Seeing is Believing

 Epiphany 2, Year B, 2021

1 Samuel 3.1-10 and John 1.43-51

This liturgical season of Epiphany is a time in our worship when we hear about light overcoming dark and about God’s presence, power, light, and love embodied in Jesus for the sake of the world.

Today’s Scriptures are full of the play between dark and light and the truth that is revealed when we are surrounded by and live in these God-generated, life-bestowing elements. The gift of sight and the importance of seeing God, seeing the truth, seeing Jesus for who he is and what he has done, is doing, and will do are threads that run through and connect our lessons today.

We begin with the Hebrew story of Eli, the old priest whose sight has dimmed, whose world has grown increasingly dark. The Scriptures tell us that “the word of the LORD was rare in those days; visions were not widespread.” It is at such times that the people of God have often felt abandoned by God or have felt the weight of sin-created estrangement from God – both the sin of the world, and our own personal wrestling with sin.

Some of us are all too acquainted with the experience of the kind of alienating darkness of which I speak. Perhaps you have lived through such dark times or are experiencing them in your personal life right now; perhaps you know someone else who abides in that kind of darkness, through illness, addiction, broken relationships, personal estrangement, or mental illness, and you are helpless to lift them out of it.

When we endure times of pain and loss, of isolation and fear, we often equate our experiences with darkness. This pandemic, the world events of the recent past, and the events that are taking place in our nation right now may feel like such a time, regardless of the “side of the aisle” we stand on. What are we to do in such times? Let’s look at our Scriptures to see what light they can shine on us.

It is in Eli’s story that we meet the boy Samuel. He is young, far away from his family, because they dedicated him to the Temple when he was but a toddler. He sees his parents once a year when they come to the Temple to offer sacrifices. This was not an uncommon practice in that day: it was a show of dedication to the LORD.

Samuel serves God by serving Eli, an old priest. Eli’s sons are also priests, but they are abusing the sacrificial system to put aside wealth for themselves. Eli tries to bring his sons back into line, but they refuse to listen to him. The darkness in Eli’s life comes from the fact that his eyes grow dim, and perhaps even more from the fact that he has lost authority over his sons and therefore over the people in their charge.

It is a time of darkness for Israel. With corrupt priests and the corruption of the people evident all around, the silence of God has grown deafening.

But into that time of darkness, the Word of God suddenly comes during the night as we heard in our first reading: God calls to the young boy, Samuel, three times, and three times Samuel reports to Eli, who says he didn’t call him; until finally, the “light” dawns for Eli and he tells young Samuel what to do.

            Obediently, Samuel goes back to bed, and when the voice comes again, “Samuel! Samuel!” Samuel says, “Speak, for your servant is listening!”

And the voice says:

“See, I am about to do something that will make the ears of everyone who hears it tingle.”

In the darkness, God told Samuel to see, and then, God showed Samuel that God had seen; God had seen the troubles of God’s people and would respond to their pain. And indeed, God responded to their plight. Because the thing is, God can see in the dark, even when we can’t, even when we believe that is no way out of our deepest, darkest fear and danger. At those times God still holds God’s fearful and wonderful vision, and God steadfastly holds us within it.

Have you noticed how often the word “see” turns up in today’s readings? “See,” God invites Samuel when God gives him the prophecy that would begin Israel’s renewal. In our gospel, it is Philip who says to Nathanael, “Come and see.” It is both an invitation and a command. “You will see greater things than this,” Jesus promises his new disciple.

See. God is always inviting us to see beyond the darkness, even and most especially when we can’t do so on our own. It is often only in the sight of God’s holy light that we can see and abide in the hope and promise of light that overcomes darkness.

When Philip sees his friend sitting in the shade, in the darkness offered by the leaves of the fig tree, he beckons him to come and see Jesus, the one “about whom Moses in the law and the prophets wrote, Jesus, son of Joseph from Nazareth.”

No one really knows the importance or symbolism represented by the fig tree, if there is any. A tree of this size might be a place where a man would sit and pray and ponder. A place perhaps where Nathanael was praying for the coming and revelation of the messiah. We simply don’t know. What the text tells us is that despite his doubts over the importance of meeting the one who “comes from Nazareth” – that po-dunk, insignificant place, once he meets Jesus, sees Jesus, and learns that he is seen by Jesus even in the dark shade of the fig tree, Nathanael makes the rare exclamation, “Rabbi, you are the Son of God! You are the King of Israel!”

 It is easy to dwell in doubt when abiding in the darkness and shade of world events, personal tragedy, or a world so vastly changed and lives so prolongingly altered.

 “Seeing, of course, is always selective,” writes Debie Thomas.  “We have choices when it comes to what we see, what we prioritize, what we name, and what we call out in each other.  The selves we present to the world are layered and messy, and it takes both love and patience to sift through those layers and find what lies at the core of who we each are.  But there is great power in that sifting, too.  Something healing, something holy, something life-changing happens to us when we are deeply seen, known, named, and accepted.”

