Where's the Dove?

Luke 3:15-17, 21-22; Acts 8:14-17

How many of you saw a dove descend when you were baptized?

Or, if you don’t remember your own baptism, how many of you have seen a dove descend on someone else newly baptized?

 

If you didn’t, did you ever feel a little…cheated? Or shortchanged?

Like you didn’t get the full baptism experience?

 

Because after all, we keep hearing and repeating in church these gospel stories that tell us how Jesus saw a dove (or, the form of a dove) at his baptism.

And we’re supposed to try to be like Jesus.

And also we just heard John the Baptist promising us that Jesus will baptize us with the Holy Spirit.

And the gospel writers and Christian tradition closely associate the Spirit with the appearance of a dove.

(Or fire.)

 

And then the Episcopal Church comes along and insists that yes, we all, each, receive the gift of the Holy Spirit when we are baptized in water in the sacrament of the church.

 

But I remember nearly every detail of my own baptism, and not only did I not see any doves but I sure didn’t feel like I got the Holy Spirit dropped down on me.

I did get a very nice gold cross from my grandmother. But I didn’t feel empowered. Or holy. Or close to and filled with the presence of God.

 

Did you? Right away, or for always (or as long as you remember) after your baptism?

 

So maybe we’re more like the early Christian converts in Samaria. We’re pretty sure, as scripture readers, that they didn’t see any doves when they were first baptized. 

The whole point of the little snippet of story we read today is that the Samaritan converts somehow didn’t get the Holy Spirit descending on them when Philip baptized them in water and the name of Jesus.

 

So off Peter and John rush to fix this for the Samaritan converts. To pray and ensure that these newly baptized Christians DO receive the Spirit. 

Because before we ever even were a church, really, the followers of Jesus clearly understood that when you are baptized, you are supposed to get the Holy Spirit.

 

But we’ve never been sure exactly how it works. We’ve got the story of Jesus’ baptism.  We’ve got that little story we read today – just three sentences – about missing and recovering the gift of the Spirit and another little snippet of story about people getting fired up by the gift of the Spirit and the infant church rushing to catch up to their baptism.  And we have thousands of generations of biblical scholars (amateur and professional) struggling to define just how the gift of the Spirit and the washing of water are linked for us. And how we’re supposed to manage it in the church.
Does one have to come before the other?

How do we ensure we actually get the Spirit?

Do you need a bishop to pray the Spirit into you??

 

Luke even gives the emerging debate a little fuel because, in the way he tells the story of Jesus’ baptism, the Spirit doesn’t come on Jesus in the water. The heavens open and the dove of the Spirit descends “after he had been baptized, and was praying.” Maybe privately.

 

But whatever the questions and answers the scholars come up with, we only have those conversations at all because we know that baptism in water and receiving the Holy Spirit are deeply and essentially linked.

 

And reading our scripture stories this week, I’ve started to wonder if the story of Jesus, and these other fragmentary little stories of the arrival of the Spirit and the baptism of new Christians found in our scriptures, are not meant to be models for the church to copy so that we ensure the Spirit comes with the water all these generations later. 

Rather, I suspect these stories are all told to affirm that our own baptism is not one moment, but two or more, or most likely many.

 

And that the fullness of our baptism may come in moments and hints and bits that don’t involve water, are hard to recognize as the Holy Spirit, and rarely feature doves or pigeons, either.

 

Sometimes that Holy Spirit comes on us less like a dove, and more like the sweet scent of baking that stirs desire and draws us to a kitchen. Or like a toddler or puppy attached to your ankle and unwilling to let go, hampering our lives until we give the Spirit what she wants, and turn to and claim God’s unremitting love.

 

Sometimes the water of death and resurrection in baptism come as an unexpected wave tumbling us helplessly into the ocean, and rising to grateful air. Sometimes the Holy Spirit comes like a slow, forceful tide, pushing you back up the beach until you’re against beach cliff and have to dive in to the water to find your way home.

 

Sometimes the water of renewal comes from the splashes of a child in a tub, or in the drenching shower that washes guilt or grief or emotional pain and makes us ready to try again.

Sometimes the Spirit comes in a rush of unexpected confidence, or anger that burns out injustice, or love that cannot keep silent.

Sometimes it’s more like a tiny rock you finally have to get out of your shoe.

Sometimes the Spirit sneaks in as a strengthening of your spine, or a yearning for fulfillment, or a renewed commitment as we repeat the covenant of baptism together in church.

Sometimes it’s the overwhelming upwelling of awe and joy as you look toward a mountain, a sunrise, a historic event, the face of a loved one.

 

And in God’s time, all those different moments and experiences in our lives, may be one and the same moment. The same event.

The descent of the Spirit and the declaration of faith, and the washing and renewal and forgiveness of the sacrament of baptism – all may be distinct and separate moments in our lives – and be all the same moment in God’s.

 

Be the moment, the eternity, in each of our pasts, and presents, and futures, when God whispers – or shouts – into any ear that will listen the same thing Jesus heard as the dove descended:

“You are filled with my own self, and breath, and life.

You are my beloved child.

I delight in you.”

Be The Star

Matthew 2:1-12

Do you remember how you first heard this story?

This one with “wise men from the East” coming to worship the newborn King?

 

For me, it was the Christmas pageant.

