First Sunday after Epiphany Sermon

Water. Water is the source of all life, whether we are talking about the origin of the species, or the water we each need to drink every day in order to live. We cannot exist without it. But nor can we live with too much of it. When the floods come we can only tread water for so long before the currents draw us under and we perish.

Water is life. And water is death. And it is this elemental duality of water’s power that informs our understanding of baptism.

In some places, scriptures speak of the baptismal waters as the place of new life. So baptism is akin to the amniotic fluid of the mother’s womb. When you descend into the baptismal font you are entering the womb of God, such that when you emerge, you are being birthed of God.

But elsewhere in scripture, the waters of baptism are death. When you are lowered into the font, it is as if you are being drowned; you are joining Christ in his death. The waters become the grave, the holy sepulcher, such that when you emerge from the waters, you are being raised with Christ into his eternal life.

Water is life. Water is death. And water is life, again.

The Old Testament was written from a worldview in which the deep waters of the sea were utter chaos: uncontrollable and unknown. Dangers lurked beneath the waves. Even though Israel borders the Mediterranean, her people were never a sea-going race. Steeped in their cosmology was the belief that those deep waters are utterly dangerous.

And so it is, in their ancient story of creation, that what came first, was not “nothing,” but rather, this satisfyingly murky Hebrew phrase, the tohu wa-bohu, often rendered as “the formless void.” What’s being described is a “waterish formless void.” “A wind from God,” it says, “swept over the face of the waters.” The story doesn’t tell us where the water came from because the Bible is not a science book. It is a theology book. And the theology of Genesis simply asserts that, from beyond origin, there is God; God simply is. And there was chaos and disorder in the deep waters of the tohu wa-bohu.

But when God speaks, God begins to render order from the chaos. And in this we see the elemental intention of God, from the beginning. God is the God who is transforming rightness and peace from the chaos. God is the Shalom Maker.

On the third day of creation, as the story goes, God contains the waters within their boundaries so that dry land appears, and thus the earth becomes a habitable place for humanity to exist and thrive.

And as I think on this story today, in light of the gospel reading which recounts the story of Jesus’ own baptism, I begin to see significant parallels:

Think back, not just to Jesus’ baptism, but to his birth. In Christ’s incarnation, God chose to become human – chose to leave the perfect shalom of the heavenly Trinity and make Godself one with us and our brokenness – to enter our story so rife with violence and wars, disease and division, and ultimately, always, death. Into this disorder the divine creator says, “I will go and be with them, sharing their life and death.”

In a way, you could say the human condition is akin to the chaotic waters before God began ordering creation. We’re a mess, and all humanity with us. So picture the infant Christ coming, not just to earth, but to the deep. Picture the incarnation as God plunging God’s own self into the tohu wa-bohu, into the chaos of disorder, danger, and confusion.

And with that picture in mind, imagine the adult Jesus, now making his way to the Jordan River to be baptized by John – submerged into the waters. Could it be, that by giving himself to the waters, he is symbolizing what already began at the incarnation? Christ enters the chaos – as if being drowned by it. He left the comfort of heaven where he lived in eternal oneness within the triune Godhead, and gave himself to the shatteredness of our human condition.

But then he emerges. John pulls Jesus up; the waters pour off him. Like the third day of creation, the waters are pulled back and land emerges, promising order, safety, habitability. And just as the creation story describes the wind of God – the Spirit, the breath of God – hovering upon the face of the deep, as if in perpetual, intimate attentiveness to it, so when Jesus emerges from the waters, the heavens are torn apart and the Spirit descends on him like a dove, and he is greeted by God the Father. “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.” It is a reunion of the divine Trinity – Father, Son, and Spirit – revealed together again. And it brings forth the pleasure of God.

God is pleased by the Son’s choice to give himself over to the broken human world.

God is pleased that the Son is continuing the restoration of that broken world, fulfilling the creation mandate.

God is pleased that the godhead is one in purpose and love and being.

Jesus has emerged from the waters, from death, and is making all things whole. Christ has begun the re-creation of humanity, for he is the eternal God whose purpose is to make all things well.

