Mark 1:9-15
Genesis 9:8-17
1 Peter: 3:18-22
Our baptismal waters still wash
us, though we may have been baptized long ago.
That covenant in which we emerge from the waters of chaos is still in
effect and God’s voice and promises still hang in the air as does that of the
community and our own. That longing for
a changed life and the chance to be washed clean, to die to the old self and be
born to eternal life still pulls at our hearts and still directs us. We emerge from those waters like the
Israelites from the Red Sea, the sea torn apart and the heavens torn apart in
much the same way, to make way for the meeting of God and God’s people. So we stand there on the shore, dripping from
our baptism, God’s words of love claiming us still echo all around us. What are we expecting next? Maybe we are hoping for a party or some
clarity about God’s direction. Maybe we
expect peace or joy or certainty.
But instead we are suddenly
flung out into the wilderness, by that so-called gentle dove, the Holy
Spirit. It happens so fast, we don’t
even realize what’s happened. We’ve got
whiplash. Suddenly, the landscape has
changed. The air has changed. The light has changed. The company has changed. Everything has changed. Whereas before it was lush and green, here it
is dry and bare and empty. Occasional
rocks dot the landscape. A single dead
tree stands at some distance. Animal
bones are strewn about, and a skin of a snake lies partially buried under some
sand. Whereas before there were the
musical sounds of water and songbirds, here are the sounds of insects and birds
of prey and shifting sand. Whereas
before shade and cool breezes offered comfort, now blazing heat beats down and
radiates from the sand and rocks and the hot wind whips at us. There is nowhere to take shelter.
For some of us the desert is one
of grief, in which we face the pain of loss, the emptiness, the despair. For some of us the desert is one of illness,
in which we face the unknown, the treatments, the endless looks of pity, the
loss of independence. For some of us,
the desert is one of depression, a feeling of being flung someplace desolate
and hostile, a feeling of being alone and sinking deeper and deeper into the
sand. For some of us the desert is one
of poverty, uncertainty about where our next meal is coming from, fear of the
car breaking down or another large expense that can take away our ability to
afford heat or food. The desert is
addiction or it is a loveless marriage. For
some of us, this week, the desert is the helpless feeling of watching the
grieving parents on the news, fearing for our country, and being locked in
conflict with those we love about steps forward to address the violence in our
schools and neighborhoods.
This is not what we expected the
Christian life to be, once we were washed and claimed. We want answers, not more questions, we want
solutions, not more difficult conversations.
We stand confused in the desert and wonder what’s next. We think of Noah as he stepped off the ark
into the empty world. What questions
must have been going through his mind?
How did he decide where to start?
We think of the Israelites as they made those first steps out of the sea
bed onto land and began their trek, one foot in front of the other, across the
sand, further and further from everything they had ever known, learning what it
meant to be free, complaining, learning how to trust God. How did they find the strength to break camp
and go on? We think of Jesus, flung out
in the wilderness, alone. What did he
think about those 40 days? How did that
experience change him?
We start to walk, which is difficult as the sand gives way beneath our
feet with each step. The methodical
crunching, the dry heat beating down on us, the wind blowing sand and debris in
our eyes from time to time. We look for
a way forward, but it looks about the same in any direction. We look to go back, but it isn’t clear where
we’ve come from. So we just start
walking—it is better than just standing around.
With each step we doubt. Are we
getting anywhere? Are we just moving
further from our goal, our place of relief, our destination? How will we find water? How will find nourishment? How will we find life?
We see something move off in the distance—or was it our imagination? Was it a snake? A bird?
A wildcat? We begin to sense
danger all around. Will we die here in
the desert and be eaten by the wild animals?
We picture ourselves the meal of jackals and scorpions and vultures, no
one ever knowing what became of us. By
now we are thirsty and hungry. Our lips
are dry and split. Our stomachs
moan. We feel weak. We wonder what we’re made of. Will we make it through? And we feel so alone. Wouldn’t it be nice just to have someone to
talk to or to sing a little song with?
Wouldn’t it be nice to share memories with someone or to walk with a
great story teller? Wouldn’t the time go
by so much faster?
We’ve been walking for some
time. Hours, maybe days, we’re in a fog
from thirst and exhaustion, but we suddenly become aware of a distant
sound. Then we realize that it is right
next to us, the crunch crunch crunch of footsteps right next to us, and we look
to our left and there is a dear friend of ours.
This is someone who has been to the desert before, passed through it and
continued in ministry. He smiles. He doesn’t have a water bottle. He isn’t going to change any stones into
loaves of bread. He isn’t going to tell
us what direction to walk in to make things easier. He isn’t going to lift us up and take us out
of our difficult desert, but he is going to walk beside us. Just knowing we aren’t alone, gives us some
confidence, some hope. And we suddenly
have a sense of peace, knowing that new, abundant life isn’t something that can
be taken away from us. Life and love
will ultimate prevail, whatever happens in our little life.
Jesus tells us a story. It is the story of the ark, which we see
intersecting with Jesus’ own story of coming out of the waters to a vision of a
dove. It is a story of wilderness
experiences long past, of those of Noah, those of Moses and the Israelites,
those of his own time in the wild. It is the story of the Israelites in the
wilderness, which we see intersecting with his own time in the wilderness in
temptation and testing. It is a story of
the Israelites crossing into the promised land, which we see intersecting with
his own story of dying and rising to bring a new vision into reality, of the
promised land, new lifeHe tells a story of God who created all the earth, who
loves every creature, who made humankind in God’s own image, who continually
walks with the people, who gives us new life, who invites us into a new vision
of abundant life, who utterly loves us and calls us family.
As we walk, we feel a glimmer of
hope, a tiny little flutter against the heaviness. We start to think of what life will be like
when we are no longer in the desert. We
first think of all the water we will drink and all the different foods we will
wolf down. But we begin to think of how
we will always have this desert experience with us. How we will look at our family and friends
differently, what it will be like to see their faces again and tell them, show
them how much we appreciate them. We
think of how we will live differently going forward, and what we will say when
we meet people who are in their own desert experience.
And we start to see the vision
of the waters of life flowing for each one, of every person and animal having
enough to eat, of putting the basic needs of others before our own desires, of
living in peace, of living a loving existence of cooperation. It is a vision of health and wellness and
wholeness. It is a vision of balance and
finding our proper place. It is a vision
of everyone’s gifts being appreciated and used.
It is a vision of the community of all creation as God intended it. It is a vision of peace, each person putting
down the objects of violence as God put away the bow, the deadly weapon of war,
to embrace covenant and promise and life.
And beneath our feet, the sound
of the crunching sand gets softer, until we look down and see a little green plant. We see a tree in the distance with some
foliage. It is alive. We detect a scent of rain in the air, and
watch the sky darken with clouds. A drop
falls, cold and sweet. Then another and
another, cool, fresh, hopeful. Jesus
hands us a bit of bread and something to wash it down with, his very self,
broken and poured out. We suddenly see
that we have been surrounded this whole time with others going through pain and
hardship. We know we are part of
something, that we are not alone or abandoned, but part of a communion of love,
part of the great “I am,” people shaped by desert but attended by angels,
people who are loved who are made for loving, Jesus own body, born, blessed,
tested, generous, broken, and risen to bring life to the world.
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