O Lord and Master of my life!
Take from me the spirit of sloth,
despair, lust of power, and idle talk;
grant rather the spirit of chastity, humility,
patience, and love to thy servant.

Yea, O Lord and King,
grant me to see my own transgressions
and not to judge my brother.

For blessed art Thou unto the ages of ages.

Icon of the Transfiguration

There are times in our lives when we look around and wonder, “Is this all there is?” Sometimes it’s just a passing question, other times it’s for a season. We look at our life, our circumstances, and we want more. There is a restlessness, a searching, and longing for something else. Some call it a mid-life crisis. It can make us do crazy things – this searching and seeking. We get a new job, a new car, a new relationship. Maybe we take up a new hobby, go on a trip, or work extra hours. But not much changes.

It is not about the circumstances of life. It’s about us. The restlessness, the desire for something more, generally means that we have been living life at the shallow end of the pool. Life and relationships have become superficial. We have been skimming across the surface. In some ways life at the surface is easier, more efficient, encouraged and rewarded by much of the world today.  It fails, however, to see and experience that the world is already transfigured and creation is filled with the divine light.

Life on the surface keeps us judging the circumstances. We look at the our circumstances as a picture. If it is pretty, pleasing, and shows us what we want to see then God is good and life is as it should be. When we don’t see what we want then we often look for a new picture. The restless searching, the longing for more, the desire for meaning are not, however, usually answered by changed circumstances. The answer is found in depth, intimacy, and the vulnerability of the interior journey.

We do not need to see new things. We need to see the same old things with new eyes. We do not need to hear a different voice. We need to hear the same old voice with different ears. We do not need to escape the circumstances of our life. We need to be more fully present to those circumstances. When this happens life is no longer lived at the surface. These are the transfigured moments, moments when the picture of our life has becomes a window into a new world and we come face to face with the glory of God.

Most of us, I think, seek God in the circumstances of life. We want God to show up, be present, and do something. This is the God who does. This is the God described in Mark’s gospel up to the point of today’s reading. We might think about this as the first part of the spiritual journey. It is the journey of discovering God in the circumstances. This is what the disciples have been doing.

They have seen Jesus cast our demons, heal Peter’s mother in law, and cure the sick of Capernaum. He’s cleansed the leper and made a withered hand new and strong. Paralytics now walk, the blind see, and thousands are fed. This is the God about whom people talk, the God that gets “likes” and “shares” on Facebook.

At some point we must, however, begin to discover the God who is beyond the circumstances. This is the God who is. This is the second part of the spiritual journey. Jesus is leading Peter, James and John, up the mountain to discover the God who is beyond circumstances. Here their pictures of life’s circumstances will become windows by which they move into the depths of God’s life, God’s light, and God’s love.

There on the mountain they saw Jesus “transfigured before them, and his clothes became dazzling white, such as no one on earth could bleach them.” The cloud overshadowed them and the Father’s voice spoke of his beloved son. Peter wants to build dwelling places. He wants to frame Jesus, Elijah, and Moses. “It is good for us to be here,” he says. He wants to preserve it. He wants to take a picture.

Pictures, however, are static. On the Mount of Transfiguration our pictures of life’s circumstances become windows through which we step into a new world, a new way of seeing, a new way of hearing, and new way of being. That’s what happened for Peter, James, and John. Jesus did not suddenly light up and become something he was not. No, their eyes were healed and opened so they could see Jesus as he had always been. The voice in the cloud was not new. Their ears were opened and they heard the voice that has never ceased speaking from the beginning. The transfiguration is as much about them as it is Jesus. Whenever our picture of life’s circumstances becomes a window into new life we stand in a transfigured moment. Circumstances haven’t changed. We have changed and that seems to change everything.

Those transfigured moments are all around. Every one of us could tell a story about stepping back from the picture of our life, seeing with new eyes, listening with different ears, and discovering a window that opened into another world and another way of being.

