Genesis 1:1-5

Hope Christian Reformed Church, Oak Forest, IL

On New Years Day, I took my five year old daughter for a walk, with the goal that we would be taking our shoes off and dipping our toes into Puget Sound. I figure, when you’re on vacation near the ocean, you ought to stick your feet in at least once.

And what better time than New Years day, to start out new with the cold clarity of water between your toes?

New Years is a holiday with enough “religious-ish” significance that churches take it on (schedule and energy for additional church services permitting) as an additional worship service.

You can hear echoes, in my New Year’s walk with Zora, of baptism, or at very least, renewal of baptismal vows.

A new year, so a time to recommit to health and well being, personal goals, relationships. Turn a new leaf. Another year, another chance to succeed. Get your house in order and your ducks in a row. Start out fresh and clean. The water is a good place to do this.

Behind the New Years resolution language of self improvement, there is a longing to be the person you are meant to be. Perhaps the person you are meant to be in your own estimation; but, then again, resolutions are famous for failure.

Which is where baptism comes in.

Baptism is our primary mark of identity as Christians. It’s not an identity we choose, or give to ourselves. It’s the identity God gives us.

Baptism doesn’t call us to be the person we think we ought to be.

It calls us to be the person God wants us to be, the person God created us to be.

Which is something of a frightening thing. (I wish it were comforting, but…)

There was a time when my now five year old called the baptismal font “the church bath”. I am eternally grateful that she grew up in a church whose baptismal bowl was in fact big enough to dunk a baby into, because it seared that picture of a baby taking a bath into her little brain. Not that I ever dunked a baby…I go for as dramatic a sprinkling as possible.

But, some of you may know that in the Eastern Orthodox tradition, they dunk even the babies. All the way in three times, in the name of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. It’s kind of horrifying. (Some of you may know the look on the face of a baby who has slipped out of a seated position in the tub. Scary…)

Even if your child is only sprinkled on, when you hand your baby over the officiating pastor at baptism, you let them dangle that little one over the bowl.

Water is the source of life, Water cleanses, water purifies, water quenches thirst.

It’s also where people drown.

Water, in the Bible, is the sign of chaos. The Hebrews were not sailors. And the water was a big, messy, scary place.

In the beginning, then, the Spirit moved, as the Spirit will, over the water, through the void…

And God began to order the chaos…light and dark, water above and water below, sea and earth, day and night…a place for everything and everything in its place.

By God’s Word alone, the water was placed under order and control…but, of course, under God’s order and control.

And it was good. Even after sin entered the world, the creation was still good.

And God was still holding back the chaos and maintaining order.

But here’s the thing: it’s too easy to stop at the idea that God simply maintains the chaos and keeps us safe.

The world is not God’s wind-up toy, left to run on it’s own. God is constantly creating, and calling us to creativity alongside. We believe that God rested on the seventh day..

but then God got back to work.

Mark is another beginning. “The beginning of the Good News of Jesus Christ.”

And the scene pulls in to John, crazy, chaotic John, calling people out to the wild places, and asking them to get down in the river and go under the water, into the current, down where it’s not really safe.

And Jesus, too, comes to that place, and goes under the water.

And then, creation starts to come apart at the seams.

The heavens split open. (Just to review: The strangest part of the creation story, for 21st century people who are familiar with NASA and the space program, is this whole thing about separating the waters with a “firmament” or “dome.” The Old Testament version of astronomy held that the sky, the heavens, was a big, huge dome that held back “the waters above,” and kept them from engulfing the earth in chaos.)

So when Jesus sees the heavens split open in Mark, it’s not just a flash of metaphorical light. It’s the creation cracking.

And the Spirit descends like a dove. What if the dove doesn’t glide on soft wings, in loops and whorls. What if the dove dive bombs? Sometimes the Holy Spirit whispers, but sometimes the Spirit comes charging at your head with a sharp beak, just to make sure you get the point.

If the heavens are cracking open, I’m more inclined to go with the dive bombing bird.

Baptism is meant to remind us that God’s identity for us is not a safe place.

One of the reasons theologians say that Jesus had to be baptized was so that we could share in baptism with him.

