Every Part of Life, and the God We Don't Control

 

2 Samuel 6:1-19

There is something in us that wants to edit life. We would take out the hard parts and make it seem easy, only sunny and happy. Case in point:  King David was moving to unify the kingdom, he had consolidated the center of power and government and now he was bringing the Ark into Jerusalem, the new capital.  The first run at it was ecstatic, thousands of troops, musicians with every imaginable instrument, dancing and revelry.  But in the middle of the journey, this guy Uzzah, who is helping drive the oxcart, sees that suddenly the oxen’s misstep has made the Ark wobble, so reaches out his hand to steady it, and when he touches it he is struck dead.

The lectionary cuts this part of the story out. It wants us to hear about the great parade of moving the Ark, the leaping and dancing for joy, and more joy and more dancing and then the settling of the Ark in the center of the Israelites’ life.  Hooray and amen!  But this is part of the story too. And it is confusing, and enraging, and makes no sense and we wonder what God is up to in the midst of it.
 
Early in the week my cousin died. He was 54 years old, and a quiet musical genius.  Working as a sound engineer in Nashville he mixed albums for many great musicians, including Alan Jackson and his friend Dolly Parton. I flew to Nashville Thursday night to attend his funeral on Friday.

My cousin struggled with his inner demons and fought against them most of his adult life, keeping them at bay with alcohol, itself a demon that held him captive and inflicted so much pain and damage in his life. In the end his liver was destroyed, and the span of time between his diagnosis of liver cancer and his death was a head-spinning four weeks.  
 
At his funeral, musicians shared about how his ear was unsurpassed, his skill and calm presence guided them to the best music, how he brought out the best in others, and not just musically.  He saw people and valued people. Everyone was his favorite. So many tributes on his facebook page call him “my best friend.” He genuinely cared about people and he showed it.  His dad shared how his kindergarten teacher told them he could hear things others couldn’t. She was the first to pronounce this refrain that would follow him through life. It was clear this went beyond music.  He could hear things others couldn’t, see things others missed.  He was a deep and sensitive soul.  His sister shared how maddening it was to love him. He wouldn’t ask for help; he was always the one helping others.  He was a cousin that made me long for an older brother, that tall, protective, teasing force that seemed to hover tantalizing in the lives of others.  His name was David, and his soul sang before the Lord his whole life long.
 
But it’s never all light and joy, is it? The darkness in this life, the darkness in my cousin’s life could have been covered up and avoided at the funeral. Those verses could have been cut out of the story. We could have just shared the music and the joy and the love and the celebration, and ignored the parts that were horrible or confusing, or the parts that made us angry at God.  It’s easy to do that; funerals often do. 
 
But we didn’t. His family and friends honored Dave with their honesty, holding up the light and the darkness, the joy and the pain, the brilliance and the struggle. Only then do we really know someone. Only there do we really see God. It’s in the struggle where God most often is seen. The parts that are confusing, and enraging, and make no sense and make us wonder what God is up to in the midst of it.
 
The Ark of the Covenant was the box that held the stone tablets that God gave Moses on the mountain top – the Ten Commandments, the Ten Words that led the people out of slavery into freedom in the care of God by explaining what it means to belong to God and be the people of God.  Some say the Ark also held Aaron’s staff and some manna – symbols of God’s deliverance and leading.  God gave Moses instructions to build the box and it became the tangible presence of God among them, the location of God’s self-revelation.  
 
Moses would hear the voice of God speaking from between the two angels on the lid when he consulted God as he led the people (with his glory-stained face hidden behind a veil).  For the next 400 years the Ark of the Covenant was both the symbol and location of God with them. It was carried in front of them as they moved around from place to place; it led them into battle. When it was paraded around Jericho the walls crumbled. When it was captured by the Philistines, it brought such trouble, frogs and tumors and torment, that they returned it, with a gift of statues of solid gold frogs and tumors. The Ark of the Covenant was holy, in some way a glimpse of the very glory of God, so it was never to be touched or looked into. Remember Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark? When they finally found the lost Ark and opened it they said, “It’s beautiful!” and then their faces melted off.  Same box.
 
