March 23, 2025

On the Road to Calvary: The Disciple Whom Jesus Loved

There is a rather strange phrase in our reading from the gospel of John this morning. “When Jesus saw his mother and the disciple whom he loved standing beside her, he said to his mother, ‘Woman, here is your son.’” That phrase “the disciple whom he loved” stands out. And we wonder: Didn’t he love all the disciples? How can it be that there was only one of them he loved?

Actually, this is one of five times in his gospel that John refers to “the disciple whom Jesus loved.” That disciple, oddly enough, is never named. And that has created an intriguing mystery, along with a lot of speculation. Some scholars believe the so-called “Beloved Disciple” was Lazarus, whom Jesus raised from the dead. Lazarus was the brother of Mary and Martha, and when he fell ill, “. . . the sisters sent a message to Jesus, ‘Lord, he whom you love is ill.’” And when Jesus heard that Lazarus had died, “Jesus began to weep. So the Jews said, ‘See how he loved him!’” And Lazarus lived in Bethany, near Jerusalem, so when Jesus said, as he did in this morning’s scripture that this disciple whom he loved was now his own mother’s son, John writes, “from that hour the disciple took her into his own home,” which would have been easy for Lazarus to do, living so near. On this and other evidence, many believe that Lazarus is the Beloved Disciple.

Others think it was John the son of Zebedee. They regard Lazarus as a kind of secondary disciple, and feel that the one whom Jesus loved must have been a more prominent follower. Since so many of the other disciples are ruled out by either being described as with the beloved disciple, or by having died before some of the key events took place, it comes down to John. And since Peter and the disciple whom Jesus loved are seen together in both Luke and Acts, and Peter and John are placed together in the Gospel of John, it seems clear to these folks that John is the guy.

In very recent times, there has even been speculation, believe it or not, that Jesus was gay, and when we read that this beloved disciple was, at the last supper, reclined on the breast of Jesus, we are to take “the disciple whom Jesus loved” in a very particular sense.

As for me, I find the fact that this disciple is never named to be a fascinating invitation. It is as though there is a large portrait of Jesus and the disciples and one of them – one close enough to Jesus to be embraced by him – is simply an empty dotted outline of a person – a lacuna. That empty outline is the invitation. It allows us to fill it in with whomever we wish. That I find intriguing. Whom would you put in that portrait?

One good candidate, obviously to many of us, is Mother Teresa. She sacrificed her own comfort, health, and safety to care for the poor and dying. She became a world-wide icon symbolizing the kind of selfless love that Jesus preached. Surely she would fit well into that portrait. But she also was an imperfect human being. She was criticized by some for not using the large donations she had received to improve the poor living conditions in her houses for the dying and for not promoting women’s rights.

Or, perhaps there are people you know personally who you’d nominate to be put in that portrait alongside Jesus. There might be one or two in this room that you’d think of. I won’t mention any names to keep from embarrassing anyone.

But maybe the most can be gained by shifting our focus from the empty dotted figure to the one nearest: to Jesus himself. Maybe more can be learned about the Beloved Disciple by considering the one who loves him. For me, Jesus is best understood as the closest thing we’ve seen among our kind to the Lord of Creation. I love the words of nineteenth century Scottish author, poet, and Congregational minister, George MacDonald, who wrote: “How terribly, then, have the theologians misrepresented God! Nearly all of them represent him as a great king on a grand throne, thinking how grand he is, and making it the business of his being and the end of his universe to keep up his glory, wielding the bolts of a Jupiter against them that take his name in vain. They would not allow this, but follow out what they say, and it comes much to this.

“Brothers, have you found our king?” MacDonald asks. “There he is, kissing little children and saying they are like God. There he is at table with the head of a fisherman lying on his bosom, and somewhat heavy at heart that even he, the beloved disciple, cannot yet understand him well.”

MacDonald paints a portrait of Jesus that hints of a gentle and loving divinity, a shepherd who knows his sheep by name and who holds next to his bosom not only the little children, but all those who are confused and searching, those who are lost or broken, those who are incomplete and unfulfilled. We see this Jesus even as he hangs on the cross, turning this beloved disciple over to his mother, and putting her in his care.

And we see this Jesus as he enters Jerusalem. He comes, riding into the heart of the storm – to the center of power of those who will be bent on destroying him – knowing that he will undoubtedly face both physical and mental pain and that he will not be emerging from this encounter. And he chooses as a symbol for this entrance not the procession of military might such as we might see on the streets of Red Square in Moscow or in missiles streaking through the skies over Ukraine, not the grand parade of impressive black limousines or the royal wave from the back seat of a Bentley, not even the feisty fist-pumping of the big fight’s underdog, but quietly on the back of a baby donkey. He is telling us, I believe, that divine power and love confront the paltry powers of the principalities with head bowed and eyes warmed by tears of pity. The one who holds the central seat in our painting is one who is always ready to embrace, always looking for an opening through which love and grace can find their mark.

There are so many in our troubled world who miss that message of love and grace. All too many people are so caught in self-indulgence, self-pity, or carelessness that they are unable to receive that tender embrace from Jesus. I was listening to a news report recently about the illicit fentanyl trafficking from Canada. A reporter was interviewing a young man who was involved in the drug trade. She asked him if he felt any remorse over the number of people who died because of the drugs he was exporting. His response was chilling. He said, “It’s not my problem.” There has always and everywhere been a strain of humanity that is barely human. It’s no wonder Jesus wept over the city when he entered it.

So, who is the disciple whom Jesus loved – the person in the empty dotted outline? It is you. It’s like those notations on the map of stores at the shopping mall: “You are here.” To place yourself in that portrait is to let go of your defenses and allow yourself to be embraced. To place yourself in that portrait is to finally allow yourself to be forgiven and know that you are OK, cracks and all. To place yourself in that portrait is to set your course down a difficult, demanding, and yet deeply rewarding path.

It may seem a complex and demanding thing to tell you that you are the Beloved Disciple at the breast of Jesus – to say that you are loved by the divine power that filled and motivated him. But maybe it’s a deeper, more profound, and, yet, simpler message than it seems. The famed theologian Karl Barth was at Rockefeller Chapel on the campus of the University of Chicago during his lecture tour of the U.S. in 1962. After his lecture, during the question and answer time, a student said he had read many of the great theologian’s works but was still confused. He asked Barth if he could summarize his whole life’s work in theology in a sentence. Barth said “Yes, I can. He paused a moment and said: ‘Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so.’”

Let’s sing it together.