In Thoughts and Prayers

John 17:20-26

You’re in my prayers.

I say that often, and perhaps you do, too. 

After all, when a friend is sick, or facing a challenge, suffering a loss – or anticipating a joy – I want to bring that need or hope to God, trusting that God’s resources are greater than our own, and can bring support and healing and grace to my friend beyond my own resources.

 

So many people are in my thoughts and prayers, so often.

And then there are the times when that seems like it can’t possibly be enough. That thought and prayer is wildly inadequate. When the complicated family situation seems impossible to solve. When the diagnosis is stark and bitter. When the longed-for joy seems impossible. When tragedy strikes and hits hard.  

This week, for example.

 

I have several families, several friends, in tragic or unsolvable situations, on my heart already this month. I’m praying for the victims and survivors and community in Buffalo, and Laguna Beach...
And then the world just shatters all over again as 19 children and two teachers are murdered in Texas, their classmates and colleagues shot and wounded and traumatized, a community’s trust broken in multiple ways.

And even the most sincere, whole-hearted, soul deep prayers feel weak and inadequate.

And there are plenty of people who will tell you so.

 

Public figures condemning thoughts and prayers as hypocrisy, along with half of the users of social media. Survivors of previous gun massacres, grieving relatives, communities who have personally felt that loss, telling us that “thoughts and prayers” are almost an insult – certainly an insult if offered in place of action.

 

And it’s true that if our prayers don’t strengthen us to act, in any way we can, to relieve and prevent the suffering that prompts our prayers, it’s not enough. 

 

Praying for a friend’s healing, for example, should help us notice ways to help – and then I’ll offer to pick up prescriptions, wash the dishes, spend half an hour on hold to help schedule a delivery of medical equipment for a friend who can’t sit up that long, take over a responsibility for a while, or just be present when things get lonely. 

And as we pray for the victims and survivors of Uvalde this week, and Buffalo and Laguna Beach last week, and everywhere else all those other weeks, we should never let any option for action to protect current, future, or past victims of violence go undone. Never feel like we’ve exhausted our options to protect children once we have prayed that God would do something. 

 

I know that for many of us, it feels like nothing we’ve tried to do works. I know that for many of us, anything we do do or say feels loaded with politics and danger. I know that some of us are exhausted and numb, and some of us are utterly broken by grief, last week, or this week, or every time. 

If this were easy, we’d have solved it already, and we’d just be praying for nice weather this holiday weekend, and I’d be preaching a sermon about the curiosities of Paul and Silas’s adventures in Philippi.

 

Even if our actions so far haven’t ended violence, domestic terrorism, or gun massacres yet, we can still march, write, vote, or take up difficult conversations with people who disagree with us so that we can find common ground, and respect, and a way forward. We can still speak up, and act. And pray.

 

Because while we do all that, Jesus is praying for us.

 

This morning we listened to Jesus praying for his disciples. Praying that they share in his own glory, in the glory of God eternal, and that they may be one – united deeply and completely, the way Jesus himself is united with the whole fullness of God, while walking among us as one of us. 
Jesus prays that his followers – you and I – may be one of God.

And not just for his followers gathered to listen then or now. Jesus prays also for everyone else, everyone who encounters Jesus, encounters God, through the word or action of one of those disciples.

That’s us – you and me, today – since we depend on the word, the stories, the actions of those who knew Jesus before we did – who wrote the gospels, who taught friends, who taught their friends…. And we are also hearing Jesus pray for those who will encounter Jesus through us, through your words and actions, and mine.

 

Jesus doesn’t pray without action, of course. All his actions – miracles of healing, the details and persistence of his teaching, the arguments he gets into and the ones he avoids, the ways he engages powerful and public figures, are related to his prayer that we will be more closely and gloriously united to God. All his prayer is part of his action of becoming one of us, so that we can become one of God.

 

That can be true for us, too. In many cases, the actions we take to help in healing or protection, or to keep someone else from feeling alone, especially when we act on things we know we cannot solve by ourselves – those actions are prayer. Are part of our expression of hope and trust and longing that God will bring the fullness of healing, protection, unity and transformation. 

And our prayer is part of our action. I know that when I write a letter, run an errand, take a public stand, open a difficult conversation, I feel myself actively praying, inviting God into the action, to take it further than I ever can.

 

And I can do that, you can do that, we can do that – we can act and pray in the face of private disasters and public tragedies, act and pray for personal joys and universal transformation – because Jesus is praying for us – and for those who will be touched by our faithful action, and our prayer.

