Mark 1:9-15

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.’

And the Spirit immediately drove him out into the wilderness. He was in the wilderness for 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.

I don’t remember my baptism. It was thirty years ago at the church my parents still go to; same baptismal font my brother and his daughters were baptized in. Water was poured on our heads from a little bowl in a sanctuary filled with red carpet. As you can see, I had on a white gown, a banner hung with my name on it. I’m sure there was a little reception after in the parlor. As far as Lutheran baptisms go, it was pretty standard.

To some folks though, my baptism might seem pretty strange; I mean why baptize an infant? Why not wait till the person is older, knows what's happening, chooses for themselves? Or why sprinkle only a little water? Why not full immersion in a river or lake or a huge, heated pool right here on the altar? Baptism is so ubiquitous in the church that we rarely stop to ask the hard questions: What makes a baptism, a baptism? Does a little bit of water really make a difference? What does it really do?

I read an article in the New York Times that talked about all the different ways baptisms happen these days. In South Florida, one church does their baptisms in the Atlantic ocean, amid the waves and keeping an eye out for sharks. At Creekwood Church in Texas, they rent out a waterpark and baptize with huge slides overhead. Nowadays, instead of white robes or gowns, people get custom t-shirts with mottos on them like #washed, best day ever, no turning back.

Now I’m not saying these practices are wrong, except for the waterpark… that I've got some questions about. Still they aren’t wrong. They have all the things necessary for a baptism, which really is only two things: first you need water, and really any water will do. Tap water, distilled water, chlorine filled water, salt water, it doesn’t matter what kind of water; because what really matters, at least for Lutheran Christians, is that the water is joined together with the Word, (with a capital W) of God, meaning the water is joined together with the real presence of Jesus and all the promises he gives.

Just as we believe Jesus is truly present in, with, and under the bread and wine at communion, we too believe Jesus is in, with, and joined to the water at a baptism. So these other forms or settings (oceans, waterparks, t-shirts) don’t make it any more or less of a baptism. But they do make baptism more of an experience.

A pastor in Linwood Kansas says in that NYT article, “We live in an age where people like experiences. It’s not that it looks better, but it feels better. It feels more authentic, it feels more real.”

Now I don’t know about you, but I didn’t feel much at my baptism… does that mean it was less authentic? There wasn’t much of an experience either, for me and anyone else there. Does that mean it was less real? It’s not the experience that matters, or the feeling you get coming out of the water. Truth be told, baptism isn't about you…

by that I mean its not about the decision you make, or even about giving your life to Christ. Because its not you who's doing the work. It’s not you choosing to get closer to God. If all it took was one decision by us to be put in God’s good graces, there would be no need for Jesus’ own baptism nor his death and resurrection. Christ has already given his life for you, suffered once for all as Peter tells us. Why do we try to make it obsolete?

Baptism then isn’t about what you do, it’s about what God does for you, to you. It’s God getting closer to you on account of Christ; because through the water and Word, we are joined to the death and resurrection of Jesus.

I like how one baptist preacher describes this. He said: “we Baptists believe in water. So when it comes to baptizing, we don’t mess around with a few sprinkles. We put people under until they bubble. We want them to feel just a moment of panic, so they can appreciate the resurrection.” And while I think that is terrifying and fits the description of torture, I like the symbolism.

Because more than anything else, baptism is death and resurrection. Luther describes it as the drowning of the old, sinful self (which is a rather good swimmer) and rising to new life. It’s not simply “a removal of dirt, but an appeal to God so that once we are covered with that water, God no longer remembers our sin, but looks upon us with steadfast love, just as God did with Jesus at his baptism.

To be clear, being baptized doesn’t mean that you’ll never sin again. You remain a sinful person. But it does mean that God’s grace and forgiveness abound all the more, working on you each day to put to death that old self and live as one who reflects the love and goodness received from God.

Being baptized also doesn’t mean life gets any easier. If anything, baptism means life will get harder! Notice that the same spirit Jesus received at his baptism immediately put him into the wilderness.

Rachel Held Evans puts it this way,

“baptism declares that God is in the business of bringing dead things back to life, so if you want in on God’s business, you better prepare to follow God to all the rock-bottom, scorched-earth, dead-on-arrival corners of this world, including the ones in your own heart - because thats where God works.”

Which is why its a courageous statement, dangerous even, we make when baptizing babies.

