It was a joy to be at Medina Pride on June 11th.

If you’ve never received a glitter blessing from Pastor Meghan, I highly recommend it. Meghan is magic with those. I tried to hang back a little, and I’m glad I did.

A young man walked up and bared his soul. He was looking for guidance, counsel, and a listening ear. His family doesn’t approve. This was his first Pride. He’s been shamed and told that this whole thing is hell. “If this is hell,” he said, “then sign me up.” Same.

And there were religious protestors across the street holding signs of condemnation. That doesn’t seem like good news to me. Jesus never showed up with signs anywhere in scripture that I can find. There was one time he wrote something in the sand, and the people ready to throw rocks at a woman walked away. That’s about as close as I can get. That doesn’t bode well for those with condemning messages, right?

Jesus showed up and spent time with people. All through scripture, Jesus is at the table. In Mark’s Gospel, crowds constantly surround him. The man can barely catch his breath without someone demanding his attention. Yet even in the fast-paced Gospel of Mark, Jesus repeatedly seeks solitude, prays, and takes his disciples aside to teach them.

Showing up matters in Jesus’ world. Jesus showed up and invited all the wrong people in: sinners, tax collectors, outsiders. He touched lepers. Talked with women. Befriended Gentiles. He told stories about a wayward son coming home and the Samaritan being the hero.

Jesus was always creating community. His first sermon is simple: “Repent, and believe, for the Kingdom of God has come near.” And repent here doesn’t mean, “You awful sinner.” It means, “Change your thinking. See differently. The community of heaven is close.”

The kingdom of heaven is a group project. We get there together. And yet people are hard. Their struggles aren’t always visible from the outside.

I’ve recently become obsessed with a Noah Kahan song called The Great Divide. In the song, Noah rides in the passenger seat while an acquaintance drives. Noah says something stupid, and the driver tells him to shut up. We’ve all been there.

Well, I’ll tell on myself. I have a talent for occasionally putting my foot directly into my mouth. I’ll say what I think is the obvious thing, only to realize it hurts somebody. Then comes the silence.

And suddenly there’s a divide between two people. The silence of hurt. The silence of misunderstanding. The silence that comes when we don’t know how to cross back over. It’s hard being human. It’s hard to connect.

And for many of us, words aren’t even the primary way we connect. As a preacher, I find that difficult to believe sometimes. But when I look at you, church; I see it all the time. Some people show love through words. Some through gifts. Some through acts of service. Some through hugs and handshakes. And some people show love simply by showing up.

They’re at every event. Every gathering. Every game. Every holiday. They don’t always say much. They’re just there. Presence becomes its own language.

For that young man, showing up to Pride was a first step toward healing. His presence there washed something off him: shame, fear, isolation. He was finally able to believe that the community of heaven might actually be near.

I recently officiated a funeral for a family that was deeply divided. A man died far too young. Yet one thing everybody said about him was this: he showed up. At family gatherings. Holiday meals. Fishing trips. Video game nights. Sitting quietly by the water with someone. Casting another line. Hours spent gaming that weren’t really about the game at all. They were about saying, “I love you,” without the words.

In the second verse of The Great Divide, Noah sings: “You inched yourself across the great divide while we drove aimlessly along the Twin State line.” They listen to songs that the driver swears that the singer read his mind. Yet Noah only hears the bass. Noah sings later: “I’m finally aware of how unfair it was to stare ahead like everything was fine.” And then: “You know I think about you all the time, and my deep misunderstanding of your life.”

I think that’s one of the great truths of being human: we misunderstand one another constantly. Sometimes because we’re too busy. Sometimes because we expect people to communicate the way we communicate. Sometimes because we only hear the bass while they’re hearing the whole song.

And sometimes because we’ve already decided who the “bad people” are before we ever meet them. Maybe some of you still stumbled over the word Pride. There’s still work to do.

We don’t always know the battles someone is fighting. We don’t always know the pain they’re carrying. We don’t always know how much effort it takes for someone just to keep moving forward. And yet God keeps inviting us to see one another more clearly.

That’s why today’s Gospel matters so much. As Jesus nears the end of his earthly ministry, he kneels down and washes the disciples’ feet. Peter misunderstands the gesture entirely and swings to the opposite extreme: “Then wash all of me!”

Typical Peter. I love that guy and his deep misunderstanding of Jesus. I can be like that too. But here’s the detail I can’t stop thinking about: Jesus also washed Judas’ feet. Jesus already knew. He knew betrayal was coming, and he still knelt down anyway.