 

For the disciples gathered round a table with him before he died, for you and me, and for those who will meet Jesus through us, and through others, Jesus keeps praying. Praying that we will be united with each other, united with him. That we – you specifically, me specifically, will be one of God, as God has been one of us.    

 

That unity which Jesus prays for doesn’t mean perfect agreement on all details. It means that when someone else is hurt, we hurt; when someone else is healed, we are healed; when we are joyful, when we lament, those who are one with us in God also rejoice and weep.  
And when we are one with God, we may begin to see the world through God’s eyes – to see possibilities for transformation, for love, for glory, for healing and unity, that don’t seem real or reasonable from a human perspective. And that makes it possible for us to act, to live as though what touches one of us touches all of us, to act every day as if unity and transformation and glory not only can, but must be the everyday reality for the children of Uvalde, for shoppers in Buffalo, for survivors and bystanders and the leaders of this nation and your neighbors and yourself. For every one of God’s beloved children.

 

You are in my prayers, my friends. 

In this week of tragedy, in the daily struggles and joys and hopes and challenges, the tragedies and the transformations that don’t make the news, in all your actions for hope and justice and healing, you are in my prayers. 

But more than that, you are in Jesus’ prayers.
And so are all the people your life and prayers will touch.

And that changes everything.

Love Comes First

Revelation 21:1-6; John 13:31-35

I don’t know why the music of my high school years has become the soundtrack of the grocery, but the other day I caught myself absent-mindedly singing along between the spinach and the crackers
…They say in Heaven, love comes first We'll make Heaven a place on Earth…
I guess some things get into your head at an impressionable age, and just… stick with you.

And that particular refrain got stuck in my head again a day or two later, as I read that bit of the Revelation we just heard:  “See, the home of God is among mortals…Death will be no more, mourning and crying and pain will be no more…”

It’s a strong and profound picture John is painting, of all things made new so that nothing – nothing – separates us from God. God at home among us as we live in God’s presence with our whole selves, cared for absolutely and tenderly, with everything we fear gone for good. 

 

I can’t tell you how much I crave that heavenly experience right now.

It feels, some days, as if I’ve never lived in a world farther separated from God.

Mourning and crying and pain and death are nearby, even in the days of sunshine and comfort and celebration. The headlines are full of drought and fire, inflation and supply chains, politics at home and war in the world and the never-ending ever-changing decisions of a pandemic.

The problems around the ordinariness of daily life can seem intractable.

So much seems worn thin – patience with one another, with myself; hope, the environment and earth itself, all in need of renewal. 

 

It's no wonder I crave the assurance that John’s vision of God’s close and constant presence and care, of earth and heaven renewed and united, is trustworthy and true.

 

Anyone else crave that?

Feel that it would be nice if heaven were, in fact, within our reach? “A place on earth?”

Where God dwells naturally with you and me?

 

It shouldn’t come as a surprise that John recorded this vision for the benefit of a community of people who were worn down by the trouble they were living through.

 

It’s…a little less encouraging when I remember from my biblical reading that this is part of a vision of – essentially – the destruction of the whole earth; near-universal suffering and plague and sorrow and war.  

That John first paints a picture of how much worse it gets because the world actively resists the possibility of God dwelling so closely with us.

And then shows us what we read today – the banishment of pain and the renewal of life – as a vision of the end of tribulation. It’s all a vision that suggests there may be quite a long way to go before we get to there.

 

Which may be why we need to crave that vision. To want that unity of heaven and earth for ourselves, now and here.

 

When you’re feeling the weight of suffering, you need to know that the end of it is not just an end, as stopping, but something you truly long for, good beyond imagining.

 

When we’re trying to avoid suffering, we need to know that there’s a destination we long for beyond the trouble we fear: a destination we are invited to crave, to seek in spite of trouble.

(It’s the grand, universal-scale version of me needing to remember that the place I want to be and the people I want to be with are more important than how much I hate the process of traveling.)

 

We need to crave that divine closeness and care.

So that we’ll recognize it when it comes looking for us.

 

Which is what’s happening as Jesus talks to his friends, the night before he dies.

They’re confused and uncertain. Their tribulations and triumphs and deepest need still lie ahead of them. They’d like to avoid trouble if they can.

But Jesus tells them the way through it all:

Love one another.

In the same way that I love you – because I love you – love one another.

 

That’s the way that all through their “separation” from Jesus at his death – his resurrection, transformation, glorification – how all through that “separation” they will in fact be united with him. 

It’s how we – you and I – experience the closeness of God to us, here and now.

By loving one another.

 

That’s what Belinda Carlisle said, too, in the 80s and in Shop-Rite the other day.

