Easter VII - June 1, 2025

Easter VII – Year C

Church of the Atonement

The Rev’d Charles Everson

June 1, 2025

We find ourselves today in the liminal time between Ascension and Pentecost. Thursday, we remembered Christ’s ascension—his bodily return to the Father, where he now reigns, exalted in glory – and we also dramatically extinguished the Paschal candle, the visible reminder of his physical presence with his disciples after his resurrection, symbolizing his bodily ascension into heaven. He’s not absent from us now, but his presence is different than it was. We wait now—as the disciples once did—for the coming of the Holy Spirit to enlighten us with celestial fire at Pentecost.

As we wait, the Church gives us this passage from John’s gospel, a passage of astonishing intimacy. Jesus is on the cusp of betrayal, arrest, and crucifixion, and he prays for his disciples.  Then, stunningly, he prays for us: “I ask not only on behalf of these, but also on behalf of those who will believe in me through their word.”

What does he ask? “That they may all be one.” A unity not of control or uniformity, but the unity that exists within the Most Holy Trinity: “As you, Father, are in me and I am in you, may they also be in us,” he prays.

This is not a call to consensus of belief or conformity to church rules. This is a call into the divine life itself. The Church has long used the word peri-chor-esis o describe the inner relationship of the members of the Trinity—the mutual indwelling of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Each Person distinct, yet wholly united, giving and receiving in perfect love. And Jesus prays that we might be drawn into that kind of unity. That we might be taken into the inner life of God. This is the shape of salvation: not just rescue from sin, but transformation into communion—with God and with one another.

This prayer has lingered with me for the past couple of weeks, most poignantly last Friday, when I flew to Tyler, Texas, for the funeral of my college roommate, Robert, who had taken his own life.

Robert was one of those people who made the faith of those around him deeper, richer, and more authentic. We had many late-night conversations, prayed together, sorted through our respective young loves and the inevitable breakups that ensued, and carried each other through difficult seasons in life. His death was shockingly unexpected, but mercifully, I was able to make the funeral.

His funeral was at a Global Methodist parish, a group that recently separated from the United Methodist Church over its stance on homosexuality.  I came to that service with a heart full of sorrow—and also anxiety. I didn’t know how it would feel to be in a room full of Christians who believe that my 18-year-relationship with Jay is sinful. I didn’t know how Robert would be remembered.  I was worried that suicide would be talked about as an unforgiveable sin.

When I arrived, I looked at the bulletin, and was stunned to see that his wife Michele and their two teenage daughters were going to offer a eulogy. When the time came, Michele didn’t try to explain Robert’s death. She didn’t try to speak for him. She let him speak for himself. They played a video clip from a sermon Robert preached on the story of Jesus calming the storm from St. Mark’s gospel. You know the story: Jesus and the disciples are crossing the Sea of Galilee when a violent storm arises. The disciples panic as the waves beat into the boat as Jesus is back in the stern, asleep on a cushion. They wake him, crying out, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” Jesus gets up, rebukes the wind and the sea.  “Peace! Be still!”, he says, and the storm is stilled. Then he turns to them and says, “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?” In his sermon, Robert didn’t unpack the miracle. He didn’t try to make the storm make sense. He simply said, “If you find yourself in a place of doubt, if you find yourself in the midst of chaos, just make sure you’re in the boat with Jesus and with one another.  Stay in the boat, no matter hard things get.”

This is precisely what Jesus prays for in John chapter 17. That we might be one as he is one with the Father. That we might be in him, and he in us. That even in our doubt, even in our storm, we would remain with him.

This is why the Church’s unity matters, not just as an institutional ideal, but as a theological necessity. No, he’s not asking us to believe exactly the same thing on every matter of faith, he’s asking us to dwell together in the same life. To be caught up together in the love of the Triune God.

This is the vision that the Anglican–Roman Catholic International Commission has championed for decades. Their joint statement says without shame that our unity must be visible, not just spiritual, because our witness to the world depends on it. Jesus prays, “that they may be one… so that the world may believe that you have sent me.” When the church fractures into schism—when we exclude, divide, or try to compete with other churches—we obscure the Gospel to those who need it so desperately. But when we forgive, when we love across the boundaries we’ve inherited and the ones we’ve drawn ourselves, when we choose to stay in the boat together—we reveal to a broken world the very heart of God.

At that funeral, I saw a glimpse of that unity. In a church whose leaders publicly denounce people like me, I sat with grief and received a word of hope. Michele and her daughters bore witness to the deep and abiding love of God revealed to us in Jesus Christ, a love that surpasses all understanding. Robert’s voice transcended our divisions and offered peace. And Jesus, I believe, was there with us—praying still that we may be one.

Christian unity is not agreement on every doctrine. Unity is not about compromising important principles. Church unity is about presence. It is the Spirit binding us to the Son and drawing us into the Father’s heart.

So if you are in a storm—grieving, doubting, wondering what comes next—don’t try to row to the shore on your own. Stay in the boat with Jesus and with your Atonement family. Because that’s where the Church is meant to be: in the boat, together. Because we believe that the One who calms the sea still speaks peace to us, and is still praying for us at God’s right hand…that we all may be one.

Dear friends, the boat is wide enough for us all.  The storms around us are scary, but Jesus Christ – risen, ascended, and glorified – is here with us in this place, speaking peace into our chaos and unity into our differences. Amen.