A sermon for St. Paul Lutheran Church, Monona; January 15, 2023
Thank you again for having me this
morning and giving me the opportunity to share a little about Ewalu and also in
line with the Gospel text this morning to share a little about baptism. It is a
refreshing scripture for me preach on, because so often I am invited by pastors
to preach when the text is Jesus cursing a fig tree, or separating sheep and
goats, or the binding of Isaac—you know, everybody’s favorite Bible stories. It
is an AMAZING coincidence how often pastors take off those Sundays and call me
to cover for them.
So, it is with joy that I will preach today on baptism, a subject that has been on my mind quite a bit ever since my own son was baptized in November in the Maquoketa River at Camp Ewalu. My son, Wilder, who is here this morning does not know what happened that morning, or if he does, he is doing a great job hiding it behind all the dirty diapers and spit up. He does not remember that day when we loaded up the cars and drove the gravel road through camp to the pole bridge—Kate and myself and the kids along with my parents and his new godparents. He does not remember when we parked by the river, crossed the bridge, clambered down the bristly bank, and stood on a rocky inlet near the bubbling water while big, fluffy snowflakes fell, and he does not remember how we dipped our hands in the river and took turns doing the three parts—his parents in the name of the father; his siblings in the name of the son; and godparents in the name of the Holy Spirit. He remembered that cold, spring-fed, November river water for a moment, but only just a moment. He does not remember any of that and will not when he is older. But I do. We do. And, more importantly, God does.
