A second chance
Link to Video: https://www.facebook.com/stlukesferndale.org/videos/425025628920844
Clare L. Hickman
St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Ferndale
January 10, 2021—Baptism of our Lord
Gen 1:1-5; Acts 19:1-7; Mark 1:4-11
In the wilderness, a voice is speaking. Proclaiming a way forward. Offering a fresh start. Reminding us that God’s voice continues to speak, even when the world has become so loud and chaotic and confusing that it seems there is no way for the Gospel to be heard. The voice is there, calling us to enter the wilderness, Inviting the people to remember that their lives do not ultimately rest in the hands of the rulers or the soldiers or the religious authorities or the political factions vying for dominance. They rest in the hands of God; and it is God who will give them peace in the midst of upheaval, strength in the face of fear, guidance through the storm of confusion.
When things all around you seem frightening, and out of control, there is somewhere, a voice calling you to that place where God awaits you. Or perhaps God comes to get you, wherever you are. Either way, you are brought to the wilderness. To the place where there are fewer distractions. The place where your armor and your masks fall away, and you are most honestly aware of yourself: your strengths and your weaknesses, your hopes and your fears. There, where things are most true, God invites us all to wade back out into that river.
I say “back out” because the Jordan River very much symbolizes a second chance for those who follow John the Baptist’s voice out to its banks. The Jordan, after all, marked the people’s entrance into the Promised Land, all those years ago! Its waters had washed away the dust from forty years of wandering in the wilderness, had finally freed them from the mental shackles left by their Egyptian oppressors, had been the culmination of forty years of rejoicing, had brought an end to forty years of whining about the hardships of their new life. Crossing the Jordan into the Promised Land suggested that they’d finally figured out just what their relationship would be with this God of theirs, who had brought them out of bondage. Now, finally, they are ready to enter into their new life for real!
All these centuries later, the people have returned to the Jordan River. Perhaps they are looking for another miracle, looking for an escape from the forces of empire that once more seek to enslave them. Some surely seek liberation from oppressors that lie within. Either way, they are wading into the water, hoping and trusting that it will once again be a passage into a new life.
With all that is happening in our country right now, I find myself drawn into that hope. Drawn to stand on the banks of the Jordan and consider the vision John the Baptist offers.
His is not a simple promise of victory over oppressors. Not at all a promise of getting to take over and run things however you want. It is, instead, a recollection to the covenant with God that brought them to the Promised Land in the first place. And it begins, first and foremost, and over and over, with a reckoning. With repentance.
Which feels … right. Which feels like something that could offer us some steady ground to stand on, in a time that feels decidedly unsteady.
Like many, I watched the events of Wednesday unfold with growing horror. It began calmly enough. Protest, after all, is part of the strength of this country. We have a right to express ourselves; a responsibility even, to make sure our voice is heard, especially when we think something has gone very wrong.
But it soon became clear that some came with more than the desire to express their first amendment rights. Some came with violent and purposeful intent. And so we watched as they stormed the Capitol, seeking to overturn an election they opposed. “This is a revolution,” they insisted, before forcing their way into the building. Not just breaking windows, out of passion and frustration, but actually entering the building while Congress was meeting, compelling lawmakers to seek shelter against the invading mob. Some of whom were armed. At least one of whom carried zip ties, as though to take prisoners.
And there was blood. One of the insurrectionists was shot and killed as she climbed through the breach; one Capitol Police officer died later from injuries sustained during the attack; three others died in the chaos.
Amidst both protestors and insurrectionists, there were also very disturbing signs of white nationalism: a noose hanging from a gallows; Nazi slogans calling for a continuation of ethnic cleansing; KKK iconography; and a Confederate flag brought into the Capitol building.
I saw all of this, as many of you did. And I wish I could say I was surprised, but I wasn’t. It had been promised by weeks and months of rhetoric. It had been fed by a long history of political and social conflict, stoking fears and resentments of one group against another. So no, I wasn’t surprised. I was still extremely disturbed, and scared to see the center of our nation’s democratic ideals rampaged through and desecrated. And honestly, as someone who holds a sacred trust herself, I was sickened to think of the deliberate campaign that had fed the narrative driving the mob. Because it is one thing (a good thing) for people to protest, based on their convictions about an issue or situation. It is quite another, much more insidious thing, when those in a position of authority and trust choose to push a narrative that has been disproven by countless failed lawsuits, and declared baseless by national security organizations, independent audits, and leaders across the political spectrum, including the Attorney General himself.
And so I am shaken, on so many levels. Shaken at those who are willing to take such egregious advantage of the trust they have been given. Shaken at the glimpse of what it would be to lose our democracy to those who might take up arms to overthrow it. Shaken at the corrosive white nationalism and yearning for white supremacy that still live in our land, weakening the foundations of equality and freedom that could be, should be our greatest strength.
Angry and afraid, I stand on the banks of the Jordan River. And I hear the cry of John the Baptist, exhorting us to consider our sins and repent. Here, back out at the entrance to the Promised Land, he asks the people whether they remember the Covenant with God that sustained them through the years of wandering. Do we, as the people of God, remember our sacred history? Do we remember what it was to be strangers in another land, and promise to care for aliens and refugees in our own country? Do we remember the promise to be fair in our dealings, and to care for those who hunger? Do we desire to live in fidelity to our God, turning from all those golden idols the world tries to seduce us with?
Do we dare admit all the ways in which we have fallen short of this? Do we dare to wade into those waters? Here and now, as Americans, can we take hold of this same wisdom, this same invitation to a fresh start? Knowing all the ways in which we have fallen short of that beautiful, shining image of the City on the Hill, can we hear the call to repent? Can we take hold of our longing to live into the astonishing power of our Declaration and our Constitution, and our beacon of Liberty, and wade into the water?
Human life is always a work in progress, no matter how grand the ideal or how sincere the intention. To paraphrase the Baptismal Covenant: in the course of our journey, we will definitely sin and fall short. Thanks be to God, we then have the chance to acknowledge what is broken, try to make it right, and vow to do better in the future.
I believe this is where we are as a nation. And as frightening as the events of this week have been, such inflection points force us to stop and take stock. In Christian terms, they are times for repentance, and they offer a vision for healing and renewal. To remember the ideals and values that are the true source of our greatness. To recognize the ways we have fallen short, and seek to repair the damage done. And then to move on, as we would say, with God’s help.
May it be so, my friends. Amen.