A Tear in the
Universe
7 January 2018
Epiphany 1B Baptism
of Christ
8:00 a.m. said and
10:00 a.m. sung Mass
Trinity Episcopal
Church
Ashland, Oregon
God, take away our hearts of stone and give us hearts of flesh. Amen.
There is a detail at the end of
today’s Gospel reading that is quite striking:
as Jesus is coming up from the waters of baptism, “he saw the heavens ripped open, and heard a voice.” The Greek word here is schizo, to tear or rip asunder.
It shows up again at the end of Mark’s Gospel, in Chapter 15: “Jesus (on
the cross) uttered a loud cry, breathed his last, and the curtain of the Temple
was ripped in two, from top to
bottom.” The repetition is deliberate:
Jesus’ baptism marks the start of his ministry; his death on the cross, its
end. At the baptism, the skies are torn
apart so God’s voice can be heard. On
the cross, as Jesus cries out in his death throes, the veil of the Temple, that
symbol of the division between this world and the unseen one where God’s
presence is not hidden, is likewise torn.
The skies torn and God’s voice
heard; Jesus’ voice and the boundary to the holy of holies ripped in two: the
phenomenal universe, our day-to-day lives, what we see before us—split and
divided so that we see and hear what is behind it all. There are moments in life where things become
clear, where we catch a glimpse of the hidden world through a tear in the
universe.
The baptism of Jesus is one such
event; so are our own baptisms.
We are called to follow Jesus in his
baptism. Jesus
receives John’s “baptism of repentance,” that is, a washing showing a change of
heart and life. He is about to leave
his family’s home in Nazareth, and start his itinerant ministry of announcing
the arrival of God’s Reign through word and acts of welcome and healing. The course of his life is about to change
significantly. Immediately after he is
baptized, the heavens are ripped open and God speaks, “You are my beloved; I am
well pleased with you.” Jesus immediately sets out into the wilderness for the
40 day testing period preparing him for his ministry.
Our baptism is also one of repentance, where we
change our hearts, directions, and ways of thinking. The fact that we offer this to babies shows
that we believe this is a life-long process grounded in God’s grace, not in our
own natural gifts or wits. It is not
just about our feelings. It is a real
thing.
Baptism demands that we bring forth “fruits
worthy of repentance,” that is, a life course and actions consonant with the
promises and affirmations we make in baptism.
Included in these is a promise that whenever we fall into sin, we repent
and turn again to the Lord. Again, this
is a life-time process.
Our prayer book tradition has always seen
baptism as a sacrament, an outward sign of an inward grace, a signing act in
which the grace is bestowed. Its
prayers in the baptismal rite say that the newly baptized has been born again
and found forgiveness of sins. Calvinists and evangelicals have always been
uncomfortable with this, preferring to talk about baptism purely as a symbol of
what they see as the source of regeneration, the act of faith in the heart of
the baptized. But the catholic,
orthodox, and Prayer Book view has always been that regeneration comes through the
grace and redeeming work of Jesus and is found in the rite itself.
So how does this work? How can the act of receiving washing in
water actually change our hearts?
Especially when it is done when we are little, and often as adults
cannot remember it?
Baptism is a tear in the universe. It is an outward sign pointing to and
accomplishing an inward reality. It
discloses truth, even as its outward forms continue in some ways to hide it.
It is this way with all the sacraments: in
Eucharist, common bread and wine become the body of Christ, the bread of
heaven, even as they remain to all appearances bread and wine. In reconciliation, we face our guilts and
fears and God drives them away, but we remain sinners afterwards all the
same. In confirmation, we reaffirm our
baptismal vows, and take this initiation into a deeper, more intentional
commitment, but we remain who we were before.
In matrimony, we place our deepest relationship in God’s hands, but the
relationship still must be nurtured and cared for. In orders, we consecrate our life to service
in particular ways, and the community offers us up sacrificially to this
service. But take away the collar and
the strange kit, and we look pretty much, in fact, are pretty much like all the rest of the laity. In anointing, we pray for healing and
restoration of good health, and we do this even at the end of life, when we
expect that healing and restoration will be only at the last day.
All the sacraments take place in time, but are
also eternal. All involve
sacrifice. All involve
consecration. All involve trusting that God
will change us and will change things.
Sacraments all are part of a life’s course, are all lifelong.
We most often can’t see ourselves as
changed people. Our habits, our ways of
thinking, our ways of behaving are just too ingrained. Baptism or no, adult immersion or infant
effusion, we wonder if there is any possibility of change in our lives.
But that is exactly where the rip in
the universe occurs. In sacraments, if
we see things rightly, we get a glimpse of what’s really going on.
A major part of the light shining
through this tear in the universe is expressed in what that voice says to
us: “You are my child. I love you.
You make me happy.”
But the glimpse through the veil,
the vision through the torn skies does not last forever.
And so we have to take a long
view. There are times when we can perceive
who and where we are only by looking into the rearview mirror and seeing what
we have already passed.
Given the stresses of life, it is
easy to lose heart. It is easy to believe that people cannot
change. We meet toxic individuals, and think they will be this way forever. We run into, like in yesterday’s Epiphany
gospel, wicked kings. We run into our
own failings and relapses. That is why
we promise in baptism to continue in the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, the
breaking of the bread and in the prayers.
The miracle and mystery of our faith is this—we can change
because God can change us. At baptism we affirm in the Apostles’
Creed that believe in “the forgiveness of
sins, the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting.” This
makes no sense at all if we don’t believe that God is at work transforming us,
and that we shall all be changed.
Sacraments make us new, and help us
be reborn in the direction of the image of Jesus. Remember the classic line from
African-American preaching quoted often by the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
"Lord know I ain't what I outta be. And Lord know I ain't what I'm
gonna be. But thank God Almighty, I ain't what I was!"
Let’s try
all the harder to keep the Baptismal Covenant.
As St. Francis’s teaching has been summarized, preach the Good News of
God’s love at all times and in all places, occasionally actually opening our
mouths to do so. Let’s not get
discouraged in the fight against the powers and dominions, the unjust
structures of power and society, and think that if we can’t see change that
means there is no point in the effort?
Remember Margaret Mead’s words, “Never
doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the
world; indeed, it’s the only thing that ever has.” And let’s be more regular and more fervent in
our prayers, more emotionally connected by them. I think that is one of the
reason we use the Psalter so much in prayer—it is a book of emotions. As Gandhi said, “It is better in prayer to
have a heart without words than words without a heart.”
It is only by taking our covenant
seriously, and challenging ourselves with it, that this life-long tearing of
the universe is made open to us and we can see that God has loved us all
along.
Thanks be to God.
Amen.
After Jesus was baptized, he immediatley went to the desert for 40 days. How else to contemplate the soul? Thank you for your blessed words.
ReplyDelete