OTHERWORLDY COMMUNION
Sunday, October 5, 2025 – World Communion Sunday
First Congregational Church of Cheshire
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell
2 Timothy 1:1-7
Paul, an apostle of Christ Jesus by the will of God, for the sake of the promise of life that is in Christ Jesus,
To Timothy, my beloved child:
Grace, mercy, and peace from God the Father and Christ Jesus our Lord.
I am grateful to God—whom I worship with a clear conscience, as my ancestors did—when I remember you constantly in my prayers night and day. Recalling your tears, I long to see you so that I may be filled with joy. I am reminded of your sincere faith, a faith that lived first in your grandmother Lois and your mother Eunice and now, I am sure, lives in you. For this reason, I remind you to rekindle the gift of God that is within you through the laying on of my hands, for God did not give us a spirit of cowardice but rather a spirit of power and of love and of self-discipline.
Years ago, at a family reunion, my Aunt Kay, convinced I had somehow “gotten above my raising,” pulled me aside. She gave me a long, hard, side-ways look (for which she was famous) and then she leaned in close and said: “You just remember one thing… your roots are Briar.”
Briar is a shortened version of the phrase “Briar hopper”, which is a less than politically correct name for someone from Kentucky. Now, I am not from Kentucky, but both sides of my family are. And for my Aunt Kay, that was enough.
Well, I distinctly remember that I didn’t appreciate what she had to say. But I also know that defensiveness can be a sign that, on some level, we agree with the accusation. And truth be told, my Aunt Kay was on to something.
You see, as a young adult, I spent a lot of time trying to distance myself from my Appalachian roots. I finally distanced myself all the way to New York City. But one day while making chit-chat at a fashionable cocktail party in a Manhattan high-rise, I happened to mention that I had aunts with names like Ila Kay, Iva May, Vesta Lee, and Earldeen. When that made them chuckle, I continued. I told that had a great uncle named Pee Wee. And that my maternal grandfather was known to everyone simply as “Cornbread.”
Well, lo and behold, those party goers found all these details fascinating, as if I had grown up in an exotic foreign country. And that’s when I realized that it was fascinating. And so, I began a journey back toward my roots – a journey that I have continued to this day. Reconnecting to my people changed me, but not in the ways I expected. I became more deeply myself as I accepted these people for what they really are: my people, my family.
We are the products of all those people who have come before us. Generations of choices and hormones and circumstances have produced the people we are. And for some of us, that connection to the past includes the Christian faith, passed down from one generation to the next. In my own family that connection is deep. My faith may look different from theirs, but there remains a continuum, a connection, a golden thread from one generation to the next.
Timothy was a young pastor in the early church, who had been mentored by none other than the Apostle Paul. And apparently, there was great affection between them, as there often is between mentor and acolyte. But, as we know, the flip side of affection is worry. And that is where we find ourselves today – in the midst of worry born of love.
You see, by the time this letter was written, Paul was an old man. And he knew that his time on this earth was drawing to a close. And no doubt he wondered: what will happen to Timothy after I am gone?
That worry was the impetus for the prayers Paul prayed, night and day. That worry was the reason he hoped to return to Timothy soon, recalling how Timothy wept the last time they said good bye.
But then the mood of the letter changes, and Paul seems to remember that golden thread of connection that I referred to a moment ago. Paul remembers how the faith is passed down from one generation to the next. And he writes: “I am reminded of your sincere faith (Timothy), a faith that lived first in your grandmother Lois and your mother Eunice and now, I am sure, lives in you.”
With these words, Paul acknowledges something we call “the communion of saints” – the idea that we are all connected to one another through our faith in Jesus Christ. But that idea has been given short shrift in Protestantism. We tend to think of faith in highly individualistic terms. “It’s between me and Jesus,” we say. And that kind of insular emphasis has made space for all kinds of inappropriate behavior and bad theology and a general disconnection between human beings.
But we Protestants got it wrong. Because the Christian faith has never been just between us and Jesus. It cannot be reduced to some pithy idea of “my own personal relationship to Jesus Christ.” Because alone, we cannot be the Body of Christ. Alone, we cannot be the Communion of Saints.
The Bantus of South Africa understand this essential spiritual connection in a deeper way. They say “Umuntu, ngamuntu, ngabantu” -- a person is a person because of other persons. And in the church, we might say: a Christian is a Christian because of other Christians. We are all connected – deeply, essentially connected.