Maybe it was the day you revealed to another person the secret you had carried for years. In telling the secret the picture of your life as one of guilt and shame became an open window through which you stepped. The darkness gave way to light, the chains fell off, and forgiveness overcame sin. I will never forget the day we buried our older son. We came home from the cemetery and I was lying on the bed. I could not see him but he was present – a little boy being given a piggyback ride. I could not touch him but I felt the warmth of his life, his weight on my back, and his right knee gouging my ribs as he bounced up and down. The picture of death and loss had become a window through I stepped into the mystery of life, hope, and resurrection. Think about the day you held your child for the very first time. Yes, it was a picture of a newborn but it was also a window through which you stepped and were forever changed. You experienced a new vocation as a parent. You became a part of the mystery of creation. The Lord’s glory surely shone as much in your hands that day as it did on the mount of transfiguration 2000 years ago.

I remember speaking with a woman who was dying. Together we talked, laughed, cried, and sat in silence. She said she had had some “experiences.” She had visions and heard voices. “Is that real? Is it normal?” “Yes, absolutely.” The picture of her life as one of cancer, pain, and suffering had become an open window through which she stepped. She began to understand that in the midst of her cancer she was already being healed. “There is so much more going on than we usually see or know,” she said. The tears and fear are real but just as real is the voice that says to her, “Oh my daughter, my beloved, you are already ok.” Those windows are everywhere if we have eyes to see and ears to hear.

We often want to go back to those transfigured moments. We are tempted to build dwellings places for those moments. Booths, dwelling places, will only keep us in the past. To the extent we cling to the past we close ourselves to the future God offers. So Jesus, Peter, James, and John came back down the mountain. They could not stay there but neither did they leave the mountain. They took it with them. It is what would carry them through the passion and crucifixion to the resurrection.

Transfigured moments change us, sustain us, prepare us, encourage us, and guide us into the future regardless of the circumstances we face. They show us who we are. We are the transfigured people of God. Open your eyes and see a transfigured world. Open your ears and hear the transfiguring voice. Open your heart and become a transfigured life.

Every picture of life is an open window that says, “No, this is not all there is.”

 - Archmandrite Zacharias, Remember Thy First Love, pp. 249-250.

“Christ healing Peter’s mother-in-law”

Everyone loves it when Jesus shows up. His presence makes a difference.Things happen. Mother-in-laws are healed. The sick are cured. Demons are cast out. Lives are changed. This is true not only for the people of Capernaum in Jesus’ time but also for us here and now. He comes to our house as surely as he went to the house of Simon and Andrew. Let me tell you about some houses that have been visited.

I know an alcoholic who says that one day he prayed and Jesus removed from him the compulsion to drink. He has been sober ever since. I remember a man who had a vision of Jesus  reaching out and taking him by the hand. I have heard men and women tell the story of how Jesus called them into the priesthood. Some of you have told me about experiences of calmness and peace that came from Jesus’ presence. Others tell how his strength and grace carried you through days you were sure you could not survive. I know of diagnoses that have changed for no apparent medical reason. Several years ago I spent the night in a hospital with a man waiting and watching for his wife to die. It was a holy death; nothing short of miraculous. I know people who have wept for joy and gratitude in the presence of Christ. There are lots of people who get together in a group each week and tell about their “moment closest to Christ.”

It happens. Those experiences are real. Jesus is present and active in our lives and the world. Those are the kind of things, as St. Mark tells us, for which people line up at Jesus’ door. Faith comes a bit easier in those moments. Jesus is real. His presence is felt. Results are seen. All is well.

What happens, though, when we awaken to find ourselves in the nighttime of life? You know as well as I that there are times when life is just plain hard. We don’t get our way. Things happen that we never wanted to have happen. Faith is difficult and its results are not so tangible. In those times it seems as if there is only darkness and Jesus is nowhere to be seen. Some will assume he has forsaken them. They will abandon their faith. They will give up on the Church and Jesus himself. So what do we do when Jesus sneaks off and we feel all alone? That’s the nighttime question.

According to today’s gospel that time will come. Jesus will get up in the early morning hours, while its still very dark, and go to a deserted place. This is not, however, about Jesus escaping or getting away. It’s about prayer; his and ours. It’s no longer about what is happening around us or to us but what is happening within us.

Regardless of how dark it may seem Jesus never leaves us. He may withdraw but that does not mean he is absent. His withdrawing is in reality an invitation for us to move to a new place, to the deserted place. He calls us out of the comfort of the house into the vulnerability of the wilderness. It is a deserted and desolate place; a place where there is only prayer. There, we are alone with the Alone.

