Baptized by Wildfires

Luke 3:15-17, 21-22

As the people were filled with expectation, and all were questioning in their hearts about John, whether he might be the Messiah, John answered all of them by saying, “I baptize you with water. One who is more powerful than I is coming. I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandal. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire. His winnowing fork is in his hand to clear his threshing floor and to gather the wheat into his granary; but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire.”

After all the people were baptized and after Jesus himself was baptized and praying, the heaven opened and the spirit descended upon him in bodily form, like a dove. And a voice came from heaven, “You are my Son, the beloved. With you I am well pleased.”

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It’s hard to wonder about “unquenchable fire” this morning without being mindful of what’s been burning in California all week – the houses and habitats, the landscape and livelihood, the lives of so many people and so much of God’s beautiful creation.

And I’ve spent a fair amount of time the last few days watching those rescue workers and firefighting aircraft douse those relentless flames with gallon after gallon after gallon after gallon of water and fire retardant, as people pray for some relief and some reprieve from the destruction of those wildfires – all of which is pretty hard to fathom, here in the frozen, cold, snow and ice of our Midwestern winter.

And I saw one story, in particular, about it all, that got my attention. A guy named Miro Freed, who used to work for the Forest Service as a Firefighter in California, but doesn’t any more, was able to save his home somewhere up in the highlands, or mountains, of Sierra Madre, from burning to dust like so many of the homes and businesses of his friends, family, and neighbors along the California coast. And he told a reporter how he did it.

Over the last five years, Freed has been doing what he called “fuel reduction” and creating what he called “defensible space,” around his home. From what I gathered, this means he got rid of certain kinds of plants and trees from around his house so that, should a fire come, they wouldn’t serve as kindling and fuel that would help to burn the structures on his property. Hence what he called, “fuel reduction.”

He also described literally raising up trees and bushes – the ones that remained a distance from his house – to a higher elevation from the land and plants beneath his on the mountain, so that, as a wildfire climbed up the hillside there would be less of a chance that it could reach – or that the flames would jump – to the plants and foliage and structures on his land. I imagine this “defensible space” amounts to a significantly vacant span of emptiness, for lack of a better description.

Of course, they also showed him soaking down all of the above – the trees, bushes, and foliage around his house – with a garden hose to keep the flames at bay, too.

And all of that guy’s pro-active, pre-emptive, thoughtful preparation helped remind me to think differently about John the Baptist – and all of his words and warnings down by the river on the day of Jesus’ baptism.

See, John always sounds so angry, doesn’t he? And he often gets portrayed that way, with all of his talk about winnowing forks and threshing floors; about burning chaff and unquenchable fires, I mean. (John, why are you mad … when you could be glad?)

Well, maybe John isn’t so mad, after all. Or angry, or as fire-and-brimstone as Christians have so often made him out to be. And, even more, maybe that’s not the way we’re supposed to imagine or receive the Jesus John was promising and pointing toward, either.

Teachers of religion – Christianity and otherwise – are so good at painting pictures of God as a finger-pointing, fire-wielding, people-punishing, power monger who gathers up the good and disregards the bad with no more than the brush of a hand. And custodians of Christianity have taken it upon themselves to do the same, by deciding and declaring – on behalf of Jesus – whoever or whatever doesn’t fit into what they believe to be Christian, or Christ-like, or whatever.

You know what I mean … whether it’s women being worthy of preaching the good news; LGBTQ folks being able to love who and how they were created to love; gate-keeping who can join a church, who’s ready for baptism, who’s allowed at the communion table, who’s forgivable, loveable, acceptable, worthy.

This is not how it’s supposed to be and I don’t believe this is what God wants us to hear when we read John’s warning about the coming of Jesus today. I don’t know what God’s “threshing floor” is supposed to look like, exactly – but I don’t believe that “chaff” has to be a metaphor for people. I believe “chaff” to God is the stuff in our lives that we might wish to be rid of, ourselves, if we could be honest and faithful about what hurts, harms, and keeps us from living our best lives as God’s children.

See, I wonder if John the Baptist was more like that guy in California – the former Firefighter – who’s just offering some practical, holy advice about how to live a life of faith that’s less likely to be consumed or disrupted or destroyed by the hard stuff that comes our way in this world?

