Mark 1:4-11

John the baptizer appeared in the wilderness, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins. And people from the whole Judean countryside and all the people of Jerusalem were going out to him, and were baptized by him in the river Jordan, confessing their sins. Now John was clothed with camel’s hair, with a leather belt around his waist, and he ate locusts and wild honey. He proclaimed, “The one who is more powerful than I is coming after me; I am not worthy to stoop down and untie the thong of his sandals. I have baptized you with water; but he will baptize you with the Holy Spirit.”

In those days Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan. And just as he was coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending like a dove on him. And a voice came from heaven, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.”

On Wednesday we all witnessed a historic, unprecedented, and horrific event as fellow American citizens stormed the US Capitol building in a deadly attempt to thwart democracy.

Also on Wednesday, the Western Christian church entered the liturgical season of Epiphany – a season dedicated to the idea that God’s presence and goodness is being unveiled, revealed, shown to the nations of the earth. Light, in the midst of darkness. Order out of chaos.

The gospel text for the day of the Epiphany of our Lord this past Wednesday was the story of the magi presenting themselves and their gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh to the Holy Family. Their journey takes place under the orders and watchful gaze of an arrogant and entitled ruler who has received word that his political power will come to an end due to the birth of a new king. Herod’s solution to the threat of his power being taken away is a violent one: he has every male infant in the region murdered. He himself does not carry out the violence, but he entrusts his followers to use whatever violent means they see fit in order to accomplish this goal. They oblige.

The wise men, upon finding the Christ Child, do not return to Herod with news of the child’s location, but instead went home by another road – a beautiful and brilliant act of nonviolent resistance. The magi, those “wise” men, did their part to disengage from a pattern of destruction and take some violence out of circulation – a brave decision with history-altering ramifications.

The season of Epiphany begins with a warning about the horrific lengths that individuals intoxicated by worldly power will undertake when that power is threatened. The season also begins with the acknowledgment that nonviolence is the foundation of God’s kingdom.

The next Epiphany story – the next story about God’s presence and goodness being unveiled, revealed, shown to the nations of the earth – is what we heard today. John the Baptizer is calling people to repent – to do a 180-degree about-face with their lives – in order to be ready for the coming of salvation.

One among the crowd heeds the invitation and completely submerges in the cleansing waters of baptism. “And just as he was coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending like a dove on him. And a voice came from heaven, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.” His life would go on to prove that being loved by God is the true power of the universe and that love cannot be taken away.

I don’t remember my baptism, but I know without a doubt that water was poured over my head along with the declaration that God loves me. If you have been baptized, then you too have heard the words of God’s love for you. If you have witnessed the community gathered around the baptismal font and applauded as the baby, teen, or adult was presented to the community, then you have been reminded of the unique way that God’s love is expressed over and over again as those water drops fall off the forehead and return to the font. If you have experienced the pronouncement of God’s love for you, then you have within you the most powerful thing in the world and it is power that cannot be taken away.

Two Epiphany stories of two powerful men. Two totally different ways of reacting to God’s presence and offer of salvation. Herod was horrified; Jesus was humbled. Both were loved by God, but only one knew that God’s love was sufficient...that God’s love is the most powerful thing in the world and it is power that cannot be taken away.

World history is replete with stories of men who reacted violently when their worldly power and positions of privilege were threatened. The pages of scripture tell of scores of rulers, even God-fearing ones, who sought to preserve their power at all costs, even when it meant engaging in violence. Herod is simply one among many.

But we don’t worship the leaders who react violently when their positions of power and privilege are threatened. Instead, what unites us is our worship and adoration of the one who was humble enough to be washed, who rejected worldly power and false idols, who identified with society’s outcasts and gave them hope.

We worship the one who was executed by the violent power-hungry rulers and structures of the world. And we worship the one who rose from the dead, proving once and for all the complete futility of worldly power.

Why, then, was Christian imagery referencing the prince of peace and the God of love found on the flags, clothes, signs, and lips of those who stormed the U.S. Capitol on Wednesday...those who express the sentiment that their worldly power and privilege is being stripped away? Why would the baptized and beloved of God resort to violence (or at least be a part of the mob that put others in harm’s way)?

As a representative of Christ’s church I have to publicly condemn not just their actions but the theology that contributed to their sense of right and wrong because it has more to do with Herod than Jesus.

Many Americans (though, sadly, not all) were quick to condemn the violence and lawbreaking that unfolded in our nation’s capital on Wednesday. However, those who participated in the insurgency are not the only elements that are to be condemned. As an assembly of people who profess to follow Christ above all else, we must all take the time to reflect on the ways in which we, too, are prone to react with violence when we feel that our power and privilege is being threatened. This is what it means to remember our baptism – to daily put to death that which seeks to displace God in our lives and daily to rise to new life as we focus on God alone.

The events of this week and the lives that were lost demand that each and every one of us take an honest look at how our actions are contributing to the violence that seems so readily-accessible today. In what ways do we feel our worldly power slipping away? To what lengths are we willing to go to prevent that from happening? And if our honest answer to that question scares us, we can remember our baptism and our belovedness. We can repent and return home by another way.

