John 1:35-42 · Jesus’ First Disciples
Party in Room 210 ... Everyone Invited
John 1:35-42
Sermon
by Thomas Long
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William Muehl has a bone to pick with ministers. Muehl is on the faculty of Yale Divinity School, and he has spent many years teaching people who are about to become ministers and those who are already ministers. William Muehl is well acquainted with ministers, and he has a complaint.

What bothers Professor Muehl is what he sees as a widespread tendency among ministers to do some romantic editorial work on the nature of Christian calling. To hear most ministers talk, claims Muehl, God calls people only in moments of theatrical intensity. Someone, for example, is reading a theological book when, suddenly, a shaft of light falls upon a penetrating passage and scales fall from the reader’s eyes. Or a hillside communion service at a summer church camp begins to glow with all the luminosity and power of the Upper Room. The ministerial version of Christian calling almost always involves a moment of high drama.

Muehl does not doubt that such moments do occur, but he does doubt that they occur as often and as predictably as some ministers say they do. Muehl thinks many ministers are guilty of dressing up these events in "Damascus Road" garb, which is unfortunate since most people come to faith, he says, in ways that are far more gritty and down-to-earth. They were forced into Sunday church school by their parents, or found the local church youth group to be a reliable way to spice up an otherwise dull weekend, or discovered that the sanctuary could be entered on the arm of an attractive member of the opposite sex. "These ways seem ... to have at least one thing in common," states Muehl. "They are not nearly as dramatic and intellectually impressive as people feel a genuine religious experience ought to be."1

One of the reasons which prompts Muehl to complain is his own experience of call. He was trained as an attorney and discovered, in the law school’s moot court, that he was an exceptionally effective trial lawyer. He won his cases, for the most part, but the emotional stress of doing so caused him to develop a duodenal ulcer. After treating him for several gastric episodes, one of the health service physicians made a dire prediction. "Muehl," he said, "if you really undertake a career in the law, you will probably be rich by the age of forty. The only trouble is that you will be dead by the age of thirty."

Hearing this, Muehl left the field of law and joined the faculty of Yale Divinity School. Surrounded there by colleagues who had come to their work in response to a genuine sense of calling, Muehl soon began to doubt that he had experienced a real call, so he approached another faculty member, the ethicist H. Richard Niebuhr, with his concern. Niebuhr puffed on his pipe, laughed gently, and responded, "What does it take to make up a ‘call’ for you, Muehl? What you had planned to do with your life was quite literally eating you up inside, driving you ... to consider alternatives. I can’t imagine a better call outside the Bible."2

What does it take to make up a "call" for you? That’s an intriguing question, and one which lies at the heart of today’s passage from the Gospel of John. At first glance, this text would seem to work against Muehl’s conviction that Christian calling occurs in everyday prose rather than in theological poetry. John the Baptizer is standing with two of his disciples when Jesus happens by. Using language which sounds more like the poetry of the liturgy than it does the prose of the street, John points dramatically to Jesus, "Behold, the Lamb of God!" Seemingly moved by the compelling mystery of the moment, the two disciples follow Jesus. In terms of the question, What does it take to make up a call? at this point the score seems to be: poetry 1, prose 0.

But if we look closely at the rest of the passage, the story begins to speak of other, more prosaic and earth-bound realities. To be sure, the two disciples of John do follow Jesus, but they do not seem to be fully certain of what they are doing. When Jesus notices that they are following him, he asks them, "What do you seek?" or, to put it more directly, "Do you know what you’re looking for when you follow me?"

The pair answer Jesus, not with a confident statement of discipleship, but with another question. "Rabbi, where are you staying?" Now this is a strange response. Jesus asks them a question about discipleship; they counter with an inquiry about his housing situation. Biblical scholars know, however, that this is a question not merely about lodging, but about the nature of Jesus himself. "Where are you staying?" means, in essence, "Who are you? Where is the ‘home,’ the center of your life?" It would not be stretching things to translate the disciples’ response as, "At this point we don’t know whom we are following or where this path is leading. Can you tell us?"

Jesus then invites them to "come and see," and it is only in the journeying and in the seeing that they begin to fathom the true dimensions of what is happening to them.

The story goes on to tell us that one of these disciples was Andrew, the brother of a man named Simon. Andrew goes to his brother and tells him, "We have found the Christ," and then Andrew brings Simon to Jesus.

