Author Archives: mbj

Angel in the doorway

“Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.”
 (Luke 1:38)

I want to tell an Advent story that took place six years ago.  You’ll  remember that in the fall of 2005, two hurricanes, strengthened by the unusually warm waters of the Gulf, plowed into Louisiana and Mississippi.  Millions of Americans were evacuated.  Within a matter of hours, most of an American city lay in ruins.  With characteristic generosity, a group of you from Grace Church immediately began organizing a service trip to Mississippi.  In late November we would drive down a truck full of supplies, sleep in a makeshift camp, and do whatever was needed – haul debris, dig mud, or just listen and pray.  I was eager to go, but then received an invitation to join a group of religious leaders who were planning to attend the upcoming U.N. climate change conference in Montreal — the same international gathering that just met in Durban, South Africa.

The trips to Mississippi and Montreal overlapped, and I couldn’t take both.  I decided to go to Montreal, so for several days in Advent I mingled with delegates of the World Council of Churches, listened to speeches, wrote editorials, and joined thousands of citizens in marching through the city’s streets.  It was the most vigorous celebration of Advent I could imagine, for the placards and banners rang out the season’s urgent themes: Now is the time to wake from sleep, to clean up our act, to sort out our lives, to cast away the works of darkness and put on the armor of light.

That exuberant march was one of the Advent gifts that I received, a glimpse of the burgeoning worldwide movement that draws on humanity’s deepest reserves of hope.  The other gift came as a surprise, when I was alone in my hotel.  By then I was steeped in the stark reality of climate change.  I had studied the aerial photographs of Mount Kilimanjaro without any snow, listened to climate reports from the Arctic to Argentina, heard survivors of Katrina describe the vulnerability of the poor.  As for my government, it seemed incapable of taking the issue seriously.

After a restless night, I woke up filled with anger and sorrow, needing badly to pray.  I pulled a chair over to the window and let my anguish spill out before God – grief for what is irreparably lost, rage at the inertia that kills with such abandon.  I felt helpless.  Dear Lord, what can I do?  What can anyone do?  Then I heard something.

I put my trust in you. 

Startled, I opened my eyes and looked around.  Who said that?  I had heard the sentence as clearly as if someone were standing in the room.  I often say those very words to God, but now the message was addressed to me.  Its meaning was: Fear not.  Keep going.  I am with you. 

I was incredulous.  Was there some mistake?  How could God trust me?  I had a choice: to accept or reject that assurance, to believe it or to blow it off.  What I heard seemed as unlikely as what Mary heard from the  angel: the Lord is with you; do not be afraid; by the power of the Holy Spirit you will conceive and bear a son; and he will be the savior of the world. 

Absurd!  Yet God’s hope for the future hung on Mary’s willingness to consent.  Maybe it hangs on our willingness, too.  Who knows how many messages God delivers daily to the countless faithful of every religion, and of none?  Trust the good, wherever you find it.  I know you are afraid, but trust the truth.  Trust love.  Trust yourself.  Above all, trust me.  Let my life be born in you.  Who knows what power will be released in us when we dare to believe those unseen encounters that offer a divine word of love?

Here on the Fourth Sunday of Advent, on the brink of Christmas, there is a Love that wants to be born within us and among us, a love that knows no bounds.  It begins as a whisper in the ear, a tug at the heart, a message from an angel inviting us to welcome a Divine Guest whose effect on our lives we can neither predict nor control.  What will happen if we truly give ourselves to this love?  What will we do?  Who will we become?  “Really,” we may say to ourselves, “I’m kind of used to being who I am.  Sure, I want God to come into my life, but let’s not get carried away!  There’s something to be said for staying in control.  It’s risky to let go.  I’m not sure.  Let me get back to you on that.”

Can you feel the pull between attraction and fear, between trust and hesitation?  Like every love song, the love song between God and the soul is about longing and resistance, about desire and holding back.  If we could put words to it, the conversation might go something like this.  Here is a poem (“Covenant”) by Margaraet Halaska, a Franciscan nun:

                   The Father
          knocks at my door
seeking a home for his son:

          Rent is cheap, I say.

I don’t want to rent, I want to buy, says God.

          I’m not sure I want to sell,
but you might come in to look around.

I think I will, says God.

I might let you have a room or two.

I like it, says God.  I’ll take the two.
You might decide to give me more some day.
          I can wait, says God.

          I’d like to give you more,
but it’s a bit difficult.  I need some space for me.

I know, says God, but I’ll wait.  I like what I see.

Hmm, maybe I can let you have another room.
          I really don’t need that much.

Thanks, says God.  I’ll take it.  I like what I see.

I’d like to give you the whole house
          but I’m not sure —

Think on it, says God.  I wouldn’t put you out.
Your house would be mine and my son would live in it.
You’d have more space than you’d ever had before.

          I don’t understand at all.

I know, says God, but I can’t tell you about that.
          You’ll have to discover it for yourself.
That can only happen if you let him have the whole house.

          A bit risky, I say.

Yes, says God, but try me.

          I’m not sure-
          I’ll let you know.

I can wait, says God.  I like what I see.

You will notice that God does not force or compel, because that is not the language of love.  God simply longs and waits and asks to draw close.  When we dare to say Yes, Christ is born again.  Two thousand years ago God entered human history and became one ­of us, one with us.  God came then, and God comes now, because God longs to join us on our journey, in our daily life and relationships, in our pain and worry and hope.  Will we consent to God’s birth within us?  Like Mary, will we say, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word”? 

Right now, can we close our eyes and silently say to the Holy Spirit, “Come.  Come into my life, just as it is, and help me find my way to You.  Help me step through my fear, my anxiety, my worry, my need to be in control.  Help me find You in my ordinary, everyday living.  I trust You more than I trust myself, and I thank you for your trust in me”?

Longing for God

Gracious God, stir up your strength and come to help us. Restore us, o God of hosts; show the light of your countenance, and we shall be saved.
Amen.

Welcome to Advent and the beginning of a new church year. As you can see, the frontal hanging over the pulpit, the clergy stoles, and our brand-new Advent chasuble are all blue. Like me, you may associate Advent with the color purple, for the four Sundays before Christmas have often been called a “mini-Lent,” or “little Lent.” Lent is the long season of repentance as we prepare for the joy of Easter; it has a solemn, somber tone, and its color is purple. But that’s not quite the mood of Advent. There is a movement afoot in the Episcopal Church to re-claim the other ancient color for Advent: the color blue — a color associated with Mary, the mother of Jesus, with whom we wait this season for the birth of the Christ child. Blue is also the color for hope, expectation, and confident anticipation. Advent does include elements of repentance, but above all Advent is a season for hope. Ahead of us is the celebration of Christ’s birth, and beyond that we look forward to the Second Coming of God in Christ, to the consummation of history, to the Last Great Day when all things will be gathered up in love.

So here on the First Sunday of Advent, we ask ourselves: What are we waiting for? What is it that sets our heart on fire with longing? What is it that we await with eagerness and hope? When we ask ourselves such questions, no doubt all sorts of answers spring to mind, for all sorts of things may seem desirable in the course of a day. Maybe we look with hope toward getting a job or getting a better job, to going on vacation or retiring. Maybe we long for the next family reunion or for our family to get along better. Maybe we long for good health for ourselves or someone we love, or for Congress to get its act together, for some piece of wild land to be protected from development, or for an end to poverty and hunger. At certain moments, sometimes our most ardent hope is simply for the traffic light to turn green.

