Bearing Bad News

I don’t like giving people bad news. I don’t know anyone who does. But, sometimes, it’s your job.

In Sunday’s OT reading (1 Samuel 3:1-20), Samuel hears a call from the Lord. Three times, he mistakes the call as a summons from Eli, his master, but, after the third time, Eli discerns that the Lord is calling the boy, so, on the fourth try, when the Lord calls Samuel, he responds, “Speak, for your servant is listening.”

But I don’t think Samuel wanted to hear what God had to say: “I am about to punish Eli’s house forever.” Eli’s sons were wicked. The scriptures describe them as “worthless men” (1 Sam. 2:12). They would pervert the sacrificial offerings of the people, taking them for themselves. They would use their position to force the women who served at the entrance to the temple to have sex with them. Eli confronted them about it, but they would not listen to him. So God planned to punish them and kill them, and God chose to reveal that to Samuel. Great news, huh?

The next morning, Eli was eager to hear what the Lord had spoken to his young protégé, but Samuel didn’t want to reveal it. Remember, Samuel’s mother, Hannah, had given her son over to Eli and the authority of the temple from the time Samuel had been weaned. Samuel was a gift to Hannah from the Lord, and, as she had promised, she had given him back to God. Eli had taken Samuel under his wing. He had taught him not only the faith of their people but had trained him how to serve in the temple. He was more than a mentor. Eli was a father-figure for young Samuel. And, now, God had shown Samuel that his master and his family were doomed. And, now, Samuel had to tell his master what was going to happen.

What does it mean to speak truth to power? What does it mean to break the heart of one you love because you have a truth to tell? What does it mean to ostracize yourself from your community because you have a prophetic message to share?

Notice how Samuel’s integrity is described as this reading comes to an end: “As Samuel grew up, the LORD was with him and let none of his words fall to the ground.” The result is that he was trustworthy in all of Israel. Everyone knew and believed that Samuel would tell them the truth because he was willing to accept personally the consequences of his words. This wasn’t easy for him, but he had to say it.

How do we bring hard news to one we love? Whether it’s a life-crippling addiction or a life-threatening illness or a life-destroying career or a life-robbing relationship—how do we break the heart of one we love? Never with self-righteous condemnation nor with even an ounce of joy but only and always with fear and pain and sorrow. The prophet’s call isn’t easy, and it isn’t supposed to be.

Sermon: Make Your Baptism Matter

January 11, 2015 – 1^st Sunday after the Epiphany, Year B

Genesis 1:1-5; Acts 19:1-7; Mark 1:4-11

© 2015 Evan D. Garner

Audio of this sermon can be heard here.

In between my first two years of seminary, I spent half of the summer living and working in a parish in the industrial north of England. It was St. Martin of Tours in Middlesbrough, and I probably learned more about being a parish priest there than I did in any classroom. The vicar of that parish was Fr. David, and he and his family welcomed me into their home—the vicarage that sat adjacent to the church building. At first, I thought, “How convenient—to live only a fifteen-second walk from the church!” but, within two weeks, I discovered first-hand the challenges that come with sharing a parking lot with the place where you work.

The doorbell rang all the time. Occasionally, it was someone who actually went to church—a parishioner who came by for a pastoral counseling appointment or a church leader who needed to meet with Fr. David about an upcoming event. Usually, though, it was someone with absolutely no ties to the congregation…except that he or she lived within the geographic boundaries of the parish. Because the Church of England is an established church, it means that anyone who resides in the parish is entitled to a baptism, a wedding, or a funeral. It doesn’t matter whether you have ever been to church or ever intend to go to church. If you’re in the parish, you’re considered a parishioner. More often than not, when that doorbell rang, it was someone who was asking, “May I have my baby christened?”

