New Year, New You — A Sermon on the Baptism of Our Lord

Grace and peace from God our Creator, hope in our Redeemer Jesus the Christ, and the promised gifts of the Holy Spirit are with you, always.

Sometimes I get stuck while writing a sermon. It’s been almost two months since I have preached, since we had that long break and the few weeks before I was away in Colorado and we had the Moveable Feast and then Advent Lessons and Carols. A lot has happened in our nation and world since I last stood here and proclaimed the good news to you, and so maybe that’s why it felt so hard.

It’s January 11, 2017. We finally got out of 2016, a year full of wild rides. It’s the first week of the new quarter! Did you set a new year resolution to start studying for finals earlier? I have set resolutions often in my life, and have never really stuck with them. Setting big goals is important, but setting attainable goals is much more likely to be successful. This year, I decided to do things a little differently. I’m resolving not to reach for far-off achievements, but heading back to basics.

I’m going to be my best self, as I am. I’m going to practice gratitude for what I have. I’m going to remember that greatest commandment, to love my God and love my neighbor as I love myself. I’m going to gather with you all to read scripture and receive communion and pray and eat dinner. 2017 will, in that way, be simultaneously just like and not like every other year.

I think we’re going to talk a lot about how to be Christians in 2017. It’s the 500th anniversary of the Protestant Reformation, when Martin Luther set out to resist an empire that most people thought was untouchable. Jesus, throughout his ministry, turned over the tables and forced his society to take stock of their allegiances and values.

And we’ll talk about that. I'll talk to you about it from here, and it'll probably come up over dinner, and you'll probably run into questions around campus, and on Facebook, and at Tapping Into Theology, and with the Interfaith Campus Council.

So tonight, we’re going to head back to basics. We can't go out and do things in the name of Christ without a firm foundation. We can't face big challenges without preparation.

Jesus knows this, and so before he begins his public ministry, he visits John the Baptizer. John, who knew about Jesus and spent much of his life pointing to Jesus as the coming Messiah, is, understandably, surprised by this. He thinks it makes more sense for Jesus to do the baptizing.

We may have varying understandings of the purpose or effect of baptism, and may wonder why Jesus needed to be baptized. If baptism is simply a cleansing of sin, why would the Son of God need that? If it’s an “initiation rite” into the family of God, why would the Son of God need that? If we see baptism as an outward sign of the grace of God—as a fresh start, a new beginning, a clean slate, a change of perspective, a starting place—Jesus’s baptism sets the stage for our own.  As we’ll sing, later, Jesus’ baptism “opens the door” to “healing, wholeness, and more.”

This time of year, you often hear people say “New Year, New Me,” right? Well, in our baptism, there’s a new us, too. Sure, we’re only baptized one time. But it didn’t only make us new that one time. In Christ, we are a new creation, and that’s not a one-and-done process. We grow and we change every minute of every day—the scientists among us would be the first to tell us that, on the molecular level, we are constantly being made new.

We have so many opportunities to remember our baptism. When I was a kid, and we’d go to confirmation camp, my pastor would wake us up in the morning by splashing water on us and yelling REMEMBER YOUR BAPTISM!

You’re welcome for not doing that to you tonight. What he was trying to get us to understand—other than that it was literally time to wake up—was to wake up each morning with the knowledge that we live and breathe the love of God. Our baptismal event—that other time he splashed us with water—was awhile ago, but its effects are new each morning.

The meaning of our baptism is constant, and it is always new. Paradoxes like that are some of the great joys of our faith, right? Baptism makes us new again and again and again.

I don’t think 2017 is any more or any less of a “new year, new you” than any other year. But I think we are going to spend a lot of our time this year taking stock of what we mean when we say that we are Christians. In the baptismal covenant that we have made—and continue to make—with God and with one another, to what have we committed ourselves?

Don’t worry, not a rhetorical question: we have promised and will again promise “To live among God’s faithful people; to hear the word of God and share in the Lord’s supper; to proclaim the good news of God in Christ through word and deed; to serve all people, following the example of Jesus; to strive for justice and peace in all the earth.”

In our baptism, we are connected to all those who have been baptized, even those first few with John in the Jordan River. The Holy Spirit has been moving and is still moving. She, too, is always being made new.

In the reading from the Acts of the Apostles tonight, Peter is talking about how he and the other apostles were “witnesses to all that [Jesus] did.” All the preaching, healing, teaching, and learning that the disciples participated in is over, and they’re telling the stories to the people who weren’t witnesses. What stories are we hearing and telling about what God has done through Jesus? Through us? What have we witnessed?

