O ne of the most amazing things about being a pastor is that you are often involved with people in the most intimate moments of their lives– when people get married, in moments of personal crisis, when a child is born, at the time of death. People don’t invite me to be with them because of my sparkling personality, but because of my role in the life of the church. It is one of the most incredible privileges of being a pastor, and one that I take very, very seriously, as do most of the pastors I know.

       When I was first ordained, I was especially nervous about officiating at funerals, afraid I would do something wrong and only add to the grief of the loved one’s family. They left me exhausted. Indeed, I often hear from colleagues how draining they find memorial and funeral services to be. But over the years I have found that leading memorial services has become one of the most energizing things that I do.

       You see, at least a part of the Reformed tradition of which we are a part in the Presbyterian Church, with our history of worry over sin and idolatry and human depravity, is that we are prone to take a somewhat dark view of the world. We are quick to notice what is wrong with the world as it is, and once you start to notice, it is often easy to dwell there.

       Yet, with only a few exceptions, at memorial services I am reminded how many truly wonderful people there are in this world, and how many I have had the privilege to serve as pastor. It’s kind of the opposite of that old Linus quote from the Peanuts comic strip: “I love mankind; it’s people I can’t stand.” I am often troubled by how sinful humanity can be, but utterly delighted by how wonderful the people are that I know.

       Think about the services we have attended here together over the past few years: Chuck and Elinor Dynes, Carol Seppala, Leone Newkirk– and so many more I could name. These were people I knew and loved. But I am often just as blown away when I am asked to preside at the service of a stranger, as often happens two or three times a year. So this past Wednesday, Kelly Jenkins and his family asked me to lead the memorial service for their mother, Jo. I had met Jo a few times when Kelly and Patrick brought her with them to worship, but I certainly did not know her well. Yet by the end of the service, I felt like I had known her all my life– and my own life was enriched by the experience of hearing the witness of her life.

       Her full name was Lalajo Clifford. Now that’s a great Texas name! Jo was just one of those people who gave of herself in every way, and demonstrated a deep caring toward all those whom she came across. When you were in Jo’s presence, you knew you were loved, and her exuberance for life was contagious. Not that she didn’t also have her share of heartache– she just understood as a core principle of life that we discover who we are by giving ourselves away. If she had one fault, it might have been a certain tendency toward corniness. Kelly shared at the service that her telephone answering machine message ended in this way: “...and remember, to really have a nice day, offer just a little kindness in a very special way.”

I t might seem a little odd to focus on memorial services on a day that features the baptism of a child, but there is a connection, don’t you think? For at least a part of what is happening when parents present their child for baptism is a lifting up of their own hopes and dreams for their child’s life. What kind of life will Skanda lead? What will be his character? What values will shape his life? As every parent knows, ultimately the answer to these questions lies outside our control– but not entirely. For perhaps one of the most important decisions that a parent can make is, what sort of company will our child keep? So one of the promises that parents make in baptism is to “bring their child into the life of the Christian community to worship, to hear the stories of our faith, and to be called to respond to the Gospel, in relationship with other believers, as they grows into their own faith in God.” And the most profound though subtle moment of the baptism is not, in my mind, the splashing of water, but the moment when I hand the baby off to a member of the congregation, symbolizing that, at least in part, this child also belongs to the community of faith.

       What we promise, in turn, is to tells the stories of our faith. At the core of those stories is the conviction that we do not live for ourselves alone. So the people of Israel were chosen by God, not for special privilege, but to be a light to the nations. So Isaiah imagines a servant of the Lord who will bring forth justice to the nations, open the eyes of the blind, and bring out the prisoners from their dungeons. Jesus took Isaiah’s mantle upon himself, and then said to his own disciples, “You are the light of the world.” He did not mean by that that they were special people, but that they had a special calling. The church of Jesus Christ does not exist for its own sake, but only to be sent out into the world in Jesus’ name. “So let your light shine before others,” Jesus said, “so that they may see your good works and give glory to God in heaven.” (To imagine that we are called by God to be “a light to the nations” seems especially appropriate today, with Jonah and Nina, the parents of the child to be baptized, so deeply devoted in their own lives to international relations.)

O f course, it is not necessary to be a Christian to share such convictions. People of other faiths, and people of good will of no faith at all, often can and do lead such lives as well. In the religion page in yesterday’s Washington Post, Eboo Patel, who leads an organization called “Interfaith Youth Core,” writes that the divide in religion is not between different faiths, but within each faith, between what he calls “tribal religion” and “transcendent religion.” He tells this story:

       There is a story about a Christian minister living abroad during World War II. His congregation sends him money so that he can return home for Christmas. When he doesn’t come back, they ask him why. He says that he used the money to help a group of Jews escape Hitler’s death camps and flee to safety.

       “But they’re not even Christian,” writes one member of his congregation. “Yes, I know,” the minister responds. “But I am.”

He then explains:

       All religions have both types of people – the tribal and the transcendent. The tribal type see in the particular narratives of their tradition a narrowing of concern, and therefore care only about the people who look like them, talk like them and pray like them. The transcendent see in the same particularity a universalizing of care, and therefore focus their energies on all people, especially groups most in need, regardless of creed.

       I would submit that such universalizing convictions are not at the center of our common culture, not now, and not in Jesus’ day either. Such values must be cultivated, which is at the heart of what we must do together in Christian community. Baptism, therefore, is not the end of the Christian journey, but only the beginning. What we do here today will fade in meaning if there is not conscious action to fulfill the promises that are made this day, both by the parents and by the congregation.

       So it is also appropriate and a delight that we began our worship service today by having Martinique share her Epiphany story of how she strives to share her light with the world. Martinique grew up here, she was baptized here, and just this past year, she was confirmed here, so we can share, along with her parents and grandparents, the pride of watching what a delightful and beautiful young woman she has become. Jonah and Nina, I’m not offering any guarantees, but Martinique should be “exhibit A” in any demonstration of what it means to be raised in the community of faith.

J esus’ own baptism, of course, began with the proclamation, “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.” Jesus received this wonderful message of affirmation before he actually did anything: before he was tested in the wilderness, before he had cured the sick, before he cast out any demons, before he preached the Sermon on the Mount. This too is a core conviction of the Christmas faith: “Being” comes before “doing.” Vision precedes action. Before we can become disciples, we need to know ourselves as beloved children of God. We are called to share our light with the world because we have faith that each one of us has been given light to share.

       I know we have a hymn after the sermon, which we will also sing together, but I thought we would conclude by singing what could be our theme song for Epiphany: This Little Light of Mine. There is a lessor known tune from the tradition of the Negro Spirituals that I actually prefer. It has a certain wistfulness to it, something sung by those who know hardship, who know what it means to share their light, even in the midst of darkness. “This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine...”                     ✞