The communion of the beloved

All Saints’, Dorval

Baptism of the Lord, Year C

January 9, 2022

Brian Kershisnik, “Nativity,” 2006

One of the few advantages (for me) of doing church on Zoom from home, rather than as hybrid worship from the church, is that I can see everyone’s faces throughout the service, rather than only at the very end. When I’m in the church building, it’s too easy to focus on the people whom I can actually see physically sitting in front of me, even when I know perfectly well that there are twice as many tuning in from afar. (Sometimes, if I have time before the end of the offertory hymn, I would swipe through the pages of little Zoom boxes on the device I have at the altar, just to remind myself and say a silent hello.)

That said, over the three and a half months that we were able to stay open in person this time around, I was conscious of an odd and increasingly strong feeling that it took me some thought to identify. I finally realized that I was, in a hard-to-define but very real way, feeling the presence of the Zoomites even when I couldn’t see them and wasn’t consciously thinking about them.

And once I figured this out, it occurred to me that despite the new-fangled technology, this was hardly a new experience. It was, in fact, a manifestation of something so traditional that we already have a fancy theological term for it: the communion of saints.

When we pray together, we are connected, to God and to each other. Is it so surprising if sometimes we feel that connection?

In my case, it felt a bit like a bunch of you were all hovering behind me, looking over my shoulder (in a good way!).

And that in turn reminded me of a picture that I’ve had on my desk since December of 2015, which I originally cut from the cover of an issue of The Christian Century. For those who can’t see the slide now displaying on the screen, it shows Mary cuddling the newborn Jesus (and, in contrast to so many other versions of this scene, he actually looks like a newborn, with his little red face against Mary’s breast). Joseph is squatting behind Mary with his hand to his face, looking as utterly shell-shocked as any new dad who has just had to help deliver his baby in a livestock stall might be expected to look. In front of Mary two women are kneeling, carefully observing her and the baby. And clustering and hovering around them, in a way that defies physics if they’re people but makes perfect sense if they’re angels, is a group of beings in white robes, with varying skin and hair colours, all of them gazing in awe at the newborn child.

That’s what the communion of saints feels like – that constellation of love and attention and care, knitting us all together, flowing between us, focused on Jesus.

So, you might say, this all may be pertinent to our situation at All Saints’ right now as we try to get through the Omicron wave. But what does it have to do with the Baptism of Christ?

As many times as I reread any of the accounts of Jesus’ baptism in Matthew’s, Mark’s or Luke’s gospel, it’s always the last line that grabs me: And a voice came from heaven, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.”

The Holy Spirit descends in bodily form, like a dove, on Jesus, and a voice proclaims that he is God’s beloved child. A voice that, while affirming Jesus’ unique identity, chosenness, and calling, also calls each and every one of us God’s beloved child, as well. “Because you are precious in my sight, and honoured, and I love you,” says God through the prophet Isaiah, promising to gather God’s people from east and west and bring them home, even if it means walking through the water and the fire.

It is that love, expressed through prayer, that binds us together in the communion of saints. The love of God for each and every one of us, as a unique, irreplaceable, child of God, beloved beyond imagining.

Our congregation – like every other congregation, school, club, or similar organization – has been through a lot in the past almost-two years. And yet, nothing can separate us from the love of God. We remain plugged in to that network that transcends time and space, the communion of saints beloved of God and connected by that love, which we can feel hovering over our shoulders at the oddest of times.

We were supposed to baptize two toddlers today. I’ve been in touch with both families and assured them that there is no expiration date on baptism, and that we will celebrate their children’s entry into the family of God as soon as we can. And although we may not have formalized it through the sacrament yet, they are surrounded and beloved by that same communion of saints. (I invite you to keep Catherine and Michael and their families in your prayers as well!)

That cloud of witnesses shows up to gather around a mother holding her newborn in a stable in Bethlehem, and it fills the heavens and thunders in the mighty waters, and it is present with me and with each of you in our toughest and loneliest moments. And although God cares deeply about our mortal bodies and comes to us in the physical reality of the bread and wine of communion, the communion of saints can be just as powerfully present over the internet as it is when we are face to face.

Epiphany is, among other things, about sharing God’s love for us and the way that we make that love real for each other in community. We shine our lights for each other even when things are hard and sad. And one of the ways we do that is by inviting people to come and see the love of God in action here. It’s winter, and we’re locked down again and doing Zoom church – what a great time to share the link with someone you know, perhaps someone who’s been lonely and scared during the pandemic, and invite them to see what it is in this parish that has meant so much to you. Invite them to come and experience the communion of saints, and God naming them as a beloved child.

This week, a colleague of mine who’s a priest in Lexington, Kentucky, told this brief story on social media:

So a friend of mine was stuck on one of the interstates and preparing to stay in her car overnight. The low is going to be 6 [-14.5 C]. I reached out to the Episcopal church near where she was. The lay leadership got her and is making sure she has a warm place to stay.

Y’all, for all our talk about the church, here it is. One person makes sure another person is safe. No strategic vision statement. No task force. Just love. That is the work of the church.

Just love. That is the work of the church. Spoken by the Spirit over the Son of God in the Jordan River. Felt by a priest and people even when separated by the requirements of a pandemic. And expressed by a local parish church to a random friend of a priest in a different city, just because it’s the right thing to do.

How are you feeling the presence of the communion of saints in these days? And how might you invite someone you know into that network of love? Into the communion of saints, spread out through the cosmos and eternity, each of us an entirely beloved child of God?

Amen.