by Bishop Mariann | Jun 1, 2023
Hay una temporada para todo, un tiempo para cada actividad bajo el cielo. . .
Eclesiastés 3:1
Para los que vivimos en el hemisferio norte, el verano es una estación en sí misma: tres meses de luz solar prolongada que altera drásticamente nuestro sentido del tiempo. En el calendario cristiano, nuestros meses de verano coinciden con lo que la Iglesia Episcopal llama simplemente Después de Pentecostés, y que nuestros amigos Católicos Romanos describen más poéticamente como Tiempo Ordinario. Es un período largo sin una gran fiesta cristiana, durante el cual se nos invita a experimentar la presencia de Cristo a nuestro alrededor y a detenernos en sus enseñanzas.
En una reciente visita a una parroquia, invité a los reunidos en el foro dominical a considerar las semanas entre el Día de los Caídos y el Día del Trabajo como una estación distinta en su vida. Les pedí que recordaran lo que sabían que les esperaba en los meses de verano y lo que anhelaban que pasara. Incluso para aquellos cuya rutinas de trabajo no cambia, dije, parece que tenemos más tiempo en verano, y la posibilidad de la aventura. Para muchos, la rutina y el ritmo del tiempo cambian drásticamente, dejando espacio para las cosas que traen alegría.
Varias personas mencionaron el trabajo en el jardín y otras actividades relacionadas con el verano que les encantaban. Otros hablaron de viajes planeados, reuniones familiares e hijos en edad universitaria que regresan a casa. Había ligereza y risas en el salón.
El tono cambió cuando una persona compartió que el verano sería un tiempo de sanación tras una operación y el posterior tratamiento contra el cáncer. Ante un reciente despido, otra dijo que pasaría el verano buscando trabajo. Reconocimos los acontecimientos dramáticos que pueden ocurrir en cualquier momento: el nacimiento de un hijo, los diagnósticos inesperados, las muertes prematuras y las responsabilidades vitales que permanecen, independientemente de la estación.
Hay oportunidades únicas para el ministerio en verano, dije. Muchas congregaciones ofrecen programas para los niños que no van a la escuela, o aprovechan la oportunidad para viajes misioneros o ampliar el servicio local. En el trabajo continuo de prevención de la violencia armada, los meses de verano pueden ser intensos, y una de las iglesias que admiro, Peace Fellowship en el sudeste de DC, se dedica a caminar su vecindario en un ministerio de presencia. La inseguridad alimentaria también aumenta para muchas familias, y las congregaciones de toda la diócesis están intensificando sus esfuerzos para enfrentar esta necesidad.
Me hice, entonces, la pregunta que mi director espiritual jesuita a veces me hace: ¿qué intención podría establecer para la próxima temporada y por qué gracia podría orar para recibir del Espíritu Santo durante este tiempo? Imagínese en septiembre, mirando hacia atrás. ¿Qué esperaría poder decir sober el crecimiento o la sanación que experimentaste este verano? ¿Qué ofrenda pudiste hacer y cómo aumentaste en amor?
El salón se quedó en silencio mientras todos reflexionábamos sobre lo que teníamos ante nosotros.
Les ofrezco la misma invitación a ustedes. Consideren la estación de la vida que tienen ante ustedes, como quiera que la midan. En un momento de silencio, o en una conversación íntima con una persona de confianza, fije sus intenciones y pida la gracia que necesita.
Tenga en cuenta que fijar una intención no es lo mismo que un plan de superación personal. Más bien, es un deseo expreso de fijar su mirada en una luz que le guíe, y de mantener su enfoque ahí. No hay fracaso en establecer una intención, porque reconoce nuestra humanidad y todo lo que escapa a nuestro control. Una intención es una forma de poner el deseo de nuestro corazón en manos de Dios y pedir la gracia de vivir de acuerdo con ese deseo, sin importar el resultado. Nos ayuda a colocar nuestros deseos en el orden adecuado, como diría San Agustín, para que tengamos presentes las cosas que más importan.
