John 12:20-33
“Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit…”
1.
In the 1970s Carter Heyward was among the first small group of women to be ordained to the priesthood in the Episcopal Church. After a long and bitter fight. And like Bishop Gene Robinson here in New Hampshire, these women met fierce opposition in certain circles, and even in some churches. Where meanness and prejudice get especially cruel. And Carter Heyward tells a story about communion, and serving communion in those first few months at a small parish in Ohio. A high moment for her, but a bizarre one for the church.
You may know that, in the Episcopal tradition, parishioners often come forward and kneel at the altar rail to receive the bread from priest’s hand. And that Sunday, newly ordained, Carter Heyward stepped to the rail to greet her people with the consecrated bread, the Body of Christ. She stepped down the line, offering each one communion, inviting each one to ministry and partnership with Jesus.
That day in Ohio, one man arrived at the altar rail with a grudge to bear. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t let it go. Carter Heyward’s ministry, her priesthood was so abhorrent to him, so threatening to everything he held dear in the world—that he came to the rail, kneeling but seething. And when she offered communion, he batted the bread away and angrily bit the priest’s finger. So committed was he to his own resentment, so unwilling to receive the gift that was literally at hand. And so opposed to the idea of a woman priest. He just batted the bread away, and bit her finger hard. Can you imagine? Carter Heyward says that the cost of discipleship and the risky business of the priesthood got a little clearer for her that day.
Maybe we should follow Annie Dillard’s wonderful advice in A Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, and show up for Communion Sundays in batting helmets, shoulder pads and shin guards. Because this isn’t just a quaint exchange of consumer goods; it’s a commitment we make—every time—to “soul force” and total transformation. It’s a commitment to trust and courage and solidarity with Jesus. If we dare. If we dare to let go.
And of course, that’s exactly what that parishioner in Ohio couldn’t do—or at least, couldn’t yet do. He couldn’t let go. He couldn’t give up on his own grievances, release his anxieties to God’s grace, turn over his patriarchal prejudice at the altar. And because he couldn’t—at least, couldn’t yet do that—he met the gift of God’s grace with contempt. He took the promise of new life and mangled it. He rejected his own liberation, and the Love that even in that moment sought him out. I want to believe that that wasn’t his last trip to the altar. I want to believe that—like the rest of us—he was given a second, a third, a fourth chance. As many as he needed. To wake up. To give up on his grievances and release his fears at last. To receive the gift of faith. To see his world reawakened and his life within it.
2.
This morning, on his way to the cross, inviting you and me to join him, Jesus says: “Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.” And this kind of poetry, which means to bewilder but inspire, invites reflection around sacramental practice and communion itself. “Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.” And then: “Those who cling to their life in this world will lose it, and those who let go will keep it for eternal life.” There’s a koan in all this, a sense of mystery and strange blessing, an invitation to curiosity and hope.
If that fellow in Ohio has to learn, somehow, to turn over his privilege and prejudice, in order to fully and gracefully receive what Jesus is doing in his life, maybe I too have privileges to sacrifice at the altar. Maybe every one of us has grievances to release, and fears, anxieties, burdens to set aside—so that we can accept the healing, love and partnership Jesus is extending. In the bread. In the cup. In the hands of a priest or priestess. And we do this over and over and over again. Communion is transformation. Communion is conversion. Communion is poetry; and faith then is like the art of being alive in wounded but wonderful world. “Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.”
So I want to offer this as a way to approach this ancient, but dynamic sacrament at the table with Jesus. To step into that Upper Room with Jesus, to lean into his presence at the table—is to bury our fears in the gospel of love. To acknowledge his suffering, to bear witness to his lovingkindness—is to release every grievance that blurs our vision, every bitterness that diminishes our hope. Maybe your fear has something to do with your own unique vulnerability in the world, your own mortality perhaps, a sense of foreboding or shame that just clings to your soul. Lean into God’s presence. Here at the table. Bury your fears in the gospel of love.
