First Sunday after Epiphany Sermon

Like most dogs, our dog Marty loves to be taken out for walks. But like I’ve told you before, he’s not really into exercise – or anything remotely industrious as that. He’s an old dog. He’s got arthritis. So our walks are slow, and what he really likes is to go smelling. That’s what walks are all about – getting out to smell who else has been in the neighborhood. I, of course, can’t relate to this at all, since “smell” is not the principal way I relate to the world around me. And as you’ve heard me ruminate before, slowing down to walk at his pace is a constant source of spiritual discipline for me. But that’s not actually the point I want to make this morning. I have a new reflection on Marty’s olfactory priority during walks – another smelling issue of his that I can’t relate to. And this is it: When Marty finds something really stinky, I mean, something really, profoundly gross – like some dead, rotting animal – he likes to get down and rub his face in it, and smear it deep into his fur – right between his eye and his ear. He doesn’t want merely to sniff the smell and move on; he wants to become that smell. Blech! It’s absolutely repulsive to me. ‘Cause I’m sorry – I’m all for making compromises to have an animal live in the house with us – but I can’t abide that stench coming indoors, then being smeared all over our carpet. Which means… I’ve got to wash the dog. And the most effective way I’ve learned to do this is for both of us to get in the shower together, then shut the door so he can’t get out, and give him a thorough shampooing. And I assure you: we both hate it. I’m glaring at him for putting me in this situation. And he’s glaring at me: How dare you wash off my glory and put me through this misery. But there’s nothing else to be done. We simply both must endure it. And then he’s all fluffy and clean and gets to roll around the carpet drying himself off like some kind of splendor in the grass, and I get to feel virtuous because I’ve done this mighty work, and all is well again. And we’re at peace with each other. And the point (!) of this story is, I think the baptism of Jesus in the River Jordan was something akin to me getting in the shower with Marty to wash off the stench of his filth and death. So let’s look at this. In the days of John the Baptist, flocks of people were coming out to hear John preaching in the wilderness. Like I said in a sermon during Advent, it was a kind of spiritual awakening: this mass movement of people becoming convicted of their sins. And, as a sign of that conviction and their intention to begin living a more faithful life, they chose to be baptized by John in the Jordan River. It was like they were taking a “spiritual bath.” You know how it is, when you’ve been sick for several days, and feeling crummy and crusty and snotty, and then comes that blessed day when you start to feel better. And there’s sunlight and the birds are singing, and you get up and take a shower, and it feels so good, and you feel so good – alive and clean and hopeful; the world’s full of promise again. I think that’s what baptism was like for them: they’d been sick (as it were); but now, in the enthusiasm of their spiritual renewal, it was like waking up feeling well again – they were ready to take their shower and live – faithfully, eagerly, hopefully. They were excited to function again like the people of God are called to function. So that’s what they were doing. But it always raises this question: Why was Jesus baptized? Which gets me back to my Marty story. As you’ll recall, I’m not the one rubbing my face in dead field mice. I’m not stinky. But I end up miserable in the shower with my miserable dog all the same. Why? I could inflate my worth, here, and say it’s because I love him. Which would be true. But that’s a little vague. I do it because it’s my duty to do it. I’m “the alpha” of our household (as they say in dog circles); I’m the head of the pack and it’s my job to keep him clean, to keep our house clean. So I get in the shower with my dog, because there’s no better way for him to be washed efficiently. Now, like all metaphors, it’ll break down if you stretch it too far. But stick with me. When Jesus chose to be baptized, he was getting in the shower with us. All of us are “Martys” in our own ways. We’re all attracted to filthy things, and we like to rub in them and get them all over our fur, then bring them back into our homes with us and spread that stench there as well. And everyone in our circle becomes affected by whatever our brand of brokenness is. It’s unavoidable. And Jesus comes along and says, “I choose not to have you remain in that condition.” So he calls us to repentance. He calls us to acknowledge our sins and brokenness – in whatever way we’re living in fear and self-centeredness, in self-righteousness and pettiness of spirit; in laziness or bad habits – he calls us to repent, to drag our filthy bodies into the shower, to rid ourselves of whatever sins we’ve become convicted of, that we might become clean again. And God through Jesus says, “I will go there with you. I will get in the shower – I will get baptized in the Jordan River – because I have a duty. I am the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end, and my end is this: You are mine. I love you. You will be clean. And I will be with you every step of the way. Your sorrow and brokenness and shame are no threats to me. At all.” This, I believe, is what happened in the Jordan. And this is what happens in each of our baptisms. We are being baptized with Jesus, who joins us where we are: in our brokenness, in our deaths and burial, in our being cleaned and set free from all sin and death. And it is this thorough identity of God with us that we rehearse and recall every time we gather together to pray. When we enter the nave and dip our fingers to feel the water of the baptismal font; when we pray the confession and receive the absolution; when we share the peace with one another; when we come forward together to gather around God’s table and consume God’s grace, we are participating liturgically in what is true eternally and ubiquitously: God is with us, as we are: beloved, forgiven, and free. And as we leave the sanctuary of our prayers, what we hear, again and again, is our mandate and call, “Let us go forth in the name of Christ.” What we’ve prayed in the church becomes the pattern by which we desire to live in this world: to be reminded regularly that God loves us; to repent when we are in error; to forgive when we have been hurt; and then to turn towards the one who is hurting and join them there, hurting with them (as is necessary) and relieving their hurt as we are able. Or to put it another way: to do what Jesus did – to get in the river with our hurting neighbors, saying to this world, “I, too, have a duty, as a follower of Christ, to desire only your good; your brokenness neither offends nor repulses me, and I prefer to be with you, and to see you doing well. I might not be able to relieve your suffering, but I can at least relieve your aloneness.” And so may we hear what Jesus heard, coming forth from the waters, “You are my son, my daughter, the beloved, and with you I am well pleased.” For this is the heart of God – not to come with vengeance as John predicted – but to come with humility and solidarity of spirit, to be as one with this world, seeking only its good.