There is a photograph in our home that was taken when our family whitewater rafted down the Ocoee River last summer in North Carolina. The Ocoee was the site for kayaking events in the 1996 Olympics, and it is widely regarded as one of the roughest rivers in North America. The photo attests to the soaking experience of plunging through a rapid that bears the name “Double Suck.”

 

I am happy to report that none of us were thrown from our boat that day—happy for the feat, but happier because my wife had declared to me more than once that morning in a thinly veiled threat: “My babies better not get hurt.” Now I’d like to claim it was my own prowess that saw us safely through, but the truth of the matter is that we were well-coached by a wonderful guide in the stern who barked commands at just the right times—left forward, right back, all forward, and so forth.

 

There were some others in our eight boat party, however, that were not so fortunate, and I can report that life preservers are appropriately named. It turns out that there were several foreign exchange students who had recently arrived from Japan, and (if you can believe it) this was one of their adventures in orientation to the United States of America. Problem is, very few of them spoke English—any English—and phrases such as “all forward hard” meant nothing to them.

 

Only when one of the guides had the good sense to learn from an interpreter in another boat a few commands in Japanese did things begin to look up. In the end, no one got hurt; all made it safely to the final stretch of calm waters aptly named “Bubba Home Free,” and it was all great fun with memories that will last a lifetime.

 

The secret to whitewater rafting is, whatever you do, you must paddle hard through the rapids. Momentum is your ally if you are to make it through the narrow chute of water that will safely deposit you on the other side; a drifting boat yields to forces that will swamp the boat. If you stop paddling to hold on or look around—well, let’s just say there is a reason that the rapids on the Ocoee bear names like Double Suck, Diamond Splitter, and Slingshot.

 

It is no coincidence that our tradition is rife with metaphors of water. We are people born in the waters of baptism. Indeed, the part of the church in which you sit currently is known as the nave—literally, the boat. Our lives—and our mission as the church—make sense only when viewed through the prism of baptismal waters—our own and Jesus’.

 

Today is the feast of the Baptism of our Lord, and it marks the launching point for all that follows. You may be surprised to learn that this feast is the second oldest in the history of church. Only Easter is more ancient. The observation of Christmas came later—but Epiphany and the Baptism of Jesus marked the beginning. Why? Because Jesus’ ministry begins here, in the waters of baptism. It is the bookend which, when taken together with Easter on the other side, provides the framework for all that follows—in Jesus’ life and in the life of the church.

 

This is the point at which the heavens miraculously open—to communicate the voice of a well-pleased God, to convey the gift of the Spirit upon Jesus, and to forge a portal—a nexus established between heaven and earth through which all are invited to pass, and no force that has ever existed will ever prevail in its attempts to close it.

 

As Jesus comes out of the water, he breathes in the air permeated by the Spirit, and then sets off on a ministry that will change the world forever. And we are called to carry on that work, even here, even now.

 

While we have no baptisms at this service, our tradition suggests that we navigate our service into the baptismal rite on this feast day, because, as I said earlier, our mission as the church makes sense only when viewed through the prism of baptismal waters—our own and Jesus’. In a few moments we will renew our baptismal covenant as a way to channel the light of Christ in and through our own lives.

 

There are several questions to be asked of us, individually and collectively.

 

Tough questions, really.

 

Will you continue the apostles’ teaching?

Will you persevere in resisting evil?

Will you proclaim the good news by word and example?

Will you love others as yourself?

Will you respect the dignity of every human being?

 

I am reminded of Laura Winner’s book, Girl Meets God, in which she recounts a visit to her priest’s office in preparation for her own baptism as an adult. She lived in England at the time, and as the priest reviewed these questions—vows really, that she would take—and she saw that the answer to each was a succinct committal “I will,” she rose from her chair and said she could not possibly make such a commitment.

 

The priest went to the bookshelf and pulled down a copy of the American Book of Common Prayer—and asked if it would help if they used this form of answer instead. Laura glanced at the page and noted the variant—“I will, with God’s help.”

 

Whatever else might be said about the 1979 Prayer Book, we got this one right. It takes little air in the lungs to say “I will,” but it takes a breath to say, “I will, with God’s help”—a breath of air that, by God’s grace, is permeated with the Spirit.

 

We are  prone, I think, to wanting to reduce the Christian life and its covenant to a list of rules—if we just adhere to the rules, all will be will—if we live by the rules, we’ll reap the rewards. If Jesus taught anything it was that our relationship with God is not about rules—it’s about relationship.

 

The covenant is not designed to be a list of rules to live by—as if we could ever possibly achieve that anyway; rather, by living in covenant with God we find that there is a guide in the boat with us, encouraging us so that the noisy, turbulent waters of the world will never drown out the voice from heaven offering blessings to us all—“You are my children, my beloved.” With such encouragement, we can continue on the journey.

 

But a word of caution: The Church is an incredibly conservative institution. By this I mean not conservative in a political sense, but conservative in the sense that it resists change very well. We want things to remain the same—don’t throw us any surprises. The problem is that a flowing river is, by definition, always changing. Perhaps it would be safer to simply stand on riverbanks and watch from some steady perch, but then again, I suppose it would have been safer for Jesus to avoid Jerusalem altogether.

 

No, our mission involves being in the boat, on the water, paddling hard through the rough spots—all the while trusting that God is up to something in all of this—this, this life of yours and mine, this community of faith, this church that bears the name of Christ. And remember, as followers of Christ, as people who say “I will, with God’s help,” we have the Spirit as guide and constant companion on the way, and there is a voice from heaven offering blessings to us all—“You are my children, my beloved.”

 

So let us stand now, and renew our Baptismal Covenant, which begins on page 304.