PEOPLE'S CHURCH OF DOVER

Matthew 3:13-17                                                                                        GOD'S  SON

Sermon January 13, 2008:  People's United Church of Christ, Dover, DE:  The Rev. Dan Griggs

 

            It was the fifteenth year of the emperorship of Tiberias Caesar.  In Jerusalem the power of the old religion had begun to wane.  The priests at least seemed to be serving King Herod and their own causes, not the temple of God.  Among the teachers of the people there were constant debates between those who interpreted religion strictly and those who were more lenient about things like divorce, public prayer and what constitutes a "booth" for the annual Feast of Booths.[1]  Religion, like the economy, like government, was in dire need of renewal; and so half a dozen sectarian movements had sprung up, attracting crowds to the excitement of miracles, political promises, and often some interpretation of the Law of Moses that would take their breath away.[2]  There was Judas of Gamala who started the Zealot party:  we would call them terrorists—they believed that if they could trick the Roman army into attacking the Jews, it would force God's hand to send the Messiah to save them.  Out in the desert, in the caves overlooking the Dead Sea, lived the Essenes,[3] celibates who spent their energies copying the Hebrew Bible and their own commentaries (the Dead Sea Scrolls), and preparing morally for the great war against sin—the Battle of Armageddon.  Judea seemed to be boiling over with religion and politics. 

            But with so much religious activity going on, there was no one speaking with real authority in a way that the common people could recognize it.  The people of God were "like sheep without a shepherd."[4]  But in the fifteenth year of Tiberias Caesar, there arose one man who preached out in the desert at the Jordan River, who was different.  He wore camel-hair clothes and ate a rough diet like the ancient prophet Elijah.  John the Baptizer called things by their right names:  he called adultery sin, he condemned hypocrisy, and he preached that Israel must repent—that is, change direction—and prepare for the Messiah who was about to arrive.  Those who came out into the desert to hear John preach, and who felt deep within their souls the power of his call, were baptized in the Jordan River and joined the repentance movement. 

            One day a young Galilean man came to join the repentance movement.  John showed this young man great deference; and there were reports that when John baptized him, the heavens were opened and God spoke and appointed him for a special ministry.  His name was Jesus of Nazareth.  In the events described in the Gospel today, God showed to John and to the world that Jesus was indeed the Messiah, the Christ.  So the Epiphany season continues—the season of public revelation.  But why should we care? 

            Here is Jesus' baptism in context:  political oppression, religion in need of renewal, many sectarian movements that include terrorist groups, the people "like sheep without a shepherd" but electrically aware that something is going to happen:  and into this mix, God sends Jesus.  And at his baptism God says, "This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased."  What does he mean?  He means to show the identity of Jesus the Messiah, like the needle of a compass shows magnetic North—the people of that age needed a compass.  The Gospel of John, written in the name of John the Apostle, not this John, has the desert preacher make the point clearly:[5] 

 

 

This is not just a private, psychological breakthrough in Jesus' mind:  this is his real identity.  This man Jesus of Nazareth is God's Anointed one, the Messiah, the man chosen to "traffic between heaven and earth" for us.[6]

            When the heavenly voice announces, "This is my beloved Son," it sets up a question which much of the rest of the Gospel of Matthew works to answer—Who is this man Jesus; and who is he that I should care about him?  Why should we care? 

 

            These last seven years, does it feel as if our whole world has changed?  Things are turned upside-down.  America used to be a safe place—at least it felt that way.  No more!  There is a seething restlessness in our world that has boiled over and scalded us.  For the first time a message seems to be growing louder and louder that what we do to make our country strong and to hold one-fourth of the world's wealth (we who are five percent of the world's population) what we do to maintain that, they say, is hurting other people.  Two months ago at a world conference in Bali on pollution and greenhouse gasses, it was the American representative who rose again and again to refuse to go along with the proposal supported by the rest of the world—a proposal to write a new pollution agreement in the next couple of years to take the place of the Kyoto Accords; and the delegates from the rest of the world kept stepping to the podium and saying, "What are you doing to us?"  Finally the American representative agreed to say that the meeting had agreed on a statement. 

            See how complicated our place in the world is!  And we are hearing the same message from the poor of Latin America, from wealthy business executives in Egypt, from scholars in India, from kings and bankers and former Communists and others.  And we don't know what to do about it.  The information is still too new, too surprising.  America used to be THE MODEL nation; but now, "see how the nations rage."[7] 

            So here we are, just paying the mortgage, going to work, paying the doctor bills, being who we feel like we've always been; and all around us the world feels different.  In both Pakistan and the Sudan, not to mention two dozen other countries, governments that used to be progressive are now oppressing their people.  We look at the statistics for the old standard churches—the Presbyterians, the Methodists, the Disciples, the UCC, the Episcopalians—and they're all shrinking; while in South America and Africa these same churches are doubling in numbers every ten years:  there are more Anglicans in Africa than there are in England.  And there are fewer Christians in America.  And those who are still Christians seem to be arguing with each other more and more:  "right to life" or "choice," separation of church and state or "Christian nation," evolution or creationism, feed immigrants or build a border fence, right to die or forced intervention.[8]  And there are a lot of independent churches growing up:  every city of any size seems to have at least one big new church where the Communion Table has been replaced by amplifiers, and nobody seems to remember how to sing a hymn in harmony.  And a few of these new movements supply guns and ammunition, and their summer camping program includes weapons training.  What's going on?  This is a weird place to be.  Are we ourselves "sheep without a shepherd"?  But we are all electrically aware that something is going to happen.  We need a compass!  We need to know where "up" is.  If middle class comfort is not our god, if money is not our god, if world power is not our god, if capitalism is not our god, then where is our "up"? 

            And here, standing among the people on the bank of the dirty Jordan River,[9] the river that still today runs through the heart of the world's crisis:  here is a tanned carpenter about thirty years old, with the eyes of one who can see in this present darkness.  Who is he?  He had already decided to be baptized by John while he was at home in Nazareth—he is in charge of his own coming down.[10] 

            At his baptism, when he comes up out of the water, heaven itself is torn open and God says, "This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased."  Can our almost broken compasses point us to him?  Can we care? 

 

            It always comes as a surprise to me that I react to Jesus the way I do.  You see, I don't like to hear him speak the truth about my life:  his confession of my self-centeredness is far too honest, I feel naked without the masks of self-justification to cover up my pride.[11]  And so he had to die, because of my sin.  But even in dying he made the truth sting:  the very act which was intended to silence him, crucifixion, actually confirmed what he had said about us.  The sin and the alienation, the estrangement and falseness of our lives did separate us from the eternal realities, and blinded us in the darkness of our own comfort, our own ease, our own safety, our own pride.  And so I can barely contain my jubilation that this was not the END:  but rather, God confirmed Jesus' mission by Resurrection, and at the same time affirmed that this act of Jesus was an act of redemption for us.  Christ's resurrection is the triumph of God for us.  And because Jesus is one of us, identified with us in his baptism, he has now set us free to become fully human, in his own image.  In a world going crazy like this one these days, what might it mean to be free of the need to protect my comfort and my safety?  What might it mean in times like these to turn like a compass needle to God, and live out of the treasure house of heaven?  As we sang this morning:[12] 

 

 

            What might it mean to be able actually to live that way?  Does this answer the question, "Why should we care?"  This Jesus, the beloved Son of God, has come to stand "forgivingly at our side, setting us free to be our best."[13]  And all that we have had to face since September 11, and all that we have to deal with in our lives, he takes up into his Life; and we are redeemed.   This is the Gospel:  thanks be to God. 

AMEN