Baptism and the Birth of Story

a Sermon for Epiphany 6B
Text: Mark 1:40-45


I want to talk for a minute about water. Water is many things. We know that our bodies are composed mostly of water. We know that water is the one thing we can’t live without: without shelter, we can perhaps survive months, without food, we can potentially survive a couple of weeks, whereas for water, its days. It is our most essential element.

We are a little landlocked here in the middle of our state, but Michigan survives on water. Its abundance makes it difficult for us to see the value Israelites would have placed on it. Two of the most potent stories for Christians involve a scarcity of water. The first is the Israelites’ departure from Egypt and their ensuing decades in the desert. The second, is our gospel for the first Sunday in Lent in which Jesus goes into the desert to quarantine himself. Of course, we know this as the temptation story based on what Jesus found in the desert, but Jesus’s time in the wilderness was about deprivation, cleansing; he deprived himself of this most necessary resource. Being deprived of water would no doubt lead to a great appreciation of the substance.

It is also an essential element of our spiritual faith and religious tradition, most notably in baptism. We also know of it from its place in Jewish cleansing rituals and in Jesus’s washing of his disciples’ feet. This is our relationship to water.

In our gospel this morning, Jesus cures a man of his leprosy. At the 8:00 service, I spent time talking about the first part—about the relationship between Jesus and this man. Copies of that sermon are in the narthex. Here, I want to take time on the second part. The part in which Jesus gives the man instruction and the man seems to ignore it.

We don’t know much about this guy, right? Let’s look at what we do know.

1. The text refers to him as a “leper”. We know that we shouldn’t call a person a leper any more than we would call someone a cancer or an AIDSer. He is a man, not a disease.
2. We know that he has a skin condition. The disease we know in modern times as leprosy was unknown to them—leprosy in Scripture instead speaks of any skin condition—a rash, chickenpox, for instince—so it is entirely likely that this man’s condition may not have been permanent.
3. He is ritually impure based on his condition. His status as a man with a skin condition put him as an outsider for the time in which he has the condition.
4. As long as this man has a skin condition and does not seek ritual cleansing, he will be considered ritually impure. This means that any contact with him would cause another person to become ritually impure.
5. A cleansing ritual would have included the man’s bathing in water.

That is what we know of him. So this man comes up to Jesus, asks to be cured, and Jesus makes it happen. He then said to the man “See that you say nothing to anyone; but go, show yourself to the priest, and offer for your cleansing what Moses commanded, as a testimony to them.’ Here, Jesus is telling him that the first part is done: the part in which his cause of impurity is removed, but his status as impure remains. As a good Jew, he must go to a spiritual leader who would return him to a right relationship with God. But he doesn’t. He runs around telling people about Jesus.

This passage raises some real questions for us. What of the man’s ritual impurity? What of the man’s defiance of Jesus? And what of Jesus’s own ritual impurity? By curing the man of his condition, he has made himself ritually impure and he didn’t seek the ritual cleansing he commanded the man to receive. At that moment does Jesus believe he possesses the so-called ‘leprosy’ and is now in a permanent state of impurity? I don’t know.

I do know that many of us think that we are impure or that we do something, “wrong” that must be atoned. We come to church or seek out a clergyperson for a ritual cleansing. Some of us no doubt think that we have done something or embody something so “wrong” that we could never atone for that level of sin. We might see ourselves as permanently impure—that no amount of ritual cleansing could wash away that sin. For some, the belief is that we are sinful from birth—that our very flesh is sinful. Some extend this notion to baptism—as the great, permanent ritual cleansing.

But I don’t think this is Jesus’s intention, nor do I think Mark is suggesting anything like this. In last week’s gospel, just two verses before the start of this week’s, in verse 38, Jesus tells his disciples, ‘Let us go on to the neighboring towns, so that I may proclaim the message there also; for that is what I came out to do.’ Jesus’s intentions are proclamation. So what did this man do immediately after he is cured by Jesus? He runs into town and starts blabbing. But he isn’t shouting like some crazy person, right? It said that “he went out and began to proclaim it freely, and to spread the word”. The same word is there: proclaim. And spreading the word is different from gossiping or ranting or whatever. It is more like a prayer chain or some other targeted attempt to get information to many people quickly. This man’s action was the fulfillment of what Jesus just said was what he “came out to do.”

[What is perhaps most intriguing about this gospel lesson for us is that we don’t really know how Jesus responded to this experience, just how we would respond. We would be annoyed because we couldn’t go anywhere without being mobbed; that someone else is doing the job that we were called to do; that people seem to be more interested in the miracles than they are in His proclamations. I’m sure that these would annoy us. I can’t help but think that Jesus was pleased.]

One of the things I take from this is that we are all storytellers. That we have received this wonderful good news that we are entrusted to pass on—not to possess or keep to ourselves—but to spread and share as God’s. That we are capable of such an act as storytelling. Telling our story, Jesus’s story, God’s story.

This is what we will be doing in a few minutes as we gather around this pool of water, inviting our newest member into the family. My wife and I will make vows, witnesses will make vows, and the entire community will make vows to raise this new member as a full and important member of the family. We are called to pray for her and support her. We are called to live, ourselves, as Christians. And we are called to “proclaim by word and example the Good News of God in Christ”. In other words, we are vowing to be storytellers, because we already are storytellers.

In this baptism, within this sacred water, we are all committing to not only look after the spiritual health of this beautiful girl, but to pass on our stories to her; to continue the practices of the church with her. Through our vows and with this water, we are committing our love to her.

