Epiphany by Water
Matthew 3.13-17
January 12, 2020
Baptism of Jesus
Rev. Elizabeth Mangham Lott
St. Charles Ave. Baptist Church

Then Jesus came from Galilee to John at the Jordan, to be baptized by him. John would have prevented him, saying, “I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?” But Jesus answered him, “Let it be so now; for it is proper for us in this way to fulfill all righteousness.” Then he consented. And when Jesus had been baptized, just as he came up from the water, suddenly the heavens were opened to him and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and alighting on him. And a voice from heaven said, “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.” Matthew 3.13-17

Growing up on the Gulf Coast means everything is connected to water—the food we eat and the months in which we eat it, the direction we drive, the way we spend our free time, the way some of us make our livelihood. As a pastor in New Orleans, some of the congregation lives on the West Bank and others on the North Shore. Too much fog on a bridge, and folks aren’t coming to church because crossing the water can feel vulnerable, even treacherous. Going into parade season, we know people will give their directions to meet up with friends based on the lake or the river as well as the neutral ground or the sidewalk side. In Mobile, it’s the Bay. And to live “over the bay” might sometimes get the same reaction that folks here have in being asked to go over the river or across the lake. I heard a friend just last week describe *passionately* why she did not attend a funeral—because she’s not crossing the river for anybody. The vastness of that water is great.

But I love being in it or over it or beside it. I always liked going over the bay or up to the 21st floor of the Mobile Bank Building where my father had his offices for decades. I loved the view from that high above everything; watching the shipping activity along the Mobile River, and spying all the way “over the bay” with binoculars. At some point, my father bought a Stauter boat, the good, old kind made of beautiful wood. And we would take it out into the Delta and look for all kinds of wildlife. Even on trips home in recent years, my brothers and I have discovered a large, family-friendly boating crew that can take out 20-30 people at a time. If you’re particularly ambitious, they even rent out platform tents in trees only accessible by canoe. My brothers and I have returned to that water, now with our spouses and children, to look for water birds, identify plants, show the patterns of alligators through marshy areas, and simply breathe in that different air. 

For me, there is no exhale like the exhale of being on water, particularly the water of Mobile Bay and the Gulf of Mexico. But now, my beloved has given me the gift of the deep exhale by moving our family to the lakefront. (Yet another distance that some locals think requires a passport for visiting. Nevertheless, it is my very favorite home ever.) And I have made a point over the recent, slower weeks to walk over the levee to the lake and especially to drive the full distance along the lakefront when going anywhere. It’s slower. It’s winding. It’s not the efficient way to get from home to most any other spot.

But the pelicans are there, and the herons are fishing. The ibis wander into people’s yards, and the egrets perch on the rails of small bridges. I will never tire of feeling that water or talking about it or watching the way all kinds of people and animals are drawn to it. Even yesterday, we drove along the lake as we slowly made our way to afternoon errands, and the water was still agitated from the morning’s storms. It was brown and unsettled. Almost frustrated to have no sailboats moving across it and irritated to lose the feeling of the sun across its face. We ran our errands over the next 90 minutes or so and then made our way back to the lake. And in just that amount of time, the sun came out, and the water was blue again. The personality of the lake had shifted, and a contentment came over it again.

Three times in the past two months, the lectionary has guided us to John preaching and baptizing in the wilderness. More than any other text, we keep coming back to the water to meet him. As you imagine the scene, feel the breeze coming over the surface of the river, smell the mixture of marshy-wetness, fish, grasses, and trees. Feel the exhale that comes with time spent beside the water. There are many reasons John was out baptizing along the Jordan, and it wasn’t just to get a better view of the shorebirds amidst a lovely ritual. This is a layered scene.

Timothy F. Simpson notes, “John was part of a larger movement of outsiders from mainstream Judaism of his day, who preached the eminent coming of the kingdom of God and the destruction of the old order, which was corrupt. And that corruption was not limited to the Roman occupiers but extended also to the Jews who collaborated with them.” He’s making a statement by being all the way out there by the river.

John’s ministry, message, and baptism rituals were rooted in the economic oppression of a time and place. He was calling people to salvation not for some day far off but for the good of your neighbor and yourself right here and now. Nothing roots me to the here and now like the water. Nothing makes me feel more connected to the whole of creation like the rhythm of waves and the movement of a stream. Out there in that sacred place, John preached a message that allowed people to see everything in a different way. Salvation meant loving your neighbor enough not to see her as a tool to manipulate and a pawn to exploit. Salvation meant waking up to the full humanity of those around you, recalling the image of God is within them and within you, and then sharing from your abundance rather than stealing from their scarcity. His message of repentance and baptism was intimately connected with how you treat the people and the world around you.

