John’s Gospel can be obscure at times. In my attempt to make meaning of this text, I’m like what Billy Collins, the former US poet laureate, wrote about high school students and poetry:
They want to tie the poem up to a chair and force a confession out of it.
That’s me when it comes to writing a sermon from Jesus’ farewell address. It’s difficult to find traction. There’s so much coming and going.
Three statements Jesus makes in our scripture for this Sunday summarize the passage for me and hopefully provide glue for a sermon: “If you love me, you will keep my commandments,” the new one being, “that you love one another” from John 13:34. The second helpful passage is: “The advocate, the Holy Spirit, whom the father will send in my name will teach you everything and remind you of all that I said to you,” and the third passage: “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give to you.”
It was a Sunday afternoon. I was the only student chaplain in the large Kansas City Memorial Baptist Hospital where I was assigned to do my Clinical Pastoral Education. The phone rang and the person on the other end said, “There has been a death in room 301. We tried to call a rabbi but could not get in touch with one. The wife of the deceased said to just send the chaplain on call.”
I immediately tried to find “the manual.” There’s an owner’s manual on how to operate a lawn mower, so surely there is a manual for chaplains with little experience, making a call to someone of another faith tradition. I was looking for a “chair and a confession.” Not finding any directions, I took a deep breath and prayed all the way to the third floor.
The whole CPE thing had been a challenge for me. I was required to wear a coat and tie while on duty. This outfit had also been my “uniform” as a school principal. So naturally I walked around the hospital like I was in a supervisory role. To help me get a different perspective, my colleagues encouraged me to wear a clerical collar. It seemed to work as nurses, doctors, and patients engaged with me differently and I with them. However I still felt confused, especially on this call. After all, I was a United Methodist seminary student, looking like a Roman Catholic priest, headed toward the room of a deceased Jew. What should I say?
When I entered the room, I had no chance to speak as the spouse greeted me with, “Oh Father, I’m so glad you came. Doesn’t he look so peaceful? Why don’t you stand on that side of the bed, take his hand, and I’ll take this hand. We’ll join hands across the bed and you can say a prayer.” In the state I was in, I readily accepted her lead.
I had to pull the deceased’s hand out from underneath the blanket and as I did, I saw a faded, tattooed number on his arm. All I could do was stare at it, wondering. I looked inquisitively at his wife who had seen me notice the tattoo. She smiled and nodded. I don’t remember what I prayed but I do know words of grace caught in my throat as my eyes moistened. When finished, she affirmed that he had survived the holocaust and had come to Kansas City after the war. This is where they met and raised their family.
My “manual” for that moment came from the most ethereal gospel: receive the Holy Spirit, obey the commandment of love, and experience shalom. Since my time with the holocaust survivor and his wife, I have asked the Spirit which employed the Jewish widow, to be with me — especially as I visited patients in hospitals. It is the same Spirit that swept over the waters of creation and was breathed on the disciples by the risen Jesus. Thanks for the peace of God which surpasses all understanding.
Breathe on me breath of God, fill me with life anew, that I may love what thou dost love, and do what thou wouldst do.
