As Jesus bids farewell to his disciples at the Last Supper, he gives them their instructions on how to live together in community: “Remain on in my love. And you will remain in my love if you keep my commandments, just as I have kept my Father’s commandments and remain in His love. I have said this to you that my joy may be yours and your joy may be fulfilled…. You are my friends if you do what I command you.”[1]
Last week, we reveled in John’s lovely, poetic language about remaining, or abiding, in Jesus, about being a branch flowering upon God’s vine of love. We imagined Jesus pouring his love into our souls and making us God’s beloved, as we pour love back out to others, like water. But as I studied today’s passage, I was struck by the strong language of commandment, of obedience, that suddenly raises its head. Love, in its mystical vagueness, is not really what Jesus seems to be talking about here. Indeed, being Jesus’ “friend” sounds like a source of pain and hard work. I think that it is the idea of finding joy in the work of loving that disturbs me here. If I’m going to have to lay down my life in love, I at least want to be able to wallow in self-pity while I’m doing it! In our Gospel reading, however, the text is constructed in such a way that the passage centers on this verse: “I have said this to you that my joy may be yours.” What does joy have to do with difficult, self-giving love?
My clergy friends know that I do not like Psalm 119. Whenever it occurs in the Daily Office lectionary—which is quite often, since it is 176 verses long and must be read over several days—I groan and grumble. Can you blame me? Besides being the longest psalm in the Bible, it is as repetitive as can be. The psalmist spends all 176 verses finding different ways to say how much he loves God’s commandments. He seems so proud of himself, and so carried away about his own joyous enthusiasm for the Law. “I delight in the way of your decrees as much as in all riches,” he boasts. “Oh, how I love your law! It is my meditation all day long. Your commandment makes me wiser than my enemies ... I have more understanding than all my teachers … I keep your precepts.” And so on.
As I thought about today’s Gospel, I was reminded of the crowing, joyful language of Psalm 119. Despite the fact that it gets on my nerves, however, I think that this psalm relates rather directly to our Gospel lesson. In the Old Testament, God’s Law is the scaffolding that leads us human beings into God’s presence. It is the specific teaching that enables us to live in Covenant with God, to be in relationship with God. The commandments are not just a list of rules to follow, but they are the very voice of our loving God. Knowing them and following them obediently make me a part of God’s beloved people. As the Psalmist, then, delights in the commandments that bring him closer to his God, the disciples are asked by Jesus to delight in the commandment that will bring them closer to God: the commandment to love one another. Jesus’ words in our Gospel from John are all about relationship: relationship with Jesus, with God, and with each other. For John, as for the Psalmist, joy comes not from simple pride over obedience to some law. It comes from renewed relationship with God, a relationship that, for John, automatically results from “remaining in” Jesus, who is the way to the Father. As Jesus’ friends, we come into God’s presence. But also, as Jesus’ friends, we must do as he did. There are consequences to being in relationship, consequences to being, like Jesus, sandwiched in between powerful, unstoppable waves of divine Love on one side and the open wounds of the world on the other. The consequences are great joy and great pain.
We all know that if we close ourselves off from feeling pain, then we shut the door on feeling joy, as well. In Maryland this week, an Episcopal priest and her administrative assistant were shot and killed in their church office by a homeless man with a gun, after they had been working in their small rural church’s food pantry. I learned of that tragic news on the same day that a tormented woman had barged unannounced into my office, wild-eyed and fleeing demons in her head. The parallels were unnerving, and grim-faced and joyless, I immediately resolved to be more careful about locking my door. The diocese of Maryland did not react by locking any doors, however. They did not shut down their food pantry or condemn the homeless or blame God for taking away their priest, although I’m sure that, in their pain, Episcopalians in that community felt like doing all of those things. Instead, the diocese of Maryland publically offered to hold a burial service for the troubled man who had killed two beloved members of their community. They resolved to act contrary to their feelings of fear and anger and to obey the commandment that we read about today, to obey Jesus’ commandment to love, above all else. Can you imagine leading, or attending, that funeral?
I ask you this week to reflect upon the times in which you have obeyed Jesus’ command to love, and, as his friend, found divine joy where you expected to find only pain. Almost four years ago now, I was a brand new priest and was very concerned about looking as if I knew what I was doing, being busy and helpful at St. Mark’s, and hoping to exude an aura of priestly authority and purpose. When the rector from Resurrection Church came around looking for help with their new ministry to the Karen Refugees from Burma, I was very excited. I saw myself leading the parish in a great outreach project, directing things busily from behind the scenes like priests are supposed to do. What really happened, however, was that one hot, humid, busy August evening, the only “group” from St. Mark’s that I could find to lead over to help at Resurrection consisted of myself and my daughter, who was home for a few weeks that summer. After working all day at church, with sermons yet to write and laundry to do and TV to watch, I found myself resentfully driving to the South end, right at dinner time, to make home visits to refugee families at the Americana Apartments. Believe me, I was not expecting to find joy there.
At first, it seemed as if I was right. We had to sit and sit in the hot car in a parking lot, waiting on the people from Crescent Hill Baptist who were going to show us which families to visit. Then we got lost looking for the right apartments. Then, after climbing up a couple of dark, depressing stairwells, we discovered that none of the Anglican Karen families seemed to be at home that evening, after all.
“What a fiasco,” I thought to myself, with God, love, and joy all far from my heart. “This is NOT what I signed up for.”
Finally, after a new round of cell phone calls, we found one family who was still at home. As they warily let us into their small, hot apartment, I felt more guilt than joy. Not knowing more than a few words of English, the poor teenager who found himself forced into being our host looked at us awkwardly, as we squirmed, and I felt sadly lacking in priestly authority or skill. As our time together went on, however, I noticed with amazement that my years of trying to communicate in French with American fourth graders helped me to communicate with this non-English-speaking family. A beautiful toddler appeared and began to speak the universal language of peek-a-boo, and the family began to relax and smile at us. The teenager started to bring out reams of important school forms that he did not have the slightest idea how to fill out, and the grandmother began to show us prescriptions and doctors’ notes that she did not understand. And then we got to work. The family’s relief at finding a couple of friendly people who looked half-way willing to help them, was palpable in the room. Love was palpable in the room. Finally, as we shook hands and found our way back down the dark, dingy stairs of the Americana apartments, I realized that, while I was still tired and hot and hungry and now broken-hearted about the family’s suffering … and the immigrant family was still confused and poor and facing a daunting future in this country … my heart was full of the Joy that I had found in that room: the joy that comes only from obeying Jesus’ hard commandment to love one another, the joy that eclipses all of the other feelings as it brings us into direct relationship with our strange and loving God.
I could have easily stayed home that night. I could have found an excuse to sit at church with my collar on. I almost did. But the nagging voice telling me that I am supposed to go and bear fruit just happened to win out that night, and Joy was my reward. Jesus makes it clear: “I have said these things to you so that my joy may be in you and that your joy may be complete.” All we have to do is to listen and obey.
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