We all have deserted places in our lives.  For some it is accepting the limitations that age and disease bring. Others deal with broken relationships. Loneliness and grief are desert places for some. The struggle to make ends meet in a drought stricken failing economy is a wilderness many are trying to escape. You could each name your own wildernesses and deserts.

Most of us don’t like the deserted places. We tend to avoid them. They are empty places that can be scary and dangerous. There is nowhere to hide. We have to face up to who we are and who we are not. We are confronted by things done and left undone. Our sorrows and losses are laid bare in the deserted place. We begin to recognize that our successes, possessions, and accomplishments don’t ultimately count for much. In the wilderness we have to admit we are not in control. Time in the deserted place is a matter of life and death. It is also, however, the place where our deepest healing can happen.

There is a price, though, for going to the wilderness. We must trade the security of the house for the risk of the desert. The wilderness prayer of self-surrender must begin to replace the house prayer that only asks for things to happen or change. Wilderness prayer doesn’t ask so much that circumstances will be changed but that we will be changed. The wilderness makes that change possible.

Jesus goes to the deserted places of our lives to draw us there. If he didn’t go first, if he didn’t invite us to that place, my hunch is that none of us would ever go there. Yet, the wilderness and desert places of our lives are sacred places. In the desert there is only God, there is nothing but God. Jesus is drawing us deeper and deeper into the heart of God. Ironically, that happens in the very place we thought was barren, empty, and desolate.

The deserted places of our lives are the places of Jesus’ prayer. They are the starting point for his message of good news. Good news comes from the empty and desolate places. Jesus will leave this deserted place to go proclaim his message in the neighboring towns. Before today’s gospel Jesus emerged from the wilderness saying, “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near, repent, and believe the good news” (Mk. 1:15). Before him was “the voice of one crying in the wilderness: ‘Prepare the way of the Lord’” (Mk.1:3). Before that the voice of God spoke creation into existence when “the earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep” (Gen. 1:2). New life arises from the deserted and empty places. The good news of Christ comes from the wilderness.

“Everyone is searching for you,” they told Jesus. Yet Simon and his companions were the only ones to find him. Maybe they were the only ones willing to go to the deserted place. I wonder where the others were searching. The safety of town? The familiarity of neighboring houses? Standing in line at the door? I wonder where we will search when the nighttime of our life comes. Go to the deserted places of your life, places that you think are barren, empty, desolate, and there you will find Jesus, praying.

With the Feast of the Presentation the Marian hymn following compline is the Ave Regina Caelorum. The anthem asks Mary’s prayers for our coming new birth. In that regard the Theotokos, the Mother of God, is also our mother.

Hail, Queen of heaven; Hail, Mistress of the Angels; Hail, root of Jesus; Hail, the gate through which the Light rose over the earth. Rejoice, Virgin most renowned, whose grace and beauty are unsurpassed: pray for us to Christ.

V: Allow me to praise you, O sacred Virgin.
R: Against your enemies give me strength.

Let us pray.

Grant us, O Lord, mercifully to assist our infirmity: that as we do now commemorate Blessed Mary Ever-Virgin, Mother of God; so by the help of her intercession, we may die to our former sins and rise again to newness of life.

Other Marian hymns:
+ Salve Regina
+ Alma Redemptoris Mater
+ Regina Caeli

Who is this man with an unclean spirit that shows up in the synagogue today? He’s loud. He interrupts. He draws our attention the way an unbathed, talking to himself, homeless man would catch our attention if he showed up at St. Philip’s. The man with an unclean spirit is for many of us, I suspect, the shocking and intriguing part of today’s gospel.

Ironically, he does not have that effect on the people in the synagogue. Their attention is on Jesus. They are astounded by his presence and teaching. It’s like nothing they have ever heard before. He has authority. His words mean something. They make a difference. Even the man with an unclean spirit is shocked and intrigued by Jesus. “What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth? Have you come to destroy us?”

Jesus is teaching in the synagogue. His authority fills not just the place but each person there. And almost immediately this man with an unclean spirit shows up. The presence of Jesus, the man with a clean spirit, draws out the presence of the man with an unclean spirit. Jesus has that effect on people. His authority and teaching reveal the truth about his listeners’ lives.

