Peace United Church of Christ
1.
Once in a while, if you’re
lucky, you round a bend down on West Cliff to find a dozen brown pelicans
diving out of the sky for herring in the bay.
Somehow the herring have schooled there, in shallower water, and this
good news passes, as if from pelican to pelican, down the coast and back again. Don’t know about you, but I could watch them circling
there, tracking fish, diving at them, for hours on end. It’s like some kind of thrilling ecological liturgy. A liturgy with purpose, exuberance, integrity
in every movement. When they’re out
there together (a dozen, two, sometimes three dozen pelicans) it’s like a holy
communion of beaks and wings, fish and sea spray. And the birds are like celebrants in the middle
of it all, every gentle circuit a prayer, every daring dive a sacrament, every
fish the body of Christ. Like I say, I
could watch them all day long.
And I can’t help thinking
about those pelicans as I watch Simon Peter this morning; as I watch him throw
some clothes on and leap into the lake, with a hundred fifty-three big fish
flapping in his nets and his friends cackling in wild and unexpected delight. Talk about exuberance, right? Peter recognizing Jesus on the beach and God
in all that abundance and joy. A hundred
fifty-three fish. Peter grasping that
right there, right then, his life begins again.
Disappointment washed away.
Broken promises forgiven. And then
Peter throwing his clothes on and leaping in.
It’s kind of like those pelicans in the bay, right? His purpose.
His exuberance. His
integrity. Caring not a hoot for decorum
or propriety. Loving his life again,
after days of despair. And diving in. Flashing through the shallow water and onto
the beach. And right there, right then,
his life begins again.
2.
Now here’s the thing. I think this whole bit is so much more than a
flourish in the storyteller’s craft. Though
this is undoubtedly a well-spun story.
But I think this bit about Peter throwing clothes on and diving into the
Sea of Galilee has something to do, maybe even everything to do, with the
meaning and magnitude of baptism and Christian vocation. Think about it. Those first generations of disciples would
have been baptized by total immersion, after having robed up (by the way) in
white baptismal gowns. Their initiation
would have been raucous and thrilling, accompanied by singing and dancing and
laughter, a sign of the living Christ, resurrection not an idea, but a reality,
then and there. And that’s baptism. A sign of Christ’s resurrection. Not just in Peter’s life or his friends’. But in yours and mine.
Of course, as adults, most
of us don’t think too much about baptism, at least not about our own, not about
that moment we threw ourselves purposefully into the arms of God. For most of us, not all but most of us, it
was a long-ago moment, the baptismal wave has long-since receded, and the
thrill no longer applies.
But John’s Gospel recognizes
the meaning and magnitude of baptism for a people committed to discipleship in
a fractured and fractious world. And
many scholars now read John’s Gospel as something of an extended meditation on
baptism—both Peter’s and ours—because baptism is synonymous (at least for John
it is) with courage and faith and (most importantly) resurrection. “Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth
and dies,” says John’s Jesus; “unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and
dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much
fruit.” Baptism is about dying to an old
order, rising to a new one and bearing fruit in the here and now, the sweet
fruit of service and love and forgiveness.
And John’s Gospel insists that the mystery of Christ, the mystery of
faith itself, is hidden in this sacrament.
3.
A couple weeks ago, I
picked up a fascinating new book by the British biblical scholar N.T. Wright:
it’s called Surprised by Hope.
And it’s about Easter and Jesus’ resurrection and the many ways we
Christians have wrestled with it over the centuries. It’s a great read, and a fresh articulation
of our faith and our hope. I highly
recommend it to you. Surprised by
Hope. And here’s what N.T. Wright
has to say about baptism and what it means in the church: “Baptism is not magic,”
he says. “But neither is it a simply
visual aid. It is one of the points,
established by Jesus himself, where heaven and earth interlock, where new
creation, resurrection life, appears within the midst of the old.”
One of those points where
heaven and earth interlock. Where the
already dances with the not yet. Where
new creation appears in the midst of the old.
If you’re looking for a good definition of sacrament—baptism, eucharist,
sacrament—I think you’ve got it right there.
One of those points where heaven and earth interlock. Where the already dances with the not-yet. Where new creation appears in the
midst of the old.
And I’m thinking back now
to our sunrise service two weeks ago: to the huge waves rolling in, and the
pelicans standing sentinel on the cliffs, and the nervous energies of six
believers, wading in and diving deep and throwing themselves into the arms of
God. You start throwing yourself into
the arms of God—and you’d better be nervous.
I have to confess, as a pastor, I get a little nervous too. Not because the water’s cold. But because life’s so big, and God’s so good,
and the moment’s so holy. And I don’t
want to mess that up! And it was
thrilling, that morning, it was holy. In
all the ways Peter’s leap into the Sea of Galilee is thrilling and holy. In all the ways those pelicans diving into
the bay off West Cliff are thrilling and holy.
And six of you wrapped yourselves in a new practice, a new covenant, a
new day: and you jumped in.
4.
During these Great Fifty
Days of Easter, we’ve set our own baptismal font at the very entrance to this
space to remind ourselves of just this.
