Matthew 3: 13–17
Isaiah 42: 1–19
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Send out your light and your truth, Lord, that they may lead us to your
holy hill and to your dwelling. Amen.
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I have to admit that Epiphany always seems to come as something of a
shock. After all the time it took to decorate the house for
Christmas with fragrant greens and fragile ornaments, to buy and wrap
presents and cook holiday meals – suddenly it’s time to
take those decorations down, sweep up the fallen poinsettia petals
and put the creche away for another year. It’s time to put
the holy wonder away. And every time it happens, I can’t
help wondering, “Is that it? Is that all there is to
the arrival of Jesus, the Light of the World? I mean,
wasn’t his arrival supposed to change everythingɺ”
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Luke tells us that Mary wondered too. After the angels sang
“Glory to God in the highest,” lighting up the night sky
with a dazzling holy light . . . and
the shepherds returned to their flocks on the
hills . . . After Anna and Simeon
prophesied over her baby . . . and
the Magi went home by another way, Luke says that Mary pondered all
these things in her heart. I’ll bet she
did! And I’ll bet that every person who encountered
that holy child did the same thing. They all sensed something
glorious, something divine in this baby. But they couldn’t
stay there either, bathed in the glow of his holiness. They too
had to move on. And maybe they too wondered, “How does
this encounter, this holy moment I experienced change
things? How will it change me?”
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Well, this morning we are getting yet another picture, another encounter
with something holy, something hard to explain. Ordinary
people – in droves – have flocked out to the desert country
of Judea to hear a prophet. At least, people suspect he’s a
prophet. For John dresses like a prophet, like the powerful prophet
Elijah from Israel’s past. And he preaches like a
prophet — like the prophet Isaiah, in fact, warning people to
get ready because someone more powerful than he is coming – and
is coming soon in power.
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Then all of a sudden, as Matthew tells the story, the one they have
been waiting for actually arrives. It is Jesus, all grown up
now. He arrives on the bank of the Jordan River where John is
baptizing people to cleanse them from their sin. And as soon as
he arrives, he tells John that he too wants to be baptized. He,
the sinless one, wants to be baptized by John in the same waters that
have just cleansed hordes of ordinary sinners.
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John, hearing this, objects, saying, “No, I should be baptized
by you.” But Jesus insists, telling John that they both,
now, need to do things God’s way, even if they don’t yet
understand why. John finally agrees and baptizes Jesus in the
clear–flowing stream of the Jordan, where he has already baptized
many sinners. And as Jesus emerges from the
waters – something extraordinary happens. The heavens
above him open wide. The Holy Spirit, in the form of a dove,
flutters down and alights on Jesus. And a voice from heaven,
clear as day, says, “This is my Son, my Beloved, with whom I
am well pleased.”
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So here is another holy moment, a moment we’re not sure what to
make of. Everyone who sees it knows it is holy — out of
the ordinary, for sure. But no one who was there that day knew
what to make of that voice or the sight of that dove,
descending. Just like the shepherds who heard and saw the
angels singing and wheeling about the heavens on the night Jesus
was born — or maybe like the Magi who visited the baby in
Bethlehem — no one who saw John baptize Jesus in the waters of
the Jordan knew right away what it all had to do with them.
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This is why the Church practices the season of Epiphany – not to
curtail the holy moments of our lives, but to help us pause for a
moment and understand them, to see them in a new light. For
Epiphany is a celebration of light – a light that shows us who
God really is. So an epiphany is a revelation. It reveals
something to us that had formerly been hidden. And hopefully,
this morning, in Epiphany’s clear light, we will understand
that baptism we’ve just witnessed in the Jordan River a little
better. Hopefully we will begin to understand what it might have
to do with our own lives.
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Look again, if you will, at our Old Testament reading from the
42nd chapter of Isaiah. It is Isaiah, you see, who
explains to us what we have just witnessed on the banks of the Jordan
River. Never mind that he was writing a good 700 years before
that baptism occurred. That’s how prophets see things,
and Isaiah is here talking about Jesus, the humble servant of the
Lord, on whom God’s Holy Spirit rests. Isaiah is telling
us that Jesus comes gently – not to condemn sinners, as John
fiercely warned, but to help them learn from what they saw in the holy
moment — so they can then pass on what they have learned to
others. He came, you see, to turn us around, to turn us into
disciples.
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That is why Jesus stepped into that river. He was immersing
himself in the same waters we are all up to our necks in – waters
that would overcome us if not for God’s sovereign help. And
now, if we will go along with the transformation – go along with
Him, that is – we, then, can present God’s covenant
to the people. Having received his light into our own hearts, we
can then become lights to the nations. We, then, will
open eyes that are blind and bring prisoners out of dark
dungeons. If only we will learn his humble compassionate ways.
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I read an account this week of someone who had learned those lessons
well. David Dragseth, now a Lutheran pastor, recalls a time when
he was a graduate student at Harvard Divinity School. And he was
missing that divine holy light. He was missing the faith he had
come there to explore. “It’s Epiphany,” he
thought. “I can’t be the only one here who is
craving God’s holy light. Maybe if we hold a Vespers
service here in the church – with beautiful music and lots of
candles – people will come. It’s Harvard Square,
after all. People will come.” And then he did
something audacious.
“In order to boost attendance, and because I loved the
man,” he says, “I cajoled Krister Stendahl, former dean of
the divinity school at Harvard and former Bishop of Sweden, to join
us. ‘Preside at the Communion table,’ I asked
him. Krister was an elegant man, tall, and precise. A
few vertebrae in his back had been fused, and so he stood strikingly
erect and moved with great patience.
I packed the chancel with candles, hundreds, probably, and asked
Krister to stand in the middle and preside over Communion. The
service was going nicely until Communion when, at the height of his
deliberate, liturgical cadence, Krister stopped, set down the
elements, and stood in silence.
“God,” I thought, “did I make a mistake? What
is wrong? Did I not provide the correct liturgical setting
for him to read from?”
For a great while he stood there not saying a word. Just as the
atmosphere started to become tense he began to move, slowly, very
slowly, like a ship moving through a lighted harbor. After nearly
a minute he arrived at his destination: a small candle. He
reached out his hand, cupped his fingers, and gently waved the flame
back to life.
A minute later he was back at the Communion table, picking up his words
where he had left off. I do not think he looked even once at my
liturgical setting. ¹
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That’s one of the best illustrations I have ever heard of the
mercy of one of God’s servants. In our Old Testament
passage today Isaiah said, “A dimly burning wick he will not
quench.” And of course, he was not talking about candles,
literally. He was talking about limited human beings like
us. People who have made mistakes in life – so many
mistakes our lights might just be flickering, threatening to go
out. But that is why Jesus came to this world and persuaded
John to baptize him – to show us limited ones, us faltering,
flickering ones, that he does not condemn us. He has come to
strengthen and support us as he helps us find a better way.
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To God be the glory.
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Amen.
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¹ The story was quoted in Christianity Today’s
“Sunday’s Coming Premium”, for January 8, 2023,
Year A. The article appeared In Christianity Today on
January 3, 2011.
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