Parkland and the Promises of Baptism

Mark 1:9-15

In those days Jesus came from Nazareth in 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.”

Now the Spirit immediately drove Jesus out into the wilderness. He was in the wilderness forty days, tempted by Satan; and he was with the wild beasts; and the angels waited on him. Now after John was arrested, Jesus came to Galilee proclaiming the good news of God, and saying,“The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news.”

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I heard one of the fathers who lost a daughter in the school shooting on Wednesday, cry his heart out on national television Friday morning. His name is Frank Guttenberg, and he was a broken man, beside himself with grief and anger and shock and regret. Grief, of course, because his little girl, Jaime, was gone, taken from him, 14 years-old, and murdered so savagely. Angry, of course, because it was all so senseless. Shocked, of course, because – no matter how prolific and popular these massacres have become in our country – we never, ever, ever think this will happen in our town, in our school, to our children. So… grief and anger and shock … of course.

But it was this father’s regret that broke him wide open and choked him up in a way that I can’t shake. His regret was that he couldn’t remember how or if he told his daughter he loved her before she left for school that morning. He acknowledged what so many of us know – that things are crazy so much of the time, that we get busy and distracted and behind schedule – and that that’s how Wednesday morning must have been for his family. So when Fred Guttenberg learned that Jaime had been shot and killed at school, it tortured him to not know for certain if he had told her what was true and more important than anything else he could have said that day – that he loved his little girl.

In this morning’s Gospel, Jesus shows up to be baptized by John, in the Jordan. And just as he was coming up out of the water, he saw the heaven’s torn apart, and the Spirit of God descending on him. And the voice of God – the Father – announced, not just for Jesus to hear, but for anyone listening, that Jesus was loved. “You are my son, the beloved, with you I am well pleased.” “You belong to me, you are mine and I love you.”

And then, just like every one of those parents in Parkland, Florida, on Wednesday, and like so many of us do and have done – God, by way of the Holy Spirit, sent the Son …  God’s own child … out into the wilderness where he was beset by temptations, by the devil, by wild beasts, and by angels, too. And I imagine Jesus’ ears must have been ringing with those words all along the way: “You are my son, the beloved; with you I am well pleased.” “You belong to me, you are mine, and I love you.”

And those words make all the difference, if we let them – they must have for Jesus, and I hope they do for each of us. “You are my child. You belong to me. You are mine, and I love you.”

Those words – those promises – don’t keep us out of the wilderness, or even safe in the wilderness enough of the time. They didn’t for Jesus and they don’t for us, always, either. But I believe those words – the promise of God’s everlasting love for us – are God’s gift precisely because of the wilderness God knows we live in so much of the time. And I believe the promise of God’s abiding love and eternal life are meant to give us comfort and courage; wisdom and understanding; counsel and might; grace and mercy and peace, in the midst of and in opposition to the wilderness as we go. They did for Jesus and I hope they will for us, just the same.

None of us is Jesus, of course. But each of us is a child of God. To me, that means we can’t do it as well or as faithfully as Jesus, the perfecter of our faith, would do. But as brothers and sisters in Christ, we are called and challenged – driven into the wilderness of it all – to try, nonetheless. So as we continue to debate what we would, could or should do in response to the violent, deadly wilderness in which we find ourselves in this country, I think we’re called to enter that debate and to make those decisions with the promises of God’s love for us, ringing in our ears, like they must have done for Jesus.

The promises of his baptism gave Jesus the power to choose forgiveness and to practice mercy. Can they do the same for us?

The promises of his baptism gave Jesus faith in the face of his fears. Can they do the same for us?

The promises of his baptism gave Jesus courage to speak truth to power. Can they do the same for us?

The promises of his baptism, gave Jesus courage to lay down his life, even, for the sake of the world. Can they do the same for us?

The promises of his baptism allowed Jesus to choose peace over power; humility over pride; love over hate; sacrifice over self-preservation. Can those promises do the same for you and me?

I’m so sad for the 17 lives lost in Florida on Wednesday. I’m sad for the young man who did the killing – that he wasn’t told or shown or convinced of God’s love for him, too. I’m sad for all of our kids who think about going to school differently than I ever would have imagined. I’m sad that weapons – for the sake of protection – have become so important to so many of us.

And I’m sad for Fred Guttenberg and for all the parents who wonder when or how or if they told their children they loved them before they died.

But I’m hopeful they’ll realize – and rest assured sooner, rather than later – that their children know now, not just of their earthly parents’ love for them, but that they know, too, of God’s loving, gracious claim on their life, in this world and for the next.

And I hope we’ll remember those promises every day that we live, too, until they move us to do what Jesus says to do in this morning’s Gospel: to repent… which is to turn… which is to change in some way, each and every one of us… and to believe in the Good News of God’s love for ourselves, for our enemies, and for the sake of the world, until it makes a difference. 

I hope we will repent… that we will turn… that each and every one of us, informed and inspired by our faith in the ways of Jesus, will change something in some way; 

…that the promises of our baptism will speak through us more loudly and clearly than the politics that surround us;

…that we will believe in the Good News of God’s love, until the wilderness of this world gives way to God’s kingdom of peace and blessing and love at every turn.

Amen

A Prayer of Life

Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21

“Beware of practicing your piety before others in order to be seen by them; for then you have no reward from your Father in heaven.

