But, of course, this was not just 'any other day.' Indeed, as I continued to walk down the path I saw the flicker of one and then many flames from candles burning at the place where our beloved Jim was murdered. And I was astonished by this sight as well, this circle of memory where blood was shed, where life was struck down, where it would seem we could readily place a sign bearing the name, 'Troubled Hearts,' or 'Unclean' or 'Abomination.' As I stood before this makeshift memorial as many of us have, I thought to myself, "We dwell in a place of astonishing beauty and splattered blood, in a community devoted to wisdom and justice yet marked now by senseless violence."

As hard as it is to imagine, this should come as no surprise to us. We humans have been endowed with inventive powers and remarkable skills. To quote the old hymn, we may indeed be 'children of creative purpose, serving others and honoring [God],' yet we stand stupefied in a world marked by unnecessary death and suffering, a world in which power - the power of one hand - can be used to destroy life or nurture this fragile gift of the Creator. It seems to me that in such moments as these, we are faced with the two-fold truth of our existence: we dwell in a deeply troubled world and a world in which God offers peace, shalom, wholeness in a way we humans can receive it: from one like us, from the One who dwells with us, indeed from the One who has never left us in our beautiful and troubled home.

In today's gospel reading, John's Jesus tells us that his word will never pass away, that the one constant thing in life which we can trust is the truth of God's steadfast presence, this presence which offers life where it is least expected. Certainly this word - the promise of God's abiding presence - must have been of great comfort to the worshiping assembly of John's community who knew that the Temple in Jerusalem - the symbol of God's presence with the people - had been destroyed by violence at the hands of an armed force of soldiers. Surely many people in the assembly to whom John wrote his gospel at the end of the first century must have felt that their connection with God had been severed. Yet in the midst of perplexity and affliction, a quiet voice promises that the word - the reality of God's life-affirming presence - will not pass away, indeed that this presence is greater than the violence and death which struck down this servant of God.

Or, to claim a phrase from Luther, this living and life-affirming presence is always with us yet 'hidden' in the very things we so often take for granted because they are not 'miraculous' or charismatic or sensational. Thus, Luther invites us to look for and encounter 'God-with-us' yet 'hidden,' hidden in the person sitting next to us, in the simple words we speak and sing to each other, God-with-us yet hidden in the pouring of water over a body, in our eating bread and drinking from a cup, God-with-us yet hidden in a man hanging on a tree, God-with-us yet hidden in a professor who simply loved his students and played the music of that love into their lives with such remarkable passion.

Many of us will soon leave this place and walk down paths as yet untrodden, through perils yet unknown. Members of our staff and children of our faculty will soon move away. Our many graduates will scatter to the four corners of the land. Jim's relatives will return to the Deep South. As we leave, then, how shall we go forth from this place of beauty and affliction, from this time of perplexity and great educational promise? I would suggest that the answer to the question rests in our beginnings, in the action through which we enter this community of God's pilgrim people, that is, in our baptism.

But the answer begins with a 'No' - and here it is. In contrast to much conventional religious wisdom, I would suggest that our baptism, our receiving the name 'Christian,' is not an escape from this world to another one of imagined safety, nor the beginning of a private spiritual relationship with God, nor admission into a cozy club of pampered first-world travelers who simply watch the world's suffering from afar. After this last Thursday, that is not possible here anymore.

Rather, I would suggest that through our baptism into Christ's body we are joined to a diverse community of people who are committed to his life in this world, who are called by his Spirit to abide with this world:

to pursue a wisdom that sustains life,
to care for this world's fragile beauty,
to lead others in the ways of peace,
to unravel the power of violence,
to serve as advocates of God's justice and peace,
and, yes, this: to sing of this unfailing love until its power is so deeply

A dear friend called me this last Thursday evening after hearing the news of Jim's death. At the end of our conversation, he said: "You know that Jim is resting tonight in the same place he rested last night after performing Verdi's 'Requiem'." He paused and then said, "Jim is resting - as we all are - in the mercy of God."

Sisters and brothers, we may be perplexed or anxious or simply wondering what this day or the days ahead will bring us. If so, let us be mindful of this: we all rest in the mercy of God, that mercy in which we have been washed through baptism, that mercy proclaimed and sung on our lips, that mercy we soon will taste in bread and cup, that mercy we are called to serve, that mercy in which nothing - nothing of this world and our life in this world - is lost to God.