This one with the unclean spirit is an image of what the lives of those in the synagogue look like. His uncleanness is not about personal hygiene, immorality, being bad, or Judaism. Instead his presence “in their synagogue” describes the disease of their soul, their fragmented lives, and the many voices within them. In looking at him they see themselves and they are astounded by the contrast of the one who has a clean spirit.

“What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth?” He senses the distance between his life and Jesus’. His words betray his isolation. It’s not, however, just about him. He speaks not only for himself but for all those in the synagogue that day. He represents every one who has ever experienced the brokenness of life. He is the spokesperson for all who feel disconnected from themselves, others, or God. He represents the human condition. Behind his question is, I believe, the unspoken longing and hope that Jesus would say, “Everything. I have everything to do with you.” Those are the words that can begin to put his life back together.

We’re not so different. Each one of us also longs for that answer because we too know the separation and brokenness of our own lives. We’ve lived in isolation. We have been trapped in grief. We have carried the burden of guilt. The truth of those situations often reveals itself in the many personas we wear.

At some level we all project various personas or images of how we want others to see us and how we want to see ourselves. Sometimes it’s as simple, and seemingly silly, as saying, “I can’t go to the grocery store looking like this. I have no make-up on and my hair is a mess.”  Or we smile and say, “Yes, everything is just fine,” and quickly change the subject when the truth is we are hanging on by a thread and not sure how we’ll get through the rest of the day. We don’t want our life to be seen in its unmade-up condition.

We use our personas as masks to hide the truth of what our life is like and who we are. The tragedy is that they also hide who we might become. It seems that those masks most often arise from the many voices that live within us. They are the voices of condemnation and guilt, grief, fear, anger, and judgment. They are voices that keep us in constant comparison and competition with others. They are voices demanding perfectionism, asking, “What have you done for me today?” The voices are never satisfied. We are never able to do or be enough. Every one of those is a false voice, the voice of the unclean spirit that separates us from our authentic self, from all that we love, and all who love us.

Someone recently asked me, “Why do I care so much about what other people say and think about me?” I thought about today’s gospel. I thought about false voices, an unclean spirit, separation, and a longing for acceptance and approval. All of those are contained in her question. She could just as well have said, “What have you to do with me, Jesus of Nazareth?” She could be the man in today’s gospel. But then so could you. So could I.

We’re such funny people. Deep down we long for intimacy and authenticity but the last thing we want is to be found out, to have someone see us for who we truly are and who we are not. So we put on a good front hoping that will gain us approval, acceptance, love.

We say the right things, act the right way, dress and behave the right way, even believe the right way, and all the while we are creating ourselves in the image and likeness of the unclean spirit. The irony is that those fronts we put up, those personas, keep us from having the very things we think they will gain us; things like intimacy, love, acceptance, healing, forgiveness, and authenticity. The personas offer no possibility for life to flourish and be abundant. Still we hold on to those false voices, voices that collectively ask, “Have you come to destroy us?”

That is exactly what Jesus has come for. He has come to destroy. His silences our false voices.  He casts out all our personas and makes us people with a clean spirit. He has everything to do with us. He stands before us as the mirror image of who we can become. There is no aspect of our life about which he is not concerned. He calls us into our true self, the one made in the image and likeness of God. He calls us back into the beauty and wholeness of our original creation. Today’s gospel is as much about calling forth as it is about casting out. They are two sides of the same coin.

The true voice and the true image are always present. That’s why the man with an unclean spirit can cry out, “I know who you are, the Holy One of God.” He speaks from a deep place of knowing. His recognition of Jesus is at a profound level a recognition of himself and his own holiness. For every voice that denies that and leaves us crying, “What have you do to with us?” Jesus says, “Shhh. Be quiet. That’s not who you are. You are mine and I have everything to do with you.” Listen to that voice and you too will astounded at what can become of your life.

Simon and Andrew were casting a net into the sea for they were fishermen. Day after day it was the same thing; the same sea, the same net, the same boat. Day after day it was wind, water, fish, sore muscles, tired bodies. They probably grew up watching their dad and granddad fishing, watching their future life, watching how they too would spend their time.

Cast the net, pull it in. Cast the net, pull it in. If you are not casting the net, then you sit in the boat mending the net. That’s what James and John were doing. Casting and mending. Casting and mending. You know about those days, right?