The part that gets under your skin—even after just two weeks—is the tragic confluence of evangelistic opportunity and superstitious motivation. You see, even though every minister I know gets excited at the thought of bringing a new person into the church through the sacrament of baptism, practically none of those people who rang the doorbell was interested in raising her child as a part of the church. They just didn’t want their baby to go to hell. They had learned from their parents and grandparents that “christening” is the thing that makes a child a Christian and that only the waters of baptism could ensure that their little bundle of joy would escape the fires of hell. So, every time the doorbell rang, like Pavlov’s dogs, I learned to sigh an exasperated sigh of disappointment at what could have been but was not to be.

Now, I have the privilege and pleasure of being the rector of a church where everyone takes his or her baptism seriously and where all the parents who call me up asking for a baptism do so not thinking about the white, antique baptismal gown or the opportunity to stand in front of the congregation and show off their baby or the belief that simply splashing water on a baby’s head is enough to constitute a relationship with God. No, all of us, when we think about baptism, we think about initiating a lifelong relationship with God, which will require intentional daily maintenance and will find its principle expression in the shared life of the church. That’s what we think about baptism…right?

Think about your baptism and ask yourself why it matters—or, maybe better than that, ask yourself when your baptism matters. When is or was or will your baptism be important? Is it a moment from the past when something special happened? Is it an eternal life insurance policy—a golden sacramental ticket that someday will get you into heaven? Or is your baptism something that affects and directs your daily life?

I think that’s what Paul was thinking about in today’s reading from the Acts of the Apostles. On his third missionary journey, Paul came to Ephesus—an ancient cosmopolitan coastal city, where the gospel had reached but apostles like Paul had not yet visited. There, Paul found some “disciples,” a word which means that they were believers or followers of Jesus. They knew the gospel, and they had committed themselves to following the way, but, clearly, something was missing. “Did you receive the Holy Spirit when you became believers?” Paul asked them. Puzzled, the disciples replied that they had never even heard of the Holy Spirit. “Then, into what were you baptized?” Paul asked incredulously. And they replied that they had received only John’s baptism—the baptism of repentance.

Therein was the problem. “John baptized with the baptism of repentance,” Paul declared, “telling the people to believe in the one who was to come after him, that is, in Jesus.” In other words, John’s baptism was about preparation. It was a way to get ready for the one who was to come. But the Christian life is about more than just getting ready. It’s about more than repentance. Being a Christian means giving one’s life over to God, being filled with the Holy Spirit, and living each day on fire for Jesus. How’s that for language we don’t often use to describe our faith? Well, if you’re uncomfortable with it, take a look at what happened to those dozen disciples: they were baptized in Jesus’ name; Paul laid his hands on him; the Holy Spirit came upon them; and, then, they spoke in tongues and prophesied. In other words, they became the kinds Christians who don’t just sit still in the pews and nod their heads in agreement with the preacher.

So back to the question about baptism: when is or was or will your baptism make a difference in your life? Is it locked away as a moment from the past? Have you tucked into your back pocket as if it were a ticket to heaven? Or does your baptismal identity define your daily life?

In just a moment, we will stand and renew our baptismal vows. I must to confess to you that I have not always liked the Baptismal Covenant. This series of questions and answers seems to shift too much of the emphasis of what happens at baptism onto us, when, in fact, the beauty of baptism is that it is an expression of God’s love that has nothing at all to do with what we say or think or do. But I am learning to take my own baptism seriously—not only as a powerful experience of God’s unconditional love but also as a life-long gift of that love to which I must respond daily as a Spirit-filled, Spirit-led disciple of Jesus Christ.

In a moment, you will be asked in a series of questions about whether you take your baptismal identity seriously, and I want you to think about it carefully. Will you accept that what it means to be a Christian is more than just a one-time splashing of water on your head? Will you believe that your identity as a Christian should have an effect on your daily life? Will you recognize that your baptism has as much to do with today as it does with your past and where you spend your future? Imagine what the church—our church—would be like if it were filled with people who spent every day on fire for the love that God has for them. That is what it means to be a Christian. That is who we are supposed to be.

