Baptism of Our Lord

January 13, 2008

Sermon by Pastor John Marboe

The Holy Gospel according to St. Matthew. (Matthew 3:13-17)

Jesus came from Galilee to John at the Jordan, to be baptized by him. John would have prevented him, saying, “I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?” But Jesus answered him, “Let it be so now; for it is proper for us in this way to fulfill all righteousness.” Then he consented. And when Jesus had been baptized, just as he came up from the water, suddenly the heavens were opened to him and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and alighting on him. And a voice from heaven said, “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.”

The Gospel of the Lord.

Baptism is most fundamentally about acceptance, God’s acceptance of us. Acceptance is one of the deepest of all human needs; acceptance, to know that one is accepted, to feel that one is accepted, to hear that one is accepted. That need is important, both for the individual and at a societal level, too. Those two things are related.

None of us here are so old that we cannot remember as children times when we felt either acceptance or rejection. We remember it like it was yesterday—on the playground, in the hallway, in the street, maybe in the home, seared in our mind like it was yesterday—the feeling we had when we were accepted by others, or when we were not.

For me, the feeling of not being accepted is most poignant in my memory from those first days in junior high, in seventh grade. You know, when you go from being top of the hill in sixth grade when you’re the oldest, you’re the established kid, to this new school, this big school, where everybody there is older. I remember walking up this stairwell, and as I was turning the corner of this stairwell I encountered three boys, all older than me and all larger than me. I had never seen them before, and they, as far as I knew, had no idea who I was. One of those boys came up to me and looked me right in the eyes, and he wouldn’t let me pass. Then he pushed me up against the wall, and then he took the books out of my hands and he threw them down the stairwell. I’ll never forget the shame, the fear, and the bewilderment going back down those stairs and picking up my books, one by one, and then summoning up all the courage in my little chest to walk back up past those boys.

I wish I could tell you that I never participated in anything like that. That I never bullied or was cruel, merely on the basis of size, or weight, or color, or complexion, or social standing, or whether we thought they were cool or not. I wish I could tell you that I didn’t treat other people in that very same way, but I can’t.

In the Book of Romans, Paul exhorts the church at Rome, the community at Rome, to “welcome one another as God in Christ welcomes you.” As I have mentioned here before, Paul was not talking to a group like ours, where there are minor social differences between the people in the congregation. No, he was addressing these words to Jews and to Gentiles, who were attempting something very, very difficult. They were attempting to live together, coming from completely different social, cultural, and religious backgrounds.

The issue in Rome was whether or not you could eat the meat that was sold in the marketplace. Of course, in the marketplace a lot of the meat came from the sacrifice of animals in the pagan temples. As you can well imagine, for a Jew this is not exactly kosher. It was a big deal. People were very, very offended. The Gentiles couldn’t understand what the big deal was. They had always done this; they had grown up on this meat. “It’s not a problem. Eat it; you won’t die.” But the Jews were horrified. So Paul writes this letter, and he says, “Look, don’t let that issue divide you. Don’t let that issue divide you. It is a deeply and profoundly moral issue—I understand that—for all of you, but don’t let that issue come between you.” “Welcome one another,” he says. “And, look, if it’s going to give people problems to eat that meat, then just don’t do it in front of them.” That was his advice.

Paul was writing in the midst of an increasingly cosmopolitan world, where people groups were coming together and attempting to live in cities and in communities in ways that they had never done before. If you think about it, that is exactly the situation we live in today.

Recently, Pastor Joy and I attended a lecture by the state demographer, Tom Gillaspy. One of the statistics that he recited about St. Paul staggered me. Forty-six percent, forty-six percent, of the students enrolled in the St. Paul public schools live in households where English is not the first language. I’m really bad with statistics, so if you look it up it’s probably not forty-six, but it’s not far off. Almost half; almost half.

Have you been to a nursing home lately? Who is working in our nursing homes? Not people born on this soil. Have you looked in the kitchens of the restaurants you like to go to and seen who is cooking? Have you gone to a golf course and noticed who is keeping the grounds? Have you looked up on the roofs of the houses where the roofs are being repaired? Who is up there? Have you been on a city bus lately? Have you been to the DMV to have your license renewed—in the city, not out in the burbs? Have you been to McDonalds in the Midway? Have you taken a taxi? This is our city, our city, all of our city, all of ours; them, too.

Acceptance. Who is accepted, who is acceptable, and on what basis?