I’ve always loved World Communion Sunday because I love the idea that on this day, all over the world, in myriad languages, all Christians come to the same table of Jesus. Some do so in cathedrals. Others gather in huts. Still others are out under the trees. Some celebrate in complete freedom and others in the fear of persecution. Some eat this as a simple memorial meal. Others believe the bread and cup to be the very body and blood of Christ. But at the end of the day, no matter how we celebrate, our coming to this table is an act of connection to the church on earth and the church in heaven. What else could it mean when we say in the communion liturgy: “And so, with all the prophets, martyrs, and saints, and all the company of heaven, we glorify you.”
Now that kind of universality is a lot to take in. So, let’s bring it a bit closer to home. Let’s think about this very room in which we sit. Just take it in for a moment… And now imagine all the thousands and thousands of people who have gathered here for the past 200 years. In this very room, they have celebrated the Lord’s Supper, and heard his life-giving Gospel, and raised their voices in song, and pledged their love, and buried their dead. In this very room, our people gathered. And they had names like Lucius Tuttle, Amasa Hitchcock, Mabel Swift, Benoni Plum, Erastus Colton, Sherlock Bristol, Belina Clark.
We never knew them. They lived in a much different world than ours. Even their names are strange to us. But in Christ, the ties that bind us are as real as the pews we sit upon, and the floor under our feet, and the air that we now breathe. Their faith is now our faith. Their church is now our church.
And one day, 200 years from now, people will look at our history and they will read names like Martha Lape, Ken Eurele, Marcia Dodd, Bill Eagleson, Marilyn Gordon, Lorna Fowler, Bob Porter. They will not have known us. Their world will be very different from ours. Our names will seem strange to them. But somehow, we will be connected to them; somehow, we will live in them, because we all live in Christ. It is an unbroken, golden thread.
And that is the reason that St. Paul could so confidently say: “I am reminded of your sincere faith, (Timothy), a faith that lived first in your grandmother Lois and your mother Eunice and now, I am sure, lives in you.”
And now, I am sure, lives in all of us.
Thanks be to God. Amen.
Sunday, October 5, 2025 – World Communion Sunday
First Congregational Church of Cheshire
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell
2 Timothy 1:1-7
Paul, an apostle of Christ Jesus by the will of God, for the sake of the promise of life that is in Christ Jesus,
To Timothy, my beloved child:
Grace, mercy, and peace from God the Father and Christ Jesus our Lord.
I am grateful to God—whom I worship with a clear conscience, as my ancestors did—when I remember you constantly in my prayers night and day. Recalling your tears, I long to see you so that I may be filled with joy. I am reminded of your sincere faith, a faith that lived first in your grandmother Lois and your mother Eunice and now, I am sure, lives in you. For this reason, I remind you to rekindle the gift of God that is within you through the laying on of my hands, for God did not give us a spirit of cowardice but rather a spirit of power and of love and of self-discipline.
Years ago, at a family reunion, my Aunt Kay, convinced I had somehow “gotten above my raising,” pulled me aside. She gave me a long, hard, side-ways look (for which she was famous) and then she leaned in close and said: “You just remember one thing… your roots are Briar.”
Briar is a shortened version of the phrase “Briar hopper”, which is a less than politically correct name for someone from Kentucky. Now, I am not from Kentucky, but both sides of my family are. And for my Aunt Kay, that was enough.
Well, I distinctly remember that I didn’t appreciate what she had to say. But I also know that defensiveness can be a sign that, on some level, we agree with the accusation. And truth be told, my Aunt Kay was on to something.
You see, as a young adult, I spent a lot of time trying to distance myself from my Appalachian roots. I finally distanced myself all the way to New York City. But one day while making chit-chat at a fashionable cocktail party in a Manhattan high-rise, I happened to mention that I had aunts with names like Ila Kay, Iva May, Vesta Lee, and Earldeen. When that made them chuckle, I continued. I told that had a great uncle named Pee Wee. And that my maternal grandfather was known to everyone simply as “Cornbread.”
Well, lo and behold, those party goers found all these details fascinating, as if I had grown up in an exotic foreign country. And that’s when I realized that it was fascinating. And so, I began a journey back toward my roots – a journey that I have continued to this day. Reconnecting to my people changed me, but not in the ways I expected. I became more deeply myself as I accepted these people for what they really are: my people, my family.