So when poor Uzzah reaches out to steady the jostled Ark and is struck dead for touching it, the whole happy parade comes to a standstill. David is furious with God. He aborts the plan on the spot and drops off the Ark in the nearest house and the whole army trudges back to Jerusalem without it, and David’s angry naming of that location, “The Outburst Against Uzzah,” sticks, as in, take a hard left at the Outburst Against Uzzah, and over the next hill you’ll find Obed-Edom’s house, where the Ark is currently stored.” 
 
After a time David hears that the Obed-Edom family is being blessed abundantly by having the Ark there, and he decides to resume the plan.  Here’s where the lectionary picks back up, as though the happy parade had never paused for several months in anger, fear and confusion.
 
But if we told it that way then the Ark is just a special box that reminds people of God, and the actors are David, and the dancing, joyful people, and his unhappy wife from his troubling first marriage watching him in disgust. And God is merely an idea, represented in a box of memories and beliefs, carried by the people, upheld by the strength of their faith.  The journey to reunifying the kingdom is unbroken happiness, no bumps in the road, no instability or overcorrection, no anger, no fear, no confusion or time outs or sulking, just triumph.
 
And perhaps this is the risk of it all when we talk about God.  We domesticate God, our pet deity, our pocket talisman or cozy pillow, there to keep us safe and comfortable, but not really demanding anything of us, or asserting any preferences or personhood. 
 
There is a scene in the Narnia books when the Beaver family is preparing to introduce the children to Aslan, the true ruler of Narnia, who is kind, and just and noble.  
Mrs. Beaver says, “Aslan is a lion- the Lion, the great Lion." 
"Ooh" said Susan. " Is he-quite safe? …I shall feel rather nervous about meeting a lion"...
"Safe?" said Mr Beaver ..."Who said anything about safe? 'Course he isn't safe. But he's good. He's the King, I tell you.”

God is not safe. God is beyond our bounds, the force that moves all of life, not to be captured by human hands, trifled with by human manipulation. And life near God is risky and filled with questions. But it’s also real. I love that as terrifying a reminder as this is of God’s power and otherness, David still gets pissed at God and petulantly names that spot the The Explosion against Uzzah and goes home to mope for a while.  
 
And then he’s shaken awake the word that the presence of God that blesses our lives is just sitting there ridiculously, extravagantly blessing the Obed-Edom family.  And his kingly task of putting back God in the center of their shared life is not yet complete; the journey must continue.  And so the parade resumes – this time interestingly with only trumpets as though announcing the arrival of a King, perhaps a bit more aware of the seriousness of the task, the sacredness of the quest, and most importantly, the true presence and real power of the God who will continue to lead them forward.  
 
This time David strips off his royal robes and comes in a simple garment resembling what the priests wore. This time he comes humble before the true King.  God is with us. Right here. Even as we pass the place of God’s Outburst against Uzzah, God who cannot be contained is here in our midst. So David dances with all his might. With all-out, no holds barred, fullness of joy and life, living wide-awake and dancing, they bring the Ark to its new place of honor. 
 
The comfort and the confusion. The extravagant blessings and the fearsome power of God.  The pointless and terrible loss, and the hope and celebration. It all belongs.  And we don't understand all of it, but we are humbled by it.  If we open our hearts to the risky, dangerous, and deep thing that it is to acknowledge the living God, we will be drawn deeper into life, made more fully alive, more in tune, more attentive, to hear things that others can’t, and see things others miss. To value one another deeply.   To wonder what God is up to in the midst of it all.  To face the parts that are horrible and confusing, and make us angry at God, and also to sing with joy and dance with all our might. 
 
