St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD
May 29, 2022
Year C: The Seventh Sunday of Easter
Acts 16:16-34
Psalm 97
Revelation 22:12-14, 16-17, 20-21
John 17:20-26
Oneness and Liberation
Alleluia! Christ is risen!
The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!
Reflecting on today’s lesson from the Acts of the Apostles – the story of Paul and Silas and their incarceration and divine jailbreak in Philippi – got me thinking back quite a few years, back to a parishioner who had been arrested for drunk driving.
Since, unfortunately, he was a repeat offender, he was sentenced to six months in the local county jail.
Before visiting him for the first time, I had never been inside a jail – and I admit that the prospect made me both nervous and also curious.
Would it be like what I had seen on TV and in the movies?
When I arrived, I had to wait on line with all of the other visitors, mostly family members, it looked to me. My black suit and clergy collar did not get me any special treatment.
Just like when you enter any government building, I had to empty the contents of my pockets into a bowl that was then run through a scanner. My pyx – the small round container that’s used to hold consecrated wafers – drew some attention, with the guards puzzling over it and then asking me what it was inside.
I almost said “Jesus,” but went with “Holy Communion,” instead.
The guards asked me to open it so they could see for themselves.
I remember that the jail was cold – really cold – and in some places it was very loud – with the voices of the prisoners echoing off the concrete floors and cinderblock walls.
But in other places it was eerily silent.
I met with my parishioner in a small glassed-in room. There is no privacy in jail – we could see his cellblock and the other inmates and guards – and they could see us.
We sat across from each other at a metal table.
The guard left us, closing the door, which locked with a loud “click” behind him.
As soon as we were alone, the parishioner reached across the table and held my hands tight.
He told me that I was the only person he was allowed to touch. Even when his wife came to visit, they were separated by a thick pane of glass.
He said he had never before realized the importance of touch – and he missed it so much.
I went back once a month and after a couple of visits, I sort of got used to the jail – and some of the guards even got used to me. Sometimes they wouldn’t even bother to ask to look inside my pyx!
Each time, just like during my first visit, my parishioner and I would sit across from each other in the glassed-in room and he would grip my hands. We’d talk and pray and share Communion. And then I would press a button on the wall and through the intercom tell the guard that I was ready to leave.
Usually a minute or two later, a guard would appear to set me free and to send the parishioner back to his cellblock.
That’s how it worked…except for one time.
I pressed the button, but no one answered.
I don’t know if there was a shift change or they were short staffed or if something was going on in the jail that required extra attention, but, for whatever reason, the minutes ticked by and my parishioner and I were locked in this small room.
As I felt the waves of panic begin to rise from my stomach, I tried as best I could to compose my face into a neutral expression, trying to project a “non-anxious presence.”
Eventually somebody showed up and I got out of there, but for that time – I don’t know how long it was, probably just ten minutes, but for that time I got a small taste of what it feels like to be imprisoned.
Of course, not all prisons are built of steel and cinderblock.
Many of us are imprisoned by fear or guilt or addiction or regret or hatred.
Many of us feel imprisoned by outside forces that are, or seem to be, beyond our control – crime that imprisons people in their own homes, economic and social change that makes people feel like they’re being left behind, cut off, strangers in their own land.
And then there is the gun violence that continues to terrorize our country, inflicting horrendous and unnecessary suffering, shedding so much blood.
We seem to have so many ruthless, angry, and often unhinged people willing to kill others on our streets, willing to slaughter innocents like people shopping in a supermarket in Buffalo, and like those little children and their teachers in Texas.
As I wrote to you a few days ago, I heard about the mass shooting at Robb Elementary School on Tuesday afternoon, just before going to our Preschool’s art show.
The show was was magical – and then we gathered outside with the band and the ice cream truck and all those happy, loving families, who looked so safe and carefree.
Standing there and taking in that scene, I felt something like what I felt all those years ago in jail when I was locked in that little room with my parishioner – the rising wave of panic and fear.
At that moment and in the following days as I read more about what had happened and watched the politicians and the media play their usual roles in this dreadful drama – “thoughts and prayers” – “guns don’t kill people, people kill people” – the sudden but always brief interest in mental health - intrusive video of so much grief – and talking heads saying what everyone has heard a million times – after going through this all yet again, I felt despair – the despair that we are imprisoned – imprisoned with people who are armed to the teeth – imprisoned with people who have at least some power to change things but for their own cynical political reasons do little or nothing.
Not all prisons are built with steel and cinderblock.
Today is the Seventh Sunday of Easter.
Although it is still Easter, today’s gospel lesson takes us back to the Last Supper.
Jesus is gathered around the table with his friends and he prays – he prays for oneness – Jesus prays that we will be one just as the Father and he are one.
And notice that Jesus doesn’t step out and go off by himself to offer this prayer. No, he prays out loud, right there in front of his friends, no doubt hoping that they will be the answer to his prayer – that they will hear and remember his great desire that we should be one – God and us – all of us one.
That’s what Baptism is about – it’s a sacrament of oneness – God makes an indissoluble bond with each of us in Baptism – a bond that can never be broken.
And that’s what Communion is about – it’s a sacrament of oneness – each of us taking Christ into our bodies and souls.
And, just like for Paul and Silas and even for their jailer, this oneness – this indissoluble bond with God – this unbreakable bond with each other – this oneness is stronger than any prison.
You know, bringing Holy Communion to that man in jail really felt like bringing Jesus behind bars. Very beautiful and humbling.
But the truth is that Jesus was already there.
Jesus was already one with my friend - sustaining him, giving him the strength to go on, the humility to admit his failure, the courage to overcome his fear, and the confidence to reach across the table and hold my hand.
Today we are behind bars, in a prison built by violence, fear, and cynicism.
I don’t have all the answers but I do know this:
Just like for Paul and Silas and even their jailer, and just like for my friend in county jail, God always offers us liberation.
But that liberation can only begin when we are the answer to Jesus’ prayer.
We’re only getting out of jail when we remember – when we truly believe in – our oneness – God and us – all of us one.
Alleluia! Christ is risen!
The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!
Amen.
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