We are acknowledging that this spirit you receive will call you, drive you into places you wouldn’t otherwise go; its saying this beautiful, seemingly perfect little baby is in fact not so perfect and needs God’s grace just like the rest of us; And that it is God’s desire for this child to be a member of God’s holy, loving, struggling family. That’s why we baptize infants.

That’s why we don’t make it much of an experience, like at a waterpark or with t-shirts. And that’s why we say it’s not about you, but about what God does, says, and works in you through the waters of baptism.

It’s less about us declaring something to God, and more about God declaring to us and to all the world, This is my beloved child, forgiven, grace-filled, and ready for the journey.

Held-Evans again: “It is death and resurrection, over and over again, day after day, as God reaches down into our deepest graves and with the same power that raised Jesus from the dead [pulls] us out of that dirt, bringing us into the light of a new day, every day.

If you’ve been baptized, put your hand in the font today, remember your baptism, remember what God has done, is doing, and will do every day and live as baptized people, proclaiming the good news of Jesus in both word and deed and with as many people as we can.

But if you haven’t been baptized and want to be, please talk with me or Pastor Mark. There is no test to see if you’re ready; you don’t need to feel holy enough or ready enough, or like you’ve got it all together in life and in faith. That’s not how this works. The decision is made and God has chosen you. You are already God’s beloved, so let God declare it to you and all the world,

in the name of the father and of the son and of the holy spirit. Amen

Luke 22:39-46

[Jesus] came out and went, as was his custom, to the Mount of Olives; and the disciples followed him. When he reached the place, he said to them, “Pray that you may not come into the time of trial.” Then he withdrew from them about a stone’s throw, knelt down, and prayed, “Father, if you are willing, remove this cup from me; yet, not my will but yours be done.” Then an angel from heaven appeared to him and gave him strength. In his anguish he prayed more earnestly, and his sweat became like great drops of blood falling down on the ground. When he got up from prayer, he came to the disciples and found them sleeping because of grief, and he said to them, “Why are you sleeping? Get up and pray that you may not come into the time of trial.”

How many of you have had the good fortune of visiting Disney World or Disneyland? Whatever the case, Disney is the most magical place on earth, right? – especially if you’re a child, but even for some of you grown-ups, too. I remember being skeptical and cynical and sort of a Scrooge about Disney the first time we took the boys when they were little, because I was doing the math… I was counting the cost… I was lamenting how much more or better or different we could be doing with all of that money, besides giving it to The Mouse. (And we have friends who work there, so we weren’t even paying for all of the things!)

But, we got there and I drank the Kool-Aid real quick. I bought it all hook-line-and-sinker, because the boys were excited and in awe and enamored by the rides and the fireworks, by Buzz and Woody, by Goofy and Mickey, and all the rest, coming to life, right before their very eyes. At one point, after dropping $27 dollars (or something similarly ridiculous) on a Buzz Light Year action figure/drink cup, probably with no more than 10 ounces of lemonade inside, I declared, “Walt Disney can have all of my money.” The boys were just having that much fun.

Well, Disney works really hard at making their parks “the most magical places on earth.” Among so many ingeniously “imagineered” things, did you know that Disney has paint colors they’ve named “Go Away Green,” and “Bye Bye Blue?” They’re the colors Disney uses to neutralize and “disappear” the unappealing, unattractive – but necessary – parts of any public space, like garbage cans, mechanical boxes, fences and partitions … even the utilitarian buildings you might see from the monorails and Skyliner gondola ride are hidden in plain sight with these cleverly camouflaged paint colors. And all of that is great, for fairy tales and child’s play and a week’s vacation in Never Neverland.

But tonight – Ash Wednesday – is about precisely the opposite. It’s about doing anything and everything BUT “disappearing” the unappealing, unattractive, ugly parts of our lives as people on the planet. Tonight is about laying them bear – the shame, the death, and the sin of it all. It’s about calling it out, owning it, rubbing it into our foreheads for ourselves and others to see, and trusting that God will do God’s thing with this dust and these ashes and the brokenness they represent – that God will forgive it, redeem it, wipe it off, wash it away, transform it into something other than the mere smudge and smut that stains us all.

And I’d like to take this all a bit further – dig a bit deeper, maybe – this time around for our Lenten walk in the weeks ahead. If you read my newsletter article for February, you know I tried to get you all thinking about this plan long before tonight.

Over the course of the last several months, I’ve been particularly moved by Anderson Cooper’s All There Is podcast. He started it after the death of his mother, Gloria Vanderbilt, a couple of years ago, when he began to take on the monumental, emotionally taxing, spiritually draining task of going through her things – and reliving his life and hers and theirs together – as the last living adult in his immediate family.

