Seventh Sunday of Easter Sermon

As our shared life of faith and ministry has developed at St. John’s, a few phrases have taken root amongst us that have helped clarify for us just what it is we are doing here, in the church – as the church:

Be like Jesus.

Meet people where they are.

We choose love.

Embedded in all these statements lies a consistent theme – a steady value – linking them together: our spirit of “compassion” to see and care for those around us.

But beneath that value, there lies an even deeper ontological theology: Who are we, in our essence? And in Jesus’ prayer this morning we hear the answer: We are one. For so Jesus prayed:

As you, Father, are in me and I am in you, may they also be in us…. May [they] be one, as we are one, I in them and you in me, that they may become completely one.

Of course, this begs the question: Are we? Are we one? After all, if Jesus had to pray for it, it doesn’t exactly sound like a done deal. And we certainly need no expert to tell us what we can so easily see for ourselves: this world is a mess. Division and enmity are everywhere, often with outright cruelty. So, no, we absolutely are not one.

Jesus’ prayer seems woefully, and disturbingly, unanswered…until we look more carefully and ask a basic question: Who is the “they” Jesus is praying for?

Jesus prayed for his disciples, and then he said, “I ask not only on behalf of these (that is, his disciples who were with him in the room at the time, shortly before his arrest and crucifixion), but [I ask] also on behalf of those who will believe in me through their word, that they may all be one.

Jesus is praying for future generations of the church who will come to faith through the disciples’ ministry. In a sense, quite literally (we can say), Jesus was praying for us, for St. John’s, Gig Harbor. We are the heritage of the disciples’ faith. We are the ones who have come to believe through their word and ministry.

It is we, together as the church, who can become the embodied answer to Jesus’ prayer in our place and time. May we be one, as Jesus is one with the Father.

Now, of course, we desire this for the whole world. And, of course (I trust), it is such a thorough redeeming that is God’s ultimate intention. But for us – right now – this spirit of compassion that leads to oneness is already quite realistically among us. Or can be.

That is why these missional statements of ours at St. John’s are so essential to who we are: to be like Jesus; to meet each other where we are; to choose love.

These aren’t gimmicks devised by a marketing firm to put on our website and make us feel good about ourselves. They are central to our identity, as individuals, but especially as a church.

And as we set our hearts towards this intention, it’s helpful to realize that unity does not always mean conformity. We can differ with one another – in matters of politics, in matters of theology, or simply in matters of personality and interests. Being with some people is easy and desirable. Being with others takes more intention or self-control. But that doesn’t make it phony. To the contrary, it makes it grown-up: I choose to love you; I choose to see you and to honor you; I choose to perceive your dignity and worth even in ways (especially in ways!) that appear different from my own.

And if we want to live and experience such a spirit of unity, it often first requires a deliberate intention to become aware of the one who is different from ourselves.

Laura Almaas is a parishioner at St. John’s. Recently, she showed me the Merlin app on her phone. It’s a birdwatching app that’s really cool. You open it up, wherever you are, and press, “Sound ID,” and it starts recording – listening for every bird song it hears. And it’s amazing. This app can detect each distinct sound. And when it does, it pops up the bird’s picture and ID on your phone, “White-crowned sparrow; American robin; Bewick’s wren.” The longer it listens, the longer the list gets. And you can click each listing to get all sorts of information about it. It’s great.

Before I began playing with this app, I was only ever just vaguely aware of “the sound of birds” in my yard. But there was no distinction – just a general sense of “birds making noise.” Most times, I wasn’t even aware of that. I was oblivious.

But now I am listening. And I’m hearing the distinction between the sounds. I’ll often whip out my phone to help me figure it out, “Who are you?” And my life is enhanced. I’m not just a property owner, surveying my domain. I’m part of something far bigger, sharing this space with the birds, with the deer, with the cedars. The more I see, the better my life becomes – the richer this life becomes – this life I’m so blessed to share.