 Those of us who have been seen and claimed by Jesus Christ and seen him in return, continue to live in the light despite the troubled world that inserts its doubt, its trickery, and its dissent into the atmosphere surrounding us.

The unrest within our world that we witnessed a week and a half ago and that many fear will rise again this week as we move closer to the inauguration is a movement that uses smoke and mirrors, trickery and lies to convince us that God is silent or that God speaks through violence, insurrection, false claims of Jesus’ blessing on chaos and upheaval.

 But of course this isn’t true. Within that crowd were individuals whose actions spoke louder than words – individuals wearing Christian insignia but who used the poles of their banners and flags that read, “Jesus Saves” and “Make America Godly Again” to batter and beat those charged with protecting our elected leaders, even to the point of death. False prophets. Darkness-bearers. Liars and thieves.

 As Christians, we confess our belief in a God who never stops speaking to us.  A God who so longs to reveal God’s self in love, mercy, healing, and hope that he becomes incarnate in the person of Jesus Christ, the messiah. To use Nathanael’s proclamation of who he sees as Jesus stands in front of him, “the Son of God, and King of Israel.” And not only Israel, but as we have confessed over and over again, King of our lives and of our world.

 We know that God’s capacity to restore and resurrect has no limits.  There is no place, time, circumstance, or situation that is beyond God’s ability to redeem. 

 Can anything good come out of the atrocities of January 6^th, which is, in the church year, the Day of the Epiphany?  Can anything good come out of America’s endangered democracy?  Yes.  This is the hope we cling to.  The hope we must offer to the world at this critical juncture.

But saying yes to God requires us to see rightly.  It requires us to follow the truth wherever it leads — even when the truth hurts.  It requires us to listen and to speak prophetically. 

In our world, the darkness can be deep. But a Light shines in the darkness, by whom we can see that God’s vision continues to unfold. And it unfolds, not in the places we think we ought to look for it—in thrones and crowns, in wealth and power, and physical strength and glory—but in voices in the night, and under the shade of a fig tree, and among the poor and the hungry, the abused and depressed, the homeless and vulnerable and marginalized. The people walking in darkness.

    God issues an invitation to follow: Come and See. The invitation consists not of promises or proclamations or proofs or deeds of power, but in the light-bearing gifts of the revelation of Jesus Christ, the messiah, our redeemer, Our King. Come and see. Amen.

 

Sprinkled, Splashed, or Dunked, We Belong

 Mark 1:4-11

Today we celebrate the Baptism of Jesus and with that celebration we “remember” our own.

As you have experienced it at least in my time as pastor here at Zion, at this remembrance of baptism branches are cut, like the trimmings off a Christmas tree or similar tree or shrub, and used to capture water from the baptismal font, so that walking through the sanctuary water can be literally flung out over the congregation, with drops landing on or near each and every person here. A Sunday when we remember our Baptism is therefore a good Sunday to pay particular attention to where you sit in the church!

This year, you were invited to participate in this remembrance at home instead, and I hope that you and your family were able to do so, by filling a bowl with water, and then at the appropriate moment, dipping your hand and fingers into the water and finally, with hands and fingers wetted, making the sign of the cross on yourself or a loved one nearby.

Whether you actually recall your own baptism or the baptism of a friend or family member, today’s remembrance hardly comes close to any you may have experienced before. After all, in the Lutheran church, Baptism is considered a communal event as the newly baptized are welcomed into the Body of Christ surrounded by the voices of, and receiving the promises of, their family and the congregation.

In the normal scheme of things, Confirmation is the event many of us actually remember much more clearly if we have participated in this rite. Following study and preparation that often stretches out for two years or more, the baptized affirm the promises made by the congregation and our parents at the time of our infant- or early childhood -baptism years before, and we commit ourselves to live in the light and life of Jesus.

Just as today’s remembrance of baptism might differ in form from those we have experienced in the past, so too the Baptism of Jesus that we read about today is a far cry from any we have experienced or known.

Various traditions around baptism are passed down from the church, or influenced by our culture and circumstances, or inherited from our families.

For instance, when my sister, who is three years older than I was baptized, a family friend handmade her beautiful, flowing, gown complete with satin under-dress and coat, and lacy overdress and matching bonnet. That gown became part of our family tradition: all the rest of us kids, all my parents’ godchildren and grandchildren (yes, even the boys!) who subsequently came along, likewise were dressed in this gown. This was part of the tradition of our family.

Our grandson’s mother and her family are of Mexican heritage. For his baptism, we followed many of the cultural traditions of her cultural background, as a large contingent of family and friends gathered in her parents’ back yard, where little Alex arrived wearing his Sunday best. Then, as the baptism was conducted, he was stripped of his clothes and redressed in a pure white baptismal garment provided by his godfather. Other traditions, including wrapping the child and his parents together in a blanket or shawl were important parts of the ritual surrounding his baptism that day.

