How Much Can You Love?

John 13: 31-35

Beaumont Presbyterian Church

May 2, 2010

The Rev. Susan Warren

            It will be obvious to those of you who attended Holy Week services this year that the lectionary is covering some of the same ground now. This passage in John is from his telling of the story of the Last Supper. Jesus has gathered his disciples together and washed their feet and shared a meal with them. In the passages just before this one John describes how Satan has entered Judas. Jesus tells his betrayer to “do quickly what you are going to do.” And Judas flees into the night.

            Now Jesus is talking about being glorified, and giving his disciples what he calls a new commandment, the commandment to love one another.

            I don’t know why the lectionary writers decided to return to this point after we already have celebrated Easter. Maybe the text serves to remind us about the backdrop of love and suffering and servant hood against which Jesus is glorified. Even on this side of Easter we do well to remember the darkness against which the light of Easter shines all the more brightly.

            At any rate, here we are talking about a new commandment from Jesus, which might make us wonder: what was the old commandment? And what exactly is new about a commandment to love?  In the Torah, the Hebrew Bible, God issues the commandment to love. We find it in Leviticus and Deuteronomy, among other places.

            The Greek word for “new” is found only twice in the Gospel of John. It can refer to something that didn’t exist before, or it can mean a new way of understanding.  My hunch is that John uses the word to mean a new way of understanding. The gospel writer is trying to teach how Jesus loves, so that his congregation can learn to love in the same way.  He’s offering a new understanding of what it means to love, to love each other as God loves us.

            A Valparaiso University professor of liturgical studies, Frederick Niedner, makes the case that what is new in this scene at the Last Supper is that Judas has left the building – the ultimate sinner, the betrayer, has left the table. We remember him every time we celebrate the Eucharist, don’t we?  We don’t use his name, but Judas is present in the words of institution, which I will repeat during communion in a few minutes. I’ll say, “On the night he was betrayed, Jesus took the bread . . . .”

            Niedner wants us to ask whether this new commandment to love extends to Judas himself. Having heard Jesus’ commandment, did any of the disciples try to find Judas? Did any of his 11 friends seek him out, try to comfort him in what must have been an agonizing time when he realized what he had done? Did anyone, perhaps, empathize with Judas’ effort to force his master to prove that he truly was the Messiah? After all, didn’t they all want the same thing? Didn’t they all want a Messiah who would lead Israel?

            Apparently no one sought out Judas.  Disciples of old and disciples today continue to remember only his unforgivable behavior. He has no place at the table.

Sometimes our families are broken in a similar way. We see an empty place at our table and we’re distressed. We’ve been betrayed, maybe, by someone we trusted. We’ve been hurt by a friend or family member in whom we placed great love and trust and now we have banished that person, that person who cannot be forgiven.

 Some of our churches are broken in the same way and have been for centuries.

Along with the Reformation came a multitude of new denominations. And now we have the problem of figuring out who to welcome at the table. What if we don’t understand communion in the same way? How can we share it? We all claim to be members of the body of Christ, and yet we can’t celebrate his final offering of bread and cup together. Not to mention our brothers and sisters who also claim Abraham as their ancestor in faith – Jews and Muslims. As the author notes, interfaith animosities often are insurmountable.[i]

            A couple of years ago some of my family members arranged a reunion for relatives on my father’s side of the family. Dad and all of his siblings are gone, as are all but one of my first cousins. But there are second cousins and their children and an activist widow with a big heart who tries to keep the ties that bind. And yet it’s awkward. Dad’s brother went through a painful and messy divorce nearly 50 years ago. The anger and resentment among his daughter and step-children, between his ex-wife and widow, are literally palpable after five decades! The reunion was fraught with Judases.

            It’s hard to think about forgiving Judas, isn’t it? It’s hard to think about making a place for him at the table. In John’s Gospel, Jesus shows his love by washing the feet of his disciples, something normally reserved for a servant. Now he prepares to give his life.

            As Niedner notes, Jesus loves by giving himself away, by losing himself. Genuine love always means losing ourselves to some degree – losing ourselves in another’s arms, in another’s laughter, in another’s tears. That’s also how we find ourselves. We find our own true humanness when we give ourselves away. This is the new understanding of love that Jesus offers.

He gives himself completely, and still he lives. He lives in us who are his body. How is Jesus’ love known in the world? Through us. How is Jesus forgiveness known in the world? Through us. And so in our community we must seek and save and forgive Judas.[ii]

            But here’s the thing. By calling us to emulate his love, Jesus is not calling us to give up our lives. He’s calling us to give away our lives. To love one another as Jesus loves us is to live life thoroughly shaped by a love that knows no limits. We can’t live the life of Jesus, but we can struggle with the question: What would God have me do at this time and in this situation? (O’Day, NIB)

            One last word about Judas. This is a story told by a Christian counselor named Dennis Linn, who talks of how his mind was changed about God. He describes how his image of God was like his image of his stern old uncle, the sort of person that people respected the old-fashioned way, by brute force.

            One day a woman named Hilda went to Linn for counseling, crying because her drug-dealing, murderous son had tried to commit suicide. She was certain he would eventually succeed at killing himself and would go to hell. The counselor tended to agree with that assessment, but, not wanting to further upset his patient, he called up his theological training, quietly asked God to guide him, and then suggested that Hilda close her eyes and imagine that she was seated next to the judgment seat of God. He told her to imagine also that her son had died with all this sin and had arrived before God. “Squeeze my hand,” he said, “when you can imagine that.”

            A few minutes later Hilda squeezed his hand. And she described to him the entire judgment scene. He asked, “Hilda, how does your son feel?” She answered, “My son feels so lonely and empty.” The counselor asked Hilda what she would do. She said, “I want to throw my arms around my son.” She lifted her arms and began to cry as she imagined herself holding her son tightly.

            Linn asked her to look into the eyes of God and see what God wanted to do. God stepped down from the throne and embraced the son. And the three of them, Hilda, her son, and God, cried together and held one another.

            The therapist was stunned. He writes: “What Hilda taught me in those few minutes is the bottom line of healthy Christian spirituality: God loves us at least as much as the person who loves us the most.”[iii]

            Will Judas ever be found and forgiven? When he is, then we will know that we, too, have been found, forgiven and loved.

            The banquet is set before us. We remember the night of the new commandment. It’s a pretty good one, isn’t it?  Amen.