Walking Hope

Matthew 4:12-32

Now, when Jesus heard that John had been arrested he withdrew to Galilee. He left Nazareth and made his home in Capernaum, in the territory of Zebulun and Naphtali, so that what had been spoken by the prophet might be fulfilled:

“Land of Zebulun, land of Naphtali, on the road by the sea, across the Jordan – Galilee of the Gentiles. Those who sat in darkness have seen a great light; those in the region and the shadow of death, on theme light has shined.”

From that time, Jesus began to proclaim, “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.”

As he walked along the Sea of Galilee, he saw two brothers, Simon, who is called Peter and Andrew, his brother, casting a net into the lake – for they were fishermen. He said to them, “Follow me and I’ll make you fish for people.” Immediately, they left their nets and followed him. As he walked along a little further, he saw two other brothers, James the son of Zebedee, and his brother John, in the boat with their father, mending their nets, and he called them. Immediately, they left the boat and their father, and followed him.

And Jesus went throughout Galilee, teaching in their synagogues and proclaiming the good news of the kingdom, and curing every disease and every sickness among the people.

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I have those walking monks from Texas on the brain lately. They are inspiring a piece of what we hope to do together during Lent in a few weeks, which you’ll hear about soon enough. But I they came to mind as I read this morning’s Gospel story about Jesus, making his way around Galilee.

Surely, you’ve heard about the Buddhist monks from Fort Worth, Texas. They’ve been “walking for peace” since October, with plans to make their way to Washington, D.C., sometime in February. 2,300 miles, I believe. Just walking. Stopping every once in a while to give talks about what they’re up to – which is nothing more and nothing less than walking as an invitation to and witness about being mindful of peace and compassion. They’ve been compelled and inspired, of course, by a world – and our nation, in particular – that displays the opposite of those things, too much of the time; peace and compassion, I mean.

So, they’re just walking. And passing out prayer cords and flowers along the way. Shining a light on the call to be generous and deliberate about loving-kindness.

Just walking. With their rescue dog Aloka, who walks faithfully along with them, and who has almost 700,000 followers on Facebook.

Just walking. Even though at least one of them was injured along the way, after being hit by a car, and having his leg amputated.

Just walking. Receiving the grace and generosity of strangers in the form of food and water and blessings of support and encouragement.

Just walking. And gathering crowds as they go – in fits and starts – in various places; in all kinds of weather; sometimes a dozen or so; sometimes it looks like hundreds or thousands walking along with them.

And all of it made me wonder about what we just heard about the beginning of Jesus’ ministry – and if it started out just as simply and profoundly – with him just walking.

When Jesus heard that John the Baptist had been arrested – which we know happened because John had spoken out against King Herod’s unlawful behavior – Jesus likely felt like things had taken a turn in his world … that things had taken a turn, perhaps, in the world at large … to the point that he may not have felt safe or settled anymore in his hometown of Nazareth … maybe that he just couldn’t sit still any longer …

In fact, while Matthew’s Gospel says that Jesus “left” Nazareth, we know from Luke’s Gospel that there was more to it than that. Jesus actually got run out of town. He was kicked out of Nazareth. His hometown friends, family, and neighbors threatened to hurl him off a cliff, remember – because Jesus had the nerve to proclaim good news for the poor and recovery of sight for the blind; because he promised release for captives and freedom for the oppressed; because he reminded people about God’s prophets doing ministry with – caring for – loving – and tending to – the outsiders, the outcasts, and the foreigners in Minneapolis … I mean the outsiders, the outcasts, and the foreigners in their midst.

But when he was threatened with that cliff after standing up for foreigners, outsiders and outcasts, the Gospel says Jesus “passed through the midst of them and went on his way.”

He just walked.

And in today’s Gospel, Jesus is just getting started. I imagine him walking alone when he meets Simon and Andrew – that first set of brothers who leave their nets and tag along, with the simple curiosity of what it might mean to “fish for people,” instead of, say, small mouth bass, for a change. And then Jesus gathers up James and John, who leave their boat and their dad behind, to go wherever Jesus was headed next.

And maybe all of that is why some followed and some didn’t. Maybe Zebedee was just too old for all of that walking. Maybe Zebedee wanted his boys to get out of the house, off the payroll, and about their own business for a change. Or, maybe Zebedee – like all those people in Jesus’ hometown – wasn’t on board with everything Jesus was preaching and teaching and calling them toward: release for the captive, freedom for the oppressed, care for the widow and the orphan, concern for the outcast, the immigrant, and the resident aliens in their midst.

All of this is to say that this way Jesus was walking – and calling his followers to follow – was a hard one. It was counter-cultural and anti-establishment. It was dangerous and lonely, at times. It was not for the faint of heart. It was open-hearted and gracious to a fault. It was not popular or powerful – it was worthless and weak by the world’s standards.

