Sermon: Why baptism matters to me (Jan 10, 2016)

Baptism of our Lord C

January 10, 2016

Luke 3:15-17, 21-22

            Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

            “What happens in baptism?”

This is the question I usually ask parents preparing to have their child baptized. Before we go through with this major event – and I do understand baptism as a major, life-changing event – I always take the opportunity to talk about it with parents, and make sure they understand what all they and their child are getting into. The answers I get vary, usually including something about washing away of sins, or becoming a child of God – both true. But I have to wonder… does any of that mean anything to them once they walk out the door of the church?

So with that in mind, what I really want to ask you today is: why does baptism matter to you? My guess is that day-to-day, you probably don’t think much about your baptism, right? So, why does it matter… or does it? What role does the fact that you are baptized play in your daily life?

We can find some clues to how to answer this question by looking at today’s Gospel lesson. The first thing to notice is who the actor is here. In Luke’s version of Jesus’ baptism, who baptizes him? … [assume people will say John the Baptist…] Ah, but Luke never says John the Baptist did it.

By Ranosonar (Own work)
[Public domain],
            via Wikimedia Commons

In fact, those few verses that are missing say that Herod had thrown John in prison! No, it is no human who baptizes Jesus – it is God. It is the Holy Spirit. The Holy Spirit descended upon him in bodily form like a dove. The very same Spirit that baptizes us! And who does the talking? … The Father! A voice came from heaven, “You are my Son, the beloved. With you I am well pleased.”

            And so it is in our own baptism. God does the work. Not the pastor. Not the water. God does the work. This is the response to why we in the Lutheran church typically baptize babies. While Christians who are of the Baptist, fundamentalist, or evangelical persuasion insist upon an adult baptism, in which the one being baptized has the opportunity to state his or her own faith, we baptize these helpless, vulnerable beings who have not done much of anything for or against God. They are mostly passive participants in the reception of God’s grace in the sacrament.

But isn’t that a wonderful image for us for how we come before God? Passive as they are in the face of God’s grace, infants remind us of how we are to receive God’s love: with humble gratitude, knowing that we don’t do anything to deserve this, but God gives it to us anyway. God acts on us and in us. God forgives us. God claims us as sons and daughters. And there’s nothing we can do to mess up that relationship that God establishes with us. Nothing!

The second thing we can learn from our text today about what happens in baptism is from that voice that comes from heaven. “You are my Son, the Beloved. With you I am well pleased.” In baptism, see, we are given an identity: we become God’s child, God’s son or daughter. Identity is not always easy to come by these days. All the things to which we have traditionally looked to constitute an identity – job, hometown, family – look different now. People change careers, they move away from home, they have complex, blended families. But in all the changes that life brings there is one

Found on etsy.com (BehindTheHiddenDoor)

part of our identity that never changes: we are God’s beloved children, through good and bad, and we always will be.

            There are many things to know about baptism, but these points are good ones to hold close: that God has given us this amazing gift of love, forgiveness, belonging, identity, and grace, all of this completely, as Luther says, “out of fatherly and divine goodness, though we do not deserve it.” And there is nothing we can do to mess it up. I find this gift to be both humbling and liberating. I am amazed that God would bestow such goodness on little old insignificant me, bestowing it not because I’m something extraordinary, but because God is. And to think, that God will never take this gift from me – not when I feel worthless, or when I do something that hurts or upsets someone else, or when I doubt my abilities, or when I make a huge mistake, or when I don’t live up to someone’s expectations… All of these things, which have happened and will continue to happen in my life because I, like all of you, am human – they all make me want to doubt that God made the right call in bestowing on me all the wondrous gifts of baptism. If I were God, I might take it back. “Never mind, Johanna, you weren’t worthy of these gifts after all.” But God doesn’t. God does not renege on this offer. God offers anyway.