Why Baptism Matters, Part 4

All week long, I’ve been writing about baptism and why it matters to the present-day church. Yesterday, I discussed infant baptism. The real focus of that piece was grace—that infant baptism demonstrates that God’s redeeming, saving love is not based on anything we do or say or believe but on God’s love—pure and simple. But, in that post, I also discussed my view on sacraments, and that drew some good, sharp, and on-target criticism. Do I really believe that baptism isn’t unique? Do I really believe that baptism is largely symbolic if not merely symbolic? What, then, is my understanding of the role of baptism in the life of the church? Why do we still do it? Why not throw it out? All of those are important questions, and they get to the heart of my tendency to over-psychologize sacramental theology.

Today’s topic is an antidote to that—or at least I think it is. Today, I want to discuss the necessity of baptism—why it’s essential to the contemporary church, why there is no substitute for it, and, ultimately, why Communion should be restricted only to those who have been baptized. (How’s that for surprisingly orthodox?)

To make this point, I’m back to the reading for Sunday fromthe Acts of the Apostles (19:1-7) and the transformative story of Christian baptism. Paul, upon arriving in Ephesus, meets some “disciples,” which is to say “followers of” or “believers in Jesus.” When he asks them if they had received the Holy Spirit when they became believers, they respond that they had never heard of the Holy Spirit. Shocked, Paul asks what sort of baptism they received, and they replied that they had only received John’s baptism. Immediately, Paul baptizes them in the name of Jesus and lays hands on them, and the Holy Spirit comes upon them in clearly visible and audible ways.

It’s a story with (at least) two important implications. First, it lets us know that something happens at Christian baptism. These “disciples” were already believers in Jesus. They had already heard and known and put their faith in his story of death and resurrection. They are identified to us as followers of Jesus’ way. Call them “believers” or “converts” or “Christians,” they are in…except that they aren’t. Something tremendous and revolutionary and life-changing happens to them when they receive the baptism of Jesus. The manifestation of their faith—the way they show what it means to be a Christian—goes from essentially nothing to essentially everything. Their whole selves are taken over by the power of the God in whom they believe. That wasn’t present before. Baptism and laying on of hands—two things that, in this story, combine for a Trinitarian expression that is analogous to our modern-day baptism—make all the difference.

Second, it confirms for us that believing alone isn’t a complete expression of what it means to be a Christian. Since something was missing—since something integral to the Christian faith only came upon the disciples after they received Christian baptism—we can conclude that merely giving one’s intellectual assent to the way of Jesus isn’t sufficient. (It might be sufficient for salvation, but it isn’t complete Christianity.)

Baptism is that thing that we can’t do on our own (see yesterday’s post on infant baptism). It is an experience of God’s love for us that has nothing to do with who we are or what we do or what we believe. It is God’s unmerited, indiscriminate, unmitigated love for us. It’s that thing the dozen disciples in Ephesus get not from being disciples (i.e. from believing or following) but from encountering the power of God’s love. And it is, therefore, the thing that transforms them from disjointed, mind-only disciples to unified, heart-and-mind-and-soul, Spirt-filled Christians.

And that means that Baptism is the difference between calling one’s self a believer and living the life of the Christian. Is there any factor more appropriate for discriminating between those who are invited to the transformative messianic banquet we call Communion?

I don’t want to start a whole new post about the nature of the Eucharist (this one is already too long), but I do want to claim that Communion is about transformation. It’s about repentance and forgiveness and rebirth. It’s not about evangelism or hospitality. At the 2012 General Convention, I argued against waiving the baptismal requirement for Communion because Communion is not about welcoming people into the church. I don’t care how many people will speak of being unbelievers who felt the call to follow Jesus when they unwittingly (and contra-canonically) received Communion. That only speaks to a failure on the part of the church to bring the good news to those who hadn’t heard it yet—in other words bad evangelism combined with a poor baptismal theology. The Lord’s Table is for those who seek new life—not for those who seek a tasty snack or a socially convenient expression of belongingness. Communion is the place where Christians live out the transformation that begins at baptism.

