Mark 1:21-28 "Us?"

You are welcome to use parts of this sermon, but if you do, please attribute them properly!

         “This is the Good News about Jesus Christ”: That is how the Gospel of Mark begins.  And as we work our way through its first chapter, we learn that….

         Jesus searches for John the Baptist, finally finds him down on the shores of the Jordan River doing his thing, and is baptized:  Check.  Done!

         The Holy Spirit, looking suspiciously like a dove, shoos Jesus off, far from civilization, to face his fears for forty days in the wilderness:  Check.  Done!

         Jesus wanders by himself for a short while, recovering from his stint in isolation and honing his preaching skills on the message of his mentor, John the Baptist (“The Kingdom of God is coming! God is breaking into this crazy world of ours!  Repent!  You better turn your life around.”):  Check.  Done!

         Jesus decides that you cannot do ministry alone and so calls his first disciples, four illiterate fishermen named Simon, Andrew, James, and John. Soon thereafter, he digs up a tax collector nee Matthew, a penny pincher called Judas to handle the finances, and a half dozen other lowlifes to round out his cadre of followers to an even dozen:  Check.  Done!

         Jesus and his twelve buddies enter the synagogue in Capernaum where Jesus commences his first public sermon, only to have it disrupted by a blowhard know-it-all in the back pew:  Jesus’ ministry begins!

         Up to this point, everything has been preliminary.  Today we start to reflect on the actions Jesus took and the things he taught.  And we begin – ironically - in church. 

         The pews were filling up by the time Jesus and his followers arrived.  Some folks were yawning.  Others were just plain weary after a long week.  A few were in lousy moods because the kids were acting up, or their breakfast bagel was burned, or they had run out of cream cheese. 

         Frankly, most of them were there because it was a pious habit.  You went to the synagogue and sat through a predictable if not slightly boring liturgy. 

You listened to the scribes read from the Torah and then nitpick among themselves for a while on the details while you watched them perform. 

         You tried to keep your eyes open, but your mind wandered, and, before you knew it, you were figuring out what you could get done that afternoon before it got dark.  Statistics would say that you would remember 10% at best of what the scribes were talking about. 

         Then you sang an old song that your grandmother loved, filled with thee’s, thou’s, and words you never did know the meaning of to the accompaniment of a dying musical instrument that few people even took lessons on nowadays, and finally – finally - you headed home. 

         As Lutheran pastor, Paul Nielson noted, “They came to church for the same reason we do, to get some advise on how to be a better person or to deal with this or that problem we're having with someone or because we think it'll bring us good luck if we do or bad luck if we don't.”

         But this Sabbath was different.  Jesus showed up.  “Anything good happen in church today?”  “Let’s see!  Where to begin?  I mean, you should have been there! 

It was totally awesome, astounding, amazing!”  The Scarlet Letter Bible puts it this way:  “People were captivated with what he had to say because he had real conviction about it, rather than just droning on like the clergy.” 

         Today the congregation was not listening to someone whose authority came solely from his position, someone who demanded respect because of his or her title:  “I am the pastor and spiritual leader of this community….I am the Moderator, Treasurer, Head Trustee, Deacon Coordinator, and I expect you to do what I say…”

         There is a story about a governor of Massachusetts who was running for a second term.  One day, after a busy morning chasing votes (and no lunch), he arrived at a church barbecue. It was late afternoon, and he was famished. As he moved down the serving line, he held out his plate to the woman serving chicken. She put a piece on his plate and turned to the next person in line.

         "Excuse me," the Governor said, "do you mind if I have another piece of chicken?"

         "Sorry," the woman told him. "I'm supposed to give one piece of chicken to each person."

         "But I'm starved," the governor said.

         "Sorry," the woman said again. "Only one to a customer."

         The Governor was a modest and unassuming man, but he decided that this time he would throw a little weight around.

         "Do you know who I am?" he said. "I am the governor of this state."

         "Do you know who I am?" the woman said. "I'm the lady in charge of the chicken. Move along, mister."

         Jesus’ authority did not arise from his title or position (good thing too as he had no title or position).  No – people were captivated by what Jesus had to say because his mission was so reminiscent of God’s dream for the world from the beginning.  The clarity and strength of his vision were there for all the world to see – and it was all wrapped up in that deeply human and humble way of his that just seemed to enfold you and embrace you. 