And that is liberating. What I mean is that suddenly, I start to believe that if God views me as worthy to receive God’s gifts, maybe I shouldn’t doubt myself. And if I don’t doubt myself, then just think what I could do in and for this world! And this is where we start to answer my earlier question to you: what does baptism have to do with your daily life, and why does it matter? It matters because it is a profound statement of God’s unconditional love for you. It matters because it promises us every day that we are forgiven, and in showing us that it also urges us to “forgive those who trespass against us,” and with forgiveness comes healing, and with healing comes transformation. It matters because it assures us that even when we fall short, we still carry with us, everywhere we go, the gift of the Holy Spirit – the spirit of wisdom and understanding, the spirit of counsel and might, the spirit of knowledge and the fear of Lord.

            What does that Spirit, the Spirit you received in your baptism, move you to do in this world? What does the assurance of God’s love, grace, and belonging, give you courage to pursue? For me, that promise emboldens and enables me to love people that I find difficult to love. That includes people I encounter in my daily life, and family members who are more difficult to get along with than others, and even people whom I don’t know except that I know they look and believe and act differently from me. Loving these different people doesn’t look the same for each person, so the Spirit pushes me to figure out how to love all these different people, what it looks like with each. The Spirit urges me not to sit still and be quiet in the face of injustice, but rather to use what gifts I have to make sure all of God’s children have what they need. The Spirit encourages me to do things I’m scared of, to get out of my comfort zone, to go out on a limb for the sake of the gospel, because I can trust that if and when I fail in my efforts to live a life guided by Christ, God will still not renege on the gifts of my baptism. And to me, all of that matters a great deal.

            How about you? Why does baptism matter to you? What does it have to do with your daily life? I gave you my answer. I’d love to hear yours.

Let us pray… Spirit of God, in our baptism, you have promised us forgiveness, grace, belonging, identity, and unconditional love, and we can trust that you will not renege on these gifts. As we celebrate the baptism of our Lord, help us to remember our own baptism, and help us also to discern what you would have us do with this abundant gift to love and serve your world. In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

When I pray the Lord's Prayer

Friends, I am tired. I am tried of seeing shooting after shooting, and knowing that a majority of Americans support better gun control laws, and yet money and greed win out to leave guns that are way more gun than anyone needs, too easy to acquire. I am tired from knowing that no one is safe anywhere - not at the movies, or at school, or at the mall, or at a holiday work party, or even at church - and the thought that what will fix this safety issue is more guns in the hands of more people. I am tired from the lack of care and compassion for Syrian neighbors who are fleeing violence and seeking refuge. And, oh my, I am tired of hateful speech, always present in presidential elections, but never quite so scary as it has been this season.

Yes, it is scary. I am scared - scared about the future of this country, scared that a good number of my fellow Americans actually agree with and support the very same fascist rhetoric that caused the greatest human tragedy of modern history, and is the very model of evil.

In the midst of all of this, I admit, I struggled this year to get into the holiday spirit. I read texts like from Advent 2, "The dawn from on high shall break upon us... and guide our feet into the way of peace," and all I can think is, "Really, God? Prove it."

The only peace I can seem to find these days is putting my Grace to sleep. Those moments when her breathing slows, and her eyes become slits are some of the very best and most peaceful moments on earth. As we have developed a bedtime routine, I have started, when I see this coming, to sing to her the Lord's Prayer. A chanted setting that has been written on my heart since before I can name, singing this is a sacred time for both of us, and one I look forward to each night no matter how tired I am.

And so with Grace and the future of this world into which she was born in mind, I needed to reflect on this Lord's Prayer in light of what is going on. May we all find the strength, even in this tired season, to lift our prayers...

Our Father in heaven
When I pray to my Father/Mother/Parent/Creator in heaven, I believe that indeed this is Jesus' Father, but I also believe that this same God is the God of all creation. It is the very same God to which Jews pray, and Muslims - all those of the Abrahamic faiths. Now, if we all share one God and Father of all creation, what else might we share? Our Father in heaven, teach us to find in each other not what separates, but what we share.

Hallowed be your name.
I know my God to be a God of love. I also know my God is already holy. As Luther suggests, when we pray this petition we acknowledge that while God's name is holy without us praying for it to be, when we pray, we pray that this name would be holy also among us. Because ours is a God of love, I believe this hallowing happens when we treat one another with love. Holy God, make your name holy among us by teaching us to love.

