First Sunday after the Epiphany Sermon

Those of you who were members of St. John’s back during the pandemic will remember, that in my daily online meditations, I used to talk about Marty a lot. Marty was our dog. He was an old dog (he’s gone now) and not at all interested in exercise for exercise’s sake. He just liked to get out and smell stuff. Slowly. Meanderingly. And I’d do my best to be patient with him. It was his walk, after all.

But in his younger days, when he actually had energy, he loved to run free in the fields by our house. And, for him, the best thing that could happen when he was out in the fields, was to find something really stinky. I mean, something really, profoundly gross – like some dead, rotting animal. He’d get right down on it and rub his face in it, smearing it deep into his fur – right between his eye and his ear. It wasn’t enough merely to sniff the smell and move on; he wanted to become one with that smell.

God, I hated it. ‘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’d have to wash the dog. And the most effective way I learned to do this was for both of us to get in the shower together, then shut the door so he couldn’t get out. And then I’d give him a thorough shampooing.

And I assure you: we both hated it. I’d be glaring at him for putting me in this situation. And he’d glaring at me: How dare you wash off my glory and put me through this misery.

But there was nothing else to be done. We simply both had to endure it. And then he’d be all fluffy and clean and gets to roll around the carpet drying himself off like some kind of splendor in the grass. And I’d get to feel virtuous because I’d done this mighty work (for which I’d demand much praise). And all would be well again. And we’d be 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.

In the days of John the Baptist, flocks of people were coming out to hear John preaching in the wilderness. Like I said 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 – 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 – and the world’s suddenly 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’d 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 loved him. Which would be true. But that’s a little vague. I did it because it was my duty to do it. I was “the alpha” of our household (as they say in dog circles), the head of the pack. It was my job to keep him clean in order to keep our house clean. So I’d get in the shower with my dog, because there was 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 for 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, “And I will go there with you. I’ll get in the shower, too. I will be 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. And 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. And, by God, 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 (when needed) 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 that, too, is one of the great beauties of this story of Jesus’ baptism. Not only does it reveal Jesus’ spirit of solidarity with us in our attempts to repent and live righteously, it is also a story of Jesus encountering God’s solidarity with him. He heard God’s voice. He heard God’s spirit of approval and pleasure in him as a son.

Who knows? This may have been the first time Jesus experienced the audible voice of God, his heavenly father. What a gift.

In fact, in the whole, big story of scripture, Jesus’ baptism is the first – and clearest – story we have that opens up for us the mystery of the Trinity. When Jesus emerged from the water, “the Holy Spirit descended upon him,” it says, “in bodily form, like a dove.” And then he heard God’s voice. So the whole Trinity was revealed there at the same moment – the Father, the Son, the Spirit – all present, all one, all distinct. And it is this moment that inaugurates Jesus’ ministry. Jesus’ ministry begins by his act of faithful solidarity with humanity. It begins with the Spirit’s presence, linking heaven to earth and earth to heaven. It begins with God’s approval and pleasure. It begins with a revelation of God’s very nature – which is “to be one.” And so we can rightly say, that when Jesus’ ministry begins, it is truly the Trinity’s ministry beginning. And it is a ministry that resembles the Trinity itself: drawing together – in love and mercy – that which had been scattered and divided. It is restoring humanity to its true identity as image bearers of God. For we, too, are wildly diverse – and beautifully so. And we are one. This Kingdom of God that Jesus will reveal is a kingdom that resembles God’s very nature.

That is why this painting behind the altar is paired with three candles. It becomes Jesus’ baptism and his experience of oneness with the Father and the Spirit. It becomes the memory of our own baptisms, where we entered into sacramental union with God. And it becomes every moment of renewal for us – every time we turn afresh with desire to join God in creating God’s kingdom on earth as it is in heaven: one with God, one with one another, one in hope, one in faith, one in love.

And so, may our spirits hear, over and over again: “You are my child, my beloved; with you I am well pleased.” Amen.