Sermon: "Beneath the Surface," February 21, 2021

“The Temptation of Jesus,” Illya Repin, 19 Century

Preacher: Rev. Ryan Slifka
Scripture: Mark 1:9-15

When I think of Baptisms, I think of Sunday mornings. Cozy in the church sanctuary, parents wide-grinning by the baptismal font. Joyce Wilson or Kara wireless mic in hand, introducing candidates. Congregation excited, proud. Little babies in white gowns, 50% chance of crying, but pretty cute either way. Baptisms have been some of my most gratifying experiences as a minister. One of the things I miss the most about pre-covid times, actually. They’ve been lovely.

I wouldn’t trade these experiences for anything in the world. But they’re pretty tame compared to Jesus’ baptism in today’s scripture, don’t you think?

Here in Mark’s gospel Jesus just shows up on the banks of the Jordan River outta nowhere. And there on Jordan’s bank he’s baptized by John the Baptist. And when Jesus splashes up for air, it says that he sees “the heavens torn apart.” The sky’s ripped in half. And then outta this cosmic tear the Holy Spirit swoops down like a dove and lands right on him, enters him.[1] Cue the voice from heaven: “you are my beloved, with you I am well-pleased.” Certainly a lot more dramatic than reciting a few vows off the PowerPoint screen.

And if the baptism itself weren’t exciting enough, take a look at the post-baptism ritual. “Immediately,” it says, “the Spirit immediately [drives] Jesus in to the wilderness” for forty days. We’re not talking “Beautiful British Columbia,” neat and tidy provincial campground wilderness. We’re talking about the desert. Little food, not much water, plenty of dangerous animals. And not only that, but in this wilderness, it says, Jesus is tempted by Satan—the devil. And ministered to by angels. So instead of gathering for family photos with the minister, or sharing some home-made cookies and sipping coffee in the Fellowship Hall following the service, Jesus is SHOVED by the Holy Spirit, shoved out into the desert. Where he goes head-to-head in spiritual combat with the Prince of Darkness himself for forty days. All the while given some tender loving care courtesy some heavenly beings.

I mean, could you imagine if after a baptism a couple of the Elders grabbed mom and dad and baby, shoved them into a van and dropped them off on in the North Island bush? Then imagine that they peeled away on a logging road shouting “I’ll see you in forty days! Careful—this is bear country!” And “watch out for Satan’s crafty machinations! “Don’t worry, though—some angels’ll be dropping in some supplies!” We’d get counted as a cult for sure.

This is all exciting stuff. Sometimes when I read stuff like this in the Bible I find myself wishing I could have the same kind of experience. I long for the heavens-torn-open encounter with the Holy Spirit. I’d love to prove my spiritual mettle through self-discipline. I wanna battle the forces of darkness and come out triumphant, just like Jesus. This stuff makes my life, especially my spiritual life seem rather bland and boring in comparison.

The interesting thing about this text, though, is that we’re hearing it in the voice of the finished story. We’re hearing it in the way that the gospel writer wants us to hear it, the Holy Spirit’s final draft. It’d be totally different first-hand.

Sure, Mark paints Jesus’ baptism as this cataclysmic cosmic event where the skyline is ripped in half, where a bird-shaped Spirit of God dives down and a James Earl Jones-style voice declares him to be the Son of God. But in Mark’s account Jesus is the only one who actually sees any of it happen. If you’re an onlooker at this scene, all you see is some bearded guy in a robe mumble some words then push another guy under water and pull him back up again.[2]

Think about the wilderness journey, too. Half a chapter is devoted to Jesus’ temptation in both Luke and Matthew. Jesus goes back and forth in a full conversation with the devil. But in Mark’s version we’ve got barely anything by way of description. All we have is this long sentence: “he was in the wilderness for forty days, tempted by Satan; and he was with the wild beasts; and the angels waited on him.” Mark’s a minimalist, the Biblical Marie Kondo. Here we’re privy to even fewer details than at the baptism. Again, the particulars of the experience are left to Jesus alone.

If you pay close attention to this whole episode, you’ll realize that first-hand it all might've seemed pretty mundane. Just a couple of guys splashing in water, one of them wanders off to the desert only to return 40 days later. No split in the sky, no dove, no heavenly voice. No horned devil dressed in red. Just water, and sand, and wild animals. If you were there then, you might be as skeptical as any twenty-first century person is today.