Your kingdom come
Similar to hallowing God's name, we know the God's kingdom is "already" but also "not yet," and by praying this, I believe we name our role in making it more "already" than "not yet." Any time we actively love and serve one another, we are bringing about God's kingdom. God our Ruler, move us toward living into your kingdom through acts of love and service.

Your will be done on earth as in heaven.
Everyone seems to know what is right - whether the conversation is about guns, abortion, how to handle refugees, gay marriage, birth control, the economy, climate change, minimum wage... Of course I have my own (what I consider thoughtful and informed) opinions about all of these things, but I cannot claim to know God's will. What I do know is that God's will is what will bring peace on earth. And so this line, I pray fervently. Wise God, guide our hearts toward your will, and not toward what will best serve our own agendas or desires.

Give us today our daily bread
I have all the prayers in the world for people who are hungry, and want them to have the food they need. But when I pray this prayer, my thoughts are more generally about people being provided with what they most need for sustenance. For too many, this is food. But there are also many people who don't have love, or compassion, or self-awareness, or a spiritual life, or any number of things that leave them feeling empty inside. This emptiness, too often, is what leads people to act out of fear instead of love. I have also taken to singing to Grace a beloved Taize chant at night: "Come and fill our hearts with your peace. You alone, O Lord, are holy." Sustaining God, fill us with what we need the most.

and forgive us our sins
Oh, the humility that this requires. The self-reflection. The self-awareness. To recognize that we might fall short sometimes, that we might have done something to hurt someone else, that we might have done something to hurt God and our relationship with God. In today's climate, the humility to pray this prayer could go a long way. Everyone has an opinion about how things should be, but we think admitting that we might not have gotten things quite right makes us look too weak. People often attack politicians for "flip-flopping," but I deeply admire a politician who can say their views have evolved over time. It is admitting they are human. With this prayer, we must also pray for the humility to recognize the need to pray it. Merciful God, grant us the ability to recognize when we have failed, and the humility to admit it to you, and help us to grow to a place where we don't do it again.

as we forgive those who sin against us.
Perhaps it seems easier just to hold a grudge. Anger and resentment can indeed feel very satisfying - at first. But as it eats away at you. It does not allow us peace. And this, too, is what can lead people to act out of pain, fear, and hate instead of love, peace, and grace. Forgiveness is for the wrong-doing, to be sure, but I think even more it is for the one who putting down the load they have been carrying. Gracious God, teach us how to put down our burdens, and give us the courage to do it.

Save us from the time of trial
O Lord, this is the prayer of those of us who fear! Brene Brown, shame and vulnerability researcher, talks about how sometimes she is filled with such joy looking at her children, and then the fear of something going terribly wrong snatches that joy away and replaces it with dread. I never understood this as well as I do when I close the door to the nursery and go to sleep, knowing how much can go wrong with Grace while I am unconscious in the next room. When I find her in the morning, snoring away through her dear, stuffed up little nose, my heart fills up once again with joy. When I pray to be saved from the time of trial, my prayer is to be saved from the fear and dread that snatches away my joy. Saving God, because of you, we need not fear. Help us to remember that.

and deliver us from evil.
A recurring theme in this reflection - I see over and over again that evil happens when people act out of fear instead of love. Fear builds walls instead of bridges. Fear draws lines in the sand. Fear tears down the other. When I pray to be delivered from evil, I pray that we would be delivered from the fear that guides so many of our actions. God of life, you defeated the fear of death in Jesus Christ. Defeat fear again and again in our hearts, and banish evil from our ways.

For the kingdom, the power, and the glory are yours, now and forever. 
When we speak this line, especially when we do it in unison, we don't say it with nearly enough attention to what we are saying. We are declaring God as omnipotent, powerful, glorious! All this for all eternity! It is a good way to keep things in perspective, a good way to remember that at the end of the day and the end of the age, God is in charge. Omnipotent, glorious God: THANK YOU that we are not in charge.

Amen.
Let it be, Lord, let it be!

Sermon: In the beginning, God recreated the earth (Jan. 3, 2015)

Christmas 2C

January 3, 2016

John 1:1-18

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Word made flesh, Jesus Christ. Amen.

