Baptism of the Lord
Luke 3:15–17, 21–22
It’s the story of Jesus’s baptism in the Gospel of Luke. I could do the sort of thing I usually do in a sermon, talk about how Luke’s version is different from Matthew, Mark, and John—how Luke skips over narrating the baptism all together, and Jesus never sees the heavens being torn open, how he only hears the voice after he’s gotten out of the water and is praying by himself. I could talk about the relationship between Jesus and John the Baptist, and how it was kind of embarrassing to early Christians that Jesus had been baptized by John rather than the other way around. I could tell you that Son of God was one of the Roman emperor’s titles, so calling Jesus Son of God is an act of political rebellion. Those are the sorts of things I would usually do. But that’s not what I’m going to do today.
Today I want to talk about identity. Identity. Dictionary definition: the fact of being who or what a person or thing is. The fact of being who a person is. It kind of sounds like philosophical gibberish. Isn’t a person always who a person is? How can I not be the person who I am? It seems a bit silly.
But how do I know what my identity is? How do I know who I am? And how do other people know who I am? If I don’t know who I am, then how do I know how I’m supposed to act? And how do I become who I am? Is it something I am born with? Is it something other people tell me? Is it something I choose for myself? What is my identity? Who am I? Who are you? How do we usually answer that question?
We usually start with our name. I’m David. What makes me David? It’s the name my parents gave me. They named me after my great-grandfather, David Peck. I later found out, he wasn’t a particularly good guy. He had his wife institutionalized and ran off with her nurse. Does that mean I’m supposed to be like him? David is also a biblical name. He was a king, and since my last name is king, it means that my name constantly reminds people of King David. He was a good shepherd, a mighty warrior, an excellent musician, a revered king, and quite a womanizer. Am I supposed to be like him?
At some point, I chose to accept the name that my parents gave me. And I chose to be David, instead of Dave or Davie. What does that say about who I am?
Another part of my identity is my last name. I’ve had the same one all my life. I never changed it or added to it. What does that say about me? It’s the same name my father had: King. It denotes royalty, but we’re not royal. Probably some great-great ancestor of ours was the slave of a king, some time in the distant past. What does that say about me? There have been some famous kings: B.B. King, Carole King, Don King, Billie Jean King, Martin Luther King. So far as I know, we’re not related to any of them. But should their lives say something about me?
Names are closely related to family. What does it mean that I am a part of the family that I’m a part of? I’m an only child, an only son. My father was a highway worker and my mother a teacher. In the generations past, the men in my family had occupations like farmer, rancher, builder, blacksmith. Should I be following in their footsteps?
My job says something about me. My first regular, paying job was as a piano player. My first job out of college was recording immunization records at the Marion County Health Department. Now I’m a pastor and a teacher. Does my job define who I am as a person?
What else defines me? My hobbies? What I do with my spare time? My taste in food? My weight? How much I exercise? My height? It certainly tells me I’ll never be a professional basketball player. My looks? The color of my skin? My ethnic background? The language that I speak? My nationality? The place where I was born? The size of my checking account or my investment portfolio? My gender? My sexual orientation? My genetic profile? My age? Whether I am single or married or divorced or widowed? Who my spouse is or was? How many children I have, and who they turn out to be? My political party? My favorite sports teams? The car I drive? The phone I have in my pocket? What grades I got and which degrees I’ve earned? My IQ? The country my ancestors came from? Which diseases I have? Which medications I take? My mental health? Whether I prefer cats or dogs? Whether I went to a private school, a public school, or a trade school? The places where I have travelled? The clothes that I wear? The things I spend my money on? How often I take a shower? My zip code? Whether I drink Budweiser or Guinness or Widmer? My Myers-Briggs type? I’m an INFJ. My Enneagram? I’m a 6: the Loyalist. Which Hogwarts House Facebook told me I should be in? Ravenclaw, of course.
What is it that defines me? What is it that makes me me? What makes up my identity? And how do I express my identity to other people? How do they know who I am?
These are questions that we all have to deal with. And we don’t just deal with them once, we deal with them over and over again. Who am I among my siblings? Who am I at school: the nerd, the jock, the cool kid, the gossip, the over-achiever, the bully, the loner, the loser, the social butterfly? Who am I once I leave school? Who am I when I’m looking for a romantic partner? Who am I when I look for a job? Who am I when I have kids, or when I don’t? Who am I once my kids are grown? Who am I when I have grandkids? Who am I when I retire? Who am I when my parents die? Who am I when my spouse dies? Who am I when my child dies? Who am I when I can’t drive anymore? Who am I when I can’t take care of myself anymore? Who am I when I don’t remember who I am anymore? Who am I? Who gets to decide who I am?
We don’t talk about it much, but most of you probably know that Melissa and I lost a child in 2011. Melissa was 22 weeks pregnant when, inexplicably, she went into labor. There was no way to stop it, and she was not old enough for the NICU to get involved. There was nothing to do but to wait for the baby to be born and then wait for her to die.
When she was born, the doctors felt her heartbeat, they wrapped her in a cloth, and they handed her to me. The nurse brought some water, and I baptized her. “Naomi Grace, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” I marked her little forehead with the sign of the cross. “The Holy Spirit work within you, that being born of water and the spirit, you may walk in the way that leads to life.” And then, 18 minutes after she was born, she died.
Who was she? We gave her a name. Naomi for that biblical woman who grieved so much. Grace for what we knew we would need in her absence. King, because she was part of our family. But who was she? She had no job, no interests, no preferences, no accomplishments. She never spoke a word, never expressed an opinion. Who was she? She lacked so many of the markers of identity. She had hardly any of them.
But she did have some very important identity markers. She was loved and claimed by us, and she was adopted into God’s family through baptism. Through baptism she heard the words that Jesus heard, the words that apply to all of us: “You are my child, my beloved. I delight in you.”
And that is the identity that I cherish above all others, the identity that I hope guides my life above all others. I am one of whom God says, “You are my child, my beloved. I delight in you.” Each of you here is one of whom God says, “You are my child, my beloved. I delight in you.” And it is enough.
We may be very different from one another. We may have different backgrounds, and different beliefs, and different stories. But we all gather around the same font. We are all marked by the same water. We are all welcomed by the same God, who says to all of us, “You are my child, my beloved. I delight in you. That is the root of our identity. That is the core of who we are. That is what names us, what shapes us, and what calls us out into the world. We are who we are because we belong to God.
There’s an old Louis Armstrong song, “Remember who you are and what you represent.” We are God’s children, and we represent God in the world. Everything we do reflects on the parent who claims us: God. Everything we are flows from the simple fact that we are claimed. God says, “You are my child, my beloved. I delight in you.” And it is enough.