They say in Heaven, love comes first

We'll make Heaven a place on Earth.

 

She was talking about romantic love, physical love; Jesus is talking about divine love.

But the refrain they both return to is the same truth:

Putting love first is how we experience God at home among us, wiping the tears, quenching our thirst for eternal life.

Loving one another, as God loves us, comes first.

 

It’s not a feeling, that divine love, that primary love.

It’s action. It’s attitude. It’s adopting a set of expectations that everyone you meet is worthy of God’s love, and care, and that you and I get to give that care.

Love one another as I have loved you:

like listening for the yearning heart of the child of God in front of you, even while every word they are saying is wrong (and just what you told them not to do). Just as Jesus listens to Peter, and the other disciples, and… honestly, everyone he meets, even the most annoying of the religious lawyers who argue with him.

 

Love comes first.

Rejoicing in the joy of someone else comes before that other thing you meant to do with this precious fifteen minutes.

Holding the hand of someone who slows you down comes before getting the errand done.

Speaking up for people worn down from being unheard comes before speaking your mind.

Kindness comes first. Generous honesty comes first. Building trust comes first.

 

Receiving all those things comes first, too.

Receiving kindness, trust, sincerity, empathy, justice, and joy from others, from God, comes before doing what we can for ourselves.

 

In our spending of money, in our personal politics, in our decisions about what Covid precautions to adopt and let go, in our work and family calendars, in our quiet time, in the grocery store, 

when love comes first,

when we are loving and being loved as Jesus loves us, 

we start to find ourselves living in that divine closeness and care, that renewal and life that John envisions for us,

heaven in place in earth.

 

Because when Jesus tells us to love one another as God loves us, 

he's telling us to know that God is as close to us, as one with us, with you, with me, as God is with Jesus, and to act on that knowledge.

That knowledge that God dwells with us, in you, among us,

just as John envisions it for us,

life so close to God that death and grief and pain and everything we’ve ever feared are vanished.

 

Carlisle sings:

In this world we're just beginnin'

To understand the miracle of livin'

Baby, I was afraid before

But I'm not afraid anymore

 

The world around us may still be in turmoil.

It probably will be.

But to put love first conquers fear.

To put love first changes the world as we live in it.

Changes us.

To love as Jesus loves is to live in the certainty that God is at home with us, dwells with us, wipes every tear from our eyes.

And then heaven is indeed how we live on earth.

Hungry or Not

John 21:1-19

I wonder if they were hungry.

When Peter decided to go fishing that night, was it because he really needed to eat?

Or was it just that he and the others didn’t know what else they should do now that everything had changed, so they went back to the work they were used to?  

John doesn’t tell us.

Perhaps it doesn’t matter.

Doesn’t matter if they were hungry, or bored, or confused. If they were fishing to make a living, or if they were fishing that night to feed others.

Because Jesus fills their net without any question about why they were fishing.

Hungry or not, Jesus feeds them.

Feeds them too much, really.

The net of fish is unmanageable.

And almost unnecessary. While Peter and the others in the boat have no fish, Jesus already has fish on the grill, ready to feed them.

He invites them to contribute to the meal, once their net is full of his miraculous fish, but there’s no doubt that it’s Jesus doing the feeding.

He never asks if they’re hungry.
He just fills their hands with fish, summons them to the table, and then places food into their hands.

And then, later, a conversation:

Feed my sheep.

Do you love me?
Feed my sheep.

Whatever else that conversation is – a rehabilitation of Peter, or a testing, or a commissioning;
whether it’s meant for Peter as an individual, or for Peter as the representative of all disciples – it’s the most literal of metaphors.

Feed my sheep – as I feed you, feed others.

As I love you, as you love me, love others.

Feed them.

Bread and fish might be a good place to start.

Nothing about asking if someone’s hungry.

Nothing about assessing need or merit, or budgeting, or how to make the most impact.

Just “Love me? Feed them.”

Food is love.

(Not everywhere, not for everyone, but in this particular conversation, in deeply important ways, feeding others is love.)

Just like Jesus fed Peter, fed the others, that very morning, when their nets were empty, and their hearts were probably hungry, too. Like when Jesus takes Peter aside to feed his soul and self by helping Peter find the depth and strength of the love he already has for Jesus.

Just like Jesus feeds us – you, me, and people we’ve never met – feeds us, now, hungry or not.

It’s all love.

It’s worth noticing that Jesus is not asking Peter to do anything Jesus himself is not already doing.