At the end of the funeral, after the tears and laughter and Nashville mix of music and memories, my uncle Bo, David’s dad and a retired minister, stood behind the pulpit and reminded us that death is not the end. He shared his own bewilderment and loss, cried out too soon at the death of his boy, and at the same time reminded us that Jesus comes into the darkest places in life alongside us; we have this hope that is even stronger than death.  
 
And then he came around the podium and planted his hand firmly on the wooden box holding the ashes of his beloved son, that sad and holy vessel, and in a voice deep, loud, and full of authority, he pronounced, “David Bowen Matthews, Requiesce in Pace.”  Rest in peace, and entrusted Dave into the presence of God.
Then lifted his hands toward us and spoke peace over the living, entrusting us into the presence of God.
 
And we didn’t leave there with answers, but we left held in God’s love. The questions and confusion and sorrow remain.  But the story was told in full, the hard parts weren’t cut out. It all belongs. 
God is in every part. God who cannot be contained is here in our midst. We are in the presence of God.
 
Amen. 

In It Together

Devotion for Being Apart -
September 6

This summer, I will share new devotions from time to time,
and invite you to browse through devotions that have been posted on this blog.

Matthew 18:15-20

In this day and age, we do not assume the best of each other. We almost look for excuses to blame and condemn one another. We even have a proud term for the absolute cut off we do of others, we call it “canceling” people.  We feel almost no obligation to try to work things out – why bother?  If someone hurts us, we tell others – sometimes many others – before going to that person.  We build our case and get people on our side.  Often we never go directly to the person at all, we’d prefer it that way. Because it’s more important to us to be right and uphold ourselves, than it is to stay connected or to uphold one another.  

 So today’s scripture feels like it comes from another time, a different place. And it does. It comes from a different realm altogether, actually. In the Kingdom of God, we are all human beings, whose dignity and worth is not up for grabs, who cannot be abandoned or dismissed or canceled.  We all belong to God.  So we human beings belong to each other too, like it or not.

 
And not only that, but this particular community called the Church—this collection of souls who have died to self and risen to Christ, who are baptized into the life and death of the One who gave his life for us—we belong to each other in a particular way because we acknowledge that we belong not to ourselves but to God, and we declare that we exist not for ourselves but for the world.  
As God is minister to us, we are ministers – we exist as a community of care, shaped by love. What sets us apart is only our love and service to this world that God loves.  That is who we are, alongside each other.  
 
We are carriers of the love of God, choosing to be defined by Christ.  And this is such a powerful calling it’s as though we stand between heaven and earth. We exist in this world as representatives of God, incognito agents of the Kingdom of God right here in our neighborhoods and families, on our streets, in our schools and at work, and for our fellow human beings. 
 
In this identity and role, we speak to God about the suffering and pain here and God listens to us.  When we come together and ask God for something, God hears us and acts.  When two or three of us are gathered, God is right here with us. When our hearts are in unison, what we say and do in the name of Jesus is as though Jesus himself were here doing and saying those things – and in fact, he is.
 
So, in this kind of community, it’s important that we make it a priority to stay connected in healthy ways. It matters that we don’t build up resentment, we don’t let division fester, we don’t cut each other off or let pain and anger build.  We are citizens of God’s Kingdom; we cannot take the world’s approach to conflict. 
 
In this short life, a shared purpose defines us.  Agents of hope, bearers of love, strivers for justice, seekers of joy, we have an assignment here.  So it is essential to directly address hurt between us.  To be above-board and honest. Not to embarrass each other but to communicate when we’ve hurt one another, and give each other a chance to repent and be forgiven, to keep bringing each other back into the communal mission alongside one another. And not to give up easily either, to keep going at it, seeking reconciliation with each other for our own sake, but also for the sake of the whole world.
 
Which brings us to this line- if the offender refuses to listen even to the church, let such a one be to you as a Gentile and a tax-collector.
 
