Sermon

That they all may be one; as thou, Father, art in me, and I in thee, that they also may be

one in us: that the world may believe that thou hast sent me.

John 17:21

This particular section of the Gospel of John is one to which I find myself drawn more and

more. It is the closing part of the Lord's discourse to the disciples at the last supper.

If the Sermon on the Mount stands as the great introduction to his teaching, this stands

as the great summary, with the two framing a life given for our salvation. If the Sermon

on the Mount focuses our attention on our behavior toward each other, this discourse

focuses our attention on those depths of our being where the Lord is most directly

present. It addresses a problem that is rarely given the attention it deserves.

Most religious people, and theologians in particular, have wrestled at one time or another

with "the problem of evil." If there is a good and omnipotent God, where does evil come

from? There is no lack of material on this question. The problem that is neglected is the

inverse of it, "the problem of good." We might state it negatively--"If there is no good

and omnipotent God, where does good come from?" In fact, though, we face a different

dimension of the problem every day. We know there is such a thing as good, but often have

trouble deciding what it is.

Swedenborg was particularly aware of this. One of his most practical statements is the

simple assertion that what we love, we call good (Cf. Arcana Coelestia ¶ 5489). This

means, as he also recognized, that the word "good" does not mean exactly the same thing to

any two of us (Cf. ibid. ¶ 3804). We are able to gather as a genuine church to the extent

that we share beliefs about the nature of the good, but this sharing does not amount to

complete agreement. We have different backgrounds, different life experiences. We have

different natural styles of dealing with each other. Each of us likes to do some things

that others do not like to do. We cannot become a united church by all liking exactly the

same things, but only by liking different things, and having those likes complement each

other.

As far as our theology is concerned, this is the only kind of real unity there is. It is

stated most concisely in Divine Providence (¶ 4): "A form makes a more perfect `one' as

its constituent elements are distinguishably different, and yet united." If you are

putting on a church dinner and everyone brings freshly baked rolls, you have a problem.

When people like to do different things, and when those different things fit together into

a coherent project, then there is a genuine unity.

This bears looking at a little more closely. The obvious thing is perhaps the unity--the

way an appealing dinner emerges from so many separate efforts. It is a little less

obvious, but equally important, that there is no ground for competition. It does not make

much sense to ask whether the rolls are better than the green beans or whether the meat is

better than the potatoes. Each dish, so to speak, has its own standards, and can fairly be

evaluated only against others of its same kind. Still less obvious, but absolutely vital,

is that the individuality of the distinct items is essential to the whole. It is madness

to try to make the peas like the salad or the carrots like the pie. In order to be united,

they need to be "distinguishably different."

When we talk about good on a more vital level, we are talking about our relationships with

each other. Swedenborg revolutionized people's ideas of heaven by describing it as a

consisting of actual human relationships--not of beatific visions or constant worship, but

of lively and loving interaction. It is crystal clear that this interaction involves both

distinguishable difference and unity. No angel can possibly be exactly like any other. If

that were the case, one of them would be useless. If we are to find our places in heaven,

we must find our uniqueness.

It is not always easy to live up to this. Individually, we may be a bit afraid of being

"different." Some feel this more than others, to be sure, but I suspect that all of us

sense some pressure to dress more or less the way others do and not to behave in ways that

make us conspicuous. On a larger scale, we seem to have even more difficulty. The

suggestion that women are spiritually different from men, or whites from blacks, can be

heard as a value judgment, as a put-down.

The reason is not far to seek. We have used differences oppressively. We do have a

tendency to regard ourselves or our own group as the norm, as the best, and to criticize

anything that is different simply because it is different. This is one of our standard

human devices for covering over our sneaking suspicions that we are not all we should be.

When we are at our most insecure, we are at our most intolerant. I think particularly of

the painful years of early adolescence, when social acceptance is desperately important

and is often gained by joining in the disparagement of others.

Our theology is telling us, though, that we will not achieve unity by trying to ignore or

erase differences. In this view, the problem with racism or sexism is not that they

overemphasize differences, but quite the opposite. The problem arises when I insist that

you must be this kind of person because you are female or because you are black--when I

try to erase or ignore the differences within the general class. Granted, some of the

generalizations we make may be faulty. That can gradually be remedied by honestly looking

at the evidence, by remaining open to learning. But even an accurate, fair generalization

becomes tyrannical when we insist that individuals conform to it. It may well be that

women in general are not as interested in internal combustion engines as men in general

are. This does not mean that I have to be interested if I am to be a "real man," or that

my wife cannot be interested if she is to be a "real woman." Each of us was created by the

Lord, and given a unique form and function. By being ourselves, and only by being

ourselves, do we contribute to a true definition of "male" or "female."

That is one vital part of the picture. The other part is that we cannot be-come ourselves

in a vacuum. If our uniqueness is not engaged in some form of community, it is utterly

meaningless. We need to find out where we fit in, so to speak, which also means finding

out what others have to offer us. If we try to define ourselves, to describe what kind of

people we are, without making any reference to our relationships to each other and to the

world around us, we find that there is really not much we can say.

Obviously, we are not angels and we are not living in heaven. We have not found that

"distinguishable oneness," in which our individual, unique identities are in harmony with

our communities. We are working at it, though, and this means that we tend to swing back

and forth. Sometimes we need to assert ourselves or simply to be alone. Sometimes we need

to lose ourselves in relationships, to forget ourselves. Each motion can be constructive,

but only to the extent that we keep them in proportion. If individuality becomes an end in

itself, then we are hopeless egomaniacs. If relationship becomes an end in itself, then we

are hopelessly dependent.

With this in mind, then, we may have another look at our text. That they all may be one;

as thou, Father, art in me, and I in thee, that they also may be one in us: that the world

may believe that thou hast sent me. This implies everything we have said about oneness and

difference. The Father is not the same as the Son any more than the soul is the same as

the body; and precisely because they are appropriately different, they can make a one. In

this connection, the text adds a critical dimension to this subject of oneness. The model

of our collective oneness, of our "all being one," is the individual oneness of the Lord.

We cannot be one with each other if, inwardly, we are divided against ourselves. We cannot

be at peace with ourselves unless we are at peace with the world around us. The healing of

our social ills and the healings of our own souls are inseparable parts of a single

effort.

This does not necessarily mean joining in some crusade--though it is all to easy to

deceive ourselves about our reasons for "not getting involved." It does necessarily mean

living with the awareness that our lives are not being given us for our own benefit. We

exist for each other. The more resolutely we try to live for ourselves alone, to "save our

lives," the more surely we will "lose our lives," becoming lonely and embittered. Our

actions and words affect others--what are we doing with them? In this country in

particular, we have extraordinary individual resources. How are we using them? That has a

direct relationship to our own inward priorities; so again, setting our inward house in

order is inseparable from meeting our societal responsibilities.

In adding this dimension, our text has added the vertical dimension. We can conceive our

relationships with each other as happening on a horizontal plane. We get our definition of

goodness, though, from above. It is the union of love and wisdom in the Divine that

establishes the essential nature of goodness; and since love is what unites and wisdom is

what distinguishes, we are dealing with the very source of our model of heavenly

community. Wisdom illuminates our uniqueness, and love draws us together.

So we have come finally to a kind of definition of the good. It is not always an easy one

to apply, but I believe it will always turn our minds in the right direction. The good

action in any circumstance will be the one that both strengthens individuality and brings

it into closer relationship. This will hold true whether we are dealing with a spouse,

with children, with friends, with co-workers, or with our community. We may rarely find

that ideal "good," but at least we can be looking in the right place.

Amen.