“So whenever you give alms, do not sound a trumpet before you, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets, so that they may be praised by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. But when you give alms, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your alms may be done in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you.

“And whenever you pray, do not be like the hypocrites; for they love to stand and pray in the synagogues and at the street corners, so that they may be seen by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. But whenever you pray, go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you.

“And whenever you fast, do not look dismal, like the hypocrites, for they disfigure their faces so as to show others that they are fasting. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. But when you fast, put oil on your head and wash your face, so that your fasting may be seen not by others but by your Father who is in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you.

“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust consume and where thieves break in and steal; but store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust consumes and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.

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Once again we come together on this solemn day known as Ash Wednesday. As many of us have done so often through the years, we come to worship on a Winter Wednesday, prepared to receive ashes on our forehead and expecting to hear the same gospel story from Matthew, chapter 6.

If you have worshiped on Ash Wednesday before, you’ve likely picked up on the ironic juxtaposition of the worship service and the assigned gospel text. The gospel warns us of the dangers of making public displays of our piety. But each one of us will leave here with a large cross of ashes smeared on our foreheads; which is, I dare say, a public display of our piety! Perhaps some of you get around this by going straight home after worship and trying your best to avoid letting others see your ashen forehead. But that’s certainly not the point, either.

Jesus does not want us to use our faith to make public spectacles of ourselves, nor does he want us to so privatize our faith that it becomes imperceptible to others. As is usually the case, the truth of scripture lies somewhere between the two extreme interpretations. The core message of this gospel text is that our faith should always be evident but in a way that deflects attention from ourselves and back to God. There are, after all, hidden blessings of the private part of our faith.

To illustrate this idea, allow me to set a scene. You are in an unlit, damp, concrete room measuring roughly 6’ x 7’. “There are no windows, no ventilation. You've got nothing, you don't get outside, maybe see the sun 20 seconds a day if you're lucky; you've got an overflowing bucket for a toilet, you've got a mat that you sleep on, and you're subject to very harsh treatment."* You are alone in this room. You’ve been alone in this room for 3 ½ years. 

You know there are others….others in rooms the same as yours. You yearn to communicate; but you dare not speak to them. So, you tap on the wall using a system of communication designed for such an occasion. You form thoughts and expressions silently in your head and you quietly tap them out in code on the wall that separates you from someone else who is suffering.

This horrible reality is the one described by Retired Major General of the US Air Force John Borling – a fighter pilot who was shot down over North Vietnam in 1966 and imprisoned in the infamous Hanoi Hilton for over 6 1/2 years.

Monday marked the 45th anniversary of the release of more than 140 American prisoners of war from Vietnam. Among them was John Borling.

Major General Boling spent his 6 ½ years in the Hanoi Hilton trying to stay alive. One way that he sustained life was by composing poetry. He would create the poems in his head and tap them out on the walls in what is known as “tap code” in order to share them with his fellow POWs. He said, 

“It was ... our lifeline. It was how we kept a chain of command, which was verboten, how we passed information that would keep us all going, mentally. Here’s a bunch of fighter pilots, but a fragment of poetry — some remembered lines, however abbreviated — would be useful.”

— John Borling

In his attempts to stay alive and keep others alive, he was, for all intents and purposes, praying. 

Perhaps this image can help you reframe Jesus’ instruction to go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father in secret. Imagine prayer as an exercise in which you are stripped of all your possessions and illusions of security. All you have are the thoughts in your head. You are unable to write the thoughts down, so you write them on your heart. Your prayer becomes the most authentic and honest part about you. And this fills you with a burning desire to share your prayer with others in any way you can. You think maybe, just maybe, the thing you have to share with others could help keep them alive and encouraged also.

It may not be prudent to shout these poems and prayers for all the world to hear. After all, you don’t want to draw attention to yourself. But you cannot keep your poems and prayers inside…especially knowing that they could help keep others alive. So, you tap them out on the walls. It’s a long and laborious process. But it’s the only thing you can possibly do, so you tap out the poem and the prayer letter by letter.

At great personal risk, every night before you go to sleep you tap out the same letters the POWs used to sign off each night: G–B–U. The message spreads from one concrete cell to another until everyone has heard the message “G–B–U” (“God Bless You”). 

The poems from the Hanoi Hilton have much to teach us about our prayers in Hancock County. Pray in private, pray in public, pray in the church, on the street corners, in restaurants. Wherever you are called to pray, pray not to bring attention to yourself, but rather, pray because God has filled you with something authentic and honest that you have to share…especially knowing that it could help keep others alive.

We pray, not in a secret code, but rather in the way that honors our unique faith, emotions, personality, and experiences. 

To rephrase the words of Major General Borling, “May the prayers on our hearts become our lifeline – how we keep a chain of connection, how we pass thoughts and insights that will keep us all going, spiritually. Here's a bunch of sinners, but a fragment of prayer — some remembered lines, however abbreviated — would be useful."

That’s the message we embrace on this solemn Ash Wednesday. There is life in death. There is freedom in our imprisonment. There is beauty born in our suffering. There are prayers in our pain.

To conclude, I invite you to listen now to two poems composed by John Borling in his prison cell and secretly shared by taps on the wall.

Amen.

* https://www.npr.org/2013/02/12/170657765/in-a-north-vietnamese-prison-sharing-poems-with-taps-on-the-walls