There’s a popular adage, “do what you love, and you’ll never work a day in your life.” I did a bit of online research and discovered that this was almost certainly not said by Confucius, despite many such attributions. It was also likely not said first by Harvey Mackey or Marc Anthony. In fact, nobody seems to know its origin. But does it really matter? In a sense, the deepest human truths have been, and maybe should be, claimed by everyone. Except, in this particular case, nobody has yet attributed this saying to Jesus.
Which is not to say that Jesus didn’t care that we do what we love. All of today’s readings have to do with that mandate, in one way or another. The Psalmist, for example, wrote “I love to do your will, O my God.” But Jesus was generally not the kind of spiritual teacher who offered adages or answers. He was much more likely to teach through parables, or—as in the case of today’s Gospel—to ask searching questions. “What are you looking for?” he asked of John and Andrew. Whew. Now there’s a question.
What are you looking for? I wish that I had the self-discipline to ask myself that every day; maybe even every hour. When I reach for some of that lovely pound cake we serve at coffee hour, what am I really looking for? Comfort? When I stream a really insipid crime drama, what am I looking for? Assurance that the bad guys will get justice? I’m not judging myself for these choices and I’m not encouraging you to judge yourself or anyone else, either. What I do want is to encourage us all to be aware of our choices, and notice for ourselves whether they accord with our desires. Because if we don’t find the answers for ourselves, we aren’t likely to trust them. I think that’s why Jesus asked so many questions. 307 of them, actually, in our canonical Gospels.
The passage we just heard today retells two key elements of Jesus’ early life in ministry; his baptism, and the call of the first disciples. If you follow the church’s common lectionary, you might be surprised to find John’s Gospel tucked in between Matthew’s account of the same events, which we heard last week and will hear next week. This is our year to hear a lot of Matthew in church. But I’d venture to guess that we’re given this brief glimpse of John’s perspective today because—of all our Gospels—John’s is perhaps the most intentionally revealing of Jesus as God made manifest. Of the Epiphany. In little more than one chapter, John’s Gospel tells of the cosmic origins of Christ, his baptism and his first miracle at Cana. His identity and his ministry, right there for whomever was willing to come and see.
Side note: some of you regulars may have noticed that we’re using a different Eucharistic prayer during the Sundays of Epiphany. What our Prayer Book calls Prayer D is adapted from the fourth century Liturgy of Saint Basil, and is rich in Johannine themes like this: “you alone are God, living and true, dwelling in light inaccessible from before time and for ever.” What soaring poetry. Intentionally non-specific, we can only really meet this kind of God from a stance of curiosity. Is this cosmic light what you are looking for? What could it mean? Well, come and see.
Many years ago, I came to see. I was a nineteen year old agnostic, following a cute boyfriend to an Episcopal church that seemed far less interesting than the romance. But over a course of months, the Sunday after Sunday liturgical drama nudged me forward, until on some Eastertide Sunday, I found myself at the altar rail receiving Holy Communion. And there, I met God. The best response I could muster to that sacred connection was something like the “where are you staying” question of John and his clueless disciples.
From St. Paul’s Episcopal church in Grinnell Iowa, I followed where I thought I might find more of Jesus Christ, in various churches and among the poor and marginal in Central America. I went to where I imagined he might be, in order to learn more from him and his people. I fell in love. And now I don’t work a day in my life.
“You don’t have to know the second theory of thermodynamics in physics to serve. You only need a heart full of grace, a soul generated by love” is an excerpt from Dr. Martin Luther King’s 1968 sermon “The Drum Major Instinct” from the pulpit of Ebenezer Baptist Church. This sermon was played at King’s nationally televised funeral service barely two months later. He had told his congregation that “I’d like for somebody to say that day that Martin Luther King, Jr., tried to love somebody.”
Martin Luther King, of all people, knew the dangers of shallow sentimentality. His was a fierce and uncompromising love; one that demanded the best of white supremacists as well as of oppressed people of color and poor people. His sermon and his funeral request about love were words spoken at the end of a life of great courage and integrity. But I’d like to suggest that before any of us find our true love, before we discover our most authentic calling, we have to ask questions. We have to figure out—to discern—what we are really looking for, and follow the object of our longing to where they might be staying. Before love comes… curiosity.
Although it might seem a rather banal question, I am fascinated that the disciples met Jesus’ evocative question about what they were looking for with one of their own. “Where are you staying?” they asked. What an incarnational faith it revealed: they believed that what they were looking for had an actual place on earth to stay. And given that this encounter took place in the backwater region of Galilee, we can fairly assume that the place Jesus was staying wasn’t especially fancy; not the palace of a king nor the temple of a priest.
John tells us that Jesus was filled with the Holy Spirit when he met his first disciples. Friday night my husband John and I happened to find ourselves at a very inspiring presentation by Willie James Jennings, an ordained Baptist minister who is also associate professor of systematic theology and Africana studies at Yale. He reminded us, through adept studies of various accounts in the Book of Acts, that if we Christians are not led to uncomfortable places, then it’s not likely to be the Spirit of God that’s leading us. That’s not because God wants us to be uncomfortable, per se, but because God expects us to be genuinely curious about places unknown and about people who are other than us. God wants us to go to where they are staying, so to speak.
And our forebears in faith have responded. Peter was led to the home of the Gentile centurion Cornelius, Mother Teresa looked for God among the slum dwellers of Calcutta and John Wesley found himself converted amidst in a meeting of working class Christians at Aldersgate. I show up each Sunday at Trinity because I believe that the Spirit of Jesus leads me to this improbable multicultural urban community. Where confess that I am almost always uncomfortable. I am only beginning to learn who you are and how things work here, and most Sundays I preach and celebrate God’s sacred mysteries a second language as well as my first. I have more questions than answers. Which might just mean I’m in the company of Jesus. How will we minister to this lively and changing city? I don’t yet know. How do we best love those living across the street from us? I don’t yet know. How will we meet our budget? I don’t yet know.
I hope you know how good all this is, sisters and brothers. Because this lovely church, brimming with possibility, is also an uncomfortable place. And when it’s not comfortable, we can trust that the Holy Spirit is surely leading us. Growing into our calling to be the body of Christ in this place will be hard work, and it will also be pure love. Come and see.