         Jesus’ authority did not come from his ability to quote Scripture backwards and forwards and argue its minutest detail as the authority of the scribes did. The authority of this young, still wet-behind-the-ears rabbi came from his unswerving commitment to God’s passion for economic justice and peacemaking, which he embodied in his own life and beliefs and values. 

And the congregation was astounded – shocked – that church could be so relevant to their lives.  They had never seen the likes of it before.

         However, we all know that you cannot please all the people all the time, and so – not surprisingly – a deeply disturbed fellow in the back row stood up, interrupted Jesus, and asked a couple of questions with a distinct tone of belligerence: “What business do you have here with us, Jesus? Nazarene! I know what you’re up to! You’ve come to destroy us!.... You’ve come here to wreck our church, haven’t you, you holier-than-thou-think-you’re-a-big-shot!”

         Wow!  A confrontation!  Right there in church on a Sabbath morning!

         “Be quiet!  Shut up, and get out of here!” Jesus yelled back.  And the evil one left, shaking his fists, and screaming obscenities all the way out the door. (Scarlett Letter Bible)

         The congregation loved it!  I mean, who does not get totally into a clash of powerful forces?  New England Patriots….Seattle Seahawks.  The atmosphere was charged, and emotions ran high. All they were missing was the beer and the appetizers and the 52-inch flat screen TV.

         No wonder the congregation, sounding like a Greek chorus, was (as a couple of modern translations put it) “incredulous, buzzing with curiosity. ‘What’s going on here? A new teaching that does what it says? That takes hutzpah!  He shuts up defiling, demonic spirits and sends them packing!’ And so Jesus began to be famous around the region.”

         This story of Jesus’ first foray into ministry intrigues me primarily because of that disruptive backbencher.  I want to know more about him:  a man with an evil spirit, a man possessed of a demon, a man struggling with his own brokenness and in desperate need of healing.

         I am intrigued by the questions this troubled man asks:  What do you want with us, Jesus of Nazareth?  What do you have to do with us?  Are you here to destroy us?  Not – what do you want with me?  What do you have to do with me? Are you here to destroy me? 

         Us?  Who in God’s name is the “us” this crazy old coot is talking about?  Could it be that this angry old man, in his brokenness, so desperate for healing, is somehow like us?  Like you and like me?  Surely we too are broken in some way. Surely we too are in need of healing.  Surely we too do not want anyone to wreck the status quo, tweak our congregational culture, and rock the boat here in church.

         What do you want of us, Jesus of Nazareth?  What do you have to do with us?  What do you have to do with us sitting here in these pews, in this church – whether out of pious habit or hoping against hope that something will happen here to mend our brokenness, to heal our desperation, to motivate us to be transformed?  What do you want of us, Jesus of Nazareth?  What do you have to do with us? 

         And the answer, of course, is everything.  “I have everything to do with you.”  Jesus has a power over things that we deem to be unclean - good versus evil, right versus wrong, life versus death.  As UCC pastor, Todd Weir recognizes, “Christ is among us, whenever we gather in church, to demonstrate a power among us.  If we devote ourselves to anything less….we have missed the goal of faith.

         “What do you have to do with us?” the man at the back of the church inquired.  “I have everything to do with you,” Jesus might have replied – even in church, especially in church.

         Together  (he might have proclaimed) we have power.  Together we have it within us to yank the church out of its rut, out of its 19^th century hymns, out of its being a place that does not – will not – change, out of its irrelevancy to most adults under 40.  Together (he might have declared) we have it within us to make the church an agent for social change, a vehicle for transformation, an institutional follower on the Way.   

         “Are you here to destroy us?” we ask. “I am here to destroy, to rebuild, and to transform,” Jesus answers.  I am here to destroy the anger and the bitterness you carry within you.  I am here to destroy the greed and the jealousy that you try to keep under wraps.  I am here to destroy the apathy and the arrogance you flaunt.  I am here to destroy the fear that, as Lutheran pastor Jonathan Davis wrote, “our money will run out and so we must hold on to it tighter than ever. The fear that “old age” equals “washed up and useless.”   I am here to destroy the notion that the church is first and foremost a place of comfort and fellowship.

        I am here to rebuild, Jesus continues, to replace anger and bitterness with forgiveness, greed and jealousy with generosity, and apathy and arrogance with motivation and commitment.  I am here to rebuild the church as a relevant and critical catalyst for change.