But it was full of hope … hope that in spite of the brokenness of the world … that precisely because of the world’s brokenness … the kingdom of heaven had come near, in Jesus. Hope … that just like before … those who sat in darkness had seen a great light. Hope … that just like before … those who sat in the region and the shadow of death … would have the light of God shine upon them, again.

We could surely use some light to shine in our darkness right about now. We could surely use some hope in the face of the bad news, the violence, the lies, the unnecessary and unwarranted death and despair that seem to be winning the day for so many.

And I heard someone say recently that “hope is not something you HAVE, it’s something you DO.”

“Hope is not something you HAVE, it’s something you DO.”

And that’s what I see in those walking monks … and it’s what I imagine Jesus was up to as he walked, too: holding out hope – for himself as he worried about John the Baptist’s arrest; manifesting hope – as he grieved the loss of his hometown and their threats against him; holding out hope - as he saw the struggle and suffering of the hurting world around him; manifesting hope – for those who dared to walk with him for all of the above, and for all of us, just the same.

I know it’s not enough all of the time – just walking certainly doesn’t feel like enough for many of us these days. And I know there won’t be a lot of walking in the storm and snow that has covered so much of our country this weekend. But let’s follow Jesus when and however we’re able – with actions that hold out and that manifest hope – in the face of what can be so disheartening so much of the time.

When things seem so frustrating, so fearful, so hopeless, imagine that HOPE isn’t something you HAVE or something you can LOSE, even. Imagine, instead, that HOPE is something we can DO.

So let us worship, learn and serve. Let us pray and be generous and kind. Let us walk and march for peace whenever the opportunity presents itself. And let us repent, too, that thing today’s Gospel says Jesus couldn’t shut up about once he started making his way around Galilee. “Repent for the kingdom of heaven has come near.”

Repent for the things we’ve said and left unsaid.

Repent for the things we’ve done and left undone.

Repent for the actions we’ve taken and for the apathy we’ve shown.

Repent for the ways we’ve ignored Jesus’ invitation to follow him with faith, courage, justice, and love for all people.

Let’s repent because it means to change; because it means to turn around; because it means to do better now that we know better. Repent, because it means to exercise the Christ-like qualities of sacrifice, surrender, and humility.

Let us repent, as a supreme act of faith, not because we HAVE to, but because we GET to. Repent, not full of shame or full of guilt or despair. But, let us repent and be filled with HOPE for the grace, mercy, forgiveness, and CHANGE that will come when we let the love of God, in Jesus, have its way with us, with our neighbor, with our enemies, and with the world God so loves.

Amen.

Vows of the Peacock and Baptismal Variety

Matthew 3:13-17

Then Jesus came from Galilee to John at the Jordan, to be baptized by him.

John would have prevented him, saying, ‘I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?’

But Jesus answered him, ‘Let it be so now; for it is proper for us in this way to fulfil all righteousness.’ Then he consented.

And when Jesus had been baptized, just as he came up from the water, suddenly the heavens were opened to him and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and alighting on him.

And a voice from heaven said, ‘This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.’

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We don’t like resolutions anymore. In fact, most of us probably didn’t make a single one this year.

Pew Research Center found that about 70 percent of Americans skipped resolutions altogether. When asked why, more than half simply said, “We don’t like them.” And honestly, I’m with them. Most of our resolutions have become predictable, boring, and very inward-focused. Just listen to the top five resolutions according to a survey done by You Gov.

• Exercising more

• Being happy

• Eating healthier

• Saving more money

• Losing weight

You probably could’ve guessed them. But these days self-improvement isn’t just the focus of our resolutions: it’s the focus of our whole society. We’re surrounded by a culture that tells us we are always one habit, one purchase, one routine away from becoming a better version of ourselves.

Social media feeds us an endless stream of trends, all built on the same promise: if you work harder, focus more, and optimize your time, you will finally be okay.

Nearly all of it tells us to cut out distractions — like the people in our lives — so we can walk with a weighted vest and drink mushroom coffee till we are entirely better people, physically and mentally.

Who has time for New Year’s resolutions when the pressure to improve is nonstop? But resolutions weren’t always this way. In fact, for most of their long history, they were almost the opposite of what we know today.

The practice goes back thousands of years. In ancient Babylon and Rome, people made vows at religious festivals that were meant to strengthen the whole community: praying together, settling debts, promising to live well with their neighbors and their gods. Even as recently as the 1940s, resolutions were still mostly about how to be a better person with other people.

A Gallup poll from 1947 found the top three resolutions were to improve my disposition, be more understanding, and control my temper. That’s a very different vision of change than losing weight, getting rich, or optimizing yourself.