But here’s where yesterday’s post about baptism comes full circle: I don’t ask for a baptismal ID card when people come to the altar rail and put out their hands. In fact, I don’t even use the discriminatory phrase, “All baptized Christians are invited to receive Communion.” Don’t call the Title IV police yet. Keep reading. If I know that someone has not been baptized, I will offer them a blessing instead of offering them the consecrated bread. (Actually, I will have already called them privately and invited them to consider baptism because THAT’S MY JOB AS A PRIEST.) In our bulletin, we print that Communion is open to baptized Christians and that people interested in receiving baptism should contact the rector, who would be happy and eager to offer that sacrament.

But I don’t use the word “baptized” in my verbal invitation to Communion. Instead, I say, “Communion is open to Christians of all denominations. It doesn’t matter where you go to church or even if you don’t have a church home. If you are a follower of Jesus, you are invited to his table.” Why? Because I am not convinced that genuine, life-changed, Spirit-filled, transformed-and-seeking-transformation believers are only those who have been baptized. No, I don’t believe that there is way other than baptism for the church to express that. Let me say that more clearly: I still believe that, institutionally speaking, there is no such thing as an unbaptized Christian. But I live in a community where adult baptism is the predominant mode. And I know that there are intentional, Spirit-filled followers of Jesus whose families left the churches that don’t baptize infants before they were old enough to be baptized, and I accept that for some the stigma of having not been baptized as a child or youth is a hard one to overcome. (Yes, I need to work harder on undoing that stigma, and that is part of the focus of Sunday’s sermon—read it here later.)

So, let’s bring all of this together. I believe that Christianity necessitates baptism. I believe that baptism conveys power. I believe that baptism is initiation into a life of discipleship that focuses on transformation. And I believe that Communion is primarily an encounter of continued transformation. And, because of that, I believe that unbaptized individuals should not be allowed to receive Communion but should, instead, be eagerly and enthusiastically ushered to the font. But I also believe that it is possible for that transformative initiation to happen in a way other than baptism—even if I don’t know what it is and wouldn’t dream of attempting to name a substitute for baptism—because I trust that baptism is, at its core, God’s work and not ours.

Why Baptism Matters, Part 3

I’ve been writing about baptism this week. This Sunday is the Feast of the Baptism of Our Lord, which always falls on the first Sunday after the Epiphany. All of the readings and the collect seem focused on baptism, and, as I prepare to preach on Sunday, I’m enjoying an exploration of why baptism matters in the contemporary world. Monday, I wrote about distinguishing between the baptisms of John and Jesus. Yesterday, I wrote about baptism as a way of being claimed into the divine life of the Trinity. Today, I’m taking the end of yesterday’s post and expanding it to discuss infant baptism.

A short while ago, my friend and colleague Steve Pankey wrote an Advent blog piece about Mary. He started by identifying himself as one who “tend[s] to skew to the low-church side of Anglicanism.” Although the post was a great take on reclaiming the importance of Mary in our Protestant, low-church tradition, there was a line in his low-church résumé introduction that has stuck with me for these last few weeks: “I love the sacraments of the Church, but I don’t believe that baptism is, in and of itself salvific…” That claim has been rolling around in my head ever since. I like it, and, although it’s not really fair to take a part of someone’s work that wasn’t actually the focus of that work at all and make it something worth picking at, I want to use that as a starting point for my take on infant baptism.

For starters, let me say that in the lineup of churchpersonship (is that really a word?) I’m standing right next to Steve (he just cringed a little bit). I, also, don’t believe that sprinkling water on someone’s head in the name of Father, Son, and Spirit in and of itself has a salvific effect. I don’t believe that the taint of original sin has stained the souls of little babies and that the only thing that can wash it off is the holy water of baptism. (I should note that I do believe in original sin and that a tiny infant is just as sinful as a grown-up axe murderer, but I don’t think that the act of baptizing someone is what “fixes” that inherited condition. Now, it may take me a while to get to that point, so please be patient.)