If Jesus was without sin, there was no reason for a baptism (especially in John’s way of talking about it: a baptism of repentance).

Except that Jesus was meant to share with us in all things, and in baptism, we are joined to Jesus.

And joined to his identity.

Which includes going down into the water

going down into death

and coming back up to life again.

We all drown in our baptism, back into the chaos,

so that we can be re-created.

I wish that was always a completely comforting thought.

My New Year’s resolutions are usually pretty comforting. If I can accomplish them, things will be better. I’ll be more organized. I’ll be in better shape. I’ll be a better person.

Even the more “spiritual” ones (I’ll pray more regularly, I’ll read the Bible more…) are often really about self-improvement. (Because if I do those things, I’ll be a better Christian.)

But living into God’s identity for me in baptism is hard work.

Because it means giving into the chaos, going down into the water,

and coming up, gasping for air, while the world as I thought I knew it looks to be coming apart at the seams.

It’s a new start, but not on my terms.

And as Jesus came up from under the water of the Jordan, and saw that bird dive-bombing at his head, I wonder if he knew that things would never be the same. Because his identity was the very thing that broke open the heavens, God-among-us.

And the only way to tame the chaos was for Jesus to go right through it, clear unto death.

Epiphany is the time after Christmas when the lights go on, and we figure out who Jesus really is. The Kings arrive, and bring gifts to this toddler child of peasant parents. Jesus is baptized and heaven splits open. Jesus begins his ministry and calls his disciples, and heals people, and says the most extraordinary things. And everyone starts to wonder: “What child is THIS?”

And if we have been baptized with Christ, Epiphany is also the time when we figure out who we are. It should be like the shock of cold water on your face. We’re called good, and we’re called God’s beloved. But not so that we can sit comfortably in the order of that. So that we can come alongside God in the places, often chaotic, that need light and redeeming.

Stick to your resolutions, but remember that you have already been called to new life in your baptism. It might be chaotic. It might feel like the person you thought you knew is going under.

But there is ONE who has been baptized with you, who has been from the beginning, has been through the chaos and back, and will be with you.

Amen.

But if you asked me what one moment of the year was the straight up distilled essence of 2011, it was a moment when Abram was finally asleep. June 22, 2011, sometime around 2:00am, somewhere near Supply, NC.

The previous afternoon, Erik, Zora, Abram, and I, along with 40 teenagers and 10 adults, drove down a dirt road, and discovered that the mission camp we were planning to spend a week at was not exactly what its directors had represented it to be. (Yes, I am being diplomatic.) They had concealed from us that the building where we were to stay was not yet completely constructed, and certainly hadn’t  yet passed inspections. In several key regards, it was unfit for occupancy, even by a youth group that was ready to rough it a bit.

Faced with the emergency need to get everyone settled in for the night after a long bus ride, several of the adults sprung into action and tried to get the camp building into shape, and we decided that the girls and my family would sleep in a nearby Methodist church. while the boys toughed it out at the camp.

While the girls got the better deal in terms of a finished roof and walls, this tiny little country church, with two already ailing toilets, had never been designed to cater to the sanitary needs of 30 people. By early evening, the toilets had stopped working, and teams of kids were crossing a state highway to access the flushibility of a gas station’s facilities.

Meanwhile, Erik was trying to settle our children to sleep in a miniature nursery. Even with the furniture removed, only 2 twin air mattresses and travel crib fit inside, so I would be sleeping on a mattress in the hallway.

Finally, around 1:30am, the teenagers and chaperones were asleep, and most mercifully, so were our own children.

I had not yet had a chance to visit the gas station, which it turned out did not stay open all night, but closed around 1:00. Things were getting a little desperate.

It was a lovely night. You would think that we would relish the quiet, and enjoy a moment to ourselves at the beginning of a busy mission trip week. Or, maybe, we should have been inside getting some much needed sleep.

What we were actually doing was tapping away frantically on our smart phones, trying to find a hotel where at least we and the kids could stay for the week. (Erik was not sure how he would safely keep the kids engaged all day in either a small church without functioning toilets or the construction zone that was the mission camp headquarters.)

