Thoughts on Baptism and
the Life of Faith
by Nathan Howard YoderCenter for Theology Colloquium
Lenoir-Rhyne University
September 1, 2005
Wake
Forest University, Spring 2001
Several
months ago I engaged my friend and colleague Brandon Jones in a heated debate
about the validity of infant baptism. Brandon’s
perspective is quintessentially Baptist, flowing from a proud and admirable
zeal for independence and justice. His
argument is born of the ethic that fashioned and enforced the American
Experiment’s “wall” between of church and state, and—in recent
years—bore the torch of the Civil Rights Movement.
“No one has the right to sign me up—to associate me—with a cause
that I haven’t the capacity either to acknowledge or discern.
Babies are in a state of intellectual oblivion.”
My response to Brandon’s point was and is grounded in the baptismal
doctrine of confessional Lutheranism: the Sacrament of Holy Baptism welcomes
new members into the Body of Christ without any work of intellectual or moral
assent. It is a gift of Grace in
the Holy Spirit, recognition of the justifying work of Christ for all
creation. It thus has profound
significance for any and all human beings, no matter their age.
There
is, as Brandon so passionately argues, something to be said for choosing
one’s own avenue of faith. Indeed,
it is a necessity. If the athlete
is not pressing on toward the goal with passion, then there can be no quest.
Brandon thus considers it his fundamental right as a human being to
choose his passion, his own religious starting point. My counter to this approach is a theology of inheritance. In
Holy Baptism, I am not choosing – I am being recognized as chosen. I am receiving
the Grace of the Way, and I am being placed on the path. It is not a question of rights; no one can rightfully claim
to deserve this invitation. Holy
Baptism signifies the claim of Christ upon my heart:
“Nathan Yoder, child of God, you are sealed by the Holy Spirit and
marked with the cross of Christ forever.”
Sermon
for I Corinthians 10 – Shoshone, Idaho – Winter 2004
“What
do you think of that?”
An unexpected but simple enough question – and yet I found I
couldn’t answer it. I was at a
hockey game on Friday night up in Sun Valley, my first since I’ve been here.
I’d watched the news over the past week, and so the venue [all the
shouting, skating, cursing, and hard hitting] automatically made me think of
“the Hit” that CNN kept showing over and over again. The guy from
Vancouver who sucker-punched the kid from Colorado in the neck from behind,
instantly dropping him so that he broke his neck when he hit the ice.
The kid wasn’t paralyzed, and the guy that hit him was suspended for
the duration of the season. And
the whole incident called the nature of sports-related fights into question,
asking if players like the one from Vancouver should be brought up on charges.
Well, I got to talking with a young couple sitting next to me about
“the Hit”, and we gladly proceeded to crucify the Vancouver player. “Suspended for the season isn’t enough,” I said.
“He oughtta be suspended for life.”
“Yup, he shouldn’t be allowed to lace up a pair of skates ever
again. I don’t care if it’s
on a pond!” And so on. The
conversation continued, and when they found out I was finishing up seminary,
they had all sorts of questions about the process, about the Lutheran
tradition, about my sense of calling. Inevitably,
in mid-sentence, a roar came from the crowd and everybody stood up to see what
was going on. It was a fight –
of course. Two players just going
at it, tearing into each other, while the refs and the other players just
stood by and watched the whole thing. And
the crowd loved it – banging on the glass, putting in their two cents [You’re
a blankety-blank, number 17!]. In
the midst of the uproar, the guy next to me leaned over, indicated the fight,
and asked “what do you think of
that?” I opened my mouth,
and nothing came out. What did I think of that? Part
of me thought it was sorrowful and senseless: the part able to remove myself
from the setting. And another
part of me found it exciting. Swinging
fists charge up your senses, get adrenaline pumping.
So I sat there with my mouth open, unable to formulate a quick reply.
A simple question, but a difficult answer.
The
woman answered for me. “It’s
human nature,” she said. “How
many people here just came hoping to see a fight?
