Jesus is washing the disciples' feet. "As the father has loved me," he says to them, "so I love you." Then he takes bread; he breaks it, and says, "Take, eat." This is the Last Supper. Then the last thing that Jesus does, before he steps away from that holy table and walks toward the Garden where he will be arrested, is to say a prayer. He says it out loud, because he wants the disciples to hear it. He's saying something to God that he wants the disciples to understand; this is his last prayer, and it's a prayer for them. But it's not a prayer for them alone.
Jesus says, "Not only am I praying for them, Father, but I am also praying for everyone who will come to believe through their words." It's a prayer for us. The entire 17th chapter of the Gospel of John is this farewell prayer. Jesus begins this prayer by saying, "Father, I have given them your name." It's very similar to the last sentence of the prayer, which is included in today's Gospel reading. In this last sentence Jesus says, "I have made your name known to them, and I will make it known, so that the love with which you have loved me may be in them, and I in them."
This prayer starts with the idea of us being given God's name. Then, other themes come in, other metaphors about God's glory, and Jesus bearing God's glory, and us bearing God's glory, and God's love, and God's love being in Jesus and in us and we are one and we are intertwined and... Like much of John's Gospel, I really don't get it. I don't get it because it's so metaphoric, and it's so deep, and was clearly written by someone who was much more spiritually aware than I am.
But, I know there's important stuff in there. I read it, and in my heart I can sense that it is right, but it's hard for what it means to sink in. And I know that this is important, because this was Jesus' last prayer, and he said it out loud. And this is the one prayer where he says that it's not just for his disciples, but is for all of us.
This past week, I stumbled across a story that helped make this prayer in the 17th chapter of John's Gospel a little more clear. The story is about a priest named Father David Abernathy Depp. He's driving in Mexico, going to San Miguel Deciendio with his family. Their destination is the home that they all lived in eight years previously, and they’re going to see Señor Guerro. At the time that they lived there, his oldest daughter, Deborah, was eight, his next oldest son, Paul, was four, and Jonathan, their youngest, was just learning how to walk. These kids all had some memories of when they had lived in San Miguel, and these memories had been kept alive by their parents telling these stories again and again over these past eight years. They were all excited -- there was electricity in the car as they kept looking out the windows, and telling each other the stories, looking forward to seeing San Miguel and getting to see Señor Guerro again.
The youngest boy, Michael, had been born shortly after they left Mexico. He'd never been in Mexico before, and he was excited because he'd grown up hearing these stories about Señor Guerro. Señor Guerro's first name was Miguel, and he was convinced that their youngest son had been named after him. Of course, no one in the family told him otherwise. So, with every letter, with every postcard, every package, every phone call, Señor Guerro would ask, "So, how is Miguelito?" How is my little Michael?
They pull in to San Miguel. They drive up to the house, they get out of the car, they're all excited. They knock on the door
and the big oak door opens, and there is Señor Guerro in all of his glory. He is a very elegant man. His face lights up; he invites them in, he hugs each one of them. Then he puts them in order, eldest to the youngest. He walks up to Deborah first.
"Deborah!" he exclaims. "You have grown into such a beautiful young lady, señorita!" He gallantly kisses her hand, then moves down the line. The next oldest has grown so tall that Señor Guerro has to tip his head up to look him in the face. "Paul! You have grown to such a man!" And Señor Guerro gives him a firm handshake. He goes next to Jon. "Jon! You are no longer a baby!" He shakes his hand.
Finally he comes to Michael. Now, Michael had been well prepped. For months the family had been helping Michael learn a few basic Spanish phrases. Young Michael sticks out his hand and says, "Mucho gusto, Señor Guerro!" Señor Guerro is astonished -- "Oh! You speak Spanish!" Señor Guerro then kneels down in front of Michael.
Father David had never seen anything like this -- Señor Guerro, such a proud and elegant man, kneeling in front of his young son. Señor Guerro hugs Michael and says, "Mi tocayo.” My namesake. There are tears running down his cheeks as he says this. “Mi tocayo...”
When Father David tells this story, he says that it took him a long time to understand that moment. The reason he didn't get it immediately is because, in our culture, names aren't that important. They're necessary, and they're convenient for pointing people out in groups or whatever. But in other cultures, names carry a deep significance. Names are connected to the essence of what a person is, of who a person is, and if you know someone's name, you know something important about them. And if you share someone's name, you share something important. There is a bond between people who carry the same name.
I have experienced that myself a tiny, tiny bit. My name isn't that common, so when I meet someone else who's also named Brian, it's like, oh! You're another Brian! And then we have to determine whether it's with an “i” or a “y”, because that makes us different from each other. But I get a little taste from that experience, and I can imagine what it might be like to be in a culture where names carry this deep, deep significance about who we are.
What Father David realized was that, in some sense, Señor Guerro was embracing his own son as “mi tocayo,” my namesake. They had a unique relationship in that “namesakeness.” I can imagine this young Michael growing up after that moment, knowing that he will always have Señor Guerro with him. That there is this special bond, that is reinforced by every letter, and card, and package, and phone call. Michael knows that he is “mi tocayo,” and he knows that Señor Guerro is with him wherever he goes. He also knows that, in some sense, he represents Señor Guerro, and that his actions, his behavior, reflects not only on himself, but also on Señor Guerro. They are that closely related.
It is that close connection that I think Jesus is trying to get into our heads. Jesus is trying to tell us that we are God's “tocayo,” we are God's “tocaya.” We are God's namesake, and wherever we go we carry God's name with us! We will never be alone, because we are God's “tocayo,” we are God's “tocaya.” And not only do I carry God's name, but we all carry God's name, and we are, in that sense, one.
We are all connected in a way that is mystical, that is beyond the physical plane. Even if we disagree, even if we don't like each other, even if we can't stand to be in the same room together, we are still one. We are still connected, because we have the same name. We carry that God-name with us wherever we go.
That's what Jesus is trying to get the disciples to realize, that there is this oneness and connection because we all have God's name. I have a tough time internalizing that, because I'm dense. The problem is, I think I'm Brian. That's who I think I really am. In order to get past that, I need this prayer of Jesus' to sink in; for me to understand, for it to grow deeply in me, that I, I am God's namesake.
I invite you to join me today, in listening very carefully. Listen in the quiet moments of the service, open your heart when you're kneeling at the communion rail, and if you listen, if we listen, we will hear God say –