And it is to such a Christ that we have been wed by our baptisms.

In Christ’s baptism he gives himself over to our sordidness and pain.

In our baptism we give ourselves over to his holiness and restoration.

He became like us that we might become like him.

This is the mystery of our faith.

We have become as he is.

We are like him in that we have been raised from the waters. We are healed. We are forgiven. We are clean. And we are the recipients of God’s pleasure and love. So, now, like Christ, we are joined to God. We share the peace of God. We also share the purpose God. As God is intent on creating peace and order and safety and unity, that becomes our heart and mandate as well. We are no longer content on securing our own power and rights, nursing our grudges and building up walls to protect ourselves. We choose the power Christ chose, which is compassion, which is forgiveness, and against which nothing can prevail.

We are also like Christ in that we seek the welfare of others whose conditions are worse than our own. As Christ submerged himself into the waters, finding solidarity with us, so must we go. Christ makes himself one with the alcoholic. He makes himself one with the co-worker nobody likes. Christ is one with the single mom who’s simply worn out. He is the woman, parked in a wheel chair in the corridors of Cottesmore, wishing someone would stop and see her, even though she will forget the encounter as soon as it is past. If that is where Christ is, that is where we must go. That is how we will be Christ. And that is where we will find Christ.

Christ is the holy one. Christ is the broken one.

But let us go with our eyes wide open: These moments of descent are more often a solidarity of suffering than a tale of triumph.

I was talking with a friend earlier this week. His small Episcopal church is in a rural area that knows how to tolerate alcoholics, but has no mercy at all for people on drugs. And a man came to their church, asking if they would sponsor a Narcotics Anonymous group. Every other church had turned him down. But his church said, “Yes.” Over time, the man came up from the parish hall where the meetings were held, curious what the people in this church did. Over time, he began worshiping with them, and became a part of their community. And, over time, feeling better than he could ever remember feeling, he chose to reduce his medications. His demons came rushing back and he took his life. Now my friend and his church are devastated, because this man had become part of their lives, their community. He had become – in his words – “My teacher.”

And as tragic as this story is, there is yet an aroma of the gospel in it. The man’s whole life had been one of abuse and every disadvantage imaginable – shuttled from foster home to foster home and all the sorrows that permeate such a world. And yet, before this life was over, he had found love and acceptance and hope, even if it was momentarily eclipsed.

Of course, we would want a happier ending, a success story of the church and the power of its mission. But what we have this: A church met a man in his chaos, and made for him a home – the first home he had ever known. And in a spirit of mutuality – which be true of all genuine relationships – he became a blessing for them as well. As they sought to be Christ for him, he became Christ for them.

There is a risk in meeting people where they are – especially when those are dark and dangerous places. After all, the waters may cover our heads, too. And for this church, the risk of love – the risk of caring about him – is that they, in a way, are now sharing his death.

But it is a death birthed in love. And love shall have the final word. And it is the Word that was in the beginning that declared, “Let the waters be gathered and the dry land appear.” And it was so. And it is the Word that rolled back the stone from the tomb, and called forth the Son of God to rise from the tomb and stride into life. And it is this word that will speak life into the man, whom this church dared to love. And it is this word that will speak life into the church, this rising body of Christ.

Soon we will renew our own baptismal covenant. In that covenant we claim a belief in the holiness of the triune God and God’s purpose to redeem. We also make promises to participate in the mission of God, and of finding Christ in all persons, loving our neighbor as ourselves.

Let us be clear: This is no burden. It might not be easy, but living such a life is our redemption. It is we becoming and being the people we were made and redeemed to be. And when we are living such a life, it is right and it is good and it satisfies that elemental part of our being that knows we are called to live in union with God and union one another.

We have been baptized into the waters of Christ, the waters that drown and the waters that bring forth life. These waters are relentless. They have the power, over time, to wear away stone. Yet, in their mercy, they will take the shape of whatever vessel they are poured into. And these waters will always seek the lowest place.[1]

[1] Language and imagery inspired by Susan Palo Cherwien’s “God as the River” in Crossings: Meditations for Worship (MorningStar Music Publishers, St. Louis 2003).