Si asiste a la iglesia este domingo, escuchará dos pasajes de las Escrituras especialmente inspiradores para tener en cuenta en el umbral del verano: la primera historia de la Creación relatada en el Libro del Génesis, y las últimas palabras del Jesús Resucitado a sus discípulos mientras asciende al cielo, recogidas en el Evangelio de Mateo.
La historia de la Creación nos recuerda que Dios ve este mundo y todo lo que hay en él como esencialmente bueno, y que todos hemos sido creados a imagen de Dios. No podemos negar todo lo que funciona en contra de esa bondad esencial, incluyendo nuestros propios defectos y pecados, pero la bondad sigue siendo nuestro derecho de nacimiento y nuestra bendición. El pasaje también incluye la creación por Dios del día de reposo, una suave exhortación para que establezcamos ritmos de descanso, un recordatorio bienvenido en cualquier momento.
Las palabras finales de Jesús son de reafirmación de su presencia: ¡Recuerden! Yo estoy con ustedes todos los días, hasta el fin del mundo.
Que este verano, sin importar como se desarrolle, le brinde oportunidades para saborear y apreciar las bendiciones de la creación de Dios, para vivir plenamente la vida que se le ha dado, para hacer contribuciones significativas a los demás y para descansar. Recuerda que has sido creado a imagen de Dios y que Jesús estará contigo, dondequiera que vayas.
by Bishop Mariann | Jun 1, 2023
For everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven . . .
Ecclesiastes 3:1
For those of us in the Northern Hemisphere, summer is a season unto itself: three months of extended sunlight that dramatically alters our sense of time. In the Christian calendar, our summer months coincide with what the Episcopal Church simply calls After Pentecost, and that our Roman Catholic friends describe more poetically as Ordinary Time. It’s a long stretch without a major Christian holiday, during which we are invited to experience the presence of Christ all around us and dwell on His teachings.
On a recent parish visitation I invited those gathered for the Sunday forum to consider the weeks between Memorial and Labor Day as a distinct season in their life. I asked them to call to mind what they knew was waiting for them in the summer months and what they hoped for. Even for those whose work patterns don’t change, I said, we seem to have more time in the summer, and the possibility of adventure For many, routines and rhythms change dramatically, allowing space for the things that bring joy.
Several people mentioned working in the garden and other summer-related activities that they loved. Others spoke of planned trips, family reunions , and college-aged children returning home. There was lightness and laughter in the room.
The tone shifted when one person shared that the summer would be a time of healing from surgery and then on-going treatment for cancer. Given a recent lay-off, another said that she would spend the summer looking for a job. We acknowledged that dramatic events that can occur at any time–the birth of a child, unexpected diagnoses, untimely deaths, and life responsibilities that remain, no matter the season.
There are unique opportunities for ministry in the summer, I said. Many congregations offer programming for children out of school, or take advantage of the opportunity for extended service locally or on mission trips. In the on-going work of gun violence prevention, the summer months can be intense, and one of the churches I admire, Peace Fellowship in Southeast DC, dedicates itself to walking its neighborhood in a ministry of presence. Food insecurity also rises for many families, and congregations across the diocese are stepping up their efforts to meet the need.
I asked, then, the question that my Jesuit spiritual director sometimes asks me: what intention might you set for the season ahead, and what grace might you pray to receive from the Holy Spirit for this time? Imagine yourself in September, looking back. What would you hope to be able to say about the growth you experienced this summer, or the healing? What offering were you able to make, and how did you increase in love?
The room grew quiet as we all pondered what lay before us.
I offer the same invitation to you. Consider the season of life before you, however you measure it. In a time of silence, or in close conversation with a trusted person, set your intentions and ask for the grace you need.
Keep in mind that setting an intention isn’t the same as a self-improvement plan. Rather, it’s an expressed desire to set your sights on a guiding light, and to keep your focus there. There is no failure in setting an intention, because it acknowledges our humanity and all beyond our control. An intention is a way of placing our heart’s desire in God’s hands and asking for the grace to live according to that desire, no matter the outcome. It helps us to place our desires in the proper order, as St. Augustine would say, so that we keep in mind the things that matter most.