All kinds of longings flow through us in a given day, desires large and small, petty and noble. But within all our desires streams one basic desire, a desire that God has planted in our depths and that awakens and sings through us whenever we dare to give it voice. Here on this First Sunday of Advent, we open ourselves to our deepest desire, our deepest hope: the desire for the fullness of God, who is the fulfillment of our lives.

“O that you would tear open the heavens and come down, so that the mountains would quake at your presence!” cries the prophet Isaiah (Isaiah 64:1). The fullness of God’s presence is like a fire that kindles brushwood, a flame that causes water to boil. It is not enough for God to look down from the heavens, remote and impassive: God must split the heavens apart, and reveal God’s self, so that everyone may know that this alone is God, who responds actively to those who wait for God, who meets those who repent and those who prepare a place for God in their hearts.

The prophet’s passion is echoed in today’s psalm, with its urgent, pleading verse, “Stir up your strength and come to help us… Show the light of your countenance, and we shall be saved” (Psalm 80:2b, 3b). Advent is given to us because we are a waiting people, an expectant people, a longing people. We are restless with the status quo, impatient with business as usual, because God has planted within us a vision and hope of what life could be. Advent is the season to claim our desire for God and for the fullness of God’s reign upon this broken, lovely earth. Christians stand open-heartedly in the present, but we are oriented toward the future. We turn toward the future and long for God to come in power and great glory. We look ahead with hope to the future of who we will be — of what the world will be — when everything in us and around us is reconciled, when everything that has grown old is made new, everything cast down is lifted up, everything hurt is healed, everything unjust has been made right, and the love that gave birth to the universe is visible at last in all its glory.

Advent invites us to become people who dare, as Walter Wink puts it, ¹ to “believe the future into being.” “This,” he says, “is the politics of hope. Hope envisages its future and then acts as if that future is now irresistible, thus helping to create the future for which it longs. The future,” he says, “is not closed… Even a small number of people, firmly committed to the new inevitability on which they have fixed their imaginations, can decisively affect the shape the future takes. These shapers of the future… call out of the future the longed-for new present. In the New Testament…the name and texture and aura of that future is [called] the reign of God.”

The simplest Advent prayer is the ancient prayer found in its original Aramaic in Paul’s First Letter to the Corinthians: “Maranatha. Come, Lord Jesus” (1 Corinthians 16:22). We are hungry for you, Jesus. We long for your love. We yearn for your justice. It is you who came to cast fire upon the earth, you who longed to set us ablaze with your love. It is you who gave us the parable of the doorkeeper, commanded by his master to be on watch until the master’s return, so that when the master comes back and knocks on the door, the doorkeeper can fling it open and let him in. “Watch,” you tell us. “Keep awake.” For you will come again.

How do we stay awake? How do we wait well? I will give you two small words that can help us this Advent to wait for the fullness of God, to keep awake for the coming of the Lord: prayer and generosity.

Advent is a time for prayer. Our hearts must be open if we are to hear new things and see new things, and so we pray the basic Advent prayer of desire and hope: “Come, Lord Jesus.” In prayer we listen carefully to the voice of God who calls us beloved. Roman Catholic priest and writer Henri Nouwen used to say that if you think you are worthless, you can’t wait well. You won’t see the One who is coming, because you won’t think you are worth coming to! So we listen to that gentle, inner voice that is always saying to us, “I love you. I created you. I sent you into this world. I want to come closer to you — because you are worth it!”

This brings to mind a story by Richard Foster from his book about prayer. As Foster tells it, “One day a friend of mine was walking through a shopping mall with his two-year-old son. The child was in a particularly cantankerous mood, fussing and fuming. The frustrated father tried everything to quiet his son, but nothing seemed to help. The child simply would not obey. Then, under some special inspiration, the father scooped up his son, and, holding him close to his chest, began singing an impromptu love song. None of the words rhymed. He sang off key. And yet, as best he could, the father began sharing his heart. “I love you,” he sang. “I’m so glad you’re my boy. You make me happy. I like the way you laugh.” On they went from one store to the next. Quietly the father continued singing off-key and making up words that did not rhyme. The child relaxed and became still, listening to this strange and wonderful song. Finally, they finished shopping and went to the car. As the father opened the door and prepared to buckle his son into the carseat, the child lifted his head and said simply, “Sing it to me again, Daddy! Sing it to me again!” ²

In Advent, we take time to pray, to “let ourselves be gathered up into the arms” of the Father, the Mother, of our souls, and to let her “sing a love song over us.” ³

If one way of staying awake is to be faithful in prayer, another is to be generous to those whose needs are greater than our own. The root of the word “generosity” is the Latin “genus,” which means “race, kind, or kin.” When we are generous, we make others kin. Do you know anyone who is lonely? Do you know anyone who feels bereft, forgotten, or rejected? Do you know someone who might have woken up this morning wondering if it was worth trying to get through one more day, and whether anyone cares? Think about it. Maybe you are just the person who can give that person a word of support, a visit, or a phone call. Maybe you can give someone a good listening-to, like they’ve never been listened to before!

When we are generous, we do what is ours to do. We don’t have to do it all or do it perfectly. We need only to offer the gift that we alone can offer in the midst of the particulars of our lives. Have you ever noticed how particular Jesus’s gifts are? “This is my body,” he said. “This is my blood.” ⁴ We offer what we in particular can offer — and who knows what will happen then, what creative next step will then be possible? Who knows how God will make use of that gift, so that it multiplies in ways we could never have imagined?

If we do these things — if we’re faithful in prayer and generous in love — then we can rest assured that Christmas is coming. God is coming. For Christ was not just born long ago, but is even now being born in our hearts.

God is with us in our hope and longing. To quote Brian Swimme (“Canticle of the Cosmos”):

The longing that gave birth to the stars
The longing that gave birth to life
Who knows what this longing can give birth to now?

1. Walter Wink, Engaging the Powers: Discernment and Resistance in a World of Domination, Minneapolis; Fortress Press, p. 299.

2. Richard J. Foster, Prayer: Finding the Heart’s True Home, HarperSanfrancisco, 1992, pp. 3-4.

3. Ibid., p. 4.

4. Ann and Barry Ulanov, Primary Speech: A Psychology of Prayer, Atlanta: John Knox Press, 1982, p. 96.

Will you come to the feast?

Jesus’ parable of the wedding feast has been interpreted in all kinds of ways, some of them helpful, some of them — not so much. Over the years, commentators have read the parable as an angry rebuke of the Jewish religious authorities who rejected Jesus; as an allegory to justify the destruction of Jerusalem by Roman soldiers in the year 70 C.E.; and as an account of why the early Christian communities opened their doors to Gentiles as well as Jews. At their worst, interpretations of the parable can smack of conscious or unconscious anti-Semitism; at their best — well, that is what I’d like to explore with you this morning. What meaning can this parable have for us today? In particular, what can it tell us about our interior experiences of God, and what spiritual guidance can it give?

