“Our Beautiful, Messy Community”

Baptism of Our Lord

January 7, 2024

Isaiah 43:1-7

Mark 1:4-11

Children’s Message:

How do you know that you are loved? Do your parents tell you? Do they do anything else to make sure you know how much they love you?

Today, our gospel passage told us the story of when Jesus was baptized. And when he came up out of the water, God said, “I love you.” And God gave Jesus a gift. Do you know what that was? The Holy Spirit.

Now, I’m pretty sure you have all been baptized. But we can remember our baptism and remember that God loves us every time we use water—whether we’re washing our face or getting a drink or going swimming or splashing in the rain. Is there water around us now? Then let’s remember our baptism.

“I am baptized, and God loves me.”

Message:

I love this passage from Isaiah. I believe I’ve mentioned that before. It’s a go-to passage for hospital and home visits. It’s encouraging and comforting. It was written to the Israelites who had been taken into exile in Babylon, who were longing to return home. God promises them a way home—though it may be dangerous. God promises to be with them—though it may not always feel like it. God promises that they’ve not been abandoned.

But I also like the passage for nerdy reasons. It’s a chiasm—a form of writing that begins and ends with similar statements, working their way to the middle. It starts with God saying, “I created you. I formed you. I made you.” Then it moves to, “I called you. I redeemed you.” And in the center, “I love you.” Then it makes its way back out—“I called you. I created you.” But in the center, where it matters most, where everything meets up, is (I believe) the only place in Scripture where God explicitly says, “I love you.”

How cool is that? Everything comes down to that. I love you. God’s voice to the people—to you and me: I love you. No if’s, and’s, or but’s. No ‘when you do this,’ or ‘because you are that.’ An unequivocal, unconditional statement of love and acceptance. When the rest of Scripture is parsed and analyzed to death, this remains. I love you.

This is the message Jesus hears as his head emerges from the waters of the Jordan River. As he comes up, the Spirit comes down, and they meet in the middle—where God says, “You are my child. I love you.”

Unfortunately, we tend to miss the wildness and messiness of baptism in our worship experiences today. The baby is dressed in frills. A pacifier ensures hopeful silence. Parents pray there isn’t a blow-out right before they come up. I sprinkle a bit of water, say some lovely words. Everyone makes some promises that no one remembers. And off we go with memorable pictures.

Imagine the day of Jesus’ baptism. John the Baptist is already on the scene. He looks a bit wild and messy, himself. Rangy and dirty, living in the wilderness, dressed in camel hide and living on locusts and wild honey. And he’s the one bringing the masses. Not some charismatic middle-aged guy in jeans and a sport jacket, sporting a fashionable goatee, promising health and wealth from a stage shrouded by smoke from a fog machine and lit by expert stage lights.

John is frightening. And he’s preaching about repentance. He’s preaching about the Messiah. He’s preaching about hope and life. He embodies challenge and difficulty, as well as joy and excitement. He, too, is waiting for the Savior.

And the people from all over come to the river to hear him and be baptized by him. People desperate for hope. People desperate to know that God hasn’t abandoned them. People desperate for a word of love. People not unlike those gathered here.

We’ve been waiting so long for this moment, when the Table has been properly extended, when restrictions on who is welcome have been torn down, when we can unequivocally and publicly speak God’s Word: “I love you.” Period.

And for me, personally, the timing couldn’t be better. When the ELCA passed the social statement on Sexuality in 2009, this congregation—like many others—struggled. We took a poll to determine whether it would be appropriate to make any decision about how to proceed. The results were an even split between those who wanted to become affirming and those who did not. In the end, we chose not to choose.

Two years later, my husband and I introduced our newborn child to the congregation—a light in the midst of a very difficult time filled with loss and grief. And you loved him. You held him. You watched him grow. A few of you got peed on by him—and worse. You celebrated with him. And last month, bathed in the love of this congregation, our child came forward to tell you that she is transgender. And you celebrated her and her bravery.

Later, she came to me and said, “Mom, I didn’t know that I was brave for telling the congregation I’m transgender.” Which tells me so much about who you have become. Because she had no doubt she would be accepted and loved, just as she’s always been. She trusts you. And that says more about this congregation than you can imagine.

These past years have not been easy for us. We’ve lost many beloved members who simply couldn’t join us in our journey. We’ve also gained many new and wonderful hearts who are excited to journey with us. It’s messy. It can be scary. It’s a wild ride—as baptism should be—filled with unknown destinations and unusual travel companions. But this is what it means to be Church.

To quote Annie Dillard: “It is madness to wear ladies’ straw hats and velvet hats to church; we should all be wearing crash helmets. Ushers should issue life preservers and signal flares; they should lash us to our pews.”

Baptism isn’t floating along the lazy river at a water park; it’s a wild and dangerous ride on white water rapids. The water is cold, and you will get wet. But God is with you. God is with us on this messy journey.

In his book, “A Bigger Table,” John Pavlovitz challenges the church to live into this mess—to let go of our attempts at controlling God and organizing faith. He says,

This is the very heart of the bigger table. It isn’t about formulating and defending some ironclad religious system that we proof-text and memorize and attempt to convince others to adopt. It’s not about winning theological discussions or defending worldviews. It is about tangibly living in a way that responds to what we believe about our own belovedness and about the belovedness of those we live alongside.”[1]

The diversity we seek to embody will always be challenging and messy because it means sharing a table with people from different backgrounds and ideas and experiences and thoughts. But it will also be beautiful for that very same reason. The Church will never be complete until we recognize every face, every body, every being as God’s beloved child—God’s desired creation.

And so, God tells us through Isaiah, “Have no fear, for I am with you; I will bring your descendants from the east and gather them from the west. To the north I will say, ‘Give them up!’ and to the south, ‘Do not hold them back! Bring all my children from afar, return them from the ends of the earth–everyone who is called by my Name, whom I created for my glory, whom I formed and made!’” Because I love you.

Pastor Tobi White

Our Saviour’s Lutheran Church

Lincoln, NE

[1] Pavlovitz, John, “A Bigger Table: Building Messy, Authentic, and Hopeful Spiritual Community,” Westminster John Knox Press: Louisville, KY, 2017, pg. 118.