Solidarity (Epiphany C1)

Solidarity
Homily delivered for the First Sunday after Epiphany (Year C)
13 January 2013

8:00 a.m. Said and 10:00 a.m. Sung Eucharist
Trinity Episcopal Church

Ashland, Oregon

Isaiah 43:1-7; Psalm 29; Acts 8:14-17; Luke 3:15-17, 21-22

God, take away our hearts of stone and give us hearts of flesh. Amen.

This summer a new film about the Lone Ranger will be released, with Johnny Depp starring at the mysterious former Texas Ranger’s Indian companion, Tonto.  When I was young, there was a story, probably politically incorrect by today’s standards, about the Lone Ranger and Tonto.  Hostile Indians are riding around them in an ever-tightening circle.  When it is clear the end is near, the Ranger turns to Tonto and says, “What are we to do, Tonto?”  The reply, “What do you mean ‘we,’ pale face?”   

Identity, group affiliation, mutual obligation.   That is what today’s story, the baptism of Christ, is all about. 

The Lectionary includes it for the First Sunday after Epiphany as one of the great signs of “God in Man made Manifest” because of the voice coming from heaven at the end of the reading (Luke 3:21-22).    Note, however, how the Lectionary connects this epiphany to Jesus to us.   Isaiah says: “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you, … Because you are precious in my sight, and honored, and I love you.”  The Psalm says, “The voice of the Lord is upon the waters, … The LORD shall give strength to his people; the LORD shall give his people the blessing of peace.

This story of Jesus being baptized by John clearly embarrassed early Christians. The various Gospels tell the story in different ways as a result.

Mark, the earliest Gospel, says John appeared in the Judean and preached a “baptism of repentance for the remission of sins.” Jesus of Nazareth comes and John baptizes him along with the rest. But when Jesus comes up out of the water, “immediately he saw heaven being torn open and the Spirit descending on him like a dove. And a voice came from heaven.’”

Matthew changes the story in several crucial ways.  He deletes the fact that John’s  baptism was “for repentance.”  He adds a dialogue—John says “I need to be baptized by you, Jesus, not you from me.” Jesus replies that he must be baptized “to fulfill all the demands of righteousness.” Jesus here does not get baptized because he needs his sins to be remitted but rather because of the demands of God’s Law, one of Matthew’s major concerns.

Luke leaves in the fact that John’s baptism is unto repentance and adds a lengthy description of the Baptist’s preaching.  But he avoids mentioning that it was John who baptized Jesus. Here, the opening of heaven, the descent of the dove, and the hearing of God’s voice occurs only after the arrest of John, “when all the people had been baptized and Jesus also had been baptized and was praying.”  Jesus here is simply throwing in his lot with the whole group of other people getting baptized. 

In contrast to Matthew and Luke, who in their separate ways say that Jesus’ getting baptized was not for the remission of sin or a sign of his subordination to the Baptist, the Gospel of John simply deletes Jesus’ getting baptized altogether.  In the prologue of John, the Baptist appears purely as a witness to Light, the word made flesh. John bears witness of the one who is to follow, and identifies him as Jesus. Later, Jesus goes out to Jordan to baptize rather than be baptized (John 3:22-4:3). Though the Baptist is quoted as bearing witness that he saw the spirit descend on Jesus, there is no scene in John’s Gospel of the baptism itself. 

The early Church preserved these stories despite the discomfort it felt about the idea of Jesus receiving John’s baptism of repentance.  This is convincing evidence that the historical Jesus was, in fact, baptized by John, drawn to the Baptist’s message of a living faith in an engaged God who would soon set things right in the world.

The important take away in all of this is what Luke stresses:  that Jesus was showing solidarity with people receiving John’s baptism, and indeed, with us all. 

“Solidarity” means showing your connectedness to others.  It is throwing your lot in with them, showing that you are one of them, that you are part of them and they are part of you.  It is an expression of the idea that “I” am not alone, an independent unity apart from all others.  It means “we are in this together” rather than “everyone for oneself.”  It means we owe it to each other to treat others as we would be treated.

Some people are uncomfortable with expressions of solidarity, because sometimes they can be exclusive or partisan, where our identity as part of a group is expressed as a function of who is not included in the group.

But authentic Christian ethics have always taught that our obligations of special beneficence to those who most have a claim on us, like family, kindred, nation, and co-religionists, should never preclude our obligation of general beneficence, the good that we owe all others because of our shared humanity. 

