2 Epiphany

January 18, 2026

 

John 1.29-42

 

+ This past week, we had a couple of visitors to the church.

 

As they looked around at the windows and the stations of the cross and all the others things from our church, they were especially taken with our altar.

 

And more specifically with the illustration of the Lamb on it.

 

They just could not stop talking about how powerful that image was, and how appropriate it was to have it on our altar.

 

When I designed the altar about five years ago, I really struggled to find what the center piece should be.

 

I knew I wanted the Alpha and Omega on the sides.

 

That was a nod to the original altar that stood in the church from 1956-1970.

 

But that center piece was a struggle.

 

I tried different illustrations about—there was a Last Supper, there was a Celtic
cross. There were a few I don’t even remember.

 

But then I came across this.

 

The artist is not known.

 

It actually was a design made for a rubber stamp by a company that advertised on Pinterest.

 

But, when I saw it, I remember just feeling as though I had been struck by lightning.

 

This was it!

 

It was perfect!

 

And it really fit who we are at St. Stephen’s

 

And since the altar was built and installed and consecrated, people have told me how drawn they are to that image.

 

It’s a great image.

 

All of this, of course, hits home to me this week because, of course, our Gospel reading for today deals with Christ as the Lamb of God.

 

And for some reason, this past week, as I was meditating on our Gospel reading for today, the whole image of Jesus as the Lamb of God really came home to me in a new way.

 

In today’s Gospel reading we find John the Baptist calling out not once but twice, identifying Jesus as the Lamb of God.

 

It’s a seemingly very nice image of Jesus.

 

A nice fluffy, sweet-natured lamb.

 

But…is that the right image we have of Jesus?

 

If God chose have the Son to be incarnate in the flesh, would God want that Son to be looked upon as a sweet, fluffy lamb?

 

No, not all.

 

And that’s not what John is getting at when we calls out the way he does.

 

Sweet and gentle is not what John saw when he observed Jesus as the Lamb of God.

 

For John, what he observed when he looked at Jesus and saw the Lamb of God walking past, was truly a  thing that would most vegans cringe:

 

He saw that sacrifice that was seen in the Temple in Jerusalem.

 

There, the lamb was sacrificed—and quite violently sacrificed—as a sin offering for the people.

 

He saw before him not Jesus the man, but the sacrificial Lamb, broken and bleeding.

 

To be fair, in our own images of the Lamb of God here on our altar, we don’t have a fluffy little lamb.

 

The image we have on our altar here is not a sweet lamb.

 

Look at it.

 

That is a defiant lamb!

 

It is a Lamb that stares right at us and confronts us.

 

And, if you look closely, you will see the Lamb pierced.

 

We see blood pouring from the side of the Lamb.

 

We see a sacrificed Lamb.

 

And that look of strength and defiance can also be seen directed at the one who has done the piercing.

 

And in the midst of all of that, there is a banner the Lamb is holding.

 

Do you see it?

 

It has one word.

 

PAX.

 

PEACE.

 

Awwww, sweet Peace!

 

What a wonderful concept!

 

See, why I love this image so much!

 

We also find other references to the Lamb in our Eucharistic celebration.

 

On Sunday morning and Wednesday night Eucharists, we sing the Agnes Dei—the Lamb of God—after I have broken the bread.

 

 I am so happy we do that.

 

This “fraction anthem” as we call it, carries such meaning.

 

In it we sing, essentially:

 

Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, have mercy on us

 

Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, have mercy on us.

 

Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, grant us---what?----

 

---PAX----

 

---- peace----.

 

Then you see me hold up the broken bread and the Deacon hold sup the chalice and you hear me say,

 

“This is the Lamb of God. This is the One who takes away the sins of the world. Happy are we who are called to this supper.”

 

That broken body.

 

That shed blood.

 

That sacrifice.

 

I cannot tell you how many times I have stood at this altar during that anthem and looked down at the broken bread on that paten and looked into that cup and had a moment of spiritual clarity.

 

So many times I have looked at the broken bread and the cup and thought,

 

This is truly the Lamb of God.

 

For me, that moment of spiritual clarity is very much like the moment John announces Jesus as the Lamb.

 

For me, it might as well be the Baptist’s voice in my ear, announcing to me that “This is the One!”

 

And it should be for all of us.

 

But all of this is more than just some mystical experience is this concept of the Lamb being broken.

 

Why do we break the bread at the Eucharist?

 

Why do I, when I hold up that broken bread with the chalice, and say, “This is the Lamb of God. This is the One who takes away the sins of the world…”?

 

We do it to symbolize the broken body of the Lamb.

 

The Lamb was broken.

 

The Lamb was sacrificed.

 

And it is importance to recognize that.

 

Trust me, we understand brokenness right now in our world, in our society, and, no doubt, many of us know it in our lives.

 

Let me tell you, that’s what’s going on in Minneapolis right now.

 

We are witnessing and experiencing is true brokenness.

 

And a response to brokenness.

 

Brokenness is part of this imperfect world in which we live.

