Minneapolis and John
IN JANUARY, I HOSTED AN ONLINE READERS’ THEATER VERSION OF THE GOSPEL OF JOHN. I’ve read John many times before, but each time I hear it in this out-loud, interactive format, I discover something new. On this occasion, what I felt was the sensation of fear.
I have always known, obviously, that the crucifixion itself is a scary part. But this time, I felt the scary parts when we were only a third of the way into the book, long before the arrest of Jesus. It had to do with the escalating panic and respective fears of all kinds of different people in the story, with the recognition that all these different parties were deeply afraid, and some of them were also quite angry, and even from a distance of two thousand years, I could not see a realistic pathway to a less violent ending. I could say what I would have done to resolve the situation with a magic wand, but with the actual human beings in the actual circumstances described, I couldn’t come up with the right way to intervene.
Both I and other readers were likely extra sensitive to the crowd dynamics because we were so very conscious of the current state of the world…and, in particular, what’s happening in Minnesota. In fact, one of the Friends on the call was physically located in Minneapolis while we read. Just as in the Gospel of John, I know exactly what I would do to resolve the situation unfolding today if I had a magic wand. But I do not have one. And given the actual situation, I don’t know what I would do to intervene in a large-scale way even if I weren’t two thousand miles (three thousand kilometers) away.
There’s a man at the Anglican church here in San Miguel, Mexico, whose name is John. I’ve been noticing him for weeks, for various reasons. For one thing, he does not look like most of the other people who attend that church. His body type is different, even his way of walking and moving is different. He looks like a man who has spent time doing physical labor. For another thing, he is exceptionally competent in his service to the church. He runs the technology, both the microphone systems and the livestream, and this job involves a lot of climbing up and down the stairs to the choir loft and plugging things in at exactly the right time. Because I am theatrically minded, I have specifically noticed his unobtrusiveness. The church is very lucky to have him.
Until this most recent Sunday, I had never met John, but I knew his name because I found it easy to remember. You see, in the Gospel of John, there is a section in the last chapter that implies that one of Jesus’ disciples might have been left on earth to live until Jesus’ second coming. It doesn’t outright say this, but like I said, it’s implied. Different people interpret this differently, but in my mind, the story has always made me think it was intended as a reference to John.
If John the Beloved really had lived on earth for two thousand years and was still around today, I think he’d look and act a lot like John at the Anglican Church does. Which is why I’ve found it so easy to remember John’s name. John the Beloved was a fisherman. He preached the gospel, but he didn’t try to run Rome. And if he were still alive, I suspect he’d be somewhere not-particularly-special, doing what needs doing without a whole lot of fuss.
I usually arrive early for the 10:15 mass. I like to sit in a pew quietly and watch the preparations. It satisfies my need to incorporate silent listening in worship. But when I saw John (the real John) walking by and we made eye contact, I took the opportunity to wave him over. I wanted to thank him for his work.
He did appreciate that, but he also wanted to meet officially and to talk for a while about each of our personal stories. I will not share the specifics of his. What I will tell you is that his life might have been very different from what it’s been. His early experiences put him in a place where the natural choice would have been violence and hatred and rage. But that is not the choice he made. And that’s because he encountered people who showed him things could be different, and they did not condemn him.
Watching Minneapolis from afar has felt much like watching the blizzard that swallowed up most of my country this past weekend. Any one of us can catch and dispose of a single snowflake. We can even clear a snowdrift, if we’re physically present and we’re given some time and a decent shovel. But we feel, and we are, powerless against a blizzard. We cannot see any way to stop it.
I started crying in the middle of mass when we sang, “Have mercy on us, send Your peace,” over and over as the we’re-about-to-have-communion blessing. I cannot imagine any more appropriate prayer.
Then came the closing hymn, “Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee,” and while it wasn’t wrong to be singing that–I don’t think it’s ever wrong to be singing that–it did just about split my heart in two, because I knew that at the moment we were singing it, it was quite possible that federal officers were using tear gas on protestors, possibly even protestors that I personally knew…or sealing off the doors of businesses, demanding to see the papers of immigrants who I have met and worshipped with.
Let Your light upon us shine;
Teach us how to love each other,
Lift us to the joy divine.
As I left church that day, I was thinking about two different things.
One was the metaphorical blizzard, the feeling of helplessness and the prayer we’d sung: “have mercy on us, have mercy on us.” Helplessness does not have to be hopelessness.
But the other was about Anglican John and the necessity of engaging with the individual snowflakes. …Shoveling the drift that is right in front of us, whoever and whatever that might be. Because we never know what might happen as a result of our interactions with the one human being we can actually see and speak to in this moment. We never know if we might be the person who, because of how we have chosen to treat somebody, will show them they can make a different choice.
