Seventh Sunday of Easter Sermon

The other day, I was sitting in Cynthia’s office. She was on her computer, scrolling through images, looking for artwork of Jesus as the Good Shepherd to give to her kids in the atrium – their own picture of the Good Shepherd to hang in their rooms.

As she scrolled, I heard her muttering, “No. No. No.” And I’m sure you can guess why: Christian art is often so (what’s the word?) terrible! Jesus is always depicted as being so serene and emotionless and otherworldly. It’s dreadful! Isn’t the whole point of our faith in the incarnation that Jesus joins us in our humanity – that God in Christ becomes a full participant of this life we’re living, that includes emotion?

So keep your perpetually serene Jesus. I want the Jesus who knows how to cry. And when to be furious. And when to laugh. And everything in between.

And with that, I can only imagine what that moment of goodbye must have been like for Jesus on his last night with the disciples before being arrested. We just heard a part of that story in our gospel reading, where he’s praying about leaving them. He knew this was the end – the end of three intense years of ministry, of friendship, of being on the road together, of their lives transformed, together. It’s all reaching its end.

Sure, there will be more to come. (There is the resurrection, after all!) But it will be different. Their roles will have changed. This season of sharing everything together is ending, tonight.

I suspect Jesus’ relationship with his disciples was something like that of a parent. We feel it so clearly in his prayer: “God, I’ve done my best by them; I’ve done everything I could to protect them and to teach them about you and what it means to live this life with meaning and purpose, especially how to live in solidarity with one another and with you. I’ve done my best, Father. But now I must leave them – alone in this hostile world. Protect them, God. Protect them.

How many parents have made such a prayer on the first day of kindergarten… as they leave for college… the night before they get married. “I’ve done my best, God. And now they’re moving beyond me. But not beyond you. Protect them.”

And beyond our yearning for their well-being, is our own profound gratitude for who we have become through them. As Michael Gerson wrote after dropping his firstborn off at college:

Parenthood offers many lessons in patience and sacrifice. But ultimately, it is a lesson in humility. The very best thing about your life is a short stage in someone else’s story. And it is enough.[1]

Surely, this transformation through love, was just as true for Christ as it was for his disciples.

Now, obviously, I’m rather sensitive to these themes in my life right now, with my youngest leaving soon for college. In my office this week, preparing this sermon, I re-read that Michael Gerson column about his son leaving for college, and I sat at my desk and wept. It was pathetic, really, and just a precursor (I’m sure) for emotions yet to come.

But there’s another reason I’m sensitive to this theme today, because (at the ten o’clock service) we’re baptizing Hollis Gateley. Many of you will recognize him from church. He’s the one who helped me serve communion at the kids’ service a couple weeks ago.

But many of you knew of him without knowing it, because he was a frequent (albeit usually anonymous) subject of my online Compline meditations during COVID. Hollis is my next-door neighbor. He’s five now, but I remember the day he was born, praying a blessing over him at the hospital. And during COVID, when the world shut down and everyone’s sense of community became very small, Hollis and his family were part of my family’s small community. He has mattered much to us, and very soon, they’ll be moving to California. But a few weeks ago, he came running to our house to say, “Eric, I want to be baptized.” And that is what we’re doing today, with confidence that God always meets us where we are – that the motivations and yearnings of a five-year-old are just as fitting a place for God to meet us as those of a fifty-five-year-old.

And there’s that point, early in the baptismal liturgy, when I ask of the congregation, “Will you who witness these vows do all in your power to support this person in his life in Christ?”

And you say, “We will.”

Now obviously, in a case like this, this particular child is moving and (unless you choose to keep praying for him) you won’t have the opportunity to support him directly. But in saying, “We will,” you are committing to being a church who lives with integrity, who models the values to which we aspire in seeking to be like Jesus, that those who worship here, especially the children being raised here, will have every reason to believe – because of you – that the Kingdom of God is real, that love in community is life-giving, that forgiveness and reconciliation are possible and necessary, that these children belong and have worth and dignity, and that in the face of this hostile world, they have every reason to live in hope, because – through you ­– they have experienced God with us, God in us, God in them.

