Mark 1:4-11
I read a sermon early this week that captured my imagination. The preacher, Rev. Maxwell Grant, says that he wishes it were harder to join the church. He says “It’s harder to get a membership at Costco than it is to become a Christian.”[1] We might think we’re doing a good thing to make membership easy. After all, we don’t want to put roadblocks in the way of people coming to God. But Rev. Grant says that if church is so easy to join, “then any notion of the responsibilities of membership can just fly right out the window.”[2]
And he has a point. Want to join the church? Sure, we’d love to have you! Just come to this one class session, and fill out this paperwork, and we will accept you into membership on Sunday, and we even tell you how to respond to our questions about joining (“I will with the help of God”).
Sometimes we neglect the fine print, which should read: You will be asked to give, and then give some more. You will be asked to attend worship and participate in various ministries. You will be made to feel uncomfortable sometimes, by what is preached. Sometimes you will be bored and sometimes you will be annoyed and sometimes you will get a kick in the behind when what you wanted was a reassuring hug. And you will get frustrated because the church would be perfect if it weren’t for all these people.
Although we join a church through a decision and an affirmation or reaffirmation of faith, we first were welcomed into the church through the sacrament of baptism. So Rev. Maxwell Grant has a suggestion about that. He writes:
“What if instead of a little chaste sprinkling of water on the forehead or even a full immersion on the banks of a local river or something in between…what if the only way to join the church was by skydiving? The very idea makes my stomach do backflips. But think about it. Free fall, then the rip cord, and then a gentle floating down to the ground. I mean, what’s not theological about that? . . .Imagine what it would mean to go through that experience, with its terrors and its rushes and its ultimate relief—and then show up at church on Sunday to be greeted by a room full of people who had been through all of that, too? Think how you would see them all, as you walked in and found your pew: the older couple that sits up front and always shares a hymnal; the super-cheery soprano, and the lady who always takes more than her fair share at the potluck; the guy who circles typos in the bulletin every Sunday and submits it back to the church office; and the guy who seems as if he comes because his deceased wife liked it, and he may or may not miss Jesus, but he knows he misses her. Think how you would see them all, the heavy, the creaky, the busy, the young and the old, the happy and the sad—the people you will find in every church on any Sunday—think how you would see them all, if being baptized meant that at some point, however many years before, they had each had that day—that day when they had somehow summoned enough courage to leap out into thin air and into the hands of God.”[3]
We told you earlier that in our conversation after church, I will be announcing some new initiatives. Just so you know: skydiving is not one of them! But I do wonder if, metaphorically, it isn’t a bad idea. We do need some lessons in faith. We do need the experience of stepping out into the unknown, trusting that God will not let us fall. Wouldn’t we be united if we all did something bold together? Something radical?
It is not without biblical precedent. Our Gospel reading for today is from the Gospel According to Mark. Mark’s Gospel is a strange book. For starters, look at how it begins. No birth story. No Mary and Joseph and Baby Jesus. No shepherds, no angels, no magi. No 12-year-old Jesus visiting the temple in Jerusalem. Mark’s Gospel starts with the words of the prophet Isaiah and the actions of John the baptizer, then moves quickly to the baptism of Jesus.
Mark also tells the story of Jesus’ baptism a little differently. The other Gospel writers say that the sky opened, and the Spirit of God descended like a dove. This image of the sky opening could have been as simple as the clouds parting. But it’s also possible that the writer here was influenced by ancient cosmology. The ancients believed that the earth was like a plate, and the sky was a dome that covered the plate—almost like a cake plate or cheese board. The domed sky had gates in it, which sometimes opened and let water in (rain).
So when the Gospel writers say that the sky opened, they could mean the clouds parted, or they could mean the gate or door between heaven and earth was opened.
But that’s not what Mark says. Mark doesn’t say the sky simply opened. Mark says that Jesus saw the sky ripped open, was torn apart. The Greek word is “schizo,” the same root from which we get “schism.” Mark seems to be responding to the prophet Isaiah who prayed, “O that you would tear open the heavens and come down” (64:1). It seems that this is exactly what God has done. If the sky just opened, like a door or gate, or like a cloud parting, the sky can be closed again. But once the sky was ripped open, the boundary between earth and heaven was destroyed. The sky was torn…and God came through.
And what words did God have, once the barrier was destroyed? “This is my beloved, in whom I am well pleased.” Yes, those words were intended for Jesus, but we forget they are spoken to us as well. God looks at us, at baptism, and every day before and since, and says, “This is my beloved child.”
That’s how much God loves us. God tears open the sky for us, so that we may hear.
But perhaps you think of something else when you hear of a torn sky. Perhaps you have known your share of torn places. Perhaps you have felt at times like the very fabric of your life was being torn in two. Perhaps you have experienced the ripping open of your heart and soul. But either way, the outcome is the same. “The torn place is where God comes through.”[4] Not to fix the split or repair the breach, but to be present with us in the midst of it. Not to pronounce judgment, but to say, “You are my child, my beloved; with you I am well pleased.” The torn place is where God comes through.
In just a moment, I will invite you forward for an opportunity to remember your baptism. You will be given a piece of cloth—a piece of the torn sky, if you will—to remember that God tears open the sky to get to you. Take it home with you to remind you. But first that piece of cloth will be dipped in the baptismal font, and it will be handed to you wet with the water from many places.
What you do with it is up to you. You may put it to your head, to remind yourself of your baptism. You may put it to your heart, to help you believe in God’s love. You may put it to your lips, to remind you to speak that love to others. You may put it to your eyes and ears, to help you see and hear, or to your pulse points, so that it flows through your veins. The important thing is to remember: You are God’s beloved. God tore open the sky to get to you.
[Ritual of Remembrance]
You have been touched by the waters of baptism, the waters from many places. And you have a piece of the torn sky to remind you. At the beginning of my sermon I told you about the Rev. Maxwell Grant’s suggestion that joining a church should require skydiving—a leap of faith that unites us with others who have taken the same leap. Well, here’s our leap of faith: to hear and believe. To stand here and know that God tore open the sky—to know that God still tears open the sky—just to say “I love you.”
If we would truly believe it, that should make us plenty bold.
[1] Grant, Maxwell. “Torn Open, By God.” day1.org.
[2] Ibid.
[3] Ibid.
[4] This concept is not unique to me. Similar ideas are preached by Rev. Barbara K. Lundblad in her sermon “Torn Apart Forever” (DAY 1 Radio), Rev. Jim Somerville in his sermon “From A Ripped-Open Sky” (Lectionary Homiletics, January 2003), as well as the previously quoted Rev. Maxwell Grant.