What Are You Looking For?

Epiphany 2A: John 2

Professor Robert George in his book, Seeking Truth and Speaking Truth, notes how historians like to break up history into epochs or ages. For example, the Medieval period is often called the “Age of Faith” and the time of the Enlightenment, the “Age of Reason.” They get these names based on what the people of that age saw as authoritative. In the Medieval era of Europe, for example, when the church dominated every area of life and it was almost impossible to think outside of Christianity, the touchstone of truth and goodness, of justice and right, was conformity with the teachings of faith, the teachings of the Church, of Scripture. By contrast, the Enlightenment was a period in which thinkers placed an extremely high premium on rational inquiry, on reason. The touchstone of truth and right then was conforming one’s thoughts to the findings of rational inquiry, the findings, for example, of science.

Reflecting on the age we are in now, though, George argues, we can no longer say that rationality—or faith—is authoritative. Rather, he suggests, ours is “the Age of Feelings.” When we ask what do most people treat as the touchstone of truth, goodness and justice, it’s feelings: How do I feel about this? or How does this or that make me feel?

This is a real problem, because our feelings are subjective and notoriously fickle, swayed by the urgency of the moment, by societal pressure, by self-interest and even by what we had for lunch. Feelings are, at the same time, only concerned with the present—what I feel right now—not the future—how I’ll feel later—and so make for a very unreliable guide to truth and certainly a very unreliable path to wisdom. That’s to say, feelings are not something you can base your life on, that you should use to make important life decisions. Indeed, treating feelings as authority, as truth, is an invitation to chaos, unnecessary suffering, and societal breakdown.

But there is a sense, I think, in which we should take feelings seriously. Not our emotions, mind you, which are surface-level and short-term, but rather our deeper longings, the yearnings that stay with us throughout our lives, that can never truly be satisfied —the longing for love, for instance, for companionship, for recognition, for connection to the transcendent, for God. In contrast to emotions, longings are deeper, life-shaping and more open-ended. They aren’t aimed at getting something. Rather they propel us forward, on a search for meaning, wholeness, or a life-changing quest. Many people go through life feeling these longings, but don’t recognize them for what they are. But then one day something almost miraculous happens. There’s an ‘aha!’ and the scales fall from their eyes and they realize for the first time what it is they’ve been looking for, what has been missing all their life.

That’s how I understand what is going on in today’s Gospel lesson. This passage you just heard is the first public appearance of Jesus in the Gospel of John. And it gives us his first words, which are profound: “What are you looking for?”

It’s not an unreasonable question to ask Andrew and the other disciple. We assume that they had probably been engaged in a spiritual search for a while before meeting Jesus. Andrew comes running up to his brother Simon and breathlessly blurts out, “We’ve found him. We’ve found the Messiah, the Christ!” which makes it sound like Jesus is the answer to a question Andrew had been asking for a while, the resolution of a search that had taken him and his brother Simon far from their hometown in Galilee to the banks of the Jordan river, to hook up with John the Baptist, because he looked like he might be who they were looking for. Only, the passage doesn’t actually say that. It may have been simply the case that Andrew had been along for the ride, having gotten caught up in the excitement of others who were eager to find the Messiah. He could have just been curious to see what all the buzz was about this John fellow and in the process stumbled across Jesus.

Either way, it makes you wonder what it was he saw during his day with Jesus that made him so sure Jesus was the real deal, what longing did Jesus tap into or perhaps awaken in him, what it was that Andrew found in Jesus that he’d been missing.

We don’t know, but what we do know is that whatever it was that Andrew “found” in Jesus, it didn’t come as the result of his own effort. It didn’t happen on account of Andrew diligently investigating the matter, nor as the reward at the end of a long, arduous quest. Andrew had no idea who the Messiah was, not until John pointed Jesus out to Andrew and his friend: “Behold, the lamb of God that takes away the sin of the world.”

In fact, John didn’t know who he was either, not at first. It literally took a voice from heaven, from God, to see who it was before him. John says: “I myself did not know him. But when I was baptizing Jesus, I saw the dove of the Spirit alighting on him. That’s when I knew, because God told me beforehand that whomever I saw the Spirit descend upon is the Son of God. That’s when I knew it was him.” For both Andrew and John then, finding Jesus was less about research and more about unexpected discovery, less a rational conclusion and more “eureka!”