We humans have always needed this hope. It is the striving of all faith and all religion. But I’m especially mindful how this world is becoming increasingly hostile and unsafe and uncertain. And by “uncertain,” I’m speaking of the misinformation that is saturating our culture. And now we’ve got “Artificial Intelligence” to contend with (or “AI” as it’s called). Now I’m confident AI will do many beneficial things for us. I think especially of medical diagnoses and things like that. It will be able to deliver the good it promises on many fronts. But, clearly, like everything, it’s also going to be used badly. More and more, we will be vulnerable to false information, false words, false images and videos.

It’s inevitable. But my particular concern is that – as we become increasingly aware of the untrustworthiness flowing through the airwaves, into our phones and computers, and into our thinking – it will leave us feeling more and more vulnerable and divided and isolated. Which means, our need of real relationships – real community – will be more urgent than ever, because we are made in the image of God, made for oneness, made for truth, a truth that becomes real and alive in the midst of relationships, where love dwells. The church must truly be the church, not for ourselves alone, but for our neighbors also – a reliable community of love.

When my son Henry was learning to drive, he would narrate every decision he was making: “Turn on the turn signal. Slow down for that car to merge.” It was his way of enforcing within himself the rules of the road. And, without fail, as he’d pull out of the garage, the first thing he’d always say was, “Turn around. Look for Hollis.” You see, there’s a gate between our two yards and Henry always knew there was a real possibility that a short, little 3-year-old could be running behind the car as he backed out. “Turn around. Look for Hollis.”

I was always so proud of Henry when he’d say that, because of his awareness of the inherent relationality of being a driver: We share the road with other drivers and bicyclists and pedestrians. And our inattentiveness has the potential to do great harm. So now, ever since then, “Turn around. Look for Hollis,” has become for me a kind of proverb of how to live responsibly in community: How does my behavior affect those around me?

It’s a call to awareness.

We do not live alone. Our inattentiveness can lead to an actual accident, or (as is more often the case) to reinforcing another’s sense of isolation, something we’re particularly prone to in the Pacific Northwest, where leaving people alone, is regarded as something of a virtue. But it’s not what we want. We want to be known, to be seen, to be assured that we matter.

I heard a story just the other day on that radio program, “My Unsung Hero.” Bill Price is an adult now, but he was recalling a pivotal moment from when he was fifteen years-old. He was standing alone, bereft and abandoned at having just said good-bye to friends at the end of a summer program. (You remember how that feels.)

And not far away… another group of teenagers stood laughing and talking. “I found myself wishing so much to be a part of that group,” he said. One of the people in the group was … Wendy Westman. She and [Bill] had only met in passing at the summer program a few months earlier. As [he] stood there, feeling increasingly lonely, [Wendy] turned around and asked him if he’d like to join her group.

“My life was transformed in that moment,” [he] said. [Her] reaching out sparked a realization in [him]: He could offer that same kindness to anyone, at any time.

“It’s so easy to see someone who seems left out and alone and notice them, say hello to them, be kind to them,” [he] explained. “And my realization was that this is a gift that we can all give.” [Bill] went on to become a psychiatrist. A primary part of his job is being kind to his patients, listening to them and being attentive to their needs. [He] attributes his understanding of the importance of kindness to that moment when he was 15 years old.

“To the extent that I’m a good person in my life today,” [he said], it’s probably due to Wendy Westman inviting me to join her group.”[2]

It’s become a habit for us at St. John’s to display the painting behind the altar when there’s a baptism. This river through the wilderness becomes as the Jordan River and all baptismal waters – flowing, cleansing, healing. But as I look at it today, I see also in it a new message. The water is as Hollis and all our children, flowing among us, for their brief season. And we are the flowers on the banks of their river – watching, tending, loving – but also made alive through their life-giving waters, nurturing us.

For so it is in the Kingdom of God. We belong to each other, baptized in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, one God – now one with us. And so may it be, forever and ever. Amen.

[1] Micheale Gerson, “Saying goodbye to my child, the youngster,” The Post, Aug. 19, 2013

[2] My Unsung Hero from Hidden Brain, by Laura Kwerel, Autumn Barnes, May 16, 2023