In a Way of Fear way of reading this line we assume this means excommunicate them– some

mid 20^th century bible translations actually say that.  Cut them off, cut them out and don’t give it another thought - they’re dead to you. Cancel them. 
 
But that is the opposite of what that means. 
Who did Jesus hang out with?  Who did he come for?  He says himself he did not come for the righteous, but for sinners.  Sinners and tax collectors were his jam—Matthew himself was a tax-collector.  Those on the outside are the ones Jesus showed love and care, for without expecting anything in return. 
 
Belonging to God and others is not front and center for gentiles and tax collectors.  Their answer to “What is a good life and how do I live it?” does not factor in obedience to God or obligation to love their neighbor as they love themselves.  They don’t see themselves don’t see themselves as servants of God, those who lay down their lives for others. They are bound by this covenant life; they are not defined by the death and resurrection of Jesus.  Nevertheless they do belong to God and they belong to us. Just like us, they are in need of love and care, of grace and hope.  
 
If someone among you refuses to be reconciled, refuses to reconnect after multiple attempts to repair the bond, you no longer consider them a coworker for the Kingdom.  If someone has caused harm, and refuses to see how they have hurt others and take responsibility for it, Jesus is saying, you no longer assume they have the same goals as you.  You do not expect them to participate in the work of staying in it together, or being accountable to the community anymore.  You do not expect them to see the world as you do, to seek reconciliation with you, and you no longer attempt to live in the same kind of shared life that you once expected to share.  
 
But you do not cancel them.  Instead you see them a beloved of God.  The kind of person Jesus prefers to hang out with, the one Jesus came for.  Rather than conscious bearers of grace, they’ve become grudging recipients of grace, pursued by God.
 
 Instead of fellow ministers, agents in God’s Kingdom, these are those to whom we are sent.  They are the ones we are meant to eat with at table, to listen to, to stand up for, to stand alongside. Jesus is not saying to abandon the one who has done harm and refuses to be reconciled. Jesus is telling us to treat them with care and respect and expect nothing from them.  They are now among the ones the Holy Spirit works on for repentance. That’s the Holy Spirit’s work to do.  Awakening in them awareness of their belonging to God and all others is God’s responsibility, not ours.
  
We are talking this year about being faithful now-  seeing God’s faithfulness with us today, right here.  God is faithful to us now.  Always.  And as we seek God’s presence and try to live a good life, we ask how we to be faithful right now in this life – with this person in front of us, this moment we are in, this situation we are living in right now, where we are, where God is. Right here.
 
We are ministers with and for each other, to and for the world, ministers of God’s love and care.  What happens between us matters – our relationships and connection matter.  We need to do the work to tend and preserve our connection.  It's so important because there is power here. Great power.  Power far beyond this earth’s limitations and brokenness.  The very power of heaven and earth. Power to bind together and ask for things from God. Power to advocate for the needs of the world.  We must listen to one another, because God listens to us.  We must do the work to stay connected, to stay in it together, because where even two or three of us are gathered, God is right here, among us.
Amen.
 
CONNECTING RITUAL:

Perhaps tonight before we go to bed, whatever time that is in each of our homes, we can pray in this way, and so join our souls with each other and the people of the whole earth:

Ground me and root me in your love, God.
Make my belonging to you so palpable,
and my belonging to each other so real,
that I will long do the work to stay connected
with joy and faithfulness. Even when it's hard.

As a member of this community,
Give me the courage to speak up when someone has hurt me.
Give me the courage to repent when I have hurt someone else.
Give us the tenacity to pursue reconciliation,
and the wisdom to know when to stop,
entrusting us all into your hands, as your beloved children.

And may we do all this tending of relationships
because we remember the incomprehensible greatness
of the power of this bond: You hear us. You act when we ask. You call us to ask.
You bring us together to minister to the world. 

