Baptized and Identified

“Baptized!”

Mark 1:4-11

January 8, 2012/Baptism of the Lord

            The baby was first.  The little one, no more than six months old, was undressed completely and his little lips chattered in the quiet chill of the chapel where we stood.  At the center of our circle was a font with a large silver basin filled with water.  The priest with the salt and pepper beard and glasses, the sleeves of his black robes pushed up past his forearms, cradled the baby in his arms and began praying.  I could not understand the language but the ancient meaning of the words was clear.  It was invocation, supplication and recitation.  He lifted the baby up, and with firm, steady hands that never lost their grip on the child, even when wet, he swooshed the baby through the water, three times.  With every glide through the font, the priest called on each name of the trinity.  The baby was too startled to react, sputtering for breath between dunks.  With the final splash, the baby began to cry. 

            Anointed with oil and dressed in new clothes to reflect his newly baptized self, the baby was finally given back to his mother for comfort.  Now it was the toddler’s turn.  She had been watching the baby’s baptism intently, and I could see the relief in her deep brown eyes that it was happening to her little brother instead of her.  Then they began to undress her, and the relief changed from fear to fury.  The ritual was performed once more, even more impressive this time because of the priest’s ability to hold onto a squirming, screaming toddler. 

            When she was dressed and calmed, the family passed around trays of rich sweets, living up to the Arabic rule of hospitality.

            This was January 1993 and I was in Syria as part of a travel/study tour of the Near East with a group from my seminary and the larger Richmond community.  Our trip started in Amman, Jordan, moved to Syria, and from there we would journey to Egypt and then Israel. 

            But this was Syria.  We were traveling around the countryside, as well as staying in larger cities like Damascus.  Our Syrian tour guide was an efficient and somewhat nervous man, and on this particular day we had stopped at a Syrian Orthodox church.  Earlier in the day we’d had the opportunity to meet the Patriarch of Antioch – the equivalent in the Syrian Orthodox church of the Pope in Roman Catholicism.  

            When we reached the church and realized that something beyond the ordinary was happening, our guide checked with the family and they eagerly invited us to share in this profound moment in their lives and the lives of their children. 

            This was an extraordinary moment to witness.  Although I had seen other baptisms in my home church, and would go on in my ordained life to baptize many babies, toddlers and older believers, I had never seen a baptism like this.  It was especially poignant for me, because I knew that it was similar to the way my nephew Benjamin was baptized in the Greek Orthodox Church – a baptism I had not gotten to experience.

            At the time I thought it strange that the family would have a private baptism service.  It ran counter to what we profess in the protestant church, that baptisms are to be done as part of a full worship service.  In our expression of the faith, there is no such animal as a private baptism.  We are baptized into a larger community of believers.  And as the congregational vows we make at any baptism state, we promise as a community to help with the nurture and support of the newly baptized, whether that be a child or an adult. 

            I think now that perhaps this was a quieter affair because it was being done in a predominantly Muslim country, but whatever the reason I’m grateful that I had the opportunity to experience this particular moment in the lives of these children.  I never learned their names, and they are both grown now.  Maybe they are preparing to have their own children baptized as well. 

            It seems especially fitting to think of this quiet, very personal baptism in light of Mark’s gospel.  Jesus is baptized surrounded by people.  But unlike the other gospel accounts, in Mark’s telling God’s affirmation of Jesus is meant for his ears only.  No one else witnesses the descent of the dove or the voice that tears open the heavens.  In the Greek the word that is used for tear is schizo.  The only other time Mark uses this term is at the tearing apart of the curtain of the temple at Jesus’ crucifixion.  It seems to me that in both of these moments the boundaries between heaven and earth, between God and humans are ripped apart and away. 

            As I’ve preached before immediacy is critical in Mark’s gospel.  There is no time to waste.  Mark establishes Jesus’ identity from the opening verses.  And in his baptism Jesus’ identity as the Son of God, the promised Messiah is confirmed by God. 

“You are my Son, the beloved; with you I am well pleased.”

No, the people around Jesus weren’t privy to this information, but Mark’s readers were and are. 

Jesus’ identity as the Messiah is confirmed in his baptism.  Doesn’t this mean that ours is as well?  When I watched those little ones being baptized in Syria so many years ago, I was watching an act of claiming, of identifying.  This goes beyond them being claimed by the church or a family celebration of an important ritual in their lives.  They were claimed by God.  Part of why we endorse the baptism of infants in our denomination is because we believe that God’s grace claims our lives whether we are aware of it or not.  God claims us, not the other way around.  To be baptized in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit is to given a new identity. And whether we receive a new outfit on our baptisms or not when we are baptized we are figuratively dressed in new clothes.  Our baptism seals our identity as children of God.

