“Storied Ground”
This sermon was given at the Parish of St. John the Baptist in Porland, Oregon on Sunday, June 25, 2023 for the Feast of the Nativity of St John the Baptist.
Lessons:
Isaiah 40:1-11
Acts 13:14b-26
Luke 1:57-80
Psalm 85
Preface
As I begin this morning, I want to thank Mother Marianne Allison for inviting me to share with you on this special day in your life together here as the community of St. John the Baptist.
This parish holds many precious enduring memories for me and for our family—for this is the place where I began my ordained ministry over three decades ago with the beloved Father Roy Coulter as my mentor.
Let me say it’s ever so good to come home.
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Zechariah asked for a tablet and wrote, “His name is John.” . . . And all who heard Zechariah’s words pondered them and said, “What then will this child become?” — Luke 1:63,66
Peninsula Park
I want to tell you of a place that I always visit this time of the year—it’s that Portland treasure known as Peninsula Park.
And a central attraction for me in this extraordinary place is the sunken garden, the first public rose garden in the city.
Last week I went to there to see the roses while they were still in full bloom.
And as I was about to walk down the steps into the garden, a new sign caught my eye. In bold letters were the words:
“You make this storied ground.”
The sign went on to explain, describing some of the many ways that people have used the park.
“People have come here to protest, build community, celebrate, play, and take care of themselves and each other. Friends have come here for the roses. the fountain, concerts, the shade of the trees, the pool, and the playground.
“You make this storied ground.”
On this day when we are celebrating your patronal feast—the Nativity of St. John the Baptist—those words from the park should appear on a sign outside the doors as you enter the church: “You make this storied ground.”
For a parish like this is a generator of stories. Personal stories. Stories of joys and sorrows shared. Stories of life together.
If this were an interactive sermon—and perhaps it should be—I would stop here and invite you to turn to someone nearby and share a story about how this place has left a mark on your life.
If I were to take on that assignment like that, I might tell you of an icy evening in January of 1990 when I was ordained a priest here in front of this altar by Bishop Robert Ladehoff, ready to begin a new chapter in life.
Or I might speak of one St. Francis Sunday when as the entrance procession paused here at the front, I turned to face the congregation and was amused to find, looking directly at me, six golden retrievers on aisle seats waiting for their blessing.
Or that Christmas when we thought—somewhat foolishly I guess—that it would be interesting to let the children for once cast themselves in whatever part they would like to play in the pageant. This resulted in having to find roles in the drama for three Virgin Marys. If not a theological problem, it was certainly a director’s nightmare!
Or that Sunday when we gathered here for the last time as the Cathedral congregation of St. John the Baptist before that designation was transferred to Trinity Parish and we began to embrace a new identity as a Parish Church.
So then it’s a good question to ponder: How has this place become storied ground for you? What are your cherished memories?
Perhaps after this service, before you leave, you’ll take a few moments to share a story or two with someone else.
The Place of Stories
In recent years I’ve become increasingly interested in both the stories of places and the place of stories of our lives.
Dan McAdams, a psychology professor at Northwestern, has written:
“If you want to know me, you must know my story, you must know my story for my story defines who I am.”
He goes on to say:
“We are all tellers of tales. We each seek to provide our scattered and often confusing experiences with a sense of coherence by arranging the episodes of our lives into stories.” [1]
Beginning in our earliest years we start to gather images—images of people we encounter, images from stories we hear or read—images that we will use to develop the themes and eventually that inner story that helps us make sense of our lives.
It is this inner story—or what some like to call our personal myth—that we want those we care most about us to know, understand, and to honor.
The Voice of One
Today we are invited to consider a story, a singular story, the story of John the Baptizer. It’s a story that most of you know well.
And it’s a story that was told so brilliantly in—"The Voice of One”—the musical you premiered here last fall.
Now I must confess that when I first arrived here as your curate some 33 year ago, I didn’t know quite what to think about John the Baptist, the outrageous apparel, that extreme lifestyle. And what did it meant to be part of a church that carried his name?
If John was to be the name, couldn’t the church have been named for another John from the Bible, one with, say, a little more class like the Evangelist, St. John the Divine?
However, after I had been serving here for a while, I had an experience that changed how I looked upon the role of John and the scriptures that tell his story.
The River
It all began with an invitation I received to a local art gallery opening of a show featuring John August Swanson, an artist known for his religious serigraphs.
