07 January 2018

Beginning Again


Baptism of the Lord

Yesterday, January 6, was the Feast of Epiphany.  Today is Baptism of the Lord Sunday.  Before the designation of Christmas as December 25, the nativity of Christ was celebrated on January 6. In 361, Bishop Epiphanius of Salamis (d. 403), in Cyprus, referred to January 6 as Christ’s "Birthday; that is, His Epiphany.”  From the Greek epiphaneia, epiphany means “manifestation” or “appearance.”  In Classical Greek, the word was used to describe the appearance of new light at dawn.  Epiphany is often used interchangeably with theophany, meaning the appearance of a god or God.  In the New Testament, Paul’s uses the word in his epistle to Titus. “The grace of God has appeared (epephane) bringing salvation to all, the manifestation (epiphaneia) of the glory of our great God and Savior, Jesus Christ” (2:11, 13).
In the Eastern Church, Epiphany was and remains the day to celebrate the birth or manifestation of Christ, the incarnation of the Word, made flesh, “…and we have seen his glory” (Jn. 1:14).  Yesterday, Orthodox congregations around the world welcomed the birth of God’s light into the world with elaborate liturgies, processions, parades and even a swim. Yes, a swim. Epiphany celebrations always include the blessing of the waters, because Epiphany was also closely related to Jesus’ baptism.  There’s evidence that in early Gnostic sects, as early as 200, Epiphany was the feast day to honor Jesus’ baptism.  In some churches, Epiphany marked both the birth of Christ and his baptism
In Istanbul, yesterday, Ecumenical Patriarch Bartholomew I, the spiritual leader of Orthodox Christians around the world and archbishop of Constantinople, led the faithful in worship, followed by the blessing of the waters, which consists of tossing a cross into the water to be retrieved by swimmers. The first one to get it receives a prize.  The patriarch threw a cross in the waters of the Golden Horn and the faithful jumped into the sea to retrieve it.  Similar blessings took place around Istanbul, indeed, around the world.  Three thousand gathered in Melbourne.[2]  And, today, Greek Orthodox Christians will gather in Buffalo to bless the Niagara River.  Given the Polar Vortex, I don’t think anyone will be jumping into the river, however.  According to The Buffalo News, a priest will immerse a cross into the water and raise it.  They will probably have to first saw through the ice to get to the water.
The way the liturgical calendar falls this year, Epiphany and Baptism of the Lord are symbolically aligned, as they were in the early centuries of the church.  And the lectionary, linking Genesis 1 with Mark 1, beautifully highlights the connection between the manifestation of God’s breath, God’s ruach, God’s holy wind that “swept over the face of the waters” (Gen. 1:2), and the manifestation of God’s breath breathing through the flesh of Jesus, who desired to enter into the waters of the Jordan, in order to claim the purpose and direction of his life.  Jesus’ birth, his life and ministry, like creation itself, signify the start of something new. 
This element of “newness” is at the center of Mark’s Gospel.  It’s right there in the first sentence: “The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ” (Mk. 1:1).  Arche tou euaggeliou Iesou Christou.  Did you hear that?  Arche.  “The beginning.”  Mark intentionally echoes the opening of Genesis 1, “In the beginning when God created the heavens and the earth” (Gen. 1:1). The Greek version of Genesis, which Mark would have known, reads, “En arche epoiesen.” [3] Arche.  Beginning.  When God creates, new worlds come into being.  The presence of God always yields something new.  Mark, too, alludes to this newness.  We’re told that just as Jesus came up out of the water, “he saw the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending like a dove on him” (Mk. 1:10). Heavens tearing apart echoes the prayer of Isaiah, which we heard back at the beginning of Advent, “O that you would tear open the heavens and come down…to make your name known” (Is. 64:1-2). An experience of God’s manifestation inevitably entails a new beginning.  Just like God’s creative act at the beginning of everything, so, too, Mark sees the coming of Christ signifying something new, the beginning of good news.  Christ’s epiphany, his appearance, signals a shift. A new heaven and a new earth have appeared in Christ. Theologians call this the novum.  He represents a new order, which means the crumbling and dissolving of the old order.  Christ’s epiphany breaks into our lives and offers something new, a novum.[4] Then and now, whenever we encounter Christ, the world is never again the same—can never be.  Didn’t the Magi return home by a different route after their encounter (Mt. 2:12)?  They went home changed.  Christ’s ministry, his healing touch, his word, his presence, his claim on our lives changes us—again and again.  And, for Mark, it all begins with baptism.  Baptism, Jesus’ baptism, was real for him.  It wasn’t fake or feigned.  In the Jordan, Jesus experienced an epiphany of his own, he discovered his own encounter with the Spirit of God, who claimed him and revealed to him his core identity.  

