We understand some words better when we tell stories. Here is my sermon for this week.
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About fifteen years ago, when my parents were both still living, Ginger and I were in Texas seeing them as well as friends, which meant we did a good bit of driving. As we were going from Houston to San Antonio, I mentioned that we were nearing the town of Seguin, the self-proclaimed “Home of the World’s Largest Pecan.” I had remembered that fact from a family vacation many years before because the town had a large pecan sculpture in the town square to celebrate it.
We decided to stop and see what we could find that late afternoon in Seguin, Texas. We saw the sculpture and, as it turned out, that the only other thing that appeared to be open on the Square was a bar called The Oak. The inside looked like a movie set: a long bar that ran almost the full length of one side wall, an assortment of tables covering the rest of the floor, and any number of neon beer signs decorating the walls. Four or five men sat together at one end of the bar and another stood behind it.
He took our order and then struck up a conversation since it was quite obvious we were neither locals nor regulars. The conversation led us to find that he was not local either. He had moved to the little Texas town from Chicago, which prompted me to ask why and he answered with a story.
He had been in the service—career military—and had done a couple of tours in the Middle East. While he was on one of those tours, he and another soldier developed a strong friendship, so much so that when they came back one of the promises they made to each other was that if anything happened to one the other would take care of his family.
Life led them to live in different parts of the country. The one talking to us moved to Chicago and went into finance. He had never married and didn’t have any children. The other moved to Seguin where he had a family, though his wife died, leaving him with a daughter. When she was a sophomore in high school, her father got cancer and died as well.
The bartender said, “I promised to take care of her, and I couldn’t do that by making a girl who grew up here move to Chicago, so I quit my job, moved to Seguin, and bought this bar so I could keep my promises.” The girl had graduated from high school and gone on to college, but he had stayed so she still had a home there.
I tell you that story because he is who I thought of when I read the verses that close our passage for this morning—“I give you a new commandment: Love each other. Just as I have loved you, so you also must love each other. This is how everyone will know that you are my disciples, when you love each other.”—because they beg the question: What does loving each other the way Jesus loved us look like?
Well, for starters, it looks a lot like a bartender across the Square from the world’s largest pecan, which is to say it costs a lot.
As far as the gospel narrative goes, we have gone back in time to the night before Jesus’ execution. John’s version of events describes Jesus washing the feet of his followers, a true act of service in a land of dust and sandals and then telling Judas to do what he needed to do, which is where we join the story.
Jesus had a sense that the disciples were not only about to face the greatest devastation of their lives, but also that they appeared to have no inkling of what was about to transpire, so he didn’t mince words. He didn’t tell another parable, or stretch out into a long discourse. He gave them one simple, straightforward commandment that summed up what he wanted most for his followers: “Love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.” And then, he followed it with one more sentence: “This is how everyone will know that you are my disciples, when you love each other.”
What do we call that? A promise? An incentive? An admonition? A hope?
Maybe it’s not so much about labeling Jesus’ words as it is about taking them to heart and examining if the way we love one another, whether the one anothers in this room or the one anothers we encounter wherever we are, looks like the way Jesus loved the one anothers he encountered.
What I mean is I think it’s a pretty safe bet that Jesus would have moved to Seguin, if he’d had the chance. And also loving one another isn’t always that dramatic, though I do think it is always intentional. To love like Jesus loved means to look for ways to connect, encourage, and help—and then doing what it takes to connect, encourage, and help.
Yesterday, Ginger and I drove to New Britain because we caught wind of the Dionysus Greek Festival at St. George’s Greek Orthodox Church there. (It’s still going on, if you want to go after church.) Though they had signs about music and dancing, we were there before all of that began. What we found was incredible Greek food. I ate things I knew and a bunch of other things that I didn’t—mostly pastries—and most every time I complimented them on the food their response was, “It’s all homemade; we did this all ourselves,” which is to say it was everything on the menu was a tangible act of love because those recipes all take time.