To whom does Paul’s exhortation to welcome extend? Throughtout the Old Testament, God continually reminds the people of Israel, once they get their land—and they are struggling to keep their land---mind you; Israel has never ever been a secure nation—God says over and over to them, “Remember that you were once strangers in a foreign land. Therefore, welcome the stranger among you.” Who is the stranger? To whom do we extend acceptance?

It’s not just an issue out there beyond the church walls. Some years ago, a ninety-year-old woman in this congregation asked me to come and visit her because there was something she wanted to talk to me about. I went that week, and we had a pleasant time. I hadn’t really talked to her before. We had coffee, we had a bowl of ice cream, and I learned a little bit about her family, and she showed me some pictures. And then she put her coffee cup down, she put her hands on her knees, and she leaned forward and looked right into my eyes. She said, “I want to ask you something I’ve never asked another pastor.” I said, “What’s that?” She said, “I have a son, he is sixty years old; he’s gay. The Bible says he is an abomination. What do you think?”

I’m not going to tell you how I responded. I’m going to ask you, “What would you say to her?” What would you say about her dearly beloved son?

Not that long ago in this country, some human beings owned other human beings and treated them in ways that we don’t even want to imagine: chained, collared, bits, whips. And out of that painful memory comes a piece of literature that I think is one of the finest ever written. Toni Morrison wrote the book “Beloved” out of the pain of that cultural memory. And in this story there is a sermon delivered by a woman named Baby Suggs, who herself is very old, who has lost a son and a grandchild to the unspeakable cruelty.

In a small town in Ohio, she has gained her freedom, along with a small group of other former slaves. Week-by-week they gather in a clearing, she is the appointed preacher among them, though she cannot read. She is the one who speaks from her heart, whom the others regard as holy. She preaches to this group, to this group of freed slaves, all of whom bear the scars on their bodies and in their psyches from what they have endured. It is perhaps the best example I can find in literature of the powerful human need for acceptance:

“She did not tell them to clean up their lives or to go and sin no more.

She did not tell them they were the blessed of the earth, its inheriting meek or its glory-bound pure.

She told them that the only grace they could have was the grace they could imagine. That if they could not see it, they would not have it.”

“Here,” she said, “here in this place, we flesh; flesh that weeps, laughs; flesh that dances on bare feet in grass. Love it. Love it hard.

Yonder they do not love your flesh. They despise it. They don’t love your eyes; they’d just as soon pick ‘em out. No more do they love the skin on your back. Yonder they flay it.

And O my people they do not love your hands. Those they only use to tie, bind, chop off and leave empty. Love your hands. Love them. Raise them up and kiss them. Touch others with them, pat them together, stroke them on your face ‘cause they don’t love that either. You got to love it, you!

And, no, they ain’t going to love your mouth. Yonder, out there, they will see it broken and break it again. What you say out of it they will not heed. What you scream from it they will not hear. What you put into it to nourish your body they will snatch away and give you leavins instead. No, they don’t love your mouth. You got to love it. This is flesh I’m talking about here. Flesh that needs to be loved. Feet that need to rest and to dance; backs that need support, shoulders that need arms, strong arms I’m telling you.

And O my people, out yonder, hear me, they do not love your neck unnoosed and straight. So love your neck, put a hand on it, grace it, stroke it and hold it up. And all your inside parts they’d just as soon slop for hogs, you got to love them. The dark, dark liver—love it, love it, and the beat and beating heart, love that too. More than eyes or feet. More than lungs that have yet to draw free air. More than your life-holding womb and your life-giving private parts. Hear me now, love your heart. For this is the prize.”

“Saying no more, she stood up then and danced with her twisted hip the rest of what her heart had to say while the others opened their mouths and gave her the music. Long notes held until the four-part harmony was perfect enough for their deeply loved flesh.”

In Galatians, Chapter 3, Paul, still wrestling with this issue of Jews and Gentiles learning to accept one another, says this: “You are one in Christ.” “In Christ, there is neither Jew nor Gentile, slave nor free, male nor female, for you are one in Christ.”

It is simply human to construct our sense of identity on the basis of distinction: I’m not that, we are not them. We all do it. But Paul is suggesting, no, he is declaring that there is a new identity, a new possibility beyond all distinctions that we place one upon another, and that is God’s love, in Christ. God’s love is wide, wider than ours. God’s love is deep, deeper than ours. It’s so wide and it’s so deep that it includes people like you and like me.