Under Water

Isaiah 43:1-7; Luke 3:15-17, 21-22

When I was teaching kayaking on Lake Michigan before seminary our daylong classes always began the same way.  After fitting everyone with boats, paddles, and safety gear, we’d go out on the water and tip the boats over.
The very first safety lesson in kayaking is how to come out of the boat when you’re upside down underwater – because that’s the first step in getting upright and back in the boat for beginners.

And in every single class, that exercise unleashed a flood of near-drowning stories. I heard about brothers and oceans, swimming pools and rafts, lakes and rivers, boats and tubes…. An astonishing number of people remember a time when it felt like water was killing them.
How about you?
Do you remember a time when you felt like you were drowning?

My own story is about a family vacation in Delaware.  It was the first time my brother and I had a chance to play in the Atlantic Ocean, and we took turns trying to surf on a blow-up raft; the sort you get at KMart.  It was a lot of fun - and then one wave, bigger than the rest, tipped me over.

I felt my foot catch in the rope around the edge of the raft as the raft was tumbled on top of the wave – and I was tumbled into it. 
Suddenly, there wasn’t any up, or any down.  No way out, no air; just the overwhelming force of the water shoving and tumbling me.  I remember knowing I was about to die – and I have absolutely no memory of how I wound up breathing air on the beach again.

I do remember rushing tup the beach to tell my family – and their easy assurance that I hadn’t been in any danger.
Hey, people, I was drowning!!!
That sense of the indifference of my family burned worse than salt water in my sinuses.

Decades later, with a lot of kayak instruction under my belt, I realize that I’d probably only been underwater for seconds, if that long.  I wasn’t actually drowning – I’d never really inhaled water and it probably all happened between one glance and another for my parents, who were paying plenty of attention.
But it’s different when you’re under the water.
And so I knew what my students meant, and what they couldn’t say, when I stood beside them in Lake Michigan and encouraged them to tip their boat over and fall out.

Water is powerful.  Especially when it’s bigger than you.
A river, with current tugging at your body.
A deep pool, dark at the bottom.
A lake or ocean with tossing waves.
All this can be joyful, refreshing, and awe-inspiring.
But when you’re deep inside the water, surrounded on all sides; when you know you can’t breathe, and you know you’re out of control, even if you don’t inhale water, it’s a bit like dying.
And that first breath of air, that assurance of life – it’s like resurrection.  At least a little.

It’s not just water we drown in. 
Finances, relationships, work, fear, loss and grief can tumble us the way the Atlantic Ocean tumbled me all those years ago.
And it often seems like no one notices we’re going under.  And when we finally come up for air, full of reaction and release, sometimes it feels like we’re all alone with the drowning and the relief of breaking free.
If we get stuck in that sense of aloneness it can lead to despair and bitterness.
But we’re not alone.
That’s what today is about.  That’s the story of the gospel, and the promise of Isaiah.  It’s the story of our baptism.

The baptism is almost invisible in Luke’s gospel story – a story full of John’s preaching and other details. The whole process of drowning and rising, of Jesus submerged in the current of the Jordan River, all the way under and waiting to breathe; Jesus rising again with the water pouring off him – it’s all hidden under a word or two; almost easy to miss.

But as Jesus comes to the shore, and prays, the Spirit of God swoops from heaven like a dove in flight, and God claims him with pride and delight:  You are my Son, my Beloved; With you I am well pleased.

Maybe no one else noticed that, either. Maybe only Jesus saw the dove and heard the voice.  Or maybe everyone did. But Jesus practiced death and resurrection in the Jordan River that day - noticed or not - and God claimed him in love and power.

Every time you or I start to drown, in water or work, in details or in grief, even when no one else notices, God is there: holding us, claiming us.
That’s a promise God made through the prophet Isaiah:
Thus says the Lord, who created you, who formed you:
Do not fear, for I have redeemed you.  I have called you by name, you are mine.
When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;
and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you;
[for] you are precious in my sight, and… I love you.

That’s the thing about baptism – it’s drowning and rising, but it’s drowning and rising in the love of God.
And that’s why we practice it over and over, renewing our own vows as we bring new people to the water. We practice baptism over and over, because over and over in our lives we’re going to get submerged in forces we can’t control,
and maybe no one else will notice,
but God’s love is with us in the water,
and God’s there, claiming us in pride and delight, as we gasp for breath and hope.

All those summer days on Lake Michigan, I stood next to people taking an enormous risk; people confronting their fears, risking the disorientation and power of water in the hope of doing a new thing.
And when they finally tipped the boat, and they tumbled underwater and back to the surface, they came up glowing,
breathing in victory and resurrection,
and ready for adventure in a way they’d never expected.

It’s true for kayaking and it’s true for faith: the water is always going to be bigger than you.
So you have to practice drowning and rising, immersion and salvation.
All the baptismal vows we make with Paulina today, and renew for ourselves at every baptism, are the floats, the rafts, the boat and the paddle - the things we hold on to underwater, and the things that pull us up and out, over and over, breathing in hope and victory,
so that we can start anew,
ready for life beyond what we once imagined.

