"He Knelt Down in the Mud' given 1/10/16

            At last the day had come. After his thirty-odd years of life as a Jew, a simple peasant, a working-man-- the day came.  It must have been a day that his parents had known would eventually come-- and dreaded.  It must have been a day that he, himself had been waiting for.  It certainly was a day that the people of Israel were waiting for-- even if they did not know exactly what it was that they had so long and eagerly awaited.

            Luke's narrative of that fateful day notes that "a feeling of expectancy had grown among the people."  Some people would have expressed that feeling in their hope that this Old Testament style prophet John the Baptizer was Israel's long awaited Messiah.  But John had denied that.  Some would have expressed it in political and social unrest, preliminary to a revolution that would free them from the Roman yoke.  But it wasn't quite that, either.  No one knew exactly what it was, but there was definitely something in the air.

            And then that fateful morning came-- the morning in which Jesus bar- Joseph arose from his bed, prayed, bathed, dressed and walked out of the door of his parent's home in Nazareth.  Somehow or other, he knew that this would be the morning.

            We don’t know why it all began on that particular morning. Undoubtedly, Jesus too, had sensed the general atmosphere of waiting, hoping.  Maybe he had heard of John's ministry and wanted to check it out for himself.  Maybe God had spoken to him in the night, through a dream, or while he was at prayer.  Certainly it was something he had somehow or other, known would come—and that day was as good as any other.

            But this morning he knew that the time had come at last. Jesus no doubt greeted his mother, kissed her good-bye and walked out the door.  Outside of town, he came to the nearest crossroads, and chose his direction. Where would he go? Which way?

            To the right lay Jerusalem-- the Temple, the Hebrew schools and yeshivas, the learned rabbis and priests, the levities and choirs. The big city beckoned and with it, the official, established faith of his people—a faith, a settled, respectable life of books and libraries, conferences and symposiums, prayer breakfasts and retreats and continuing education courses.

            To the left lay the riverbank-- the crowds milling about, on their way to hear this strange hermit-turned-lay-preacher John. The riverbank-- far from secular power and officialdom, but close to hope. The crowd-- awaiting a new vision, a new way of life, a new beginning, a beginning of salvation and redemption.

            It must have been a strange crowd-- it would have consisted of people who convinced that they were sinners, people who were sure that the world they lived in was no good, that their lives were no good, that they themselves were no good.  But they would also have been excited—almost joyful-- hoping and praying, believing that something drastic, something radical, something wonderful was about to happen in their lives--and in this world.

            John had been baptizing for months on end. He had been preaching and teaching, exhorting and counseling.  He’d been washing away sin after sin, ranting and raving at them to change their ways, to repent, to turn their lives around and begin to live with integrity, with decency, with faith, with generosity, and above all in a new direction.

            The Baptizer had been washing wounds-- but still the sin remained. He had been treating symptoms-- but the people's basic disease remained. And frustrated with just scratching the surface, John had begun to preach about the terrible shape the world was in. He had dared to point to the evil and corruption that ruled their lives, their nation.  He had dared to point to the evil and corruption that resided in their leaders.

            That would have just added to the feeling of expectation that continued to flourish. Something was coming-- no one knew exactly what. But they waited-- on tiptoe of expectation they waited. Until that morning, when Jesus chose to begin his public ministry with the act of Baptism. Until that morning, when he chose to live a life for others. Until that morning when he chose the people over the power structures of society.

            And so Jesus of Nazareth came to the riverbank, and knelt down in the mud to symbolize that new commitment-- that new burden that he would shoulder on behalf of the world.  By that single act, he finalized for all time his identification with the masses, with the hungry and hurting, the sin-sick and suffering. By that single act, Jesus cemented his tie with the common everyday people of this world-- people like you and me.

            Knee deep in the mud of this world-- the same tear-drenched mud that the Baptizer was trying to wash of them-- praying, hoping, repenting-- they had waited.  We can't forget that blood-soaked mud-- that mud of oppression And violence, of racism and hatred, that mud that symbolizes the pain and suffering of this world, that mud that symbolizes the evil of humanity and of humanity's history. It's very deep mud indeed, and it stinks forcibly of human misery.

            Instead of kneeling on a padded bench between flowers, Jesus knelt in the mud of headlines--school shootings and rapes, theft and oppression.  Instead of the odor of incense, he knelt down to the smell of gun-smoke-- Saturday night specials and ICBMs, assault rifles and missile sites and military bases, .357 magnums and stealth bombers and “lone” gunmen and suicide bombers. 