We were also fighting about when we might check into this hotel. My need of a bathroom was spurring me to advocate immediate hotel occupancy. Erik was taking a more reasoned approach: waking an exhausted 4 year old and 4 month old was a horrible idea. Erik won. We would move in the next morning.

Eventually, my amazing youth leaders and equally wonderful youth group members worked together with me to salvage the trip. We secured accommodation for the whole group in the same hotel (although, sadly, this depleted the carefully stewarded youth group savings account my church had constructed). We gritted our teeth and found a way to work with the camp’s disorganized staff, which had also mislead us on their ability to manage a group of our size, and coordinate enough appropriate work for us.

That moment in front of the church, though, at 2:00am, with Erik remains at the center of the year for me. It was a year when I juggled family and church needs. It may have been the year that church needs lost out to family needs as we moved back to the city, closer to Erik’s work, and away from my position. I lost sleep, not just over the care of my darling baby, but also over the care of God’s most precious people.

Somehow, I hope, 2012 will be a year when I will get it back into balance, the various callings of my life: family, ministry, children of mine, children of God. I’d like to imagine I’ll get more sleep, too. But you never know, in January, where you might be on a fine June night, and what you might be called to do at 2:00am.

A few weeks ago, I noticed that a friend, on his twitter feed, was mentioning the need to pray for folks in Belgium after some act of violence. I jumped onto a news application on my phone and saw this headline: “More than 500o Killed.”

Because there is no more appropriate reaction to such obscene wastes of human life than obscenity (and because the baby isn’t yet repeating what I say), I saw that headline and yelled, “Holy S#!t” 5000 people dead in Belgium?

And then I noticed that the headline referred to Syria. And, I’m embarrassed to write it, my reaction was tempered a bit.

The attack in Belgium had no where near that amount of casualty (6 dead including the gunman, more than 100 wounded). I knew about what was happening in Syria. 5000 people dead in Belgium would have been more shocking to me in that moment, because Belgium seems peaceful compared to Syria.

But it felt awful to realize that, in some way, I had placed more value on that number of deaths had they happened in Belgium than in Syria.

Tomorrow is the day Christians remember “The Slaughter of the Innocents.” This is one of the parts of the story that gets left out of Christmas pageants. After the Wise Men visit Herod in Jerusalem, looking for the King who the star is leading them toward, Herod gets jealous at the possibility of another king, and orders all male children under the age of 1 to be killed. It is a gut-wrenchingly horrible story, and it reminds us how fragile this human life that God entered as Jesus really is.

Jesus has arrived, light breaks though, but the fact is that there is still suffering.

It’s one of the hardest truths about Christmas: here we’ve been waiting, we get a few days of oxytocin-induced happiness with the baby Jesus…and then we remember that everything is not yet right in the world.

The tally these days is still terrible. 6 in Belgium. Over 5000 in Syria. 8 in a family in Texas. More than 1000 from the typhoon in the Philippines…

Every one deserves to be remembered.

If angels are those who bear the good news to people on earth, THIS might be the most heart-stopping announcement of that news I’ve heard outside of the Bible.

If you listen to the whole story, you’ll notice that these are real life teenagers. (The youth pastor loudly and matter-of-factly telling the kids to get moving and move quickly could have been any youth pastor herding a youth group to an activity.) As a recently-resigned youth pastor, I’m struck and astonished by the power of what youth are capable of, but particularly convicted, by these young people, of what we ought to be pushing our youth to do as witnesses. What if American teenagers started witnessing to the news of peace in the places around us where there is no peace? What if we were willing to take even a tiny bit of the risk these kids are taking on ourselves, and to allow our own teens to take on some of that risk as well?

(If I were still pastoring youth right now, I’d be planning a Bible study and discussion based on this news report for Epiphany, about being a witness and bringing light to the places that need it.)

On the news this morning: Vaclav Havel, great figure in the fall of communism in Czechoslovakia has died.

I am by no means an expert in Eastern European politics, but I stopped for a minute when I heard this news, and started thinking.

I’m part of the generation that is not sure if we’re Gen X or Gen Y, born in the years that sort of fall between both groups, depending on which sociologist or demographer is defining things. (I find this article about my people helpful, if only to confirm that there are other people like me who are living proof that these sorts of generational generalizations are arbitrary.)