Any Christmas pageant, or almost any: While the arrival of magi is not featured in every pageant, it’s woven into a lot of cultural expectations about how we – American Christians and many others – tell and dramatize “the Christmas story”.

 

It wasn’t until late high school or early adulthood that I really understood that, in the Bible, this story is told separately, by an entirely different gospel writer, than the story about the manger and the shepherds and the angels.

 

And that blurring of the lines to put the coming of the magi into our cultural Christmas story may be a good thing, in many ways, since the story of the strangers, the magi “from the East”, bridges and brings together the theology of the birth of Jesus and the mission of Jesus without requiring us to read any dense academic teaching tomes.

 

The theological astonishment of the birth of Jesus is that God becomes a completely ordinary human person – just like us to the point of having an umbilical cord and belly button and needing a place to sleep – and that the whole divine being takes up residence in an ordinary neighborhood of God’s people to grow up slowly like an ordinary kid.
And by having Jerusalem’s scholars tell the magi that the Messiah is born in ordinary little Bethlehem, an otherwise insignificant suburb (probably exurb, at the time), Matthew shows us that without having to explain the theology.

 

We get the mission of Jesus part – the revelation of God’s presence, reality, and love to the entire world– because it just obvious in the story that the travelers, the magi, are so very not from around here.
They aren’t from God’s chosen people. They’re from the hand-wavy “East”, a place full of folks who worship different gods in different ways. And yet they are drawn – personally drawn, by a star that turns up right in the middle of their astronomical studies – drawn to find: to seek, to see, and to worship the one God, Creator of all, in the middle of God’s ordinary people.

 

The official church holiday of Epiphany – tomorrow, on our calendars – uses this story of the travelers from afar to turn our attention for a season to how God is revealed in the ordinary world. And to the people everywhere, at any time, who are looking to find God, meet God, experience and know God. Especially the people who don’t already know all the traditional stories and habits and rituals of our God.

 

Which brings us back to the Christmas pageant. Because while a lot of traditional Christmas pageants are designed by and for people who already know the story and the traditions, for many of us who either grew up in the church, or have “helped” with a “children’s program”, the Christmas pageant could be our first experience of telling the story of God. Of showing the wonder of God, the divinity right in the middle of our ordinariness, so that other people – even travelers, wanderers, seekers – can see it.

 

Some of us – raise your hand if it’s you – have put cloths on our heads and sticks in our hands and represented the shepherds who first went to see the newborn Jesus.

Some of us have been the sheep and lambs, the donkeys or cows or other animals who show us that all creatures have a role in welcoming the God of all creation.

Or were angels, whose job was to tell the glory of God, or at least show that glory with tinsel halos.

Or were Mary, the mother of God, Joseph the father and protector… or the infant Jesus himself.

And some of us might have been robed in “exotic” old church vestments and represented the wise men, the magi, the travelers from the East.

But how many of you – us – were the star?

 

The star of the Christmas pageant, wearing tinsel or lame, and perhaps perching on a ladder to guide those travelers to the waiting divine little King?

 

I never played that role.

In fact, I never even knew that role was possible until I came to Trinity, and found it featured in some preschool Christmas pageants, and I believe one of our church pageants on Christmas Eve.

And I was… star-struck.

 

Because that’s the role I would have wanted.

 

And it’s the role I think Jesus might invite any of us – or all of us – to play.

After all, he does eventually tell his followers that you are the light of the world. And to let your light shine before others, so that they may see the good work you do and give glory to your Father in heaven.

That’s the job of the star in today’s story. To shine in such a way as to lead others to see and praise the glory of God.

And Jesus invites us  – any of us who are drawn to Jesus, who are adopted into the family of God – to shine. To be the star.

 

There are, after all, a lot of people in the world now who are looking for God; trying to travel toward the presence of God, like those Eastern seekers long ago.
And many of these seekers, questing for where God is found in the world are “not from around here” – who are “foreign” to the traditions, and Sunday morning habits, and assumptions of the church.

People God is calling, who just need someone, or something, to light a way for them.

Who need a star.

 

And you, or I, might be that star.

A glimpse of new light in a familiar scene, a light that beckons and invites adventure – not with a loudspeaker and a spotlight, but with wonder and hope and joy.

 

I know some of us here right now find wonder and hope and joy in short supply in our everyday lives. But together, we have a treasure chest of story and prayer and music holding the joy, faith, and wonder of those who have gone before us, or who travel with us now, to guide us to God’s home.
And if those stories we share seem distant from the daily news headlines or the weary routines of “back to normal”, we can still tap into that hope and trust, marvel and delight, and carry it with us to hold next to, or against, the troubled news and weariness of the world around us.

Carry it with us, so that perhaps without knowing it, we leak a bit of joy, hope, awe, and belovedness to the people around us, the people longing and searching for those drops of promise, the travelers looking for a clue to the next stop on their journey to the heart of God.

 

however strong or fragile your personal connection to God feels right now, you can, and I can, shine with a strong or gentle, twinkling or trustworthy “light”. 

Shine, in the midst of everything ordinary or extraordinary, when we tap into the stories we love, the communion that nudges a little peace into our hearts, the faithful relationships here, and the love and strength that God is always trying to fuel and feed us with

 

You, and I, individually and together, already hold God’s light.

We have been invited, for a minute or a lifetime, to be the star.

Star of wonder, invitation, hope, and joy.

So let it shine.