         I am here to transform you, he concludes, so that you can transform the church and the world.  And it was probably at that point that the evil one left, shaking his fists, and screaming obscenities all the way out the door.

         Maybe Jesus concluded his prepared remarks then – or maybe his confrontation with the man so in need of healing was really his sermon.  We do not know. 

         However, if that is where Jesus stopped, then I probably should stop too.  And so I too conclude with this thought:  Maybe it is not so much about asking (or telling) Jesus what we need or what we think our lives or the life of the church ought to be like, but maybe it is recognizing instead (as the disruptive backbencher did) that Jesus is who we need and who we need to surrender and listen to if our lives or the life of the church are to be what God dreams for them to be.

by Rev. Nancy Foran, Raymond VIllage Community Church U.C.C., Raymond, Maine

         

Psalm 139:1-6, 13-18 "Reflections on Psalm 139"

You are welcome to use parts of this sermon, but if you do, please attribute them properly!

         I remember once a number of years ago – back in the days of yellow, orange, and red terrorist alerts - watching our daughter, Heather, go through airport security in Portland.  Now – I would not be surprised if at that point of heightened security she was not on some sort of watch list. 

         After all, she had traveled a number of times to rather “un-American” destinations like South and Central America (what with drug cartels in Columbia and the Shining Star in Peru – not to mention clerics like Oscar Romero in El Salvador and liberation theology all over the place) as well as Namibia, Botswana, and South Africa (I mean, come on, Africa….). 

         In addition, while in college, she once dropped her passport in a school parking lot only to have it plowed that night – along with a foot of snow – into a huge white icy pile that would not melt until spring.  That might not have been all that bad except for the fact that she was scheduled to leave for Peru in less than a week. 

         We resolved the situation by my meeting her in Boston, armed with more documentation of her identity than you could shake a stick at. Many hours later, as the Passport Officer handed her a new passport, he told her very sternly to never – ever – lose her passport again.

         With that bit of background then, let’s return to the Portland Jetport.  While everyone else in line went merrily through the various screening devices, Heather was pulled aside right from the start.  A big, frowning man in a TSA uniform opened her carryon backpack and proceeded to rummage and ransack through her most personal things.

         Not finding anything, he grunted a few times, slowly shook his head, and shuttled her to Phase 2 of this particular interrogation.  There she was instructed to turn her pockets inside out and remove the belt holding up her pants – along with her shoes. 

         A uniformed woman with a badge strolled over and directed Heather to lean over and stretch out her arms.  She frisked Heather with such intensity that I think she probably made it to second base.  She found nothing, of course, and seemed a little disappointed - then grunted and waved Heather through. 

         As her mother, even I felt disheveled, rattled, and a little violated.   “You have searched me, and you know me.”  Imagine what a fearsome thing it could be to be searched and known by God!

         Here’s part of a poem entitled “The Hound of Heaven” by Francis Thompson:

I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;

I fled Him, down the arches of the years;

I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways

Of my own mind; and in the midst of tears

I hid from Him, and under running laughter.

Up vistaed hopes I sped;

And shot, precipitated,

Adown Titanic glooms of chasmed fears,

From those strong Feet that followed, followed after.

         You can run – but you cannot hide. That seems to be at least part of what the writer is telling us in this psalm we have heard read several times this morning, this psalm that is at once a song and a deep felt prayer, comingled somewhere between confession and thanksgiving.  In one of the most wonderful poetic passages in Scripture, we are reminded in words that are achingly beautiful that God has hemmed us in and fenced us in.  God surrounds us.  God is no stranger to us.  As one translation reads:

I am like an open book to you

        

         Scary perhaps, but as the Psalmist also recognizes:

I look behind me and you’re there,
then up ahead and you’re there, too—your reassuring presence, coming and going.
This is too much, too wonderful—I can’t take it all in!

         God embraces you.  Whichever way you turn, there is the face of God.  When the Psalmist asks

Is there anyplace I can go to avoid your Spirit?
To be out of your sight?

         The response is always: 

“You are there.  You are there.  You are already waiting there….With every step you take. Every move you make. Every vow you break. Every smile you fake, every claim you stake. I'll be watching you.

         And theologian Marcus Borg asks directly the question we are all silently posing: “How is that possible?”

         And Borg supplies his own answer; “Because there is no place we can be outside of God.”  He goes on to say that:  “God is like wind, like breath. (Ancient people) experienced wind as a powerful, invisible force. Breath is similar. It is an invisible life force within us. God is like the wind that moves outside of us and the breath that moves inside of us. We are in God, even as God is also within us.”

