The Sixth Sunday of Easter - John 14:15-21 - The Rev. Colette Hammesfahr

 

The Dead Sea sits between Israel and Jordan. It’s one of the most unusual bodies of water on earth. First of all, its shoreline sits about 1,400 feet below sea level making it one of the lowest places on earth. The sea is about 10 times saltier than the ocean. Because of all the salt, you can float effortlessly. The water feels thick and almost oily. Salt crystals form along the edges like white rocks. Almost nothing lives there. While there are microorganisms that can survive, compared to other waters, it cannot sustain life – no fish, no plants, no ecosystem like a normal body of water. It’s a strange thing – a place that is full but not alive.

This image of the Dead Sea can say something to us. The problem isn’t that the Dead Sea is lacking anything. The Jordan River flows into the sea, constantly bringing it fresh water. The problem is that the Dead Sea has no outlet. While the Jordan flows into it, the water stays there. It receives but never goes anywhere.

So here’s the question: what happens when something is always receiving, but never giving?

Our readings today talk about a God who gives again and again, and how our life of faith is meant to flow outward, not just stay inward. Paul is in Athens and sees that they are very religious people. But their altars are made to “an unknown god.” If remains unknown to us, how can you share that with others? The psalmist writes, “Come and hear…I will tell you what he has done for me.” God is acting, they are receiving, and then they are telling the story. Peter tells us that we should always be ready to tell of the hope that is in us. Hope isn’t meant to sit quietly. Hope is meant to be given away. And then, Jesus says, “If you love me, you will keep my commandments.” Love isn’t just a feeling from Jesus that we are to hold onto, it should be something we do.

Desmond TuTu writes this: “God doesn’t know very much about math, because when you give to others, it should be that you are subtracting from yourself. But in this incredible kind of way . . . in fact you are making space for more to be given to you. . . . The Dead Sea in the Middle East receives fresh water, but it has no outlet, so it doesn’t pass the water out. It receives beautiful water from the rivers, and the water goes dank. I mean, it just goes bad. And that’s why it is the Dead Sea. It receives and does not give.”[1]

I was thinking about this quote this week, and I kept coming back to something.  There’s something special I see in St. Thomas’. Every church has a certain type of people, but I think that we have more than most—people who quietly take care of things. They show up to set up before an event. When everyone has gone home, they are the ones to stay behind and make sure everything is ready for the next time the doors are open. They see a visitor standing alone and go introduce themselves. They remember when someone has been sick and they give them a call. It doesn’t seem like much in the moment. It’s small and quiet. Nobody applauds them. Most of the time, nobody even sees them. And yet, those are often some of the most grounded, steady, alive people in the life of the church. Not because they’re getting something out of it in the way we usually think… but because something is always flowing outward from them. What’s interesting is that those people don’t seem depleted. They don’t run out. If anything, they seem more alive. It’s because what they’ve been given by God doesn’t stay bottled up within them. It moves.

It’s a little like a hose. Water flows through it—not because it holds onto the water, but because it lets it pass through. The moment you kink the hose or shut it off, the flow stops. But when it’s open, the water keeps moving.

Jesus says, “If you love me, you will keep my commandments.” Sometimes we hear that as a list of things not to do. Don’t do this. Don’t do that. You shouldn’t kill. Don’t steal. Don’t covet your neighbor’s goods. What if the commandments were not just about avoiding harm. What if the commandments were about learning how to let love move outward? Instead of just not harming our neighbor, what if we actually cared for our neighbor. Instead of not stealing from your neighbor, what if we gave generously to our neighbor?  Instead of holding back on harmful words, what if we spoke words that give life?

Love doesn’t sit still. Love moves. If we’re honest, we know how easy it is for things to stop moving. We receive grace, forgiveness, and encouragement from God. But then life gets busy. Or maybe we’re simply tired or being cautious. Slowly, without even realizing it, what we’ve received just stays with us. It’s not out of bad intentions. Sometimes it just feels easier to hold onto than to let it move outward. Then, overtime, faith can start to feel heavy. It’s not because God has stopped giving. It’s because nothing is flowing.

The Dead Sea receives but holds onto everything. Then, it becomes lifeless. The life Jesus is describing is different. It’s a life where the grace, mercy, and love we receive from God doesn’t stay with us. It flows outward. Sometimes in small ways, sometimes in quiet ways, but always moving.

This is what it means to love Jesus. It’s not just believing in him. It’s not just feeling something toward him. It’s letting what we receive from him move through us in how we speak, in how we act, and in how we care for the people around us. In God’s way of being, when we give, we are not left with less. We are open to more. The question isn’t whether God is giving to us. The question is whether anything is flowing out of us. Let it flow. Amen.

 

 

 

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[1] Haverkamp, Heidi. Everyday Connections: Reflections and Practices for Year A (Connections: A Lectionary Commentary for Preaching and Worship) (p. 266). Presbyterian Publishing. Kindle Edition.