Nov 06

Finding Ourselves Among the Saints

Two years ago Misty Copeland became the first black principal dancer at the American Ballet Theatre. At the time she told reporters, “I had moments of doubting myself, and wanting to quit, because I didn’t know that there would be a future for an African-American woman to make it to this level. At the same time, it made me so hungry to push through, to carry the next generation. So it’s not me up here — and I’m constantly saying that — it’s everyone that came before me that got me to this position.” In a world—and not just the dance world—where pictures of success are still often filled with white faces, Copeland has become a model of new possibilities for people of all races. To those, like her, who have faced difficult circumstances just because of the color of their skin, she demonstrates the virtue of persistence and destroys the lies of limitations imposed on them. To those who have not faced such difficulties, she embodies a new world that is not chained by past prejudices and expectations. Misty Copeland is a gift, someone whose accomplishments are not just to be celebrated for their own sake but also for the fact that they make the world around her a better place. Continue reading

Nov 07

Saints and the Way of Happiness

It happens all the time, really without us even noticing it. You wake up in the morning, and it won’t be the first thing on your mind, at least, not most days. Instead, it will creep in, naturally, slowly, without drawing attention to itself. You’ll be in a conversation with a loved one and you’ll hold back, just a little bit, what you’re thinking about. Or you’ll double-check the locks on your house before you go out for the day. You’ll walk down the street and look over your shoulder a couple times. You’ll be asked how you’re doing, and you’ll say, “Fine,” which is only half-true today. You’ll hear your candidate promising to make you safer, to hold to what is rightfully yours, and you’ll nod in gratitude. You’ll be up in bed trying to sleep, wondering how things have reached this point in your life, wishing you had had the chance to change something, to be someone else for once. Continue reading

Nov 03

The Jordan River

            Rivers make great barriers. Rivers are dangerous and unpredictable, deep here and shallow there, calm on the surface but swift just beneath. Rivers don’t just stand between one side and another. They try to carry off anyone who would cross them, catch them up in their currents and hasten them to the sea. They dare any would-be trespassers: just try to get past me! The Potomac River once divided this country into north and south. The Mississippi marks for us east and west. The Rio Grande tells us in or out. Yes, rivers make great barriers.

            No river is mightier—and so no barrier is greater—than the river of death. Death is the strangest of rivers. At first glance, it looks more like a parched riverbed, dry, and empty, and lifeless. Approach death, stand close enough to its shores, and you realize that this strange river has a force behind it almost like no other. Like the whirlpool of a great rapid, its emptiness pulls you in, dragging you against your will.

            For the ancient Greeks, the river Death was the river Styx: as strong a barrier as you could want between the living and the dead. Hope for this life vanished at the far edge of the Styx. Few in our day take the Greek myths to heart as anything more than good stories, but for many of us, Death remains as insurmountable as the Styx.

            But it is not the Styx that lies between the Israelites and the Promised Land in Joshua 3. It is the Jordan River. All hope does not vanish at the banks of the Jordan. And when the Israelites prepare to cross the Jordan into the Promised Land, the land flowing with milk and honey, the waters of the Jordan do not sweep the people of God down into the Dead Sea. Instead, the Jordan parts, “the waters flowing from above stood still, rising up in a single heap,” and Israel crosses from the wilderness into the Promised Land.

            This is the second crossing, the second baptism for Israel. The first was at the Red Sea, with the Egyptians hot on Israel’s trail. At the first crossing God washed away the idols and the oppression that had characterized life in Egypt. On the far shore of the Red Sea, the Lord claimed the Israelites as his people. At the second crossing God cleanses the filth from forty years of wilderness wanderings. On the distant shore of the Jordan, the Lord brings his people home.

            Not everyone could cross the Jordan at once, of course. No doubt some at back of the line must have watched their brothers and sisters cross the Jordan ahead of them and thought, “I wonder if the waters will hold back for me, too.” But they didn’t need to worry. The waters did not budge. Every Israelite crossed safely; “the entire nation” walked across on dry ground.

            Brothers and sisters in Christ, on this All Saints’ Sunday we find ourselves on the banks of Death. Others have gone before us, beloved friends and family members, cherished members of the body of Christ. They have crossed ahead of us, and we know one day we will follow them through the river. If you’re like me, you probably wish you could catch a glimpse of them on the far shore; you might long for even the briefest vision of assurance that they have crossed safely, a vision, also, of hope that you will one day stand with them. Do not be troubled. God does not carry us through life only to dump us by the Styx. The river that stands between us and the saints who have gone before us is the Jordan River, not a great barrier but a gateway to God’s eternal promises.

            Just like the Israelites, all of us must undergo two baptisms. At the first baptism, our own crossing of the Red Sea, God washes us clean of our sin and claims us as his people. The Father seals us with his Holy Spirit and makes us disciples of his Son Jesus Christ. This first baptism marks the beginning of our journey—not a journey we could ever undertake alone, but a journey with our fellow pilgrims and disciples, a journey as the church. At this first baptism God put to death our bent toward sinning and so saved us from the second death.

            But there remains, for all of us, a second baptism: death, the death of the bodies God has given us. The filth and grime from our imperfect discipleship pilgrimage must still be washed away. Having passed through the waters of the first baptism, we need not fear the waters of this second baptism. They will not overwhelm us. God holds them back with a mighty hand and will deliver us to safety on the banks across the way. Our great High Priest stands in the middle; his cross is the ark of the new covenant, the surety of our safe passage.

            What will we find across the Jordan? “A great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, robed in white, with palm branches in their hands, … saying, ‘Salvation belongs to our God who is seated on the throne, and unto the Lamb!’” (Rev 7:9-10). “O give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; for his steadfast love endures forever” (Ps 107:1).

            The multitude is the multitude of the saints of God. Their journey is over. They await the resurrection of their bodies, but already for them death and sadness are no more. The march of the saints is not what happens on the other side of the Jordan. The march of the saints is what takes us up to the Jordan—and leads us across. If we want to be counted in thatnumber, we need to put on our shoes now. We need to follow the well-worn paths of the saints, paths of prayer and praise, paths of virtue and peace, paths marked by the cross of Christ. These paths lead us up to the banks of the Jordan. And there the saints will discover that no river is a barrier to God, that not even Death itself can sweep past Christ’s cross to drown us.

            May we also be found in the company of saints. Amen.