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A Sermon Preached at Church historian Jaroslav Pelikan says that in the early years of Christianity when the Church and the pagans were battling each other, the great pagan philosopher Celsus noticed a big difference between Christianity and the other religions around—and it was not a difference that made him like Christianity. Celsus said, “Those who summon people to the other religions…make this preliminary proclamation: ‘Let those who have pure hands and a wise tongue come into the community’, but the Christians say, ‘Whoever is a sinner, whoever is unwise, whoever is a child, and in a word, whoever is a wretch will be received by the kingdom of God.’” Infant baptism reminds us of these ancient roots of ours. Lest we be puffed up about our faith like some holier than thou Christians, we take a little baby who doesn’t do much but sleep and eat and poop and proclaim that it is a priest in the kingdom of God. That should remind us that nothing we ever do qualifies us for the kingdom. God shares the kingdom as a gift. Before I go any farther, I want to thank Tristan Clarke, whom we will baptize in a few moments, for giving us that reminder This is always a tough lesson to remember. A dear friend who is very devout and whose prayer life has led him to some wonderful experiences of inner peace is currently in a dry period in which God seems distant and silent. Compared to the wonderful warm sense of the presence of God, this silence seems lonely and cruel. What is so hard for my friend to recover is the recollection that God is present by grace everywhere—and no rituals of prayer or meditation and certainly no special acts of sacrifice or goodness ever coerce God into being present. Let me give you a homely illustration. A friend of my childhood once had a pet rabbit. Phil’s parents were somewhat bohemian and unconventional and so they let “Rab” have the run of the house—and the yard, too, whenever the front door was opened. One night, Phil reports, he woke up to what sounded like a burglar fiddling with the front door—picking the lock, Phil was sure. So Phil grabbed a baseball bat and went out to investigate. There he saw Rab stretched up on his hind legs batting at the front doorknob. Not having opposable thumbs, Rab couldn’t possibly open the door, but he had learned to associate the knob with being let outside. Later Phil noticed that Rab batted at the doorknob often—and was often rewarded by someone opening the door for him. No wonder the rabbit thought that batting at the knob would make the door open. We are all a little like that remarkable rabbit. We all develop rituals like batting at the doorknob. We have favorite places in which we can commune with God in the beauty of nature. We build and care for churches that make us feel the presence of God. We develop rituals, baptisms, communion, weddings and funerals. We cherish scripture readings and prayers. And often in our rituals and our sanctuaries and in the midst of our words, God is there. But we would be wrong to think that God comes at our beck and call. God is present because God wants to be. And we would be equally wrong to think that our lack of awareness means that God is not present. The most enduring promise of Jesus is the one made at the end of our Gospel reading today: “Remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.” Today we celebrate the Feast of
the Trinity, a complex and antiquated doctrine that also happens to embody
some wonderful truths. Today we might
remember that one of those truths is that we encounter God in at least three
ways. We encounter God in creation:
both in the amazing intricacy of the universe and in the silent fact of
being. We encounter God in the Christ
of History, enshrined in our traditions of stories and wisdom. And we encounter God as enduring presence,
felt in our own spirit and in the spirit of community. I am convinced that
when we are not feeling the presence of God, the problem isn’t that God is
not there. The problem is our lack of
awareness. Maybe it would help our
awareness to go looking in a new place: in the natural world, perhaps, or in
the pages of Gospels, or in the needs of others, or in the life of community.
Or perhaps just in the silence around us. Most times, perhaps our awareness
is not enhanced by something we do at all, but by something that comes to
us—like a helpless infant that we know in our heart of hearts is already the
greatest in the As Celsus
put it, “whoever is a sinner, whoever is unwise, whoever is a child…or a
wretch will be received into the |