That you and I—the baptized children of God—are immersed in fearlessness
and grace; that you and I—the baptized children of God—are collaborators,
conspirators with the Risen Christ; that you and I—the baptized children of
God—are midwives of God’s kin-dom, God’s peace, God’s justice, here on earth. The already's dancing with the not-yet.
So you’re welcome to dip
your hand in, as you arrive each week, maybe as you go, for baptism is God’s promise
to you. Whether you were plunged into
the sea on Easter or baptized some other way years and years ago. Baptism’s God’s seal on your heart. It’s God’s mercy showering you and clearing
out disappointment and despair. And it’s
Jesus great commission: calling you to live and love fearlessly, calling you to
dive into life’s responsibilities and opportunities faithfully, calling you to
Jesus’ own ministry of forgiveness, reconciliation and peace. Nothing less than that. So dip in every Sunday, and turn your face to
the light and the water when we go round sprinkling the church after
communion. Let these waters be a sign
for you and a consolation for you. And
let them be an invitation for you. You
are created for living and healing. You
are created for exuberance and delight.
You are created for diving in, and getting wet, and communion on the
beach.
So these Fifty Days of
Easter aren’t just about Jesus. They’re
about you and me and the church. You
see, if resurrection describes Jesus’ radical aliveness in the world, and it
does, then baptism is our participation in that project, our affirmation of
that aliveness. Death no longer scares
us, tyrants no longer rule us, no power on earth can ever diminish us. We are created for justice and peace,
sisterhood and brotherhood, and the beloved community on earth. And baptism is God’s promise that this new
creation, the Christ of God, is already at hand. Risen in our midst. Dancing around the fire.
5.
But even that’s not all.
Baptism is just the
beginning of Peter’s story. And the
water we’ll bless this morning, the water we’ll toss and fling and sprinkle and
remember is just the beginning of ours as well.
It turns out, of course, the Peter’s exuberant plunge is an opening, a
strange and even painful opening, to reconciliation with the friend he badly
betrayed in Jerusalem. It turns out that
Peter’s sweet immersion—like yours and mine—is an invitation to conversation
and vulnerability around the fire Jesus’s built on the beach. Three times, Jesus asks Peter if he loves
him, if he intends always to love him, if he chooses that love as the
foundation of everything else in his life.
And three times Peter says, yes, I love you. He’s shaken, but resilient. Yes, Lord, I love you. I will go where you go. I will see what you see. I will serve as you serve.
There’s so much going on in
this text. There’s Jesus exploring
forgiveness and choosing reconciliation with a friend. There’s Peter coming to grips with his
betrayal and opening his hear to the invitation, the promise, the healing at
hand. But let’s not miss the questions
Jesus moves to the very center, the living heart of Christian life and
practice. “Simon, son of John, do you
love me?” “Simon, son of John, do you
love me?”
Baptism is not that moment
when all ambiguities are resolved, finally and forever. And baptism is not some kind of ticket
punched for the hereafter, a coupon you cash in when your life on this side of
things is done. Instead, baptism is an
opening to relationship, an invitation to conversation, and a question that
will never go away. “Simon, son of John,
do you love me?” The question that
drives Christian discipleship, the question that animates our spiritual lives
is LOVE. Simon, do you love me? Simon, do you love the sun breaking over the
cliffs? Simon, do you love the pelicans
in the bay? Simon, do you love the
broken woman hobbling down the street with a dog in her grocery cart? Simon, do you love the loudmouth who makes
fun of your faith? Simon, son of John,
do you love me?
A couple days before
Easter, I received a menacing letter from an Aptos man who disparaged my
ministry and yours, and sneered at our support for same-sex marriage and human
rights. I’ve received a bit of hate mail
over the years, but it’s been a while; and I’d forgotten how mean people can be
and how frightened and how sad. The
temptation, of course, is to shoot back something sharp and snide, to show my
quick wit and evolved vocabulary, and generally put the little man in his
place. And the temptation is real, believe
me.
But the Easter commission
is something else, isn’t it? On the
beach, Jesus calls Peter and me and all of you to shepherd the people and feed
the people and defy despair and resist bitterness. This isn’t about proving ourselves or
humiliating one another or pummeling the enemy.
The question that drives discipleship is LOVE. So I’ll have to find some other way to
respond to my Aptos correspondent.
Because to be baptized in Christ, to be immersed in the grace of God, is
to die to an old order and rise to a new one.
To follow Jesus, to break bread with Jesus, is to celebrate the “future
coming to meet us in the present.”
And if I love Jesus, I greet that future with open arms. If I love Jesus, I know that even the Aptos man is invited. And he needs me. And if I love Jesus, I pray every day for the courage to love deeply, to love extravagantly, to love boldly.
Because we’re in a new world
now. Where Jesus blesses everything and
shares everything and insists that you and me share everything too. We’re in a new world now. Where Jesus forgives everyone for everything
and dares you and me to do the same.
You see, Easter is a way of life. And diving in is just
the beginning.