There is an ancient legend about St. John,
evangelist and beloved disciple,
that is recounted by Thomas Aquinas
at the end of his commentary on John’s Gospel.
John, who was the one apostle
not to die a martyr’s death,
lived to a ripe old age.
When he was no longer able to walk,
he was carried to the church by the faithful
so he could teach them.
And he taught only one thing:
“Little children, love one another.”
Thomas Aquinas adds,
“This is the perfection
of the Christian life” (§2653).
evangelist and beloved disciple,
that is recounted by Thomas Aquinas
at the end of his commentary on John’s Gospel.
John, who was the one apostle
not to die a martyr’s death,
lived to a ripe old age.
When he was no longer able to walk,
he was carried to the church by the faithful
so he could teach them.
And he taught only one thing:
“Little children, love one another.”
Thomas Aquinas adds,
“This is the perfection
of the Christian life” (§2653).
The conclusion Thomas draws
from this apocryphal story
rings true not only with the Gospel
and the Letters of John,
but with Scripture as a whole.
We hear this morning from
the First Letter of John:
“If we love one another, God lives in us,
and his love is perfected in us.”
As Aquinas uses the term,
“perfection” is not
some unobtainable ideal,
something true only of God;
it is in fact true of anything
that fully realizes the kind of thing it is.
A knife is perfected by being sharp,
a racehorse is perfected by being fast,
food is perfected by being
both tasty and nutritious.
For something to lack these perfections
is to fall short of being
the thing that it is meant to be.
And, seemingly, the life of a Christian
is perfected by loving others;
and not to love is, for us Christians,
to fall short of being
the thing we are meant to be.
from this apocryphal story
rings true not only with the Gospel
and the Letters of John,
but with Scripture as a whole.
We hear this morning from
the First Letter of John:
“If we love one another, God lives in us,
and his love is perfected in us.”
As Aquinas uses the term,
“perfection” is not
some unobtainable ideal,
something true only of God;
it is in fact true of anything
that fully realizes the kind of thing it is.
A knife is perfected by being sharp,
a racehorse is perfected by being fast,
food is perfected by being
both tasty and nutritious.
For something to lack these perfections
is to fall short of being
the thing that it is meant to be.
And, seemingly, the life of a Christian
is perfected by loving others;
and not to love is, for us Christians,
to fall short of being
the thing we are meant to be.
Perhaps this leads us
to breathe a sigh of relief.
Love?
Who knew that perfection was so easy?
But of course, it’s not so easy.
And St. John, even if he did,
at the end of his life,
teach nothing except
“little children, love one another,”
knew that love, as Christians understand it,
is something quite arduous and demanding.
It might seem quite easy to love God,
especially if the God we love
is simply an abstract notion,
an omnibenevolent higher power
whom we encounter as a distant, hidden force.
But Christianity requires also love of neighbor,
the insistent close-at-hand human presence
that demands of me
some sort of concrete response.
Maybe this difficulty is why
love is not simply suggested,
since suggestions are something
we feel free to ignore,
but commanded.
“The commandment we have from him is this:
those who love God must love
their brothers and sisters also.”
And the brothers and sisters
whom we are called to love
might not seem to us very lovable.
They will probably seem weird
or annoying or grubby
or threatening or alien.
To love my neighbors
in their insistent proximity
will involve my heart traveling
some distance from where it is
to where God wants it to be.
to breathe a sigh of relief.
Love?
Who knew that perfection was so easy?
But of course, it’s not so easy.
And St. John, even if he did,
at the end of his life,
teach nothing except
“little children, love one another,”
knew that love, as Christians understand it,
is something quite arduous and demanding.
It might seem quite easy to love God,
especially if the God we love
is simply an abstract notion,
an omnibenevolent higher power
whom we encounter as a distant, hidden force.
But Christianity requires also love of neighbor,
the insistent close-at-hand human presence
that demands of me
some sort of concrete response.
Maybe this difficulty is why
love is not simply suggested,
since suggestions are something
we feel free to ignore,
but commanded.
“The commandment we have from him is this:
those who love God must love
their brothers and sisters also.”
And the brothers and sisters
whom we are called to love
might not seem to us very lovable.
They will probably seem weird
or annoying or grubby
or threatening or alien.
To love my neighbors
in their insistent proximity
will involve my heart traveling
some distance from where it is
to where God wants it to be.
In our first reading,
the story of Philip baptizing
the Ethiopian eunuch,
we get some sense of the distance
the heart must travel
in order to reach the perfection
of the Christian life.
Philip is a “Hellenist”—
that is, a Greek-speaking Jew
from the diaspora, outside Judea.
The Ethiopian is, well, an Ethiopian,
which in the ancient world
was a generic term
for anyone with black skin.
Ethiopia, moreover,
stood in the ancient imagination
as a place that was far distant
and almost unimaginably exotic.
The Roman writer
Pliny the Elder claimed
that there were Ethiopians
who were twelve feet tall,
and that they “never spit,
do not suffer from
headache or toothache
or pain in the eyes,
and very rarely have a pain
in any other part of the body.”