And make no mistake: he wasn’t talking about being sweet or being polite. The water wasn’t inviting folks into the banality of a waterfront cocktail party. The water was inviting them into its power and even its danger. This message. This baptism. This community forming out in the wilderness was enough to get John arrested and eventually killed. And it is out there, not in the private, ritual, immersion pools of Jerusalem, that Jesus goes to enter those waters. It is in the radical, controversial, dangerous waters of repentance at the River Jordan that Jesus shows up among these gathered people to be baptized. Unlike Matthew’s summary, Luke’s gospel reports, “When all the people were baptized, Jesus was baptized too.” When John’s whole audience—the Jewish leaders, the tax collectors, the soldiers—had finished hearing John’s message about repenting and changing their ways to live a transformed life shaped by the radical love of God, they lined up to step into the river with John and mark that transformation. 

And Jesus got in line right behind them all to stand with them in that movement. He entered the river to be baptized by John who was calling people to live differently right here and now—inviting salvation into the lives of people (oppressors and oppressed) who are suffering every day. He was marked in a particular expression of faith that was a here-and-now movement with specific, direct action in the world. See, that’s John’s message. The good news of God is for now and requires transformation—repentance—change—sometimes dangerous and radical change—in this life for the good of everyone and not just for my life for the good of my eternity. And Jesus wanted to be marked in THAT ritual in THAT line of believers in THOSE waters by THAT wild preacher out in the wilderness because he believed in the power of those waters to wash something old off of us and something new into us.

The water reveals what matters most. Remember with me the way Alan Brehm describes this season of epiphany: “Literally it means ‘revealing,’ it is a taking away of the veil that covers something.  Epiphany is about unveiling what Advent promises: that ‘all flesh shall see the salvation of God’ (Lk. 3:6); that ‘the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all people shall see it together’ (Isaiah 40:5).”

Out there in THAT ritual in THAT line of believers in THOSE waters by THAT wild preacher out in the wilderness, we hear a voice from the heavens respond to Jesus in this moment. This is my son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased.” In her commentary on today’s text, Dr. Stephanie Buckhannon Crowder notes the Greek we read as “well pleased,” eudokeo, is also rightly translated as “content.”

The air is different by the water. The sounds of regular life aren’t filled with people pressed against each other. If you’re still and quiet, you can hear so much more than the noisy din of people. And because that air is different and the space has been made holy by the folks gathered, because the water is being touched in symbol and revelation, they can hear more than what’s making noise in this earthly realm. A Divine voice speaks contentment over that water, over the scene, over the statements of faith and efforts at renewal. Right there, looking over the water, the Divine voice deeply exhales and says, “I love this. This son of mine, this water, this intention, this call to live in peace and equity with all people. I am content in this moment.”

For good reason, we continue to fill our 95-year-old baptistery when we mark our loved ones here with the baptismal waters of our faith. We walk into them, we are covered by them, we sometimes even have a little coastal wildlife in those waters with us as if to remind us we are connected to everything. The deep exhale of watching the sun set into the lake is the same deep exhale of coming up out of those baptismal waters. It is the mysterious, Divine voice witnessing the scene in the wilderness and saying, “I am well pleased. I am content.” That is how we feel in our bones when a path is right.

Writer Debie Thomas explores our skepticism at believing epiphanies are possible, saying, “I don't know about you, but I find so much of this maddening. How much nicer it would be if the [baptismal] font were self-evidently holy.  But no — the font is just tap water, river water, chlorine. The thin place is a neighborhood, a forest, a hilltop. The voice that might be God might also be wind, thunder, indigestion, or delusion…

What I mean to say is that there is no magic — we practice Epiphany. The challenge is always before us. Look again. Look harder. See freshly. Stand in the place that might possibly be thin, and regardless of how jaded you feel, cling to the possibility of surprise. Epiphany is deep water — you can't stand on the shore and dip your toes in. You must take a breath and plunge…

What reason for hope, then? What shall we hang onto in this uncertain season of light and shadow? New Testament scholar Marcus Borg suggests that Jesus himself is our thin place. He's the one who opens the barrier, and shows us the God we long for.  He's the one who stands in line with us at the water's edge, willing to immerse himself in shame, scandal, repentance, and pain — all so that we might hear the only Voice that can tell us who we are and whose we are in this sacred season.  Listen.  We are God's own. God's children. God's pleasure. Even in the deepest water, we are Beloved.” 

My friends, hear the voice of God’s contented blessing today and know it is for you. Hear the call back to the water and believe in the possibility of revelation and new beginnings. You will know if the next step is the right step because you know how this blessing settles over you and down into you. You will know because you will be content. May it be so with you and with us. Amen.