(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Worship on April 15, 2018)
The Pet Connection
You know the old adage that pets
and their owners look alike?
Perhaps you’ve seen this with your own eyes. The bearded hipster at the park walking a fuzz-faced dog. Or the jogger running behind her long,
lean canine. Or the two pairs of
drooping eyes, human and dog, gazing contentedly on the lake and its feathered
denizens. Well, in case you had
any doubts, psychologist Michael Roy put this adage to the test and proved that
it’s true! Taking separate photos
of owners and their pets, he mixed these up and presented them to participants
in his study. They matched owner
and pet with remarkable accuracy—greater than chance would have accounted for.[1]
In many cases, there is an undeniable
likeness between human and beloved furry companion. To know one is to know the other.
We sometimes see a similar
principle in parent and child. At
an early age, children often mimic their parents: mowing the law, cooking and
baking, playing sports. And vice
versa: parents can be seen playfully copying the antics of their child. Thus there is a likeness between parent
and child. We could often match
the two according to their behavior.
The incredible likeness between
humans and their beloved furry companions, or between parent and child, is not
far from a deep theological truth.
The writer of 1 John declares that when we see God, we also learn
something about ourselves. Like a
child learning who they are in the behavior of their parent, or like a pet
whose demeanor somehow follows its human companion’s, we discover in Jesus
Christ that God is love, and therefore we
are loved. Or as the writer
proclaims, we are “children of God” (v. 1).
But the writer does not stop
there. He then proclaims, “But
that’s not all. There’s more to
come! We will be changed further! Into what, we do not know yet. We will only know that when we see
Christ—for remember, as a dog or cat is like its human companion, or a child is
like its parent, so we the beloved are becoming like our love, God.” That’s a paraphrase, of course. What the writer actually says is this:
“Beloved, we are God’s children now; what we will be not has not yet been
revealed. What we do know is this:
when he is revealed, we will be like him, for we will see him as he is” (1 John
3:2).
At Harvard and Unhappy:
From Competition to Community
I’ve shared stories before about Henri
Nouwen. He was a celebrated and
decorated theologian and priest in the Catholic Church. His rising renown ultimately led to a
teaching post at Harvard. But
there he had a revelation. He was
unhappy. He found himself in a
place of competition, when deep down he desired community. “After twenty-five years of
priesthood,” he writes, “I found myself praying poorly, …isolated from other
people, and very much preoccupied with burning issues. … I woke up one day with the realization
that I was living in a very dark place and that the term ‘burnout’ was a
convenient psychological translation for a spiritual death.”[2]
What happened next was a surprise
for everyone, including Henri. He
had been climbing and climbing all his life, from one academic post to the
next, one religious recognition to the next. But now exhausted, he stepped “down.” He joined a unique community of persons
living with intellectual and physical disability called L’Arche, a community
begun in 1964 by Jean Vanier.
Vanier had witnessed the sadness and desperation of persons with
disabilities who were hidden away from society in dismal institutions. But in these same people his eyes were
also opened to see the heart of Christ.
For as he puts it, “People with disabilities are not seeking power, but
friendship.”[3] From this revelation sprang the L’Arche
community, which has now multiplied into communities all over the globe. Like any group home, L’Arche offers
needed assistance and teaches life skills. Unlike many group homes, however, the point is ultimately
not capability and self-sufficiency.
The point is belonging.
L’Arche is not meant to convert its residents to the way of the world,
but rather to invite the world into the trust and togetherness of its
residents. Everyone at L’Arche,
assistant and resident, lives together in intentional community, not as helper
and helped, but as companion. Whereas
the world teaches an ethics of competition—to make more money, to get more
power, to win more hearts, to secure yourself, to prove yourself—L’Arche seeks
what its residents seek: friendship.
When Henri joined the L’Arche
community in Ontario, he was invited to be Adam’s assistant. Adam was severely limited: he could not
walk on his own or speak or eat or express himself with smiles and frowns. “Helping Adam,” Henri writes, “meant
waking him up…, taking off his pajamas and dressing him in a bathrobe, walking
him to the bathroom, shaving his beard, giving him a bath, choosing clothes for
the day, dressing him, combing his hair, walking with him to the kitchen,
making his breakfast,” and so on—until he got Adam out of the house and to his
day program.[4] Henri reports that, at first, he felt
very much the helper and saw Adam as the helped. But over time, Adam revealed to Henri his own
vulnerabilities. “Yes,” he writes,
“Adam…couldn’t speak, but I spoke too much. Yes, Adam…couldn’t walk, but I was running around as if life
was one emergency after the other.