It’s…invigorating.” To
which I said, “yeah… I’m no holier than the next guy.”
I
thought about that answer yesterday, and asked myself another question. Did I say that in remorse, or as an excuse? Or both?
Isaiah,
I believe they would have mixed feelings about my answer.
Writing to the Jews and their families who are coming home from 50
years of exile in Babylon, Isaiah reminds them that they have a great need for grace. They
haven’t loved God; they continue to run after things that “do not
satisfy,” idols they find new and exciting, that get their adrenaline going
but cause only bitterness, violence, and pain.
So no: they’re no holier than
anyone else. They’re
thirsty for righteousness and peace, even if they don’t realize it.
But God invites them to drink his water of forgiveness, his word that
is “priceless” – unable to be
bought through any means that they have, but freely given to anyone who wants
it. And it’s this word that
makes them holy: because God will cut a covenant with them that lasts forever,
and will set them apart as a people with a special purpose.
Are the returning exiles holier than anyone else?
Yes and No.
Not
quite 600 years later, Paul finds himself addressing a similar crowd in
Corinth. These people aren’t
returning to their homeland after 60 years of exile.
But they have been born into a new reality through Holy Baptism: born
out of Sin and into the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. Jesus said, “You shall know the truth; and the truth shall
make you free.” Apparently some
of the Corinthians are testing the limits of their newfound freedom in Christ.
Paul gives them a list: idolatry; sexual immorality; putting Christ to
the test; complaining. Oh, that’s OK, Paul. We’re
no holier than the next guy. But
we’ve got baptism and the Lord’s Supper – God’s gonna make us
righteous no matter what we do, so it really doesn’t matter what I’m
doing, especially if it doesn’t “hurt” anyone else.
Paul
tells them what they don’t want to hear: that
they are accountable for their actions.
He reminds them that the exodus wasn’t as shiny and glorious as
people make it out to be: that there were consequences to sin, and people –
God’s chosen people – died because of their choices.
They weren’t immune to the effects of sin, and God was very
disappointed with them. Should
the Corinthians continue to play the sacrament card, Paul explains that the
children of Israel had the same reality of grace then: that they were
“baptized” in the pillar of cloud and fire, in the winds and waters of the
Red Sea, brought out of slavery and death.
So Paul gives Corinth a word of warning: they
aren’t holier than anyone else, and they can fall just as hard.
“There
but for the grace of God go you or I.” A
phrase popular with my grandparents’ generation that, I think, continues to
describe the reaction of many of us who make up the Church.
The words hold up God’s saving power.
All well and good. But the
tone, often said in commiseration about someone else’s mess, somebody
else’s pain, someone else’s sin: the tone conveys a subtle feeling of
superiority. The implication is,
I haven’t gone there, I haven’t done that.
I got water splashed on me when I was a baby, I take communion every
other Sunday, I do what I’m supposed to.
As for that guy over there, he shouldn’t be allowed to lace up skates
ever again. I don’t care if
it’s on a pond. But then the
fists start flying, the crowd starts roaring. And we find that we
enjoy it.
Sin is corporate.
Sin is contagious. Sin
spreads itself. And the truth of
the matter is, there isn’t one of us who isn’t in desperate need of
God’s forgiveness. Understanding
that we aren’t worthy of it gives us all the more reason to crave it.
Martin Luther said that if a person doubts whether or not he needs
forgiveness, he should ask himself 3 questions:
1)
Are you made of this “stuff”?
Are you flesh and blood, prone to erratic thoughts and emotions,
impulsive actions? Are you a fallen human being?
If so: you need it.
2)
Do you live in the world? A world where other sinful people live: where bombs explode and death destroys families, where people
cry for revenge and demand blood for blood?
Where natural disasters hit, where nothing is safe?
If so: you need it.
3)
Is there a devil? A force
of evil greater than yourself, capable of tempting you to thoughts and actions
that you don’t believe yourself capable of?