            Many of you know, my husband loves Star Wars. And so the moment tickets went on sale this fall for Episode VII (30 years after the original trilogy ends), he bought some for the very first showing. Being the dutiful wife that I am, I joined him in dressing in costume, and we went to see The Force Awakens with all the other hardcore fans. I admit, I’m not generally a Star Wars fan (though I have enjoyed getting caught up in the hype), but I have to say, without betraying any major plot points: the movie is really, really good. One thing all the Star Wars movies excel at – and this one is no exception – is portraying the constant and complicated battle between light and dark. We saw it in the originals in Luke’s apparent predisposition to join the Dark Side of the Force, and we saw it with Anakin in the prequels, as he was also tempted by the lure of the power of the Dark Side. In Episode VII, the battle is still present with the latest villain, Kylo Ren, who appears to be facing

the temptation to return to the Light.

There are lots of reasons to love Star Wars, as many have for decades, but one reason for its timelessness, I think, is that the basic plotline is one with which we can all resonate. Whether a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, or right here in the Milky Way in 2016, the battle between light and dark is a constant one. That’s one of the downsides of having free will, you see. From the beginning of time, humans have been faced with the ability to choose, and sometimes we choose light, and sometimes we cannot help but choose dark, and sometimes we can’t tell the difference.

If you refer to Genesis, you can see that the battle began a long time in ago in a galaxy… well, this galaxy, in the Garden of Eden. “In the beginning,” Genesis begins, telling us all about how God created the world, starting with separating the light from the darkness, a separation God deemed “very good.” Finally, God created humans, and with them free will, and from then on God risked the goodness of creation to the whims of humanity. From then on, the separation of light and darkness was not so clear-cut.

            With the fuzzing of that distinction, however, came a depth and richness of experience and emotion. This week I read Grace a story from the book, Does God Have a Big Toe? It is a book of stories about stories in the Bible. The one we read was called “The Tomato Plant.” At the beginning of it, the author comments that in the Garden of Eden, everything was good, and nothing ever died,

but also, nothing was ever born, and so nothing ever changed. One day Adam and Eve notice a tomato plant just outside the Garden wall. It doesn’t look very healthy, not like the tall, lush tomato plants inside the Garden. As time passes, the little tomato plant gets worse and worse, and finally dies. Adam and Eve cry, asking God if they can go take care of the plant. God says of course they can, but if they leave the Garden, they can’t come back. In the first act of compassion, Adam and Eve decide that’s okay, that they would rather care for this tomato plant. And so they do, disregarding the wall previously separating them from the fear and sadness of death. They nurse the plant back to life and health. As they see it slowly start to thrive, they remember also where it was before, and they feel both happy and sad at the same time.

That’s where the story ends – with this complexity of emotion that we feel whenever we exercise that free will God gave us, whenever we make a decision that, even if it is the right, compassionate decision, leaves us feeling so many things at once. That is what happens when light and darkness meet. That is what happens when we experience not only the goodness of creation, but also the amazement of recreation.

            And recreation is what John is getting at when he begins his Gospel with those same words as Genesis: “In the beginning…” When we first heard those words in Genesis, they were exciting, and they were full of goodness and light. Now when we hear them a second time, it is after much more experience – many tomato plants, many deaths and births, many tragedies and resolutions, and even many tragedies without the resolutions we long for. This second time we hear those words, “in the

beginning,” we have a longing for beginnings, for newness, for goodness, because we have seen what a complexity of emotion and experience the world has to offer. The second time we hear those words, the possibility of recreation is life-giving music to our ears, especially in this world in which the sadness, brokenness and death can feel so very overwhelming, and at times, overpowering.

            “In the beginning was the Word,” John says. In Greek, this has many more layers than are apparent in English. Here’s your little lesson in Early Church theology: The word, logos, refers to God’s own wisdom and reason. When God speaks logos onto and into creation, it not only brings life, but also brings knowledge of God into creation – knowledge of God that began in Genesis, and became complete with the coming of Christ. You see, this prologue of John is both John’s version of the Genesis creation story, and Jesus’ birth story. There’s no manger or shepherds or angels in John’s version of the Christmas narrative, but the heart of the story remains that same: in Christ’s birth, God comes to earth, both to know humanity, and to make God’s self known to humanity, to bring a light into the darkness of the world, to mend the world and bring it back to God’s own bosom. In short, God comes in Christ to recreate the world.

