The service is going to be neat--they've built a water purification system and are running nasty, dirty melted snow through it. The congregation will be given water-soluble markers to write prayer concerns on rocks. After the sermon the purified snow water will be run over the rocks, washing away the prayer concern. Then the rocks will be pulled from the water as a baptismal remembrance. I'm going to sing Jason Gray's "Down to the River" while that happens.
Anyway, here's my sermon:
The reading from Genesis depicts a world of nothing but
water. Water above. Water below.
Water being separated from water.
When I first read this passage I tried to imagine what it might be like
to be surrounded by that much water…and then I looked out my window…at the
snow. And we’ve had enough winter
weather to question the goodness of God’s creation. We’ve also had enough snow to give a real face
to global climate change.
Over the course of the last two Sundays we’ve heard the
statistics that in the last seven generations humanity has consumed half of the
available carbon resources, resulting in oceans that are 30% more acidic. We’ve heard that even if in this very moment
we entirely cease burning fossil fuels it will still take 200 years to break
down half of the carbon dioxide that has been absorbed by the oceans. In short, we’ve heard a lot of bad news. And so as I sat down to write this
reflection, I thought to myself, “What can I say? What can I say that acknowledges the
magnitude of our situation, yet still is life-giving? Because the situation seems pretty bleak.”
The
situation seems bleak because it is bleak.
These statistics about our oceans are disturbing, and the statistics
about freshwater are no better.
Freshwater accounts for somewhere around 2.5% of the world’s water
supply, and not all of that water is clean.
A 2012 report from the United Nations reported that 780 million people
worldwide lack access to safe drinking water. In fact, it is estimated that every 15
seconds a child somewhere in the world dies of waterborne illness. In that same year another study stated that
by 2030 the demand for clean water will exceed supply by 40% which poses
increased risk of water conflicts.
When I
was in college one of my ethics professors suggested that the world’s next
great conflicts would be over water—that we would soon be fighting for access
to something as necessary to us as the air we breathe. At the time that was such a foreign thought I
couldn’t wrap my head around it, and yet that is the approaching reality.
We see
these conflicts happening in our own country as states argue over the fate of
the Colorado River. We also see these
conflicts happening all over the world as peoples scramble for water. In 2000 an attempt to privatize the water
supply in areas of Bolivia resulted in higher costs and public outcry ending in
police violence. Currently communities
in Brazil, an area with incredible freshwater resources (has anyone heard of
the Amazon River?), are struggling to find ways to provide water to their
peoples in the face of drought.
Water rights were one of the factors at the center of the
1967 and 1973 Arab-Israeli conflicts, and continue to be at the center of life
for communities in the West Bank. The
West Bank is home to much of the area’s water resources, however Palestinian
residents are often charged exorbitant fees for access to their own ground
water while pipelines carry this precious commodity to unauthorized Israeli settlements
at one tenth the cost.
It
makes sense that humanity would have vested interested in the use of such a
rare, precious gift, but how are we actually using it? In an online lecture, Christina Z. Peppard,
freshwater ethicist and assistant professor of theology at Fordham University,
explains the way our planet’s freshwater is used. 70% of our freshwater consumption is
attributed to agriculture. Now, I grew
up on a family dairy farm, and I can tell you that family farming does not
account for much of that consumption—this statistic is talking about corporate
agriculture. Corporations (subsidized by
our government) that produce cheap, processed foods which are
disproportionately purchased by low-income households that often cannot afford
fresh produce. 22% of consumption is
attributed to industrial use, manufacturing, etc. That leaves 8% of freshwater consumption
attributed to domestic use—showers, drinking water, laundry, etc. Surprising, right? I don’t know about you, but all the things I
know to do to save water fall into that domestic category—low flow toilets,
shorter showers, and if I had a lawn I would water it less frequently.
Now
lest we think that since our domestic water consumption only accounts for 8% that
we’re off the hook for the use of the other 92%, let’s not forget about one
important thing: Baptism. We walk into
the baptismal waters alone, drowning to self to rise with Christ. Through baptism we become part of Christ’s
body—the body of watered people. The covenant
that we make to God and God’s people includes our accountability for that other
92% because baptism is a communal promise.
Whether or not you remember your own baptism, the community
of Christ into which you were baptized promised to uphold you and see that you
grow in faith and discipleship. You in
turn have promised to do the same for your siblings in Christ. This is the promise of Christian family. This means that any one individual’s failure
to use God’s good gift of water in a way that leads to life is our collective
failure. We have not taught respect for
the life giving nature of water. We have
not taught the importance of equal access to clean water for all, regardless of
economic status. And so we gather during this time of lent to face our
brokenness, our willfulness, and our distance from God. We face these things knowing that we are
called to surrender ourselves, to turn around and choose a better way.
And so I look at all this water surrounding us, the evidence
of global climate change, and perhaps a sign of the uncertain future, and I
wonder: are these baptismal waters? Are
these waters that we must face, knowing that the only way forward is through
them? How must we die, what must we do, for
our planet and ourselves to rise with Christ?
How do we turn this unholy mess into holy water? And are these waters, scary as the
possibility is, the beginnings of our redemption?
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