A Sermon for August 19, 2018
Twentieth Sunday in Ordinary Time
Galatians 3:23-29
1.
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| Easter 2017, in the Pacific |
So every Easter Sunday,
just about sunrise, our California congregation would gather on a sandy beach
for a baptismal celebration. We’d
baptize folks, full-on full-body total immersion, in the Pacific. We’re talking pelicans overhead, sea lions
barking in the distance. Inevitably, these
would be raucous occasions, with live music and unscripted dancing. And a couple of times we’d have dolphins
diving just a dozen yards from shore; as a newly baptized brother or a newly
baptized sister came rising up out of the surf.
I have to tell you: I’m never so sure I’m a Christian (or a pastor) as
when I’m up to my waist in the salty surf pulling a child of God from the
sea. (And fair warning. I’ll be looking for a place—a beach, a lake,
a river—to do this kind of thing with you.
So keep that in mind!)
Sometimes we’d be
baptizing believers for the very first time, bringing them into the beloved
community, acknowledging their deepest dreams and new commitments. Other times, friends would come to the beach,
Easter Sunday, to renew those faith commitments: maybe they’d been baptized
long ago, maybe they just needed a reminder of what it felt like, maybe there
was something special going on, and they wanted the church to pray and bless
and witness a new moment in their lives.
So we’d do that: pray and bless and witness, with lots of water and
pelicans wheeling overhead and dolphins dancing and music.
2.
In our reading this
morning, we’ve got a snippet, just a piece of an ancient baptismal liturgy,
maybe one Paul and Lydia and others used in their early years together. “As many of you as are baptized into Christ
this day, now clothe yourselves with Christ.”
I imagine baptism, in the first generations of the movement: I imagine it
as raucous and delightful and powerfully affective. Affective—with an ‘a.’ I imagine sisters, brothers, new friends,
taking risks together, and praying and laying hands on one another. Maybe on a beach. Maybe by the riverside. And I imagine a sense among them that baptism
is just the beginning, just the beginning of a wonderful life together, a
difficult life together, a life of communion and prayer, a life of service and
witness and resistance. Together. Connected.
Fully alive. In a beautiful and
bewildering, stunning and astonishing world.
In California, we’d
circled each one afterwards, each baptized brother, each baptized sister, and
wrap them up in warm towels and shower them with bright flowers. “As many of you as are baptized into Christ
this day, now clothe yourselves with Christ.”
Warm towels, bright flowers, loving, blessing, anointing hands. In a beautiful and bewildering, stunning and
astonishing world.
I remember one year,
one of those friends looking up at me from the swirl of hands and flowers and
towels on the beach. And I remember her
saying, real softly, “This changes everything, Dave.” This changes everything. And it did.
Her life changed the church. And
the church changed her life. And so it
is with baptism. And so it is with the baptized
disciples of Jesus.
3.
Now we’re not doing any
baptizing today, at least I don’t see that in the liturgy this morning. But something spiritually seismic is going
on. When a beloved community calls on
Jesus and breaks bread with Jesus, something spiritually seismic is going
on. When sisters and brothers of
different fathers and mothers choose compassion, and commit to solidarity and
love, something spiritually seismic is going on. I want you to know that I’m profoundly aware
of the risks we’re taking together today.
I’m profoundly aware of the way Jesus changes everything in our lives, if
we go where he goes; the way Jesus challenges everything we’ve come to know, if
we listen and pray as he prays; the way he blesses everything and everyone around
us, if we sit at his table.
If we take baptism
seriously, you see, if we live into the promise and delight of baptism with
Jesus, inevitably we find ourselves at his table. Looking one another in the eye. Dreaming God’s dreams. Risking everything. If baptism says ‘I’m ready for the kingdom of
God,’ then communion says, ‘I’m living in the kingdom of God.’ ‘So bring it on!’
And this is exactly why
I’ve come all this way, why I’ve flown all night to be with you this
morning. Something wild, something
sweet, something good is happening among you: and I can see it in you, I can
feel it in you. And I want to be part of
it. The Holy Spirit is stirring in your dreams
and even in your Christian discomfort: and I want to dream with you. I want to weep with you, and ache with you,
and dream with you.
So there’s just no
doubt that the journey we begin together today will change us. It’ll change me in a thousand ways, I know
that for sure, and I can only wonder now what kind of pastor I’ll be when
you’re done with me! But it’ll certainly
change you too: the ways you pray, the ways you attend to one another and one
another’s dreams, the ways you experience baptism and communion and the
restless calling of God.
So this morning I
invite you to embrace that journey with me: to anticipate the deepening of old
relationships and the discovery of new ones and the expanding of our horizons
and even the breaking of our hearts.
Because that’s part of this too. You
know this. To follow Jesus, to go where
he goes is to open our hearts to the pain, the brokenness and the despair
around us. To follow Jesus is to risk
disorientation and relentless sadness—when injustice tears at the fabric of our
city, when racism breaks the spirit of a friend, when the rivers run dirty with
pollution and disinterest. A genuine
faith, a mature faith is in so many ways a fragile faith, a broken-hearted
faith.
