A Prayer
‘A Prayer’
The Very Reverend Nicholas Papadopulos, Dean of Salisbury
Sunday 17 May 2026, The 7th Sunday of Easter
Acts 1: 6–14
John 17: 1–11
God,
Jesus says that to know you is eternal life. To know. You.
This requires a bit of thought. It contradicts a few very well-embedded notions.
It means that eternal life is not a reward for behaving in a certain way. The Ten Commandments forbid idolatry, adultery, murder, theft and dishonesty. Avoiding most of those most of the time should not be beyond me. But, according to Jesus, if I avoid them for the rest of my days but do not know you then eternal life will not be mine.
It also means that eternal life is not a reward for believing certain things. The Nicene Creed speaks of one God; one Son of God; raised on the third day; ascended; one Holy Spirit; one baptism. I give my assent to all of them. But, according to Jesus, if I hold beliefs but do not know you then (again) eternal life will not be mine.
God, it would be so much easier if eternal life was a matter of behaving like this or believing that. But it isn’t. Eternal life is knowing you. So: what does it mean to ‘know’ you?
Even in my most important relationships – with the people who have known me longest and the people who love me best – I am compelled to acknowledge that I am still discovering things for the first time. Without exception. It’s humbling: after decades I still don’t know those I love completely. So what hope have I of knowing you, the immortal one, the invisible one, the creator of the stars of night?
Of course, there are Christians – dear friends of mine – who know just what it is to know you. You advise them on everything, from their children’s names to the houses they buy. They chat to you as I might chat to my friend Phil. But I can’t. I’m probably sounding self-righteous. I don’t mean to. It’s just that, if I’m to remain true to myself, I cannot slap you on the back and ask you whether I should order a cappuccino or a flat white.
No. I ask again: what does it mean to ‘know’ you?
We are told that the eleven returned to the upper room together with the mother of Jesus and his brothers. These were men and women who knew Jesus. They had grown up with him, travelled with him, worked with him. Now he had left them. They must have been deeply distressed. We are told that when they returned to the upper room, they devoted themselves to prayer. I wonder what they prayed? Surely that their knowing Jesus might continue despite his having left them, that their knowing Jesus might survive – perhaps through the Holy Spirit of whom he had spoken. The Holy Spirit: still you, but now not speaking in the accent of a Galilean carpenter. You as unseen energy poured out upon all the Earth.
Prayer. Spirit. Knowledge. God, are these linked?
I pray, or I try to. I pore over the Scriptures. I receive the Sacrament. I participate in worship. I read devotional texts.
Does all this mean that I know you?
Well, it’s true that when I do these things, I sometimes feel very close to you. My heart lifts, my mind clears, new horizons open. Very occasionally, I have experienced a profundity of peace which is utterly unearthly. But, equally, when I do these things, I sometimes don’t feel very close to you. At all. I feel tired, bored, and lonely. Or I feel nothing. I’ve long since concluded that knowing you can’t ultimately be about what I feel. Feelings come and go like the English summer.
So: what does it mean to know you?
God, in the same upper room to which his friends return, Jesus prays. He says, ‘All mine are yours, and yours are mine’. He believes that what he has, he has from you. You are the source, continually, perpetually giving. And Jesus himself is evidence of that – he is your gift of yourself, given to the world, a gift that the Ascension does not take away but that the Ascension changes.
Sometimes our prayers echo Jesus’s words: ‘All things come from you’. Scripture, sacrament, prayer: these are means through which you pour yourself out upon me. And because you are God you cannot be limited to these means. Through the love of my family and the encouragement of my friends, you pour yourself out upon me. Through a walk in the hills, a jazz quartet, a selfless act, you pour yourself out upon me. Through time given to anything except self-pity, you pour yourself out upon me. Jesus believes that you are the source, continually, perpetually giving. The energy of your Spirit is poured out upon me through a thousand different streams.
Does it mean that I know you?
It must mean that I am known by you because you reach out to me unceasingly. You dwell in the depths of my heart. I am known by you. And I know that I am known by you. Perhaps that’s what it means to know you. Perhaps that’s what eternal life means: to know that I am known.
Amen.