May we hold your love and healing of all ever before us,
as our purpose and our call.
Even as we remember that none of us can do any of this alone.
I need you.  We need each other.
You give us yourself. You give us one another.
Thank you, God.
Amen.

Real Reality: Bumping up Against Grace

2 Kings 5:1-14 

(& Revelation 7:9-17)  

Naaman is a hot shot general. A high up muckity muck commander of the King of Aram’s army.  And he’s got a terrible secret. He has a dreadful skin disease. The kind that if it were widely known; people would shun and fear him. The kind that spreads wickedly and eventually destroys you, bit by bit, making you numb and breaking you down, until you’re worthless and ruined, and then you die.

Now, there is going to be some rearranging in this story, some view-shifting suprises. Some lessons about who God is, and some surprising places where power does and doesn’t reside, and what ultimately is real reality. So listen up.

To start, Naaman is powerful. The slave girl that his soldiers stole from her homeland who now serves Naaman’s wife, is not. And yet this girl knows who can help him (which means she also first must know he is in need of help) and she offers to him what she knows – there is a prophet who can cure you. 

The slave girl from Israel does not keep silent and guard her knowledge, instead she reaches out to help the very person responsible for her slavery. Why?, we might wonder if we were Naaman. Why would she help me? It makes no sense. But Naaman, so secure in his perch of power, doesn’t stop to wonder about this.  He misses the first sign.

 Instead he goes straight to his boss, a king, who sends him off to the king of Israel – because who is the most powerful person in a nation but its king?  Any shamans or seers or healers would certainly be under his employ; he wields the power of life and death, so surely he is the one to whom Naaman should be sent, right? And off Namaan goes.  Now these two kings have been at war before (such as when the slave girl was taken from Israel to begin with) and they will be at war again. But for now, the king is asking a fellow king for a favor.

Only, the king of Israel is not pleased by this request.  In fact, he tears his clothes, thinking the other king is provoking him, creating a situation that could lead to more war. Because, and here’s our second glimpse into the strange workings of the people of God- the descendants of those delivered out of slavery into the promised land, those who knew the wilderness and the covenants of God’s way of life that is radically different from the Pharaoh’s, those who lived under King David, who have known the direct intervention of the Almighty, and the guidance of prophets, and the wisdom of Solomon – they don’t function like other kingdoms.  You see, the king is not really the most powerful person in Israel. Kings have their place, sure, but God appoints prophets who anoint kings and hold kings accountable, who speak to God for the people and for God to the people, and who provide a kind of checks and balances, cosmically speaking.

So as Naaman’s journey unfolds, he’s getting himself into something. All the centers of power that should be, are proving to be merely illusion, or simply a matter of opinion, as Naaman travels farther and farther from what he has always known as reality. He just doesn’t realize it yet.

Until, after Elisha summons him from the king’s court, he arrives at the front door of the prophet.

Naaman’s life is in the balance. This disease will eventually take his health, his reputation, his career, his life.  And here’s his chance to be cured.  So he is going to throw all he can at it. And what he can throw is considerable. He is accustomed to getting what he can pay for, to knowing what his prestige and riches can buy. He is not used to being treated as though he is… ordinary.  He knows the score. He has settled it more than once.  He knows the rules to the game and how to stay on top, where he belongs.

Here’s the irony though, for the very powerful Naaman, for most of us, from time to time, perhaps.  Super-commander, leprosy-infected Naaman stands at that door believing he is both better than, and worse than, every other person around him.

He knows he is in a position to need to humble himself enough to ask for healing, but not so much that he is helpless or anything. He can certainly pay for it. He can wow the prophet in the process.  He can show up with his chariots and entourage, with his considerable wealth dripping off him ready to trade treasures for services rendered.

And yet, as he is soon to discover, this is not about what Naaman can earn or buy or bargain for. This is not about approaching kings and impressing prophets and purchasing a new shot at life.

This is grace. Pure and simple. Unearned. Undeserved. Healing because God chooses to heal him, and nothing else.  Naaman has bumped up against the grace of God.