Blessed Emma, Queen of the Hawaiians who is commemorated on our Episcopal calendars on November 28, tried to serve her people, who had become outcasts and wanderers in their own land, by establishing hospitals and schools for the benefit of native Hawaiians.  But in so doing, she specified that these institutions should never exclude non-Hawaiians.  What she called “the strangers in our midst” were also to be served.

Such “Aloha” is the glue that binds us together.   Solidarity fosters the common good, equal opportunity, fair and reasonable distribution of the fruits of our economic life, equality among people and nations, and peace in the world.  It includes all the other principles and values that are necessary to create and sustain a truly good society.  It is at the heart of what it means to be human, since we humans are essentially social beings, not isolated monads.  It is more than a vague feeling of compassion, common cause, or shallow sympathy.   It is in fact a commitment to our common life, a sign that we accept responsibility for each other. 

Our modern American society is rife with values that work against solidarity:  greed, selfishness, inequality, discrimination, exploitation, oppression, partisanship, putting one’s own well-being, rights, and privileges above the basic needs of others.

For us Christians, the heart of solidarity is the life of Jesus.  Through the incarnation, God is in real solidarity with us and we are in solidarity with God.   By receiving John’s baptism, God-made-flesh showed solidarity with us, with all our limitations, weakness, and sins.  The social teaching of the Baptist and Jesus both stem from profound solidarity.   

One of the reasons we Episcopalians so value Common Prayer, prayer in community and for community, is that it is a primary way we express our solidarity with each other and with all creation. 

The Book of Common Prayer includes several ceremonies and rituals of community: Baptism, the rite of Christian initiation; Confirmation, where we take on as adults the promises made on our behalf when baptized as children; and Reception by one of our bishops as an Episcopalian is another.  Here at Trinity, we also use a supplemental rite from the Book of Occasional Services to welcome people as members of our congregation regardless of their status with any of these other rites of community.   These are all rites of solidarity. 

Here at Trinity Church, we follow Jesus’ practice of open table fellowship and welcome in our weekly celebration of the Lord’s Supper.    Our open welcome to the Lord’s Table is sincere and heart-felt. 

In addition to table fellowship, we also welcome you, encourage you, to make other acts showing your growth in God and solidarity with us and our tradition of prayer and worship.

If you are not baptized, then start the process of preparing.  Show your solidarity with Jesus, who was baptized along with us so very long ago. 

If you have not been confirmed, then start the process of preparing.  Taking on your own vows of baptism, or if baptized as an adult, affirming those vows in the presence of a bishop representing the One, Holy, Catholic and Apostolic Church, is a powerful and deep way of advancing your spirituality and your connection to the tradition that Jesus started.  If you have been both baptized and confirmed in other parts of the tradition, but want a closer connection to and identity with the Episcopal Church, then prepare for reception as an Episcopalian.  If what you experience here week after week is right for you, if the Church’s stance on social issues is right for you—a stance based on our sense of solidarity with God and other people—then you should become an Episcopalian and not just a Member of the Congregation here at Trinity Episcopal Church. 

For you baptized and confirmed Episcopalians, think about preparing for the reaffirmation of baptismal covenants that we will hold during the Easter Vigil. 

This is an open-ended invitation.  You don’t have to take it up right now.  And your welcome at the Table remains full, sincere, and open.  You are always welcome to join the congregation by joining a Trinity Newcomers Class regardless of baptismal or confirmation status.  You are always welcome to participate in Trinity’s whole range of Ministries and works of service and love for each other and the whole community.    Participating in these additional acts of solidarity will only enhance and enrich this.   But it is up to you. 

Bishop Hanley will be visiting Trinity about a month after Easter.  We will be organizing an Inquirers’ Class for people to prepare for baptism at the Easter Vigil on March 30 and then for confirmation or reception during the April 21 Episcopal Visit.  The Class will start the first Sunday of Lent, February 17.   We will be covering such things as the nature of faith, the Creeds, our baptismal covenant, and basic Christian Faith and Episcopal Practice.    My experience is that these classes are among the most spiritually enriching experiences we can have in our lives in the Church. 

Note in today’s Gospel story that when Jesus shows his solidarity with us in a concrete act, God reveals himself.  The dove of peace, the Holy Spirit descends.  The voice of God, a voice of splendor and power, says, “You are my child. I love you.  You make me happy.”  

And so it is for us.