            Could this have been such good news back in Genesis 1, before humanity had experienced any dead tomato plants? Maybe, but certainly not as good as it is to us today, as we lament a world full of terrorism, racism, depression, loss, inequality, and injustice. We have seen more than a few dead tomato plants, and though we are finally on the other side of the winter solstice and days are getting longer once again, it still feels like the darkness of the world is trying to win out. It feels like fear is stronger than love, that death is stronger than life, that sadness overcomes joy.

            But God says no, that isn’t true. “In the beginning…” – a new creation. God recreated the world on that dark night in Bethlehem, when the true light, which enlightens everyone, came into the world. And with that birth came the promise to continually recreate, to continually bring light out of

darkness, to bring life out of death.

            At this point, the battle between good and evil has not ceased – there are still Darth Vaders and Kylo Rens, and dying tomato plants, and politicians more interested in money than helping people, and people all over who are ruled and driven by fear instead of love. But there is also redemption. There is also recreation. There is also hope. There is also, always, a light shining in the darkness that cannot be overcome by all that evil. Christ’s birth has given us the courage to cling to that hope, that love shining in the fear, until we find ourselves, finally, basking in the eternal love, light, and grace of God.

            Let us pray… Gracious Light, when the darkness of the world tries to overcome us, keep us fixated on your light and the hope that it brings to our broken world. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Christmas Eve Sermon: Birthing the incarnation (2015)

Christmas Eve 2015

            I came across a comic this year that made me laugh out loud because it hit so close to home. In it, a woman clearly meant to be the new mother, Mary, is talking to a young boy with a drum, who is ready to play a little rump-a-pum-pum for the baby. She says, “I appreciate the thought, but I just got Jesus to sleep.”

            It gives a little comical insight into what it was like for those new parents. There is not much written about Mary and Joseph’s experience in those first few weeks of Jesus’ life, but the topic has been the fascination of mystics and theologians for centuries. I’ve been thinking a lot about it myself this year, for the obvious reason that I have recently gone through the birthing process and managed a newborn myself.

But I especially thought about it during this year’s nativity pageant. As many of you know, St. Martin put on a pageant this year, and the Rehbaums were selected to play the holy family. And so, yours truly donned a white robe and Mary’s signature blue veil, and walked the walk and talked the talk of Mary. After so many years of hearing and telling this story, this allowed me to experience it in a new way. Kneeling in prayer, I heard the angel’s announcement that I would bear God’s own son, and my hand instinctively moved to my belly, imagining this truth. I stood with Joseph (aka Michael) in the crowd as we heard the centurion deliver the decree that we must travel to Bethlehem, and I remembered the fatigue I felt late in pregnancy just from walking to the kitchen, let alone 70 miles. I

felt anxious as Joseph and I debated whether we should even bother knocking on the door of the inn with the sign that said, “No vacancy.” I waited in desperation for the innkeeper and his wife to figure out where they could put this pregnant lady, and smiled with relief when they said they had room in a stable. And I waddled my pregnant bones down the steps toward our makeshift stable, grabbed my own young Grace, and laid her in a manger – then grimaced at the prospect of letting her stay there, and picked her back up. While Joseph and I kept our holy spots in that stable, we sang to Grace, stroked her and bounced her, and when she started to cry we discreetly checked her diaper, and bounced her some more, and whispered soothing things in her ear, and let her suck on my pinky… and finally took her someplace more comfortable so the show could go on without distraction.

Of course, Mary and Joseph didn’t have that last option. The stable was it for them. They were stuck with a manger instead of a rocking, vibrating bassinet, and bands of cloth instead of a cozy, zip-up fleece sleeper and an assortment of beautiful handmade blankets, and lowing cattle instead of an iTunes playlist with carefully chosen songs. They were stuck with this newborn baby boy, with no experience, no conveniences, and presumably no clue what to do next.