Storytelling

a Homily for Thanksgiving

Texts: Deuteronomy 8:7-18 & 2 Corinthians 9:6-15

Imagine what it must have been like for the Israelite people to be on the precipice of entering their home: the land for which they have longed. The land that they never knew except through stories and tales of their ancestors. A land that they are only now getting to glimpse after a long, arduous, and dangerous journey from relative comfort in Egypt. Imagine what it is like—to stand there with anticipation, excitement, and outright joy for finally realizing your dreams. One of your closest friends falls to the ground in joy, tears streaming down his face—what can he do but worship G-d? A woman slides down into her partner’s arms, overcome—she had been faithful to G-d, but she never thought she’d see this day. Children tugging at their parents’ clothes in awe and wonder at what this new land will look like.

Our Thanksgiving story shares some of those elements, doesn’t it? Pilgrims, seeking freedom in a new land; a dangerous journey that imperiled their very existence; anticipation of what would come.

For the Israelites, this was the end of a long journey. A journey in which many who were responsible for getting them there, would not get to finish. Moses and Aaron, for their betrayal of G-d, would die. In fact, those that left Egypt would be prevented from completing the journey: only their offspring could enter the new land. G-d’s punishment is severe and undeniable in light of this incredible gift. A gift so perfectly described in our Old Testament lesson from Deuteronomy which says:

Do not say to yourself, ‘My power and the might of my own hand have gained me this wealth.’ But remember the Lord your God, for it is he who gives you power to get wealth, so that he may confirm his covenant that he swore to your ancestors, as he is doing today.

It is hard when we are feeling an economic crunch to be thankful for what we have and to think about it as wealth. It is hard to give up ownership of it. It is hard to give God any credit, let alone total credit. It is hard to give God ownership of what we have, because what is left? It is hard not to conserve, store, horde, or otherwise “play it safe”. This is what we do. This is no different than what the Israelite people, wandering in the desert were doing when they questioned G-d.

We’re addicted to ownership and possession. Its part of what it means to be an American. We own our responsibility, our independence. We might give God credit for accidents: the things that weren’t supposed to work in our favor like winning a raffle or finding a ridiculously good parking spot on Black Friday. But the rest is our own ingenuity and natural talent, isn’t it?

In the gospel of the talents from two weeks ago, Jesus tells a parable about these slaves that are each given talents: the first receives five, the second receives two, and the third gets one. Later, the master comes back and through the courage and mindfulness of the first two slaves, God doubles their investments (100% is an incredible interest rate, isn’t it?). The third slave, on the other hand, sits on and squanders what is given him for which the master severely punishes the slave. With unemployment heading into double digits, increased poverty and need for resources, and churches and non-profits strapped for cash, in a moment of scary, economic uncertainty, how can we not be that third slave?

In other words, today, as we gather here, how can we be thankful? How can we be thankful for such misery and fear? How are we to be a people of light and hope when we can’t see it— when we don’t know it? When the winter is bleak and the prospects are few?

Moses shows what giving real thanks is about: relinquishing ownership. Giving it up. It’s about what G-d has given the people, how G-d has provided for the people, how God today provides for us. It’s about giving thanks. Giving thanks for the incredible gifts that none of us deserves, let alone earned.

This is God’s undergirding economic philosophy: faith can achieve miracles that far surpass compound interest and dividends. We just have to give up ownership. As Paul wrote in tonight’s Epistle: “And God is able to provide you with every blessing in abundance, so that by always having enough of everything, you may share abundantly in every good work.” Paul clarifies ownership rules. He helps us understand God’s contract. The contract made with a people long passed. A people we know only through story; through the tradition of sharing the lives of our ancestors with the next generation. A story tradition that saw a people in the midst of extreme adversity set foot on a foreign shore and try to do the unthinkable: simply survive the winter.

Like the Israelites, there is no happy ending, really. Centuries of abuse, exploitation, and death follow. The treatment of the Native Peoples is perhaps the biggest scar on American history—and the most embarrassing part of our story.

And yet it is our story. As is the struggle and arrival of the Israelites. As are the trials of Jesus and His apostles. As is the formation and fulfilling of St. David’s Episcopal Church. This is the story—our story. This is what we talk about as we gather around tables tomorrow. Our story. As we share a communal meal, giving thanks for those that came before, in the tradition of our foremothers and fathers. Our story. As we gather tonight around this table to share in this tradition from ancestors. Our story.

What G-d revealed to the Israelites and reveals to us tonight is a different ownership model. We own our relationship to God. We own our story. We own how we relate to people. All of the wealth—the houses, the property, the cars, the TVs, comfy beds, dining room tables, couches, skyscrapers, bridges, freeways, railstations, airports, seaports, vessels, temples, pyramids, ruins, and Wonders are God’s. All of this is God’s.

Tomorrow, I’m going to my sister’s house with Rose and Sophia. We’ll gather at a table with three generations, two family branches, to share in our history—our story. We’ll visit with my Uncle Hal and Aunt Barbara as they celebrate their wedding. We will gather to talk about the next chapter in our story. All of this will serve as the impetus of thanksgiving—the time to reflect on thankfulness, to set aside as Sabbath thankfulness.

Because we don’t run around with 364 days of thanklessness—but we also don’t need to put all of our thankfulness pressure on one day—one dinner—one shot at praising God for what God has given us. We don’t need to run around perfecting a feast to be thankful—in fact that usually distracts us. But we do need to sit with other people, telling our story, walking through the lives of ancestors and the old you—yesterday’s you—the you that is captured in a sister’s memory. That is our story.

May the God of hope and wonder guide you safely on your journeys, bring compassionate action from your thankfulness, and grant you grace through your storytelling.