So Naaman’s choice to receive this gift that can’t be bought is going to be humbling. He’s going to have to follow instructions, as mundane as they are, that give no attention whatsoever to his greatness or his terribleness. They simply say, go and bathe in the Jordan river.  The river that Jesus will one day be baptized in and claimed as God’s own.  Bring your impressive self with your impressive disease to the muddy, ordinary, unimpressive river.  Dip seven times- the number of completion, of perfection- and you will be made clean.

This infuriates Naaman. It makes him crazy with indignation.  Here he stands in real need, the spot on his arm spreading, he swears, even since yesterday! Here he stands near his state of the art chariots in his flashing armor and rich robes, more striking in his might and in his need, than anybody else, right? He is to be taken seriously.  And then he is sent off by a lowly messenger like an errand boy, to bathe in an underwhelming river.  Elisha the prophet doesn’t even come to the door.

Will he receive the gift of healing? Will he accept the grace that is offered?

How do we try to earn what is only a gift? 

How might we miss what God wants to do in and through us through ordinary people in ordinary ways, because we are so convinced God should do it in the way that would impress us or others? Take us as seriously as we take ourselves?  Respect our hard work, or our deep pain?  We want God to play by the rules of the world. To reward those who earn it, or buy it, or deserve it, or can prove they’re worthy, or who pray the loudest, or beg the hardest, or give the most selflessly.

And we want God to join us in our conspiracy to cheat death or avoid death, which means, actually, that we want God to fear death along with us.

But God doesn’t. God is not afraid of death.  God’s not afraid of anything that intimidates us or impressed by anything that sways us.  One day we will stand with God on the other side of the ordeal, on the other side of whatever told us we were dirty or different or dangerous, whatever told us we were worthy, or better, or good.  One day we will stand on the other side of it, not because we did anything to get there but because Jesus did. Jesus is more powerful than all that we think is powerful, more real than all we think is real.

You and I, we’d like a little lead time. We’d like a heads up, and maybe a bit more of a buffer, financially speaking. We’d like to be able to rest our whole security in something we can see and touch, even if what we can see and touch is the respect of others measured by the number of Facebook friends or Twitter followers or letters after our name, or people who know our name. We’d like to trust in our success or stability as witnessed by the numbers on our bank statement, or report card, or frequent flier miles, or on our latest fasting-cholesterol reading, or gauge our value by how well our kids and grandkids are doing in the world’s eyes. 

What we don’t realize is that healing never comes to our bodies alone, or an isolated problem or situation. It’s always more of a total overhaul: it changes our spirit and our outlook and our way of being in the world, maybe even more than it affects the physical ailment or specific immediate problem.  Because healing is a stepping momentarily into the eternal, where our metrics don’t mean a thing. It shifts what matters to what really matters.

The final voice of wisdom, that is, voice of with the power to shape the outcome of things for Naaman, is another servant.  Come on, the man says. If the prophet had told you to do something difficult, you would’ve done it in a heartbeat. This is easy! Why not give it a try?

So a discombobulated Naaman, stripped of his pride and his pristine robes, steps through the weeds and muck into the Jordan river and begins to dunk himself under. One could say, he steps into his own baptism, his own Red Sea crossing – “Be Still, and God will fight for you.” 

I wonder what got washed away with each dip?

How could that “prophet” humiliate me in this way? Who does he think he is?

Dunk. Does he even know who I am? I am important and powerful!

Dunk. I am powerless and filthy, riddled with disease and heading for the grave.

Dunk. I want to be made well. I really want to be healed.

Dunk. What if this works? Could this possibly work?

Dunk. Why should it?  Who do I even think I am?

Dunk. Oh God, help me!

Dunk.

And out he emerges from the watery darkness, glowing and clean, with the skin of a child, fresh and unblemished.

