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Baptism of Our Lord Sunday What’s in a Name? This Sunday celebrates the baptism of Jesus. As I learned last year when I prepared for this Sunday, a feast day marking the Baptism of Jesus has been celebrated in the Church since the second century A.D., but I couldn’t find anything on the modern origins of this day in the church year. Maybe I can figure that out in time for next year! Fittingly, all the texts for the week concern water in one way or another. The Isaiah passage speaks of Israel passing through waters, a line that harkens Israel back to its safe passage through the sea and foreshadows the sacrament of baptism we see in our New Testament passages. Today’s psalm — Psalm 29 (also the Psalm last year for this Sunday) — also invokes water and harkens to an earlier event… but in this case, much earlier — the creation itself and the first few verses of the Bible when “darkness was over the surface of the deep and the Spirit of God hovered over the waters.” In similar language, the psalmist declares that “the voice of the LORD is over the waters; the God of glory thunders… over mighty waters.” The New Testament passages transition us from the prophets and the psalms to historical narrative, but they remain “watery” — they provide the accounts of both Jesus’ baptism in the Jordan and the baptism — by both water and the Holy Spirit — of the new disciples in Samaria. Last year on this Sunday, I dwelled on baptism itself and asked us, what happens in baptism? Of course, there are many personal and theological answers to this question. I told my own baptism story, and then I focused on the paradox of baptism. Like communion, baptism is at once a mere symbol, and yet, it is also much more. Baptism is just a dunk, a swim, a sprinkle. It is just H2O. But it’s also a mark, a sign, a change. We do more than get wet. Just as the presence of Christ comes through the bread and wine, in baptism, we are buried with Christ in the waters and we are raised with Christ to new life. Something happens. This year, the lectionary texts seem to suggest yet another way of understanding baptism – baptism as a re-naming. We know the importance of naming things — we name our children with utmost thought and intention; nicknaming is one way endear those close to us; we are told in psychology that there is great power in the mere practice of naming our fears and hurts as one of the first steps to overcoming them. Even the act of language itself is a type of naming. In my anthropological studies, I recall learning about what is called The Great Leap Forward — about 50,000 years ago, rather suddenly, archeological evidence of what we would consider more advanced culture began to appear, namely tools and artwork. The puzzle has been to figure out what accounted for this proliferation of culture. Theories abound, but according to some anthropologists, it was the evolution of the physical or cognitive ability to use language. In this conception, it is language that essentially makes us human — our ability to communicate, to name things, actually might be the very thing that makes us human. We also see this power of naming in today’s passages. In Isaiah, God speaks lovingly and familiarly to Israel — “I have called you by name, you are mine,” God says. And in today’s Gospel text, Jesus is named “the Beloved” — his baptism is an occasion when God affirms God’s love for Jesus. But there is also a negative, destructive side of naming. I am sure we all remember the childhood idiom, “sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me” — and we also know it’s simply not true. Names can hurt. It’s quite amazing, actually, how negative comments can stick with us for years. I remember the story of a girl from my high school who developed an eating disorder from overhearing just one negative comment about her weight. On a more macro level, the Belgian naming of the Hutus and Tutsis during the colonial period, a distinction that previously did not exist, led to division and later genocide (and still contributes to ethnic violence in that region). While we can name things to confer dignity and love, we can also name things to shame them, hurt them, and make them Other. I wonder if we see a bit of this as well in our Isaiah passage. I imagine our focus is on the beautiful language used for God’s beloved. Duane told me this is his favorite passage in the entire Bible, I assume in part because of this beautiful and powerful naming that God does of Israel. Hear it again: But now thus says the Lord, But by so loving and naming Israel, what becomes of Egypt, Ethiopia and Sheba? The text continues: I give Egypt as your ransom, This passage is great news for Israel, but what if you’re from Egypt or Sheba or “the nations?” This fall, Yvette taught a class at the Servant Leadership School — attended by Ellen and Dorothy and me — called “Listening from the Margins.” The idea was to wrestle with those difficult passages where God uses the negative naming power. What do we do with the Egypt’s of the world? With today’s passage, my guess is actually that we tend to read ourselves into Israel’s role as we look at the text, but I wonder if — in day-to-day life — it is more tempting to see ourselves as Egypt. Going back to naming, we all know the power of negative naming. It seems easier to see our own failings, inadequacies, and failures than it is to rest in any sense of worth, especially if that worth is based on our own competency or accomplishments, which are only fleeting. Although still young, I can see more and more that — as life unfolds — so many things don’t happen as we think, and it is easier and easier to ask “what if.” Yes, it sometimes might be easier to see ourselves as Egypt — left out of God’s lavish love, feeling unworthy and forgotten. One remedy to this tendency to “play Egypt” might be found in our Gospel reading: the waters of baptism. In baptism, we know that we have all been named Beloved, just as Jesus was. It is a great leveler — we are all sinners and saints; we are all broken and in equal need of healing and redemption. But we know that God has looked at us in that state and yet said, “You are my Beloved.” Israel was singled out, but they were then to be a blessing to others, just as we are not called Beloved just for our own sakes but for the sakes of all those who have yet to hear that they are Beloved of God, too. We take this message into a world in which so many other “names” take priority — race, class, gender, sexual orientation, social status, educational level, political persuasion, age — but we are all, first and foremost, Beloved. Next weekend, we’ll gather together for our annual retreat. Those of us planning our time together anticipate spending some of that time together thinking about how we encounter some of these “named” differences that often take such undue precedent. How do we encounter the sometimes real differences among us, and then how do we move past those to then engage with the community around us? How can we be fully present to one another and to those beyond our doors? But any conversation about encountering difference must start with the rootedness that comes from our common identity as the Beloved. So while sometimes we might feel more like Egypt, we know that God has extended this love to us and the nations. We — through baptism — have been named Beloved and are united with one another as members of the Beloved community. We are then called to remind others, in big and small ways, that they too are Beloved. Today, during the passing of the peace, I’d ask that instead of wishing others peace that we remind each of that we are beloved. “You are Beloved.” So as we conclude this reflection, hear again the final verses from today’s Isaiah passage with those ears, the ears of the Beloved: Do not fear, for I am with you; AMEN.
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