December 8, 2013 | 9:30 a.m., 11:00 a.m., and 4:00 p.m.

Returning to Bethlehem

Adam H. Fronczek
Associate Pastor, Fourth Presbyterian Church

Isaiah 11:1–9
Matthew 3:1–12

Whatever your end may be, accept my amazement.
May I stand until death forever at attention
for any your least instruction or enlightenment.
I even feel sure you will assist me again,
Master of insight and beauty.

John Berryman
Address to the Lord

It seems appropriate to begin this week with a few words about Nelson Mandela, who died on Thursday evening. South Africa’s first black president, the leader of the struggle that ended apartheid, by all accounts one of the most dynamic and engaging statesmen the world has ever seen—there is so much one might choose to talk about. My own experience is that when Mandela was released from prison and rose to the presidency, I was a teenager; my whole life was consumed by homework and hormones and trying to figure out how to be six feet tall while only weighing 135 pounds. So on Friday as I read article after article about Mandela, I was surprised to find that I remember his release from prison quite clearly. What I remember most is the fear felt by so many that his rise to power could only result in violence and bloodshed, and the collective sigh of relief felt the world round when, instead, it was accompanied first and foremost by forgiveness. That is how he left his mark. The constant refrain in this week’s many remembrances of Mandela, the reason the world is so deeply grateful for the life of this man, is because his was a life dedicated to forgiveness, reconciliation, and truth.

This set of values—forgiveness, reconciliation, truth—these values are why Christians love Nelson Mandela. He lived a life dedicated to values we profess to believe. Forgiveness, reconciliation, truth—this is what following Jesus Christ is all about. In this season of Advent, as we prepare our hearts for the coming of Jesus Christ, it should be no surprise that the text, not chosen by me but provided for this day, speaks directly to forgiveness, reconciliation, and truth.

Nelson Mandela liked to point out that his given name, Rolihlahla, colloquially translates to “troublemaker.” This morning we meet a troublemaker of our own. John the Baptizer wore clothing made of camel’s hair and a leather strap around his waist; he ate insects he could catch and honey where he could find it—and had gone out into the wilderness to baptize people. Make no mistake about it, this is not supposed to be an appealing image. John is a strange person. I see that many of you Presbyterians have given a nod to John the Baptist by wearing your own camel hair sport coat this morning, but this is not what he was wearing. John the Baptist is dressed in an animal skin and living by his wits out in the desert, and he’s talking about serious and frightening things: “the kingdom of God is at hand—prepare yourself!”

I point out how strange John the Baptist must have been because the author of this text means to surprise us in saying “the people of Jerusalem and all Judea were going out to him.” We are to be surprised by this not only because John was strange, but because, in the ancient world, people didn’t go out to the wilderness for much of anything. In fact, the opposite was true. Trade, supplies, stores of food, the practices of the temple—everything people needed was in the city. But the story says everyone is going out to the wilderness. In case it is lost on you how strange this is, here’s what I am talking about—and if you are visiting with us from the suburbs today, please forgive the following illustration: People come to this neighborhood all the time because there is a lot going on here. Those of us who live and work in this neighborhood know that the streets are filled with people who don’t live here, looking for things they can’t get at home. Can you imagine what would have to happen in order for the opposite to be true, for all of the high-rise buildings here on Michigan Avenue to empty out and for all of us, by the hundreds of thousands, to get on the Metra saying, “Have you heard what’s going on? We’ve gotta get out to Hinsdale!” This is what is going on in ancient Israel: the scripture says they were all going out to the wilderness. And they’re going to see someone who is decidedly unappealing. So the central question of this story seems to be, Why?

I came across a story about Christmastime that I think makes the point:

A little boy was being picked up from preschool on the last day before Christmas break. The kids in the class had been hard at work on presents for their parents, and they had wrapped them in paper, in the messy way a four-year-old wraps a present. When he saw his mommy and daddy arrive, the little boy became so excited that he grabbed his present and started running to his parents. But he was still trying to negotiate his untied boots and his backpack and his puffy coat, and so he tripped and the present went flying through the air and landed on the floor with the unmistakable clank of broken pottery. The little boy began to weep inconsolably, and his father, first on the scene, patted him on the head and said, “Oh, don’t cry, don’t cry, it doesn’t matter.” But his mother, wiser in such matters, scooped up her little boy and holding him close, said, “Oh, but it does matter. It matters very much.” And she began to cry with her son.

There’s a sense in which we are not sure someone really loves us unless they talk to us about things that matter—things that have gone wrong. We know that people who don’t really care what we do probably don’t care about us. In the same way, if God does not care about what we do, we may begin to suspect that God does not care about us.