If you are in church this Sunday you will hear two particularly inspiring passages of Scripture to consider at the threshold of summer: the first story of Creation as told in the Book of Genesis, and the Resurrected Jesus’ final words to His disciples as He ascends into heaven as recorded in the Gospel of Matthew.
The Creation story reminds us that God sees this world and all that is in it as essentially good, and that we are all created in God’s image. We can’t deny all that works against that essential goodness, including our own failings and sin, yet goodness remains as our birthright and blessing. The passage also includes God’s creation of the Sabbath Day, a gentle exhortation for us to establish rhythms of rest, a welcome reminder at any time.
Jesus’ final words are of reassurance of His presence: Remember that I am with you always, to the end of the age.
May this summer, however it unfolds, provide you opportunities to savor and cherish the blessings of God’s creation, to fully live the life given you, to make meaningful contributions to others, and to rest. May you remember that you are created in God’s image and that Jesus will be with you, wherever you go.
by Bishop Mariann | May 18, 2023
El siguiente pasaje –sobre lo que puede ocurrir cuando decidimos quedarnos– comienza el capítulo dos de Cómo Aprendemos A Ser Valientes, por la Obispa Mariann.
Ian Bedloe es el protagonista de diecisiete años de la novela de Anne Tyler de 1991, Saint Maybe (Santo Talvez). El se culpa de la aparente muerte por suicidio de su hermano mayor, Danny, y de las tragedias familiares posteriores. Una noche, mientras vagaba por las calles de su ciudad natal, Baltimore, Ian ve un letrero de neón en la vitrina de una tienda: “Iglesia de la Segunda Oportunidad”. Él ocupa su lugar entre un pequeño grupo de almas heridas y se escucha a sí mismo contándoles la muerte de su hermano y su sentimiento de culpa. El ministro, el Reverendo Emmett, un joven amable pero espiritualmente intransigente, asegura a Ian que el perdón es posible, siempre que expíe sus pecados. Así que Ian decide abandonar los estudios y aceptar un trabajo de servicio para ayudar a mantener a los hijos de su hermano. Pasan los años mientras va a trabajar cada día, cuida de su familia y es un miembro fiel de la iglesia. Aún así, el perdón que anhela se le escapa y empieza a cuestionarse las decisiones que ha tomado.
Sintiendo que Ian está preocupado, el Reverendo Emmett se ofrece a acompañarle a casa desde la iglesia un domingo por la tarde. Mientras caminan, todas las frustraciones de Ian brotan de él. “¡Siento que estoy desperdiciando mi vida!”, grita. El Reverendo Emmett se detiene y se vuelve para mirar directamente a los ojos de Ian. “Esta es tu vida”, le dice suavemente. “Apóyate en ella. Considera tu carga como un regalo. Es el tema que se te ha dado para trabajar. Esta es la única vida que tendrás”.
Dado el drama, la adrenalina y la energía exterior que implica la decisión de irse o quedarse, puede sentirse atrapado. Sin embargo, la decisión de quedarse también puede ser valiente y tener consecuencias. Tomar esa decisión, sobre todo cuando existen razones de peso para marcharse, implica una lucha interna similar y una sensación de crisis creciente, que conduce a un momento decisivo, tan fuerte como la decisión de irse. Pero ahí acaba la similitud, porque al decidir quedarnos, elegimos profundizar en la vida que ya tenemos.
Dado que el llamado a partir se asocia legítimamente con el lado aventurero de la valentía, elegir quedarse puede parecer que nos conformamos con menos. Sin embargo, la profundidad, fruto de la estabilidad, es esencial para una vida madura y para nuestra capacidad de marcar una diferencia duradera en la vida de los demás. Al elegir quedarnos, reconocemos que hay más en juego que lo que sentimos o queremos. Aprendemos que hay más de una forma de vivir una vida valiente y que algunas de las decisiones más valientes que tomamos son las que nadie ve.