Yes, [the folks around me] needed help in their daily tasks, but I, too,
was constantly saying, ‘Help me, help me.’”[5] Thus he concludes: “I was faced with a
very insecure, needy, and fragile person: myself.”[6] Henri had achievements, awards, and
great admiration, and in a way he had continued to seek these things even at
L’Arche. But his time with Adam
was teaching him that these things did not touch his heart. He realized that he was more like Adam
than he knew. He was weak and
needful. And it was in this
weakness and need that he finally discovered what Adam had “known” all along. The heart of life is belonging. Togetherness. Communion.
Henri claims that Adam taught him
more than any book or professor ever did.
In Adam, Henri saw Christ.
Adam accepted him unconditionally, loved him, trusted him, and all of
this not through strength but through weakness and need. Gradually Henri became like the Christ
whom he saw. He became like Adam. As he learned himself to accept and live
in his weakness and need, so too he entered into a genuine communion of
hearts. He loved as he was loved.
The Risen and Wounded Christ
“When he is revealed, we will be
like him, for we will see him as he is” (1 John 3:2). Perhaps it is only natural to read this verse and to imagine
glorious heavenly bodies immune from weakness or limitation.
But as I reflect on Henri’s
story, I begin to wonder if Jesus will confound our expectations. We want Jesus to come in great
achievement and admiration. We
want to share in that glory. But
perhaps this reflects more our own desires than it does Christ. Perhaps Christ cries out to us in
persons like Adam, comes to us in the belonging and togetherness that spring
from weakness and need.
We can never know what Christ
will look like in the future. But
we know what he has looked like in past experience. I’ve shared Henri Nouwen’s story. But our gospel scripture today shares another experience:
when the disciples encounter the risen Christ. In that room where they were gathered, Christ came bearing
two things: his wounds and forgiveness.
The victory of the risen Christ is not the victory of conquerors, of
great power or force or threat.
The victory of Christ looks a lot like Adam, like the folks at
L’Arche. Wounded, disabled, and
crying out for communion.
Wounded and Weak and Wishing for Communion
As between pets and their human
companions, parents and their children—there is, declares the writer of 1 John,
an indelible likeness between God and humanity. When we see God as God is, we are transformed into that
likeness.
The good news of this Easter
season is that Christ is risen—not just two thousand years ago, but today in
our own lives. The risen Christ
walks among us, is revealed among us.
But perhaps he—or she—looks different than what we might be looking
for. Many are seeking a god of
power, and that is mirrored in the way of our world—our politics, our business,
our society. But the disciples saw
a very different God in the risen Christ, and so did Henri. They saw a God wounded, disabled,
bearing nothing but peace and forgiveness. And they were transformed.
Have you seen the risen
Christ? Where? In whom? Did you recognize Christ immediately, or is it taking some
time? Are you being transformed
into the likeness of God? I am so
programmed by the world, that it takes me time and reflection and sometimes
grace hitting me upside the head.
But I have seen the risen Christ—at the memory care unit across the street,
in hospitals, in classrooms full of folks learning English as a second
language. Like Christ in his
return: wounded and weak and wishing for communion. And it is changing me.
Prayer
Risen Christ,
Weaker than we want,
Wounded,
With nothing
But peace and forgiveness to give us—
Grant us recognition
Of your resurrection
Where we have looked
But have not seen,
That we might be transformed
Into your life-giving
likeness. Amen.
[1] David
Robson, “Dogs Look Like Their Owners—It’s a Scientific Fact,” http://www.bbc.com/future/story/20151111-why-do-dogs-look-like-their-owners,
accessed on April 10, 2018.
[2] Henri
Nouwen, In the Name of Jesus: Reflections
on Christian Leadership (New York: Crossroad Publishing Company, 1989),
10-11.
[3] Kathryn Jean
Lopez, “Men and Women with Disabilities Are Tender Teachers,” https://www.nationalreview.com/2018/04/movie-summer-in-the-forest-community-people-intellectual-disabilities/,
accessed April 10, 2018.
[4] Henri
Nouwen, Adam: God’s Beloved
(Maryknoll, New York: Orbis, 1997), 41.
[5] Nouwen, Adam, 77.
[6] Nouwen, Adam, 78.
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