It was their forty-fifth annual festival. The reason, much like our tag sales and craft fairs, was to raise money for their church. And it was an act of love, an intentional effort that brought them closer together, that gave people a chance to offer what they do best to further their community of faith. It was a festival of love in action, from the guys grilling the souvlaki in the parking lot to the folks serving it in the fellowship hall.
If loving like Jesus loves looks like moving to Seguin, it also looks like homemade baklava, which is also really hard work.
A couple of weeks ago we talked about how hard it is to understand what the word grace means because it has been so heavily abstracted. Love, as a word, is much the same way, at least in English. We use it to mean too many things. We love our spouses and partners, our children, our favorite movies, our favorite sports teams, and our favorite foods.
How can I say, “I love Ginger,” and “I love a good chili cheese dog,” and that word mean the same thing? (Though I will admit that when Ginger read through my sermon last night she commented, “I think they’re pretty close.”)
When the apostle Paul wrote his famous words to the church in Corinth, he turned to specifics:
Love is patient, love is kind, it isn’t jealous, it doesn’t brag, it isn’t arrogant, it isn’t rude, it doesn’t seek its own advantage, it isn’t irritable, it doesn’t keep a record of complaints, it isn’t happy with injustice, but it is happy with the truth. Love puts up with all things, trusts in all things, hopes for all things, endures all things. Love never ends.”
With those words in mind, we could paraphrase Jesus’ words to say, “Be patient and kind to one another as I was to you. Forgive one another and be forthright with one another the way I was with you. Trust and encourage one another the way I did with you. That’s how people will remember both of us. That is what will matter most.”
We may not have a giant pecan in our town, but we do have a Sleeping Giant who holds history for many in our community—and for many in this room. When we walk out of here and look across at the well-known profile, we recall dates, gatherings, proposals, summer happenings, walks—the list could go on. The Giant reminds us of something larger than ourselves, from those who settled here all the way down to where we are right now, which is to say it is a visual reminder of a legacy of love because love is what keeps us alive, whether we are in Central Texas or New Britain or in the shadow of the Sleeping Giant.
Love puts up with all things, trusts in all things, hopes for all things, endures all things. Love never ends.
Theologian Debi Thomas writes,
When death comes knocking, and [Jesus] has mere hours left to communicate the heart of his message to his disciples, he doesn’t say, “Believe the right things.” He doesn’t say, “Maintain personal and doctrinal purity.” He doesn’t say, “Worship like this or attend a church like that.” He doesn’t even say, “Read your Bible,” or “Pray every day,” or “Preach the Gospel to every living creature.” He says, “Love one another.” That’s it. The last dream of a dead man walking. All of Christianity distilled down to its essence so that maybe we’ll pause long enough to hear it. Love one another. . .
Can I go back to the baklava for a minute?
I have tried to make it a couple of times and it is really hard to do. There are a bunch of steps, and you have to pay constant attention to the phyllo dough. Every detail to the recipe has consequences. The same is true of Jesus’ commandment to love one another. Love, like baklava, has lots of layers and every word and action has consequences.
I am quite sure there were mornings when the guy who moved to Texas struggled as he learned how to become a guardian for a tenth grader, much less adapt to moving from Chicago to a tiny town to keep a promise to a friend whom he loved. And, after seeing how many people cooked and worked to make the Greek Festival happen, I’m sure it held some tense moments. Still what we saw and tasted yesterday was a feast of love in many tangible forms. Here, in the shadow of the Sleeping Giant, it’s fair to say that not a week goes by that one of us is not irritated or upset or confused or maybe even hurt by the words or actions of someone else. And we keep showing up and figuring out how to live together.
That’s what love looks like. And we are commanded—not asked or encouraged—commanded to love one another the way Jesus loved us so that love will be our most recognizable trait. When it comes right down to it, that’s what matters most. Amen.
Peace,
Milton