            Instead of in a chapel, surrounded by friends, Jesus knelt down praying on a riverbank, mired in the mud of the pain of children-- murdered in their classrooms  abused and neglected in the streets where they played, molested and unloved, starving and exploited sometimes in their very homes. That mud is very deep indeed, and it is watered with tears and blood.

            Jesus didn't have to kneel there. He of all people, had no need of a cleansing baptism. He didn't have to choose to identify so totally with the crowds in their pain and need-- with you and with me.  But he did so, freely. And when he went down into the river, and then came up, mud streaming from his hair and beard, water still in his eyes-- it happened.

            The Gospels tell us that the heavens opened-- not over Jerusalem, not over Herod's palace, not over the Temple of Solomon, or the public square. It happened over some broken bushes, over some flies and mosquitoes, over some dirty water and mud, over a crowd of peasants covered with dirt and sweat, but filled with hope, prayers, pain and expectation.

            The Holy Spirit descended upon him.  Mark says only he saw the Spirit come in the form of a dove as he stood there praying. And he heard a voice speak to him, quoting the line from the Song of the Suffering Servant from Second Isaiah, claiming him, affirming him.

            "You are my beloved Son. On you my favor rests and my soul delights."

            And with that, his ministry began. He had been acknowledged-- any questions or hesitations his human nature harbored had been put to rest. He knew without a doubt now why he was on this earth, what his role would be: Suffering Servant, Messiah, Savior, Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world.

            That’s the real gift of the Spirit—to show us who we are and to help us become all that we are designed to be, by our Creator. All the spiritual gifts named in the New Testament—preaching and evangelism and speaking in tongues and the rest are given to us for one purpose and one purpose only—to equip us for mission.

            That was two thousand years ago, give or take a decade. We don't know whether Luke was right and the crowd heard that pronouncement from on high, or whether Mark was right and it was only for Jesus’ ears.  We do know from the Gospel accounts that Jesus got up from that riverbank and immediately walked into the barren, rocky Judean wilderness where he was tempted.  We do know that  after a holy period of time he came out of the desert and began his ministry among the people-- a ministry unlike any before or since.

            We know that it was a ministry of wonders--healings and exorcisms, deep teachings and marvelous preaching. We know that Jesus performed many mighty acts of deliverance, and like the Baptizer, eventually ran afoul of the powers that were. And we know that like the Baptizer, Jesus too, was eventually arrested, imprisoned and executed.

            But unlike John, Jesus' story does not end there. We affirm that, unlike John, Jesus conquered death. We believe that He rose again from the dead and returned to teach his followers and friends until He was recalled to the arms of the God He proclaimed.

            We know that his followers began to proclaim the words and work of this wonderful man to the world.  We know that the ministry of the Suffering Servant went on after His life, after His death, after his resurrection and ascension. We know that same ministry continues today in the body He left behind-- His church.

            And we know that we are all a part of that same body. And we know that we too, are called by our baptisms, to step down to the riverbank and kneel in the mud, and rise up, as He did, in unity and solidarity with suffering humanity and begin to minister to it in His name.

            That's our call. That's the key to discipleship-- to suffering service-- to faithfulness. And we believe that following Him in that manner is worth doing. Not to buy a ticket to paradise or as celestial fire insurance. But simply because that was what He did—and because He invites us to join Him in a life of loving service.

            There are many models of service, many ways of walking in His footsteps, many ways to serve after we've stepped out of the mud, been washed clean by His love.  We can serve by our choice of vocation-- responsible parenthood, nursing, teaching, preaching, helping.

            We might serve Him in our commitment to His church-- serving on a committee, singing in the choir, teaching Sunday School, ushering, greeting, visiting the home-bound, or perspective members.  We certainly serve by our tithing and giving.  We serve by our prayers for others in need around the world. And we serve by our personal commitment to modeling everyday decency, honesty, and kindness in the work-place, the classroom, and the community at large.

            The ways are many and we have two millennia of models in the saints and heroes of the faith who have preceded us. For Jesus' story hasn't ended.  The ministry that began that morning on the riverbank still goes on--through you and through me.

            He beckons to us, inviting us to follow. He calls us to serve. He invites us to minister in his name. Now.  Everyday.  Every time we encounter a brother or sister in need, every time we witness an act of injustice, every time we become aware of sufferings.

            It all began that morning on the riverbank. It continues in you and me. May we hear the call and always respond in faithfulness.    Amen.