Let’s take it from the top. Once upon a time there was a king — a wise and all-powerful king who decided to hold a wedding banquet for his son. He got everything ready and prepared a feast of the finest foods. He sent out invitations to his chosen guests, saying “Everything is ready; come to the wedding banquet” (Matthew 22:4). But the guests would not come. Twice they were asked, and twice they turned him down. They “made light” of the invitation, the story tells us, and some “went away, one to his farm, another to his business” (Matthew 22:5), while the rest attacked and killed the messengers.

When we read this through the lens of spiritual experience, what might this part of the story mean? I think at once of all the times that I refuse those invitations to the feast. Too often I act like one of those guests who is handed a beautiful, hand-engraved wedding invitation and I cross my arms and say “No thanks; not interested.” Has this ever happened to you? Maybe you’re sitting inside, and you’ve been inside all day, getting some work done, and you look up and notice that the sun is now low in the sky, casting a marvelous golden light across the purple underbelly of the clouds, and some part of you stares and says Oh! And you want to get up and gaze out the window for a while. But you don’t.

Or maybe there’s a man with a loose gray coat and an unshaven face who is standing on the sidewalk where you just parked your car, and as you put a quarter in the meter, he mumbles a request: could you give him money to buy a cup of coffee? You look across the street and sure enough, there’s a coffee shop right there; even if you don’t want to give the man cash, you could perfectly well walk across the street and get him a cup of coffee. But you don’t.

Or maybe you feel distracted and harassed, or maybe depressed and discouraged, and you sense a deep tug to prayer. You know that new life would blossom in you if only you could get yourself to sit down for a while and pay attention to what is going on inside, if only you could just let yourself rest for a while in God’s embrace. You know that this is what you really want and need, but do you let yourself pause to take in that nourishment? You don’t. You’ve got other things to do — good things, important things. That inner tug can wait. If you ignore it long enough, maybe it will go away.

Invitations to love’s banquet can take many forms, and they come not just once, but every day, and many times a day — maybe as an invitation to gaze at the beauty of the world, or as an invitation to be generous, or as an invitation to pause for while to give the lover of our souls our full and undivided attention in prayer. Yet how easy it is to say no! I have a million excuses — I’m too busy, too focused on my own agenda, too scattered or overloaded to relinquish my worried, busy mind, to let my awareness open, and to drop down to my heart.

And that’s a loss, because deep at the center of our being is an unquenchable thirst for union with the divine. Deep in our guts, our bones, our very DNA, is an irrepressible yearning to move toward the Source of life, the All, the Ultimate, the Holy One. Call it what you will — human beings the world over, whatever their religion, share a desire for what one writer calls “the union on this earth and in this body of the human with the divine. This is the true spiritual marriage, the consummation of love that in one way or another is the aim of every ritual and every practice in every religion.” ¹

It’s no wonder that the Bible so often uses wedding imagery as a way to express the complete and intimate union of God and God’s people, or of God and the individual soul. Sometimes the Bible depicts the bridegroom as God; sometimes the bridegroom is Christ. Sometimes, as in this parable, we are invited to be guests at the wedding, and sometimes we ourselves are the bridegroom, we ourselves are the bride.

Love poets and mystics know all about the ecstasy of spiritual marriage. Take, for instance, St. Francis of Assisi, whose feast day we celebrated a few days ago. Francis gazed deeply into the natural world as if into a mirror, and saw reflected back to him the outpouring love of God. For him, God was not an entity “out there” — God was within him and around him; God infused and sustained and shone out from all things. Here is a little something that St. Francis wrote: ²

Such love does
the sky now pour,
that whenever I stand in a field,

I have to wring out the light
when I get
home.

The human longing for union with God is universal, but how quickly we repress it, ignore it, or push it away! Who knows why? Maybe we don’t want to feel our need and vulnerability; maybe we’re afraid to relinquish control; maybe we’re convinced we’re not good enough, we can’t possibly be loved that much. But if we keep pushing God away, if we keep shutting ourselves off from the invitation to love and to be loved, then before long we will start to experience God as the enemy, and that’s the next part of the parable: some guests mock the messengers and blow them off, and other guests seize, mistreat, and kill them. The text tells us that “the king was enraged” (Matthew 22:7). He sends in his troops, destroys the murderers, and burns their city down.

As a spiritual story, this parable is quite accurate and exact: when we turn ourselves into the enemy of God, eventually we begin to experience God as an enemy. God has not changed, but we have — we have pushed God away, and deliberately alienated ourselves from the divine. Before any spiritual union can possibly take place, maybe that stubborn, resisting part of the self needs to be brought low and to fall away, like a city set on fire. All of us who at some point have made a mess of our lives, who have made terrible mistakes and headed too far down a willful, self-centered, and defiant path, know what it is like to find ourselves sitting in the ruins of a smoldering city. Sometimes the ego must be crucified before the soul can be born.

Yet the invitation to love never ceases. In fact, it gets wider than ever, deeper and more expansive, more inclusive. There is no guest list now. The king’s love reaches out to everyone. The wedding is ready, he says; the feast is about to be served and the food is hot. He sends messengers into the streets to invite everyone to come, both good and bad, and they stream into the wedding hall until it is filled at last.

If you read this as a story of the interior life, it seems that only now — after our pride and defiance have been humbled and brought low — only now can we understand that every part of ourselves is being invited to the feast, that everything in us that we have cast away, abandoned, and rejected is being invited into the presence of God to be welcomed and healed and made whole. Our whole selves are invited to the feast, and everybody is invited with us. There is no need now to shrug hopelessly and to say that we have to settle for being alienated from each other, that we have keep living driven, restless, distracted lives, that we have to make peace with poverty or economic injustice, that we have to condone destroying the earth, or that we have to tolerate an endless succession of wars – we have been invited to feast at the table of divine life. We have been invited into the very heart of God, and in the strength of that divine presence we are sent out into the world to bear witness to God’s justice and mercy and love.

The parable ends with the startling little story of the guest who comes to the feast without a wedding robe and who is summarily bound hand and foot and thrown into the outer darkness (Matthew 22:11-14). I hear this as a reminder to stay humble: God loves us completely, and invites everyone to the feast, but we have our own work to do: to clothe ourselves day by day with the intention to love. As we hear in Colossians, our job is to “[strip] off the old self with its practices and [to clothe ourselves] with the new self…” The passage continues: “As God’s chosen ones… clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience. Bear with one another and…forgive each other… Above all, clothe yourselves with love” (Colossians 3:9-10, 12-14). In short, we wear the right clothes to the wedding feast of life when we clothe ourselves with love.

In two weeks I turn sixty, and at this decisive juncture, here is what I want to tell you. When love’s holy invitation comes, I want to say yes. When love calls me to marvel at the sunset, to stop and gape at the beauty of the world, I want to say yes. When love calls me to walk across the street to bring someone a cup of hot coffee and to add some honey to it, and some milk, as well, because that’s the way he says he likes it, I want to say yes. When the divine call comes to sit down in prayer and to give the lover of my soul my full and undivided attention, I want to say yes. As Mary Oliver writes in her poem, “When Death Comes,” ³

When it’s over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

I want to say yes to life, yes to God, yes to the dear one in whose invisible, irresistible presence we step fully into life, daring to connect deeply with ourselves and each other, refusing to be spectators, refusing to hold back, stepping out to create a world in which everyone has a chance to experience how deeply he or she is loved by God.

