Prayer & Unity

Sermon for the Seventh Sunday of Easter, Year C

The Church of the Epiphany | Washington, DC

Revelation 22:12-14,16-17,20-21; John 17:20-26

“O GOD, the King of Glory: Do not leave us comfortless, but send us your Holy Spirit to strengthen us...”

These words we pray in this morning’s Collect are especially fitting as Eastertide come to a close, and we now begin to anticipate Pentecost next week.

But even more so than the changing of liturgical seasons, appealing for the strength of God’s presence in this way resonates with the reality of this historical moment through which we are living—and our need for some divine intervention in it. Any number of current events might come to mind, and perhaps there are different ones for each of us. This morning, I find myself haunted by images of deportation raids that have unfolded in communities across our country over these recent days...

In our Gospel lesson, which is part of Jesus’ final instructions given to the disciples as he prepares them for the difficult days ahead they will surely face, we hear Jesus pray for unity—“that they may all be one.” And these very same words spoken to those early followers reveal God’s desire for you and I, today. Unity. As we know all too well, we are far from unified—both as a Church, and as a nation in pursuit of becoming a more perfect union.

There are more than a few different visions of “unity” in competition with one another these days—we see them playing out in theological positions of our faith communities, in our public dialogue, and in our governing policies.

Recently, some have suggested that our sense of identity as a nation is eroding—that we are simply no longer a people with a common or shared sense of who we are. We are split up into many different fragments. So a movement has been building with the desire to preserve our “social cohesion”—which we might also simply call our “unity” or “oneness.” And as this sentiment has played out from public opinion into legislation, immigration has been identified as the problem, with mass deportation offered up as the solution. If we want unity in these United States, as it has been suggested, we need to build up walls around our oneness to make sure we protect it.

But creating boundaries around belonging does little more than allow us to identify who’s in and who’s out, while doing little to nothing to build oneness together.

All of this is perhaps best exemplified in the fast-tracking resettlement of white Afrikaners from South Africa while refugees and asylum seekers from other nations are sidelined. This sort of “social cohesion” creates further competition and conflict. It’s primary concern has little to do with unity but rather uniformity under a banner of whiteness.

The anti-immigrant sentiment sweeping across the world is not only a drastically different understanding of unity from the aspirational vision of our country, it is also at odds with the very nature of God. The Holy Trinity after all is three distinct and separate persons united as One. Relationship across difference is how we understand who God is. Unity in diversity is foundational to the Christian faith we proclaim.

So, with the reality of these days swirling around us, there is perhaps no greater summary than the prayer offered in our lesson from the conclusion of Revelation, which effectively summarizes the entirety of our scripture, “Come, Lord Jesus!”

This is our prayer. And it tells us something about who we are. For all who hunger and thirst for righteousness in troubled times, it may even feel like this is the only prayer we have to offer. Truthfully though, at times I do wonder, is this really enough?

It’s a question I can imagine this jailer in the Acts lesson asking, too. When he finds himself in a situation that is altogether overwhelming and threatening to his life, he is in need of rescue. So, turning to Paul and Silas, he pleads with them, “What must I do to be saved?” What’s it going to take to get me out of this situation? And in response to this utter desperation, he hears the reply, “believe.”

I can’t help but imagine he felt a little disappointed—at least I think I would have in that moment. Because honestly, I certainly have my own moments of wondering whether our beliefs, or our thoughts, or our prayers are really enough. People are suffering all around, after all; so what are we doing here praying?

Regardless of the times in which we live, we are called to be people of prayer—to “pray without ceasing” in the familiar words from Thessalonians. But for as seemingly simple as this might sound it is really far from straightforward. Because our lives are complex. Prayer can be difficult, hard work: especially in desperate times.

So, how are we possibly to pray now, and what is missing as we pursue unity?

Prayer takes many forms. It may be offered as an intercession, in which we ask God to meet us in our moments of need. It may be offered as a thanksgiving, in which we express our gratitude for how the love of God has worked in our lives.

It may be a prophetic proclamation like the words of Psalm 97, which in boldly declaring the power and wonders of God is a poetic defiance of all false-gods and would-be-kings.

There are also many ways to offer our various prayers of intercession and thanksgiving. Perhaps, we might pray through our service to others or in our breaking bread together around a table; or while witnessing beauty in nature or the grace of a child; in noticing the gift of our breath which sustains our lives; or by lifting our voices and moving our feet while marching in protest. And we might also pray using the words of our liturgy each Sunday, that we might be renewed and sustained to live faithfully into the whole of our lives. All of these actions are ways of praying.

Prayer can be anything that orients us to God’s presence, and in doing so brings us into a greater encounter with the divine.

Richard Rohr defines the practice of contemplative prayer as “a long loving look at the REAL.” What he suggests is that in learning to prayerfully abide in God’s presence—perhaps in practicing a kind of silent stillness—we will slowly begin to see beyond all of the false human constructs we’ve convinced ourselves matter and are true, and with time begin to see what is actually true. And when all of the competition and division and made up hierarchies of human beings are stripped away, we see with clarity a loving oneness that has existed “before the foundation of the world.”

Prayer, in whatever form it may take, will change us. And we indeed in need of some transformation if we are to know unity.

This morning, I am reminded of the words spoken through the Prophet Isaiah, that God desires to create “a house of prayer for all people.” Not just for some, not only for those who look like us, or those who worship and pray like us. For all people. It is surely no simple task. And Jesus knows this. Which is why he prays that we might see the love shared within the very nature of God, and begin to live it in or own lives.

Without Love—the kind that is willing to serve others, the kind that joyfully delights in difference—we cannot possibly become one together. Working toward unity is hard, gritty work that takes far more love than we are possibly capable of offering. Frankly, we cannot work for unity apart from a life of prayer—because it is far too large for us to do based on our own strength or merit.

Fortunately though, we are not alone. Jesus prays for us. The very life of Christ is offered up as a prayer—to teach us how to pray, how to live both with ourselves and together with others, and how to abide in Love.

As we hear in John’s Gospel, the prayers of Christ go with us, even now. That we might become one, let us receive, believe, and let the power of those prayers saturate the whole of who we are.

“Come, Lord Jesus!”

Amen