I Will Be With You

Who’s in charge here? That’s the default query when things are falling apart. When nothing makes sense, we are inclined to ask who got us here, teetering on this brink, up this creek, wandering in this wilderness. Who’s in charge here?

That’s not a random question. It provides the backdrop to our text for this week. It isn’t the main point (I don’t think so, anyway), but it is the undercurrent, the subtext to this story. It is the background noise that sometimes makes it hard to hear the symphony of grace and love that issues forth from this watery yet fiery moment down by the riverside.

The baptism of Jesus is the second of three moments of epiphany that we celebrate in season. The season of Epiphany begins with a dubious pack of foreigners struck by a star and ends with a collection of Jesus’ “best and the brightest” stunned by a transfiguration and a voice in a cloud. In all three, there is this sense that we are merely spectators, watching something just beyond our understanding. We feel our hearts pound with hope and with joy, but if asked, we can’t say what struck us so. But just watching from a distance fills an emptiness we didn’t know was there, and it answers a question we didn’t know we were asking.

Watch again as he comes down to the water. What is interesting about Luke’s depiction of the event is that the baptism hardly figures in at all. The verses we skip serve to usher John the Baptist off the stage in favor of Jesus, who now begins his ministry. But after John’s bluster, the next thing we know is that the baptism had already taken place. We missed it. Ain’t that always the way? We come for the show, and by the time we get to our seats, it has already happened. “Now when all the people were baptized, and when Jesus had also been baptized...” Darn it!

You’d think that if Luke had a clue about the centuries of struggle the church has had about the details of baptism, he might have spent a little more time with it. We don’t know if Jesus was immersed or sprinkled. We don’t know which liturgy John preferred or if the vows that Jesus made were the same as the ones we make. We don’t know if John was properly credentialed or if Jesus followed the rules. We don’t know who signed the certificate. We need to know these things, don’t we?

Luke doesn’t seem to think so. “Jesus had also been baptized...” That’s the sum total of the description here. If Luke is saying that the methodology isn’t what is important, then what is? If the methodology of baptism isn’t what we are supposed to be asking about here, then what is the question? The fact that all four gospels spend some time wrestling with the relative position of Jesus and John is a hint that at least one important question is, “Who’s in charge here?”

The people gathered on the riverbank and wondered. They hoped; they leaned into the moment, into the phenomenon that was John the B. They watched him wade in the shallow waters and call for change, for real change. “Quit playing games,” he said, “quit fooling yourselves. Get down to the hard work of living right. There is more to this life than status, power, and riches. Get right or get left out!”

Maybe it was his confidence as much as his content, but they began to wonder. Maybe he is the one. Luke says that in their hearts (not in their heads), they were questioning. This wasn’t an intellectual pondering of possibilities. No, this was a heart thing. They were leaning in, wondering, hoping. They had begun to recognize that they were indeed sheep without a shepherd, and they were seeing some possibilities in the one who churned up the waters of the Jordan River. Is this the one? Is this the one we’ve been waiting for, the one we’ve been praying for?

Maybe they began to murmur to one another; maybe someone shouted it out loud; or maybe he just saw the hunger in their eyes, but somehow John heard the question and jumped in to answer. “Not me,” he declared, as forcefully as he had called for repentance. “No, someone bigger, someone stronger, someone with a shovel who will toss you up into the wind to rip away the empty husks of your sinfulness, someone who will see down into the depths of your soul. No, it’s not me,” said John. “But watch out, the one is on his way.”

Or already in line. That’s Luke’s subtle point. There is no grand entrance, no miraculous appearance. No, not him, not Jesus. When the people have been baptized, and when Jesus had been baptized too. Too? Jesus shouldn’t be a “too,” an also-ran, a member of the crowd. It is Jesus, for heaven’s sake! Why is Jesus even there in the first place? That’s the question that has puzzled biblical scholars since the beginnings of the church. John was preaching a baptism of repentance. But we know that Jesus was without sin. So, why would he need to be there? What’s going on here?

“Are you the one?”

“Yes, but not the one you want.”

Instead, he decides to be the one you need. The one who stands in line with all the other broken ones; the one who takes his place among the bruised and the hurting; the one who wades into the mess of the world and buries himself in it; the one who climbs up out of the anxiety of living in this world and falls to his knees. That’s the one John was ranting and raving about. It isn’t a shovel Jesus carries; it is a cross, and by that implement, we are all cast into the winds of the Spirit to be transformed. But instead of condemnation, we hear those words that he heard, “You are my Beloved. With you I am well-pleased.”

Who’s in charge here? We live our lives asking that question. Most of the time, we think we are in charge-- in charge of our own lives, our own wills. Yet, in our saner moments, we know we need help. We know we need someone to follow. We need an example, a guide, a hope. We need a savior.

Who’s in charge here? That’s an epiphany question, a baptism question. It’s your question and mine. Who’s in charge here?

Who’s in charge here? The writer of the Twenty-Ninth Psalm knows who is in charge. There are glorious descriptions of the God we worship in this psalm. Confident, sure, awestruck. Yet, the psalm ends with a prayer. May you bless us. May you empower us, which means, it seems, be with us. Don’t rule from afar. Be with us, a part of us, among us. Gather with us when we gather. Bring all this glory and set our feet on the right paths. Guide and guard us.

Peter and John in the reading from Acts know that, without this presence, without the one who walks alongside, the journey will be too much for us. Baptism had happened; choices were made, and allegiance was given, and yet a presence was needed. So, they came to be and to bring that presence. They gathered with the baptized and said, “Hold on to this. That same presence that came to Jesus and looked like a dove descending and a voice proclaiming is offered now to you. You may not see a bird; you may not hear a voice or even a rumble but hear my voice and know that you are not alone any longer. And you are loved. Hold on to that. Hold on together, and you’ll be on your way.”

The way won’t be easy, Isaiah tells us that. There will be water and there will be fire. Isaiah doesn’t hint. It’s not really a part of a prophet’s repertoire. But, and here’s the good news in that bad news situation, you won’t be alone. When (not if, but when) you go through the water, I’ll be with you. When (not if, but when) you go through the fire, I’ll be there. It’ll be hot, wet and painful, and you’ll think you’ll be burnt to a crisp or swept out to sea, but I’ll be with you.

That’s the promise. Baptism doesn’t mean safety or security. Just ask Jesus. It means presence. It means community. That’s our gift; that’s the joy--for us and then through us to the world. That’s what we have to offer. There are no secret answers, no quick fixes, no easy steps to a better life; there is presence. “Best of all,”” John Wesley supposedly said on his deathbed, God is with us.” Amen.