A force that detests everything that is good and pure in this world,
that thrives on lies and violence and murder?
A force that works constantly to completely destroy you?
If so: you need it.
No
– we aren’t holier than anyone else.
But at the same time, God’s Word has set us apart.
In our baptism, God has said: you are special.
You are mine. And nothing
will change that. He also gives
us a responsibility to typify what it means to be his child: to live in peace,
and not to glorify violence and exploitation.
In Holy Communion, God gives us the real presence of his Son.
A presence that we receive in our heart, through faith.
The only food capable of completely satisfying us, a food that we
accept through faith to heal our unbelief.
So
we pray: come, Holy Spirit. Give
us the courage to admit that we are “this stuff” – that we are excited
by things that are violent and destructive.
That we tear each other down without a second thought.
And remind us that it’s when we feel unworthy of your love and grace
that then we need to run to the Table, to run to Christ’s presence, to run
to forgiveness. Give us the faith
to stick to our responsibility to show the world what it’s like to be your
children: free in your peace.
Because even though we’re not holy on our own, you continue to
glorify us through Jesus Christ. And
that’s all we need.
Amen.
Sermon at New Hope Lutheran:
July 31, 2005
On
Friday afternoon, Keith and Diane Davis gave me an opportunity to visit what
has become one of my most favorite places on earth:
the Oregon Coast. There,
as I always am, I was enthralled by the mystery and power of the ocean. By the
force of the surf and the endless pounding power that says, you
think you’re strong? Let me show you what strength really is!
And I remembered. Last fall, a swim I had in the waves off the NC
Outer Banks was close to terrifying. I
was caught up in a riptide, an undercurrent quickly moving away from shore.
I could still feel the bottom, sand under my feet, but bobbing up and
down without control, I couldn’t get any traction. Ok. You’re not
going anywhere. Don’t panic.
Try to swim parallel to beach, and eventually you’ll hit water moving
toward shore. Ok. That
doesn’t seem to be working, either.
My friend Adam, off to my right: Nathan! I can’t move.
And then, the instinct of companionship kicks in, the same bond that
gives soldiers the will to fight for each other, and I know I must link up
with Adam. Slowly inching his
way, pushed apart, a wave throws him toward me… and we clasp hands in
something out of a medieval movie. Added incentive – you’re both responsible for each other,
now. Moving arms methodically, planting feet firmly, until the water is at
waist level, then knee, then ankle. Worn out, wiser, and happy to be alive.
I
remembered all that, as we trod up that wind-swept beach on Friday afternoon. And then the words of an old Lutheran campfire song emerged
in my mind, one that I’d had occasion to sing not too long ago.
Have you ever stood at the ocean
with the white foam at your feet? Felt
the endless thundering motion? Then
I say… you’ve seen Jesus, My Lord.
There was always something about that song that kind of bothered me.
I think that Christians sometimes use that principle of “aloneness
with Jesus” and communion with nature to justify staying away from corporate
worship, from formative liturgy: from the Church.
We are the Body of Christ,
after all. We need the support
and encouragement of the Holy Spirit working through each other, we need the
strength of our shared stories, and how each one is tied together into The
Story of God’s love. We need
the food of Christ’s own being, food that joins us to him so closely that
metaphors fail to capture the closeness.
With all that we are, that we have become as God’s children, we
need Christian community.
So
the song is lacking a little in the Christian community department.
But I’ve gotta say that it’s right on when it comes to the power
department. Because once death,
and sin, and hell are defeated, then all bets are off and there is nothing
beyond the bounds of the Risen Christ. Jesus
tells his disciples exactly that at the end of Matthew’s Gospel:
All authority – all power –
in heaven and on earth has been given to me.
