Thomas said to him, “Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?” It’s a good question, no? The kind of clarity-seeking question we have come to expect of Thomas the doubter, who wanted to see it before he believed it. And from our vantage point in the Episcopal Church during this strange sorta-post COVID season, with the big unknowns of pandemic and politics and unpredictable climate looming before us, who could argue with Thomas’ methodology? I want clarity too. I want to know what the world, what our city, and what our church will be like 10 years down the road. I want a plan, and I want critical path diagram, or at least a map. My prayer and my waking dreams cry out, “Lord, we don’t know where we’re going: show us the way.” And Jesus? He tells us “I am the way, and the truth, and the life.”
It’s been said that if we don’t know where we’re going, any road will take us there. Which is not necessarily a bad thing. A good meander can open our eyes to new possibilities. And indeed the Greek of this text is more suggestive of journey than destination: the term hodos, which we translate as “way,” can mean an actual road to somewhere, but it can also can also mean the trip itself, or—used metaphorically—a way of living our life. That is, taking steps along the way that leads to eternal life—that’s what our collect said this morning—following the direction of Jesus, who said “I am the way, and the truth, and the life.”
Are you getting the message here? The message that Jesus was trying to convey figuratively to Thomas, who always wanted the literal? There are many ways to get to God—in whom we find our eternal life—if we follow the way of Jesus, in relationship with Jesus. This way unfolds in prayer and practices of compassion and justice, which I see all of you doing every week in your welcome, your acts of kindness and your generosity. Jesus said “the one who believes in me will also do the works that I do and, in fact, will do greater works than these.” This is a promise, friends, and not just a good idea. You can do it. We can do it even better together. But the way of a disciple is also a messy way: love and commitment always risks disappointment. And there’s no way around this risk; there’s no hotlane or FasTrak for those willing to pay extra.
“The way, and the truth, and the life.” “I am,” said Jesus, placing this conversation with Thomas in the company of the many “I am” statements attributed to Jesus in John’s Gospel. Which reveal him to be a sign of the very presence of God. As our own Jim Alexander pointed out in his sermon and blog of last week, these all function to expand our understanding of Jesus as preexistent divine Word, not to limit anyone’s access to God. He was offering comfort, not condition, to the disciples who were listening to him. “If you know me,” he said to those who knew him best, “you know my father also.” They were secure precisely because of their relationship with Jesus. And he wants us to be secure as well: not necessarily in having all the right answers, not necessarily in having the right Christology or soteriology, but securely trusting the abiding love that preceded time and transcends even the grave
But there’s a cautionary tale embedded within this good news. Jesus’ way was not, and still is not, a way that leads to success on conventional terms. I was at a conference at the Washington National Cathedral last weekend—a few of you may know this—and the keynote speakers issued strong warnings about the rise of Christian nationalism. That is, the toxic confusion of nation state with the kingdom of God, and of following Jesus with following authoritarian leaders. That’s been a temptation for Christianity ever since the Emperor Constantine claimed it as his state religion in 313. But God’s kingdom is not limited to one country, God’s sovereignty cannot be claimed by one human leader, and God’s justice always holds its secular counterpart accountable. For Jesus and for his disciples—and for his followers from Dietrich Bonhoeffer to Martin Luther King—his was not a way to achieve secular power. In fact, Jesus’ was far more often a way that led to death.
Some of us may already have been reminded of death this morning—not necessarily in the context of judicial execution or of assassination—but because we so often hear the opening verses of the Gospel at funerals. “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?” I actually love preaching that text at the end of life. It’s both so intimate and familiar—and don’t all of us want a welcoming place for our loved ones?—and it’s a reminder that our real home is where God dwells. If we were wondering where the way of Jesus is going, that’s his answer.
But what if we were already home? Dwelling in an intimate and unbreakable bond between God, Jesus and his disciples. During Easter season, our readings all conspire to show us glimpses of resurrection life: the life wherein Jesus may show up anywhere—even right here at Trinity Cathedral—and reveal to us that God is at home with us. What then should we do? Well, what faithful practices do you already observe that bring you closer to God and to your neighbor? Do those, and you are home. Dwelling in resurrection life, right here and now.
There are so very many good ways to follow Jesus to the home he promises. And—bearing in mind the sin of Christian Nationalism—a few dangerous ways to veer off the path. Curtis Jones reminded me this week about Jesus’ desert temptations: immediately after his baptism and hearing that he was beloved by God, he faced hard choices about his own faithful way. Would he grab power by exploiting natural resources, by making alliances with evil, or by taking advantage of God’s love for him? We might remember these temptations—which are as attractive for us as they were for Jesus—as we daily consider the way that is right for us.
Here’s what I know about wayfinding. Like Jesus, we are going to have to know when to say no. Like Thomas, we are going to keep asking for Jesus for direction. Which of course he did, as our own Barbara Snyder reminded us a few weeks ago. After Jesus’ resurrection and ascension, Thomas became a missionary to India, and—following the faithful way of his Lord—was martyred for his faith in Chennai at a site now revered by Hindus, Muslims and Christians alike.
You know, there actually is a map for this way. It’s found in the faithful pattern of Jesus’ own life, but also in the lives of saints and martyrs, and – this is important—in the witness we offer to each other. At least three of Trinity’s faithful lay theologians inspired this sermon, and that shouldn’t come as a surprise. You inspire me daily, so don’t be shy to share what you’ve learned of God and your stories of discipleship with each other. That’s actually your job, because “you are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, God’s own people, in order that you may proclaim the mighty acts of him who called you out of darkness into his marvelous light.”
Yes, you are the ones so chosen. The language of chosen-ness is not so popular among liberal Christians these days, but I want to reclaim its identifying power from the Calvinists who would make it conditional and Christian nationalists who would weaponize it. If you are listening to this worship service today—or if you were baptized or confirmed, or if you attempted faithful practices and maybe didn’t entirely succeed in them—then you chose to be chosen. For the life and the truth of Jesus, and for the daily way of discipleship that both reveals our home and leads us home.