 

And it is hard to bear.

 

When we gaze upon that broken bread, when we gaze upon that broken lamb, we gaze upon our own brokenness as well.

 

If we look at the Lab as something wholly other than ourselves, we have missed the point completely.

 

In following the Lamb, we are called to embody the Lamb.

 

We are called to be the Lamb to others.

 

And to do that, we must embrace our brokenness as well.

 

We see here on this altar before God the brokenness of our nation, of our world, of our own lives.

 

Right now.

 

But we gaze upon a God who understands our brokenness.

 

A God who understands these fractures and these pains each us bear within us and in this world in which we live.

 

A God who saw that brokenness in the Lamb who was sent to us.

 

But it also symbolizes something even more practical.

 

We break bread, so we can share it.

 

We don’t get the option of just sitting around, wallowing in our brokenness.

 

We don’t get to just close up and rock back and forth in pain over the unfairness of this world and society and our lives.

 

We are called to go out and do something about our brokenness.

 

We break this bread and then break it and then break it again until it becomes small pieces that we must share with one another.

 

By sharing Jesus’s message of love and compassion and peace and wholeness to a broken world and to broken people, by sharing of our broken selves, we do something meaningful.

 

We undo our brokenness.

 

We become whole by sharing our brokenness.

 

It means we take what we have eaten here—this Lamb, this Jesus, God’s Son, God’s Messiah, who knew pain and suffering and death—and we share this Jesus with others, through our love, through our actions of love, through our acceptance of all people in love.

 

It is not enough that we simply recognize the Lamb.

 

We must recognize the Lamb, broken for us, so that we can share the Lamb with others.

 

And that is the purpose of our lives as followers of Jesus.

 

Yes, we gather here and are Christians.

 

But we are also gathered here so we can go out and share this Lamb that has been revealed to us.

 

And in sharing the Lamb, others too can share the Lamb.

 

So, let us listen to the voice of the Baptist proclaiming in our ears, “Behold the Lamb of God!”

 

Let us hear that voice when Deacon John and I hold up the Bread and the Chalice.

 

Let us hear that voice as we come forward to share that bread and drink from that chalice.

 

But let us be that voice when we leave here.

 

Let us actually BE God’s Lamb, in our own brokenness, in all that we do as Christians, in the differences we make in this world around, in all the good we do and say in our lives.

 

When we do that we will find ourselves, as we heard in the collect from this morning, “illuminated by [God’s] Word and Sacraments.”

 

And being illuminated, we will “shine, even in our broken state, with a light that will burn away the darkness of hate and division in our midst. Amen.

 

1 Epiphany

The Baptism of Our Lord

 

January 11, 2026

 

Isaiah 42.1-9; Matthew 3.13-17

 

+Well, this past week was one of those weeks in which many of us thought: everything we feared is coming true.

 

It was an ugly week.

 

It was a violent week.

 

Renee Nichole Good’s death has hit all of us hard.

 

Well, all of us who care.

 

She is one of us.

 

We see ourselves in her.

 

This poet, mother, spouse.

 

This person who, like we try to do, stood up against a posse of deputized gang members.

 

And she paid the price for it.

 

Remember all those times I said I hope none of us become martyrs?

 

Well, that reality hit close to home for all of us with her murder.

 

It is important to remember what martyr actually means.

 

It means witness.

 

A witness to the truth.

 

A witness to what is right.

 

A witness against the forces of darkness that seem to prevail in our nation right now.

 

And the fact that so much of this is being perpetrated by so-called Christians is a double gut-punch for us who are striving to follow Jesus and do what we feel is our baptismal call in this world.

 

All of this is important to remember on this Sunday in which we commemorate the baptism of Jesus in the river Jordan.

 

It is important for us to remember that when, in a few moments, we remember and renew our baptismal vows.

 

It is important to remember that when we are sprinkled with holy water in remembrance of the water of our own baptisms.

 

On Facebook yesterday, a Facebook friend of mine posted this:

 

JESUS DID NOT ENTER THE RIVER JORDAN SO YOU COULD USE HIS NAME TO COMMIT ATROCITIES.

 

Let’s repeat that again:

 

JESUS DID NOT ENTER THE RIVER JORDAN SO YOU COULD USE HIS NAME TO COMMIT ATROCITIES.

 

Our job as baptized followers of Jesus is not to commit—or condone—atrocities.

 

Our job is what:

 

To strive for justice and peace and to respect the worth and dignity of every person.

 

Well, let me tell you:

 

I am struggling to respect the worth and dignity of some people this morning.

 

But that’s our challenge.

 

And that’s what we must do.

 

Because if we don’t, we become THEM.

 

And that is not an option for us.

 

Our baptism is not, as you  have heard me say a million times, some sweet little christening event for us as Christians.

 

It is not a quaint little service of dedication we do.

 

For us Episcopalians, it a radical event in our lives as Christians.

 

Just as the Eucharist is a truly radical event in our lives, over and over again.