John and I had worked together in Los Angeles years earlier, but we had lost touch. Since that time John’s reputation had flourished—his silkscreened prints and paintings were included in museum collections and in churches around the world.
To see John’s art was to be struck by its folk-like simplicity and the vivid color palate he employed, influences, he said, that came from his Catholic mother who was raised in the culture of rural Mexico.
One particular serigraph in the show stood out for me from all the rest—it was called simply, “The River.”
The scene was of a river flowing down the length of the vertical artwork.
At the top of the print, crops were receiving water from the river, and as your eye moved downward, you could see sheep grazing, water jugs being filled, and children swimming in the water.
Then at the very bottom of the print—it was not the first thing that caught your eye—there was Jesus, immersed up to his waist in the flowing water, being baptized by John with a stream of light radiating from a dove just above his head.
I asked my friend about the print and he said River was inspired by the River Ganges in India, a river where everything has happened.
He wrote later about the print:
“Communities are formed around rivers . . .
“The River reminds me of our need to keep growing in understanding and compassion for all people, and to see our common source. It supplies the water of life to all of us as it winds along its course. Each person shares in the river’s blessing.
“My mother was raised in the isolated Sierra Nevada Mountains of Mexico. On the feast of Saint John the Baptist, her family would go to the river to have a picnic and bathe in the water . . . Some of our rituals look ordinary and some are special celebrations, but each is integral to who we are, and they connect us to our ancestors and descendants.” [2]
In The River, John August Swanson was doing more than illustrating an event from the Bible, he was an artist viewing that scene through sacramental eyes.
His serigraph didn’t take away from the Biblical account with all its direct power, but it opened for a door for me into a richer level of meaning.
To see Jesus pictured as being baptized by John in a river teeming with all the signs of life invited me to view baptisms—my own and the baptisms I was to perform as a priest—as more than well-ordered rituals and rites of passage—but as full and joyful immersions into life, life as intended for all of God’s children.
I would no longer look upon rivers or water or baptism in quite the same way again.
We Are in the Story
I soon discovered that each of the other places mentioned in the story of John the Baptist could have this same expansive power —the home where John was born, the desert wilderness where he was formed, the river territory where he taught and spoke truth to the powerful, even the fortress where he was imprisoned and questioned his mission.
By seeing more broadly a symbolic dimension to Scripture—you can picture yourself occupying a place in the Biblical drama.
Church historian Martin Marty who has spoken from this pulpit captured the same idea when he said:
“The Bible is a book of stories, and you are in the story.”
By bringing our creative imagination to the stories of scripture we can discover how Christ is alive and present with us in our world today in transforming ways.
On this feast day we might well ask how in the spirit of this Forerunner we too can point beyond ourselves to the love, mercy, and grace of God as revealed in Christ extended to all.
And, inspired by the Baptizer, we might also use this day as an occasion to revisit some of the significant and storied places in our own lives—to ask searching questions—as we develop our own inner story —the story of the person that we are and the person that we are striving to become.
Who have been those people like John’s mother Elizabeth and father Zechariah who have affirmed and believed in us along the way?
Is there a wilderness, a quiet place apart, where, like John, we can go to prepare ourselves for the next stage in our journey?
Is there an act of repentance we should make and an amendment of life?
Where is our River Jordan, the place we go to be immersed more fully into life?
And then, are we being asked like John to speak truth to power? To speak out and act for justice, to stand up for those at the margins, to be faithful stewards of the gift of creation?
Let me conclude, as someone from out of your past, with a word of encouragement.
As you face the future and occupy that sometimes uncertain wilderness of a transition. . .
You can embrace the days ahead with confidence for you have in your midst very gifted clergy leadership.
God has done marvelous things here in times past and the river of life continues to flow:
You have been planted in the midst of a school campus where you’ve faithfully proclaimed the Good News of God in Christ through word and sacrament.
You are widely known for your extraordinary ministry of music and you have nurtured generations of children in the way of faith
Through prayer and presence, you have cared for the sick and the suffering,
You have supported those in need in this metropolitan area and engaged in the struggle for justice, stretching back across many years and across many miles.
You are a place where all are welcomed and honored without exception.
This a rich and a lively heritage to celebrate.
You have been true to the spirit of John the Baptizer, our forerunner in the faith.
And this storied ground here on which we gather . . . you have transformed . . . into holy ground.
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Dan P. McAdams. The Stories We Live By: Personal Myths and the Making of the Self. (New York: Guilford Press, 1993), p. 11.
https://johnaugustswanson.com/catalog/the-river-2018/