Here’s another poem⁴ about the marriage between God and the soul, written by Anna Swir, a poet from Poland. I don’t know whether or not she was married, but I do know that the “dear one” to whom she refers in this poem might well be God. Here goes:

She is sixty. She lives the greatest love of her life.

She walks arm-in-arm with her dear one,
her hair streams in the wind. Her dear one says,
“You have hair like pearls.”

Her children say:
“Old fool.”

A fool for Christ? You bet. That’s who we are, if we’re lucky: a bride married to amazement, a bridegroom taking the world into our arms. Will you come and follow me, Jesus asks us every day — in fact, in every moment. Will you come to the banquet table and take in my presence with the bread and wine? Will you let my love shine out in your life?

I will give the last word to Rumi, a Sufi poet who ends one of his poems like this: ⁵

On a day when the wind is perfect,
the sail just needs to open
and the love starts.

Today is such a day.

1. Roger Housden, For Lovers of God Everywhere: Poems of the Christian Mystics, New York City: Hay House, Inc., 2009, p. xiii.

2. St. Francis of Assisi, “Wring Out My Clothes,” in Love Poems from God: Twelve Sacred Voices from the East and West, translated by Daniel Ladinsky, New York, Penguin Compass, 2002, p. 48

3. Mary Oliver, New and Selected Poems, Boston: Beacon Press, 1992, p. 10.

4. Anna Swir, “The Greatest Love,” translated by Czeslaw Milosz and Leonard Nathan, in Risking Everything: 110 Poems of Love and Revelation, edited by Roger Housden, New York: Harmony Books, p, 43.

5. Jalaludin Rumi, “On a Day When the Wind is Perfect,” in Love Poems from God, op. cit., p. 80.

Walking on water

Among the items that sometimes circulate on the Internet are bloopers from parish bulletins — you know, those odd juxtapositions or quirky phrases that are inadvertently funny. Here is one. Title of Sunday morning sermon: “Jesus walks on water.” Title of Sunday evening program: “Searching for Jesus.”

We grin because it’s so reasonable. If someone strode down a beach, waded into the surf, and tried to walk along the surface of the sea, you and I would dismiss the person as delusional. It would be absurd: you can’t do it; you can’t violate the laws of physics like that. Yet here we have a story in which not only Jesus walks on the water, but also — if briefly — his disciple Peter, as well. What do we make of it? What is this story about?

Jesus has just finished feeding the five thousand, which is the Gospel story that we heard last week. Now he puts the disciples into the boat and tells them to go on ahead to the other side of the Sea of Galilee, while he dismisses the crowds and goes up the mountain by himself to pray. This seems to have been characteristic of Jesus: he regularly withdrew from the circle of disciples and from his ministry to the crowds to take time alone in silent prayer, listening (as I imagine it) to the inner voice of love, letting himself steep in the same “sound of sheer silence” that Elijah heard on the mountain-top (1 Kings 19:12) and that all of us hear when in contemplative prayer we drop below the chatty commentaries of the mind and experience the love that is always being poured into our hearts (Romans 5:5).

So Jesus is alone in prayer as evening comes, and in the meantime the disciples are becoming increasingly frightened, for their boat, “battered by the waves,” is still “far from the land,” with the wind blowing hard against them (Matthew 14:14). The sea in this story — as in many parts of the Bible — is a symbol of chaos (c.f. Genesis 1:1; Jonah 1:4-16), and it is easy to imagine ourselves thrown into that little boat with the disciples, clinging to the gunwales for dear life. Who in this room doesn’t know what it’s like to feel overwhelmed? We’ve all had times of being caught up in waves — waves of trouble, waves of danger. The stock market plunging; a helicopter going down in Afghanistan; extreme weather events pointing to an unstable climate — pick your peril, there is plenty to go around. Some hazards are close to home. Last night, just as I was writing these words, my husband and I discovered that while we were out, a burglar had thrown a rock through a first-floor window of our house and had ransacked my mother’s apartment. Turbulence is around us — there’s no question about that. And turbulence may be inside us, too, bringing on waves of uneasiness and fear. No wonder we often feel swamped.

And then, early in the morning, sometime after 3 a.m., the disciples looked out into the darkness, and through the spray and surging water, they spotted something approaching them, walking on the sea. What could it be? Was it a ghost? “And they cried out in fear” (Matthew 14:26). But no — it was Jesus himself, who immediately spoke to them, saying, “Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid” (Matthew 14:27). “It is I” — or, literally “I am”: this is the very name of God, the name of the One who is the source of light and life, the very Ground of Being. “I am” is approaching; he is here; he is speaking to us. “Take heart,” he says. “Do not be afraid.”

Right in the middle of the whirlwind of our lives, right when we’re awash with worry and anxiety, our jaw clenched tight, and all our energy applied to the desperate attempt to keep ourselves afloat — we hear a calm, clear voice within us saying, “Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid.” We may be struggling with our selves. We may be struggling with our circumstances, struggling with sorrows and temptations, with regrets and fears, but then that voice sounds within us, the voice of Jesus, calling us to take heart. “Do not be afraid.”

You might think that this would be the end of the story, this story of Jesus calming the troubled waters of fear and anxiety that so often dominate our lives, but of course there is more. Peter, dear Peter — you can always count on him to be impetuous and impulsive, he is such an ardent soul! “Lord,” he says boldly, “if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.” And Jesus says, “Come” (Matthew 14:28-29).

And out Peter steps — out of the security of the boat, out of that small world where everyone is narrowly focused on staying alive — and he walks toward Jesus across the open waves. Apparently it’s not enough for Peter to experience the inward calm that Jesus gives, not enough for him to know that he is safe, not enough for him to experience the relief of understanding that the Lord of life is with him and will guide his boat safely to shore. No, Peter’s love for Jesus is too strong and too personal for that. He wants to meet Jesus where Jesus is — out in the turbulence of the world. He wants to do what Jesus does — to proclaim and bear witness to the love and mercy of God. He wants to follow where Jesus leads — to risk all, to venture all, to make his life not a concerted effort to stay cautious and safe, but rather a grand adventure in which moment to moment he gives himself in love, holding nothing back.

And so Peter gets out of the boat and starts walking on the water toward Jesus. When have you gotten out of the boat? For I’m sure you have. We get out of the boat and walk on the water whenever we venture a brave thing in love. We get out of the boat and walk on the water whenever we care less for our own comfort and security and more for the possibility of responding to human need. We get out of the boat and walk on the water whenever we head toward Jesus, whenever we put our trust in a divine power that is greater than ourselves and turn our eyes and hands and feet toward love. I’m not talking about defying the law of gravity. I’m talking about responding to the lure of love, about staying connected with the One who calls us out beyond ourselves, beyond our own small boat, giving us courage to do more than we ever thought possible.