What if John is talking about “fuel reduction,” too – getting rid of those things in our midst, close to our hearts and close to our homes, that threaten to consume us or others? What if he’s talking about creating “defensible spaces” between us and all of that which we know isn’t good, or righteous, or healthy, or holy for anybody?

And what if John is painting a picture of a God, in Jesus, who helps us, with great care and compassion, to remove the chaff from our lives that distracts us from God’s love, that keeps us from living well – anything that tempts us not to give or serve or love ourselves and our neighbor, just the same?

What if John is pointing to Jesus, the Messiah, as the one who invites and who helps people like you and me to leave behind the things that hold us captive, that keep us bound, that separate us from the fullness of life God intends for us all as God’s beloved children, with whom God is well-pleased?

And the variety of things that hold us captive are many – and as varied as the circumstances in the lives of those of us here. We are held captive by our fear of the unknown. We are held hostage by our grief. We are bound by the burden of the grudges we carry.

We’re captive, too, by systems of oppression that harm us all in the long run – but that do more damage to some than others. We are beholden to our greed, our jealousy, our hypocrisy, our intolerance, our privilege, our comfort, our self-interest, and our reluctance to repent and change, any number of those things enough of the time.

Some of us are trapped by a long, painful history of bad theology that has convinced us that we – or others – are unworthy of the divine love and mercy all of us long for.

Whatever the case, it’s all chaff, chaff, and more chaff. It harms us. It hurts our neighbor. It destroys community. It blunts our faith. And God knows it. And it deserves to be set ablaze by God’s Holy Spirit or doused and drowned by the waters of Holy Baptism.

I think that’s what John was offering, because I believe that’s what Jesus showed up to do – and does, still … not out of anger or for the sake of fear, but out of love and for the sake of hope – for us and for the whole wide world.

And that is the gift of baptism. It’s the hope of baptism for those who’ve already received it and it’s the promise of the sacrament, for those who are curious. It’s an invitation to let the love of God burn away whatever keeps you afraid or feeling less than or unloved or unworthy of God’s favor. It’s the promise of a grace so big that it drowns out and washes away whatever sin and brokenness the world pretends can separate you from the God who calls and considers you “Beloved,” already and always.

It is water and Word that means to bless your life on this side of heaven, just as much as whatever awaits you on the other side of life as we know it. And it’s the good news of a grace that will change us and transform the world when we receive and share it, fully, as God intends.

Amen.

Reflecting Light

John 1:1-18

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.

There was a man sent from God, whose name was John. He came as a witness to testify to the light, so that all might believe through him. He himself was not the light, but he came to testify to the light. The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world.

He was in the world, and the world came into being through him; yet the world did not know him. He came to what was his own, and his own people did not accept him. But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God, who were born, not of blood or of the will of the flesh or of the will of man, but of God.

And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth. (John testified to him and cried out, ‘This was he of whom I said, “He who comes after me ranks ahead of me because he was before me.” ’) From his fullness we have all received, grace upon grace. The law indeed was given through Moses; grace and truth came through Jesus Christ. No one has ever seen God. It is God the only Son, who is close to the Father’s heart, who has made him known.

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Everything is in crisis now. Or at least that's how it feels. And I don’t mean that flippantly. As we look back on 2024, there were and still are crises that touch nearly every aspect of life and corner of the world. There’s the climate crisis, with 2024 being called the hottest year on record. All last year we heard about the crisis of democracy leading up to the election. There’s the immigration crisis, the housing crisis, and humanitarian crises too many to count.

Last month, we talked about the communication crisis—our inability to talk and see one another—which is connected to the social media crisis, the loneliness crisis, and the mental health crisis, especially among teens.

Not to mention the crisis of the church, with a new report from Gallup just a few days ago saying that communal worship is at an all-time low. Undoubtedly, there are more that come to your mind. And when you think of all these crises, the world seems like a dark, dark place.

It’s easy to think that by calling something a crisis, everyone else will understand it as such. We assume they’ll drop everything and urgently do all they can to address the problem. Nat Kendall-Taylor, a communications specialist, put it this way in a recent New York Times article,

“There’s this expectation that, ‘if only people knew how bad the problem was, they would trip over themselves, running to support my initiative.’” But is that how it works?

All around us, people are yelling about another crisis and how terrible things are. Then there’s a command: “Do this, or the world—or people—be damned.” And while they may be right, people don’t like being told what to do. If anything, all the noise wears us out. As Kendall-Taylor put it, “We tire very quickly of being told that everything is on fire,” because it makes the world seem beyond repair and convinces us that nothing we do will make a difference. Naming crises without more leaves us feeling like, well, how the law makes us feel.

