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John 14: 23–29
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Lord, may we hear your voice in the words spoken in your Name. Amen.
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This morning, in our Gospel reading, we are returning to that final
night Jesus spent at supper with his disciples, the night before his
trial and crucifixion. And I imagine some of you must be
saying, “Wait a minute! Shouldn’t we be reading
this passage on Maundy Thursday? Doesn’t it fit better
there? And – by the way — didn’t we hear
another reading from that same evening last
Sunday?” Well – yes — to all these
questions. But Jesus conveyed so much wisdom, so many crucial
instructions to his disciples that night before his death — we
have hardly begun to appreciate all he had to tell us. We have
hardly scratched the surface of all we need to remember.
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Biblical commentators call Jesus’ words that evening The Final
Discourse, and they liken them to the final words of Moses or the final
words of King David – momentous words, prophetic words,
significant words the people would return to again and again – to
glean from them wisdom to live by, once their leader had vanished from
their sight. So these words we hear this morning are not just
words Jesus spoke to comfort his disciples on the night before he
died. They are words the early Church recalled century after
century as it became the Body of Christ in this world. In other
words, these were not just instructions for Jesus’ first century
disciples. They are words that guide us all – especially
people in our increasingly secular age who have trouble following a
Lord they say they cannot see or hear. And you and I know that
number includes some of us.
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That night Jesus has just told his disciples he is going away. Then
he quickly tries to reassure them by telling them that though the world
will no longer see him, they will – for he will not leave them
orphaned. He will come to them and reveal himself to
them. But here, our lectionary editors have left out something
crucial. They have left out the verse immediately before our
reading where Jesus clarifies to his disciples who is actually speaking
to them:
“On that day you will know that I am in my Father, and you in me,
and I in you.”
Maybe the lectionary editors left that verse out because John’s
spiraling words are hard to keep track of. “I am in my
Father, you in me, and I in you.” Wait a minute! Who’s
on first?
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But that verse is crucial to our understanding because it tells us that
Jesus is not speaking here as a solitary individual. He is in the
Father. The Father is in him. And soon, he tells them, the
last member of their small community – the Holy Spirit — will
also come to these disciples. And all together, then, they will
be community. All together, then, they will love one
another. That’s the crucial part that was left out of our
reading this morning – that community is crucial to love.
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Once we understand that, we can understand Jesus’ response to
Judas’ question.
“Lord,” Judas says, “does that mean the Godless
world won’t see you, won’t understand you – but we
will?”
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“It means,” Jesus says, “that people who
don’t love won’t see anything well. A loveless world
is a sightless world. On the other hand, if people love me by
trying to keep my commands, my Father and I will come to them and will
love them in return. In fact, we will move right in and make our
home in them.”
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You see, the God whose name is Love never meant for us to take on this
endeavor of being Christians all on our own. “The Father and
I are one,” Jesus said. “Together with the Holy
Spirit, we are a community. And we will make all of you — who
love one another — part of that community. And your love
will begin to attract others.”
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As I thought about all that this week, I remembered a story the writer
Anne Lamott told in her memoir Travelling Mercies of a congregation
that loved her – until she felt ready to come in.
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On Sunday mornings, she says, often hung over, she used to visit a
flea market near her home in Marin City, California. She loved
the ethnic foods she could get there and – if she was there
between eleven o’clock and one – she loved to listen to the
hymns that floated out the doorway of the run–down little church
across the street. She began to go and stand in the doorway of
that church to sing along with those hymns, though she always left
before the sermon. And by and large, she says, that congregation
simply let her be – singing along, though not yet entering
in. Even so, their singing — full of love, full of praise
to their Lord — eventually pulled her in.
I could sing better here, she says, than I ever had before. As
part of these people, even though I stayed in the doorway. I did
not recognize my voice or know where it was coming from, but sometimes
I felt like I could sing forever.
Eventually, a few months after I started coming, I took a seat in one
of the folding chairs, off by myself. Then the singing enveloped
me. It was furry and resonant, coming from everyone’s very
heart. There was no sense of performance or judgment, only the
music was breath and food.
Something inside me that was stiff and rotting would feel soft and
tender. Somehow the singing wore down all the boundaries and
distinctions that kept me so isolated. Sitting there, standing
with them to sing, sometimes so shaky and sick that I felt like I
might tip over, I felt bigger than myself, like I was being taken
care of, tricked into coming back to life.
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Unbeknownst to her, Anne Lamott was growing bigger than herself. As
she listened to those hymns and sang along with them, as she felt the
love in that little fellowship, she was being welcomed in by Father,
Son and Holy Spirit. No wonder she did eventually join that
little fellowship – and taught Sunday School there for
years. And no wonder – through her writing, she now draws
many others in.
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Where this kind of love happens, there God promises to make a
home. In fact, right here, right now – he already has.
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Amen
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