For those of you who don’t know, Anderson Cooper’s father died when Anderson was just ten years old, and his older brother, Carter, died by suicide when he was 23, and Anderson was 21. Carter jumped from the 14th floor of their New York apartment while their mother watched.

So, left with all of that history, tragedy, and sadness, Anderson was left to digest and deal with the grief he soon realized he’d never been taught or trained or equipped to do well. And he began to record his reflections about it all and to share conversations with others who’d traveled the road of grief and sorrow, too, so that he could learn from their experience and wisdom – and share it with whoever else might want to listen.

I’ve been so moved by those conversations and inspired by the simple truth that grief is – or will be – the common ground we all share as human beings, that it felt like a holy calling and a faithful responsibility to do together, and for each other, however much we’re able: the good work of teaching and learning and praying about and equipping one another to grieve well, I mean – or at least to broach the topic and engage the notion that that’s possible, and a worthwhile endeavor, to grieve well – during this coming season of Lent.

And in many ways, it should be nothing new. Like I’ve already said, it’s so much a part of what brings us together on Ash Wednesday. And I think there’s something about the common ground of grief that makes this service and our Good Friday worship every year, too, so compelling for so many of us. (More of us typically come together for those two worship experiences than all the Wednesdays in between. But I’m hoping to change that this time around.)

Because it seems to me that – as hard as it can be – something about it all draws us to the ritual of and to the reflection on the grief that gathers us. So I’d like to do more of that, more deliberately in the weeks ahead. And while we don’t always know or acknowledge or have language for it, our penchant for this is a great part of the human experience – and it would and should and could be, for us, a deep, meaningful, exercise of faith as children of God.

In scripture, we read about Job, in the throes of relentless grief, repenting in dust and ashes. We know that, in Old Testament days, prophets and priests, kings and commoners, put on sackcloth and covered their heads with earth and dirt and dust and ashes, too. In the book of Judges, we read about the women of Israel who made an annual, public display of their grief over the murder of Jepthah’s daughter – one of their own – so that the nation would never forget it. In Jeremiah, we read about the wailing of Rachel being heard in Ramah for God’s children who were lost and banished into exile. And, of course we know of Jesus, weeping over Jerusalem, mourning the loss of his friend Lazarus, shedding tears as thick as blood in the Garden of Gethsemane, and crying from the cross, “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?”

My point is, this is God’s desire for us, believe it or not – to acknowledge, wrestle with, and experience the grief that finds us in this life. There’s no such thing as – or at least not enough – “Go Away Green,” or “Bye Bye Blue” – or “Go Away Grief” or “Bye Bye Blues” as the case may be – when it comes to the sorrows of this world. It’s hard and feels unholy and it can be unfair too much of the time. And our inclination can be to cover over it and pray it away and paint it into oblivion if we could – or sleep, and sleep-walk our way through it like the disciples in tonight’s Gospel.

But tonight … the ashes on our heads … these Lenten days that lie ahead … the cross of Christ that waits for us down the road … all of it is an invitation to see that grief and sorrow are part of life in the world, that no one escapes it, that none of us is immune from it, that not even the God we know in Jesus could shake it at every turn.

And that’s what this obnoxious wall is all about. Each week we’ll bring something forward to this shrine of grief and sorrow. We will grieve those we’ve loved and lost on this side of Heaven. We will grieve the loss of and damage to creation. We will grieve our regrets, our missed opportunities, the generational sorrows of our people, God’s children, the Church, and more. I suspect it will be hard and holy. I imagine it will beautiful and brutal, at times. And I pray it will be instructive and healing and unburdening and life-giving and hopeful, in the end, too.

There’s a poet named Denise Levertov who wrote this about grief:

To speak of sorrow
works upon it
moves it from its
crouched place barring
the way to and from the soul’s hall.

That’s what I hope we’ll do with our grief in the days ahead. Speak of it, at the very least, so that it doesn’t block our connection to God’s greatest desire for us. Not deny or hide or run from it. Not keep quiet about the challenge it can be to our faith. Not feel bad or guilty for wishing it wasn’t ours to bear.

And I hope we’ll trust what God can do with it … what God can do with us … if we will let our grief and sorrow be; if we feel it; if we learn to live with these ashes for more than just an evening, perhaps; more than just a season, even; as more than just a symbol, and as something God is always undoing, always making new, always redeeming, always raising from the dead … to new life … with love and full of hope, in Jesus’ name.

Amen

It's Not About You

Ashes and Grief