Margie Quinn
I remember my baptism. I remember the white robes we all wore and the generalized group embarrassment at being eleven years old and getting hit with the dunk tank button in front of a few hundred audience members. I remember the necklace I was gifted after that service. It was a silver necklace with a cross, and I remember thinking to myself, “Oh my gosh, clean slate, I’m back to zero sins and I want to see how long this lasts.” Spoiler alert: it didn’t last long.
Most vividly, I remember the handkerchiefs that the other kids brought. You know, the ones they gave to Reverend Lesleigh before she dunked us under. She would gently place the hanky over our nose, look us in the eyes with her warm gaze, tell us something beautiful which we all certainly forgot immediately, too stunned to remember, and guide us in and out of that warm water.
Everyone’s hanky was white, pristine, dainty even. Some hankies had been passed down for generations. Some had lace, some an engraved stitching. My hanky was a bright blue bandana that most likely came from one of my brother’s baseball uniforms. You know, the things they put in their back pocket when they’re running around the dirt field? A sweat rag, a spit rag. I’m not trying to put my parents to shame; I was the sixth Quinn to get dunked and I’m sure they were going for practical over pretty at that point in the parenting process. After several doile-looking handkerchiefs entered the scene, here comes little Margie with her blue bandana, bright-eyed and eager to go under and come out…sinless.
Do you remember your baptism? Were you dunked or sprinkled? Were you too young to recall? Have you vetoed a baptism in your life? Were you turned away from the ritual because of who you are or who you love?
I’ve witnessed a lot of baptisms–mostly baby baptisms at my old church, where the Minister makes the sign of the cross in water on the baby’s forehead before someone walks the baby down in front of the congregation, the oohs and ahhs audible, the misty eyes inevitable. I’ve seen baptisms in our tradition from the font, the down and up as if in solidarity with Jesus, who went down and up too.
The most unforgettable baptism I’ve ever seen happened at a river in Northern Washington. I was living at a Lutheran Retreat Center at the time called Holden Village. A guy in his early twenties asked the Pastor if he could take part in this sacred ritual. We gathered around a small riverbed and watched as Caleb was submerged in the freezing waters, among rocks and mud, minnows and moss.
I reckon Jesus’ baptism was more like Caleb’s than like mine, his feet squishing in the mud as he walked out to the Jordan River, his cousin smelling like camel and leather, bugs and honey. I reckon his long hair was plastered to his face when he rose out of that water.
And I reckon all of that because at this point in the Christian story, we’ve moved away from the delicacy of Christmas, away from the romanticism of a baby in a manger and away from a mother’s tender, loving touch. And now it’s time to get to work. We’ve been waiting long enough–in the gospel of Mark we don’t even get the birth story, we start with wild John the Baptist crying out in the wilderness, taking his cousin Jesus down to the river.
Nadia Bolz-Weber talks about how the story itself is amazing. We are told that basically everybody was flocking to the Jordan River to get baptized by John the Baptist. He’d been preaching about repentance and preparing the way of the Lord. Repentance: the Greek here being metanoeite, which means to change a mental attitude, or turn around. And so people were coming in droves to get that fresh start and turn around back to Goodness and Love. A mass of unwashed sinners all crowding around, as Nadia writes, waiting their turn. Sun beating down, mosquitoes buzzing, children screaming. I imagine it was a crowd carrying all of their shame and wrongdoings, all of their sins and betrayals and misdemeanors, all of the things they had been caught wrapped up in and all of the things they had gotten away with, down to the River. We begin here with this critical moment in which Jesus’ public ministry begins. God finally starts answering our long-awaited questions, “How, God, will you unseat the powers of this world? Who has the authority here to teach us, guide us, lead us? If John isn’t the Messiah, who is and where is he?”
It’s almost like we need to be reacquainted with Jesus, that after thirty years some may have forgotten this wondrous, mysterious birth of the Christ child, of a long-expected Savior of the world. And we get that answer here, at the Jordan River. This scene is a big teaching moment for us. We finally start to see glimpses of who Jesus is, and what he’s about to do.