One of the things my age means is that I am too young to remember, with any specificity, some of the really crappy things that happened in the late 70s and early 80s (energy crisis? Iran hostages? huh?), and  I was too young to understand much of what was happening in the mid 80s. My political awareness, and my sense of geo-politics in those years was shaped by the last gasps of nuclear bombing drills in school. I lived in a town that was full of people with roots in Eastern Europe. Driving to the mall, we went over a stretch of interstate where there were several majestic onion dome orthodox churches in view. One of my science teachers, Mr. Chicanowsky, was famous for cooking up Lithuanian Kielbasa on the hotplate in science lab to share with students at Christmastime. One of my best friends growing up was the daughter of a couple who defected from Eastern Europe.

By the time I was starting to get the intellectual capacity to understand the world around me, some pretty extraordinary things happened. I remember watching TV with my parents in the days when communism was crumbling. I remember a teacher running through the building, in tears, to tell us that Nelson Mandela had been released from prison. (OK, admittedly, that year, I was attending a school that was run by hippies, so this was probably a little different than it was in your run-of-the-mill public school.) I was part of the first classes that suddenly had to memorize a heck of a lot more countries for Miss Schmidt’s famously rigorous Global Studies geography tests as the Soviet Union split up.

Of course there were some crappy things in the news as well (First Iraq war? Yes. Terrible.) But some of the first things I saw on the news, when I first had the intellectual capacity to get it were things like the Velvet Revolution and the Berlin Wall coming down. There’s no way around it: those were incredibly images of hope.

In fact, within a few years, my parents would pack their 4 kids and camping equipment into a rental car, and we would spend 10 weeks traveling all over Europe. Our itinerary included parts of theEastern Bloc: East Germany; Hungary; Romania. In other words, countries that, 5 or 6 years earlier, were completely closed off; countries we were taught to feel sorry for, and even be a little afraid of.

Now, here’s where I’m going with this: honestly, I am not often hopeful right now when I listen to the news. Things don’t look so good. The economy is the crapper, not just here, but all over the world. Our country has incredible, rising levels of disparity. (A few days ago, I had a conversation with my grandfather that brought home to me the profound sadness of people of his generation that, while their children may have thrived and “done better” in life, they are worried for their grandchildren and great-grandchildren.) Governments all over the place are corrupt and faltering in their duty to take care of people and preserve the gifts their countries have been given.

It’s not very hopeful.

Last week, I read this article (about someone’s bike getting stolen…) with the great quote:

“Hope is not the smartest of emotions.”

It made me chuckle. I heard a similar sentiment in a Norm MacDonald stand-up routine yesterday.

It might be the general view of hope right now: There’s not much to hope for. And, what we do hope for is probably not going to happen.

I often don’t disagree with this thought.

I’m not proud to say that. As a Christian (a MINISTER, even!) I know I’m supposed to be a great advocate of hope.

I think I stopped this morning when I heard that Vaclav Havel had died because it reminded me of hope.

And, taken back to those first years when I started to understand the news, I remembered this hopefulness.

At my best, when I remember that, I find that I am inclined toward hope. (Not as cynical as the Gen Xers are stereotyped to be.) Maybe things can get better in the world. Things had BETTER get better in the world.

There is one more story about Eastern Europe and the fall of communism that I need to tell.

There is a historic branch of the Reformed Church in Hungary. (That’s right, Presbyterians: you have cousins who speak Magyar!) One of its learning centers in in a town called Sarospatek.

After WWII, my grandparents, through their Dutch Reformed Church, were part of a relief effort to help their brothers and sisters in Hungary, sending clothing. They were strictly prohibited from doing anything, though, to identify where the help was coming from (somehow, the communist government allowed this help, but did not want the Hungarian Church to know that this was a church-driven effort). My grandmother was not one to follow these sorts of rules. So she slyly pinned a small scrap of paper with her name and address deep into the pocket of a pair of pants.

And they got a letter, from Zoltan, a man in Sarospatek. He was an artist and teacher. They wrote occasionally over the years.

But more amazing than the letters were the paintings. He sent them at least two.

In one painting, there is a church under a dark cloudy sky. Just over top of the church, the clouds are parting a little and there is light.

