Reflections on the Water [Easter 6A]
The Rev. Jeremiah Williamson
1 Peter 3:13-22
Reflections on the Water
Last week, we witnessed eight
baptisms, and today, yet another. That
is a lot of baptisms. It is exciting to
watch all these new Christians emerge from the water. It's exciting to watch the Church grow. And, so it seems to me that now is a good
time to reflect on what we have witnessed, reflect on the sacrament of
baptism.
I'm actually asked fairly often,
probably because I am a priest: “What do we
believe about baptism? What does it mean?” It is a great question; it's also hard to
answer. And so my response is usually
less than satisfying, usually something like: “Well, it
means a lot of things. It's complicated.”
Which is true. But also baptism is ridiculously simple – almost offensively so – like maybe
it should be a lot harder to become a Christian. Baptism is this simple water ritual. It is putting a small amount of that which is
most common on this planet on something we all have, a head. And I
tell people that is complicated. And it is not; but also it is. It's just a little water but it means a lot
of things.
It is simple but it means a lot of
things. Baptism exists in that place
where the simple and the complicated collide and yet neither wins. It truly requires of those who experience it
a lifetime of reflection. It is
Death. It is Life. It is about family and God and the self. It holds everything that matters in a drop of
water.
We come to this simple wooden font,
or we bring our children – unsure of
all of the implications, knowing that something lurks in that seemingly placid
water, something life-changing, something even dangerous.
The warning sign is right there on
our font: two vultures perched on a baptismal font, looking down into the
water. Those vultures know what is in
there: There is death in that water.
Baptism is death – one of
those things both simple and complicated.
Death is simple. Anyone can do
it. Everyone does. And death is complicated. It's complicated because it is that change
which is most unknowable. In fact, most
of us spend most of our lives resisting and delaying that which is most
inevitable.
Baptism is death – something of who we are dies in the water. And we bring our children. To be buried in the water. To be buried with Christ. To share in his death. The vultures are perched. And we take a chance on God. The chance that those we bring to this place
of death will also experience the power of resurrection, of new life. Baptism means a lot of things; one of those
things is death.
A death that ends in life. The paradox of baptism is that we find new
life only when we drown in the water.
Baptism is life – one of
those things both simple and complicated.
Life is simple. We live it mostly
without even thinking about it. Our
hearts pound; our brains function; our lungs breathe; we check off
birthdays. And life is complicated. It's complicated because the details and
decisions of a life lived are a collection of unexpected opportunities and
consequences, because life can be both tragic and glorious in the same day – and often is.
Because while life just happens, it also requires of us everything we've
got.
Baptism is Life – life lived with Christ, and through Christ, and in
Christ. It is new and it is unending and
it can be terrifying. It is what happens
after we are buried with Christ in his death.
And, of course, it requires everything we've got. Baptism means a lot of things; one of those things
is life.
Life and death are pretty
complicated. If there is one thing more
complicated it might be family. And
baptism is about family – one of
those things both simple and complicated.
Family is simple. It is said that
we don't even choose it. But boy is it
complicated. I'm sure I don't need to
tell you that.
Baptism is about family. From these waters the newly initiated
emerge. And they are our brothers and
sisters. A new family – bearing only the name of Christ – is formed.
Pedigree and tribe and nation are washed away. Identities erased. Yet, we are not left on our own; we are not
left as orphans. We are adopted into a
new household: the household of God. We
are claimed, claimed as members of God's family. Today, Aiden comes to the font as a baby; he
leaves as our brother. He comes as Jay
and Tracy's child; but as of today, he is one of us – forever. It is
true: we don't choose our family; God does.
Baptism means a lot of things; one of those things is family.
But ultimately baptism is about
God. In the sacrament of baptism, we
glimpse the nature of a God who desperately desires us. God wants us.
God loves us, calls us by name and claims us forever. It's pretty simple actually: for as much as
we might like to think that our intellectual grasp of the sacrament or our
pro-action makes this go, it is entirely a divine act of grace. God does the work. God forms the bond. God takes the initiative. God grabs our heart. But also it's complicated because God then
invites us into a relationship – something
the history of humankind suggests we're not great at.
And yet, isn't it amazing, even
though God knows us and knows our failures, in baptism God proves God's love
for us by formally and permanently linking God's very self to us. At the font, God begins a journey with
us. On that journey God will be
faithful, and we will not. And God will
give us endless opportunities to renew our commitment. And we will, with God's help, of course.
Of all the words that can be said,
at its core baptism is simply a bath: God washing away everything except
Christ. With everything else washed
away, God looks at us and sees only Jesus, only that which is best in us. Baptism is, as the author of our epistle
asserts, our salvation. For all of the
complications, it's really that simple.
Baptism is a once-in-a-lifetime
event but it never stops happening. It
is the beginning of a journey of discovery, the beginning of a journey with
God. We are continually drawn to renewal
and reflection every time we witness this ritual, every time a new sister or
brother emerges from the water. We
remember our baptisms; we remember that God forever looks at us through through
the water. We're always defined by that
first acquaintance, by that sacred moment.
To say anything seems too much to
say about such a sacred mystery; and yet there are too few words in the world
to exhaust the topic. And so I leave you
with this baptismal meditation by one of my favorite poets, Anglican priest,
George Herbert.
AS he that sees a dark and shadie grove,
Stays
not, but looks beyond it on the skie;
More
backward still, and to that water flie,
Which
is above the heav’ns, whose spring and vent
Is in my
deare Redeemers pierced side.
O
blessed streams! either ye do prevent
And
stop our sinnes from growing thick and wide,
In you
Redemption measures all my time,
And
spreads the plaister equall to the crime.
You
taught the Book of Life my name, that so
What
ever future sinnes should me miscall,
This water, this sacrament, this
holy moment in eternity, it means a lot of things. But it is also very simple: to those who were
bathed in the water, it simply means everything.
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