            My heart goes out to Mary and Joseph, trying to figure out how to parent this child under the worst of circumstances. Joseph being unable to get proper paternity leave and Mary fretting about her milk supply or fitting into her jeans were the least of their worries, as Jesus literally had his bed eaten out from under him by his bovine roommates.

            But even more, this year I find myself wondering: Why on earth would God decide to come to us this way?! To two faithful but inevitably faulty parents, with no clue what they were doing, and in such crude circumstances? As my friend who recently had her first child said, “Everyday, new aspects of parenting daunt me. Everyday I have to ask for help. I rely on others to care for me... Sometimes, I feel as tender as a newborn myself.” And God entrusted the Savior of the world into the arms of two such parents?

Such a tender, vulnerable being, in such unpracticed arms. As someone who has spent many, many hours the past three months doing absolutely everything for another human being – feeding her, burping her, carrying her from place to place, dressing her, wiping her cute little behind – this reality that we celebrate tonight baffles me: the King of Kings, the Prince of Peace, the Wonderful Counselor, Almighty God… come as a baby? And even before he gets to the vulnerable baby stage – did God not know how risky getting there was, how many things can go wrong with a pregnancy, not to mention labor and delivery? How likely it was that Mary would die in childbirth, like so many women did in that time? Entering the world by way of childbirth was not only an incredibly messy choice on God’s part, but also a terribly dangerous one, in which too many things could go wrong.

But having recently gone through this myself, I have to say… I can’t imagine the incarnation happening any other way. Some traditions say that Mary’s labor was quick and painless, even that she immediately resumed her pre-pregnancy figure as Jesus happily nursed (having had no trouble, of course, with that initial latch). I find this possibility frustrating and annoying. If I’m going to worship an incarnate deity, a God who is willing to become human, I want – I need – God to go all the way. The thing is, life starts with pain. Every one of us here today came into the world through pain and mess and fear. Since that messy day of our birth, the pain and mess and fear of life have changed and evolved, but they have always remained a part of the human experience. If God is going to be truly human, God has to have experienced the whole kit and caboodle, including the risk, and the fear and pain of birth, and the vulnerability that follows.

Because if God was willing to share that experience with us humans, then I can truly believe that God means it – that God is willing to get down with us in the darkest, messiest, scariest moments of life, that God loves us enough to want to understand, that God cares enough not to bypass any part of the human experience, especially not the scariest, most demanding, and most vulnerable parts, even if that means coming into the world to the sound of groans and screams, and being clumsily fed by a young teenage mother, and inexpertly swaddled by a novice father. God came on that night and continues to come this night and every night into all the mess and fear of life.

Ted Loder tells about an encounter he had during a rough patch in his life: his mother was dying, his dad depressed, his marriage hanging on by a thread, his kids angry about it, and his professional life on the rocks. One night, as he walked down Lombard St. in Philadelphia to

meet his daughter for coffee shortly before Christmas, he saw a home that had dedicated their entire front window to an elaborate nativity scene. He was quite taken with it. But as he looked more closely he noticed two curious things: first, that all the characters seemed to be looking right at him, standing out there on the street; and second, to his surprise, that there was in fact no manger in this scene! He writes, “There was no manger, no infant Jesus in the window! In effect, the street was the manger, and I was standing in it.” He goes on, “I stood there with tears in my eyes. With a force that lumped in my throat, I realized that just where I was standing, the Christmas miracle happens. In the street, where human traffic goes endlessly by, where men and women and children live and limp and play and cry and laugh and love and fight and worry and curse and praise and pray and die, just there Christmas keeps coming silently, insistently, mysteriously.” (Tracks in the Straw)

            Just there – in all the fears and joys and sorrows and mess and beauty and vulnerability of life – just there, the Christmas miracle came that night in the form of a teenage mother giving birth in a stable to an audience of sheep and cattle, and it continues to come to us, in whatever situation our life finds us in this year. God cares enough to do that. God loves enough to do that, tonight, and every night.

            Let us pray… Everlasting God, you came into this world by humble means, showing us the extent of your love for us. When we feel overcome by the fear and pain of the world, make your extensive love known to us again, and again, as you come into whatever darkness we may be feeling. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.