When we look out at the local, national, and global landscape, what do we see that is in line with the promises of our baptism? What do we see that is in violation?

What are we doing to do about it?

The Baptism of OCS—a BFD

I preached this sermon to Rick and all the other good people of Spirit of Joy Lutheran Church in Fort Collins, CO on the occasion of my bestie niece Olivia Clare's baptism.

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Grace and peace from God our Creator, Hope in our Redeemer Jesus the Christ, and the promised gifts of the Holy Spirit are with you, always.

Good morning! It is such a privilege to be here with you. Full disclosure: I’m a brand new pastor. My ordination to the ministry of Word and Sacrament in the ELCA was just a couple months ago.

A thing I have learned very quickly is that most of my colleagues are introverts, but have to function as extroverts in the job—I am already an extrovert, so I usually come on pretty strong in the guest pulpit. My favorite task of my job is preaching—pretty related, my favorite task of being a human is talking—and so when Pastor Woody invited us to participate in the liturgy I replied to the email (first) saying “Sure! I’ll preach!”

Later, I looked at the texts.

In Ecclesiastes, King Solomon proclaims “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity!” In his letter to the Colossians we have a classic list from the Apostle Paul about everything that’s wrong with us. And in this morning’s gospel, God says, “You fool!” To the rich man. Perfect!

Our narrator in Ecclesiastes may seem like a downer. “I hated all my toil in which I had toiled under the sun,” he says, “so I turned and gave my heart up to despair.” Splendid!

And from Paul: “The wrath of God is coming on those who are disobedient.” Encouraging!

And in the parable from Jesus, “Take care! Be on your guard against all kind of greed; for one’s life does not consist in the abundance of possessions...You fool! This very night your life is being demanded of you.” No worries!

These texts are challenging. These are texts it’s really easy to shrug off as ancient and out-of-context and inapplicable to our communities and our realities. But, are they?

The parable from Jesus this morning is particularly interesting to me. A man has asked Jesus to convince the man’s brother to share their inheritance fairly. We don’t get a lot of clues as to what that family drama is about, but we have all probably prayed that Jesus would set right the person who disagrees with us.

But for some reason, Jesus does not arbitrate this, but instead tells a story. In it, a rich man has too much, he cannot even store it all. Rather than share in his abundance, he has his barns torn down and larger ones built. Self-satisfied, he relaxes, knowing he will always have more than enough for himself.

On one hand, this sounds like a very responsible and conservative retirement savings plan. But what Jesus is reminding the crowd--and us--is that old saying, “you can’t take it with you.” When this rich man dies, what good will his riches be? When he decided to build larger storehouses, did he first consider how he might share his abundance with his family? With his community?

How has his wealth affected those in his neighborhood?

Is he prosperous only on the backs of his laborers?

Who do you think harvested those crops and built those barns?

Does he pay a living wage?

Provide health insurance? Adequate vacation? Paid family leave?

Does he invest his profits in his community, ensuring a good quality of life for his neighbors?

No, it would seem. Instead, he has succumbed to the idolatry of comfort, the slippery slope of greed.

The rich fool in this parable is not alone. Here in the United States, the majority of our citizens live in greater luxury than any other country on earth. But that’s not saying a whole lot.

Our desire for more and more and more has made beloved children of God around the globe survive on less and less and less. Like this rich fool, we have come to assume that we alone have garnered our wealth and we alone are deserving of its use. And we can never be satisfied.

Ecclesiastes calls this same vanity into question. “What do mortals get from all the toil and strain with which they toil under the sun? For all their days are full of pain, and their work is a vexation; even at night their minds do not rest (2:22-23).” Theologian Grace Ji-Sun Kim comments: “The West has become so individualistic that many of us have forgotten about community and have lost a sense of social responsibility to one another. Instead, we work so diligently to fill the void of our one greed and lust that we fail to understand that what we do will affect others. We quest for money and status, which is meaningless at the end of life.” [1] And this greed is not just manifest in having the biggest barns.

We are embroiled in wars and armed conflicts around the globe. Climate change threatens the lives and livelihoods of billions of people. Politicians in this country and others are spreading fear, proposing policy based in racism, xenophobia, ableism, sexism, and heterosexism—not to mention “anger, wrath, malice, slander, abusive language, impurity, evil desire, and greed (which is idolatry)." I do not need to explain to a room full of Coloradans that gun violence is tearing our communities apart. It is easy to turn and give our hearts up to despair.