Listen to what happens next:

15 Then he returned to the man of God, he and all his company; he came and stood before him and said, ‘Now I know that there is no God in all the earth except in Israel; please accept a present from your servant.’

But [Elisha] said, ‘As the Lord lives, whom I serve, I will accept nothing!’

He urged him to accept, but he refused.

Then Naaman said, ‘If not, please let two mule-loads of earth be given to your servant for your servant will no longer offer burnt-offering or sacrifice to any god except the Lord. ¹⁸But may the Lord pardon your servant on one count: when my master goes into the house of Rimmon to worship there, leaning on my arm, and I bow down in the house of Rimmon, when I do bow down in the house of Rimmon, may the Lord pardon your servant on this one count.’

[Elisha] said to him, ‘Go in peace.’

God is God and we are not. 

God’s way of being and doing is not a bit like our own, and God doesn’t care one whit for our success or power or credibility or how much we can bargain for what we think we should earn.  Instead God cares for each of us in our most naked and vulnerable selves– all the mess and all the glory mixed up together in a body that breaks down and an ego that puffs up. 

Naaman discovered that God heals and makes whole.  He felt what it is to be seen and loved by the Creator.  He glimpsed a reality stronger and deeper than what he’d always believed, so off he went, with a ridiculous grin plastered on his fresh-skin face, and a couple of wagon loads of Israeli soil so that from now on he could pray on holy ground to the God who saw and saved him.

Today is All Saints Sunday. It has been celebrated in the Christian Church for over a thousand years, as a day to look beyond the reality in front of us to the bigger picture, to remember that those who’ve gone before are, what the author of Hebrews calls, “a great cloud of witnesses” that surrounds us. That in God’s reality nothing can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus. Not time or death, not heights or depths or angels or demons or principalities or powers or things present or things to come or success or power or weakness or failure or who we think we are or who we say we know or what we can measure.  All the things we see as so important, so permanent, so powerful -they cannot define us, they cannot save us, and they cannot keep us enslaved.  God is outside and beyond, and also enters right in, right alongside, so that we are not alone.

A tradition in many churches today is to remember your baptism. That which truly defines us. The reality spoken over us that our identity is first and foremost, and last and forever, in Christ Jesus. We approach the font and feel the water in our hand and imagine ourselves going under, imagine the lies and the sickness and the sin and the shame and the pride and the arrogance and the self-importance and the self-hatred and the judgment and the pity and all of the layers washing away as we dunk under into the watery chaos and come up, clean and new. 

We imagine ourselves alongside all who’ve ever gone under that same water – Naaman, and Jesus, and your own dear grandmother, and those sitting beside you right now- no better and no worse than any other, and saints, every single one.  Because we are not defined by the reality of the world that tells us who we are is earned, bought, lost, or bargained.  We are defined by the Creator of the Universe who reaches out in unearned, undeserved grace, and grabs hold of us and says, this one is mine.

Listen to the words spoken over the baptized – as I speak them over you again today:

For you, little one,

the Spirit of God moved over the waters at creation,


and the Lord God made covenants with God’s people.


It was for you that the Word of God became flesh


and lived among us,

full of grace and truth.


For you, [N], Jesus Christ suffered death


crying out at the end, "It is finished!"


For you Christ triumphed over death,


rose in newness of life,


and ascended to rule over all.


All of this was done for you, little one,


though you do not know any of this yet.


But we will continue to tell you this good news


until it becomes your own.


And so the promise of the gospel is fulfilled:


"We love because God first loved us." 

May we, like Naaman, be washed again today of whatever we fear and hide, whatever we believe is powerful and able to say who we are and aren’t. 

And may our hearts be opened and our perception awakened,

to see what is really real,

to walk vulnerably into the healing that is offered us,

and to face our lives confident in the promises that hold us, and brave to live them out,

alongside all those we share our days with, and all those who’ve gone before us, and all those who will come after you and me. 

Today, may we bump up against grace.

Amen.