Sermon for Lent 1 B
February 26, 2012
You’ve gotta begin a journey somewhere.
For Jesus, the journey began in the wilderness.
In Mark’s Gospel, Jesus doesn’t do anything noteworthy
until after his baptism and wilderness time.
And afterwards, it is as if something wildly new has emerged.
Our church calendar tells us each year
that the beginning of the journey toward
the cross and resurrection that renews us
is in the wilderness.
Every year, we begin here,
with Jesus, out in the wilderness.
In fact, the whole season of Lent is a 40 day metaphor
for his 40 days in the wilderness,
not to mention the 40 years of Israel in the wilderness.
These two basic stories tell us
that before a time of new things comes,
there is a time of preparation.
And for some reason, that preparation
doesn’t happen in the temple or in church
or at work, or at home,
or on 6th street or on Facebook,
but in the wilderness,
with very little to distract you,
and only the animals and nature to teach you.
Imagine that we actually practice Lent
the way it was invented to be practiced:
Preparation for baptism of adults
at the Easter Vigil.
Everything we do from now until that vigil liturgy
is meant to prod and push and teach and compel
those about to be baptized.
It challenges them to consider it carefully,
approach it with awe and some trembling.
It provokes them to begin to loosen the grip they hold on their own lives
so God in Christ by the Spirit might grab hold of them
in new and transformational ways.
So how does this baptismal period of teaching and formation begin?
Jesus being baptized and pushed out into the wilderness.
He is shoved out there, really, by the Spirit
so that he might be prepared for what was to come.
You might think, well, why does Jesus need this wilderness time?
Wasn’t he already doing it right?
Didn’t he grow up as a good boy and live as a gentle man?
You can just picture it.
Jesus had been a good little boy,
and as a young man didn’t cause any trouble.
He worked hard in his father’s wood working shop.
He visited his mother on weekends.
He went to synagogue and read Scripture and said his prayers.
He didn’t stir up trouble in town.
But then, he was feeling restless.
He was feeling an inner stirring.
He felt a pull and a push toward something new.
He was tired of always being nice,
when he saw so many problems around him
and so many people in need of healing and liberation.
And once he heard that wild John the Baptist
he couldn’t go back.
He knew God was calling him.
After Jesus is baptized and God tells him
he is beloved and pleasing,
he isn’t sent back into town to be a good boy again.
He is thrust out into the wilderness by the Spirit.
We might pronounce that word: wild-er-ness.
Jesus didn’t go out there to figure out how to be a good boy.
He went out there to figure out how to be wild enough
to live out the call of God in the world.
His testing and tempting and toughening
aren’t about him getting ready to go back
into his nice, small town life.
His wilderness time is about getting him ready to go forward
into the wilder-ness of living out his calling from God,
living out the radical love of God
which is a costly love that upsets and disrupts
all the contained love that keeps things nice and easy.
Baptized and wilderness ready, Jesus was now dangerous.
He had God in, with, and under him
He had identity that no one could strip away
He had calling and purpose
that couldn’t be bought or mortgaged
or repossessed or foreclosed upon.
What would that tell you
if you were preparing to be baptized at the Easter Vigil this year
and the first seed, the first story the church planted in your mind
was Jesus going into the wilder-ness?
It would tell you that you needn’t worry
about being a good boy or a good girl
for the rest of your life.
It would tell you that you have probably played it too safe
in your attempts to live up to something
you think everyone wants you to be.
It would tell you that the baptized life
is not a safe, nice stroll through the park
but a wild walk with God who calls you beloved.
It would tell you that our primary struggle
is not in what we do most of the time,
but in what we don’t do, in why we tame our lives so much.
It is the struggle see whom we don’t love as God loves,
and to wrestle with the hard question of why.
Now imagine with me
how we are experiencing the other reason
Lent was invented:
Those of us who are already baptized
might be renewed,
might walk the same path as initiates again,
might discover new meaning and energy and vitality
in being the people of Jesus,
in being a community of costly love,
in being the church of death and resurrection,
in being called to a transformed life rooted only
in God and God’s mercy for us and all people.
It means we have to wonder again
why we keep worrying about being good boys and girls
when we are called to be wildly free lovers of God and neighbor.
It means we have to look at the cost of living this way again
and together, not alone, but together
joyfully accept the path of baptized living.
As I meditated on these themes this week
I tried to capture them in a different way in this poem
which I posted on my blog:
(Read while processing up the central aisle beginning at the font)
When my time comes for ashes and dust
and final things said and momentary lament
let there be tears freely flowing in the congregation
and a bit of wailing for a while to get things going
and then let there be in the frankincensed aisles
of the church when the cross makes its way
past the black suits and the pressed handkerchiefs
and children fidgeting oblivious to grief rituals
– let there be a procession of drums stirring the souls (drumming begins)
of those who still have heartbeat rhythms,
djembes and doumbecs, tree drums and rattle gourds
calling to the wildness of all the still living and all too tame
downbeats and syncopations
and finger riffs in complicated cadences
and hands red from so much music making
reminding everyone who came for me
in between the silences and the cadence
of the twisting walk through the labyrinth of life
I made some music, loving in time and in counterpoint,
but too tamed when it needed to echo the feral call of the divine,
the ecstasy song of my paschal mystery stride through the universe.
But you breathers even in grief still have hands, fingers, and hearts
and before your final walk down the aisle in a little ashy urn
you’ve got a dancing pulse urging you to
more wildness and less cautious stillness
more drumming and less watching from a distance
more moving in your skin as God moves through you
in this percussive dance around the firelight of infinite love
If we’re going to walk this Lenten path together,
let’s do it with the spirit of inner joy intended.
It isn’t a time to beat ourselves up for not being good enough,
or for being worthy of abandonment and rejection by God.
It is a time to peel off the accumulated layers
of trying too hard to be good according to everyone else’s rules.
It is a time to slough off fear and anxiety
about God and one another and life and death and ashes and dust.
It is a time to prepare for Jesus’ faithful journey
of life and death and resurrection to renew us again by God’s grace.
It is at time to be transformed again into our wilder selves,
people who love without counting the cost,
people who dance without worrying about being seen,
people who walk to the beat of a different drummer.