That could have just been scenery, but the other painting confirmed his message:

He sent a painting of the Reformed Theological College in Sarospatek, in winter, viewed through a screen of leafless trees and branches. And if you take a closer look, there is a “tree” that is clearly a cross.

My grandparents knew, from these paintings, what Zoltan couldn’t say in the letters: the church was still there. And it was doing all right. There was hope.

I met Zoltan and his wife in 1993 when my family traveled in Europe. We sat in their living room and they plied us with coffee and sweet drinks and plate after plate of food. Then they took us to the Theological School. Zoltan could not have been prouder that it was again training pastors.

Hope is absolutely ridiculous. Unbelievable.

But so is the idea that things will get better, that a baby could be God, that God is not done loving us and cleaning up the mess.

It’s Advent. Anything is possible. What makes sense to me is that God loves the world, and somehow, everything will be made right.

Thirty Four

I turn 34 this week. I think this means that I exit any claim to my early thirties and land in the mid-thirties. Whatever. Zora asked me the other day about the etiquette of asking people their age and I explained that sometimes, as people get older, they are embarrassed by their age. But I told her I am proud of each year I’ve lived. Maybe proud wasn’t the right word to use. I’m grateful for each year. So, I don’t care if you all know I’m in my mid-thirties.

Nine

Abram is nine months old this week. He is, of course, beautiful and brilliant, and the definition of a bouncing baby boy. We have high hopes that he is finally getting the hang of sleeping through the night, although the fact that I’ve written this will probably jinx it.

Seventy Two

Seventy two days of not holding a ministry position. Not working is an odd thing (and yes, I KNOW that I am working by being in charge of the house and children, etc. But still, this is a whole new thing.) I waver between loving it and eagerness for what’s next.

Eight

The eighth anniversary of my ordination is this week. Which means I’ve made it past seven without leaving ministry (I’ve heard that’s a year when people leave). On the other hand, this is not where I predicted I’d be 8 years ago. Then again, 8 years ago I was in my mid twenties, when one is full of hopeful and sometimes unrealistic optimism. And now I have two kids and Erik and I have two careers and things are more real. Not bad. Just real.

Fifty

Coming up in a few weeks: Zora’s fiftieth day of kindergarten. For which we must produce a poster that uses 50 small objects, grouped in fives and tens, to make some sort of collage picture. In theory, this is a cool project. In practice, I kind of hate kindergarten homework.

Four-Seven-(Eight?)

I have three siblings. There are four of us. Between me (oldest) and Anna (youngest), there’s only a 6 year split. Our last decade has been fascinating because the age difference has collapsed so quickly. Two weeks ago, Anna got married. My brother Mark has been married for 6 years and I’ve been married for 12. I love my sister in law. I love that my husband is friends with my siblings. I think Anna’s husband is wonderful. The fun of this whole marry-ing thing is that the siblings are choosing such fun people to add to the mix. And, we think the remaining single sibling, Emily, is close to not being so single anymore. Her guy is lovely, too. From four to seven, and we’re hoping for eight.

But here’s the upsetting part: in the course of debate, Republicans added a clause that allows for sincerely held opinions based on religion and conscience to be expressed.

Here’s a concise explanation of this. (And, yes, I know that my source is “liberal.)

Now, all in all, I have to say that while I (obviously) don’t support bullying, and while my interpretation of Scripture on things tends to the more liberal, I think there might need to be some wiggle room in legislation like this to allow people to hold opinions, say, that their religion leads them to believe something is wrong. Opinion is different than bullying. And I think it’s acceptable for one to say that there are some things that are morally wrong, even when some of these things are not things we would be able to legislate against. (There were things Jesus thought were wrong. He was not a bully.) The trick is: one must learn how to hold opinions, and even express them, without doing so in a way that is harmful and hateful to other people. This is a life skill.

But, there’s a very very very fine line here, and an illustration from the suburb where I used to live and work causes me to worry about the editing of this law.

Last fall, students at a local high school called for a week to show support against bullying of gay and transgendered students.

3 students showed up one day wearing T-shirts that said: “Straight Pride” on the front. On the back, these shirts had the reference “Leviticus 20:13″. That passage does not just say something about homosexual acts being wrong, it actually calls for putting to death people who do them.

