It’s one of my wonkier traits that I often find myself having imaginary conversations with atheists. I think of it as channeling my inner C.S. Lewis. I like to daydream about how I can best articulate the Christian faith to those who think it’s either some made-up b.s. concocted by diabolical oppressors to keep an ignorant peasantry in line, or just some fairy tales less sophisticated folks repeat to keep themselves from fearing death.
When I preach on the appointed text for this week, I know I’ll have a lot of visitors in attendance at Faith Lutheran of Philadelphia. A family from the neighborhood (not members of our congregation) has asked to have a double baptism on this particular Sunday. In my experience, this means we’ll have guests who might not have any idea what Christian ritual is all about. There may be younger folks who’ve been brought up in America’s great religious vacuum, so I’ll get the chance to do some explaining to them.
Religious wonk that I am, I have to start by saying any explanation I give is not for the purpose of conversion to the faith. My religion teaches that no one is ever converted by an argument of logic. My purpose is just to create greater understanding.
I’ll start in a Socratic way by asking you: what is religion? The dictionary says a religion is a system of beliefs about ultimate things. You know—life, death, meaning, origins, etc. which inform our ethical behavior in this life. Religions usually have a shared mythology. By myth, I don’t mean a made-up supernatural story. I mean stories which have stood the test of the millennia because—even if they are about things which never actually happened—they teach us about the human condition which never changes. My old boss, Dr. Tim Kennedy, used to say true myths are stories of things which maybe never were but always are. Our rituals are the things which reinforce the lessons of the mythology.
The Gospel lesson appointed for Pentecost 14, Year B (Mark 7:1-8, 14-15, 21-23)[i] has Jesus squaring off with some religious big shots over the question of ritual (in this case, washing your hands a certain way before eating) versus real, heart-felt piety. In this time of COVID, I’d certainly be the last guy ever to preach against washing your hands. The deal here is these uber religious dudes felt that everybody should observe the rituals they observed, and they looked down on anyone who didn’t.
So, since the Gospel lesson is all about washing up, it seems to work out pretty well that one of the rituals we’ll observe this Sunday is the washing of two children through Holy Baptism. If we were to get all hung-up on the ritual like the Pharisees in the Gospel, we might say that these two kids will be doomed to Hell or Limbo unless I pour some water over their heads. And that would be to turn the sacrament into a fetish. We need to see the meaning behind the act. We wash these children and all new Christians as a way of reminding ourselves of God’s grace and love which was intended for them from the beginning of time. These would be God’s children—as, indeed, we all are—even without the ritual, but we wash them to remind ourselves of the goodness and love of God.
Why water? Because water gives life, refreshment, and cleanliness. It can also bring death and destruction as we’ve seen in the floods in Tennessee and New England this week. The waters of baptism are intended to remind us that God’s love drowns that defiling nature which is, unfortunately, characteristic of every human born on this planet.
It may be hard to imagine that a newborn baby is the heir of sin and defilement. But, if you’re born on the beach you’re going to get sandy, and if you’re born in this world, you’re going to be selfish, petulant, and prone to anger and resentment and jealousy and a whole host of things we’d rather not have but can’t seem to shake off. A newborn is adorable. A thirteen-year-old not so much. But baptism—that which recalls death and rebirth, crucifixion and resurrection—can and should remind us that God’s restorative and cleansing love transcends our defiling nature.
I’ll bet the ancestors of the Pharisees in our Gospel had a really good reason for inventing their hand washing rituals. But I’m thinking that, by the time these guys came along, the reasons were lost to antiquity and the ritual itself became the main focus. By observing it, the Pharisees could claim they were law-abiding and pious. This gave them the freedom to look down on others who weren’t as conscientious of their hygiene. Basically, observing one rule gave them the freedom to ignore another rule—that “love thy neighbor” thing.
If baptism is to be truly a sacrament, it can’t be just “one-and-done.” Rather, it is “one-and-forever.” We don’t rely on the act of baptism, but in the on-going state of being baptized. We mustn’t think that we were baptized, but, rather that we are baptized. And because we are, we live in the knowledge that every day we are drowned to our selfish selves, forgiven, and brought to a new moment of gratitude, grace, and love.
Thanks for stopping by!
[i]
This cut-and-paste reading leaves out some really good stuff. I’d recommend
reading Mark 7:1-23 straight through. I think the compilers of the Revised
Common Lectionary didn’t want us to get distracted by Jesus’ scolding the
Pharisees about the doctrine of corban or by his reference to pooping. This is
a rather sanitized reading which concentrates only on the issue of washing your
hands.
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