We may not fish for a living but we know about casting and mending nets. Days that all seem the same. One looks like another. Life is routine, lived on autopilot. Nothing changes. We don’t expect much to happen. This is our life. We cast the nets. We mend the nets. Casting and mending to make a living, to feed our family, to pay the bills. Casting and mending to gain security and get to retirement. Casting and mending to hold our family together, to make our marriage work, to grow up our children. Casting and mending to gain the things we want; a house, a car, books, clothes, a vacation. Casting and mending to earn a reputation, gain approval, establish status. Casting and mending our way through another day of loneliness, sadness, or illness.

Casting and mending are realities of life. They are also the circumstances in which Jesus comes to us, the context in which we hear the call to new life, and the place where we are changed and the ordinary becomes the extraordinary.

These would be disciples, Simon and Andrew, James and John, are not looking for Jesus. They are too busy with the nets. It is another day of casting and mending. They may not have even noticed Jesus but he not only sees them he speaks to them. Jesus has a way of showing up in the ordinary places of life and interrupting the daily routines of casting and mending nets. That’s what he did to the lives of Simon and Andrew, James and John. That’s what he does to your life and my life.

“Follow me” is Jesus’ invitation to a new life. If these four fishermen accept the invitation, their lives will forever be different. They will be different. They will no longer catch just fish. They will fish for people.

When Jesus says, “I will make you fish for people,” he is describing the transformation of their lives, not simply a job catching new members or followers. He could just as easily have said to the carpenters, “Follow me, and you will build the kingdom of heaven.” To the farmers, “Follow me, and you will grow God’s people. To the doctors, “Follow me, and you will heal the brokenness of the world.” To the teachers, “Follow me, and you will open minds and hearts to the presence of God.” To the parents, “Follow me, and you will nurture new life.”

Whatever your life is, however you spend your time, there is in that life Jesus’ call to “Follow me.” “Follow me” is the call to participate with God in God’s own saving work. It’s the work of change and growth. That work is always about moving to a larger vision, orienting our life in a new direction, and experiencing that our little story of life is connected to and a part of a much larger story of life, God’s life.

As Jesus walked by the Sea of Galilee he saw Simon, Andrew, James, and John. Jesus called them. Mark records no discussions, no questions, no good byes. They simply “left… and followed him.”

I’m afraid that if Mark were writing about me – when he gets to the part when Jesus says, “Follow me” – Mark would write, “and immediately the questions followed.” “Where are we going? What will we do? How long will we be gone? What do I need to take? Where will we stay?”

But this conversation doesn’t take place in today’s gospel. Jesus does not offer a map, an itinerary, or a destination, only an invitation. This is not the type of journey you can prepare for. This is the inner journey, a journey into the deepest part of our being, the place where God resides. It’s not about planning and organizing, making lists, or packing supplies. It’s not that easy. If anything this journey is about leaving things behind. Listen to what Mark says:

• “Immediately they left their nets and followed him.”
• “They left their father Zebedee in the boat…, and followed him.”

The invitation, “follow me,” is also the invitation to leave behind; to leave behind our nets, our boats, and even our fathers.

That’s the hard part for most of us. We’re pretty good at accumulating and clinging but not so good at letting go. More often than not our spiritual growth involves some kind of letting go. We never get anywhere new as long as we’re unwilling to leave where we are. We accept Jesus’ invitation to follow, not by packing up, but by letting go.

“Follow me” is both the invitation to and the promise of new life. So what are the nets that entangle us? What are the little boats that contain our life? Who are the fathers from whom we seek identity, value, or approval? What do we need to let go of and leave behind so that we might follow him?

Please don’t think this is simply about changing careers, disowning our family, or moving to a new town. It is about the freedom to be fully human and in so being discover God’s divinity within us. We let go so that our life may be reoriented, so that we can now travel in new direction, so that we may be open to receive the life of God anew. When we let go, everything is transformed – including our nets, boats, and fathers. That’s why Jesus could tell them they would still be fishermen. But now they would fish for people. They wouldn’t become something they weren’t already, but they would be changed. They would become transformed fishermen. They would more authentically be who they already were.

Ultimately, it’s about letting go of our own little life so that we can receive God’s life. This letting go happens in the context of our everyday activities; work, school, families, paying the bills, running errands, fixing dinner, relationships, and trying to do the right thing. It happens in the casting and mending of our nets. These are the times and places Jesus shows up and calls into a new way of being and our world changes. It happened for Simon, Andrew, James, and John. It can happen for you and me.