Leí por primera vez Saint Maybe (Santo Talvez) en una época en la que yo, no mucho mayor que Ian, luchaba con lo que significaba permanecer en mi propia vida. Las palabras del Reverendo Emmett a Ian me parecieron las palabras de Dios para mí: “Esta es tu vida. Quédate donde estás”. Hasta entonces, mi vida se había definido en gran medida por el ir –moverme de un lugar a otro, saliendo de un mundo y entrando en otro, aprendiendo a ser valiente ante lo desconocido. Ahora tenía treinta y pocos años, estaba casada, tenía un hijo de tres años y un recién nacido, y trabajaba a tiempo completo en un empleo que se suponía que debía amar. Lo amaba la mayor parte del tiempo, y amaba la mayor parte de mi vida, lo que hacía difícil reconocer o hablar de cómo me sentía. Conduciendo por las calles de Toledo, Ohio, cantaba una canción de Nanci Griffith que sonaba en la radio. Estoy trabajando en un vuelo por la mañana a cualquier sitio menos aquí, y deseaba que la letra de la canción fuera verdad.
Ahora veo que mi lucha interna era un llamado a aceptar y experimentar el don y el costo de la estabilidad. Ha sido un tema recurrente, cada vez que lucho con un llamado a quedarme. He tenido que aprender, una y otra vez, que la fidelidad no consiste siempre en dar grandes saltos, sino también en caminar con pequeños pasos, y que es posible marcar una diferencia duradera en el mundo, ocupándose de un pequeño rincón del mismo.
Un pronóstico de esta realización llegó en nuestro primer año de matrimonio, cuando mi esposo, Paul, y yo lo pasamos en Honduras, trabajando en una escuela para niños empobrecidos. Al principio parecía como si hubiéramos adquirido un enorme compromiso. Sin embargo, a medida que nuestro tiempo allí llegaba a su fin, me di cuenta de que quienes dedican su vida a servir de esa manera eran los que podían tener un impacto transformador para bien. Regresé a Estados Unidos con el deseo de ser ese tipo de persona, pero también sintiendo que nada en mi vida me había preparado para la disciplina que ello requeriría.
El matrimonio, la paternidad y el ministerio parroquial se convirtieron en mis maestros, cada uno representando un pequeño mundo del que era responsable, cada uno valorando la estabilidad por encima del cambio y la constancia por encima de la excitación que yo ansiaba. Al no saber con quién hablar, encontré consuelo y orientación en los libros. Pedacitos de sabiduría venían a mí, manteniéndome con los pies en la tierra cuando quería volar.
How We Learn to Be Brave (Cómo Aprendemos A Ser Valientes*), de Mariann Edgar Budde, sale a la venta el martes, 23 de mayo. Únase a ella esa tarde a las 7:00 pm en la Catedral Nacional de Washington para una conversación con el Canónigo historiador Jon Meacham, seguido de una firma de libros y una recepción. Inscríbase ahora.
*Por ahora, el libro sólo estará disponible en inglés y esperamos que algún día haya una versión en español.
by Bishop Mariann | May 18, 2023
The following passage–about what can happen when we decide to stay–begins chapter two of How We Learn to Be Brave by Bishop Mariann.
Ian Bedloe is the seventeen-year-old protagonist of Anne Tyler’s 1991 novel, Saint Maybe. He blames himself for the apparent suicide death of his older brother, Danny, and subsequent family tragedies. One evening, as he wanders the streets of his home city of Baltimore, Ian sees a neon sign in a storefront window, “Church of the Second Chance.” He takes his place among a small group of wounded souls, and he hears himself telling them of his brother’s death and of his guilt. The minister, Reverend Emmett, a kind yet spiritually uncompromising young man, assures Ian that forgiveness is possible, provided that he atones for his sins. So Ian decides to drop out of school and take a menial job to help provide for his brother’s children. Years go by as he goes to work each day, cares for his family, and is a faithful member of the church. Still, the forgiveness that he longs for eludes him, and he begins to question the choices he has made.