The only way to awaken faith is to do something that requires it. Walking on water is as good an image as any for what it is like to step out in faith, and of course we fail all the time. Like Peter, we get frightened and lose our equanimity, lose our confidence, lose heart. Or conversely, we notice what a great job we’ve been doing (how special we are to be walking on water! we must be hot stuff!) — and lose our contact with love. Self-consciousness can fell us either way, whether it’s caused by fear or pride, and we begin to sink. But all we need to do is what Peter did next, to exclaim, “Lord, save me” (Matthew 14:30), and immediately Jesus will reach out his hand to catch us, just as he caught Peter, chiding us in a voice that is filled with affection, “You of little faith, why did you doubt?” (Matthew 14:31)

When the disciples cried out in fear, “immediately” Jesus revealed his identity and spoke a word of encouragement and calm. When Peter cried out, “immediately” Jesus stretched out his arm to grasp him and to lift him from the waves. The waves of the world are perilous and real, but Jesus is close at hand, a holy, living presence ready to save.

Where do you find yourself in this story? Are you tossing about in stormy seas? Are you feeling frightened and alone? Do you long to feel the strong hand of Jesus lifting you out of the waves? Right now, in the silence, can you hear his calm voice saying, “Take heart, it is I: do not be afraid”? Or, as you listen deeply to your life, do you hear Jesus inviting you out of your safe hiding-place and out on the water? Is he saying to you, as he said to Peter, “Come. Trust me. Don’t look down. Just keep walking toward me. Love will hold you up. If you sink, I will catch you. Come.”

Weeds among the wheat

Did you know that Americans spend tens of billions of dollars every year on lawn and garden care? For the last century or so, green grass has been the American dream — sometimes, in fact, the American obsession. Grass is apparently the United States’ biggest crop, and it sucks up a substantial percentage of the water consumed on the East Coast. Not only that: every year Americans hire gleaming tankers full of herbicides to cruise up and down our suburban streets, and we pay them to apply tons of expensive chemicals to our lawns. The enemy? Weeds. Crabgrass. Dandelions. Anything that interferes with that smooth expanse of lawn. Sure, chemical sprays clean out the weeds, all right, but they destroy a lot more than weeds. A few days ago we heard about a lawsuit filed against Dupont over a new herbicide that may inadvertently be killing spruce, pine, and other evergreen trees. ¹ Our herbicidal effort to be rid of weeds comes at a heavy cost to the natural world. As columnist Chet Raymo once put it, “in dousing our landscape with chemicals we also rid ourselves of garden snakes, spring peepers, glowworms… ladybugs, toads, frogs… salamanders, bluebirds, [and] cicadas.” ²

“Time for a truce with dandelions.” That is what Chet Raymo concluded, regarding the natural world, and that is what Jesus concluded, too, regarding the life of the spirit. In Matthew’s parable of the weeds and the wheat, the householder’s servants are eager to tear out the worthless weeds that the evil one has planted in the field. But the householder tells them, “No; for in gathering the weeds you would uproot the wheat along with them” (Matthew 13:29). It seems that the weeds — possibly a local Middle Eastern variety known as darnel — look very much like wheat when they are young. In fact, it is impossible to distinguish the two in their early stages. By the time the plants bear grain, it is easy to tell the one from the other, but by then their roots have become intertwined: you can’t pull out the weeds without uprooting the wheat at the same time. And so, says the householder, both weeds and wheat must be left to grow together until the time of the harvest.

I leave it to you to consider how you want to handle the weeds in whatever stretch of lawn or garden may be in your care. But I invite you to imagine that your life, your soul, is a garden and that all sorts of things are growing in it. As you gaze out over the landscape of your life, what do you see? Can you see any wheat — qualities in yourself and aspects of your life that you like and value and want to keep? Can you see any weeds — shortcomings, failings, behaviors that you don’t much like?

As we take a look within, we may reach polar opposite conclusions. One assessment goes like this: I look inside and I say to myself, “Whoa! No weeds here! I have no weeds! My inner life contains nothing but wheat — it’s all good stuff, really, all sweet-smelling flowers. I’m a totally good person — no flies on me. But you, on the other hand — you, my unfortunate father or mother, you, my poor brother or sister, my less than perfect spouse or co-worker or friend — you have some serious weeds to contend with, some serious flaws. And my job, in case you wondered, is to point out your weeds to you, and to help you, maybe even force you, to root them up.” That’s one way we can go, that place of pride and self-righteousness, when we stare at someone else’s weeds and find fault, and judge, and criticize, or maybe get busy rolling up our sleeves and trying to yank those annoying weeds out.

Or maybe we go the other way: we survey the landscape of our life and we decide, “Yikes, when I look inside myself, all I see are weeds. I am pretty much nothing but weeds. When it comes to getting rid of them, I don’t even know where to begin. They are everywhere I look. I must be a hopeless case, completely unworthy. You, on the other hand — you are all flowers. Unlike me…”

Whether we take one position or the other, or fall somewhere in between, the point is that most of us feel even less affection for the weeds in our lives and in the lives of the people around us than we do for the weeds in our lawns. Both good and worthless seeds have been sown within us: the good seed by God, and the bad seed by some other force — what this passage calls “the enemy” or “the evil one.” Wherever that bad stuff comes from, we may spend a lot of energy trying to root it out, or at least wishing it weren’t there. What’s so intriguing about this parable is that Jesus tells us that at least some of the weeds within us will — and should! — remain where they are until the harvest time of death. The mysterious fact is that we must allow the weeds within us to grow until the harvest, “for in gathering the weeds [we] would uproot the wheat along with them” (Matthew13:29).

What’s up with that? Why should we learn to tolerate the weeds in our lives? Well, for starters, some of our personal weeds may serve a useful function in the ecology of our soul. I think, for instance, of a woman I knew years ago who wondered why God hadn’t answered her prayers and taken away her anger about the abuse that she had suffered from her former husband. Both of us knew that her anger was causing her to suffer, and both of us knew that in the long run, anger could be corrosive to her soul, and to her relationships with other people. Yet as we talked it over, it became clear to both of us that for now, at least, the woman’s anger was helping her to maintain clear boundaries and was protecting her from being abused again. God, it seemed, was not willing to uproot the weed of her fury if in so doing, the wheat of her survival was put in jeopardy.

Again, if we look closely at what we condemn within ourselves as a weed, we may discover that this supposed weed is in fact another strain of wheat. So many people judge themselves harshly! For instance, some of us feel sad and instantly condemn ourselves for self-pity. Some of us turn down a request to do something and instantly accuse ourselves of being selfish, when in fact what we’re doing is respecting the limits of our energy and time. Some of us find it all too easy to lash out at ourselves, like some desperate gardener who, seeing nothing but weeds, decides to tear everything out and to pave it all over with asphalt.