Jesus Calling Simon and Andrew

Jesus Calling Philip and Nathanael

“Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” Nathanael has some opinions, some assumptions, about Nazareth. You ever make any assumptions?

“I’ve seen his type before; he’ll never change.” “She’s always so negative; I know what she will say.” “He won’t understand; he never does.” “It’s always been like that; it will never get any better.” “Nothing good can come of that situation.”

People of faith, people like Nathanael, people like you and me, make these and all sorts of other assumptions everyday. Sometimes our assumptions are about other people; how they will behave, what they will say, what we can expect, what they think or believe. Other times we look at particular situations, our marriage, the state of the middle east or the church, a teenager trying to grow up and we declare it hopeless. We are sure nothing good can come out of that situation. Then there are those times we look at our selves or a part of our life; maybe it is a secret we have carried for years, the illness we face each day, the addiction we hide, the hurts we have caused other, the loneliness and lostness of grief, and we say it will never get any better. How can anything good come out of this? We may or may not speak our assumptions out loud but they rattle through our heads and influence what we do.

You know what happens we when we assume, right? The old saying has some truth to it but I am thinking of something else. The assumptions we make destroy relationships, love, and life. We think we know more than really do. Assumptions act as limitations. They narrow our vision. They close off the possibility of change and growth. Our assumptions deny the possibility of reconciliation, healing, a different way of being, or a new life. Ultimately, they impoverish our faith and proclaim there is no room for God to show up and act.

It is no coincidence that Nathanael is sitting under the fig tree when he makes his comment. It is the fig tree that gave Adam and Eve the leaves behind which they hid from God and themselves. It is the fig tree that Jesus will later curse for producing no fruit, no signs of life. Assumptions become our hiding places. They are not fruitful. They keep us from engaging life, ourselves, each other, and God at a deeper level.

Nathanael doesn’t doubt that God will fulfill the Old Testament promises. He isn’t surprised by and doesn’t even question that Philip could have found the one about “whom Moses in the law and the prophets spoke.” His shock and disbelief are that this could come out of Nazareth. Nathanael has as much faith as the next guy, but Nazareth? No way. Not there. Can anything good come out of Nazareth?

We all have our Nazareths. We think they are about other people, particular circumstances, or even pieces of our lives. Mostly, though, our assumptions are about us; our fears, our prejudices, our guilt, our losses, our wounds. We take our past experiences, real or imagined, and project them onto another person or situation. Assumptions keep life shallow and superficial. If we assume, then we do not have to risk a deeper knowing and being known.

At the deepest level our Nazareths are about our understanding of God. We just can’t see how anything good can come out of Nazareth. We cannot believe that God could be present, active, and revealed in Nazareth whether it be another person, a relationship or situation, or our own life. It’s so hard to see life in the midst of death, hope in places of despair, and the good and beautiful in what looks like the bad and ugly. It’s sometimes easier to assume. For us Nazareth is a blind spot. For God, however, Nazareth is the place of God’s manifestation and self-revelation.

It just seems so unGod-like to show up in Nazareth. Whether it is the town, a person, or a situation, Nazareth is too common and ordinary, even mundane. Shouldn’t the person or place of God’s coming be more deserving, special, acceptable, holy, better behaved, likable, more regular at church, someone who prays more, better dressed? The Nathanael in us has a particular set of conditions or prerequisites that must be met before God will appear and act. That says more about us than it does about God.

God does not allow himself to be limited by our assumptions. For every Nazareth there is an invitation to “come and see.” For every assumption we make there is a deeper truth to be discovered, a new relationship to be experienced, and a new life to be lived. Our Nazareths become the place of God’s epiphany.

Over and over Jesus shows up from the Nazareths of our life and calls us out from under the fig tree. Whenever we leave the fig tree we open ourselves to see God present and at work in the most unexpected places and people. As the assumptions fall a new life and a new world arise.  The fulfillment of God’s promises and earthly life happen in Nazareth. The last place we would have thought that possible is the first place God chooses. Come and see. Our salvation and healing happen where we thought nothing good could happen. Reconciliation and love are revealed in relationships we were certain nothing good could come from. The seemingly hopeless situations of life begin to bear fruit. Words of forgiveness and compassion are spoken by people we were sure could never say such things. God puts lives back together in Nazareth.

