Sermon. St Mary’s, Little Ilford, 10 January 2021
(live-stream only)
Final service in role as Associate Priest
The Baptism of Christ.
Mark 1.4-11
I have quite a lot to say. This won’t be the shortest sermon
in Christendom! But you knew that.
I have also made a conscious choice. I have decided not
to rewrite my sermon in the light of the increased dangers, risks and
restrictions we are now under and which we are facing. There is always a good
case for making the sermon about the Big News of the day. And there is
always a good case for not making the sermon about the Big News of the
day.
That sounds wrong. But the argument is this: there are too
many wrongs and fears in the world. We have to face them. But the sermon can be
a chance for something different. It can be a chance to let the story of
salvation unfold in its own way, according to its own timing.
Which to do is always a judgement call. If I have called this
wrong, forgive me.
*
In the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy
Spirit. Amen.
John the Baptist existed. You have to be an exceptionally cynical historian
(and they do exist of course) to deny that John the Baptist existed. He is
referred to also outside of the New Testament and as a person of influence (and
so with a legacy). His name does indeed mean “John the Immerser” (or
John the Dipper if that doesn’t sound too flippant). Later in the Gospel, when
Mark is discussing the Pharisees’ patterns of living, he says they “baptise”
(or “have baptised”)[1]
everything they buy from the market. The point is: everything has to be thoroughly
plunged into cleansing water.
I go further. Jesus existed. (Every few years someone
comes up with a new claim about how Jesus didn’t exist, based on the fact that
the earliest references to him were a couple of decades after his death, the gospels
later still. It’s a culpable refusal to do the work of imagining yourself in an
aural society, where only a fraction of things are ever written down, but the
sense of shared, agreed knowledge is vast.) Jesus existed. And Jesus was
baptised. Jesus was baptised and was crucified. These things all but the
most cynical of historians (who do exist) believe.
One thing that confirms that John baptised and Jesus was
baptised is that there has been a growing body of evidence that ritual
immersion had already become really rather popular in the century or
so before Jesus. It’s not a theme in the Old Testament, but Judaism always
has been and is a living religion. Archaeologists have uncovered
a much greater number of mikvaot in the Holy Land than they had at one time
expected. Mikvaot is the plural of the Hebrew mikveh. And a mikveh is a specially designed pool, always with
access to naturally moving water, suitable for ritual immersion, as the
Rabbis came to codify things in the course of time. So ritual immersion was
certainly around, and could easily be part of a religious revivalist’s
repertoire.
This also complicates things for us, of course. If Jewish
ritual immersion was as common in Jesus’ day as it became, then the precise
meaning of John’s baptism is harder to pin down. You see: Jewish ritual
immersion is not a once-and-for-all action. You can repeat it. It
is repeated, sometimes monthly, sometimes weekly, and sometimes
even daily. So for all the “fact of John” is not in doubt, he remains a
challenging figure, challenging not only in his diet and dress sense, challenging
not only in the way he spoke to rulers, but also challenging in precisely what
he intended, when he baptised.
And equally we cannot know with any certainty what Jesus
intended in being baptised, in letting John baptise him. If John’s baptism
is for the forgiveness of sins, did Jesus himself feel convicted as a sinner?
That takes us into very thorny territory, to put it mildly. And the New
Testament writers also found it difficult. Remember that Matthew - not Mark,
Matthew - has John the Baptist declaring himself unfit to baptise Jesus, and
Jesus saying: “let it be so now; for it is proper for us in this way to
fulfil all righteousness.” [Matt 3.15]
So be it. I make no pretence of being able to settle these or
any other historical conundrums. I’m going to use a metaphor you’ll gather I’ve
come to love in recent weeks. I am going to suggest we leave aside the
microscope and pick up the telescope. (My last chance to use it with you.
So indulge me!) We stop trying to work out what was the intention of John, or
even what was the intention of Jesus, and go for the Big Picture. What is
going on, in the baptism of Christ?
*
The Early Church looked at this story though its telescope
and gave a clear answer. What is going on in the baptism of Christ is nothing
less than the revelation of the Holy Trinity in history. At least as much
as the infant Jesus meeting the Magi, here is epiphany, here is manifestation,
and here is theophany, here is the manifestation of Gd, here is
the manifestation of Gd, who is Father, Son and Spirit. Even Mark, who,
truth to tell, likes to be blunt and brusque, cannot tell the story of the
baptism of Jesus without [a] the Heavenly Voice who names [b] Jesus as his Son,
nor without [c] the Spirit’s descent from heaven upon the Son.
The Orthodox are the clearest about this. When I say
this is Epiphany/Theophany, for them it really is. In Orthodoxy, the
Shepherds come on Christmas Eve, the Magi on Christmas Day, and 6 January is the
Theophany of the Holy Trinity at Jesus’ Baptism.
This is the manifestation of the Trinity in time and in
space. It happened there; it happened then. But as it is the
manifestation of the Eternal Trinity, it is also a manifestation beyond space and time.
And so, it can happen here, too. And so, it can happen now, too.
So a large part of the service of the Theophany is the Great Blessing of the
Waters, blessed waters that people then take home, for the whole year.
This is a reminder of just how earthy Christianity is.
The manifestation of Gd Holy Trinity does not happen in a lecture room. It
doesn’t even happen in the Temple (church, synagogue). It happens in a river.