We are the products of all those people who have come before us. Generations of choices and hormones and circumstances have produced the people we are. And for some of us, that connection to the past includes the Christian faith, passed down from one generation to the next. In my own family that connection is deep. My faith may look different from theirs, but there remains a continuum, a connection, a golden thread from one generation to the next.
Timothy was a young pastor in the early church, who had been mentored by none other than the Apostle Paul. And apparently, there was great affection between them, as there often is between mentor and acolyte. But, as we know, the flip side of affection is worry. And that is where we find ourselves today – in the midst of worry born of love.
You see, by the time this letter was written, Paul was an old man. And he knew that his time on this earth was drawing to a close. And no doubt he wondered: what will happen to Timothy after I am gone?
That worry was the impetus for the prayers Paul prayed, night and day. That worry was the reason he hoped to return to Timothy soon, recalling how Timothy wept the last time they said good bye.
But then the mood of the letter changes, and Paul seems to remember that golden thread of connection that I referred to a moment ago. Paul remembers how the faith is passed down from one generation to the next. And he writes: “I am reminded of your sincere faith (Timothy), a faith that lived first in your grandmother Lois and your mother Eunice and now, I am sure, lives in you.”
With these words, Paul acknowledges something we call “the communion of saints” – the idea that we are all connected to one another through our faith in Jesus Christ. But that idea has been given short shrift in Protestantism. We tend to think of faith in highly individualistic terms. “It’s between me and Jesus,” we say. And that kind of insular emphasis has made space for all kinds of inappropriate behavior and bad theology and a general disconnection between human beings.
But we Protestants got it wrong. Because the Christian faith has never been just between us and Jesus. It cannot be reduced to some pithy idea of “my own personal relationship to Jesus Christ.” Because alone, we cannot be the Body of Christ. Alone, we cannot be the Communion of Saints.
The Bantus of South Africa understand this essential spiritual connection in a deeper way. They say “Umuntu, ngamuntu, ngabantu” -- a person is a person because of other persons. And in the church, we might say: a Christian is a Christian because of other Christians. We are all connected – deeply, essentially connected.
I’ve always loved World Communion Sunday because I love the idea that on this day, all over the world, in myriad languages, all Christians come to the same table of Jesus. Some do so in cathedrals. Others gather in huts. Still others are out under the trees. Some celebrate in complete freedom and others in the fear of persecution. Some eat this as a simple memorial meal. Others believe the bread and cup to be the very body and blood of Christ. But at the end of the day, no matter how we celebrate, our coming to this table is an act of connection to the church on earth and the church in heaven. What else could it mean when we say in the communion liturgy: “And so, with all the prophets, martyrs, and saints, and all the company of heaven, we glorify you.”
Now that kind of universality is a lot to take in. So, let’s bring it a bit closer to home. Let’s think about this very room in which we sit. Just take it in for a moment… And now imagine all the thousands and thousands of people who have gathered here for the past 200 years. In this very room, they have celebrated the Lord’s Supper, and heard his life-giving Gospel, and raised their voices in song, and pledged their love, and buried their dead. In this very room, our people gathered. And they had names like Lucius Tuttle, Amasa Hitchcock, Mabel Swift, Benoni Plum, Erastus Colton, Sherlock Bristol, Belina Clark.
We never knew them. They lived in a much different world than ours. Even their names are strange to us. But in Christ, the ties that bind us are as real as the pews we sit upon, and the floor under our feet, and the air that we now breathe. Their faith is now our faith. Their church is now our church.
And one day, 200 years from now, people will look at our history and they will read names like Martha Lape, Ken Eurele, Marcia Dodd, Bill Eagleson, Marilyn Gordon, Lorna Fowler, Bob Porter. They will not have known us. Their world will be very different from ours. Our names will seem strange to them. But somehow, we will be connected to them; somehow, we will live in them, because we all live in Christ. It is an unbroken, golden thread.
And that is the reason that St. Paul could so confidently say: “I am reminded of your sincere faith, (Timothy), a faith that lived first in your grandmother Lois and your mother Eunice and now, I am sure, lives in you.”
And now, I am sure, lives in all of us.
Thanks be to God. Amen.
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