Subscribe
Share
Share
Embed
A weekly sermon podcast from Ojai, California. Grounded in scripture and open to the world, these reflections invite you to listen, wonder, and live the story.
In the beginning, the Spirit hovered over the waters --
brooding, breathing, calling forth life from chaos.
Today, at the Jordan, those same waters receive God again.
The Creator who once spoke light into darkness now wades
into the muddy current, standing shoulder to shoulder
with tax collectors and fishermen, with the fearful and the faithless,
with all of us who have come seeking something we can barely name.
We come this morning carrying the weight of the week.
Images we cannot unsee. News that refuses to make sense.
A woman shot dead in Minneapolis,
a mother and a poet and a Christian
killed by a federal agent in a residential neighborhood.
The world feels unmoored, and we wonder what solid ground remains.
So we return to the waters.
Not to escape what is happening,
but to remember who we are when the chaos rises.
This is the scandal of Epiphany:
God does not arrive in a blaze of uncontested glory
but in the vulnerability of flesh, stepping down into the very waters
that symbolize our need for cleansing,
our acknowledgment that we are not yet who we are meant to be.
God enters the chaos.
God does not fix it from above but wades in *from* within.
John the Baptist sees it immediately.
"I need to be baptized by you," he protests, "and do you come to me?"
It's a reasonable objection.
Why would the sinless one submit to a baptism of repentance?
Why would God need what we need?
But Jesus insists: "Let it be so now;
for it is proper for us in this way to fulfill all righteousness."
*Us.* That small word carries the whole weight of the Incarnation.
Jesus does not stand apart, observing our struggles from a safe distance.
He enters in. He takes his place in the long line of humanity –
not to shame us or judge us or lord it over us
but to show us that there is no place, no human condition
that God refuses to inhabit.
When Jesus comes up from the water, the heavens are opened.
The original Greek word Matthew uses suggests something forceful,
something that cannot be undone --
as if the barrier between heaven and earth could no longer hold,
as if God's love could no longer be contained
by our small imaginings of what is possible.
The Spirit descends like a dove --
that fragile, tender image of God's presence,
so different from the imperial eagles of empire,
so different from the symbols of military might
that parade across our screens.
And then the voice:
"This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased."
Notice what this voice does *not* say.
It does not say, "This is my Son who has earned my approval."
It does not say, "This is my Son who has proven himself worthy."
Jesus has done nothing yet -- no miracles, no teaching, no healing.
He has simply shown up,
allowed himself to be named alongside the rest of us,
and descended into the water.
And God says: *Beloved.*
In a week when we have witnessed what it looks like
when human beings are treated as less than beloved –
when a woman becomes a body on the ground
while a wife must watch helplessly,
when fear and enforcement matter more than life itself –
we need to hear this word again. We need to let it re-orient us.
Belovedness is not an achievement but a gift,
not a reward but an identity, not conditional but utterly, radically given.
And here's the epiphany, the showing-forth we celebrate today:
what is true of Jesus is meant to be true of every human being.
Renee Nicole Good -- beloved. Her wife and children --beloved.
The agent who pulled the trigger -- beloved.
Oh, does that challenge you? It challenges me. But it’s true.
The system that trained him to see threat instead of humanity –
it too must be challenged by this truth.
Every single person caught in these systems of violence and fear -- beloved.
This is not sentiment. This is the ground of reality as God sees it.
And when we lose sight of it, when our politics and our policies forget it,
when our fears override it, the result is always death.
The prophet Isaiah knew this.
"Here is my servant, whom I uphold, my chosen, in whom my soul delights.
I have put my spirit upon him; he will bring forth justice to the nations."
Notice: justice and belovedness are not separate categories.
God's delight *produces* justice. God's Spirit enables justice.
And listen to how that justice arrives:
"He will not cry or lift up his voice, or make it heard in the street;
a bruised reed he will not break, and a dimly burning wick he will not quench."
This is not a justice of overwhelming force.
This is not a justice of domination.
This is the patient, tender, persistent justice that refuses
to add more violence to the world's violence,
more death to the world's death.
It is the justice of the Beloved who knows that
every bruised reed, every dimly burning wick,
carries the image of God and cannot be discarded.
Peter discovers this in our reading from Acts.
Standing in the house of Cornelius –
a Roman centurion, an officer of the occupying army –
he has his own epiphany:
"I truly understand that God shows no partiality,
but in every nation anyone who fears him and
does what is right is acceptable to him."
The circle of belovedness keeps widening,
keeps breaking the boundaries we try to draw around it.
It includes even the ones we have named as enemies.
It includes even the ones whose power we fear.
It includes us in our complicity and confusion.
This is scandalous. This is hard. And this is the gospel.
So what do we do when the world is breaking?
When violence seems to be winning? When the chaos waters are rising?
We remember who we are.
We were claimed in baptism as God's beloved children.
That identity is not revoked by the news cycle.
It is not conditional on our ability to fix everything.
It is the bedrock truth that allows us
to act without despair and to hope without naivety.
And from that belovedness, we live differently.
We refuse to return violence for violence,
fear for fear, dehumanization for dehumanization.
We insist on the belovedness of every person,
especially those our culture wants to render invisible or expendable.
We tell the truth about what we see. We protect the vulnerable.
We resist the systems that treat human beings
as problems to be solved rather than as bearers of God's image.
We organize. We advocate. We show up.
This doesn't mean there is no anger.
The prophets were furious at injustice, and so was Jesus.
But it means our anger is grounded in love,
our resistance is grounded in hope,
our action is grounded in the conviction
that God's future is more real than the empire's present.
When we gather at the Table in a few minutes,
we will enact a different politics.
We will practice the economy of gift rather than scarcity.
We will rehearse what it means to see every person as worthy,
to break bread with people we didn't choose,
to be fed by grace we cannot earn.
We will live, if even just for a few moments,
what Dr. King called “beloved community.”
This is not escape from the world's pain.
This is training for how to live in it without being consumed by it.
Now, let’s be clear.
The way of Jesus – the way of belovedness,
the way announced at his baptism and lived out in his ministry –
leads to a cross.
We cannot pretend otherwise.
A world organized around domination and fear
cannot bear this much love, this much insistence on the belovedness of all.
The powers that be will resist. They always do.
But beyond the cross is resurrection.
And resurrection means that God's love is stronger than the empire's violence,
God's life deeper than the world's death,
God's future more certain than our present chaos.
So carry *this* into everything that follows.
Before you were old enough to know your own name, you were known.
Before you could speak a word, you were spoken for.
Before you could love, you were loved.
You are the beloved of God.
And so is every person whose face appeared on your screen this week,
every person whose name you will never know,
every person on every side of every border.
When you pray in a few moments,
pray as the beloved -- for the beloved.
When you turn to your neighbor to offer peace,
look into the face of the beloved and let them see it in you.
When you come to this Table, come as the beloved –
empty-handed, open-hearted,
remembering that this bread was broken
so that no one would be excluded from the feast.
And when you walk out those doors, live like it's true.
Speak like it's true. Resist like it's true. Love like it's true.
Because it is.
The waters are rising.
But the Spirit still hovers.
The heavens are still opened.
And the voice of God still speaks
the only word that can save us:
Beloved.
Amen.