Yes, you.

Matthew 3:13-17

Do you remember your baptism?  Did your family tell you stories?

My entirely unscientific Facebook survey this week suggests that baptism stories are often joyful and holy, but that just as often, the details that are remembered and passed on are the ones that are a bit odd.  Or embarrassing:

What Uncle Joe said to the priest; tears; misuse of candles; chewing on the prayer book…. 

And, in fact, that’s the kind of story we heard today when we heard the story about Jesus’ baptism. It’s all about the part that was embarrassing.  Did you notice?

You see, Matthew knows he has to tell us about Jesus’ baptism, but he thinks it might be kind of embarrassing that the Messiah gets baptized at all. 

After all, there’s John, dunking people in the Jordan to symbolize their repentance, and here comes the Anointed One, the Son of God, lining up with everybody else for this ritual of cleansing and repentance. 

Does Jesus have so many sins against God he needs them washed away??  What would that mean?

Plus, by the time Matthew writes his gospel down, Jesus’ followers have been going around for years baptizing people in Jesus’ name.

No wonder Matthew reports to us that John would have prevented Jesus, saying, “oh, no – I need to be baptized by you.  What are you doing trying to be baptized by me?!?”

I have to say, it’s a reasonable hesitation.

What would you think if Jesus came to you, today, and said: “Pray for me – I need help.” Or asked you for forgiveness?

If you know you’re talking to the Son of God, the Messiah, I’ll bet you’d say just about what John said: oh no, Jesus, that’s what I need from you. What does it mean that you’re asking me to forgive you, to pray for you??

I sympathize with John. 

And Jesus might, too – he’s relatively gentle in his response:
“Just let it be, here and now,” he says.  It won’t hurt us to do a right thing for God.”

And so John agrees. Jesus is baptized.

And the heavens open, and the Spirit descends like a dove, and there’s a voice from heaven that everyone can hear, saying: “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.”

Amen!  Alleluia!

To hear the voice of God, from heaven, announcing Jesus’ holiness, and belovedness – you think anyone there at the Jordan was impressed?

It’s a transformative miracle, as stunning as if God plucked off the roof of Calvary right now and announced, loud and clear, that Luke or Jacob here is chosen and beloved.

But what if John hadn’t been talked into it? What if he was too uncomfortable?  If he’d stuck to his conviction that he wasn’t holy enough, good enough, ready enough to baptize Jesus?

Do you think the dove would have been there anyway? 

Or would it be a non-event, quickly forgotten?

If John refuses this baptism,

there’s no miracle.

No one sees and hears the wonderful proclamation of Jesus as God’s beloved Son.

Everyone misses the opportunity to know beyond doubt that God is here, and active, paying attention and making a difference.

That would be tragic.

And it happens all the time.

Missed miracles like that are so common.

There are all kinds of opportunities in our lives, yours and mine, that we brush off, miss by accident, or turn down flat. Maybe Jesus doesn’t walk up to you and ask for baptism. But there are opportunities in each and every one of our lives to reveal God.

And it is oh, so tempting to feel that you are not good enough, not holy enough, not ready enough, whatever enough, to take them up.

And if you decline, there’s no miracle.

No wonderful revelation of God as present, and active, and fiercely loving.

I’ll tell you a truth: every year, I’m a little embarrassed about Ashes to Go.

I worry that it’s flashy. Even though it’s a tradition now, and national, I ask myself: who am I to decide what the church does about holiness, who am I to declare that the church breaks the rules and moves the walls?  And isn’t there something silly about repentance and ashes at the train station??

Sure, I’m a priest, but that doesn’t make those doubts any less real.

And I let myself do it anyway.  I risk embarrassment (a little), or rejection (which does happen), or misunderstanding – along with several of you, to give me courage!  We risk that to greet people at the Metra stop, remind them it’s Ash Wednesday, and ask if they want to pray, to repent.

And miracles happen.

Time stops, even as the train is pulling in, and grace comes over face after face.  The presence of God is real. Tangible. Unmistakable for bystanders as well as for the people who pray and receive the ashes.

It’s not just me, you know.

It’s you, too.

It might be that God has work for you at the train station, or in a pulpit, or on a street corner – yes, you. Or it might be another sort of thing. Something a little out of your comfort zone.

Maybe you hear yourself thinking:

“Oh, all my friends already have a church.  They don’t want me to invite them to mine.”

“It would be too weird to offer to pray for someone at work…for a client…for someone I just met.”

“I don’t know enough to answer those questions; I wish she’d talk to a priest instead.”

It might be something else, even just a feeling, but any time you hear one of those variations on “I’m not good enough, I’m not holy enough” in your head –

well, listen to Jesus talking to John the Baptist:
“Don’t worry about that.  Let it happen, here and now. 
It can never hurt to do a good thing in God’s work.”

Because, in all seriousness, this is what you and I were baptized to do:  to proclaim Good News by word and action, and to make space in this life for the vivid, unexpected presence of God.

So go ahead.  Get out of your comfort zone and get wet. 

It might just be the start of a story that gets remembered long after you’ve moved on: A story of awkward revelations, messy and holy, and the unmistakable voice of God, sounding loud and clear, full of love and delight.