First, he’s down to earth. Quite literally, he’s grounded in the real, sensual, fleshy world with river water, clothing from camels, a diet from bugs…and an interesting weather phenomena.
In a different sense, he is down to earth in that he shows his authority through humility. He doesn’t exclude himself from the religious practice of baptism (I mean he’s God, does he really need repentance and forgiveness of sins?) but he meets his people right where they are, down at the riverside. John, who claims that he is not even worthy to stoop down and untie Jesus’ sandals, who proclaims that Jesus is the one more powerful than him, becomes the one Jesus trusts to guide him lovingly into the choppy waters and bring him out. We are already getting hints at the kind of ministry Jesus embarks on. Not one of power over, but one of solidarity with; one of washing others’ feet, not letting anyone stoop down low to touch his.
Second, he is not only baptized with water but with the Holy Spirit. You know the Holy Spirit? That wild, divine force that sweeps through our lives and emboldens us to sing, give, connect with those who are different, pray with our feet, pray loudly and unabashedly, be a part of the kingdom here on earth. A Spirit that, in this story, dive-bombs like a Dove, which birds usually do when they are protecting their young; a Spirit that comes out of the ripped-apart heavens, perhaps signaling to us that the world can’t go back to the way it was; a Spirit that is tied to the material–real water, real bread, inexpensive wine, soaking robes. And Jesus doesn’t receive the Spirit in private, no, he receives it publicly, not to hoard its glory secretly but to pass it on to all.
Not only do we see glimpses of who Jesus is in this story, but we learn something about God here, too. As Karl Barth writes, here we see the “astonishing claim that God does not will to remain hidden in the heights of heaven, but descends to the depths of earthly life in order to be seen and heard by us finite creatures.” A God of the Trinity–Parent, Son and Holy Spirit–who reminds us that even God doesn’t redeem us alone, but does so in a Divine Dance with Christ and the Spirit. God, who says in what I think of as a loving voice, in a personal proclamation, “You are my Son, the Beloved, with you I am well-pleased.” Imagine hearing that every time we experience shame, fear, regret, loneliness. You are my child, you are beloved, I am so pleased with you. Or as that word is translated in Greek, “I delight in you.” And our God says this before Jesus has really done anything. God doesn’t say “You are my Son and I’m well-pleased because you’ve done so much to deserve this; you have always read your Torah and have done some miraculous healing.” Nope, as far as we know, Jesus hasn’t even done anything and is still called Beloved. That feels like the kind of pure Gospel love the heavens could not contain and it just kind of has to spill out all over everything. God meeting John and Jesus and the crowd in the wilderness of their lives, soaring to them with hurried, unconditional love.
So we see our first glimpses here, in the gospel of Mark, of who Jesus is and will be, of who God is and will be, of how the Spirit works and operates, and of how the ritual of baptism really began.
I keep wondering if our baptism rituals are so nice and clean that we neglect to talk about the uncomfortable implications of inviting God’s spirit to invade our lives? If our laced handkerchiefs have white-washed the muddy gospel away? If we forget that this work is tiring, just like John’s arms must have been after baptizing so many people? That this work happens in community, with people gathered all around us? That this work is transformative, heavens being ripped apart to remind us that there’s no going back to the status quo, only going forward in solidarity with each other and with our Savior? And finally, that this work is grace-filled. That we don’t have to work to “deserve” God’s love: it’s already given, freely and relentlessly.
I don’t know where my beloved blue bandana got off to. I have a notorious reputation for losing things. But I’m glad for that moment during my baptism, to remind me what my baptism means. It means that this gospel-work is dirty, sweaty and grimy; that it isn’t fancy or pristine, but colorful and communal and down to earth. It reminds me that ministry for Jesus began with the people, in the wild, hearing God’s voice calling him beloved. Beloved.
May it be so,