That’s how close the kingdom comes. Not as an abstract idea. Not as a slogan.
But through presence. Through service. Through shared tables. Through ordinary acts of care.

This life isn’t clean. There are great divides between us. Misunderstandings. Betrayals. Hurt feelings. Shame. Loneliness. We say we want community, but community remains difficult and mysterious.

And my generation, and the generations after it, are profoundly lonely. Especially men, though certainly not only men. We live in the age of the GoFundMe. We respond well to crisis because crisis makes us feel useful. Yet sometimes the goal is $5,000 but only $500 is raised? Why? Because what’s often missing is the small, ordinary, boring work that actually creates community. The hanging out together. The sharing of life while you’re waiting on something else to start. The aimless car rides and waxing eloquently about a song another person doesn’t think is all that great.

Jesus knew his disciples because he spent time with them. Between the healings and miracles, there were miles of walking roads together. Shared meals. Quiet conversations. Long stretches of ordinary life. That’s where love grows.

One of my favorite resurrection stories is the Road to Emmaus. Two disciples leave town defeated, and a stranger walks beside them. He teaches them on the road, but they still don’t recognize him. Only later, when bread is broken at the table, do they finally realize who has been with them the whole time. The community of heaven was walking beside them all along.

Worship matters deeply. We have three beautiful worship services here. But that also means we have three distinct communities within one church. And the deeper community often happens elsewhere:
Bible studies.
Mission trips.
Cooking for CUPS.
Serving meals.
Volunteering.
Choir rehearsals.
Habitat builds.
Band practice.
Yoga classes.
Long conversations at coffee hour about nothing really.

That’s where people slowly inch across the great divide toward one another. Ninety percent of life is just showing up.

And yes, humans are messy. Complicated. Inconvenient. Jean-Paul Sartre famously said, “Hell is other people.”[1] Sure. Sometimes. Anybody who has read internet comments lately knows exactly what he meant. But here’s the Gospel truth: hell is other people, but so is heaven. It’s a kingdom. It means there’s more than one person there Howard Thurman points us toward this truth: the kingdom of heaven is not only a place we await, but a state of mind we learn to inhabit.[2]

You know those moments when heaven comes near because you’ve already lived them. At the dinner table. Fishing beside someone you love. Old friends picking up exactly where they left off. New friends revealing something true about themselves and you loving them even more afterward. Even in collective mourning over whatever the Browns are doing this upcoming season.

Even in rivalry. What would Ohio State be without Michigan? That game matters because relationship matters. And when the “right” team wins, for just a moment, heaven seems to lean down and kiss the earth. We’ve all experienced it.

Even Noah Kahan, in the song, ultimately wishes good things for the friend he profoundly misunderstands. “I hope you settle down, I hope you marry rich.”

And church, that’s our calling too.
I wish heaven for that young man I met at Pride.
I wish heaven for the young man who died and for his grieving family.
I wish heaven even for the protestors across the street, that they would have the courage to put down their signs, think differently, and discover that the kingdom of heaven is near.
And I wish that for each one of you. More than that, I hope we spend more time together. There are Habitat builds in your bulletin. I hope to be there. There are volunteer opportunities with Jesus Vibes. There will be Bible studies and book clubs launching in the fall. Take a chance on something. Show up somewhere. Sit at a table with people. You never know when heaven might sneak up on you there.

I’m thankful for Frank and Karen and their ministries and Bible study. For Jennifer Smith and her Monday yoga class. For Stacie and Meghan and their work with our children. For Tracie and Cathy and their choirs. For the Gathering Band and the hours they spend together. For Pete and Cindy holding down the office.

They show up for this thing we call church.

And maybe that’s where the light appears: whenever we cross one more divide,
make one more phone call, sit a few minutes longer, listen a little better, forgive a little sooner, love a little deeper.

Don’t wait to connect. Don’t assume people know what they mean to you. Cross the divide while you still can. Build communities of forgiveness. Build communities of reconciliation. Build communities where people know they belong. And may the grace of God, the peace of Christ, and the comfort of the Holy Spirit be with us all. Amen.

Works Cited

[1] Jean-Paul Sartre, No Exit, trans. Stuart Gilbert, in No Exit and Three Other Plays (New York: Vintage International, 1989).

[2] Thurman, Howard. Meditations of the Heart. Boston: Beacon Press, 1953.