         No matter how comforting that thought may be, however, I think there is more to this Psalm than simply God knowing all of our ins and outs and never leaving us dangling.  And it is Marcus Borg who prompts me to raise a second question:  If we indeed have this amazingly intimate and wonderfully symbiotic relationship with God, then what does that mean for how we live our lives? 

         If we are that close to God such that God is indeed a part of us and not some far off entity that used to break into the world, but that was only long ago in Biblical times, what does that mean for us today? 

         If God is powerfully at work in our lives, if God is still speaking – and speaking to us – then how should we respond when we get up and leave these hard wooden pews this morning and head to the Annual Meeting? 

         Here’s an idea.  According to the Psalmist, God is surrounding us, fencing us in, hemming us in.  That is a given.  However, I think we still have a choice about how to respond.  After all, God blessed humanity with free will, with the ability to make our own decisions, to choose our own path. In this case, we can fight God’s Way, resist God’s constant nudging, ignore the way we always seem to bump into God, or we can go with the flow. 

         That is, we can subvert – overtly or covertly - the way of Jesus, he whom we as Christians have affirmed embodies all that God wants us to be in this world – or we can go with the flow.  What I mean is that we can continue to live in a deep fear of scarcity, not generously share what we have, and walk our own path, accepting the darkness that seems to go along with it – or we can choose the Way God has illumined for us.  We can come to worship on Sunday and feel good about ourselves and then let someone else do the hard work of mission and action and generous giving and collaboration and reconciliation and peace making on the other six days – or we can journey with Jesus. 

         Clarence Jordan – Baptist pastor, Biblical scholar, farmer, and unceasing advocate for racial and economic justice - said once that as long as God was an idea, an abstraction, a feeling, we were fine with God. Then Jesus showed up, in the flesh, looking at us with those excavating eyes. God was suddenly as real and tangible on earth as in heaven -- and we decided it wasn’t a good place for God to be.

         Jordan says that it felt like there was a preacher at the barbershop. It felt like there was a nun at the bar, or a monk at the bachelor party. So we said, “Jesus, we have to watch ourselves too much around you. We feel hemmed in around you. Now you go back home where you belong and be a good God, and maybe we’ll see you of a Sunday morning.” (Jeremy Troxler)

         We can yield to the God that lives in each one of us – or we can battle the essence of who we are meant to be.  It seems to me that it would be a lot easier for us and for the world if we just decided to try a bit harder to go with the flow.  I mean, in the end, we can run but we cannot hide. 

         It seems to me it would be a lot easier for us and for the world to follow the way that Jesus has set out for us.  When we hear that whispered call or feel that nudge or sense that tug in our hearts to respond to the one who has searched us and known us, it seems to me it would be a lot easier for us and for the world to go with the flow, open ourselves to the Spirit, and confidently respond:  “Here I am, sister.  Here I am, brother.  Here I am, church.  Here I am, Lord.”

by Rev. Nancy Foran, Raymond Village Community Church U.C.C., Raymond, Maine

Mark 1:4-11 "The Waters That Haunt Us"

You are welcome to use parts of this sermon, but if you do, please attribute them properly!

         A mother was at home with her two young daughters one afternoon. Everything seemed to be just fine until something suddenly occurred to her. The house was quiet – very quiet – maybe too quiet.  And as every Mom or Dad knows, a “maybe too quiet” house in the daytime with the kids at home can all too often mean that those kids are up to something – and something mischievous is not out-of-the-question.

         Quietly walking into each of the girls' rooms and not finding them there, she began to get a bit concerned.  What were they up to?  Then she heard it: the sound of whispering followed by the flushing of a toilet.

         Tracing the sound, she realized that it was coming from her bathroom. Whispers, flush. Whispers, flush. Whispers, flush.  Silently standing just outside the door, she was able to catch a fleeting glimpse of both her daughters standing over the toilet. Whispers, flush.

         One of them was holding her very favorite doll, dripping wet, by the ankles.  The other daughter had her finger on the handle. Whispers, flush.

         Wanting to hear what her daughter was saying and see what the two of them were doing, the mother slipped quietly into the doorway. Whispers, dunk, flush. And this is when it all made sense – the soaking wet favorite doll, the water, and the toilet.  Whispers, dunk: "I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and in the hole you go." Flush.