One of my favorite series of movies is the Toy Story saga.  I especially love the last movie, Toy Story 3.  The child, Andy, who loved his toys, is now grown up Andy, on his way to college.  Most of the toys think that they were given away to a daycare center on purpose, but Woody the Cowboy reminds them that they belong to Andy and that he still loves them.  He does this by showing them the bottom of his foot.  That is where Andy wrote his name, identifying Woody as his beloved toy.  They each bear that mark.  They are identified as Andy’s own. 

Baptism marks us.  It may not be a mark that we can see, God’s name written on the bottom of our foot, but it as a mark just the same.  Baptism marks us with grace.  Baptism marks us with love.  Baptism seals our identity as the children of God.  As we observe the baptism of our Lord and Savior, Jesus the Christ, let us also remember and renew the vows made at our own baptisms.  Let us remember that we are claimed, that we are loved, that we are dressed in new clothes, and like Jesus we are sent out into a broken world.  Let us give thanks that like Jesus we are baptized.  Alleluia!  Amen.

Sweet Nothings

I have become obsessed with Eat, Pray, Love, both the book by author Elizabeth Gilbert and the movie based on said book.  It doesn't help that the movie plays on our Satellite movie channels every other second, so I've seen it so many times I've memorized it.  It's great to watch while doing monotonous tasks such as folding laundry.  And I seem to always be folding laundry.

What is it that draws me?  I think it's the idea of radically changing the direction of your life by taking a leap of faith that appeals to me.  I suppose it could be argued that in some ways I've already done this in my life.  But taking a year to travel and live in different cultures sounds like an adventure that is not just too good, but too amazing to be true. It's the complete moxie of her quest that pulls me in, time and time again.

Since I don't foresee this kind of opportunity happening in my own life anytime soon, I will continue to live vicariously through Gilbert's memoir.  And I will learn what I can.  One concept I hope to master in this New Year is the focus of the above clip.  Dolce Far Niente.  The "sweetness of doing nothing."

I had my gall bladder removed six days ago.  There's nothing (no pun inteneded) like having a surgical procedure, minor or otherwise, for forcing you into a state of doing nothing.  Since the surgery I have sat in our recliner, slept in our recliner, watched endless television, Netflix, and dvd's in our recliner and sucked on a lot of popsicles in our recliner.  Whether I've liked it or not, I could do nothing (again, no pun intended) more than next to nothing.

I won't make the claim that this kind of doing nothing has been sweet.  Far from it.  Even though my surgery was outpatient and done laprascopically, it's still been a relatively painful and definitely uncomfortable recovery.  Incisions hurt, even small ones.  You don't realize how much you take your abs for granted, even when they're flabby, until you have some holes poked in them.  Not to put too graphic a point on it.  I can't help but move slower, walking with a slight hunch because standing up straight is a painful exercise.  And even though I hate it, the only contribution I've really been able to make to the upkeep of the house is fretting.  I did remake the bed last night and had to sit down afterward, as exhausted as I might be after running a half marathon.  (Some of you might wonder why I didn't write marathon here.  I mean after all, why not metaphorically go for it?  But please, me?  A marathon?  Not even in the best of shape.)

As I said, this kind of doing nothing has not been particularly sweet.  I have not been living dolce far niente.  But I want to experience that sweetness.  I don't want a surgery to be the one thing that makes me slow down.  I don't just walk, I hustle.  I don't eat, I gulp.  I don't sleep, I crash.  But in this newly begun year, I want to learn what it means to savor, to enjoy, to experience real pleasure.  I want to enjoy the moments I have with people I love.  I want to taste the food I eat, delighting in each bite.  I don't want to always worry about what chore I'm leaving undone, what task I'm forgetting. 

I may not master dolce far niente in 2012, but why not give it a shot?  So here's to savoring, tasting, enjoying, loving and doing absolutely nothing oh so sweetly. 

P.S.  A friend told me he expected to see a blog about the gall of the gall bladder.  I know this piece doesn't exactly fit that description, but perhaps this is an acceptable replacement.

Christmas Feet

“Those Beautiful Feet”

Isaiah 52:7-10

December 25, 2011

            I never understood why new parents were so crazy about their children’s feet.  Every new parent I’ve ever come across has oohed and aahed about their precious little bundle of joy’s feet.  Each little toe has to be counted and tickled and sighed over.  I’ve even seen new parents kiss their baby’s feet.  I never understood it – until I had children of my own.  Ever since we saw the ultrasound of Phoebe that clearly showed this perfect foot, I’ve been in love with my kids’ feet.  When both of them were born I would sit and count their little toes.  I loved the fact that they were so pink and chubby and perfect.  I even kissed them because they were just so cute.
 

 

            It made me a little sad to see both Phoebe and Zach begin to walk.  I was sad not just because I knew how hectic it would be keeping up with them once they began to run around.  I was sad because before they walked their feet were perfect.  There was no rough skin, no calluses.  I wanted their little feet to remain soft and unblemished.  I wanted their feet to stay brand new forever.

