The Baptism of the Lord
I’m
always afraid
that
I’m going to slip up when reading that gospel passage
and
say: “Jesus was baptized by Jordan
in the john…”
Near
the end of October,
I went for a short hike about 30-35 miles northeast of here,
this
side of Mooers Forks.
The
place is called The Gulf, and for good reason:
it’s
a vertically walled chasm, ¾ of a mile wide, 2 miles long,
with
a maximum depth of a 1,000 feet—
all
carved out of the sandstone bedrock
when
the last ice age melted off about 12,000 years ago.
Standing
at the rim, looking down into the dark waters far below,
it’s
quite an imposing sight.
But
The Gulf isn’t only geologically interesting;
this
chasm actually cuts right across the US/Canadian border.
Just
past the last red DEC trail marker
there’s
a white concrete international border monument—
no
fences nor flags, no guards nor customs post.
While
I hadn’t seen another soul all along my hike,
I
just couldn’t shake the feeling that somebody must be watching me.
I
also couldn’t bring myself to step past that monument,
and
turned back on the trail a little ways
before
I was comfortable enough to sit down and eat my lunch.
The
Jordan River is not nearly as impressive a waterway as The Gulf.
When
I saw it for myself on pilgrimage a number of years ago,
it
looked an awful lot like a shallow drainage ditch—
not
at all like I’d pictured it!
What
makes the Jordan significant, though,
is
that it’s a border, a boundary:
this
river marks the edge of the Promised Land.
The
Jordan was the final line to cross
after
the Israelites escaped Egypt
and
wandered through the Sinai desert.
When
they’d made it to the other side of the Jordan,
they
officially passed from slavery to freedom,
from
exile to their God-given homeland.
While
there are certainly far more scenic
and
impressive bodies of water in the Holy Land,
I
think we can see why this is the one
in
which Jesus chose to be baptized by John.
Today’s
feast, you see, is about crossing boundaries.
It
was not a receding glacier but original sin
which
carved a deep gulf between God and the human race.
Previously,
we’d enjoyed an unparalleled friendship with God—
we
creatures walking freely with our Creator in Paradise.
But
sin, by definition, breaks that bond of intimate communion—
cutting
us off, putting up a barrier—
a
painful divide of our own construction.
“My
thoughts are not your thoughts,” says the Lord,
“nor
are your ways my ways.”
God
and his ways are so far above and beyond us—
in
mystery and might, in purity and holiness.
God
is God, and man is sinful.
However
could the two meet again?
God—it’s
been revealed to us—is love.
And
love, we know, is blind—perfect love so blind, in fact,
that
it cannot see differences and distinctions;
true
love doesn’t recognize any otherness.
(cf. G.
Feuerstein)
And
so this God who is Love
tears
open the heavens and crosses the border—
not
only coming to us, but becoming one of us;
God’s beloved Son was born of Mary;
the
Word became flesh, and dwells among us.
Such
is God’s love, and it creates a nearness
of
which man could have never conceived, leave alone achieved.
From
the depths of our sin to the heights of God’s holiness,
draws
us upward.
The
baptismal font is most traditionally located
near
the church door:
it
is a threshold, a point of entry.
As
we are visibly plunged into the sacred waters,
we
are invisibly immersed in a saving mystery:
in
Christ Jesus, God has shared with us
our
human life and destiny,
that
we might then share in his—both eternal and divine.
This
was once also powerfully symbolized in the altar rail,
which
one used to find in every Catholic Church.
Kneeling
to receive Holy Communion at this symbolic barrier,
representing
the border between earth and heaven
in
a most tangible, visceral way,
we
could experience God reaching across the boundary
in the Eucharist.
we’ve
gazed with wonder on the babe lying in the manger—
so
small, so fragile,
having
so completely taken on our poverty and weakness
that
he can be cradled in our hands.
Coming
to the end of the Christmas season,
we
behold him now a man
at the
beginning of his public ministry.
And
yet, how wondrously, in the Sacrament of the Altar,
we
can hold him still.
Almighty
God, the Maker and Ruler and Judge of all things,
has
cut across the gulf—and is never going back.
Not
only on this solemn feast,
but
whenever we dip our fingers in holy water at the church door,
and
every time we approach the altar at Communion,
let
us recall with great gratitude and awe:
“We
can cross the border
only
because God crossed it to come to us.”
(Romano
Guardini)
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