These are the early days of Epiphany. God’s presence and goodness is being unveiled, revealed, shown to the nations of the earth. Light, in the midst of darkness. Order out of chaos. We keep watch together. We keep watch over one another. And we do all we can to remind one another of our belovedness. That is the true power that cannot be taken away.

Amen.

I remember a day when most of us were gathered together here at Cross of Grace on a Sunday morning. The date was March 8, 2020 to be exact. It was a morning full of the usual Sunday morning buzz. The parking lot was full. People filled the sanctuary to sing, pray, listen, pass the peace, and take communion. Kids were in class down in the Sunday school wing. The narthex hosted many handshakes, hugs, and outbursts of laughter. In the fellowship hall, there was conversation over donuts and fair-trade coffee or chocolate milk. It was a usual Sunday morning at Cross of Grace.

In the midst of all that activity I was gathered with a small group in a walled-off room in the fellowship hall to continue our discussion of the book we had been reading: The Universal Christ by Richard Rohr. The last chapter we discussed that morning addressed the topic of suffering and it was titled “It Can’t Be Carried Alone.”

A few days after the events of the morning I just described, we made the difficult but necessary decision to temporarily halt in-person worship due to something being referred to as the Coronavirus. We realized there was a significant chance we might not be able to gather together for Easter Sunday. We had no idea what the next months would entail. The past nine months...well, they defy description. And you’ve lived through it, so you don’t need me to remind you of what we’ve been through...or what we still have to go through.

I feel like if I had been a little more self-aware, the chapter titled “It Can’t Be Carried Alone” could have had me well-positioned to deal with and adapt to the challenges of life and ministry in a pandemic world. But the turmoil was so abrupt and thoroughly disruptive that I didn’t give the contents of that chapter another thought after that Sunday. Instead, I guess you could say I tried to carry it alone...and let me tell you it has not gone well for me. These last few months have brought me into contact with some intense emotional pain from which I am still reeling.

In preparation for this Blue Christmas worship service I returned to that chapter in The Universal Christ, vaguely recalling that there were some important ideas there that I would do well to revisit. I re-read Richard Rohr’s first-person account of feeling the weight of the world’s suffering so profoundly that he became sad not just about one thing, but sad about everything. If you were here with me I’d ask for an “Amen” in response to that idea. We’ve been sad not just about one thing but about everything. Amen?

Richard Rohr claims the only way for him to make sense of great sadness is to remember that God also experiences and carries the weight of the world’s suffering. He writes, “Once I know that all suffering is both our suffering and God’s suffering, I can better endure and trust the desolations and disappointments that come my way.” (167)

From the beginning, God chose to be one with all of creation. God’s creation has never carried its suffering alone. Christ, the Son of God, has existed throughout history, independent of time and space; independent, and yet intimately connected to the fabric of being. Rohr invites us to think about the incarnation (or enfleshment of God) in two phases. The first incarnation is the beginning of everything...because everything bears the image of God; while the second incarnation is God’s participation in human life and death in the person of Jesus. When we celebrate the birth of the Son of God, Immanuel, God with us, we are celebrating something that happened two thousand years ago, as well as something that happened at the very beginning...of everything. And, it should be noted, something that continues to happen today. Still today, Christ is with us.

This pandemic is a new experience for everyone, except for Christ, who has experienced the suffering of God’s creation from the very beginning. So it makes sense, then, why it would be important not to try to carry our suffering alone. It can’t be carried alone. It was never meant for us to carry it alone. And we’re never alone.

You are not the only one who has experienced this pandemic and suffered through it. That’s not meant as a guilt-laden dismissal of what you’ve been through or are feeling, as though your experiences don’t matter because someone else has had it worse. You are not the only one who has experienced this pandemic and suffered through it. That’s simply a reminder that you’ve never been alone and whatever suffering you are carrying cannot be carried alone.

One of the gifts of Christian theology is the promise that God is with us in our suffering. God knows what it is like to suffer, to be rejected, to love, to lose a child, to watch as best laid plans fall by the wayside, to want so desperately to be close to someone who always remains at a distance. God does not wait until we get better, or achieve something, or become successful, or do it right; God does not wait for any of those things before showering us with divine love and grace.

Recall that Immanuel, God-with-us, little baby Jesus was born as a completely helpless newborn in a feeding trough in the middle of nowhere. God cannot become any more vulnerable than that. That newborn baby, divine as he may be, could not carry anything alone. And neither can we.

So, fix your eyes and your attention on that vulnerable Christ-child. “God is in a vulnerable newborn baby in a feeding trough. We need to see the mystery of incarnation in that one ordinary concrete moment, and struggle with, fight, resist, and fall in love with it there. What is true in one particular place finally universalizes and ends up being true everywhere.”

This is not the Christmas any of us would have wanted. But maybe this is exactly the type of Christmas that we were made for. Perhaps the gift of this difficult and unique pandemic Christmas is that we will realize anew that God carries all our pain and disappointment with us and, in so doing, shows us what it means to be the hands and feet of God for the sake of the world, helping one another shoulder the load, because we can’t carry it alone.

Amen. Come, Lord Jesus.