Jesus takes one look at Simon and then says, in what surely must have been a startling statement, "So you are Simon. I’m changing your name. From now on, you will be called ‘Peter.’ "

What does it take to make up a "call"? The picture John gives us, when we inspect it closely, now seems closer to the gritty and ambiguous realities of life. We see people stumbling along, following a presence they do not yet understand, discovering only belatedly and after the fact that the path they have ventured upon has led to the Christ. We see a portrait of a person being tugged along to Jesus by a brother, following more out of family loyalty perhaps than out of a sense of mystery, finding at the end of the trail, and not at the beginning, that his name ... and his life ... have been transformed.

All of this goes to make Muehl’s basic point: "The roads to Christian faith are as varied as the people who profess it."3 There in the congregation is the man who would rather be sitting in the car in the church parking lot reading the sports page of the Sunday paper were it not for the fact that his wife has insisted that he put on a suit and tie and accompany her into the sanctuary. There also is the teenager in the balcony with one ear on the pastoral prayer and the other focused on the whispers of her boyfriend. There is the couple who have come because they were invited by the family across the street and they had no handy excuse not to say yes. There is the young woman who is there because of the music and who reads the hymnbook during the sermon.

The point of all this is that the calling to follow Christ is a pathway which is marked "come and see." It is a pathway which is far more important because of where it leads than because of where it begins. It may begin, as it did for Muehl, as a pain in the body, or, as it has for others, as a longing in the heart, a struggle in the soul, or a wondering in the mind. It is a path which some people enter alone, which others enter by tagging along with friends or family, and down which yet others are dragged, at first reluctantly, by parents or teachers. No matter how we begin, we see as we travel that the pathway has been cleared for us by the Christ who goes before us, making of our many beginnings a common journey. "Come and see," we are told, though the voice which calls us sometimes seems faint, filtered through the voices of the ordinary folk around us. And, for whatever reason, we do go, and, then, we do see. What we see is that, no matter who we were when we started, we end up with a new name, a new identity, given by Christ. What we see is that, no matter how we began our travel, we end the journey resting in the Christ who is all in all.

There is a woman I know who began her journey in faith because she loved to sing. To put it more bluntly, she loved to sing in front of other people, and she warmed to the lavish compliments and enthusiastic responses generated by her lovely voice. The local church choir was not exactly show business, but it was as close to that as she could come, so she sang there. The rest of the worship was of no interest to her, and she would often secretly read a paperback novel in the choir loft, waiting her chance to perform.

Then, somehow, the words of the solos and the anthems began to have a certain power for her. "Worthy is the lamb who was slain," and "I know that my Redeemer liveth," began to speak to her beyond the concerns of musical phrasing and pitch. She was gradually acquiring not only an acquaintance with the vocabulary of the faith, but also a relationship to the One to whom those words point. Now, when she sings, she does so with a new name. She is no longer "performer." She is "witness."

What does it take to make up a "call"? Perhaps every church ought to paint the words "come and see" over the doorway, and give to everyone who enters, for whatever reason, a joyful word of welcome and a knapsack for the journey ahead.

I was once staying in a motel in a large city and was surprised to find, posted to the elevator door, a small, handwritten notice which read, "Party tonight! Room 210. Eight o’clock p.m. Everyone invited!" I could hardly picture who would throw such a party, or for what reason, but I imagined that at 8:00, room 210 would be filled by an unlikely assortment of people - sales representatives seeking a little relief from the tedium of the road; a vacationing couple tired of sightseeing; a man stopping overnight in the middle of a long journey, looking for a bit of festivity; a few inquisitive and wary motel employees, there because of professional responsibility; perhaps some young people who had slipped out of their parents’ rooms, anxiously curious about what was happening in room 210.

Alas, the sign by the elevator soon came down, replaced by a typewritten statement from the motel staff explaining that the original notice was a hoax, a practical joke. That made sense, of course, but in a way it was too bad. For a brief moment, those of us staying at the motel were tantalized by the possibility that there just might be a party going on somewhere to which we were all invited - a party where it didn’t make much difference who we were when we walked in the door, or what motivated us to come; a party we could come to out of boredom, loneliness, curiosity, responsibility, eagerness to be in fellowship, or simply out of a desire to come and see what was happening; a party where it didn’t matter nearly as much what got us in the door, as what would happen to us after we arrived.

Perhaps if there is to be such a party, the church is going to have to throw it.


1. William Muehl, Why Preach? Why Listen? (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1986), p. 17.

2. Ibid., pp. 18-19.

3. Ibid., p. 17.

CSS Publishing Co., Inc., Shepherds And Bathrobes, by Thomas Long