The distractions are minimal. There is a person baptising, there is a person
being baptised, and there is water. It takes something elemental, one of
the elements of creation, humble, “nothing-y” see-through water, to
reveal the truest nature of Gd.
And this is in turn a reminder of how paradoxical
Christianity is. At one level, the story speaks of one seeking forgiveness
of sins by an act of washing. But to the eyes of faith, what happens is
that the sinless one enters into the waters, is submerged beneath
the waters, such that the waters themselves become the heroic bearer of
truth, become the means by which Gd is revealed, is seen.
I will say more about the role of water here. Water is cleansing.
That is too obvious to be dwelt upon. Water is life-sustaining. Spend
more than an hour in the desert country which is the setting for he
Bible, and you are aware of that. Your very throat is aware of that. And
there is this: water is.. attractive. It draws us to it. When I prepare
families for infant baptism, I always ask if the infant in question enjoyed
bath-time. So far the answer has been invariable: Yes. We all like a splash in water
(if it’s at our preferred temperature). And why do gardens need water features ,and
stately homes whole lakes? Why to we Brits love “to be beside the seaside,
beside the sea”, in all weathers? Because we find water attractive.
Precisely in its elementality, nothing-y see-through water is beautiful.
Beautiful. How else can I end my time of ministry with you?
In my time with you, I have sought not to make
unrealistic demands that our lives be marked by relentless joy. For life
can be hard. Joy is a fruit of the Spirit, but such joy is something so much bigger
than happiness that talk of it can mislead.
I have sought not to use excessive language of
Christian hope, for hope deferred can make the heart sick.
I have even moderated my claims about Christian love.
For while it is unquestionably the heart of things (I don’t doubt that),
talking too readily and too much about it can end up as unintended manipulation,
forcing things which cannot be forced.
But I find (I didn’t plan it…) I find I have been perfectly
content to make the highest claims about glory, beauty, attractiveness and wonder.
About the glory, beauty and attractiveness of Gd…
and about the glory, the beauty the attractiveness of Gd
as reflected in you.
Truly you are a beautiful people.
·
In
your forbearance of me (you know I’ve been through some narrow times);
·
in
your care for one another;
·
in
your matter-of-factness in facing the changes and challenges of
precisely these days;
·
in
your holding to the vision of a church-within-a-community-centre even
when the structures have spoken against that;
·
in
your yearning both for greater liturgical riches and in your yearning for
a prophetic edge to what we as a community do;
·
in
your loyalty;
·
in
your fun (your instinct for fun);
·
and
just as you are.
On more than one occasion, I have cited a certain poem by a
certain Irishman Paul Durcan, in which a priest at mass, at the Peace,
tells the people to turn to one another and say: “You are beautiful.”
As ever, I make no apology for repetition. The point is: you went with
it. (Many would not have, but you went with it.) Just as we have the practice
of signing “Alleluia!”, we have, we might say, an occasional custom of
greeting each other with “You are beautiful.”
I have left the whole poem on the parish page [and below].
Here and now, I stick
to its prosaic core:
You are beautiful.
I am grateful.
Please pray for me.
I will for you.
Amen.
The 12 O’Clock Mass, Roundstone, County Galway, 28 July 2002
by Paul Durcan
On Sunday 28th of July 2002 –
The summer it rained almost every day –
In rain we strolled down the road
To the church on the hill overlooking the sea.
I had been told to expect “a fast Mass”.
Twenty minutes. A piece of information
Which disconcerted me.
Out onto the altar hurried
A short, plump priest in late middle age
With a horn of silver hair,
In green chasuble billowing
Like a poncho or a caftan over
White surplice and a pair
Of Reeboks – mammoth trainers.
He whizzed along,
Saying the readings himself as well as the Gospel;
Yet he spoke with conviction and with clarity;
His every action an action
Of what looked like effortless concentration;
Like Tiger Woods on top of his form.
His brief homily concluded with a solemn request.
To the congregation he gravely announced:
“I want each of you to pray for a special intention,
A very special intention.
I want each of you – in the sanctity of your souls –
To pray that, in the All-Ireland
Championship hurling quarter-final this afternoon in Croke
Park,
Clare will beat Galway.”
The congregation splashed into laughter
And the church became a place of effortless prayer.
He whizzed through the Consecration
As if the Consecration was something
That occurs at every moment of the day and night;
As if betrayal and the overcoming of betrayal
Were an every-minute occurrence.
As if the Consecration were the “now”
In the “now” of the Hail Mary prayer:
“Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.”
At the Sign of the Peace he again went sombre
As he instructed the congregation:
“I want each of you to turn around and say to each other:
‘You are beautiful.’”
The congregation was flabbergasted, but everyone fluttered
And swung around and uttered that extraordinary phrase:
“You are beautiful.”
I shook hands with at least five strangers,
Two men and three women, to each of them saying:
“You are beautiful.” And they to me:
“You are beautiful.”
At the end of Mass, exactly twenty-one minutes,
The priest advised: “Go now and enjoy yourselves
For that is what God made you to do –
To go out there and enjoy yourselves
And to pray that, in the All-Ireland
Championship hurling quarter-final between Clare and Galway
In Croke Park, Clare will win.”
After Mass, the rain had drained away
Into a tide of sunlight on which we sailed out
To St Macdara’s Island and dipped our sails –
Both of us smiling, radiant sinners.
In a game of pure delight, Clare beat Galway by one point:
Clare 1 goal and 17 points, Galway 19 points.
“Pray for us now and at the hour of our death."
