One of the most prominent characters in the Gospel of Luke is the Spirit of God. The Holy Spirit overshadows Mary so that she becomes pregnant and inspires her to sing about how God will turn the world upside down. The Spirit enters Jesus in his baptism, then drives him out into the wilderness for a time of soul-searching and remains upon him with power as he preaches for the first time in the synagogue, declaring that his ministry will embody God’s ancient promises of liberation.

Both our readings today emphasize the role of the Spirit in baptism, the ritual that marks our belonging to the community of Jesus’ followers. In Luke, John baptizes with water while Jesus baptizes with the Holy Spirit. Similarly, in Acts, even though folks have been baptized, they don’t receive the Spirit until the apostles pray for them. I’m curious about our relationship to the Spirit. Are we suspicious of it? Do we have an image of what it looks like to receive it? Hands in the air; shouts of “Amen”; speaking in tongues; impassioned prayers; soulful rhythms; a worship style that embraces movement and noise; a spontaneous rather than scripted feeling. These cultural differences are interesting and important. We can learn from them. We can consider whether there are parts of ourselves we have we repressed or silenced, and wonder why. And yet, I believe that the Baptism of the Spirit is a vital part of our community’s life too, even if we don’t always name it that way.

Last week I had the privilege of traveling to Puerto Rico with my spouse Jen. In addition to some time to enjoy the warmth, be with friends and colleagues, and explore the rain forest, we visited churches and attended learning sessions with theologians. Pastor Evie Landrau, speaking about the prevalence of poverty and malnutrition on the island, and the deep injustices of colonization, said something that helped me hear today’s texts in a new way. “God is inviting us to go into our hearts and have them broken so the Spirit can be indwelling.” I wonder if this is a description of the baptism of the Spirit. Having our hearts broken can be painful, and yet the sort of pain the Spirit provokes leads to growth and even joy. A broken heart is a heart that is open, that has space for God to work that can forge new connections and welcome new possibilities.

During this season of Epiphany our theme is “practicing hospitality.” Historian of Christianity Diana Butler Bass points out that amid the diversity and fierce debates of the early church, everyone agreed about one thing: hospitality is an essential Christian virtue, a core practice of our faith. She notes that from the beginning, communities of Christ followers were known for feeding the poor, sheltering widows and orphans, engaging in mutual aid, and offering health care and hospice. In A People’s History of Christianity she writes:

Outsiders are brought inside the circle of protection and care as usual social relationships are disrupted or reversed. Jesus overturns our conventional idea of hospitality as a reciprocal exchange, and depicts it as an act of extravagant grace.

Hospitality is also particular hallmark of the Benedictine tradition. The central teaching of St. Benedict to his community of monks was that guests are to be received as Christ. In other words, it is through making room for the needs and gifts of others that we can encounter Christ at all. Acts of hospitality also fulfill a vital service for the giver as well as the one receiving—meeting a need to be transformed, to have our hearts broken open through relationship with the world beyond us. Benedictine sister and activist John Chittister says it this way: “To become whole ourselves, we must learn to let the other in.” 

One early morning recently I woke up to a startling notification on my phone. In the middle of the night, a person’s presence at our front door had triggered the camera on our ring doorbell to turn on and record video. A tall man, hooded, and lugging a bulky bag, had entered the front porch, which we were not in the habit of locking. About twenty minutes later the camera showed him leaving again. The inventory of missing items is a bit bizarre. About a bazillion bags for picking up dog poop. A bin of bike tires and other bike supplies. A bunch of new filters for our pet water fountain.

Processing this event, I felt myself being broken open by the Spirit in that uncomfortably persistent yet beautiful way the Spirit has. On the one hand, I was creeped out and mad. The man’s presence on our porch while we were sleeping just inside felt really invasive. And it’s annoying to have to replace all the random things he took. On the other hand, the Spirit got busy insisting that I see the situation from his point of view. Each night I am safe and warm in my own bed. He was out wandering the streets in the dark and cold. I have a house and food and all the things I need to live comfortably. He doesn’t have that sense of security. He seems to be trying to survive by stealing odds and ends people don’t bother to lock up. What happened in his life, the Spirit queried within me, that brought him to this desperate point? The Spirit gave me a sense of sadness about whatever trauma was going on in his body and mind. And the Spirit made me wonder if he has a family, loved ones, and if they know where he is. In provoking my empathy, the Spirit was doing the Spirit’s unsettling work of hospitality, of inviting me to receive this stranger as a guest, as Christ.

Another presenter during our time in Puerto Rico was theologian Carmelo Santos. He said that God’s word is not fully expressed unless we hear it in the everyday language of diverse peoples and cultures, especially those who have experienced marginalization. He unpacked several common Puerto Rican sayings, one of which is “en la brega” or “in the struggle.” A brega is a challenge that has no good solution. Since you can’t fix it, you have to hustle to find a way around it. In a place with many bregas, every day requires creative hustle. And part of what the Spirit of God does is bring us into the place of struggle—not an easy place but a real place, a place of transformation. That, I think, is what the language about separating the wheat from the chaff and burning the chaff is about. Not punishment, but a struggle that leads us to clarity and purity of purpose. Even in these polarizing times, Santos dared to imagine that people in different social locations can be hospitable to each other’s struggles.He asked this profound question: can my wound help me recognize your wound? The pain of our broken hearts, rather than making us enemies, can bring us together. And that can happen because of the invisible yet powerful work of the Spirit.

Perhaps you noticed that our reading leaves out a couple of verses in the middle of today’s passage from Luke. In these verses, we learn that Herod has shut John in prison. Herod is the picture of a corrupt ruler profiting from the pain of his people, occupied by Rome. And John’s arrest and his coming death—the consequence of his calling Herod out for “all the evil things he had done,” reminds us that embracing the ways of God’s holy hospitality is a way of resisting tyranny and oppression. Note that the text does not say who baptized Jesus—or anyone else in the crowd, for that matter. It couldn’t have been John, since he was in prison. I think the crowd must have baptized each other. Therefore, the Baptism that Jesus receives and shares with his followers is one of humility and solidarity. This Baptism of the Spirit is a call to strike the empathetic posture of hospitality that makes room for God to work in unexpected ways and through surprising people.

Amid this week’s terrifying wildfires, spurred on by high winds, gusts of angry, blaming rhetoric from certain leaders have deepened the pain of this disaster. We know, however, that other ways of showing leadership and holding power are possible. This week we remember, celebrate, and draw strength from two followers of Jesus who showed us the ways of humble, open-hearted hospitality: former president Jimmy Carter, and our own beloved Clyde Steckel. In this political moment shaped by harsh inhospitality, amid threat of mass deportations and persecution of our trans siblings and so much more, we need not respond in kind. We can choose instead to embody an ancient virtue rooted in Christ’s teachings and empowered in us through the baptism of the Holy Spirit. We can receive the baptism of the Spirit that breaks our hearts open to the world, that softens our anger and loosens our grip. We can use the power of our own wounds to recognize the wounds of others. We can be a people who practice hospitality. As we sing the chant together, “See I am Near,” I invite you to come, if you wish, to the baptismal bowls in the front or back of the sanctuary and share a blessing with another person. Please make the sign of the cross on that person’s forehead or hand and bless them using the words that are provided:

You are God’s beloved child. May the Spirit show you how to live with an open heart. May you practice hospitality.