I’m not OK with that, particularly with the use of the scripture reference (and, quoted as one verse, and in such a way that there’s really no room for dialogue or study of the passage). I think it’s a subtle way to bully. But it sounds to me like this would be a permissible action under the addition to the Michigan law.

As a Christian, these issues around bullying, I believe, come down to this: Jesus was not a bully. (And don’t tell me that the table turning in the temple was a bullying thing.) As a society, we have trouble right now behaving civilly toward each other, and we need to learn how to walk a line between holding opinions and being hurtful and hateful to others.

Young people are still learning this distinction. Not because they are bad, or worse than previous generations. That’s just where they’re at developmentally, often into their early twenties (the human brain takes a little time to figure out impulse control, etc.).

And it looks as if we may need some help, as a society, dealing with bullying.

And, for that matter, learning how to express our opinions, and how to carry out a dialogue, without being hateful or hurtful. (Kind of, I suppose, like Jesus carried on a dialogue…)

Here’s mine for the day: Billy Graham and Wilco. I kinda love them both. Billy Graham, admittedly not perfect, but who is? I think in many ways he is a model Christian. Devoted to Christ. Grew in his faith and in his actions through his life. Humble, even though he did great things. Also, he can preach.

Wilco: from Chicago. Some of the best road trip music ever written.

Now, the most obvious convergence: I’m SURE the members of Wilco hold Johnny Cash in high esteem and Johnny and June were dear dear friends with Billy and Ruth as they all settled into old age in the mountains together. (Oh, to be a fly on the wall for one of their evenings together!)

But two articles today have me connecting them in a different way: restless hearts.

(And, just to make it a little better, let’s add this quote so that e can make a three-way connection: Wilco, Billy, and Augustine:

et inquietum est cor nostrum donec requiescat in te

Our hearts are restless until they rest in you)

In this lovely review of the new Wilco album, John Thompson points out that Wilco’s indictment of religion is not a complete rejection…it may, in fact, be restlessness rather than rejection:

Tweedy is in rare form lyrically. His is a consistent meditation on the need for – and personal commitment to – lasting love that runs far deeper than mere sentiment. Even his ruminations on faith and his own lack of religiousness feel more like a rejection of hypocrisy than the middle finger so many rockers and cynics seem to feel the need to throw at God. When Tweedy talks about the God he doesn’t believe in, it is with sadness, not vitriol, and often sounds like a God I don’t believe in either. His thoughtful and brutally self-aware articulation of his frustration with his own nature, his need for the love of others and his fractured commitment to be there for the recipients of his love is moving. His seems to be a heart facing in the right direction. Here’s hoping he finds that heart’s true home, if he hasn’t already, before his journey ends.

Meanwhile, somewhere in Montreat, NC, Billy is waiting to die. And he’s written honestly about what it’s like to grow old, and what it’s like to wait for full union with God. This reinterprets that classic Augustine quote for me. Restlessness goes on and on, even after one has “found” God (or, should I say, after one has figured out that God never got lost or lost you). The restlessness continues throughout the Christian life, and the final restlessness is in the waiting for reunion.

So, here’s a hopeful prayer: in that reunion, may we someday see Johnny and June jamming with Wilco while Billy and Ruth and Augustine sit back, nodding they heads to the sound of the eternal choir.

But, I’ll take what I can get…

Erik took the kids out today. I stayed home and hacked away at the home organization project. And enjoyed a few hours of no one needing anything.

I met them for dinner. We walked to the (super nice) grocery store and had caramel apples custom made.

We walked home in the dark.

Abram went to sleep relatively quickly.

And then Zora hugged me on her way to bed and I said,

“You’re my best girl.”

And she said, “You’re my best mama…no you’re my best baby.”

“Really?!?”

“No…you’re my best peanut.”

“Then you’re my best cashew.”

And then we made up a lullaby based on the song, “Close Your Sleepy Eyes, My Little Buckaroo,” but called it “Close your sleepy eyes my cashew”.

And if that’s the best 15 minutes I can get this week, I’ll take it. Makes everything completely worthwhile.