Sensing that Ian is troubled, Reverend Emmett offers to walk him home from church one Sunday afternoon. As they walk, all of Ian’s frustrations pour out of him. “I feel like I’m wasting my life!” he cries. Reverend Emmett stops and turns to look directly into Ian’s eyes. “This is your life,” he says softly. “Lean into it. View your burden as a gift. It’s the theme that has been given you to work with. This is the only life you’ll have.”
Given the drama, adrenaline, and outward energy involved in deciding to go, staying put can feel like being trapped. Yet the decision to stay also can be brave and consequential. Making that choice, particularly when there are compelling reasons to leave, involves a similar internal struggle and building sense of crisis, leading to a decisive moment, as strong as the decision to go. But there the similarity ends, for in deciding to stay, we choose to go deeper into the life we already have.
Because the call to go is rightfully associated with the adventurous side of courage, choosing to stay can appear as if we are settling for less. Yet depth, which is the fruit of stability, is essential to a mature life and our capacity to make a lasting difference in the lives of others. In choosing to stay, we acknowledge that there is more at stake than what we feel or want. We learn that there is more than one way to live a brave life and that some of the most courageous decisions we make are ones that no one sees.
I first read Saint Maybe at a time when I, not much older than Ian, was struggling with what it meant to stay in my own life. Reverend Emmett’s words to Ian felt like God’s words to me: “This is your life. Stay where you are.” Until then, my life had been largely defined by going—moving from one place to the next, stepping out of one world and into another, learning to be brave in face of the unknown. Now I was in my early thirties, married, with a three-year-old and a newborn, working full-time at a job that I was supposed to love. I did love it much of the time, and I loved much of my life, which made it hard to acknowledge or talk about how I felt. Driving the streets of Toledo, Ohio, I would sing along with a Nanci Griffith song playing on the radio. I’m working on a morning flight to anywhere but here, wishing it were true.
I see now that my internal struggle was a call to accept and experience the gift and the cost of stability. It has been a recurring theme, whenever I wrestle with the call to stay. I’ve had to learn, time and again, that faithfulness isn’t always about taking big leaps, but also walking with small steps, and that it’s possible to make a lasting difference in the world by tending to one small corner of it.
A foreshadow of this realization came in our first year of marriage, which my husband, Paul, and I spent in Honduras, working in a school for impoverished children. Initially it seemed as if we
had made an enormous commitment. As our time there drew to a close, however, I realized that those who dedicate their lives to serve in that way are the ones who are able to have a transformative impact for good. I returned to the United States wanting to be that kind of person, but also sensing that nothing in my life had prepared me for the discipline it would require.
Marriage, parenting, and parish ministry became my teachers, each representing a small world for which I was responsible, each valuing stability over change and constancy over the excitement I craved. Not knowing who to talk to, I found solace and guidance in books. Bits of wisdom would come to me, keeping me grounded when I wanted to fly.
How We Learn to Be Brave by Mariann Edgar Budde goes on sale Tuesday, May 23. Join her that evening at 7:00 p.m. at Washington National Cathedral for a discussion with Canon Historian Jon Meacham, followed by a book signing and reception. Register now
by Bishop Mariann | May 12, 2023
Jesus said, “Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, so that where I am, there you may be also. And you know the way to the place where I am going.” Thomas said to him, “Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?” Jesus said to him, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life.”
John 14: 1-8
Good morning. Thank you for your warm welcome. I’m very happy to be worshiping at St. Mark’s, a community for whom I hold great admiration. I am also glad to be with my long-time friend and colleague, Michele Morgan. I was thinking this week about the letter I wrote to our then bishop of Minnesota, commending Michele for ordination. I told him people like Michele don’t come along every day, that she would be one to change our church for the better. Please join me in giving thanks for her ministry.
It is the beginning of May, which means, among other things, that we are entering the time of year marked by celebrations and rites of passage. There are graduations and weddings; in the church, it’s the season of ordinations. Today at St. Mark’s we are celebrating Baptism, Confirmation, Reception, and the Reaffirmation of Faith.
