vibrant, happy, at ease.  That image of the person becomes my prayer as I hold that image in my mind for a minute or two and then imagine the person being that healthy and happy person in the presence of God.

We offer prayer as a part of healing, but we also offer touch.  The touch part of healing has to do with proximity.  Mindful that we live in a complicated age, I’m not for a moment suggesting that we smother one another in hugs and holds.  Touch can be as exclusive as it can be inclusive.  But there are many, many ways of showing physical presence while allowing for personal space. 

Closeness has as much to do with an open posture, with eye contact, with fewer words and with more deeply hearing ears.

We pray, we touch, and with the two, if we’re about healing, then we offer love.  Love can be accepting and warm and soothing.  And sometimes it just needs to be present in calm, quiet ways.  But sometimes love is louder and tougher and more direct.  Soft love for an addict is called enabling.   Love always, always, always has to do with the truth.

And finally, healing often goes beyond what we first see.

With Simone Crockett’s revision of our stained glass window booklet and with the publication of George Bryant’s on Henry Holiday, I’ve been looking closer than ever at our stained glass windows. The central window over the main altar is one I usually refer to as Christ raising Lazarus in the upper section and Jesus raising the blind man.  But there’s more.  Some entitle the window, “Christ the consoler,” and note that to the upper left is the raising of Jairus’s daughter. And the bottom tier has all kinds of people in need. They represent anyone who comes to Christ.

May the Spirt help us to assist in God’s ongoing work of healing, to pray, to move closer to people, and to love as best we can.

With the help of St. Blase and all the saints, may we be healed through Jesus the Great Physician, and may we offer this healing to the world.

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen.

Baptism and Defying Gravity

A sermon for The Baptism of Our Lord Jesus Christ, January 7, 2024. The scriptures are Genesis 1:1-5, Psalm 29, Acts 19:1-7, and Mark 1:4-11.

You may have seen the news this week as Governor Hochul and Mayor Adams announced plans for a new swimming pool. This summer, a floating, self-filtering pool in the East River is going to be tested, and hopefully can be opened free to the public next year. New York City needs more swimming pools and we need more swimmers. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention has cited drowning as the leading cause of death among children 1 to 4 years old.  The Governor added, “If you don’t know how to swim, what you think is a refuge, that break, can become a death trap in an instant.” (NYTimes, “Floating East River Pool May Open to Public Next Year Under Hochul Plan,” January 6, 2024.)

Swimming might seem simple to those who learned early, but if you think about it, swimming is kind of amazing. Swimming gives us power and agency in the water. We’re not defenseless. We don’t have to be victims. We may have to struggle, but there’s a way forward. Swimming is a way that we have of dealing with the uncertainty and danger of water.

Throughout the biblical story of our salvation, water plays an important role, is often dangerous, scary, and threatening. In Genesis, “darkness covered the face of the deep, while a wind from God swept over the face of the waters.” But God creates form and matter and order out of the water. The disciples fish on the water, but the smallest storm leaves them terrified. Jesus walks on the water, not just doing a kind of magic trick to amaze, but more to show that the God of Creation always has, and always will have power over the unruliness and the deadliness of water. And so, swimming overcomes the chaos.

A little like swimming, Holy Baptism represents God’s movement through creation, and the sanctifying grace that not only saves us from sinking but gives us new life. Baptism not only enables us to swim in faith, it picks us up to surf!

When Jesus asked John the Baptist to baptize him, he was simply doing what some other faithful Jews might have done—immersion in naturally sourced water cleansed and purified. It could mark an important change or a conversion. It prepared one for presentation at the Temple. But for Jesus to be baptized, it meant even more.
It meant that the Son of God, the human expression of God in our world, was taking on himself the uncleanness and sin of others, falling into water, but raising out again. Baptism and the cleansing of sin foreshadows resurrection and the renewal of life.

Though baptism can seem like a sweet custom to do whenever there’s a new baby, the words and prayers we say remind us of the radical nature of baptism.

In baptism and in the renewal of baptismal vows, we say that we will resist evil and the ways of the devil, and that when we fall down, we’ll get up again and turn to God.

In baptism, we affirm that all people are made in the image of God, and so we refuse the hierarchies and pecking orders of the world, and work to seek and serve Christ in each other.

In baptism, we remind ourselves and the world that there is more to life that what we do for work, or where we went to school, or how much money we make.  We name the injustices and wrongs in the world, and we pledge to strive for justice and peace. We refuse to go along with stereotypes and prejudice and instead, aim to respect the dignity of every human being.

More than swimming, more than surfing, even, baptism, gives us power over the currents that shift and challenge. We could say that baptism helps us defy gravity.

“Defying gravity” is the title of the well-known and much-loved song from the musical Wicked. A recent podcast on BBC4 talks about how important that song has been for so many people. It has provided strength, encouragement, and hope. [Soul Music: “Defying Gravity” from Wicked.]

[You can listen to the song here.]

You may remember the story of Wicked. The so-called Wicked Witch of the West, whose name is Elphaba, was born with green skin.  Being green, looking different, she feels the pain of growing up different and she longs for acceptance. Since the musical premiered in 2003, Elphaba’s story has hit a chord with anyone who has ever felt marginalized, left out, or looked down upon because they were different. And so, Elphaba’s song at the end of Act I marks a change in her, a defining point where she decides no longer to be ruled by the expectations of others, the perceived laws of nature, the prejudices and fears of the people around her. The song, “Defying Gravity” becomes a victory song, a kind of ALLELUIA, as Elphaba claims her voice and begins to forge her own path.  

Though the song is not religious in a traditional sense, it touches the human spirit, and I think, has much of the spirit of God within it.

Elphaba experiences a kind of conversion, a coming to her true self, an acceptance of a Higher Power, as she sings,

Something has changed within me
Something is not the same
I’m through with playing by the rules
Of someone else’s game

Too late for second-guessing
Too late to go back to sleep
It’s time to trust my instincts
Close my eyes and leap

And then, almost with wings of faith (I think) she sings

It’s time to try defying gravity
I think I’ll try defying gravity
Kiss me goodbye, I’m defying gravity
And you won’t bring me down.

As followers of Jesus Christ, as baptized people, something has changed within us. We’re done playing by the rules of culture or political expediency. We seek justice and life for all. It’s too late to go back to sleep. Time to trust our God-given, and Spirit-infused instincts, and with faith, close our eyes and leap.

Fear can’t bring us down. The news of the world can’t bring us down. Temporary setbacks, health challenges, and those with no faith or hope—won’t bring us down.

With Christ always at our side, we’re defying gravity.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.