So what is baptism? Personally, I believe that God’s love is what saves us. “For God so loved the world…” is a pretty good place to start. God loves us enough to send his Son to earth. God loves us enough to die on the cross. God loves us enough to redeem us from the wages of our sin through the power of resurrection. And baptism is a way of expressing all of that. Let me say that another way: baptism is a way of demonstrating God’s unrestricted, unmerited, unreserved, undeserved, unbreakable, unstoppable love for us. It isn’t a way to make that love happen. And it isn’t a way to distinguish between those whom God loves and doesn’t love. Baptism is merely a way to show us and the world just how much God loves us.

We are baptized into Christ’s death and resurrection. As such, when we emerge from the waters of baptism (symbolically for those of us who were sprinkled or splashed, which is to say most of us), we hear God say to us the same thing that he said to Jesus at the Jordan River: “You are my beloved son/daughter. With you I am well pleased.” As we say in the proper preface for Baptism, which I’m a little surprised isn’t the appropriate preface for this Sunday, “…in Jesus Christ our Lord you have received us as your sons and daughters…” Baptism isn’t magic. Baptism is a sacrament, which means it is a way in which human beings encounter and experience a divine grace. It doesn’t manufacture the grace, but it does convey it. It might convey the grace, but it isn’t the sole source of it. In our baptism, we experience God’s love for us as his beloved children, but God doesn’t wait to recognize that fact until after we are baptized. That’s silly. We don’t believe in adoptionism for Jesus. Why would we believe in it for ourselves?

So why infant baptism? Because God’s love isn’t dependent on us. Baptism is the purest expression of God’s grace-filled love for humanity. We don’t prove ourselves to God before we are baptized. God proves his love for us in our baptism. If we believe in grace, then we believe that salvation doesn’t depend on us. And, if salvation doesn’t depend on us, we must believe that God’s saving grace isn’t contingent upon anything we do or say or think or even believe. Think about that for a second. God loves you whether you know it or not. God loves you whether you believe in him or not. If God’s love is the only thing that can save us, then why have we convinced ourselves that salvation is some transaction between God and those who say the right words or believe the right thing? Yes, belief and confession are integral to our ability to know and respond to God’s love (see Monday’s post), but God loves us first. Everything else is just responding to it.

That’s the beauty of infant baptism. In a little child’s baptism, we are declaring to a baby, to the baby’s parents, to the church, and to the whole world that God loves this child even before this child is old enough to know who God is or what love is or why Jesus Christ is the representation of God’s love for the world. To withhold baptism from infants and to claim that only those who are old enough to make a mature profession of faith is to make salvation a work. They rob the grace right out of the gospel. Or, at the very least, they fail to live fully into the grace of the gospel.

Be radically grace-filled. Let God’s love be the beginning and end of salvation. Think about baptism not as a magic trick that gets a kid into heaven but as a testament to God’s love. Does God love us whether we are baptized or not? Of course he does. Does God love us whether we believe in him or not? Absolutely. When you next find yourself at an infant baptism, take a look at what is really happening—not merely a Christ-mandated tradition or a ontological soul-washing but a visible, tangible, real expression of a love over which we have absolutely no control. God’s love is poured out on all of us just as it is poured out on that infant’s forehead—indiscriminately and richly.

Why Baptism Matters, Part 2

Yesterday I began the series on why baptism matters by using Sunday's New Testament reading (Acts 19:1-7) to explore the difference between the baptism of John and baptism into Jesus Christ, which comes with the gifts of the Spirit. I argued that most Christians I know (often myself, too) think of baptism as a moment in the past rather than an initiation into a Spirit-led life. You can read that post here.