But that is not how God treats us, nor how God longs for us to treat each other and ourselves. The parable of the weeds and the wheat asks that we learn to accept ourselves and to value spiritual biodiversity. We must learn to live with our weeds, for their roots are often intertwined with our wheat. Think, for a moment, about the parts of yourself that you really don’t like. Isn’t it possible that if you trace that aspect of yourself down to its roots, it connects with something good and essential? Take bitterness, for instance, or cynicism. Most of us would agree that these qualities are weeds — they don’t feed anyone; they don’t contribute to building life. But if you trace bitterness down to its roots, what you may find is nothing bad but something neutral, or even good, like grief — the sorrow of someone who has felt a loss that has never been fully expressed or released. Isn’t it possible that the roots of bitterness or cynicism may be intertwined with a person’s unfelt grief and unmet longing to love and be loved? That unfinished business may be showing up in a twisted or harmful way in the person’s life — it may be expressing itself as a terrible weed — but at its source, its root, it is something good. The more closely we come to know ourselves, and our inner landscape, the more we can sort out these strands of ourselves. Through the power of being understood and accepted, some of our inner weeds will disappear, so that we no longer find ourselves so plagued by bitterness or cynicism, by fear or anger or self-doubt, or by whatever other weed has been causing mayhem in our lives.

Still, some inner weeds will never go away, and, if nothing else, these persistent weeds can serve as a powerful reminder of our dependence on God. As Jesuit writer Thomas Green says in his lovely book, Weeds Among Wheat, God leaves weeds within us in order “to keep us humble, to make us realize how totally we depend on [God] and how helpless we are to do good without [God’s] grace and [God’s] power. The wheat of our virtues — trust, humility, gratitude, zeal — could not come to full maturity, it seems, without the weeds” of our faults and failings. ³ When we see the weeds within us with the eyes of discerning love — when the weeds within us remind us of our dependence on God, and God alone — then our weeds become “the instrument of our deepening trust and humility. They purify us.” ⁴

So, just think for a moment of whatever it is about yourself that you like least. Whatever the weeds in your particular wheat field, what would happen if you allowed those parts of yourself to remind you of your dependence on God? What if, day in and day out, you let those “weeds” become your teacher, teaching you to depend entirely on God’s forgiveness and mercy? Isn’t it possible that one day you would come to understand that one of the most precious plants in your soul’s garden was the weed, which taught you to surrender yourself to God?

At the end of time, all our weeds will indeed be rooted out. That’s what the parable tells us with a dramatic flourish in its imagery of angel-reapers gathering up the weeds and throwing them into a furnace of fire (Matthew 13:41). We can thank God for the time when everything will be sorted out at last, the good from the bad, and God’s cleansing, purifying, liberating power will burn away everything in us that is less than love! But in the meantime, here we are, invited by God to notice, to investigate, and, if necessary, to accept the weeds in our lives.

I will close by telling a story from the Sufi tradition about a character named Nasrudin. In this story, Nasrudin decides to start a flower garden. He prepares the soil carefully, and plants the seeds. But when his flowers come up, they are overrun by dandelions. After trying every method he can think of to eliminate the weeds, he finally walks to the capital to speak to the royal gardener. The wise old man suggests a number of remedies to eradicate the dandelions, but Nasrudin has tried them all already. They sit in silence for a time, pondering dandelions, until at last the royal gardener looks at Nasrudin and says, “Well, I suggest you learn to love them.”

That’s the message I hear in today’s parable. And by the way — if you want to take a good look at weeds, step into the garth, for the place is a riot of weeds, some of them waist high. In the next week or two, those weeds will be mowed down, dug up, or otherwise removed, and some hard-working folks will install in their place a lovely, curved stone wall, a patio, some groundcover and shrubs — something, in short, that appeals to our sense of harmony, order, and beauty. But don’t be surprised — some weeds will come back, and there may even be a space in the garth deliberately set aside for wildflowers. They will have their own wild beauty to contribute, and I hope that their presence will keep us humble, and remind us of the gentleness with which God cares for our wild and weedy souls.

1. DuPont sued over herbicide suspected to kill trees, by Jonathan Stempel (viewed 7/15/11).

2. Chet Raymo, The Boston Globe, July 12, 1993.

3. Thomas H. Green, S.J., Weeds among the Wheat, Notre Dame, Indiana: Ave Maria Press, p. 145.

4. Ibid., p.146.

Spirit, wind, and fire

Come, Holy Spirit. Take our minds and think through them. Take our mouths and speak through them. Take our hearts and set them on fire. Amen.

Who has seen the wind?
Neither I nor you:
but when the leaves hang trembling,
the wind is passing through.
Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I:
but when the trees bow down their heads,
the wind is passing by.

Do you remember that poem? Christina Rossetti (1830-1894) wrote it years ago, and it’s a poem that I often read as a child. I share it now because today is Pentecost, the day we celebrate the coming of the Holy Spirit as the wind and breath and power of God. Who has seen the wind? No one! Unseen, invisible, free of human meddling and control, the wind comes and goes as it wills. We can’t see it, we can’t hold it in our hands as it passes by, and yet we recognize it by its effects: the leaves hang trembling; the trees bow down their heads.

According to the story we heard from the Book of Acts, it was on Pentecost, a Jewish festival that is celebrated fifty days after Passover, that the Holy Spirit came upon the apostles with tremendous power. They couldn’t have predicted when the Spirit would come, and they couldn’t have known what form it would take, but they had prayed eagerly that the Spirit would come. Jesus had made them a promise. Just before the Ascension, when the Risen Christ withdrew from his disciples’ sight, he had promised his followers that he would send the Holy Spirit to them. Jesus told them not to scatter but to stay together, to remain in Jerusalem, and to be steadfast in prayer. “Stay here in the city,” Jesus says at the end of Luke’s Gospel, “until you have been clothed with power from on high” (Luke 24:49). In the Book of Acts, which picks up the story, Jesus promises his followers, “You will be baptized with the Holy Spirit not many days from now… You will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you; and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth” (Acts 1:5,8).

So Jesus’ friends are gathered together in one place on the day of Pentecost — presumably to pray — when “suddenly from heaven there came a sound like the rush of a violent wind, and it filled the entire house where they were sitting. Divided tongues, as of fire, appeared among them, and a tongue rested on each of them. All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages, as the Spirit gave them ability” (Acts 2:2-4).

I hear these words and at once I can’t help thinking of our own very recent experience of “a sound like the rush of a violent wind” and “divided tongues, as of fire.” Just ten days ago, severe tornado winds — whose deafening sound people often compare to the roar of a freight train — accompanied by thunder and lightning swept through this region, destroying or damaging thousands of homes, killing several people and upending the lives of many thousands more. When we think of wind and fire, many of us probably flinch: we think of extreme weather events, of the massive wildfires blazing right now on the east side of Arizona, and of the hurricanes, droughts and floods that are likely to become the new normal because of climate change. Or we may think of the metaphoric winds and fires that threaten to undo us: the winds of war, for instance, or the fires of hate.

It is just because we so easily — and justifiably — link wind and fire with internal and external forces that are violent, death-dealing, and destructive that I welcome the imagery of Pentecost. Into this violent and turbulent world comes another sort of wind, another sort of fire: the wind and fire of God’s Spirit. It is the very gift we need.

Wind is an ancient biblical image for the presence of God. In Genesis, the creative wind of God moves over the waters of the deep. During the Exodus, the liberating wind of God blows back the sea and gives the Israelites a safe path on which to walk. In the book of Ezekiel, the life-giving wind of God blows across the valley of dry bones and breathes life back into them. At Pentecost, the empowering wind of God sweeps through the house where the disciples are gathered.