In this broken bread, in this common cup, in this sweet feast, Jesus says: “As I give up my fears, as I release my grievances, as I welcome God’s abundant love—so can you. Break this bread.” And then, “As I receive God’s promise of everlasting mercy and endless abundance—so can you. Drink this cup.” See, it’s not transactional, not at all. This sacrament is the promise in the midst of your awakening, the assurance in the midst of your transformation, and the strangely satisfying gift of divine presence—as you and I move into the conflicted spaces, and unsettling challenges, and critically important ministries of our lives. And there will be conflicts. And there will be challenges. But always, always, always, in releasing our fears to God, in casting off our grievances, in putting our hand in Jesus’ hand—we are renewed and refreshed and awakened again and again by the Love that sets us free. If we dare. If we dare to let go.
3.
Just this week, we received an invitation from UCC leaders in Concord to participate in an exciting program they’re calling Guns to Gardens. Guns to Gardens. It’s something they’ve done elsewhere in the state, asking gunowners to bring unwanted and unnecessary weapons to the church parking lot on a particular Saturday morning. And right there, with police supervision, repurposing the guns into garden tools and farming equipment used right here in New Hampshire. It’s a beautiful project conjured and manifested in the hearts and ministries of UCC friends right here in our state. “Swords into ploughshares.” “Spears into pruning hooks.” And I’m hoping that some Saturday this spring or summer, we’ll be hosting just such a day, a day of hope and promise and conversion, right here in Durham. Wouldn’t it be cool if we had the choir out that morning, in the lot, singing hymns to the Prince of Peace? As brave neighbors turned in their weapons?
I learned in the New York Times this week that gun violence is now the number one cause of death among children and youth in this country—finally surpassing traffic and automobile deaths. And—there are now more guns privately owned in this country than there are people. That’s right, more guns than people. Under beds. In basements. Locked up. Not locked up. Car glove compartments. Racks on your pickups.
You can—and some do—offer political and even constitutional reasoning for why this all the case. But it seems to me, friends, that it all speaks to the profoundly spiritual issue tearing at the soul of our families and neighborhoods, our states and the country itself. We are terribly and undeniably afraid. We are afraid of our own frailty, we are afraid of economic and political forces beyond our control, we are afraid of death, and we are sadly and tragically afraid of one another. This most of all. We are sadly and tragically afraid of one another. And there are companies here and elsewhere making a fortune on our angst.
You and I have a message for our friends. We have good news to share with our neighbors. And we simply must invite our friends and neighbors to lay their weapons down. It’s in the DNA of our tradition, the heart and soul of the gospel itself. As strange and unnerving as the world may be, we follow the Jew from Nazareth who rejected violence as a way to feel safe. As befuddling and unhinged as humans may be, we follow the Palestinian from Galilee who insisted that only love and mercy and disarmament could heal the nations of their cruelty and fear.
I hope you agree. If our faith has anything to offer a culture of despair, an anxious world—it is this gospel we celebrate at the table, the gospel that invites our partnership and collaboration every time we break bread. We do not need weapons to live our lives in God’s world. We do not need ever more dangerous magazine clips to feel safe and secure among the children of God. That’s simply not who we are as disciples of Jesus. We can, we must, we will bury our fears in the gospel of love. And if you can't set aside that Colt AR-15, if you're not ready to lay down your Sig Sauer P365, you probably need to be asking, "Am I serious about the God who came to the world in Jesus Christ?" "Am I committed to an Easter faith and a Christian path?"
4.
So friends, I invite you to come to the table this morning. I invite you to lay down your fears, your grievances, your weapons; and come to the table to remember Jesus and to join Jesus in his compassion and brokenness and hope and mercy. Come to the table to let go—to release your shame and hear a word of hope. Come to the table to receive in your hands and in your hearts the newness of Christ, the liberating grace of God and the One Big Love that draws all life into a communion of sweet and sacred peace.
Know this, though: this sacramental moment invites profound humility, often soul-shaking, world-flipping humility, that we might welcome the unexpected, and embrace unforeseen transformation. After all, to be in communion with Christ, to be in communion with one another is to be reawakened, refashioned, renewed—in the Spirit and in the Body of Christ. And this is who we are. And this is who we can be. And this is who the world needs us to be. Now more than ever.
Amen and Ashe.
