The Rev. Cari Pattison
The First Sunday after Epiphany: The Baptism of Our Lord - January 12, 2020
Isaiah 42:1-9
Acts 10:34-43
Matthew 3:13-17
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My name is Cari Pattison, and I have long been a guest and friend of the Holy Cross Monastery.
Over 15 years ago while I was attending seminary, one of our professors brought groups of students here, and introduced me to this Benedictine monastic way of life.
I served a parish just north of the City for 12 years, and now have the joy of staying in Iona [the guest-suite here at Holy Cross Monastery] for several months. And it is a blessing to enter the rhythm of community here in a new way.
We just began a brand-new year and a brand-new decade, and there is no shortage of advertising that tells you there’s something you need to start out right. A new diet, a new habit, a new spiritual practice that will make you the best Christian.
Maybe you made resolutions this year; I know I did. Anyone still keeping theirs?
There is something in us that wants to get a strong start when a new year or a new season begins. How we start things matters.
In our Gospel reading today, Matthew wants to make sure his readers and listeners understand how Jesus’ ministry starts.
I invite you to use your holy imagination and picture the scene, there at the Jordan River. We see the ripples of gentle waves, the reflection of light on the water. And in the distance the silhouette of a bearded man, standing waist-deep in the river, his arms gesticulating to the crowd on the shore.
A crowd has gathered: old and young, men and women, children and babies. They are watching this man in the water with expressions on their faces both quizzical and open. Curious what he has to say.
He starts in softly, telling them his own story of living in the woods, eating locusts and wild honey for food. He tells them that in those lonely hours he heard a call from God. A call to prepare the way. His voice gets louder and he gestures more emphatically-
“That God,” he says, “is calling you too. Telling you it’s not too late to turn around.” He calls this repentance. And the sign of it, he says, is to step into the water.
I picture how this might’ve played out. Perhaps an older man, unsteady on his cane, steps in. And then a pregnant woman. And then two children holding hands. Some look uncertain. Others have tears in their eyes. A few smile with longing.
And one by one, the man in the river- whose name is John – gently dunks each one under the water, saying, “I baptize you for the forgiveness of sins. Wash and be made new.”
Then someone new arrives- a man who seems to know John well. He smiles with recognition and calls out, “I’m here to get baptized.”
John starts toward shore to meet him. They exchange the mid-eastern greeting of a kiss on the cheek. “Wait a minute,” John says. “You? You’re the one I’ve been announcing. You’re the one who needs no forgiveness!” He shakes his head. “How can I baptize you?”
What does the world tell you about who you are?
What kind of starting over does it demand?
“Start over - and be successful this time.”
“Start over - and make something of yourself.”
“Start over - and be more disciplined.”
“Start over - and do more to save the world.”
There is plenty to be anxious about in the world – real problems that need addressing, real disasters that need relief. This week alone, there are temperatures here that make no sense for the month of January, smoke and fires in Australia, leaders in Iran who’ve been shot down, rumors of retaliation.
But I wonder if the greatest anxiety most of us face isn’t that of the world around us, it’s the world in us. The relationships under strain. The job that isn’t fulfilling. The weight of our own disappointments.
If you were among the crowd gathered at the Jordan, what kind of fresh start would you want?
The crowds turn to watch: John the wild man, the baptizer, the prophet, speaking in hushed tones with the man from Nazareth - the son of Joseph the carpenter and his wife Mary.
Some of them remember rumors of a magical birth – angels and foreign astrologers and mysterious stars. Who is this Jesus? And why wouldn’t John want to baptize him?
As Jesus steps into the water, John does not understand what is happening, but he can no more disobey Jesus’ request than he can stop a hungry urge for food or drive away the thirst for water.
And as John baptizes Jesus, something extraordinary happens.
Some described it later as a parting of the clouds, a beam of sunlight landing right on Jesus’ face. Some said it was a flock of birds that flew down, among them a lone dove alighting on his head. Others couldn’t find the words to speak of it, only describing the shiver they felt in their bones, the wave of warmth instead of cold that passed through them, a kind of wind that whipped at people’s robes and rippled the waters and carried a shimmering lightness that felt like love.