So take a deep breath… and let’s take the plunge!
Amen.

Silent Night

Luke 2:1-20

Just about a week ago, a friend announced to the Facebook world: “It’s official. I’m flunking Christmas.” I laughed in painful recognition.

Have you ever felt like that? Felt like you couldn’t get Christmas right?
I know I have.

For some of us, it’s a challenge to live up to the expectations our friends, neighbors, or kids and family have.
Or it’s that pressure to be happy when you don’t want to celebrate.
Or when you want to be happy, but all your attention is taken up with an illness in the family, a crisis at work, so you just don’t have time and it seems like Christmas is passing you by at warp speed.

There are lots of ways to feel like you’re flunking Christmas. Because when you’re preparing for something that’s really important, to you or to people you care about, you want it to go right,
and in life, things go wrong.

There’s a story about that that has been on my mind this year.
A story about a little church in Austria, not quite 200 years ago.

A church where the organ broke on Christmas Eve.
Maybe the mice ate the bellows, maybe the works were rusted; there are several versions of the story, but they agree that it was about to be a Christmas with no music.

So the pastor of that little Austrian church put his head together with the musician, who happened to have a guitar, and with a little poetry, and a little music, they saved the day.
Or at least the candlelight service.
And the world got the carol “Silent Night.”

Now, you can go on the internet and find out that that story may be a bit of a myth. But it still has power, because it’s about a Christmas miracle.
And it’s okay with me if “Silent Night” was written months ahead instead of in a musical emergency.
Because that’s how lots of miracles happen, after all.
Months, years, sometimes centuries of work, some public, some secret. Lots of people contributing a little bit at a time.  Miracles like cancer remission come from years of labor by scientists, hours of care from doctors, techs, and nurses, months of patience on the part of the patient.

Some miracles happen slowly and deliberately. Like the miracle we celebrate tonight.
Pregnancy takes time. It takes cooperation.
God made flesh is a miracle of process, of becoming,
A miracle that we recognize in a moment of revelation, or by living with it, year after year.

And that process of living with it is part of the Silent Night miracle story, too.
Whatever happened with the organ, there’s evidence that people loved the carol from the first time they heard it.
From the village church in Austria, Silent Night began to spread.
It’s been translated into most of the languages on earth, and a few that don’t belong to this world, including Klingon and Elven, so that Star Trek and Tolkien fans can sing a favorite carol in the far reaches of space or Middle Earth.

I imagine it’s so widely sung because this carol does such a good job of bringing peace.
In the middle of Christmas chaos: wonderful presents and epic failures, meal triumphs and disasters, errands and lists and chores and prep, loneliness and pain or enthusiasm and joy,
the tune and the words can create an island of stillness,
a blessing of bright calmness,
where our hearts and bodies sneak a breath of the heavenly peace we long for.

There’s another story about Silent Night.
One I’ve clung to this year, with the shadow of violence and tragedy that’s been in the news and in my heart since the Newtown shooting.


On Christmas Eve, 1914, the trenches of the Western Front were filled with soldiers far from home, in a noisy, messy, violent, hell.
The Pope’s proposal of a Christmas cease-fire had already been rejected by the leaders of both sides, but as the night darkened, German soldiers began to put small Christmas trees, lit with candles, on the edge of their trenches.
A few were met with shots, but as carols began to drift across the battered no-mans land,
something changed.

On the ground that night, the war stopped.

British troops, German troops, French and Belgian troops, in some places, exchanged carols, handshakes, even presents, and the hundred-year-old Austrian carol “Stille Nacht” was sung in German, French and English,
on one precious silent night,
without guns, or enemies, or fear.

As long as I can remember, I have sung Silent Night in church on Christmas Eve, with the lights turned low, the candles glowing,
and felt peace slipping through and around and into me, and us,
as we make a quiet space in the joy or the noise or the chaos of Christmas,
to remember the peace of God sleeping in his mother’s arms, a miracle of life and love.

A week ago, I sang this carol with nearly 300 others gathered on the west side of Chicago to pray for silent nights in our streets, in our everyday world. Nights without gunshots, without the tragedy of lives lost to crossfire, or petty quarrels, or mindless anger. And for a moment, it seemed so possible, so near.

A carol from a little church in Austria, two hundred years ago, is fresh and powerful now in war, in worship, in witness and prayer.
It’s a miracle, again and again.

In a world where noise of every kind – visual, audible, emotional, and especially electronic – surrounds us at work, home, church and in the car,
it reminds me that God appears quietly.

In a world where someone is at war, all the time,
it reminds me that God dreams of peace for all of us, and that’s why we worship a sleeping baby tonight, instead of a warrior king.

And when I feel like I’m flunking Christmas, because the bulletins aren’t done, or the presents aren’t right, and I’m tired or frustrated or grieving instead of merry, Silent Night creeps into my soul,
and reminds me that we can’t flunk Christmas.
That miracles, love and peace don’t depend on getting it right,
but on God slipping in to the world, quietly,
when we need God most.