Today, I want to come at baptism from a different angle--a Trinitarian approach. In the rambling introduction to my post yesterday (pretty often I start these things not knowing where they will end up), I touched on the different accounts of Jesus' baptism and noted that Mark, unlike the other gospellers, doesn't go to great lengths to mitigate the confusing nature of the sinless Christ seeking a baptism of repentance (see Sunday's reading of Mark 1:4-11). Bottom line: why would Jesus need to be baptized? We don't believe in adoptionism (a heresy that says Jesus became God's son at a specific moment in time), so the baptism isn't about a fundamental change in Jesus' relationship with God the Father. We know that Jesus was born without the stain of original sin (to use some antiquated language that conveys a relevant theology by using anachronistic terminology), so he didn't need it washed away. So why did Jesus come to the Jordan River to be baptized by John?

I think there are two reasons--one psychological and one theological. First, one can argue that Jesus came to the river to model for us the importance of baptism. Although he didn't necessarily need it, we needed him to show us how it's done. Jesus is the pattern of obedience. His baptism is the initiation of his ministry, and, by undergoing baptism, he shows us that we need to follow his example. That leads to the second point, which is that Jesus' baptism also shows us that it is through baptism that our participation in the divine life of the Trinity becomes possible. (Hang with me for a moment, patient reader. I'll get past the seminary gobbledygook shortly.)

In this moment of Jesus' baptism, we encounter explicitly the three persons of the Holy Trinity--Father, Son, Spirit--for the first time. This is the moment when God's Trinitarian nature is first revealed to his people. The Son is baptized, and the Spirit descends, while the Father's voice speaks. What was implicit in the creation narrative (see Sunday's reading of Genesis 1:1-5), becomes explicit in this encounter. The Trinity means that God is relational. For God to be love, God cannot only be unitary. Yes, God is one, but God is also three (in one). That means that we can know God's love as real and not just analogy. Jesus' baptism shows us that God is Trinity, and, as such, it also invites us to discover our own place in the divine life as we follow Jesus' example.

Baptism matters because it is the way in which we discover that God invites us into relationship with him. By following Jesus' example, we, too, receive the anointing of the Holy Spirit, and we, too, hear the Father say to us, "You are my beloved child." Baptism is the principle means by which we discover that God loves us not because of who we are but because of who God is. That is why we name that we are baptized into Christ's death and resurrection. It is his accomplishment that makes it possible for God to say to us, "You are my beloved child. With you I am well pleased."

Tomorrow, I'll take this a step further and argue why infant baptism matters. Then, on Thursday, I'll look at why baptism is and should remain the prerequisite for the reception of Communion. Fun, huh? Bring on General Convention 2015!

Why Baptism Matters, Part 1

Every year, on the first Sunday after January 6, we celebrate the baptism of Jesus. It’s a curious thing, really. Why did Jesus need to be baptized? Why would the sinless one undergo the baptism of repentance at the hands of John the Baptizer? Matthew and Luke (and even John in his own way) invite the reader to see this confusing detail by interposing a conversation between the cousins, during which John initially objects to the thought of baptizing Jesus, but Mark just gives it the way it was. Jesus came to the Jordan. That was the place where people were discovering anew what it meant to be servants of God. Jesus, himself, was to begin his ministry in that place and in that movement before inaugurating a new way of following the Lord.

This Sunday, as we gather at the banks of the Jordan River to watch Jesus be immersed below the stream, we will hear what we already know: the voice of God confirming that Jesus is God’s beloved Son. With the first few verses of Genesis still ringing in our ears, we will encounter the revelation of all three persons of the Trinity in the great Theophany as the Son comes up from the water, sees the Spirit descending, and hears the Father’s voice. We will walk away with our hearts filled with the joy of seeing Jesus “proclaimed” and “anointed” as we pray in the Collect.

Everything about these lessons seems to plunge us again into baptism. Maybe that’s why I’m drawn to the lesson from Acts (19:1-7). Of all the readings, it seems most to be about us—about why this yearly remembrance has anything to do with twenty-first-century Christians.