Unfortunately, there is no Merlin app for people. There’s no button to push that can tell us, “there’s a lesbian, who lives with her partner and likes to knit hats and works at a law firm in Seattle. There’s a Republican who voted for Donald Trump, whose wife’s breast cancer has just returned after five years and whose favorite film is ‘The Shawshank Redemption.’ There’s a boy whose autism won’t be diagnosed for another 2 years, who loves Pokémon, but thinks recess is the worst part of his day.”

There’s no app we can download to do this work for us. We’ve got to figure out for ourselves: Who are these people sharing our world? Sharing our church?

And you know, it’s okay. We don’t need a special app to help us hear. We’re already humans together. In most cases, we already speak each other’s language. We already share the same needs and desires to be at home in this world. We just need to choose … to open our eyes and see; to open our ears and hear: Who are you? What is life like for you? How does your experience of being in this world differ from my own?

I’ve shared before the unlikely source of wisdom I found in Dave Chappelle, a somewhat controversial (and very colorful) comedian. He’s a black man, and tells the story of his friendship with another comedian, Daphne, a white trans woman. He recalls the time they shared a stage together, laughing and describing their lives and experiences. The set was ending and he closed the conversation saying, “‘I love you to death, but I have no… idea what you’re talking about.’ The whole crowd laughed, except for Daphne. Man, (he said), she looks at me like I’m not her friend anymore…. Then she said, ‘I don’t need you to understand me…. I just need you to believe…that I’m having a human experience.’…And the whole crowd gasped.”[1]

I just need you to believe that I’m having a human experience.

This is the wisdom our world needs…our church needs…we followers of Jesus certainly need. We’re surrounded by those who are both like us and also quite different from us – whose passions and experiences differ from our own; whose fears and vulnerabilities differ from our own; whose opportunities and barriers differ from our own. Even with much listening, we won’t always understand one another. Good heavens, understanding ourselves is hard enough and can take more time than you’d think. I suspect the joy of heaven will not simply be seeing one another again, but seeing one another and ourselves, truly, for the first time.

But so long as we are living this life, we strive to meet each other where we are, with no burden to interpret them or “be right” about them, but simply to honor them: “Just like me, you’re having a human experience.”

And along the way, there will be graces – moments when we do truly see one another.

1. P. Newell, a Scottish author, tells the story of flying to Atlanta to deliver a lecture on Martin Buber’s Í and Thou theology. He’d fallen asleep with his lecture notes on his lap. And after a while, the woman next to him, prodded him awake. She’d been reading his notes and asked: “What does, ‘I am who I am’ mean?”

He looked at her, then said, “You are a woman, you are Indian, you are a daughter, and I think you are Hindu.” She nodded. “But none of these words capture the heart of your being. You are always more than anything that can be said.” She then began telling him about herself and her journey from India. Her eyes began to fill with tears. “Who am I?” she asked. “My parents tell me who I am. And my religion tells me who I am, as does my culture, but who am I?” Turns out, this was her first trip to America. She was traveling to meet her husband from a newly arranged marriage, and would be making her home with him and his family in a strange land. And she was frightened.

Newell writes, “I pointed to another word in my notes, the word Thou. And I said to her, ‘If I were to try to speak into the heart of your being, this is the word I would use, ‘Thou.’ I would use it to speak to that part of you that cannot be named, that part of you that is divine and forever free.’ She paused [and said], ‘Thank you. Your words are helpful. I feel less afraid.” He promised he’d pray for her the next day, for her new beginning. And she promised to pray for him.

They said their good-byes on the plane, sensing it’d be inappropriate to get off the plane together in front of her new family. But he ended his story, “at baggage claim, I looked across the carousel and there was Pushpa surrounded by her Atlanta family. She too was looking across the carousel in the opposite direction and our eyes met. We didn’t nod or gesture. There was only the slightest of smiles between us. But in her eyes, I glimpsed the light of the eternal Thou. And I left the airport that day knowing that I too had been truly seen.”[2]

“May [they] be one, as we are one, I in them and you in me, that they may become completely one.”

[1] Dave Chappelle, The Closer (2021).

[2] J. P. Newell, The Great Search. New York: Harper Collins, p. 61-62.