There is more happening in Nazareth than we ever thought possible. You see, not just “anything good” comes out of Nazareth. The One who is Good comes out of Nazareth.

Seeing you, O Christ our God, drawing near to him in the river Jordan, John said Why are You who are without defilement come to your servant, O Lord? In whose name shall I baptize you? Of the Father? But you bear him in yourself. Of the Son? But you are yourself the Son made flesh. Of the Holy Spirit? But you know that from your own lips you give him to the faithful. O God who has appeared, have mercy on us.

- by Anatolius. From the Great Service for the Sanctification of the Water.

Icon of the Theophany: The Baptism of Jesus

Icon of the Theophany - the Baptism of Jesus

Have you ever had one of those days when wanted a do-over? A day when you wanted to take a mulligan and start again? I remember a guy telling me, one time, “You know, I’ve had a bad decade. There are so many things I wish I could go back and do differently.”

Whether it is a day or a decade there are times when we wish we could back up and do things differently. Choose different words to speak. Act in a differently way. Handle a relationship better. Sometimes we just want to do life differently. I think the wishing goes deeper than just doing differently. More than anything we want to be different. Our doing arises out of and reveals our being, who we are, how we see ourselves, one another, and the world. Being and doing are intimately connected.

Wishing we could do things differently, and the deeper wish to be a different creation, is really the wish for the first day. Think about some of your first days. The first day as a married person. The first day as a parent. The first day of that job or vocation you had been waiting for and working toward. The first day you took seriously, as a matter of life and death, your faith. First days are filled with light. They hold the promise of all that might be. There is an excitement, newness, and innocence to first days. First days are vibrant, alive, full of dreams and possibilities. I imagine that is how God looked at the first day, in the beginning. No harsh words had been spoken. No feelings had been hurt. No relationships had been broken. There was no guilt or regret. There was only light; the light of life, the light of love, the light of promise and hope; the light of God. And it was good. The first day is always a day of creation.

Sometimes in my work with people someone will say, “Oh, I wish I could go back and ….” Often a married couple will say, “We want to go back to the day when our marriage was….” They are all looking for the first day. We cannot go back to the way it was. First day wishing, however, is not really about turning back time. It is about becoming a new creation, a new being. Ultimately, it is about returning to the waters of Jesus’ baptisms.

Every time we return to the baptismal waters we return to the first day. Creation and baptism cannot be separated. They are intimately connected and mirror each other. Listen to what Genesis says and how St. Mark describes Jesus’ baptism.

• In the beginning a wind (or breath, or spirit) of God swept over the face of the waters.
• At Jesus’ baptism the spirit (or breath or wind) of God descended on Jesus as he is coming up out of the water.

• In the beginning God said, “Let there be light.”
• At Jesus’ baptism God said, “You are my Son, the Beloved.”

• In the beginning “God saw that the light was good.”
• At Jesus’ baptism God was “well pleased.”

Creation and Jesus baptism are God’s gifts to humanity. Everything God does God does for humanity. Jesus did not need to be baptized. We needed him to be baptized. The baptismal water did not sanctify Jesus; he sanctified the baptismal water. His baptism is not the means by which we identify with him, but the means by which he identifies with us. Our baptism allows us to participate in his baptism.

Through Jesus our humanity was present and baptized in his baptism. Our humanity was the humanity upon which the spirit descended. Our humanity was the humanity to whom the Father spoke and with whom he was well pleased. Our humanity was recreated in Jesus’ baptism. It is the first day. In baptism we are a new creation, a new being.

Every time we return to the baptismal waters we claim our identity in Jesus as beloved sons and daughters. Every time we return to the baptism waters God again manifests and reveals himself in humanity. Every time we return to the baptismal waters we return to that first day of light, love, life, and the promise of all that might be.

Whatever your life has been or might now be, the baptismal waters await you. So return to the water. Let the waters of God’s life wash and rid you of fear, resentment, and despair. Cannonball into the mercy of God. Immerse yourself in the water of God’s love. Splash in the waves of God’s forgiveness. Backstroke through the pool of God’s grace. Dive deep into the gift of having been created in the image and likeness of God. Drift in the stillness of God’s peace. These are the waters of new birth.

So come on, the water’s fine!