Chains, Chickens, and the Kingdom of God

Sermon for the 7th Sunday of Easter (Sunday after Ascension)

Texts: Acts 16:16–34; John 17:20–26

They say that a chicken and a pig once decided to open a restaurant. The chicken said, “Let’s call it Ham and Eggs!” The pig paused, looked her square in the eye, and replied, “That’s easy for you to say—you’re just involved. I’d be fully committed!”

Most of us, when it comes to faith, are somewhere between involved and committed—between chicken and pig, if you will. We like our spirituality free-range, cage-free, and preferably not too messy. But our two readings today, sandwiched as they are between Ascension and Pentecost, refuse to let us off the hook. They tell a tale of radical commitment: chains falling, jail doors flinging open, and a vision of unity so daring it might make even the most seasoned churchgoer squirm in their pew.

Here’s Scene One: Paul and Silas, Singing in the Slammer

In Acts 16, we have Paul and Silas—preaching good news, liberating a slave girl from exploitation, and then promptly getting the stuffing beaten out of them for disrupting the local economy. That’s right—liberation is bad for business. The owners of the slave girl weren’t exactly thrilled when their profitable little spiritual sideshow got shut down. So Paul and Silas end up in prison, shackled, bleeding, and—wait for it—singing hymns at midnight.

Now, I don’t know about you, but if I’d just been flogged, wrongfully imprisoned, and had my feet locked in stocks, I’d probably be composing a strongly worded complaint to the Magistrate’s Office, not a choral arrangement.

But here’s the punchline: their singing—this countercultural act of joy in the face of brutality—literally shakes the foundations. An earthquake hits, the doors fly open, and their chains fall off. This isn’t just geology; this is theology. It’s a metaphor with muscle: when people choose hope over fear, liberation over silence, the very ground beneath oppression trembles.

Here’s Scene Two: Jesus Prays—for Us

Then we pivot to John 17. Jesus, knowing he’s about to leave, offers what we might call his valedictory prayer. He prays not just for the disciples, but “for those who will believe in me through their word”—in other words, for us. And what does he pray? “That they may all be one.”

Now, let’s be honest—church unity is often more of a punchline than a prayer. There’s a reason someone once quipped, “Where two or three are gathered in my name… there will be at least five opinions.” And yet Jesus doesn’t ask for uniformity or doctrinal lockstep—he prays for oneness, for a communion that reflects the mutual love of the Trinity.

This unity isn’t about being the same—it’s about being committed to each other in love, across our differences. It's a holy resistance to the tribalism that infects religion and politics alike.

Now, here we are—on the Sunday after Ascension. Jesus has ascended, leaving his ragtag band of misfits staring at the sky, wondering what to do next. And we might be tempted to do the same—stare upward, waiting for some divine fireworks, while the world aches below.

But Ascension isn’t an abandonment—it’s a handing over. Jesus entrusts his mission to us. Not just the apostles. Us. And he doesn’t send us out with swords or slogans, but with a prayer and a promise: that love is stronger than hate, that unity is possible, and that the chains we think are permanent can, in fact, fall away.

So, how are we doing, friends?

Are we singing in our prisons—literal or metaphorical—or are we sulking in silence? Are we standing up for the exploited, even when it costs us social capital or economic comfort? Are we praying for unity—or are we hoarding purity?

Let’s be honest: Progressive, liberal Christianity can be just as prone to smugness and superiority as any other tradition. We like to think we’re the enlightened ones, the inclusive ones, the ones with better coffee and better politics. But Jesus doesn’t pray that we’ll be right. He prays that we’ll be one.

And unity doesn't mean pretending we agree. It means refusing to let our disagreements define us. It means breaking bread with people who voted differently, who sing differently, who understand Scripture differently. It means choosing love when it would be easier to walk away.

Let me end with a story from the early church. There's a tale—probably apocryphal—about St. Laurence, a deacon in 3rd-century Rome. When the authorities demanded he hand over the church's treasure, he brought them the poor, the sick, and the marginalised, and said, “Here are the treasures of the Church!”

They were not amused. He was executed shortly thereafter—on a grill. And reportedly, partway through the ordeal, he called out, “Turn me over—I’m done on this side.”

Now that is commitment.  And that is our calling—to live lives of such subversive joy, stubborn hope, and courageous love that even in the fire, we can crack a joke and call it witness.  So, dear friends, whether you’re a chicken or a pig, a Paul or a Silas, a believer with doubts or a doubter with hope—remember this: 

·        Christ has ascended, not to escape us, but to empower us.

·        The Spirit is coming, not to comfort the comfortable, but to shake the walls.

·        And we? We are not called to be correct. We are called to be one.

Amen.