            I think one of the reasons for this is because I hate my own feet.  I have the world’s ugliest feet.  I have big lumpy calluses on either side, just underneath the toes.  My sister’s feet are the same way.  Our mom has always said it’s because of the way we walk.  I don’t know, but it was years before I realized that most people’s feet don’t look like mine. 

            My feet are also ugly because I got hold of my dad’s razor when I was about six and shaved them.  So not only do I have ugly, bumpy callused feet, I also look like a Hobbit from the ankle down.  And I have this huge scar on my left foot from surgery I had to have on it, so that makes it even uglier than before.

            Even though I love it when I get pampering gifts like manicures and massages, it was a long time before I’d get a pedicure because I was so embarrassed about the state of my feet.

            Because I have this broad antipathy toward my feet, I’ve always read this passage from Isaiah with surprise.  The last word I would ever use to describe my feet or anyone’s feet for that matter is “beautiful.”  But that’s exactly how Isaiah depicts them.

            “How beautiful upon the mountain are the feet of the messenger who announces peace, who brings good news, who announces salvation, who says to Zion, ‘Your God reigns.’”

            Why would Isaiah talk about the messenger’s feet?  Why would the feet be the first thing that’s noticed?  I think if it had been me, I would have looked at the face of the messenger or the hair or the eyes or the hands or just the whole person.  “How beautiful is the messenger who announces peace.”

            But no matter my opinion, Isaiah writes, “how beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of the messenger who announces peace.”

            So what’s so beautiful about these feet?  Considering the conditions they walked about in, they probably weren’t any prettier or better looking than mine.  I imagine that there calluses because walking was the main form of transportation.  And even though there were sandals that helped protect the soles, they definitely must have gotten dusty and dirty and grimy from walking on dirt roads and dirt floors and everything else that was dirt at that time.  I imagine that the main reason behind the rule of hospitality of bringing water for a visitor’s feet was done because of the dirt.  A person’s feet were always dirty, so it was truly hospitable to give someone water to clean them.

            I bet these feet weren’t any better looking than my own.  They may have looked Hobbit like as well.  And yet these feet, the feet of the messenger who announces peace, who brings good news, who announces salvation, are beautiful.

            Maybe it’s because of the messenger and the message that Isaiah portrays these feet as beautiful.  Isaiah wrote specifically about the period of Israel’s exile.  The Israelites were scattered, uprooted and driven away from their homes, their places of worship, their neighbors, their villages, everything and everyone that was familiar.

            Israel had been overtaken and overrun by Babylon, and this was a devastating and humiliating event in the life of the nation.  Their entire way of life was shattered.  I can imagine that this devastation and humiliation were reflected in the manners and ways of the people.  Their self-confidence, their esteem, their pride must have been shattered as well.

            And if you’ve been devastated, humiliated, shorn of your confidence; if you once believed that you were untouchable, invincible only to be proved horribly, horribly wrong, you probably don’t walk very tall.  You probably don’t walk with much pride in your step.  You almost certainly keep your head low, your eyes focused on the ground.

            In fact when you’ve been defeated – as a nation in war, as a human in life – when your hopes and dreams seem pretty useless, you might spend a good part of your days looking down with your head lowered and your shoulders rounded.

            So what would you see when you hear a voice proclaiming something wonderful from the mountains?  What would you see when you hear that the impossible is about to happen, that your time of exile is over, that you and your family and your neighbors and their neighbors are going home?  What would you see?

            What would you see?  When you first hear the good news, you might look up, lifting your head just a little bit.  You can tell that someone is standing above you, crying out miraculous news.  But the sun is streaming behind him, so you can’t really make out a face or even much of a body.  And if you’ve been looking down for so long, it can be hard to look up again.  But when you do, the first thing you see are the feet of the messenger.  Those beautiful, beautiful feet.

            How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of the messenger that announces peace.  How beautiful are the feet?

            My guess is that Jesus’ feet weren’t any prettier than mine.  They too were probably callused and rough.  Maybe they were also lumpy and bumpy.  They probably got dirty from dust just like everyone else’s.  And they were far more burdened than mine have ever been or will be.  They bore scars that mine never will.  Jesus’ feet took a journey that mine will never take.  They carried him to the cross.  His feet hung against coarse, jagged wood until he died.

            When a tired, discouraged, defeated world looks at a lowly manger and sees a wooden cross rising from it, we may only be able to make out a little of the messenger who announces peace, who brings good news, who declares salvation, who says to Zion and to a waiting world, “your God reigns.”  We may only be able to see the feet of the messenger, those scarred, dusty, rough, callused beautiful, beautiful, beautiful feet.

            How beautiful upon the mountain are the feet of the messenger who announces peace?  How beautiful are those feet.  Alleluia!  Amen.