Let us show solidarity with each other, so that we might hear the voice of God, be bathed in God’s light, and hear God say, “You are my child.  I love you.  You make me happy.”

In the Name of God, Amen.

We All Need God (Holy Baptism)

 

We All Need God (Holy Baptism)

19 June 2011 

Trinity Sunday

Eucharist with Baptism of Children

All Age Worship 11:45 a.m.

St. John’s Cathedral Hong Kong

Matt 28:11-20

God, take away our hearts of stone, and give us hearts of flesh. Amen

A couple of years ago, I was in Seattle Washington.  I had been asked to meet a group of men from the parish where I live there.  In a weekly effort for outreach to the community, we were to meet in a bar, for discussion of faith over drinks, in what is called “Pub Theology.”  I arrived in my clerical clothing a few minutes early because the place was easier to find than I had anticipated.  I didn’t see the young lay minister who organized the event and had invited me.  But immediately, another young man called over to me, “Father, come here and drink with me, I want to talk.” 

Afer a few minutes of chit-chat, he asked me a hard question.  “I just had my little girl baptized. My wife wanted to do it even though our daughter is just six months old.  I’m not that religious, but I am a Christian and believe in God.  I know that we need to repent of our sins and be baptized.  But something really bothered me.  Our little girl is so innocent and helpless.  Why in the world did we need to baptize her?  I asked my priest, but he just said that I shouldn’t be confused by Protestants and their way of doing things—baptism of only older young people or adults. ‘Why not wait until she’s older?’ I asked him.  He replied, ‘you want to raise her as a Christian, and to be Christian, you need to be baptized.’  But that wasn’t very helpful.  Why does she need to have her sins washed off when she’s too young to have committed any?  Doesn’t this show a really negative view of life?  That you’re contaminated from birth?” 

What I said was this: 

“You’re absolutely right about the meaning of baptism.  It is a symbol of washing, or cleansing.  But that symbol is better applied to older people who have “gotten dirty” as it were.  But baptism is also a symbol for new life.  When a child is so young, it is hard to think that their life is old and in need of newness.   But that isn’t the point.  Earlier Church fathers like Augustine thought that we were all dirty.  Most theologians today—whether Roman Catholic or Protestant—do not agree with this negative view, and attribute it to some of Augustine’s own personal problems.  Instead, they talk not about moral corruption or dirt in the newborn, but rather about the inadequacy of all human beings.

The fact is, all of us—no matter how young or how good—need God.  What we’re born with, as good as it may be, is just not enough.  We see this early enough in the development of children.  We are by nature imperfect, and that is the case for each and every one of us.  That is the theological reason we baptize little ones.  It is a sign that we are all in the same boat.  We all need God.    God is his love gave us this sign that he is willing to help us, each and every one. 

Thank you parents for bringing you little ones to Jesus this morning.  He welcomes them.  And may He bless you to continue raising them in the love and nurture of God.  

In the name of God, Amen.   

Begotten by Water, Borne on Wind (Lent 2A)

Begotten by Water, Borne on Wind

20 March 2011

Homily Delivered the Second Sunday in Lent Year A

9:00 a.m. Sung Eucharist; 11:45 a.m. Said Eucharist

Cathedral Church of St. John the Evangelist

Hong Kong 
[Note: at the 8:00 a.m. Said Eucharist, Fr. Hutchinson preached an abbreviated form of "Not in the Earthquake," the homily he gave in Beijing a week ago, also posted on "an Elliptical Glory."] 

Genesis 12.1-4a; Psalm 121; Romans 4.1-5,13-17; John 3.1-17

There was a Pharisee named Nicodemus, a leader of the Jews. He came to Jesus by night and said to him, "Rabbi, we know that you are a teacher who has come from God; for no one can do these signs that you unless God is with him." Jesus answered him, "Amen, Amen, I tell you:  unless a person is begotten from above, he or she cannot see the Kingship of God." Nicodemus said to him, "How is anyone able to be begotten once they’ve grown old? Are you able to enter a second time into your mother's womb and be born?" Jesus answered, "Amen, Amen, I tell you: no one is able to enter the kingdom of God unless he or she is begotten of water and breath (wind). What is begotten of the flesh is flesh, and what is begotten of the breath is breath. Do not be astonished that I said to you, 'You must be begotten from above.' The wind breathes where it chooses, and you hear its voice, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is begotten by the Breath." Nicodemus said to him, "How can these things be?" Jesus answered him, "Are you a teacher of Israel, and yet you do not understand these things?