It’s not the only way to remember that. But Silent Night’s stories remind us that when plans go wrong, a door opens for unexpected beauty.
That peace can break out,
in a busy Bethlehem,
a horrifying battle of nations,
or a tired heart.

You can’t flunk Christmas, after all.
We can fail expectations – our own and others; we can even fail God’s expectations – but we can’t fail Christmas,
because Christmas is all about God slipping into our world when things are going wrong.

The stories of Silent Night, like the story of the baby in Bethlehem,
remind us that Christmas isn’t about what happens when we’re perfect,
but about how God transforms the messes,
the broken parts,
the emptiness or loneliness,
even the hope and the work in our ordinary lives
by coming among us, quietly,
and making peace by falling asleep in our arms.

Shhhhhh. Merry Christmas.

Magnificat

Luke 1:39-56

I want to try a slightly different way of entering scripture this morning.  In fact, I want to do a little meditation together that will let the scripture enter us….

Let’s start with the women:
Elizabeth has been alone for five months, in seclusion as long as she’s been pregnant.  She’s past menopause and way past expecting a baby.  And who knows what she knows about this baby – the angel who announced it to her husband struck him dumb at the same time, so he hasn’t said a word to her in all these months.

Then Mary comes,

and Elizabeth’s body, the child inside of her,

recognizes something extraordinary.

She exclaims in wonder,

marveling at the presence of God that her body has revealed to her.

And she blesses Mary.

Mary,  who is pregnant long before she was expecting to be,

probably in trouble with her fiancé and his family.

And Elizabeth blesses her:

Blessed is she who believes that God’s promises come true!

There’s blessing all over the place.

Blessing for Elizabeth, rejoicing in the presence of God under her roof.

Blessing for Mary, that her unexpected child brings joy,

and blessing for both of them,

through their trust in God’s promises.

That trust, that blessing, makes Mary sing.  She sings about her blessedness, and about God’s dream for the world, the dream that Mary shares, that Mary gets to help accomplish.

Will you reflect on that song with me,

listening to the scripture, listening to your heart?

First, listen for the blessing.

How have you been blessed by your faith,

blessed by your trust in God?

Listen to the words:

"My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant. Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed; for the Mighty One has done great things for me, and holy is his name. His mercy is for those who fear him from generation to generation. He has shown strength with his arm; he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts.  He has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly; he has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty. He has helped his servant Israel, in remembrance of his mercy, according to the promise he made to our ancestors, to Abraham and to his descendants forever."

NRSV

Listen to your heart:
How have you been blessed by your faith, blessed by your trust in God?

*********

When Mary sings about her blessing,

she sings about God’s dream for the world,

a world where the hungry are well fed,

the powerless made strong,

and the powers-that-be turned upside down.

What parts of God’s dream for our world appeal to you most?
Where does God’s dream for a world made new tug at your heart?

Listen to the words:

Mary said, I'm bursting with God-news; I'm dancing the song of my Savior God. God took one good look at me, and look what happened - I'm the most fortunate woman on earth! What God has done for me will never be forgotten, the God whose very name is holy, set apart from all others.  His mercy flows in wave after wave on those who are in awe before him.  He bared his arm and showed his strength, scattered the bluffing braggarts.  He knocked tyrants off their high horses, pulled victims out of the mud.  The starving poor sat down to a banquet; the callous rich were left out in the cold. He embraced his chosen child, Israel; he remembered and piled on the mercies, piled them high.  It's exactly what he promised, beginning with Abraham and right up to now.

(the Message)

Listen to your heart:

What part of God’s dream for our world appeals to you most?
Where does God’s dream for a world made new tug at your heart?

*********

Mary said yes to God,

probably before she fully understood what having this baby was about,

but that yes made her part of God’s dream,

meant that she helped make God’s promises true.

What is God inviting you to say “yes” to this Christmas, in the coming year?

That yes might sound like saying “no” to other choices,

but listen for how God is inviting you to help God’s promises come true, for you or for the world?

Listen to the scripture:

Mary said,

“ With all my heart I glorify the Lord! In the depths of who I am I rejoice in God my savior.  He has looked with favor on the low status of his servant. Look! From now on, everyone will consider me highly favored because the mighty one has done great things for me. Holy is his name.

He shows mercy to everyone, from one generation to the next, who honors him as God. He has shown strength with his arm. He has scattered those with arrogant thoughts and proud inclinations. He has pulled the powerful down from their thrones and lifted up the lowly. He has filled the hungry with good things and sent the rich away empty-handed. He has come to the aid of his servant Israel,

remembering his mercy, just as he promised to our ancestors, to Abraham and to Abraham’s descendants forever. ”

(Common English Version)

Listen to your heart:
Where is God inviting you to say “yes”? 

How is God inviting you to help God’s promises come true,

in your life, or in the world?

*********

Mary and Elizabeth blessed each other,

with their trust in God,

by sharing God’s dream,

by saying yes, and helping to make God’s promises come true.

I hope we can do the same,

this Christmas, and in the coming year,

because what Elizabeth said about Mary is true for us, too, if we take it to heart:
Blessed are you who believe that God’s promises to you come true.

Amen.