It’s one thing to let someone immerse you in water. To let them lay you down and hold you under—at least for a brief few seconds—as a tangible enactment on the outside of a cleansing that has happened on the inside.

It’s another thing to let Jesus immerse you in his Spirit. To let let him overwhelm you from the inside out with his power and presence.

We call both of these baptism.

As if once that’s dealt with, in whatever way my theology makes room for, then everything is hunky dory and life can go on and I can enjoy myself blissfully unconcerned about eternal fire.

Nor is your sin the problem. As if all that matters is whatever bad thing you’ve ever thought or done or thought about doing was now erased from the divine ledger and now God says you’re cool.

Nor is sin our problem. As if human beings are the only thing God loves or cares about. We might very well bear culpability for enacting sin and need to be set free from our own self-inflicted suffering, but there is a lot more that suffers from the consequences of sin than people.

Bethany means “House of Misery” or “House of Affliction.” Not exactly the kind of thing a town would post on the front of its Visitors Bureau brochure: Misery and Affliction live here!

In the first centrury, Bethany was a tumble-down town, little more than a pass-through for those on their way to bigger and better places. Yet it was—without much explanation at all—a favorite place of Jesus of Nazareth. Almost more than any other place in the Gospels, Bethany is a frequent stop, and the location of a number of significant events:

Why do you run a business? You’re no Gates or Bezos or Musk.

Why do you teach? You’re no Aristotle or Sullivan or Montessori.

Why do you play guitar? You’re no Hendrix or Segovia or Abasi.

Why do you write poems? You’re no Neruda or Collins or Dickinson.

Why do you paint? You’re no Rembrandt or Picasso or Kahlo.

Why do you play sports? You’re no Pele or Jordan or Manning.

Why do you fight for justice? You’re no Chavez or Mandela or King.

Nope. You’re not. And you never will be. And that’s ok.

Trying to be someone awesome. Trying to accomplish something that catches others’ attention. Trying to live up to others’ hopes for you.

There will always be someone trying to talk you into their version of greatness. Don’t buy it. It’s all hype and propaganda. You’ll never quite match up, and chasing the ghosts of notoriety will only leave you feeling tired and joyless.

Means also knowing who you are not.

John the Baptist had an interesting response to the Jewish leaders when they asked who he was: “I am not the Messiah.”

“Messiah” was a loaded term for first-century Jews. It still is for 21st-century Jews, as well as  for Christians. It also has broader connotations in common culture. Perhaps a helpful way of thinking about it is to say that to be the Messiah is to be limitless and to not be the Messiah is to have limits.

Apart from knowing Jesus. This is the central, exclusive claim of Christianity.

Confession: I have a soft spot in my heart for our pluralistic culture. I resonate a lot with those who have a hard time with the exclusive claims of Christianity. Which I guess is a sub-confession: I do, too. I get squirmy when anyone claims to have the market cornered on truth, in any field of study or in any aspect of life, when there’s only one right answer, or when any other possibility is categorically ruled out.

Still, Christianity does make some absolute and exclusive claims, but I don’t think there are as many as are advertised . Not if you really read the Bible. But this one—as hard as it might be to swallow—seems pretty exclusive:

Most of us don’t want a new neighbor. Not really. I know I don’t. I’ll say I like to be neighborly, but the honest truth is that new neighbors are a lot of work. The opportunity cost is just too high compared to the potential returns.

New relationships take a lot of energy. And really, who has the time? Who wants the unpredictable ways in which a new neighbor will interrupt and disrupt their carefully calendared life?

No one chooses to be born. Birth is something that happens to us. Something that is done to, and, in a sense, for us. Someone else moves us from one state of existence into a whole new and strange and shocking world.

The Christian idea of rebirth is much the same. Being born again as children of God is something that happens to us. Something that is done to and for us that we never could have done for ourselves. In fact, rebirth is often a surprise, often not something a person was even looking for. (This is certainly true of my own story.)

But rebirth also a bit different than birth.

The entire cosmos was created by and through Jesus. And yet Jesus was created within and through the cosmos. He birthed creation; creation in turn birthed him. The Creator set in motion a world with laws and properties and means of reproduction that set the stage for his own self to be born. The origin of all life allowed himself to be born like all living things are born. The Creator—in the mystery of all mysteries—somehow became created.

But even though the world was made through him, it didn’t recognize him. Not right away anyways. Some still haven’t recognized him.

Much of the time, if I’m honest, I don’t recognize him.