When he came to Ephesus, Paul encountered some disciples. At this point the church was spreading quickly—more quickly than the hierarchy could move. Paul asked if they had received the Holy Spirit, and their reply casts a damning pall upon the evangelistic efforts of the early church: “We have not even heard that there is a Holy Spirit.” Immediately, Paul turns to baptism and asks, “Into what were you baptized?” and they reply, “Into John’s baptism.” Then, Paul makes the critical distinction that is, for us, the difference between night and day, between life and death: “John baptized with the baptism of repentance, telling the people to believe in the one who was to come after him, that is, in Jesus.” As soon as these disciples were baptized into the name of Jesus and Paul laid his hands on them, they received the Holy Spirit and began speaking in tongues and prophesying.

That’s us. Or at least it’s supposed to be.

Has your baptism filled you with the Holy Spirit? The answer is “yes” even if you didn’t realize it. We’re not going to re-baptize anyone. That’s heresy. But have you claimed the power of the Holy Spirit that was bestowed upon you at baptism? Is your baptism bearing fruit in your life? Or is it merely a moment in the past? Is it merely a “wash this original sin off so that I can get into heaven?” If you’re not living into your baptism every single day, you’re ignoring what it means to be a follower of Christ.

As a damning criticism of the evangelism of the modern church, most of us, I fear, would identify with those disciples in Ephesus. We live as if our baptism were a moment in the past. We live as if it were the baptism of John rather than a baptism into Christ's death and resurrection and, thus, into the power of the Holy Spirit.

On this Sunday, it seems fitting to undertake the Renewal of Baptismal Vows (BCP p. 292), which includes the Baptismal Covenant, instead of saying the Nicene Creed—a switch that is authorized on page 312 of the Book of Common Prayer. I feel a sermon on baptismal theology coming on. The trick this week will be to narrow it down to something less than 30 minutes. I’ve got sacrament and baptism and salvation and regeneration and original sin and spiritual gifts and free will and divine providence and Eucharistic admission and lots of others things floating around in my mind. I like the kinds of weeks when I have too much to say and get to struggle with what to leave it. Those usually end up better than getting through the week wondering if I have anything to say at all.

Joseph: Hero of Faithfulness

January 4, 2015 – 2^nd Sunday after Christmas Day, Year B

Jeremiah 31:7-14; Ephesians 1:3-6, 15-19a; Matthew 2:13-23

© 2015 Evan D. Garner



Audio of this sermon can be heard here.

 

On Friday afternoon, Frances and I drove to Tuscaloosa to watch the basketball game between Alabama and North Florida. On the way there, we passed some places that have been important in our family’s history. First, we drove by Birmingham-Southern, where both her mother and I went to college. Then, as we continued down the interstate, we passed by Ensley, where Elizabeth’s family’s grocery store, Graffeo Brothers, once stood. Finally, we passed by the U. S. Steel mill in Fairfield, where my father and grandfather used to work. At each point of interest, with a reminiscent tear in my eye (well, maybe half of a tear), I nostalgically described what it was and why it was significant to our family. And Frances’ response was, “What is steel?”

I laughed a little bit at the contrast between her pragmatic musing and my schmaltzy remembrance. I explained that steel was a kind of metal and that a mill was the place where that metal was manufactured. Then, she asked, “Is that why Superman is called ‘the man of steel?’” And I began to explain that steel is a particularly strong and hard metal and that “man of steel” did not mean that Superman was literally made of metal but that he was notably strong and hard. I started to explain that there are different measures for strength and hardness and that alloys like steel succeed by incorporating the strength of metals like tungsten and the hardness of metals like chromium, but she had already moved on. She was more interested in talking about Superman’s other super powers.

We talked about that for a while and about some of our other favorite super-heroes, and that got me thinking: what sort of super hero would I be? I’m not particularly strong, and there’s nothing fast about me—expect maybe my speech. Maybe there’s room in Marvel’s line-up for a super-hero that’s really good with budgets or maybe one who likes to argue esoteric theological points that have little or no bearing on daily life. Who wants to buy a comic about an argumentative clergyperson who dazzles his foes with interlinked spreadsheets? Yeah, no one. No one dreams up super-heroes who are super-normal.