While not related to the season, St. Mark’s has had its share of funerals of late, the ultimate passage from this life to the next. The gospel text we read this morning is the most frequently chosen for funerals, for good reason. They are comforting words to hear in times of grief: Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places. . . I am going to prepare a place for you.
One thing these services have in common is that the person speaking attempts to give words of inspiration, the best they can offer for those whose celebratory moment is at the center of the gathering.
In a moment, that’s what I’ll do–give the best I can say today about the Christian faith for those making commitments today. But first, I invite you to think about what it feels like to give someone the best you’ve got, to dig deep to find the most important words you have to say in a given situation.
I once knew a man who worked as a chaplain at an assisted living facility. He took it upon himself to encourage everyone there to write a love letter to their families. It wasn’t their will. It was an offering from their hearts, a means of sharing their most important life lessons and hopes for their loved ones.
We needn’t wait until the end of our lives to do this. We could write letters to our children or grandchildren, our friends, colleagues, and neighbors whenever they reach an important milestone, or when we simply want to bless them. I had dinner last night with a colleague who is experiencing a time of real disappointment, and he told me how much it meant to him that people have reached out to him with words of encouragement and affirmation. They have been a lifeline in what would otherwise be a very lonely season of his life. If there’s someone you know who is going through a hard time, or embarking on an adventure, or has accomplished something they’ve worked hard for, I wonder what you might say to them, in wisdom and in love? What you might express by way of gratitude to those who have helped you along the way?
Here is what I have on my heart to say on this occasion of Baptism, Confirmation, Reception and Reaffirmation of Christian promises. I speak as one who has been a conscious believer in Jesus, and a follower of Jesus, since I was a teenager. It’s been quite a journey, and I’ve learned a few things. There’s still much more for me to learn, but this I know:
First: There is a difference between believing things about Jesus and believing in Jesus, between knowing things about Jesus and Him. The two are related–you can’t believe in Jesus if you don’t know anything about Him. Of course our knowledge will always be imperfect, and we all run the risk of believing in, or rejecting for that matter, a caricature of Him, or assuming that our partial knowledge is complete.
There is also the difference between the knowledge we gain by reading the gospel texts that tell of his life, and the knowledge of first hand experience, an encounter with the living Christ. Again, the two are related. If the purpose of our biblical texts was simply to pass on knowledge, we’d read them once and be done with them. Instead, we read and meditate on them continually, in worship, study, private devotion, because through the stories of Scripture, Jesus sometimes speaks a direct and personal word to us.
Believing in Jesus, however, is as much a matter of the heart as it is one of intellectual conviction. It happens in ways not that different from what it’s like for us to believe in other people, as an act of trust. To believe in Jesus is to place our trust in the possibility that the mystery we call God–the Source of all this true and good and real, the wonder of life and the mystery of love–took on human form in the person of Jesus of Nazareth in order to show us what divine love looks like in the flesh–unconditional, compassionate, forgiving, merciful, and compelling.
Moreover, the part of God that is the person of Jesus, now the living Spirit of Christ, is real for us, and is with us, and is at work in and through us in ways that defy human understanding. As the Apostle Paul put it, his Spirit working in us can accomplish infinitely more than we can ask for or imagine. Sometimes Jesus is there simply to help us get through the challenges and heartache of life; other times, He calls us to acts of great courage, forgiveness, and sacrificial love.
Second, and this is related to the first: whether or not we believe in Jesus isn’t entirely up to us. The faith experience begins with an encounter, initiated from His side. That encounter takes many forms, but the point is, the invitation initiates with Him–although our openness to receive Him is key, because Jesus is not a bully. The encounter can be as if we hear–if that’s the right word for it–our name; as if we’re being summoned somehow. It can come through a moment of beauty and inspiration. For many, believing in Jesus begins rather dramatically, with an experience of being rescued or forgiven; for others, it’s more gradual, and only in retrospect do they realize how much Jesus has been with them all along. However Jesus comes to us, we have the sense that He knows us for who and what we are, and loves us still, unconditionally and completely.