Those of us of a certain age grew up praying not to the Holy Spirit but to the Holy Ghost. The word “ghost” goes back to an Anglo-Saxon word “gast,” which is the root of another word, “gust.” The Holy Ghost, the Holy Spirit is like a holy gust of wind, a creative, life-giving and sacred Presence that blows where it wills and that comes upon us unexpectedly and with power. God’s Spirit may enter us like a strong gust of wind, filling the entire house of our being, or the Spirit may come as quietly and gently as the breath. As we heard in today’s reading from the Gospel of John, the Risen Jesus breathes on his disciples and says, “Receive the Holy Spirit” (John 20:22). In that very intimate and quiet gesture, the Holy Spirit is given with enduring power.

Wind is one image of the Holy Spirit, and another is fire, a divine fire that flames forth and shines out from all things. God is manifest as fire throughout the Bible — in the burning bush confronting Moses, in the pillar of fire that leads the Israelites to freedom, in the flaming chariots of Elijah and Elisha. The Desert Fathers and Mothers of the 3rd and 4th centuries who went into the wilderness to pray were well acquainted with the fire of the Spirit. As one story tells it, a young Desert Father went to see an older, wiser one in search of spiritual advice. “Abba Lot went to see Abba Joseph and said to him, ‘Abba, as far as I can, I say my little office, I fast a little, I pray and meditate, I live in peace and as far as I can, I purify my thoughts. What else can I do?’ Then the old man stood up and stretched his hands toward heaven. His fingers became like ten lamps of fire and he said to him, ‘If you will, you can become all flame.’” ¹

Jesus came to bring fire to the earth (Luke 3:16, Luke 12:49, Matthew 3:11), and his life, death, and resurrection led to the great outpouring of the Holy Spirit on the Day of Pentecost, when the disciples were baptized with the Spirit and with fire. And what does the fire do? The flame of the Holy Spirit burns away the barriers and tensions that divide people from each other, and releases among the disciples a capacity to communicate with all the peoples of the earth. The languages that pour forth from the disciples are not an incoherent “speaking in tongues,” but easily identifiable languages “from every nation under heaven” (Acts 2:5). The Holy Spirit creates community. The Spirit opens the way for all the peoples of the earth to communicate in love with one another, even across our differences.

In a time of tension, when conflicts and wars threaten to tear communities apart, the Spirit sends us out into the world, giving us words that heal, words of love and blessing, words that connect us with each other and that honor our shared humanity. As one commentator [Lionel McGehee] puts it, “Once more the gifts of the Spirit are poured upon us: the gift of tongues — not Arabic or Greek or Hebrew or Coptic — but the language of love, the language of justice and dignity, the language of humble longings” — the very languages that are needed to transform the world into God’s community of love.

Pentecost comes again whenever people are inspired to seek reconciliation and mutual understanding, and discover anew their shared humanity. And Pentecost comes again whenever the frightened and forgotten, the oppressed and the outcast find their voice. Scholars tell us that the long list of languages that the disciples at Pentecost could suddenly speak was a list of the people whose identities had been “overrun by the languages and customs of a long line of conquerors and empires.” ² It is a list of the peoples forced to live under the rule of the Roman Empire, and who, through the power of the Spirit, have now found their voice and their God-given identity. By speaking to each person in his or her own language, the Holy Spirit celebrates not only the unity of human beings, but also our precious diversity and individuality. Wherever the frightened or oppressed person finds her voice and takes her place within the human community, there the Holy Spirit is at work again in our midst.

How has the Holy Spirit been moving in your life? In visible ways and in secret, hidden ways that may be known only to you and God, members of this community are already letting the wind and fire of the Holy Spirit transform them. Maybe the Holy Spirit is opening your eyes to your belovedness in God, and has been sweeping over you, giving you courage to say yes to life, despite all the good reasons for cynicism and despair. Maybe the wind of the Spirit is already winnowing through your memories and judgments and opinions, working to set you free from everything that is petty and self-serving and small, opening you to a greater vision and a larger love. Maybe the Spirit is cutting through any frantic busyness and self-absorption, and catching you up at unexpected moments in the breathtaking beauty of music or nature or a child’s face, giving you joy in the midst of humdrum routine, joy even in the depths of sorrow. And maybe the Holy Spirit is sending you out to be a channel of God’s love, urging you to serve, and heal, and bless in the world outside, so that you can spread the gifts of grace that you have received. Thanks to the power of the Holy Spirit, your generosity has made it possible to build and to pay for our beautiful new buildings. Thanks to the power of the Holy Spirit, many of us are already responding to the wind and fire of the tornadoes and storms by casting our lot with love and by offering prayers, and clothes, and food, and labor as we reach out to our neighbors in Springfield and Monson and other communities, and help them to rebuild their lives.

“I can’t believe I just did that!” That’s the sort of cry that springs from our lips as we give ourselves over to the Holy Spirit. I can’t believe that I just spoke up and told the truth in love! I can’t believe that I just pulled myself out of my daily routine and spent several hours helping a neighbor in need! I can’t believe that I took some time for silence and listened to the voice of love that dwells within me! I can’t believe how connected I feel with myself and with other people!

At Pentecost the wind and fire of God came upon the disciples, and it comes upon us today in the baptism of David Nunnelly at Puffer’s Pond this morning and in the renewal of our own baptismal vows, in the gift of bread and wine at the Eucharist, and — in a little while — in the simple pleasure of enjoying each other’s company over a meal, as we listen with attentiveness for what is new, and welcome the loving Spirit into our midst.

Do we want the holy wind of God to blow through us now with fresh power? Do we want God’s holy flame to set our souls on fire? Then let us ask for the Holy Spirit, ask for it to come with power into our lives, into our community, and into the world.

Send forth your Holy Spirit, O God, and renew the face of the earth. Come, holy wind, holy breath, holy fire of God: blow through our hearts and make all things new. Amen.

1. Joseph of Panephysis 7, Sayings, p. 103, quoted by Roberta C. Bondi, To Pray and To Love: Conversations on Prayer with the Early Church, Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1991, p. 7.

2. Homiletics, April/June, 1995, p. 39.

Practicing love: you in me,
and I in you

Today’s Gospel passage begins where last Sunday’s left off, in the middle of that rich and rather intricate section of John’s Gospel that scholars call Jesus’ farewell discourse. Jesus is saying goodbye to his friends, and we can imagine that if we were about to die, we might feel a strong impulse to share with the people around us what was most important to us. We might have some last words that we wanted to say, some final message that summed up everything we had been trying to express — words of wisdom or words of blessing.

And so it is for Jesus, who has lived his entire life in a relationship of extraordinary intimacy with God. As Jesus prepares to die and to go back to the loving Creator who sent him into the world, he wants above all to convey to his friends the fact that we, too, can share in the same intimate experience of union with God that he experienced. We, too, can learn to love as he loved — in fact, he will empower us to love; he will show us the way.

Today seems a good day to say a few words about love, especially on this Memorial Day weekend when we honor the sacrifice of those who gave their lives in military service to this country, and when we mourn the tragedy of war, which, however noble its objectives may be, to some extent always represents a failure of love on all sides.