My favorite legend about New Year’s resolutions is the Vow of the Peacock, told of medieval knights.

They would gather for a grand feast, and at the center of it all was a peacock: roasted, re-dressed in its dazzling feathers, and carried through the hall. One by one, knights would rise and make their vows upon the bird, speaking promises of chivalry before everyone present. These were not modest intentions, but aspirational, even risky commitments: to courage, loyalty, and love.

The Vow of the Peacock, more legend than ledger, shows us what people once believed promises were supposed to be: public, costly, witnessed, and binding; not private acts of self-improvement, but commitments made for the sake of others.

And that turns out to be exactly the kind of vow Jesus steps into at the Jordan River.

Because when Jesus comes to be baptized, he is not trying to become a better version of himself.

He is stepping into a shared, public act: one that binds him to sinners, to repentance, and to the people he has come to save.

That’s why we get baptism so wrong when we treat it like a spiritual achievement, something you earn once you’ve spiritually improved enough to be worthy. That’s not what’s happening at the Jordan at all.In fact, at this point in Jesus’ life, he had done nothing. No miracles. No healings. No teachings. And yet God says to everyone gathered, “This is my Son, my Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.”

God doesn’t say, “This is my Son, who kept all his resolutions, who eats the right amount of protein, and walks on water.” There is none of that. No self-improvement, no spiritual résumé, but still called beloved.So if this baptism isn’t about self-improvement or earning anything, what is Jesus doing in the water?

First, he is doing this for us and with us. By stepping into the Jordan, Jesus is saying, “I am in this with you — all of you who repent, all who need forgiveness, everyone trying to turn toward God.” He does not stand above us, but with us. That’s why Jesus tells John, “It is proper for us to fulfill all righteousness.” He chooses not to go it alone. He includes John in the work God is doing. This baptism is a radical act of solidarity, showing us how Jesus will bring about the kingdom of heaven, by working in, with, and through people.

And that righteousness doesn’t stay with Jesus. The righteousness he fulfills in those waters is given to us in ours. In baptism, our sins are forgiven and we are set back into right relationship with God and with creation. That’s why, at every baptism, and every time you remember your own, you should hear God’s voice echoing over you:

“This is my child, my beloved, with whom I am well pleased.”

With you. God is well pleased.

We don’t need resolutions to be worthy of anything, no matter what the trends and ads tell us.

What we do need, believe it or not, are peacock vows. I know that sounds strange. We don’t need to swear chivalry on a bird. But we do need public promises made for the good of our neighbors: the kind that say, out loud and together, “I’m not just here to improve my own life. I’m here for yours.”

The good news is we don’t need to be medieval knights or stage a ceremony with a roasted bird — even though that does sound fun. What we already have are our baptismal vows: promises made to God, to one another, and for the sake of the world.

In the Lutheran tradition, many of us were baptized as infants, when others made those promises on our behalf. But at some point — at confirmation, or later in life — we take those vows as our own:

to live among God’s faithful people,

to hear God’s Word and share in communion,

to proclaim the good news of Christ in word and deed,

to serve all people as Jesus does,

and to strive for justice and peace in all the earth.

Yes, keeping these promises will shape you. But their real purpose is to bless others: just like Jesus’ baptism, and even those old peacock vows. And we know that resolutions made with others and for others are the ones that last.

So here is what I’m asking of you this year: instead of self-improvement resolutions, tend to your baptismal vows. Not for you, but for God and for this world God so loves. Because what this world needs right now is not one more upper-middle-class person chasing a wellness trend or a bigger bank account.

In a world that is lonely and anxious, it needs people who will live among and beside their neighbors.

In a world flooded with bad news, it needs people who hear and carry the good news of God.

In a world that is bitterly divided, it needs people who serve all, especially the scared and the oppressed.

And in a world marked by violence and injustice, it needs people who strive for justice and peace — in their hearts, their homes, their streets, and their nation.

So now I invite you to rise. Today, on this Baptism of Our Lord Sunday, I’m going to ask you to affirm the covenant God made with you in Holy Baptism. After each promise, if it is your intent, please respond, “Yes, and I ask God to help me.”

Will you live among God’s faithful people…

Will you hear the word of God and share in the Lord’s supper…

Will you proclaim the good news of God in Christ through word and deed…

Will you serve all people, following the example of Jesus…

And will you strive for Justice and peace in all the earth?...

Siblings in Christ, these are not modest intentions, but aspirational, even risky, commitments to community, justice, and grace. When we fail, come back to the water. Remember your baptism. Hear God’s promise again: You are my child. With you I am well pleased.

And if you have not yet been baptized, come talk with me. Because we need you. The world needs you. And Jesus has bound himself to you. Together, we will fulfill all righteousness.

Amen.