 

Baptism and the Eucharist are the events from which everything we do and believe flows.

 

They are the ground of being for our radical beliefs, for our activism and our standing up and speaking out.

 

In baptism, we are marked as Christ’s own.

 

For ever.

 

It is a bond that can never be broken.

 

We can try to break it as we please.

 

We can struggle under that bond.

 

We can squirm and resist it.

 

We can try to escape it.

 

But the simple fact is this: we can’t.

 

For ever is for ever.

 

And knowing that is not cause for us to simply sit back and bask in the glow of that knowledge.

 

To know that—to acknowledge that—is to then go out in the world and live out that commitment.

 

In the waters of our baptism, God spoke to us the words God spoke to Jesus in today’s Gospel reading.

 

In those waters, the words we heard in our reading from Isaiah were affirmed in us as well.

 

Here is my servant, whom I uphold,
   my chosen, in whom my soul delights;

Those words are our words.

 

Those words were spoken to us by our God in those waters.

 

In those waters, we were all made equal to each other.

 

In those waters, the same water washed all of us—no matter who are.

 

In those waters, there are no class distinctions, no hatred, or discrimination or homophobia or sexism or war or violence.

 

In those waters, we are all equal to one another and we are all equally loved.

 

In a few moments, we will stand and renew the vows we made at baptism.

 

When we are done, I will sprinkle you with water.

 

The sprinkling of water, like all our signs and actions that we do in this church, is not some strange practice a few of us High Church-minded people do.

 

That water that comes to us this morning is a stark reminder of those waters in which we were washed at Baptism—those waters that made us who we are, those waters in which we all stand on equal ground, with no distinctions between us.

 

Here at St. Stephen’s, all of our ministry—every time we seek to serve Christ and further the Kingdom of God in our midst—is a continuation of the celebration of baptism.

 

Sometimes we lose sight of that.

 

Sometimes we forget what it is that motivates us and charges us to do that wonderful work.

 

Sometimes we forget that our ministry as baptized people is a ministry to stand up and speak out against injustice.

 

Our ministry is to echo those words from Isaiah God spoke to us at the beginning of our ministries:

 

I have put my spirit upon [you];
   [you] will bring forth justice to the nations. 
   [You] will faithfully bring forth justice. 
[You] will not grow faint or be crushed
   until [you have] established justice in the earth;

Those words speak to us anew this morning.

 

I know how frustrating it is right now.

 

I know we ae feeling faint.

 

I know we are feeling crushed.

 

But now is not the time.

 

It is time for us to bring forth justice, certainly to our nation.

 

It is time for us to establish justice in our world in which justice needs to be established.

 

Today, let us be renewed in our call to justice.

 

Today, on this first Sunday in Epiphany, it is time to stand up and speak our and to rail against the forces of darkness in our world.  

 

When we do, it is then that we live out our baptism.

 

It is then that we truly live our baptismal life.

 

Let us be emboldened by our baptism.

 

Let us truly live our faith in a God of justice by speaking out and pushing back.

 

Let us boldly live out our baptismal covenant in all that we do as Christians in seeking out, speaking out and doing all we can in love and compassion and justice.

 

JESUS DID NOT ENTER THE RIVER JORDAN SO YOU COULD USE HIS NAME TO COMMIT ATROCITIES.

 

Jesus entered those waters to show us the way forward.

 

Forward into a world in which justice will prevail,

 

That is what we are called to do.

 

Now.

 

And always.

 

 

Just as I was leaving for church this morning, Annette Morrow sent me this:

 

This is from Matt Moberg, Chaplain for the Minnesota Timberwolves:

 

If you’re a church posting

prayers for peace and unity today

while my city bleeds in the street,

miss me with that softness you only wear when it costs you nothing.

Don’t dress avoidance up as holiness.

Don’t call silence “peacemaking.”

Don’t light a candle and think it substitutes for showing up.

Tonight an ICE agent took a photo of me next to my car, looked me in the eye and told me, “We’ll be seeing you soon.”

Not metaphor.

Not hyperbole.

A threat dressed up in a badge and a paycheck.

Peace isn’t what you ask for

when the boot is already on someone’s neck.

Peace is what the powerful ask for

when they don’t want to be interrupted.

Unity isn’t neutral.

Unity that refuses to name violence

is just loyalty to the ones holding the weapons.

Stop using scripture like chloroform.

Stop calling your fear “wisdom.”

Stop pretending Jesus was crucified

because he preached good vibes and personal growth.

You don’t get to quote scripture like a lullaby

while injustice stays wide awake.

You don’t get to ask God to “heal the land”

if you won’t even look at the wound.

There is a kind of peace that only exists

because it refuses to tell the truth.

That peace is a lie.

And lies don’t grow anything worth saving.

The scriptures you love weren’t written to keep things calm. They were written to set things right.

And sometimes the most faithful thing you can do

is stop praying around the pain and start standing inside it.

If that makes you uncomfortable—good.

Growth always is.

  

Amen.