"Amen, amen, I tell you:  we speak of what we know and testify to what we have seen; yet you people do not receive our testimony. If I have told you about earthly things and you do not believe, how can you believe if I tell you about heavenly things? No one has ascended into heaven except the one who descended from heaven, the Son of Man. And just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life.

"For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.

"Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him." John 3: 1-17

God, take away our hearts of stone, and give us hearts of flesh.  Amen

 

When I was very small, our family went on vacation to a warm spring in the Rocky Mountains, and spent an afternoon at a swimming pool there.  I remember very clearly, because I almost died there.  I loved the water.  My family sat on the edge, talking and watching me as I played on the steps going into the shallow end.  On the middle step I could splash and play, and put my face under. But I stepped too far back, off the steps. I took a breath, and sunk down.  Standing as tall as I could, I was about 4 inches short of the surface.  I bounced up and took a breath, and sank again.  But I had not gotten enough air.  I could see my father through the surface, but he was looking at my mother and not at me.  I bounced up again.  Again, not enough air.  I started to panic.  I couldn’t breathe.  I bounced again, gulped, but to no avail.  I looked up just as things started to go dark, when my sister started pointing to me.  My father’s strong hands were at once around my arm, pulling me into the air, sputtering and gasping.  

I went on later to become a competitive swimmer, lifeguard, and swimming instructor.   But that early experience left a mark.  I had a very hard time learning how to float on my back, perfecting it only when I was 14 years old.  All my teachers said, “Oh, but it’s so easy! All you have to do is put your head back and relax!  Let the water hold you up!”  But try as hard as I could, every time I put my head back, it felt like I was falling.  I tensed up and sank, the water rushing up my nose.  I had learned from that earlier experience fear, and the need to be in control.  And to float, I had to learn to relax, and give up control. 

In today’s Gospel, Jesus meets a man who wants to stay in control.

Nicodemus comes to Jesus by night, in private, away from the crowds that surrounded Jesus during the day.  This “Pharisee” this “teacher in Israel” says, “I know who you are, Jesus.  I have seen the signs that you perform. I know you are from God.”  He calls Jesus “Rabbi,” wanting to ask him questions about scripture,  the commandments, and how to enter God’s kingdom.

But as we read in the verse just before this story begins, Jesus knows “what is in each person” (John 2:25).  He sees Nicodemus’ heart, and tells him what he needs to hear, not what he wants to know. 
 

“Unless you are begotten from on high, you cannot see God’s kingdom.”   Spiritual rebirth is required, not discussions about religious rules.  

Nicodemus misunderstands: he thinks that Jesus is speaking of biological rebirth, tripping over the fact that the word used for “from above” can also mean “over again.”  Jesus corrects him by contrasting the physical body and the breath that animates it (or the “wind” or “spirit” that gives it life--it’s the same word in Greek and Aramaic). “Truly, I tell you: no one is able to enter the kingdom of God unless they are begotten of water and wind. Flesh begets flesh, but wind begets wind.”  Spiritual life is unpredictable and as invisible as the wind:  You can hear the sound it makes, and see its results, but cannot see it directly. “So it is with everyone who is begotten by the wind.”  

Nicodemus still misunderstands.

Jesus tells him that it won’t make sense unless Nicodemus accepts Jesus’ own explanation of who he is rather the conclusions he has already drawn.  “How can you understand my teaching on heaven when you can’t even understand a simple example drawn from day-to-day life?” 

At this point, it is clear that Jesus is no longer talking to Nicodemus. The Evangelist is talking to us.  In a phrase Martin Luther called “the Gospel in miniature,” he concludes “God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who puts their trust in him may not perish but may have eternal life.” 

OK—the story is complicated, relying on many puns and plays on words not apparent in English. But basically, the drama of the story is pretty straightforward:  Nicodemus says, “I know who you are.  The signs that you perform show you are from God. Tell me what you know.”  Jesus replies, “You don’t have a clue about who I am. You heard about me supplying wine for a wedding feast, and driving out money-changers from the Temple; so you think I am worth listening to, and come here. But you do this in secret.  If you think you’ve just professed faith in me, you don’t know what faith is.  Faith is not about opinions privately held, conclusions safely stated.  It’s about commitment, about risk.  It requires a totally new orientation, a new life.  In fact, it’s like a new birth.”  

