It was a great day for multiculturalism. It was the Tower of Babel turned upside-down, and what fell out was a glorious manifestation of the grace of God. It was also a tough day for future lay readers: all those forbidding names—Parthians, Elamites, Mesopotamians, Cappadocians, Phrygians, Pamphyilians—that whole crowd.
I am not an avid gardener. I like the outdoors but would rather hike or bicycle in it than work in it. So when I read, “Every branch that bears fruit [God] prunes to make it bear more fruit,” I think of my wife, whose approach to pruning is to “whack it down to the ground and see what happens.” Sometimes it works out, sometimes not.
The First Church of St. John, or “the community of the beloved disciple,” as the late Raymond Brown called it, seems a lot like the church around the corner when you read between the lines. Some of the faithful sound a little too sure of themselves. Others confuse the talk with the walk. Some members get mad and leave the church.