And the thing is, and
this is my promise to you today, when your heart is breaking, or if you’re
overwhelmed with questions or fears, you will not be alone. You’ve got all of us. And I’m here to tell you: you’ve got me now,
to call on.
Because I want to be
your pastor. I have come all this
way—guided, I truly believe, by the hand of God—to be your pastor. Your dreams are my dreams now. Your restlessness is mine now. And I’m all in on your intention to be a beloved
community—the most courageous beloved community you can be, the most diverse
and generous beloved community you can be, the most visionary beloved community
you can be. I’m all in on all that! I want you to know—I want every single one of
you to know—that you’ve got a friend, a pastor, and an ally for your hopes and
intentions and holy aspirations. Whether
you’ve been here a hundred years, or just a couple of months. Whether you’re on the marvelous, gifted staff
or you’re a lay leader. I am devoted,
from this moment, from this morning forward, to your discipleship, to your
witness, to your human—spiritual—relational potential. I will pray for you relentlessly. I will believe in you with every fiber of my
being. Every morning, every afternoon,
every night: I will believe in you.
So here’s the thing.
When you wake up in the
morning with a vision, with an epiphany in your heart; when you can’t shake it
and you think God’s got something new in the works for you: I want to be in
your contact list. Speed-dial! I want you to know you can call me and find
me and count on me for prayer and encouragement and all the support my heart
has to offer. I will believe in you with
every fiber of my being.
Or when you’ve just
heard a tune or read a book or seen a painting that rocks your world and
explodes your heart; when your soul is bursting with delight: I want to be in
your contact list then too. Speed-dial! I want you to know you can call me and find
me and count on me to laugh with you and praise God with you and celebrate the
beauty of life with you. Because I’m one
of you now. I’m devoted to you. And I’m your pastor.
And there’s more to it,
right? When the madness of violence drives
you to your knees, or the insanity of white nationalism keeps you up at night, or
an old friend breaks your heart: count on me, look for me, get me the phone. When despair or disappointment bear down so
heavily you can’t get yourself out of bed in the morning—I will come sit with
you if that helps and lift you up in prayer.
I will believe in you. With every
fiber of my being.
Now I know you’re a
brave people. I already love that about
you. I also know you’re an educated,
sophisticated and daring people, impressive in a thousand ways and accomplished
on many fronts. But it’s a given that
every beloved community is a tested community: that’s just the way it
goes. And every daring disciples, every
loving soul is bewildered and befuddled a good bit of the time. If you ache, if the wacky world of Washington
wears you down, if school drives you nuts, if you need a friend to talk to, you
know where to find me. Speed-dial,
right? 831-706-6819. That’s the number. 831-706-6819.
We’re in this together now, you and I.
Your pain matters to me. Your
dreams are my dreams now. Because I’ve
come all this way to be your pastor.
5.
So as we move toward
the table this morning, for communion, for blessing, for solidarity, I’m deeply
grateful to be here: to serve alongside James and Sam and John and Kim and Andy
and Melissa and all the rest of you at First Church. I sense Jesus inviting us into a defiant and beloved
community in a strange and perilous time. I sense Jesus building, weaving—in this
very place—a dynamic matrix of friendship and solidarity. It’s going to be hard. There’s just no getting around that it’s
going to be hard. But it’s going to be delightful
too. And it’s going to be good. And I’m thrilled to join you now, to do that
kind of work, to accept that kind of challenge, with all of you. To love you and care for you. To partner with you in ministry, and stir
things up whenever and wherever they need stirring up!
Like baptism, communion
doesn’t release us from obligation. It
doesn’t eradicate tension and discomfort in the midst of injustice and
hurt. That was never Jesus’ way or his
intention. He celebrated communion, he
blessed the bread and wine on a difficult night, in a hard and hardening world.
He insisted on generosity
especially then, especially there, as the empire turned its screws. As its screwy architects went mad and nutty
with power.
So what this great
sacrament does then, what it most certainly does, is it sets loose a whole new
dynamic in the church. Something like
resistance. Something like
defiance. Something like joy. Jesus simply doesn’t tolerate business as
usual, playing by the old rules, accommodating the status quo. At his table we are moved by curiosity for
one another, not contempt. At his table
we are transformed by grace, radical grace, enough grace to overwhelm all cynicism
and rage. At Jesus’ table we are called
to solidarity, not just tolerance, but solidarity: the kind of solidarity that
awakens in us a dream, even a divine dream of the kingdom of God, the kin-dom
of all beings, a commonwealth of peace on earth.
It’s not going to happen
in a day, or in an instant, or even in a sacrament. And we know that too, right? That was never Jesus’ intention. But when we walk his way, when we go where he
goes, when we sit at his table, we’re well on our way. We’re well on our way. And that’s a ride worth taking, and a journey
worth making, together. You and I.
Amen.