Perhaps you have your stories, that differ as they were shaped by family, religion, and culture. One thing is most likely true – whether you were baptized at a font where water was carefully sprinkled on your head, or in a baptistry where you were fully immersed in the water or somewhere in between, your baptism was beautiful, and by most standards, probably pretty tame, modest, and controlled.

That is not what we get when we read the account of the Baptism of Jesus. Jesus was baptized in the wilderness by a man dressed so outlandishly that the gospel writer makes a point of mentioning that his tunic was made of camel’s hair gathered at the waist with a leather belt, and that even his diet was strange and counter-cultural, consisting of locusts and wild honey.

He was humble, too. As crowds of people left the relative safety and comfort of the city and made their way out to hear John the Baptist speak and to be baptized by him, he insisted that there was no real power in him.

Rather, one was coming, he told them, to whom he could not hold a candle. The one he predicted would baptize not with this water that they are standing in and near, this Jordan River with its muddy agricultural runoff and meandering way; rather, the one who was coming, who was now very near, would baptize with the Holy Spirit.

It wasn’t long after that that Jesus made his way from Nazareth and went out into the wilderness, all the way to the Jordan River himself, to be baptized by John. There is no polished marble font, nor baptistry carved or formed out of precious metal as befitting religious ritual.

Then, in the wilderness, this thing happens as he is coming up out of the water: he sees the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending like a dove on him. And a voice came from heaven, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.”

Jesus’ baptism takes place in the wilderness – out on the margins. The wilderness of Palestine was and is still gritty, and rocky, dusty and dirty, inhospitable and spare. Jesus was baptized not by a priest or pastor or rabbi wearing fine garments and ritual clothing; his baptizer looks and sounds like a wild man. He is not in a comfortable and beautifully planted back yard, nor a finely appointed sanctuary. He is in the wilderness.

In a sermon a few weeks ago, I likened the wilderness to what so many of us are experiencing today or have experienced in our lives when the well-ordered world we prefer and have tried to create for ourselves has come crumbling, crashing down, resisting all our attempts to contain it.

Jesus knows that wilderness.

As we begin a new year, we are weary of a wilderness imposed almost a year ago, a wilderness that has cost us so dearly and shows little sign today of abating. The pandemic has taken many lives and has changed all our lives, and rather than bringing us together, it has, quite literally, moved us apart. For many in our society, it has further torn us apart, as well. Rather than coming together to fight this thing and make the world a better place for us all, even the pandemic has us fighting, looking out for our own interests, and denying the needs and wants of our neighbors. Things will get better, we know, but do we dare believe it?

The wilderness for some has also come as a family member, friend or loved one has been diagnosed with cancer or some other devastating disease in the past year or so and has been undergoing treatment with a future uncertain, and about which we can do little but watch and wait. The wilderness for others right now is coming from the struggle and worry over educating our children while also keeping them – and the rest of us safe.

This reality has been a wilderness nightmare for so many working parents, many of whom lack the resources to simply “have mom or dad stay home and take care of them.” What can we do with the children? The wilderness looks like job loss and income loss, the closing of businesses that have fallen victim to the pandemic too.It looks like discord surrounding us and being stirred by those in positions of power who should be comforting, guiding, reassuring, and supporting us.

The wilderness looks like being separated from church, home, school, and most of all family and friends, for fear of spreading or getting the damn virus.

We are living in wilderness.

Jesus knows our wilderness.

And yet, still, Jesus enters the mess, to walk with us and to overcome the death and darkness that surrounds us.

God sent Jesus into the world and the world will never be the same.When Jesus entered the waters of the Jordan, when he submitted to the waters of repentance (for our sake, not his own).When he entered our human story, Jesus made his first public act one of radical solidarity. Instead of holding himself apart, protecting his own purity, claiming his own power, Jesus stepped into the same wilderness, and the same waters we stand in. Jesus joined his earthly experience, his reputation, and his destiny to ours.

In his baptism, Jesus entered the crazy, violent, dangerous, chaotic, messy wilderness of our human existence.

It is because of his radical solidarity with us, because of the life he lived and the death he died, because of his resurrection, that we dare to pull out the beautiful baptismal gowns and suits with which we dress the newly baptized, as we visually wash away of ravages of this grittiness, dirtiness, and grime of sin that infects our world and our lives.  Jesus knows the cost of what he is about to do.Jesus knows how much we need him to wash us and save us.

Jesus, the love of God-incarnate, the light that banishes darkness, our Savior and Redeemer enters the water with us and life is restored, new life is given, fear and anguish are washed away.

My friends, during these hard and cold days, and in this uncertain world in which we live, cherish the waters of your baptism. Cling to the promises God has made to you and the sign of love God has sent to live and die for you. Shine your Christly light on the world, knowing and trusting that in and through the love of Jesus as it reaches out to heal and restore the world, God is well pleased and always present. Amen.