Here we’re presented with both the function and the genius of the gospels. Again, the gospels being the four biographies of Jesus we have in the New Testament. These texts aren’t simply first-hand reportage, an eye-witness version of events for the local newspaper. These stories—while they are about history—are intended to interpret, are Spirit-breathed.[3] They pull back the curtain on ordinary events of history to reveal their true meaning.

All we see’s a river, and a guy with a beard pouring water on another guy with a beard. But it’s also a moment in time where God’s own Spirit, the life-giving electricity at the heart of creation surges forth into the world in and through this ordinary first century Jew, Jesus of Nazareth. And it’s where this ordinary-seeming man is awakened to his extraordinary identity as the Messiah, the Christ. The One sent by God to set all things right.

All we see’s an ordinary journey out into the bush, where we might cross off forty days on a calendar. But it’s also the moment where the divine Son is propelled by that same Spirit into battle with the hidden forces that wreak havoc with sin, evil and injustice in the world. The powers that keep human life in bondage. A battle where goodness has not only survived the test, but has won a decisive victory.[4] And after, the Son re-emerges into civilization proclaiming this Good News, and invites others to whole new lives in its light.

This text wants to open our eyes. It wants to get us at the hidden spiritual reality of things that we usually can’t see. And not just in ancient times, but the truth that’s concealed, flowing under the surface here and now.

Whether it’s in a simple, gentle, lovely but not entirely spectacular church baptism, or way off in the desert. Whether it’s the literal wilderness, or the God-forsaken times and places where God seems absent, hidden, rather than in-your-face and obvious. Whether in feelings of hunger and fear, or in times of anxiety, in places of injustice, suffering, or despair. This text tells us that God is not hiding somewhere beyond the clouds, aloof, but that this God’s willing to tear apart the space-time continuum to be with us, even in the woundedness of our hearts and the brokenness of our human condition. And this God’s not only with us in life’s struggles, this God is for us in them, too.

Friends... I know that our world can seem so disenchanted, so ordinary—especially now. I mean, we may be beginning season of Lent, but this whole year's been so Lent-y already in its depriving us of simple joys, and its stripping down of so many of the things that bring our lives meaning. There are days where it’s hard enough to imagine that there’s anything more to what we see, let alone the divine hand of providence guiding us towards something good and beautiful. It’s true.

It’s true. But this is exactly why we’ve been given the gift of the scriptures, and blessed with the long memory of the church. To get under the surface of things, especially in difficult times. To remind us of the One in who “we live and move and have our being”[5] when we feel like the only beings living or moving among the galaxies. And to reassure us that even when we can’t see, touch, taste or feel his presence, when water just looks like water, a desert looks like nothing but a pile of sand, and our bodies seem like nothing more than bags of meat. Even when we can’t muster up an ounce of strength to believe in her very existence, that there is indeed a God. A God who’s on the loose in our rather ordinary, often uninspiring, and sometimes frightening world. A God who is obscenely generous in Love, sovereign over Sin, and capable of generating New Life in the desert of strife for all who repent. All who are willing to have their minds changed… and simply believe.

Brothers and sisters: may you be given the grace to see below the surface of things. May you be given the gift of sight that Jesus was given at his baptism, “though [our] eye[s] made blind by sin [this] glory [we] may not see,”[6] and the strength of God’s own powerful presence, especially in times of powerlessness. May you step out your door, and into our world as it truly is: the realm of God’s triumphant grace, the running route of the living Christ, and the joyous playground of the Holy Spirit. Not only today, but every day. This season of Lent. And every season under the sun.

Amen.

[1] Jack Levison pointed this out somewhere. Perhaps in his book Fresh Air: the Holy Spirit for an Inspired Life (Brewster: Paraclete Press, 2012).

[2] “Thus Mark’s readers are shown the identity of Jesus, while that knowledge remains hidden from the characters in the narrative.” Pheme Perkins, “Mark,” in the New Interpreter’s Bible Commentary, v. iii, gen. ed. Leander Keck (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1995), 534.

[3] ”All Scripture is God-breathed and is useful for teaching, rebuking, correcting and training in righteousness, so that the servant of God may be thoroughly equipped for every good work.” 2 Timothy 3:16-17.

[4] “Satan doesn’t show much [in Mark’s gospel] because Mark assumes Jesus has already broken Satan’s power [in the wilderness].” Perkins, 536.

[5] Acts 17:28.

[6] “Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God Almighty,” Voices United #315.