They might as well be
from another planet.
And in the Old Testament,
when the writers want to speak
of something as being at a great distance,
they say it is as far as Ethiopia,
in the same way we might refer
to something being in Timbuktu
(which, in case you don’t know,
is an actual city in Mali).
the story of Philip baptizing
the Ethiopian eunuch,
we get some sense of the distance
the heart must travel
in order to reach the perfection
of the Christian life.
Philip is a “Hellenist”—
that is, a Greek-speaking Jew
from the diaspora, outside Judea.
The Ethiopian is, well, an Ethiopian,
which in the ancient world
was a generic term
for anyone with black skin.
Ethiopia, moreover,
stood in the ancient imagination
as a place that was far distant
and almost unimaginably exotic.
The Roman writer
Pliny the Elder claimed
that there were Ethiopians
who were twelve feet tall,
and that they “never spit,
do not suffer from
headache or toothache
or pain in the eyes,
and very rarely have a pain
in any other part of the body.”
They might as well be
from another planet.
And in the Old Testament,
when the writers want to speak
of something as being at a great distance,
they say it is as far as Ethiopia,
in the same way we might refer
to something being in Timbuktu
(which, in case you don’t know,
is an actual city in Mali).
But the Ethiopian’s distance from Philip
is not simply geographical or cultural.
For this Ethiopian is a eunuch,
and even though he is reading
from Israel’s scriptures
his status as a eunuch would prevent him
from joining in Israel’s worship,
for eunuchs were excluded from the Temple.
Philip’s heart must travel some distance
in order to be perfected by loving this Ethiopian,
in order to see him as a brother for whom Christ died
and welcome him into fellowship through baptism.
And so the story emphasizes
at every moment
that it is the Spirit
who is propelling Philip,
for only the Spirit can guide us
across such distance.
is not simply geographical or cultural.
For this Ethiopian is a eunuch,
and even though he is reading
from Israel’s scriptures
his status as a eunuch would prevent him
from joining in Israel’s worship,
for eunuchs were excluded from the Temple.
Philip’s heart must travel some distance
in order to be perfected by loving this Ethiopian,
in order to see him as a brother for whom Christ died
and welcome him into fellowship through baptism.
And so the story emphasizes
at every moment
that it is the Spirit
who is propelling Philip,
for only the Spirit can guide us
across such distance.
Given events in the world today,
it is hard not to be struck by the fact
that the setting of this story
is the road that runs
from Jerusalem to Gaza.
What better symbolizes for us
the seemingly impossible journey
that the heart must make
to the perfection of love
than traversing the road
from Jerusalem to Gaza?
What better captures for us
the seemingly intractable complexity
of creating not simply a cessation of violence
(which would in itself be something)
but the creation of true shalom,
the true peace of God
that is the fruit of love?
What situation better sums up
how cultural and religious difference
can erect barriers that block
the path to love of one another?
The road from Jerusalem to Gaza
marks a journey whose distance is too great,
a journey that we cannot make on our own.
And while we see that unmade journey
vividly displayed
in the current conflict in the Middle East,
we also have roads from Jerusalem to Gaza
in our own nation,
in our own homes,
in our own hearts:
Intractable racial divisions,
long-festering family conflicts,
the gap between the good
that I know I should do
that the evil that I actually do.
All of this and more
tells us that the love for one another
that is the perfection of the Christian life
often involves a journey
too far for us to make.
But though we cannot ourselves
make that journey,
the Spirit can.
Though we cannot
cross that distance,
the Spirit can.
For the Spirit,
who can traverse
even the infinite distance
between God and us,
binds us to Jesus
and make us abide
in his love for the Father
and the Father’s love for him,
so that the flow of love
that is the life of God
begins to flow through us
and begins to flow from us
out across the distance
that separates us from one another,
even the distance from Jerusalem to Gaza.
make that journey,
the Spirit can.
Though we cannot
cross that distance,
the Spirit can.
For the Spirit,
who can traverse
even the infinite distance
between God and us,
binds us to Jesus
and make us abide
in his love for the Father
and the Father’s love for him,
so that the flow of love
that is the life of God
begins to flow through us
and begins to flow from us
out across the distance
that separates us from one another,
even the distance from Jerusalem to Gaza.
Jesus tells us in the Gospel:
“apart from me you can do nothing.”
But if we abide in him
through the Spirit…
well, who knows what is possible?
“Beloved, let us love one another.”
Let us love the weird, annoying, grubby,
threatening, alien other,
“because love is from God;
everyone who loves
is born of God
and knows God.”
And this is the perfection
of the Christian life.
“apart from me you can do nothing.”
But if we abide in him
through the Spirit…
well, who knows what is possible?
“Beloved, let us love one another.”
Let us love the weird, annoying, grubby,
threatening, alien other,
“because love is from God;
everyone who loves
is born of God
and knows God.”
And this is the perfection
of the Christian life.
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