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Spirit and FireJanuary 10, 2010 The Baptism of the Lord Listen to part one of this sermon. Listen to part two of this sermon. Was it birth or death, great sorrow or great joy that filled the hospital room? It was surely at least all of those things. That Jason would soon die was a fact. That his father was recently reborn was another. That I still felt like a greenhorn in ministry was yet one more. Jason had been diagnosed with AIDS at a time when there was little effective drug therapy. Receiving this diagnosis, he debated whether or not to tell his parents. He knew it would be a difficult conversation. As it turned out, his prediction was correct, although he hadn't expected his father's response who, after a long silence, said quietly, "You're no son of mine," and hung up the phone. Predating the internet, Jason chose to stay in contact by letter. His mother came to visit a couple of times in the intervening years. But it wasn't until Jason had finally reached the end of his life that his father showed up in his hospital room. And then, as surprisingly as he had cut Jason off, he now gently leaned over the kissed him on the forehead and said, "I love you, son." The room took on an unusual character. Hard to describe. Death and birth, sorrow and joy, full to the brim and overflowing with the mysteries of life and love. One friend of Jason's who heard of this bedside reconciliation said cynically, "Too little, too late." But that wasn't Jason's experience. His father kept vigil until he died. They had a chance to drink from the same well for a short time. As it turned out, Jason had his own confessions to make, his own accounts with life to settle. The length of their relational drought was less important than the depth of the waters they drew upon in those last days. And Jason's father wept when his son died. Both Jason and his father had been water baptized as infants. But it struck me that the full force of the spiritual gift was only just recently received in the nick of time. It seemed to me in retrospect that the hospital room had been the sight of a baptism of Spirit and fire - something got burned up and something else, something important and life-giving was released. It was a powerful bit of business I tell you. I have learned over the years that the depths of meaning within the rituals of our faith are rarely fully apprehended at the time they take place, even for the well-seasoned member. And given this, I've often wondered what someone fresh to Christianity might make of them. For instance, I wonder what a first-timer might make of all the goings-on here today. The imagery of water, the organized activity laced with esoteric, or at least seemingly insider religious language and symbols, the white robes and stoles. If we're not careful, we could miss the essence for the trappings and folderol, of course. Or maybe its more transparent than I might imagine. Perhaps an instinctual drive kicks in that resonates with the mystical dimensions of spirit and fire, of life and death and love that are captured in the ritual. I suspect that's so. I think that's what often provokes tears when baptismal waters flow, the spiritual realm is accessed even for the uninitiated observer - I've seen that many times over the years. A powerful instinctual understanding that the essence of our lives and identities are uncovered when our name is spoken and we're finally and formally claimed by God and our human community. "You are my Son, the beloved; with you I am well pleased," is the way Jesus heard it. Many years ago in that hospital room something very, very deep was revealed by the lost father's return when he kissed his son's forehead. Something was accessed that touched the core of existence which in turn opened the heavens as well as the eyes and ears of those who chose to see and hear. I could imagine there was a time when Jason's father held him in his arms and a minister called Jason's name and baptized him as God's own. It would take several decades for Dad to realize his own role in the matter, but finally he became the voice of God when he kissed Jason and said, "I love you, son." At its heart, Christianity is absolutely unequivocal about the centrality of love; love is the essential glue, or force, or grace, the very breath of God. It is the one thing which has the height and length and breadth and depth to fully embrace suffering and death. It calls forth from human hearts excellent things like courage and integrity and the ability to suffer for righteousness sake. It is the ground of authentic hope and the agency of faith. The way our scriptures speak of it, love is the medium through which all things have been created, even ourselves. Each one cherished beyond time and measure. But now while many of us would gladly affirm this lovely idea, in our heart of hearts we don't really believe it. We can't quite believe that we're that valuable in the grand scheme of things. Our routine associations and experiences lead us to believe just the opposite-that our true worth is suspect. Even the most successful among us can be driven by the secret, sometimes unconscious, conviction that no amount of success will in the end prove our true worth. What is the true driver of all our drivenness anyway? Do we actually know? Do we know where we're headed and why? And insidiously, while doubting our own worth, we're quite certain many, if not most others aren't worthy either. This human dilemma, this corrosive suspicion, lies in our core, in our soul. It poisons our relationships and feeds on fear. It is to this deep place that baptismal waters intend to reach. And fortunately, these waters are opportunistic, seeping down through the tiniest of cracks in our formidable defenses over the course of our lifetimes. If we could let cynicism abate for just a moment or two as we rehearse the ancient liturgy in a minute or two, listening very intently, we just might hear a voice that says, "You are my daughter, you are my son, whom I love. With you I am well pleased." And if our souls can receive that, then from the inside out, love can do its transformative work. It was fear that kept Jason's father away for years. Fear of what? Well, fear the world wasn't organized the way he wanted it; fear of lack of control; fear of exposure; fear of guilt by association; fear of his own inadequacies; fear of his own secrets. The list of potential fears is nearly limitless, isn't it? You can sense them within yourself if you're brave. And what is fear's antidote? Jason's father finally named and claimed it. And in our Gospel lesson Jesus' father names it as well. Long before any sophisticated theological formulations were devised explaining the relationship between Jesus and God, those with the eyes to see and ears to hear knew that the best way to understand it was as an intimate bond of love. That's what the witnesses experienced at the Jordan River. And those that stuck around would see how Jesus bore witness to this loving relationship over the next several years of his life. And wouldn't the powerbrokers of his day project their fear onto him, scapegoating their vulnerabilities by putting him to death? John had it right by calling everyone to the river's edge where the healing and cleansing waters could seep into their corroded souls, where Spirit and fire could do the mystical work we cannot accomplish on our own. Though ritual baptism happens only once, the Spirit and fire work on us the rest of our lives, right up to the moment we draw our last breath. Friends, there's no more important thing going on anywhere around our town this morning than your hearing either for the first time or the hundredth time the deep truth at the core of all things. When you see little Peter cradled by his parents, marked by the water of life, listen for God's voice. At that moment you will know for certain that he is God's beloved, and when a drop of water touches you, listen for the sound of your own name being whispered. Down at the river's edge…..
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