Nicodemus misses the point, and asks, “How? How can this happen? How can these things be?” Nicodemus has questions, but not the right questions.  He wants Jesus to give him a formula, a check-list on how to be born of God.  Jesus sees that Nicodemus will not get closer to God without relaxing, without giving up control.  So he tells Nicodemus about water and wind.

Scripture uses many different images to describe what Jesus is talking about here: turning back, surrendering to God, being washed clean, becoming a child, getting married to God, finding a treasure buried in a field and selling everything to buy the field,  being sprinkled with purifying water, new creation, new life, waking up from a deep sleep, coming to one’s senses, regaining eyesight.  Some passages describe it from how it feels on the inside and call it forgiveness; others look at its results and call it a healing.  Though Jesus here calls it a new birth, some passages call it a death, or dying to one’s old way of life. 

Early Christians, who borrowed from John the Baptist a rite of full immersion into water as a way of marking and helping this process of death and new life along, called it a burial in the water.  That is why Jesus here says we must be begotten both of water and of wind. Though the Gospel of John never directly refers to sacraments like baptism and the Eucharist, it does make passing meditative allusion to them, as it does here. 

Jesus has in mind being pushed backwards into water, once and for all, with that feeling of falling, with that feeling of drowning.  The contrast could not be sharper—this is not Nicodemus’ view of tidy purity ritual washings, done regularly and on schedule according to the rule book he wants from Jesus.

Jesus doesn’t give Nicodemus the rule book he wants. Though Jesus is no slouch when it comes to the demands of justice and faith, he knows that without God breathing in us, rules only bring frustration and arrogance:  flesh begets flesh.  Nicodemus wants a list of things he must do; Jesus talks about being begotten.  Nicodemus wants rules; Jesus talks about the wind blowing here and there.  Nicodemus wants to play it safe; Jesus wants us to take risks. 

The wind blows where it will, the breath breathes where it wants—giving up control to God, living in the Spirit, cannot be mapped out, counted up, or predicted. This confuses Nicodemus, who knows how to trust the security of the rules, rituals, and moral aphorisms of conventional religion.  He asks Jesus “how can I make this new birth happen?”

Jesus replies, “This is not about what you need to do. You cannot give birth to yourself. This is about God, who breathes life and makes the wind blow.  Take the risk.  Relax and let go.  Let God do whatever God wants to do with you. He may surprise you.”

Some people misread this story just as badly as Nicodemus misunderstands Jesus’ words. They think that “being born again” is an action they must take.  Like Nicodemus, they think their salvation lies in taking an action, even if it just confessing Jesus with their lips and believing in him with their hearts.  But Nicodemus confesses Jesus in the opening line of the story.  And Jesus says that is not enough.  We have to open ourselves to God, trust him fully.  It is that simple. It is that risky.  It may feel like drowning until God reaches down and pulls us into the breath of  new life. 

Nicodemus bringing myrrh to anoint Jesus' dead body. 

Nicodemus later in the Gospel learns to allow himself to be carried away by the wind.  He speaks up for Jesus in the Council, and after Jesus’ death, with a friend asks to help bury Jesus’ body.   Risks, indeed, but exactly where the wind blew. 

What happens when we learn to let go and let God wash over us?  What happens when we let ourselves be borne up on the wind of God? 

We are more sure of the love of God, but less sure of our own formulations about God. 

We can look at true horror in the face, even horror like the natural and man-made disaster now overtaking Japan, and not be afraid, still trusting the love of God. 

We stop trying to use rules to limit God or control others.

We begin to listen to  God’s Word without prejudgment, without fear.  

We begin to notice God where we least expect Him.  

Our heart is more and more open, and our mind less and less closed.

We love others as we know God loves us.

We do good out of this love, not because it is required.

Sisters and Brothers, we are damaged goods, all of us.  We are like Nicodemus in the night.  But God made us for a home we have never yet seen, and that we can barely even imagine now. Jesus tells us of that home, because he came down from there. He loves us dearly, each and every one.

Jesus not only showed us the way, he is the way.  He accepted and opened himself to the will of his Father, risked all, and let himself be borne away on the wind, even to the point of being lifted high upon the cross.  Through this and his glorious coming forth from the grave, he is reaching down to pull us from the deep water.  

Let us all learn to relax as we let ourselves fall back into the mysterious love of God.  Let us lose our lives so that we may find them.   Let’s not struggle as he buries us in the waves and pulls us up again, sputtering, into new breath and life.  Let us allow ourselves to be borne away on his wind.   

In the name of Christ, Amen.