First Sunday after the Epiphany, Year B in the RCL
Psalm 29
Mark 1:4-11
Storytelling.
Modern intellectuals obsess over stories. Someone very famous, whose name escapes me entirely, claims that we are human because we tell stories. That is what makes us human--we are at all because we arrange things in stories, with characters minor and major, climaxes, catastrophes. We tell comedies and tragedies. What makes us human is the ability to tell stories, to tell our individual stories, to relate these stories to a wider story. I think this position has gained such ground that it has a kind of intuitive awareness among everyone, intellectual or not--and of course, storytelling has always been a tradition of everybody, intellectual or not. StoryCorps, which produces some lovely things indeed, is just one example of this trend. We all seem to sense that everyone has a story to tell, and that everyone's story is what matters most.
We can see the influence of this idea all over. Much of the best theology of the last century is concerned with positioning us within "salvation history," a code for the story that is happening between God and created reality. Some intellectuals fret over 'meta-narratives,' the kind of stories that claim all stories ultimately belong to one large story. When Christians get together, we 'tell each other our story,' and we use that term to mean something like 'we reveal our hearts perfectly to one another; our identities are shared with one another.' Amazon and Barnes and Nobles do nothing but sell stories to us. Hollywood tells the same stories over and over again. The rise in popular documentaries is, really, the positioning of data into a storyline that we can follow. Even in the world of science, stories are of growing importance, not simply because scientists try to defend the Big Bang story in the face of Creationism (a rather bogus dichotomy, if you ask most of us), but because science is useful only when it belongs as part of our story. Robert Krulwich very nicely makes this argument in his graduation speech to Cal Tech.
I could go on. Now, first, we should of course ask ourselves: is all this actually true? Is everything a story? I don't really know, and my doubts about it would take us even farther afield here. But I should say: regardless of whether it is true, it is most certainly a helpful way to look at the world. And it is a most helpful way to look at our lessons today.
Particularly, if you'll hang in for a sec, if we think about diagramming stories. You remember: drawing a little rising line to indicate rising action, showing a peak for a climax, showing falling action at various points.
Take the psalm. It's a great one--it has huge, mounting action and exciting imagery. Hebrew poetry often works by saying: A, and what's more, B! all in one line. But this whole psalm functions like that. A, and what's more B, and not only that, but C, and forget C, how about D, and not only D, have you taken a look at E!!!!!! And so on. It begins, "Ascribe to the LORD, you gods," which seems to imply that they are rather mediocre gods. Because not only that, they might as well ascribe to the LORD their glory and strength, because that's where it's coming from.
And not only that: his Name is due even more glory--and not only that, his name is that much more beautiful.
And then the psalm does the same thing with creation imagery--voices over waters, swelling through images of mountains tap-dancing, and then through fire falling from the sky, and then through temple worship, and then through ascribing about thrones, and strength, and peace. It's a pretty dramatic thing altogether.
But take a look at it a moment, and let me ask you this: where is its climax? Where is the psalm building to.
Consider: the climax could be in the second verse. Unusual, maybe, but we could easily read it that way. The beauty of holiness is a thick phrase--the aesthetic attractiveness of God's uniquely divine character might be one way to deal with it. And take that as the punch, the climax, for the moment. The rest is simply falling action, describing how God is both beautiful and holy.
Or: we could take the water imagery as the climax. After all, that is the image of order over chaos in the Old Testament. Or, we could take the mountains as the climax, with the fire falling afterward as a kind of epilogue. Or, we could take the fire and wilderness imagery as the climax, as the most dramatic physical manifestation, and priests hang around crying 'glory' in a hushed tone, amazed at these sights.
Or: we could take the priests in worship as the climax. As amazing as the creation imagery is, the priests chanting their 'glory' over and over is the highest climax of all of these images.
Or: we could take the 'peace' at the end as a climax. This would mean that of all God's work, peace is the most glorious, the most fulfilling.
So, which is it? What's the climax of the psalm? On the one hand, the psalm resists an easy answer here; but on the other, it demands that we find a climax, a center for viewing the rest of the land, something that orders the poem so that it makes sense to us, like a story. But as we can see, the climax that we choose to pick totally changes the theology of the psalm. Is the psalm primarily about God's beautiful holiness, or about the superiority of priests over acts of nature? Is it about the superiority of those actions of nature (to which the priests' cry sounds like a whimper), or is it about the climax unique to God that is a true peace?
It's tricky--that's part of what makes it such a nice psalm.
So as we this week celebrate Epiphany, we have to ask: where are we in Jesus' story? And more importantly, where are we in relation to the climax of Jesus' life?
Is the birth the climax? If that's the case, then the most important thing Christ does is show up--the divine's presence among us is enough to begin to change all created reality. Plenty of theologians argue this these days, actually. This would mean that we are strongly called to do God's work in the world because in Christ's Incarnation, we see healing.
Or, is Christ's climax the crucifixion, where the love of God is seen most clearly written in suffering? If this is the climax, it means that we have been saved by a God whose love knows literally no bounds, and it inspires us to live the same way. This would mean that the birth is not very important--it taught us not nearly enough about love.
Or, is Christ's climax in the resurrection? This would mean that all things were working toward the healing of death. If this is the climax, it would mean that crucifixion and suffering aren't nearly as important--what is important is the new life we find in Christ.
Or, is Christ's climax at the Ascension? There, Christ completes his work and returns in love to his home. If this is the climax, Christ is the center of the story, not us.
Or, is it the second coming, the end of all created reality? If this is the climax . . . you see the point.
You see, because we are such creatures of story, it really matters where we think Christ's climax is, what we emphasize as most important. And Christ's story, like the psalm, invites us to consider multiple places for that emphasis, for that climax.
So for today, let us consider that Epiphany moment, the baptism of Jesus in the Jordan. Epiphany usually comes and goes, and we barely notice. We have all those other events of Jesus' life as potential climaxes, and they are all so compelling, so drawing. And yet, perhaps we are selling Epiphany short. How might we live if this were Jesus' climax?
Well, for starters, we'd have to notice that Jesus was shockingly like us, so much so that he was baptized. For all that John isn't unworthy to untie his sandals, he pours water on his head anyway. Perhaps we are like John--maybe we really are unworthy to have the gifts we do. But we have them anyway. Can we, like John, get over ourselves enough to do what Jesus asks?
Second, if the baptism in the Jordan is the climax of Jesus' life, then the highest point of the story is when the whole community of the Trinity is present together. Jesus is not a lone-ranger in the story--he is called Beloved, and the Spirit hangs around as the third person to that relationship. How often do we think being a Christian means being a lone ranger, all evidence to the contrary?
And third: if the highest moment of Jesus' life is the revealing of his divinity, his God-ness, then perhaps the center of our faith might rest not in resurrection, not in fidelity in suffering, not in waiting for the second coming, but in simply staring at the revealing of God. Perhaps faith is not a thing done--perhaps faith is not a verb. Perhaps instead it is a way to see, a way to be, a witnessing to something incredible and incredibly beautiful.
If the Epiphany is the climax of Christ's life, then the highest calling is to see God in the beauty of holiness. All the rest is falling action.
