All Saints’, Dorval
April 28, 2024
The people of St. Porphyrios’ Orthodox Church in Gaza, working on their palms last week
Last week at the “You are Leaven” conference in Mississauga, the story of Philip and the Ethiopian eunuch kept popping up. In the first workshop I attended, on “embodied Bible study,” I found myself acting out the story twice, first as Philip and the second time in the dual role of the prophet Isaiah and the water of baptism. The following day, I led a workshop using the same story I had told at Messy Church the previous weekend, which concluded with Philip and the Ethiopian eunuch.
In the Messy Church script, Philip’s journey is described simply as “going down the desert road from Jerusalem.” But in the Embodied Bible Study workshop, we read from the actual scriptural text, and we were brought up short by the very first verse: “Then an angel of the Lord said to Philip, ‘Get up and go toward the south to the road that goes down from Jerusalem to Gaza.”
Gaza.
It’s no longer exclusively dominating the headlines, but for the last six months, it’s been there, like the persistent pain from a bad tooth: the knowledge that in the land of our Saviour’s birth, the land holy to all three of the faiths descended from Abraham, the children of Abraham are currently slaughtering and starving each other with no end in sight, traumatized people perpetrating horrendous violence and trauma on the next generation, rather than working together to heal and move forward in peace.
It’s so hard to know what to do. I’ve sent a lot of money to World Central Kitchen and the Al Ahli Hospital, but it doesn’t feel like nearly enough. Whatever you may think of the goals and tactics of the student protests on North American university campuses that have been getting attention over the last couple of weeks, at least they are getting attention. At least those kids, whether they’re heroic or misguided or (as is by far the most probable) a little bit of each, are doing something, stepping out of their comfortable elite bubbles and standing up for what they believe in.
One of the things you learn, though, as you move past adolescence and into a more mature understanding of the world, is that it’s not only the people who are hunger striking and marching in the streets who contribute to moving society toward peace. Each of us, simply by the way we regard and treat our fellow human beings, has a part to play in the direction the world takes.
Some of the people at those protests – the bystanders claim it’s the protestors; the protestors claim it’s the passersby – have been heard saying and doing truly horrible things, such as openly celebrating the October 7 terrorist attacks that touched off this round of the conflict. And of course there are those who say similar things about the people under siege in Gaza, describing them as “animals”. It is from attitudes such as these –dehumanizing others and rejoicing in their deaths – that all the world’s wars, genocides, and similar horrors, arise.
We must refuse to discount the humanity of anyone – of one single person on the face of God’s earth. This is the powerful, necessary – by no means sufficient, but absolutely necessary – first step to lay the foundation of a culture of peace. And Philip and the eunuch, who just happen to be driving along in their chariot through an empty desert landscape where two thousand years later bombs would be falling and babies dying, give us a place to start.
In the story, Philip and the Ethiopian have practically nothing in common. Philip was a Jewish man; the Ethiopian was neither Jewish nor, as his contemporaries understood it, exactly a man. The Ethiopian was rich; Philip was poor. The Ethiopian was a powerful government official; Philip was a member of a sect that was already attracting negative attention from the authorities and whose leader had been executed for sedition.
But in that chariot driving southward, they found common ground. Together, they met God in the words of the prophet Isaiah. Together, they went into the water and called upon the Spirit to descend in baptism. And even though they were then sent in different directions, they both went on their way rejoicing.
Difference does not have to mean hostility. Obviously, this is easy for us to say, sitting comfortably across an ocean from where the bombs are falling. And yet, we can practice peace, not just passively but actively; we can consciously choose to love and honour our fellow human beings, not only the suffering innocents we see on our TV screens but (what is sometimes harder) the people who live next door; we can recognize our profound interconnection, and understand that “no one is free until we are all free” is not a vague platitude but a rock-solid truth.
We are guided in this essential work by both of our other readings today. The reading from I John can be difficult to parse, not because it’s particularly complicated, but precisely because it’s so simple: oh yes, love, we hear, and start to tune out as the word is repeated over and over again and every imaginable change is rung on this simple theme. But where would we be, as Christians, without I John 4? “Everyone who loves is born of God and knows God.” “God is love, and those who abide in love abide in God, and God abides in them.” “Perfect love casts out fear.” “Those who love God must love their siblings also.”
Everything we do is rooted in love: the love God has for all of God’s wayward, violent, sinning children, and the desperate, helpless, but genuine love that we feel when we see these recurrent traumas and conflicts played out on our screens. If we are speaking and acting out of love, God will bring good out of that love, even if we never see it.
“God is love, and those who abide in love abide in God, and God abides in them.” Words that echo our gospel reading today, the beloved passage about the vine and the branches. Like it or not, all the children of Abraham abide in the same vine, in the same God.
This week is Holy Week for Orthodox Christians in Palestine. A couple of days ago, I came across a Facebook post of a group of them – a large gathering, of all ages – making palm crosses in the courtyard of a church. A scene deeply familiar to all of us, yet heart-wrenching in that context. This was not a group deep in the war zone – they looked decently fed and reasonably cheerful – but I’m sure every one of them knows someone who is.
But it’s not just our Christian siblings who abide with us in God’s vine. And it’s not just our fellow monotheists, either. Everyone, without a single exception, is a beloved child of God. Yes, obviously, some of us behave better than others. Some are more conscious of God’s presence than others. But for all of us, that presence is there, as close as our next breath.
So, however we respond to the tragedy that is currently convulsing the land where our Scriptures are rooted, we must do so from this perspective. The perspective of love, and the understanding that no matter how different we are, how much trauma we carry, and how hard the road ahead, we all abide in the same vine.
Amen.
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