A few of us stand right now on a particular plot of earth, several acres of dark and rich soil. This soil gives life to green and growing things. Tall trees stretch their legs deep into this lush ground, drawing power and strength and beauty from it. Birds nest in the arms of these trees, and creatures both majestic and homely come here for shelter, and nourishment, and rest.
A building rises in the center of this soil, a building that reminds us of the wilderness tents of our forebears, but also the soaring temples they built in the Judean hills. The building blends seamlessly with earth, sky, and water. It draws us up, up, up into the transcendence of God, but at the same time it trains our eyes to recognize God right next to us, God in our neighbor, God in our own anxious hearts, God’s Spirit moving powerfully through a small child.
So many of us long so deeply to be back in this building, and this longing is precious in God’s sight. “The church is not a building,” people say, and they are right. Yet our longing to be back on this soil is a good longing, because it is caught up in the desire to be close to the heart of God. We often feel close to God’s heart when we are all together in one place, at no risk of infection, able to embrace warmly and without fear. And so it can be hard (but not impossible) to feel close to God when we are so far away from one another, for so long. God hears our cries of lament. God knows.
But this soil is rich enough to keep us connected. Even now, in our shelter-in-place locations across this island and beyond, even now we are connected as a spiritual community to this soil. Maybe we can imagine ourselves sheltering in place not far out, but high up, up in the waving tops of the tallest trees, trees that hold us far from this building, but nevertheless remain firmly anchored securely to this land. Maybe the soil here is so good, it grows trees that reach all around this region, touching every one of us. We will be back with our feet squarely planted on this soil, together, in the future. But even now, even today, we are all connected. We are all here.
So maybe you are close enough to hear the trees clapping their hands. “For you shall go out in joy, and be led back in peace,” the prophet Isaiah sings to us. He goes on: “The mountains and the hills before you shall burst into song, and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands.” This is the song we sing to our brother Owen, baptized this morning into the Body of Christ. The trees on this soil wave in the wind and joyfully clap their hands as we wash our brother in water, the water of creation that roils in chaos beneath the Spirit, the flood water that carries Noah’s family to safety, the parting water that delivers slaves to freedom, the living water that fills the Samaritan woman’s village with joy, the rivulets of water that flow from the side of our Savior, the water of Holy Baptism.
Today, Owen is another seed cast onto this rich soil, another living creature upon whom God smiles, another royal priest, even! -- a royal priest in the priesthood of all the baptized.
Baptism is, as strange as this sounds, a kind of coronation. Owen is crowned, his forehead is marked with the cross, he is sealed by the Holy Spirit in baptism and marked as Christ’s own forever.
But this is an odd and sometimes painful thing, this coronation. (We remember every thorn in the crown of Jesus himself.) Here at Grace, our building speaks to this pain, too. When this building was constructed, our friends intentionally built a line made of zinc that begins at the font, moves down the center of the sanctuary, and empties into the cross behind the altar, with the memorial garden beyond: this is a line from birth to death, a reminder that in Holy Baptism we are baptized into Christ’s death, as well as his resurrection. Holy Baptism marks us forever, shaping our whole lives, up to and including our deaths. Holy Baptism transfigures the whole story of our existence as members of the Body of Christ.
And so we hear -- amid all this singing and clapping and rejoicing -- we hear a few solemn notes and blue harmonies. We are reminded that for the rich soil to give forth an abundant harvest, the plants must be broken, and finally, in God’s sight, the plants must die. Life and death dance together along this whole line of zinc at the base of our building; life and death are both the companions of our Savior who joins us fully in our vulnerable humanity; life and death in Christ form the rhythm and beat of our baptismal songs.
Owen will come to rely on our singing. He will look to us in his effort to flourish in God’s sight. We will help him get his hands dirty in the lush soil that bears the fruits of the Spirit.
Jesus tells us today about rocks, and thorns, and the hard-beaten paths of life. He shouts “Listen!” from his boat along the shore of the Sea of Galilee. He wants us to hear him! He knows about earth that is damaged by hatred and greed; soil that is thinned and spoiled by human cruelty; land that is damaged by the forces of discord and careless destruction. We live in a nation that is confronting the dreadful reality of white supremacy, and even this rich soil on which we stand bears the marks of human injustice perpetrated against the first people who lived here. We are surrounded by many thorns of fear and distrust.
And that is why we stand here, on this soil, near and far alike. We stand here with Owen and we take our Baptismal vows once again, vows that are all about cultivating God’s field, here and on each of our hearts, so that life will flourish for Owen and for every living creature. We take our Baptismal vows so that we ourselves become lush and verdant soil. We vow that, with God’s help, we will work alongside Owen in these fields, these orchards, these vineyards, these gardens. We will work until the soil bears fruit for the nourishment and protection of every human person on the face of this good earth. We will work until every human person is crowned with God’s abundant life.
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Preached on Sunday, July 12, 2020, Proper 10A, at Grace Episcopal Church, Bainbridge Island, Washington.
Isaiah 55:10-13
Psalm 65:9-14
Romans 8:1-11
Matthew 13:1-9, 18-23
Photo: some of the trees on the property of Grace Episcopal Church.