That is why the people were going out to the wilderness to see John. He talked about things that mattered. He talked about the forgiveness of sins, which means talking about sins, and regrets, and mistakes—the things you wish you had done differently or not done at all. And John talked about these things in pretty stark terms. John would have mentioned by name things like adultery and domestic abuse. He would have been the kind of person who brought up the emotional distance and trauma that results from addiction and depression and the difficulties that arise when we misuse anger, hide sadness, or lose control of our greed and pride. John wasn’t afraid to talk about things that mattered.

Importantly, the context in which John chose to talk about serious things was baptism. John talks about serious things as the people step down into the waters of the River Jordan, and it is there that he takes them into his arms and offers them forgiveness and a chance for a better life, a life in which we come to know ourselves as children of God. John baptized them with water as we baptize in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, reminding all of those who come to see baptisms of the words that were said when they were baptized: “You are a child of God, sealed by the Spirit in your baptism, and you belong to Jesus Christ forever.”

Baptism is an exercise in faith, a spiritual practice, in which we are engaged by a God who cares about who we are and what we do. What I am talking about is not arbitrary judgment; it’s thoughtful responsibility. Not destructive shame; it’s healthy guilt. What John wanted was not separation from God but what he called repentance—a way of turning toward God. This is a kind of living that does not say, “It doesn’t matter,” but that says that things we do and things that happen to us matter very much. God understands where we have been and how we have lost our way, and in the waters of baptism, God shares with us our deep desire to reclaim our lives as we hoped they would be.

The message of baptism is not about returning to a naïve state before anything bad ever happened to us. It’s about trying to reclaim the trust and hope that is so often lost when we suffer, sin, and make mistakes. And it is vital that we do that work of reclaiming trust and hope even though it doesn’t make everything all better.

One of the things for which Nelson Mandela is most well known is his work with the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, created in 1995 “to balance justice and forgiveness in a reckoning of [South Africa’s] history. The panel offered individual amnesties for anyone who testified fully on the crimes committed during the apartheid period.” As the New York Times reported on Friday, “In the end, the process fell short of both truth and reconciliation” (some of the participants acted evasively; others experienced rekindled anger in the face of the testimonies). “But it was generally counted a success, giving South Africans who had lost loved ones to secret graves a chance to reclaim their grief, while avoiding the spectacle of endless trials” (New York Times, 6 December 2013). South Africa is not entirely healed. They are plagued by the scourge of AIDS, the sickness of racism, and the dramatic divide between wealth and poverty, but their work toward forgiveness, toward truth and reconciliation, is a model for all nations. In our country, the successes of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission are a reminder of the ways in which we have still not figured out how to heal the lasting wounds of native American lands stolen or lives consumed by slavery. We cannot erase the past, but we can speak truth to one another about it, be reconciled to one another, and experience forgiveness.

The same need for truth, reconciliation, and forgiveness resides in individual, personal lives. The message of the Christian gospel, the promise contained in baptism, is not that we can somehow return to the innocence we had when we were first cradled in the arms of a loving parent. The promise of baptism is that wherever you go, whatever you have done, you belong to Jesus Christ, forever. We witness baptisms as a community, because each one of us is invited to open ourselves again to the love God has for us and to do so not with the suspicion and calculation that comes with age and experience, but with the openness and trust of a child. Baptism is about remembering where we came from and who God created us to be.

The Catholic theologian Richard Rohr tells the story, which he claims is true, of a three-year-old who had a new baby brother. As he watched his parents put the child to bed, he asked, “Can I talk to the baby?” and his parents said, “Of course, you can talk to the baby anytime.” But the little boy insisted, “I want to talk to him now, by myself.” Curious about what would happen, his mother and father left the room but peered through a crack in the door to see what would happen. And leaning over the crib, the three-year-old boy whispered, “Quick, tell me who made you. I’m beginning to forget.”

This is our story. It is the story of baptism, and it is the story of Advent. Because we so quickly forget who made us, because we so quickly forget that we are the children of a loving God who welcomes us not just with grace, but with truth, every December we are welcomed back to Bethlehem. Each year we are given the chance to consider who we are and who we have been and to follow the star again to Bethlehem. Each year we are invited again to wander into the stable, bringing with us all of our mistakes and misgivings, all the hurt and pain we have ever carried, all that has detached us from the essence of who God created us to be. And we are invited to lean over the manger, to look into the eyes of a newborn child, and to ask God, “Please, remind me again where I came from, because I’m starting to forget.” Amen.