Love can be so elusive, such a difficult art to practice. Maybe it’s late in the day and I am tired; or I’m doing too much and feeling stressed; or I’m at the end of my rope, impatient and irritable — well, in times like these my capacity to love, even my willingness to love, can quickly shut down. When it comes to love, we are all apprentices. So as we consider today’s Gospel, what insights can we glean? What word of truth does Jesus bring us today?

“Jesus said to his disciples, ‘If you love me, you will keep my commandments’” (John 14:15). OK — got it: if we love Jesus, we will keep his commandments. But what are his commandments? If you search the Gospels, you will find some twenty, thirty, forty statements by Jesus that we might consider commandments — for example: do not judge; turn the other cheek; be merciful; love your enemies; whatever causes you to sin, get rid of it; do unto others as you would have them do unto you; and so on. When asked what was the greatest commandment, Jesus replied that it was to love the LORD our God with all our heart and soul and mind, and to love our neighbor as ourselves (Matthew 22:36-40). In the chapter from John’s Gospel that precedes today’s reading, Jesus gives his friends a new commandment: to love one another. “Just as I have loved you,” he says, “you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another” (John 13:35).

You will notice that Jesus is speaking in the language of commandment, but most of us resist that kind of term. By its very nature love can’t be forced. It can’t be “commanded.” Love arises only in freedom, right? Love is freely given and freely received — otherwise it really isn’t love at all, but only duty and obligation, a usually grim kind of “should.” Yet I am grateful for the strong language of commandment, for Jesus is giving us permission to listen to the deep longing that God has planted in our hearts, our deep longing to love and be loved, our desire to connect in a vital, authentic, and loving way with ourselves and one another, and with the world around us. There are so many voices inside us and outside us that tell us to lay low and hide out, not to trust, not to feel, not to risk opening our hearts. So I say: let’s take hold of that commandment! Let’s renew our intention to love God, and each other, and the world! For that is God’s desire: that we keep opening ourselves to love. Even in the midst of life’s disappointments and failures and frustrations — no, especially in the midst of life’s disappointments and failures and frustrations — God urges us to open ourselves again to the flow of divine love that is circulating at the center of things, inviting us to join in.

Today’s Gospel passage gives us a wonderful line that suggests what love will look like when it is fulfilled: “On that day,” says Jesus, “you will know that I am in my Father, and you in me, and I in you” (John 14:20). On that day when we know love in all its completeness — which is every day that we are fully awake, fully present to our lives — we will turn to each other, and we will see Christ in each other’s faces. Whenever we meet someone, even if that person is a stranger, we will know at some deep level of our being that we share an unbreakable connection: Christ dwells within the other person, just as Christ dwells within us — “you in me, and I in you.” As individuals, we share a deep union, and yet we are not identical. When we love well, we sense both our loving connection and our distinctiveness.

One way to think about this is to notice the two extremes of love gone awry. At one end of the spectrum, we can say to each other: you are just like me; we are exactly the same. It’s no longer “you in me and I in you,” but “you are me, and I am you.” In psychological terms, this might be called an experience of fusion. If I am in that mind-set, I don’t know who I am as a distinctive self; I have no separate place to stand. I may be quite codependent, with my attention so focused on somebody else — maybe my child, or my partner, or my parent — that I lose track of my own life. I heard a joke about that, years ago: one way to tell if you are codependent is that when you are about to die, somebody else’s life flashes before your eyes. That would be a clue.

In spiritual terms, this condition has been called “pernicious oneness” — a refusal to accept the marvelous differentiation and diversity of life, so that everything has to be the same. When we are in this state of mind, what passes for love glosses over any differences. It’s like taking a blob of Vaseline and smearing it on the lens of a camera: everything comes out blurry.

So that’s one extreme: fusion. The other extreme is to perceive no connection at all between ourselves and someone else: “You are not me, and I am not you, and we have nothing at all in common.” This is the stance of hostility and alienation. When I go there, I build the walls, dig the moat, close the door, and pull up the drawbridge. It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there, and I plan to go it alone. I am a rock; I am an island. I am full of judgment and moral righteousness, and love is for sissies; love is a four-letter word.

Can we find our way back to that creative middle ground: you in me, and I in you? In that dance of connection and differentiation, of unity and separateness, we experience how similar we are, and yet we recognize our differences, too. We intend to see each other clearly, as distinct and separate selves, and yet we also want to keep our hearts open, so that we keep meeting each other with love.

There are practices that can help us to cultivate this kind of consciousness, and I will suggest just two. First, when we are with other people we can encourage in ourselves an attitude of inquiry and openness, an attitude of gentle curiosity. A priest and life-coach friend of mine tells me that whenever she speaks with someone, she holds the inner question, “What’s it like to be you?”¹ Often our attention is focused on ourselves — maybe on the question, “How am I doing? What do you think of me?” or maybe “How can I get you to give me what I want, and to do what I want?” Holding instead the inward question “What’s it like to be you?” helps us turn our attention toward the other person and to listen closely. It can be such a tender question, a question that in our often frantic and harried world we rarely pause to ask each other, and one whose answer we even more rarely pause to hear: “What’s it like to be you?”

A second practice is to reflect on a quote by Jewish philosopher Martin Buber from his classic book I and Thou. I have been meditating for months on this single sentence, and I continue to find it deeply moving and challenging in my own search to love well. Here is what Buber writes: “Let us love the actual world that never wishes to be annulled, but love it in all its terror, but dare to embrace it with our spirit’s arms — and our hands encounter the hands that hold it.”² Let us love the actual world — not our fantasies about the world, not our ideas about the world, not our judgments and opinions of the world, but the actual world that never wishes to be annulled, any more than we ourselves wish to be annulled. Let us love it in all its terror — and not just in its terror. I substitute other words, sometimes, depending on what is going on: can I love the world in all its boredom? In all its annoyance and pettiness? In all its imperfection and messiness? That is the challenge: to accept and to love reality as it is, for that is how God loves it: as it is. Only from that stance of clear seeing and complete acceptance can I begin to sense how love may be calling me to change what is here.

So I ask myself — What would it be like to give myself fully to love in this moment, whatever the moment may bring? Jesus never withdrew from the world in safe isolation, looking down from above. He never held back from love until he saw something that happened to please him. He didn’t check out, space out, tune out, close down, or withdraw. He never got so busy or so crazed that he put his head down and barreled ahead without noticing the people and the world around him. No, he showed up at every moment ready to encounter each person and situation as it was, and to meet that person or situation with love. That is why, when we love the actual world that never wishes to be annulled, but love it in all its terror, but dare to embrace it with our spirit’s arms — our hands encounter the hands that hold it.

Yes, we are apprentices when it comes to love, and we look ahead with hope to the gift of the Holy Spirit. We wait for the coming of the Advocate, the Helper, the Spirit of truth who will teach us everything we need to know. The Spirit enlivens and animates our quest to love, and when the Holy Spirit comes in all her fullness, on that day we will see each other and all the world with eyes of love, you in me and I in you.

1. Maria de Carvalho & Associates, www.unleashspirit.com.

2. Martin Buber, I and Thou, A new translation, with prologue and notes, by Walter Kaufman, New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1970, pp. 142-143.