Thanks be to God, my dear friends, that there is another way.

This morning, like any given Sunday, we are gathered together to celebrate new life in Jesus the Christ. In this new life, Paul has written, “there is no longer Greek and Jew, circumcised and uncircumcised, barbarian, Scythian, slave and free.” Our divisions, borders, and exclusions fall away. Truth, justice, love, compassion, kindness, joy, freedom, hope, and peace abound in this new life. And today, we are blessed to bear witness to the newest kind of new life—baptism.

If you haven't already been told, I met Kelsey Sprowell in seminary, as well as Pastor Amanda and Pastor Eric over there. Spring semester of our first year, we took a class about the sacraments, and practiced standing up at an altar and saying the right words and knowing where to put our hands. Inasmuch as this was going to be pretty fun, it also had to happen on a Saturday morning, outside of our regularly scheduled class time, and so some of us whined. I made the mistake of whining about it to Kelsey, who shot back, wide-eyed, “You get to practice BAPTISM! That’s a REALLY BIG DEAL!” You were right, Kels. As usual.

Baptism is a really big deal. This morning, it is our duty and our joy to gather at the font with Olivia Clare Sprowell, fresh-faced member of the family of God. I learned on Friday night, around the dinner table, that Kelsey Lynn Schleusener Sprowell was the first baby baptized here at Spirit of Joy, in December of 1984! The family of God, indeed.

You, Spirit of Joy Lutheran Church; you, Schleuseners and Sprowells and such; you, body of Christ; you have the honor, privilege, and responsibility to welcome this and every child of God into your midst.

In the liturgy of baptism, you will promise to support Olivia and pray for her in her new life in Christ. Olivia’s presence in this room and in the world is a fulfillment of God’s promise to always make things new. In order to keep up your side of this covenant, you must make sure that Olivia knows what her role is in the community and in the coming kingdom of God. It is your honor, privilege, and responsibility to make the world a better place for her and alongside her.

Her baptism into the family of God is your chance to affirm yours. Believe me when I tell you that you are beloved, dear ones. There is nothing that separates you from the love of God, no matter what anyone may have every told you to the contrary.

The world we have made for ourselves can be scary, I know. It can be so easy to see only scarcity and terror instead of abundance and hope. It can be so easy to put up walls instead of opening doors. But for the sake of Olivia’s shining face, you mustn't.

As witnesses to Olivia’s baptism, it is your honor, privilege, and responsibility to teach her—and remind each other—that all are welcome in this place. That God loves each and every one of us, not in spite of but because of our genders, races, abilities, and beliefs. That she is and that everyone is an equal member of the body of Christ. You have the rest of her life to show her the love of God, and—if you haven't already—you get to start today.

Thanks be to God!

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[1] Kim, Grace Ji-Sun, "Proper 13" in Preaching God's Transformative Justice: A Lectionary Commentary, Year C

There's a Psalm For That -- Psalm 2

Grace and peace from God our Creator, hope in our Redeemer, Jesus the Christ, and the promised gifts of the Holy Spirit are with you, always.

Full disclosure—in preparation for this sermon, I believe, was the first time I ever read Psalm 2. I’ve nothing against the psalter, don’t get me wrong. I’m hip to other psalms like 8, 13, 16, 23, 24, 34 and even some triple digit ones like 100, 105, 118, ultra-lengthy 119, 139, 142. (Shout out any numbers you love that I missed. I mean numbers of psalms, not just like, numbers. Cool, a lot of psalm fans out there today.)

Well, because the world is great, I’ve figured out a way to, once again, tell the story of the Old Testament project that Gretchen and Maria and I did, first year. It was an obviously amazing infomercial that played off the Apple marketing campaign “there’s an app for that”—but, rather, there was a psalm for that. There’s a psalm for your sorrow, your revenge fantasy, for gentleness, for you the oppressed or you the oppressor, for justice, for celebration, for anguish, for fear, for joy.

Sojourners contributor Kari Jo Verhulst writes that “the poetry of the psalms preserves the immediacy of human experience…void of the broader perspective that we get well after the moment has passed….the psalms preserve the heart’s cries in language, images, and movements spacious enough to find our own experiences.”

And John Calvin, guy I don’t usually quote in sermons, called the Psalms “the anthology of all the parts of the soul.” And he meant all parts.