But for them both, the unexpected, surprising discovery of Jesus, their finding in Jesus what they’d been longing for, wasn’t something they could keep to themselves. They had to tell others. Which is what they did. John told Andrew and Andrew told Simon. It’s interesting that in telling others about Jesus, there was no attempt to prove who Jesus was, or to convince others about their sinfulness and need for salvation, no effort to change them or convert them. There was only an invitation—first to name their deepest desires, “What are you looking for?,” and then to see for themselves what God is doing through Jesus, “Come and see.” Jesus said that to Andrew and the other disciple, and Andrew said that to Simon Peter: “Come and see.” Andrew knew that if he brought his brother into the presence of Jesus, that his brother could be transformed, just the way he had been transformed by Christ.

It should start to be clear at this point that the significance of this story goes beyond just telling us how Jesus found his first followers. It also offers us an example, a model, for how we come to faith and how we can share that faith with others.

Now, I know, just saying that, the anxiety level in this space just spiked. Because there are few things most of us want to do less than tell others about Jesus. Oh, it’s not because we don’t believe in him or love him. More often than not, it’s because we are shy or don’t feel up to it, on account of not feeling like we are good speakers or because we don’t think we are very good Christians, and so are not the best spokespersons for the Gospel. And we don’t want to be seen as pushy or aggressive, either. Our culture has made it very clear that it regards religion as retrograde, a private matter if you must, but not something discussed in public. Years ago William Buckley observed, "You may be able to bring up the subject of religion at a fancy dinner party once, but if you bring it up twice during the evening, you won't be invited back." We are all well aware what is considered acceptable in polite society and what is not. The last thing we want is to be looked at like one of those streetcorner preachers or the people passing out pamphlets in front of stores or on streets—with pity and disdain and annoyance.

Believe me, I get it. But the strange thing is, we have no problem recommending other things to people. When we meet someone who’s new to the area, we are ever too eager to tell them about our favorite restaurants and parks in town, what school districts are better than others and where to find a good hairdresser or doctor. And if there’s a pastime we really enjoy, it can be hard restraining ourselves from sharing it with others. I know a clergyman, a bishop, who describes himself as an evangelist for baseball. Because he loves the sport, he wants to share it. “Something beautiful has seized you,” he says, “and you think baseball is terrific, and you want to let people know why. If someone says to you, ‘I hate baseball; it’s boring,’ you want to grab them by the lapels and say, ‘Let me tell you why it’s not boring. Let me explain it to you.” That’s a natural response when you love something—you want others to know what you know, to appreciate it as you do, whether it’s baseball or jazz, flower arranging or Jesus.

And we can do that in a way that is not manipulative or aggressive or prideful. In fact, that’s the model that our Gospel lesson gives us. No one in this story tries to browbeat or knock others over their head to make sure they accept it. The approach, you see, is not to impose but to propose, to ask: “What are you looking for?” and to invite: “Come and see.”

As I look at this church, I imagine that each of you came here for different reasons, that the ways you became Christian and joined this church are wildly different and varied, and that if I’d ask you what it is you love about Jesus, you’d give me a multitude of answers. What this says is not that Jesus is something different for every person, but rather that beneath all our various motivations and desires, is a longing that finds its end in Jesus. Love, justice, beauty, purpose, community—these all find their realization in him.

And we trust the same is true of others. We may not know how this is so, but we trust, whatever it is they are really looking for, deep down, Jesus is its source and aim. Of course, to uncover that, it takes time. It takes space. It takes something like hospitality, asking the question, inviting, and then making room for the other person to uncover the answer. Then we do as Andrew did, we bring them to Jesus.

Again, bringing someone to Jesus doesn’t mean—or doesn’t necessarily mean—converting them to Christ. Simply put, it means bringing them to where they can see Jesus at work. It can be something as simple as inviting them to worship with you. A parishioner at a former parish of mine had a friend who always ended his conversations with, “Why don’t you come to church with me sometime?” It was clear to my parishioner and to others, that he’d found something special and he wanted to share it. I have to ask, Do we have the same fervor for inviting and encouraging people to come and participate in our church? If not, why not?

One of the differences that faith should make in our lives is the desire that others -- especially those without a religious faith -- might also share in and benefit from a relationship with God through Christ. It’s the best, most charitable, gracious thing we can do for another, sharing our faith with them, introducing them to Jesus.

God has shared an amazing gift with us—new life in Christ as part of his Church. This is at times a joy, and a challenge, but most of all a blessing. Why would we not want others to share it with us? Why wouldn’t we want them to find and be found by Christ in our midst? In this season after Epiphany, in which we celebrate the “appearings” of Christ among us, it is our joy to share Christ with others, to point to him, and invite others to meet Christ, to invite them to “come and see.” Thanks be to God!