Often the experience of Jesus is mediated by another person, and His presence is sometimes palpable in Christian community. Faith, it’s said, is more caught than taught, and it is a shared experience. Sometimes, though, He comes to us in a moment of quiet. He meets us in the times of greatest joy and immense suffering; I experience Jesus most powerfully in the gap between what is needed and what I have to offer.
Good teaching in faith is incredibly important, yet another plug for Christian community. One of the critical turning points in my life of faith was when I was in the midst of a genuine faith crisis, caught between two very different ways of understanding what it meant to be a Christian. The people who mattered most to me at the time and who had initially introduced me to the faith leaned one way, and the way I felt was more authentic to who I was and what I knew to be true was leaning another way. I didn’t want to hurt or anger the spiritual authorities in my life, and yet, I no longer believed much of what they believed about Jesus and what it meant to follow Him. Their teaching no longer spoke to me.
That’s when someone gave me a copy of a book, now out of print, entitled Turning: Reflections on the Experience of Conversion by Emilie Griffin. It was her personal account of how she came to faith–a lifelong process of struggle and doubt and intellectual questioning. She wove in stories about well-known 20th century Christians whose faith journeys were anything but straightforward, among them Dorothy Day, Thomas Merton and C.S. Lewis. That book freed me to trust my own experiences, to take my own journey seriously, and listen inside myself, for what the theologian Howard Thurman called “the sound of the genuine.”
Which leads me to the third and final thing I’d like to say about having a personal relationship with God through Jesus. It evolves and grows and changes over time, and as a result we evolve and grow and change in ways that we can’t anticipate looking forward and that we may only realize looking back. Ideally, although not always, we grow in our capacity to love as Jesus loves, and forgive as He forgives. Often, however, we fail in love and forgiveness, and we find ourselves as the one needing forgiveness, or healing, or both. Sometimes, in faith, our prayers are answered and our deepest desires are met. Other times, they are not, and we must learn to live with grief and sorrow. That’s when Jesus can show up in ways that make possible for us what would be impossible on our own–for we realize that we’re not alone, and that His grace will see us through.
So that’s what I have on my heart to say, some of the most important things I have come to believe about believing in Jesus. But I’d like to leave with what Jesus has to say, which brings us back to the Gospel of John.
This passage we read this morning–the one we are most likely to hear at funerals– marks the beginning of a long section in the Gospel of John that contains Jesus’s final words to His disciples before His death. It’s His love letter.
The setting is at their last supper together. He’s already shared bread and wine with His disciples, telling them that whenever they break bread together in the future, He will be with them. He’s just finished wrapping a towel around His waist, taking a basin and pitcher of water and washing each one of the disciples’ feet, saying to them, “Do you see what I have done for you? I have given you an example, that you might serve others as I have served you.”
Then He sits down and speaks to them—three chapters’ worth of wisdom and assurance. They are some of the most inspiring passages of Scripture. It’s too much to read in one setting, for each sentence is enough to ponder for a day, or a lifetime. You won’t find His ethical exhortations here–for that, we would turn to the Sermon on the Mount. This is spiritual encouragement and consolation, an invitation to believe in Him, to trust Him as One who is with you and for you.
He starts off by saying: Don’t let your hearts be troubled. No matter what happens next, I’m going to be okay and so are you. God is still God. He says, in essence, although I’m going away, I will never leave you. And you know where I’m going.
The disciples have no idea what He’s talking about. They don’t know where He’s going; they certainly don’t know the way. Then He says to them: Don’t worry. Remember everything that you’ve experienced and keep your eyes on me. I’ll get you there.
Truth be told, by the time the Gospel of John was written, most, if not all, of the first disciples had died. So these words weren’t written for them. They were written for us. This is who Jesus can be for us and what He offers us, whenever we choose to believe–place our trust–in Him. What does that look like? Keeping our eyes on Him, and trusting that, no matter what, He’ll see us through.
Amen.