David Tuesday Adamo, a religion professor in Nigeria, classifies Psalm 2 as a therapeutic psalm—specifically for stomach pain. I have to admit that yesterday, when I realized I was preaching the day after Jim Lobdell, I had some stomach pain. The African Indigenous Churches, Adamo explains, regard these words as “potent” when read as part of a healing ritual, which includes the drinking of water made holy by these words.

While we wouldn’t classify our baptism as cure for stomachache necessarily, we do know a little something about water made holy by word. While you may be a better biblical scholar than I am and have included Psalm 2 in your life before now, you may have just recognized the words “You are my Son, today I have begotten you” as bearing a striking resemblance to the words that thunder from heaven during Jesus’ baptism.

We as Christians have a specific understanding of the term “God’s son” and we mean Jesus, the Christ, when we say that. But we’ve also learned, probably from Steed Davidson, that earthly kings often claimed to be the son of a particular god, in order to lend themselves that god’s authority. Some interpreters say that this psalm could have, liturgically, been used in royal rituals—and it makes perfect sense that it would appear in the story of the baptism of Jesus, as told by Matthew’s and Luke’s gospels. Matthew, greatly concerned with the establishment of Jesus’ authority, and Luke, greatly concerned with social location, would have called upon this familiar, royal phrase to underscore the baptism of Jesus.

And Jesus has more power than any earthly king—and he hasn’t amassed an army or oppressed a people. Rather, he has emptied himself of that power through “suffering, humiliation, despair” and death on the cross.

In Psalm 2, it’s written that God has established a king to bring order to the world, but that all the other kings are running away with it. God has established a rule of law, a coming kingdom, and humans who would even claim the best of intentions are failing miserably to fulfill it.

When we hear the words of this psalm in our world—big and messy—we may wonder if God can really make order out of our chaos. If you read or watched any news today, you’ve been long-distance witnesses to the upheaval in Venezuela, Ukraine, Syria, Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, Russia, Uganda, Mexico, the Central African Republic, Somalia…

There are death tolls in the dozens and the capture of a drug kingpin and re-imprisonment of musicians and anti-gay legislation and drone strikes and civil wars and disappearances and protests and crackdowns and unchecked abuse of power.

And, in the midst of it all, there’s a psalm for that.

I told a non-religious friend of mine I was going to preach today, and he asked what I was planning to say, and so I, sort of flippantly, said that I was going to talk about how everything is awful and the only reason we don’t give up is because God has promised to make order out of our chaos. He just sort of said, “oh” and we moved on to talking about something else -- but isn’t that the thing? Isn’t it just that the world is constantly in uproar—with earthly kings plotting against that which will engender the kingdom of God—and yet somehow, here we are, week after week, being read to about that chaos, and responding, “Thanks be to God.”

The last line of this psalm made me laugh. Its contrast to the rest of the psalm is so typical. Wrath, fear, trembling, wicked, perishing, warning—people are going to be dashed to pieces like pottery, it says!—but happy are they who take refuge in him.

Mic drop.

As though that’s it. And as though all the folks who are going to be broken with a rod of iron are simply unhappy. I think they’re probably more than unhappy. I think they’re probably dead.

But the thing is, the people of God know who has the last word. The people of God know that this king—earthly or otherwise—is from God and will, therefore, lead them toward happiness.

And since I’m so fond of bringing my horrible jokes full circle, there is, in fact, an app for your happiness! I stumbled upon it earlier this week and am interested to see how I’m able to use it, going forward. The app is called “happier” and basically is an electronic journal of moments of happiness, gratitude, etc. So like, on Monday when I went to Café Yesterday to read like a million pages for homework, Josh, the guy who runs it, put my coffee in the giant Disney Princess mug, knowing without knowing that that would make me happier. I posted a picture of it to the app, and got notifications that it had made other users smile—the “happier” version of the Facebook like.

What I like about “happier” is not just that I post little positive things that occur in my life, but I peruse the moments that have made strangers happy. For other folks, it’s a visit to their horse’s stable, a great grade on an assignment, managing to be on time to yoga class, noticing blooming trees on their way to work. Knowing that people out there in the world are experiencing little bursts of happiness helps me know that there’s a way out of our chaos. In the midst of the trauma and terror of human life, there is also happiness. There is goodness, and there is love, and there is life.

The words of Archbishop Desmond Tutu have been made into a song that we’re going to sing in just a moment, because their simplicity is built on the same confidence as Psalm 2:

“Goodness is stronger than evil, love is stronger than hate. Light is stronger than darkness, life is stronger than death. Victory is ours, victory is ours, through God who loves us.”

Amen.