No one could adequately describe what they witnessed. Only one thing they agreed upon:
The Voice. Coming from God knows where, had come a voice beyond any they’d ever heard. Not quite male or female or child. A voice at once booming, and quiet.
The voice said, “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.”
If you seek who Jesus is in the Gospels, you find he is uniquely the Son of God.
But I believe that part of why he got baptized – into that sacrament of forgiveness and belonging and community – is that he’s inviting us to do the same. Not just to be baptized, but to hear the voice.
The voice that declares, “You are God’s son.” “You are God’s daughter.”
You are the Beloved.
With you God is well pleased.
The late author and evangelist Brennan Manning tells the story of Edward Farrell, a priest from Detroit, who visited his uncle in Ireland in honor of his 80th birthday. On his uncle’s big day, they got up before dawn and walked quietly along the shores of Lake Killarney then paused to take in the sunrise.
They stood there together basking in the beauty of the rising sun when suddenly the uncle turned and went skipping down the road; beaming and smiling from ear to ear.
Running to catch up to him, Ed said, “Uncle Seamus, you look very happy.” “I am, lad,” said his uncle. Ed asked, “Want to tell me why?” And his 80-year-old uncle replied, “The Father of Jesus is very fond of me.”
Manning continues: “If the question were put to you, ‘Do you honestly believe that God likes you?’ Not just loves you theologically because he must, but likes you?” What would you say?
“If you could answer, ‘The Father of Jesus is very fond of me,’ how relaxed would you feel? How compassionate and tender toward yourself? And those around you?
In my 12 years of being a pastor and my 4 months of hiking the Appalachian Trail, I’ve gotten to hear a great number of people’s stories. Religious people and non-religious. Wall Street bankers and wilderness wanderers.
And I can tell you that no matter how old, how rich, how smart, good-looking, or successful someone is, most people are asking some form of the questions: “Am I good enough? Am I lovable?”
How do we get in touch with this voice who calls Jesus - and us - the Beloved?
I think the simpler the better. Maybe you are regularly here with us for morning Matins prayer, to anchor your day. But whether you are or aren’t, that voice calls you to also make a little time just for God and you alone.
You might consider setting a timer for only 5 minutes, and picturing God smiling upon me, just as you are.
Sometimes I do the breath prayer “Lord Jesus Christ / Have mercy on me.”
Sometimes I do the Thich Nhat Hanh way, of saying, “Breathing in I calm my body; breathing out I smile.”
And it can help to enlist a friend in your daily practice of hearing the voice who calls you Beloved.
Lately I have been starting each day by exchanging an email with a prayer partner, listing out five gratitudes. Specific things that morning I’m truly thankful for.
It was only by rising early each day and meeting with God in prayer, that Jesus could hear the voice of the Father above all the other voices that clamored for his attention. The voices of adoration and condemnation.
Relationships can be hard. Community takes work. Families are fragile. But part of the beauty of receiving your blessing and knowing you are the Beloved, is that you start to see everyone else as Beloved, too.
It begins with the way we look at people.
The late author Toni Morrison says, “It’s interesting to watch what happens when a child walks into a room. Does your face light up?” She explains, “When my children used to walk in the room when they were little, I looked at them to see if they had buckled their trousers or if their hair was combed or if their socks were up. You think your affection and your deep love is on display because you’re caring for them. It’s not. When they see you, they see the critical face. What’s wrong now? Let your face speak what’s in your heart. When they walk in the room my face says I’m glad to see them. It’s just as small as that, you see?”
A small thing, but actually quite big. A way we can choose to look not only at children, but at each person we meet.
At the very start of Jesus’ ministry, that loving look from his Father, that blessing spoken over him, is what sustains him throughout the trying road ahead. It’s what carries him through the wilderness and temptation and criticism and persecution.
A little blessing goes a long way.
If you can start your conversations with other people, offering a word of acknowledgement, a noticing of something special about them, a genuine smile, you are inviting them to see themselves as God’s beloved.
Jesus’ entire ministry began not with anything he did, but with hearing that voice of love.
The late priest Henri Nouwen says, “Life is a chance to live as a ‘yes’ to our belovedness. Not living as though we have to prove we are worthy of being loved.”
May it be so for you, in 2020 and beyond. Amen.
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