The same is true for the heroes in the bible. Their stories are some of the first ones we learn in church because they amaze us: David and Goliath, Noah and the ark, Ezekiel and the prophets of Baal, Rahab the spy-harboring harlot, Jael the tent-peg-wielding killer. Some of them are known for their feats of strength. Others are known for bravely standing up for God’s people. Some use their brains to trick their adversaries while others use their voice to proclaim God’s message.

And that brings us to my favorite biblical hero of all: Joseph, the Galilean carpenter. What did he do? Well, not much really. In fact, he’s better known for what he didn’t do than for anything he accomplished. Namely, when his fiancée announced that she was pregnant by another source, Joseph, encouraged by the appearance of an angel in his dream, decided not to divorce her. Meek and unassuming, he accepted that his bride would bear the son of another because it was part of God’s plan.

So maybe it shouldn’t surprise us that, when threatened by King Herod’s violent temper, Joseph, a biblical antihero of sorts, took his family and ran away. He did not organize a resistance against Herod’s evil plot. He did not lead a rebellion against the tyrant who slaughtered those innocent children. He did not stand up for the nameless victims whose lives were cut short because Herod’s jealous rage had been provoked by his own stepson’s birth. Instead, he gathered his wife and infant child and escaped to Egypt, where they laid low until it was safe to return.

Does it bother anybody that that’s how God’s plan worked out—that the birth of God’s own son would lead to such violence and tragedy yet God’s instructions to Joseph were to turn tail and run? Couldn’t God have made it happen another way? Couldn’t he have told Joseph to gather his friends and relatives and lead a crusade against Herod? Wouldn’t God have been able to bring victory to even a rag-tag guerrilla force led by Joseph, the direct descendant of King David? Or couldn’t Joseph at least have stood up in the Jerusalem square and proclaimed the injustice of Herod’s tyrannical plot and trusted that God would strike Herod down with a plague or an illness or an otherwise untimely death so that such a horrible event as the murder of every male child two-years-old or younger in the vicinity of Bethlehem would be averted?

Why? Why this way? Why this plan? Why must God’s story of salvation unfold upon the sacrifice of so many innocent lives? Why? Because God’s power is expressed in ways that the world cannot recognize. It does not come with force or violence or victory in the earthly sense. Instead, the power of God’s kingdom is manifested principally in weakness. God power does not overthrow the powers of this world by force; it subverts them through a king whose crown was made of thorns and whose throne was a hard wooden cross. In other words, God’s triumph comes not as an expression of might but as a testament of quiet, patient, faithful love.

Joseph’s justly deserved heroic status is not tied to super-human strength or astounding bravery. He is not known for a military victory or a rousing political success. Joseph exemplifies biblical heroism because of his faithfulness. And that is the only measure by which the heroes of the bible are reckoned. All of them—great and small—are celebrated for their faithfulness. And what does it mean to be faithful but to trust that God will bring his people to that promised place of peace even though the powers of this world seem stacked against them? Faith is not waiting for your day in the sun. We, the people of God, are not waiting for our savior to flex his muscles and defeat our enemies. We are waiting and watching and hoping for peace—nothing more than peace.

No, that isn’t really satisfying in the human sense. We’d rather win and rub our enemies’ noses in it. We’d rather God show up now and make sure that the people who want to do us harm are defeated before they even start. But that isn’t how and where and when God shows up. Instead, we must wait with the patience of Joseph. We must believe that the evil of this world—no matter how great—can have no effect on the power of God’s kingdom and his plan of salvation. And that is why our hope is in the cross…because even when the powers of this world give God their very worst, God brings it to victory. Let that be your hope. Even when all that is wrong in this world seems to have turned against you, believe that there is nothing that can get in the way of God’s plan for your life. Have faith that God is with you in your struggles and that in his perfect time he will guide you into his place of peace.