         Maybe these two young children did not have all the ins and outs of baptism down pat.  However, they did recognize one thing that we often forget.  Baptism is important.  For the little girls, it was important enough to subject a favorite doll to the ritual over and over again. 

         We here in church, of course, have no need to go that far (once is enough), but that fact does not diminish the importance of baptism.  Oh sure, if taken lightly, baptism might just get you wet.  But then again, it could – and should - change your life.

         It is on this Sunday every year – year in and year out – that we remember and reflect upon Jesus’ baptism by John the Baptizer. 

It is a story that is told in all three of the synoptic Gospels (Matthew, Mark, and Luke), which, in and of itself, should say something to us about the importance of this ritual, this ritual that the church early on deemed to be a sacrament, a time when something holy happens.

         In fact, this story is so important to the author of the Gospel of Mark that he begins his narrative about the life of Jesus with this singular event.  No shepherds or angels for him.  No crazy dreams or faraway magi or hoofing it to Egypt for this writer. 

         No - the very first sentence in his Gospel is: “This is the Good News about Jesus Christ.”  Then the writer immediately goes on to talk about John doing his baptizing in the Jordan River – and baptizing Jesus. 

         John, with his scraggly clothes, wild-eyed expression, constant railing about the end times, to say nothing of that preposterous diet of his, probably scared more than a few people into repentance and baptism.  However, in his heart of hearts, John knew that he was into something bigger than that. 

This is all a matter of your own will. But someone is coming who will do much more. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit. I’m just pouring water over you, but he will pour God into you. I’m changing you from the outside in, but he will change you from the inside out.” 

         After all, he told the people who came to him, “Look. I’m just baptizing you with water. This is all about outward change. 

However, there are two pieces of the story that our Gospel writer does want to be sure that we get right.

         He spoke those words a lot – day after day – just so the people knew what end was up and would not expect too much out of him.  And then, of course, as the shadows began to lengthen one afternoon, Jesus showed up.

       As one preacher wrote, “Jesus was probably about 30 years old, and he hadn’t yet begun his public ministry of preaching and healing. He had no disciples of his own. He went out to the wilderness to find John, and he asked to be baptized. John is (undoubtedly) flabbergasted. (After all), he was (just) supposed to get things ready for Jesus, to announce his coming.”  End of story.  

       Now the narrative in the Gospel of Luke goes into great detail about the conversation that ensued and soon became this rather awkward encounter between Jesus and John. But in Mark, it is a three-sentence deal! In this Gospel telling, John simply gets the job done. For the author of Mark, any conversation between Jesus and John is unimportant. 

       First, the author seeks to be absolutely positive that we understand that Jesus was baptized – and that this baptism signified the start of his ministry, the go ahead time.  His baptism was a first step, the beginning. 

       And second, Mark wants us to know beyond the shadow of a doubt that God was somehow present in it all.  Something holy happened.  Many translations tone it down though – saying simply that the heavens opened.

       However, there is nothing tame or complacent or orderly about baptism, according to this Gospel writer.  In fact, if we were to read the Greek, we would understand the words to actually be “God tore open the heavens.”  Surely it was all a little terrifying!  God’s gonna trouble the waters!

       And Jesus comes up out of the river.  His beard and hair were dripping wet, and the sun glistened off the droplets flying around him as he shook his shaggy head. Gasping for breath, Jesus maybe senses that dove, the Holy Spirit, hovering just out-of-reach above him,

the Spirit whose next act would be to drive Jesus into the wilderness with no food or water, we are told, for 40 days to confront his fears.

       And Jesus hears a voice. It is surely God’s own voice, heard so rarely since the earliest days of the Old Testament, but now affirming: “You are my Child. You are the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.”

       “God tore open the heavens.”  What an image of power!  Do you remember that, on the first Sunday in Advent – not all that many weeks ago – here in church we reflected on the words of the Psalmist who was pleading with God to  - same words in Greek - tear open the heavens and come down and save us? 

       Well, guess what? Here on the muddy banks of the Jordan River in the late afternoon sun, we as Christians affirm that God did just that.  God could stand it no longer and so tore open the heavens with words that have echoed and re-echoed down through the ages:  “You are my Child. You are the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.”