In effect: the last word belongs to
me. Here, in Matthew’s Gospel, the man who mourns the death of his
cousin, who provides food for the crowds in that deserted place, is the same
primordial presence of the First Word that Genesis captures with such poetic
majesty: The
earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep, while a
wind from God swept over the face of the waters. Then God said, Let there
be… When we in say the
second article of the Nicene Creed: through
him all things were made, we acknowledge
that the last word is the
same as the first, that the Risen Christ has all authority in heaven and on
earth, that Jesus may truly say, as he does in John’s Gospel, I and the Father are One. That
the waters of chaos and the winds over the deep are the same as the lullaby
heartbeat in the water of Mary’s womb.
I
was told a few days ago that this day, July 31, is more than significant for
the story of this congregation. Because
17 years ago today, this community gathered around this font, and the Holy
Spirit joined the first baby of New Hope Lutheran Church to the Body of
Christ. There she sits. And this
awful, wonderful, roaring lullaby became hers in Holy Baptism.
The first word [Let there be]
and the last word [I am with you always]
became the Word for her. Water
fell down and around, and the Word spoke.
Karla Davis, you are sealed by
the Holy Spirit and marked with the cross of Christ forever. And
on that day, and on this day, God joined her story to ours, and ours to His.
the Risen Lord called her, and called all of us, to a life of struggle.
Because there is a serious obligation to those words, a demand that we
see baptism for what it is: being
sealed, held fast, to death and life: to Christ, who died and rose.
Adam’s words come back to me: Nathan,
I can’t move. You
think you’re strong? Let me
show you what strength really is!
This
crushing water never leaves us and holds us accountable for our sin. There is nowhere to move away, on our own.
Like a mother who takes a temper-tantrum toddler in her gentle but firm
arms and says, Be
still. I will hold you ‘til you
are. And then, that
roaring water washes those sins away. So
here is the Christian life: an
endless, exhausting struggle. Against
those forces in life that do not satisfy, but try with all their glamour to be
so. A struggle of weighing grief
on the one hand with responsibility to the living on the other: witness Jesus in today’s Gospel (Matthew 14:13-31).
Caught in the adventure of the surf.
Unable to move. Held fast, held accountable.
Drowned every day. But
washed, and given new life. A
wind over roaring water. A
heartbeat in the womb.
In
the Holy Spirit, the Church, the Body of Christ, grasps our hands and guides
us toward the shore. Put things in order, Paul says.
Live in peace. You’re
responsible for each other, now. In
the Holy Spirit, we can’t get away from the community. Because we need support in this struggle, we need courage and
strength to be in that baptismal churn, just like I needed Adam’s hand to
grab on to. Birth, graduation,
marriage, death, all moments in between: we need the nurturing of the church.
We are not alone, because the Spirit has joined us to this body of
Christ, who reminds us today: I
am with you always, to the end of the age.
There
was a moment at the beach when Diane and I found ourselves walking through a
field of small stones. I picked 3
at random to take with me. They
are different sizes, shapes, colors; they all have different little scars,
imperfections that subtly tell of collisions and difficulty in their stories. But when you rub your thumb over them, you’ll discover that
they are all equally smooth, tumbled and tossed together by the surf for eons
and ages, until their struggle ended, and they came to landfall.
Martin
Luther called death the “end of baptism.”
Because at death, the struggle is over.
Loved, disciplined, held fast by the Holy Spirit, by God’s people, we
die. We move to the waist, then
to the knees, then to the ankles, and then stand on the shore. And we do so knowing that we belong to the Risen Lord.
That we can call the author of the universe “Father,” who will hold
us to Himself through death and beyond. And
that we remain united in the Holy Spirit, the Communion of Saints awaiting the
resurrection of all and the end of the age.
C.S.
Lewis ended his Narnia chronicles with these words:
And
for us this is the end of all the stories, and we can most truly say that they
lived happily ever after. But for
them it was only the beginning of the real story.
All their time in this world and all their adventures had only been the
cover and the title page: now at
last they were beginning Chapter One of the Great Story, which no one on earth
has read: which goes on forever: in
which every chapter is better than the one before it.
***************
A wind from God swept
over the waters.
And
remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.
NHY
08.26.05