“The law indeed was given through Moses,” writes John. The law is all the commands and rules given to not only the Israelites but to us too, so that we live as God’s holy people—set apart from everyone else, yet a blessing to them at the same time. Think of the 10 commandments, or the command to love God and love your neighbor, or the commands for justice.

For generations, the Israelites tried to keep the law and do all the commands, but they never did. It was always God forgiving, renewing, and upholding their relationship. We know what that’s like. We try to do all those things and fail just the same. The law though was never meant to be the ladder by which people climbed out of their darkness to God. It was the thing that showed our need for God to come down into our darkness. If all we had was the law, we’d be left in despair, knowing we can’t keep it, that we are helpless when left to ourselves.

That’s how I feel about all these crises, too! They point out how bad things are and give commands, but leave us feeling in despair; like the darkness is not only all around, but has made its way into our hearts too; because not only can we do nothing to stop the crisis, nothing and no one can help us either.

Yet there is something that can help our fatalism, and the world’s too. Rather than simply alerting everyone to a crisis, Kendall-Taylor suggests, “A far better strategy for instilling urgency and inspiring action toward a problem is to show people that real solutions lie at the ready.”

Give a solution to the darkness. Share a story that inspires action! In other words, after the law, tell the good news.

Nativity at Night by Geertgen tot Sint Jans

And the good news for us and for all the world is that God couldn’t leave us to a darkness of our own making. So God entered our darkness to give us light. “The law indeed was given through Moses; grace and truth came through Jesus Christ.” Grace always follows the law because grace is what saves us. So often, we think of grace as a thing, but it’s not. Grace is a person. And grace comes to us as a baby in a manger, giving not just us but all of creation life and light.

It is the light of Jesus that dispels all the darkness. Not even the darkness of death could stop it from shining.

But in the manger, the light doesn’t look all that bright. If you look at many of the masterpiece paintings of the nativity, like this one by Geertgen tot Sint Jans, you see small rays of light coming from the manger. Everything else around it is dark, illumined only by how close it is to the manger. That captures the truth of what God’s coming into the world means for us and the darkness all around.

We are not the light of the world. Our job is not to expel all the darkness in the world. We can’t even get rid of the darkness in our hearts, let alone someone else’s. No, our job is to get as close to the manger as we can. And by doing that, we reflect the light of Jesus Christ in the darkest of places.That’s the story we have to share: one of light coming into our darkness, of abundant grace when it’s least deserved, of a loving God who would not and will not leave us to face our crises alone.

Our job is to reflect the light, to come close to the manger, to share the grace and truth we have seen and received through Jesus Christ. And I see that light reflected here, like in your generosity as you helped our grace quest kids hit their fundraising goal and in just one month you gave nearly $9,000 to help people quite literally living in darkness recover. I hear about the light shining through the service of our agape ministry, in the meals served and relationships formed. I witnessed it when our young families gathered together in Advent, growing in community and staving off loneliness.

These small acts may not solve all the crises of the world, but they shine Christ’s light in powerful ways.

That’s why at baptisms, we give just a small candle with a single wick. We don’t give out spotlights saying, “so let your light shine before others.” No, the light of Christ is passed on by a single, small flame, reminding us that just a little light scatters so much darkness.

As you look back on this year, where have you seen the light of Christ reflected in the world?

For me, I can’t help but think of Jimmy Carter, who became a beacon of light after his presidency. Through the Carter Center and Habitat for Humanity, he brought dignity to lives overshadowed by poverty and illuminated paths to peace and justice in some of the world’s darkest corners. Even in the twilight of his life, you could find Jimmy Carter nearly every Sunday sitting under fluorescents in a sanctuary in Plains, Georgia, leading Bible study. He knew that he himself was not the light but lived as close to the light as he could, reflecting the grace and truth of Jesus in all that he did.

As we enter 2025, we will face crises old and new, but we do not face them alone. The light that began in the manger still shines, calling us to draw near, reflect its grace, and share its truth.

The darkness is undeniable, but it is not final. So as we step into this new year, let’s keep reflecting the light — through our generosity, our service, and our care for one another and the world around us — believing that light shines in the darkness, and the darkness will not overcome. Amen