And I don’t think that it’s just a case of “I fed you, so pass it on.”  I think it’s possible, probable, that when Jesus instructs Peter (and all the other disciples then and now that Peter stands in for) to “Feed my sheep”, Jesus is inviting – commanding – Peter, us, to take part in what Jesus is actively, currently, doing. Feeding people.

Because people are hungry. People near us, people like us, people perhaps in this room, are physically hungry. Because you’re fasting before Eucharist. Or because rising grocery costs mean not quite eating enough. Because the precarious economy means having to choose, or face the choice more often, between meals and medical care, eating or electricity. 

And every single one of us needs to eat food, or we will first lose ourselves (as the need of our bodies turns our reasoning, moral everyday selves into people we don’t recognize) and then our lives. 

Some of us may have experienced sharp or ongoing physical hunger, the body’s uncompromising need for food. Some of us have never been truly hungry, whatever our appetite. 

And sometimes, you don’t know you’re hungry until you’re fed. Offered the nourishment you deeply need, and didn’t recognize, until it was placed before you. 

We all need to be fed.

And feeding people is actually a familiar activity at Trinity. Whether you bring food or gift cards to the pantry, make breakfast at St. Paul’s, make sandwiches for the Christian Caring Center or Cathedral Kitchen. Whether you bring baked goods for coffee hour or a sale, or fry sausages in the early morning with the Men’s Breakfast Group, feeding people is an important part of what we do, together.

To have someone offer you food when you are hungry – food prepared with care, with generosity, without any expectation of return – may relieve pain, restore you to yourself, free you to live fully. 

To be fed heals body and spirit.

Heals even when you’re not hungry; when you’re more than capable of feeding yourself. Think about when someone brings you a fresh, home-baked treat – and it’s a sacrament of welcome, or of comfort, or friendship. When someone invites you to a meal, and it’s a sacrament of relationship, a physical experience that facilitates the deeper, spiritual, experience of friendship, acceptance, care, or opportunity.

Food is complicated, often, and for many of us. 

Jesus wants to make it simpler. To help us receive and give healing and love, both when we’re hungry and when we’re not. To feed others with him, and be fed by others, with him, as acts of love.

So he meets disciples on the beach, with food. 

And after telling that story together, after listening to that conversation between Peter and Jesus, after tasting a wafer of flour this morning, and remembering other stories of Jesus feeding us, you and I can’t feed people without thinking of Jesus. Of loving Jesus.  Of what Jesus is already doing, for others, and for us.

Can’t eat, ourselves, without paying attention to what Jesus is doing, to Jesus’ love.

As you shop, as you volunteer; in your own kitchen or in restaurants or here – anywhere you’re feeding people and being fed – Jesus is already involved. Already feeding others, feeding you.

It’s not always as obvious as a net overflowing with unreasonably large fish, but it’s happening. 

So look for the links between food and love, everywhere. 

Look for Jesus providing the food we need, you need. 

Look for Jesus providing the food you don’t really need, too.

Literal food, and metaphorical food.

There’s a heated conversation going on right now on social media – and probably in traditional media, too – about student loan debt. Stories and opinions about need, and merit, and fairness. People who work hard to pay off their student loans without help. People who have suffered for years with debt that starved them of opportunity, or hope, or choices, or actual food. People who haven’t “earned,” or don’t “need” relief. People who “deserve” help.

Jesus feeds them all, whether they’re hungry, or not. Whether they can feed themselves, or not. Jesus stands in a long and holy tradition, reaching back long before those years in Galilee, as God feeds people whether they “earn” it or not, commands us to feed people whether they “need” it or not.

And for most of us, that’s such good news.

Because, with Jesus, we’re free to feed others, to give of ourselves, without weighing merits and scrutinizing need, without having to know everything and judge perfectly. 

Free to be fed without dissecting our own merits and deserving.

If you love me, Jesus says, love others as I have loved you. Without reservation, unearned, abundantly. Feed others as I have fed – unconditionally, with abundance and delight.

Because feeding others, with Jesus, feeds our own souls.

It’s an extraordinary gift of freedom Jesus is offering Peter, and us.

The opportunity to just give, just love, without having to count and judge, knowing that we are giving, loving, feeding others out of the bottomless well of Jesus’s own love – out of our love for Jesus, which comes from the same bottomless well as Jesus’ love for us. 

To love people freely, knowing we don’t have to figure out if they deserve it.

To give joyfully, knowing the gift matters whether the receiver “needs” it or not.
To feed anyone.

And to receive all that, whether we need it or not.

To be fed with care, and welcome, whether or not we can feed ourselves.

To be loved, without measure, whether we deserve it or not.

“Come,” Jesus says, “and have breakfast.”