 

       This tale of Jesus’ baptism is a wonderful story.  I mean, there he is – ready to set out on what the very earliest Christians called “The Way” – the way of living and being and doing that he believed with all his heart would lead to only one place – the Kingdom of God –

not a place you would find yourself in after you die, but a place here, now, on this earth, a place where justice was found, compassion was practiced, oppression was non-existent, violence had no place, but the poor and the marginalized and the downtrodden had a very special place. 

       There he is – ready to set out on this new way – but not alone – rather with the sure and steadying knowledge that God had his back:  “You are my Child. You are the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.”

       Now, if we in the church do believe that baptism is a sacrament, that, during the ritual of baptism, something holy happens, then our baptism – and our children’s baptisms – must somehow be connected to this Gospel story. 

Baptism, for us then, is surely no more tame or orderly or complacent than it was for Jesus.

       Baptism, for us then, must have something to do with a first step, a beginning, the start of something.  Baptism, for us then, must have something to do with setting out, as Jesus did, on “The Way”, knowing as he did, that God has our back.  Baptism, for us then, must have something to do with God tearing open the heavens, with those profoundly sacred words showering down over us as the baptismal water once trickled down the back of our necks:  “You are my Child. You are the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.”  

       Baptism – for us or for our children when we have it done on their behalf – is important – as those two little girls standing by the toilet intuitively sensed.  Oh sure, baptism might just get you wet.  But then again, it could – and should - change your life.  How?  Three ways, I think.

       First, baptism alters who you are.  Believe it or not, when you are baptized, your life is transformed. Through baptism, you take on a new identity.  You become a Christian, a disciple, a follower of Jesus.  Your life is changed too because you no longer are doing this spiritual journey thing alone.  You belong.  You belong to a dispersed and oftentimes argumentative and feisty community that sometimes does not seem to know what end is up but that in one way or another is intent on being fellow travelers with Jesus on “The Way”, the way he bushwhacked that leads to the Kingdom of God here on earth.

       You know, it used to be that when a child was baptized, he or she was given a new name – a baptismal or church name.  That tradition has been lost in the mist of time in many churches. 

       However, the pastor still almost universally asks:  “By what name shall this child be called?”  We do it not because we cannot remember if it is Angelina or Jane, Percival or Bill, but rather we do it to recall that, through the ritual of baptism, this child will become a new person, a Christian – with all its comforts and joys, but also with all its challenges and deeply profound and difficult behavioral and attitudinal expectations.  Baptism is important – very important.

Second (and perhaps a corollary to the first), baptism marks the beginning of a journey.  It signifies our go ahead time, our first step, our beginning, the start of our ministry – just as it did for Jesus.  When we are baptized (or when we have our children baptized), we pledge – we commit – that this journey we take will be modeled after Jesus himself – earmarked as his journey was by compassion, forgiveness, justice, non-violence, and a particular concern for the poor.  And if our journey is not characterized by those things, then we kid ourselves to think that we are Christians.

       As Episcopal priest, Charles Hoffacker wrote, “One reason the Church baptizes people is in the hope that they will become servant leaders after the pattern of Jesus.  Sometimes this happens, and sometimes it does not. We may believe this is too much to ask of people.  God seems to believe otherwise.”  In other words, as Christians, our primary goal in all of life is to be mistaken for Jesus.  Baptism is important – very important.       

Third, baptism reminds us whose we are – children of God, sons and daughters of the Holy One.  We are the Beloved.  But do not let that fact leave you feeling only all warm and cuddly inside.  Remember - God’s gonna trouble the waters. 

       There is power and drama and risk in this story of Jesus’ baptism.  There is the mud of the Jordan, the gasping for breath, the heavens torn open, the Spirit hovering, getting all set to drive Jesus into the wilderness, away from all that was familiar and easy.

       Nestled in the story of Jesus’ baptism as well is the start of something that will end in the execution of this young man with his wide-eyed innocence, but will also carve the way for personal transformation and a new way of living, will leave up to us – you, me, all of sitting here in church this morning – will leave up to us the continued bushwhacking of the way for the Kingdom of God here on earth.  Baptism is important – very important.             In closing, then, I share with you a quote form Frank Yamada, Presbyterian pastor and President of McCormick Theological Seminary: "Waters haunt all of us who profess the Christian faith.”  But no more so I would say than when we open ourselves to first understanding and then affirming the profound depth of the waters of baptism.

     by Rev. Nancy Foran, Raymond Village Community Church (U.C.C.), Raymond Maine