The River of Life

By way of introduction, I want to tell you a story.  Even in summary, it may seem a rather long story. Yet if you remember nothing else from this morning’s sermon, I hope you remember this story. I would like to summarize for you a very powerful story by Flannery O’Connor. I hope that some of you have read it, and this will refresh your memory. I wish that all of us had the time and disposition that I could read it for you in its entirety. It’s called The River. [The summary is drawn from Marianne Micks’ book on baptism, Deep Waters].

The story is about a little boy, four or five years old, named Harry. Harry lives in a city apartment with parents who drink heavily, smoke heavily, go to too many parties, and neglect their son. They leave him to find breakfast for himself every morning while they sleep it off; one morning all he finds to eat are two crackers spread with anchovy paste, some flat ginger ale topped off with chocolate milk, and raisin bread heels spread with peanut butter.

One day a woman who cleans and baby-sits for the family takes Harry with her to a preaching revival down at the river. The preacher, who is reputed to be a faith healer as well, stands in the water talking in a twangy voice about Jesus. At one point he shouts, "Listen to what I got to say, you people! There ain’t but one river and that’s the River of Life, made out of Jesus’ blood. That’s the river you have to lay your pain in, in the River of Faith, in the River of Life, in the River of Love, in the rich red river of Jesus’ Blood, you people!"

At the behest of the babysitter, who suspects that Harry has never been baptized, the preacher takes the boy in his arms. The child suddenly realizes that this is not a joke, although where he lives everything is a joke. The preacher tells him that if he is baptized he won’t be the same anymore—he’ll count for something. Suddenly the preacher dunks the boy under the water and repeats the words of baptism, saying again to the surprised child, "You count now; you didn’t even count before." That is what Harry remembers that night when his mother quizzes him about how he has spent the day. He tells his mother, "He said I’m not the same now. I count."

The preacher had also told his crowd of listeners that the river flowed on to the Kingdom of Christ, and that after the little boy was baptized, he would be able to go to the Kingdom of Christ "by the deep river of life." Harry thinks about that. So early the next morning before his parents wake up, Harry helps himself to a bus token from his mother’s purse, rides to the end of the bus line, and trudges back to the river. "He intended not to fool with preachers any more," O’Connor writes, "but to baptize himself and to keep going on this time until he found the Kingdom of Christ in the river."

At first the boy keeps sputtering and choking in the water, coming up for air. He fights against the river. But when he plunges under a fourth time the current catches him and pulls him swiftly forward and down. The child knows he is getting somewhere; all his fury and fear leave him…

I have heard this story called "haunting" or "unsettling". I can understand where those comments come from, but… In a technical sense, we don’t know what becomes of Harry.  We don't know if he resurfaces or not.   We could write any number of endings to the story. But based upon what we do know, we could, we should be able to describe this story as joyous, hopeful, inspiring… It is about a boy who seizes his baptism. Harry knows he needs to be saved, and he yearns passionately for what salvation offers him—a life that matters, new hope, freedom from fear. So Harry puts his trust in the river of life and walks in.

Most of us, I expect, would have rather seen Harry’s situation "fixed." Someone should call social services about his parents. Maybe not us, but someone should call. Something could be done. Or we’d have written a Hollywood sort of story (rather than a Flannery O'Connor sort of story) where a kindly teacher makes a connection with Harry and builds his self-esteem so that he can rise above his situation. Or we’d have written a story where the dissolute parents got what they deserved (what would that be?) and Harry went to live with a long-lost and loving great aunt. A better story would have been one where, somehow, Harry discovered the resources he needed to really build a new life for himself.

In this story as it was written, baptism brought Harry new life. We do know how it ends. 

But it’s awfully hard for us to trust new life to God. Trusting God is at the heart of this morning’s Scripture readings, especially Jonah and the Gospel. Trusting God.

Do you see yourself in these stories? In what roles? Can you sympathize with Jonah? I can. The story is so comical, but so true to human nature. The Ninevites are pagans; they do not worship the Hebrew God; they lead lives deeply offensive to the Hebrew people, full—Scripture tells us—of evil ways. But they repent and God shows mercy.  If Jonah were in charge, they would get what they deserve. Jonah’s petulance at God’s mercy is almost funny, except for the fact that I, for one, can identify so easily with how he feels. It is very hard for Jonah to trust this story to God.  It is hard to put the story of salvation in God's hands.

And in the gospel story, with whom do you naturally identify? The landowner, the early workers, the late workers? Some of you might identify with the landowner who’s just trying to get the harvest in. If so, would you run your business, set up your payroll, as this landowner does? Or if you were in charge, would you be more fair? More responsible? …responsible to your family, your community, your shareholders—to run a sound and profitable business.

Personally, I identify with the workers who came early in the morning. I am one of those compulsively on-time people. And I expect to be rewarded for my promptness, my dutifulness, my hard work. And even if it shouldn’t matter, I can certainly empathize with the workers’ resentment when slackers get the same pay. It is hard to trust this story to God.  It is hard to put the story of salvation in God's hands.

Seeing ourselves in Jonah or the early workers helps us, certainly, to identify and acknowledge the ungodliness of our envy and resentment. But these readings would help us most if we could come to identify ourselves with the Ninevites or with the workers who come late in the day. It is hard to see ourselves as those people because we do not want to be those people. We want to be hard working, upstanding. If I could choose, I know the role I would really like to play is that of the early workers, but without the envy. Capable, in charge of my own life, earning what I deserve, but gracious towards others. I wish God would help me not resent the latecomers, but I certainly don’t want to be one. I don’t want to have to trust God with my life’s story.  I don't want to leave the story of my salvation in God's hands.

But we must. We are the Ninevites. We are those workers who just barely straggle into God's vinyard at the close of day. In Flannery O’Connor’s story, Harry knew that. He knew that without God’s grace his life was a joke, it didn’t mean anything, wasn’t going anywhere. For most of us, the necessary first step to trusting God is acknowledging that without God we really don’t have anything that matters. It may feel safer on the banks of the river going about our normal lives, but it’s a hollow safety and a meaningless life.

The events of September 11, 2001, so profoundly affected us as a nation and as individuals, that we now see virtually everything through that lens. And, at least politically, we seem to be hearing an awful lot of Jonah-like language these days. But some of the most powerful stories of that day haven’t been so widely reported in the popular press. I just recently read the story of a woman who just barely escaped the towers and was fleeing on the street when she saw the great cloud of debris about to overtake her. In that moment her fear left her and she knew that all that really mattered was that she was in God’s hands. If only it did not take a life-threatening disaster to enable the rest of us to see that without God, nothing matters.

It’s all about needing God. And then trusting God. Most of us would undoubtedly like to have it both ways. We’d like God in our lives, but we don’t really want to trust God with our lives.

We’re standing on the banks of the river. As the preacher told Harry, the river is a place to lay your pain, your fear. We will be swept away, but to a better place. The river is a place where we count, you and I, where we matter, where the things that we do matter. Trust God. It is the river of love; it is the river of life. It does lead to the Kingdom of God.

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