I was in my office one morning at the
church I served as pastor when a couple of members walked in to see me. They
had a dilemma they wanted me to resolve. Their granddaughter was getting
married. She and her fiancé had a one-year-old son. The family wanted the child
to be baptized. They also wanted her fiancé to be baptized.
The baby was easy, it would be done
like any other ordinary baptism, in church during worship. The fiancé, however,
was more of a problem. He was willing, basically because it was important to
the family he was marrying into. But he was a big, tough guy, and felt it would
be embarrassing to stand in front of the congregation and submit to having me
splash him with water. So the family thought they could solve the problem by holding
a private baptism for him. Just to get it done. Without embarrassing him. When
can we do this, they wanted to know.
So often when we talk about baptism we
are presented with teachable moments. The ways in which we understand – or
misunderstand – baptism could fill a book, or many. On that day I explained to the
family that we do not do private baptisms, because baptism is not a private
ritual. It is an act of the community, where we welcome a new child of God into
the covenant we all share with God. A baptism is as important to every single
member of the church as it is to the one being baptized.
I also explained that I would not feel
comfortable baptizing a grown man just because his in-laws wanted it for him;
that there is a significant difference between parents bringing their child
forward for baptism and these folks trying to do the same thing with their
grown-up soon-to-be son-in-law. I think they understood. But on that day,
sitting across from this particular family and hearing their dilemma, I was
struck by one other thing: baptism is fundamentally a matter of making oneself
vulnerable. It asks us to trust in ways we rarely do.
We do this thing called baptism because
Jesus urged us to. But it all started with John, who had established himself
out in the wilderness of Judea with a message of repentance. He drew people to
him who were yearning for something they weren’t finding anywhere else. John
invited them to turn themselves around, to take a new perspective on life.
Baptism was not a new thing that John
invented, however. It was already at that time an ancient practice of Israel.
The ritual bath – the mikvah – had its place. It was used by the priests who
served in the temple, to purify themselves for service. It was, and still is,
used by Orthodox Jewish women to purify themselves once a month. And it is a
ritual that is part of conversion to Judaism.
But John was using it in a new way. He
invited any and all of the children of Israel to come to the waters and turn
their lives around. This was not a conversion to a new religion, nor was it a
ritual purification as prescribed by the law of Moses. John was inviting them
into something new and unknown.
And then Jesus came to him in the
waters presenting himself to be immersed. Jesus has not begun his ministry yet,
but John knew who he was. Luke tells the story about how John and Jesus were
cousins. Their mothers, Mary and Elizabeth, lived in the same household for a
while when they both were pregnant. John knows who Jesus is, and who he will be,
and so he is surprised.
He has already been telling people about
the one who is greater than he; “the one whose sandals I am not worthy of
carrying,” John has said. And now this great one is asking John to carry his
body down into the water and back out again. But why should Jesus submit to
John? It should be the other way around.
Why should the Son of God, the King of
the Universe, the Savior of the World, be surrendering himself so completely?
It is most peculiar. He comes alone. He
doesn’t have an entourage of bodyguards and assistants, or even a friend to
lean on. He comes alone, steps into the water, and puts himself in John’s hands
– literally. In front of all these people.
He has not yet begun his ministry, but
Jesus, in baptism, begins to show us the power of vulnerability.
You may be troubled by this. Because we
know that vulnerability is not a good thing. To be vulnerable is to be at risk
in some way. Those who lack adequate health care are vulnerable to illness.
Those who lack housing are vulnerable to the elements. Those who suffer mental
illness or addiction are vulnerable to anyone who would prey on them. The
elderly are vulnerable and young children are vulnerable. No one wants to be
vulnerable. We are afraid of being vulnerable.
Yet Jesus reveals to us its beauty.
Whether we like it or not, the truth
is that we are all vulnerable – it’s the human condition. We are breakable. We
can be hurt – physically and emotionally. But we learn to protect ourselves
from these potential hurts, because we are afraid, of course, of such
vulnerability.
A baby doesn’t yet know enough to be
afraid of their vulnerability. Yes, they will instinctively close their eyes
and mouth and nose when we slosh water over them in baptism. And they may cry
out against this strange stuff happening to them. But they haven’t yet learned
to be embarrassed about their helplessness. Their faces register surprise and
delight and discomfort and all the feelings they are feeling when these strange
things are happening to them. And isn’t there a certain beauty in that?
This week there was a story in the
news about an 84-year-old man who has a terminal cancer diagnosis. As he
reflected on his life, he felt satisfied, content. With family he loves, work
that was purposeful, and a church that was central to his life. But one thing
was missing. He had somehow never been baptized.
Everyone else in his family was, but
somehow it bypassed him. I’ve known it to happen. If a family is going through
a particularly difficult or busy time, it might be overlooked. And now, looking
back over the entirety of his life, he felt like something important was
missing.
He asked to be baptized – by immersion
– no sprinkling would do it for him. But his body was weak and so many options
were closed to him.
His caregivers and the chaplain found
a way. They took him to a regional hospice center with a big walk-in tub with a
built-in seat. They helped him in, then filled the tub with water. They said
the familiar words, “You are baptized in the name of the Father, and the Son,
and the Holy Spirit.” He bent forward and immersed his face. The chaplain
scooped up water and poured it over the back of his head. As he rose up from
the water, they wiped his face for him.
And then they shampooed his hair. They
oiled his skin all over and massaged his feet. He said, “that felt good.” And
the staff and chaplains who cared so tenderly for his frail body said it filled
their hearts with joy.
Isn’t it beautiful – this tender
vulnerability?
It seems like we never willingly shed
our armor and allow ourselves to be vulnerable. We would never willingly risk
the pain, that might come our way if we shed our tough protective skins.
But Jesus shows us the power of
vulnerability. Jesus reveals to us its beauty. Because it is only through
vulnerability that we find the way to love and happiness.
Vulnerability is really not a bad word,
after all.
It is the way we may draw near to God.
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