For, you see, baptism is an epiphany! Epiphanies change people.  Baptism changes people.  It changed Jesus; it changes us.  This is why baptism must never be taken lightly, and why we should never take our own baptisms for granted.
I recently learned that the influential French existentialist Albert Camus (1913-1960), author of The Stranger and The Myth of Sisyphus, a writer often at odds with Christianity, seriously considered getting baptized.  In the late 1950s, Camus started attending the American Church in Paris.  He went to hear the great Marcel Dupré (1886-1971) play the organ, only later to hear the sermons.  Camus became friends with Howard Mumma, a Methodist pastor and preacher.  They actually became good friends.  One summer afternoon, Camus asked, naively, “Howard, do you perform baptisms?”  Howard was shocked.  “Yes, Albert, I do.”  Camus asked, “What is the significance of this rite?”  Howard went on to explain its meaning as a “symbolic commitment to God.”  Camus confessed that he was “dissatisfied with the whole philosophy of existentialism” and that he was searching for something.  Camus said to Mumma, “The reason I have been coming to church is because I am seeking.  I’m almost on a pilgrimage—seeking something to fill the void that I am experiencing—and no one else knows.  Certainly the public and the readers of my novels, while they see that void, are not finding the answers in what they are reading.  But deep down you are right—I am searching for something that the world is not giving to me.” Mumma said, “Albert, …I encourage you to keep searching for a meaning and something that will fill the void and transform your life.  Then you will arrive in living waters where you will find meaning and purpose.”  They talked about the meaning of baptism, of being washed clean, of forgiveness, of being born of the Spirit, entering a life of pilgrimage. Camus looked at Mumma with tears in his eyes and said, “I am ready. I want this. This is what I want to commit my life to.” Camus wanted to be baptized privately. But Mumma wouldn’t do it, because baptism is a sacrament of the whole church. Camus couldn’t grasp the importance of making a public commitment. “I cannot belong to any church,” Camus said. He continued to study and read and reflect on the meaning of baptism, but he was never baptized, and died not long after this conversation.[5]  What is so remarkable and profound about this account is the way Camus, this famous “atheist,” took baptism seriously, he struggled with its meaning, didn’t take it for granted, considered it more than a simple rite of passage. 
Where are you on the journey? Where are you on your pilgrimage? How are these waters forming and reforming you? Where are you being called? What is Christ asking of you?
If you’ve entered the waters of baptism it means that your life is never really your own.  You have been baptized into the grand drama of God’s ongoing transformation of humanity and creation. The Christian journey begins—and begins again and again—in the waters of our baptism. We are born from these waters.  We go down into the Jordan and surface as new people.  Here, at the font, we discover who we are and whose we are. Here, the past is washed away and we are given a glimpse of a new future, a new day.  Here, we are called to discipleship, called to witness our commitment to God in a public way, in a way that makes a difference in the world. And every time we consider our baptism, place our hands in the waters of the font, watch a baptism, every time we see water, have water wash over us, when we go for a swim, we have an opportunity to remember who we are and whose we are.  We have the chance to start again, begin again and again and again—and discover again the reason why we were born, discover the mystery of our lives, discover why we have appeared in the world.









Images:
Baptismal Font, San Millan de Yuso (11th century), in the village of de la Cogolla, La Rioja, Spain. K. E. Kovacs, photo.


[1] See also 2 Timothy 1:9-10, “This grace was given to us in Christ Jesus before the ages began, but it has now been revealed through the appearing of our Savior Christ Jesus, who abolished death and brought life and immortality through the gospel.”
[2]Epiphany Celebrations Around the World,” The New York Times, January 6, 2018. 
[3] See Ched Myers, Binding the Strong Man: A Political Reading of Mark’s Story of Jesus (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1994), 121.
[4] Myers, 131.
[5] For a fuller account of their conversation, see “Conversations with Camus,” The Christian Century, June 7, 2014, 644-647. See also Howard E. Mumma, Albert Camus and the Minister (Paraclete Press, 2000).

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