REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE: ON BAPTISMAL IDENTITY AS RESISTANCE

On January 20, as many of us had the day off in honor of Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.'s life and legacy, the United States experienced a peaceful transition of power. President Joe Biden completed his term of service as the 46th President of the United States, President Donald Trump was inaugurated as the 47th, and a flurry of executive orders and legislative actions have followed, leading to the direct targeting of immigrants and trans* people, economic chaos with abrupt elimination of jobs and increased tariffs on trade goods, and the jeopardizing of international security. With due process being denied for people being taken into ICE custody in direct violation of court orders, in addition to all of this, fear and uneasiness has permeated the atmosphere since.

I'm not immune to this creeping despair. It seems grimly fitting that so much of this has increased during Lent—a time when we directly confront those impulses within us that try to steer us away from the love of God. We take this time to reflect on our inherent vulnerability, our capacity to be wounded by others and the world. But, crucially, I think, this vulnerability—this openness borne of our own inherent human relationality—also gives us the capacity to respond to one another.

And that’s the question of the moment. How do we respond to the insidious threat of fascism that seems to grow stronger every day? How should we respond, as humans, Christians, Episcopalians, Americans? As a priest (and as a human), I wonder. In many ways, my job—as a priest, as an Episcopalian, as a Christian, and as an American—has not changed at all. Even in the face of uncertainty, my tasks remain unchanged, from the mundane work of updating spreadsheets to the solemn and serious work of bringing God's love into the world. I think it's equally important to say that your job as a Christian has not changed, either. 

As we continue our Holy Week journey alongside Christ, our God who is vulnerable even unto experiencing death, we will have the opportunity to renew our baptismal vows. This, according to the Book of Common Prayer, is the first action to happen after joyously proclaiming Christ’s rising from the dead. The sacrament of baptism posits that the promises we make (or are made on our behalf) are touchstones that we can return to again and again on our spiritual journey. Indeed, they are the rocks upon which we can stand, no matter what may come our way, and the qualities by which we affirm our commitment to following the way of Jesus. The questions below are ones that we are all asked as part of our Baptismal Covenant:

Do you believe in God the Father?

Do you believe in Jesus Christ, the Son of God?

Do you believe in God the Holy Spirit?

Will you continue in the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, in the breaking of bread, and in the prayers?

Will you persevere in resisting evil, and, whenever you fall into sin, repent and return to God?

Will you proclaim by word and example the Good News of God in Christ?

Will you seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor as yourself?

Will you strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being?

Will you cherish the wondrous works of God, and protect and restore the beauty and integrity of all creation?

 We can. We have. And, with God’s help, we will.

In these politically grim days ahead, our baptismal vows can be an anchor point, a rope to cling to, when all else seems fruitless. We return to them at significant points in our spiritual journey because, in essence, they are the marks that identify us as Christians—as followers of a God who chose vulnerability and experienced both pain and joy, suffering and redemption, in the fullness of the human experience.

Christ models a way for us to resist oppressive powers that would have us believe that anyone is undeserving of love and flourishing. Christ challenges us to draw the circle of love ever wider—until the whole of creation is ensconced. Christ gives us the example to imitate, the blueprint to follow, in choosing and choosing again to be in solidarity with those whose lives are most precarious. The sick, the dying, the community outcasts, those who find themselves in the most danger—those are the recipients of Christ’s love and care in stories littered throughout the Gospels. And those are who we are called to serve, in whatever way we can.

And so, as we proclaim the mystery of our salvation and redemption on Easter, we are asked: will we follow Christ, in remembering our baptism? It is my hope and prayer that we will, as so many have done before us. We will continue to be a community that strives to affirm everyone in the fullness of who they are, and reflects the beautiful diversity of God's people—especially those who are not welcome elsewhere. We will continue to revel in the joy of God's love and make it known throughout our communities. We will continue to be a place where all are welcomed as Christ. No change in political power can stop that—indeed, none has for over two thousand years.

Because it is in those baptismal promises, reflecting on our own capacity to choose how to be, that we know that we are beloved—we all are beloved of God, we all are beloved in this church, and we all are beloved in this world. In the midst of great change and uncertainty, let that truth be what draws you ever closer to our constant and faithful Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer. And when it comes time for us to choose how to manifest that belovedness in the public square, I challenge us to imitate our vulnerable God, and be open to whatever may come to pass—because even if the worst happens, we know in Christ that evil will not have the last word. 

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