Not Orphaned

Jesus speaks one of the most important truths that feels important to hear in this moment: "I will not leave you orphaned." Let's explore this statement more!

Acts 17:22-31

Psalm 66:7-18

1 Peter 3:13-22

John 14:15-21

© 2026 The Rev. Seth Olson

This sermon was preached on the Sixth Sunday of Easter at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles in Hoover, AL. You may watch a video of it here.

Holy God, may my words be your words, and when my words are not your word, may your people be wise enough to know the same. Amen.

There are some fears we grow out of. When we are little, we might be afraid of the dark, or monsters under the bed, or being dropped off at school and wondering if our parents are really going to come back.

And then we get older and become very sophisticated, mature, capable adults… And we find new things to be afraid of. The monsters under the bed become bills, diagnoses, conflict, grief, and loneliness; aging parents, struggling children, uncertain futures, and the quiet fear that maybe we are not enough.

Or maybe even deeper than that: the fear that we are alone. Not just physically alone. But spiritually alone. Emotionally alone. Relationally alone.

The fear that when the hard thing comes, no one will be there. That when the grief hits, no one will understand. That when we mess up, no one will stay. That when the world changes, when the old certainties fall away, when the life we knew disappears, we will have to figure it all out by ourselves.

And perhaps that lands with particular tenderness today, on Mother’s Day — a day that is beautiful for many, complicated for many, painful for many, and often all of those things at once. Later in the service, we will offer a prayer broad enough, I hope, to hold some of that complexity. But here, in the Gospel, Jesus speaks a word beneath all of it: “I will not leave you orphaned.”

That is the heart of the Gospel today.

“I will not leave you orphaned.” Jesus says this on the night before his death. He is not speaking in a peaceful moment by the Sea of Galilee while the disciples are well-rested and full of bread and fish—nor after it’s all worked out.

He is speaking in the shadow of the cross—to friends who are about to watch their world fall apart. He’s speaking to ones who will soon scatter, deny, hide, weep, and wonder whether everything they had hoped for was just another beautiful dream crushed by the powers of the world.

And Jesus knows this. He sees what is coming. So, he prepares them.

But notice how he prepares them. He does not hand them a guide entitled, “How to Survive Good Friday,” nor does he say, “Here’s what is going to happen and here’s how you should manage your anxiety.” No, he says, “If you love me, you will keep my commandments. And I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate, to be with you forever.”

Intriguing. Another Advocate. Another Helper, Comforter, One who comes alongside.

From our 2,000 year later vantage point, we see Jesus offering the Spirit.

The Spirit of truth. The Spirit who abides. The Spirit who will not just visit them from time to time when they’re especially holy or especially well-behaved.

No, it’s the Spirit who will be with them, in them, among them. This isn’t abstract, nor is it a secret doctrinal quiz before Jesus keeps going. This is pastoral care.

This is Jesus looking at frightened people and saying, “You are going to feel like I am gone. But I will not abandon you. You are going to feel like the world has won. But I am coming to you. You are going to feel like death has had the last word. But because I live, you also will live.”

That is the promise.

Not: nothing hard will happen, love will prevent grief, or faith will block fear

But: We will not be abandoned. We will not be left alone to figure out resurrection life by ourselves. And, that matters because Christians too often talk about faith as though the goal is to be fearless. As though if we really believed, we would never be anxious, never confused, never weary, never shaken.

But that is not what we see in Scripture. The disciples are afraid, confused, and misunderstanding Jesus all the time. They lose heart, nerve, and perspective.

Fortunately, we do not hear Jesus say, “Well, when you finally get yourselves together, I’ll send the Spirit.” He says, “I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate.” The gift comes to fragile, frightened, and unproven people. That is grace—God’s favor unearned, undeserved.

Then, Jesus offers something more, that can sound conditional: “If you love me, you will keep my commandments.”

Now, if we are not careful, we may hear that as a threat. “If you love me, prove it, perform, get everything right.”

But that is not the voice of Jesus. That is the voice of anxiety dressed up in Jesus’ robes. He’s not saying “Obey me so that I will love you.” He is saying “When you live in my love, my way will become visible in you.”

So, what are Jesus commandments? In John’s Gospel account, it’s not a checklist of religious performance. It’s simply: “Love one another as I have loved you.” That is the command.

Love one another. Love as Jesus loves. Love with humility, mercy, courage.

Live in love that washes feet, feeds the hungry, welcomes the outsider, forgives enemies, tells the truth, lays itself down for the life of the world.

“If you love me, keep my commandments” does not mean, “Become impressive.” It means, “Let my love take shape in your life.” And that is why the gift of the Spirit is so important. Because we cannot do this on our own.

We cannot manufacture Christlike love through willpower, or grit our teeth hard enough to become the Body of Christ. We need help. We need the Advocate, the Comforter, the Spirit of truth, to come alongside us, to dwell within us, to remind us who we are and whose we are.

Because the truth is, when we feel orphaned, we often stop acting like beloved children of God. When we feel abandoned, we become defensive, controlling, or start protecting ourselves at the expense of others. And whole communities can do this too, which sadly means churches can do this.

When a church feels anxious, it can start living as though scarcity is the deepest truth. As though the past is gone, the future is uncertain, and everything depends on us holding it all together by force of personality and committee structure—not that committee structure is unimportant. This is still the Episcopal Church after all—and we love our order (sometimes, too much).

Regardless, the Church is not held together by anxiety, nor sustained by nostalgia, nor saved by frantic effort, nor fueled by fear. The Church lives because Christ lives. Christ lives in, among, between, around, and beyond us.

Jesus says, “Because I live, you also will live.” That is the promise and the ground on which we stand.

And, here is where the Gospel becomes very practical for us. Because all of us, at some point, have to decide what kind of people we will become when we are afraid.

Will fear make us smaller? Meaner? Overly controlling?

Will fear hasten us to isolate ourselves? Become skeptical of our neighbors? Turn our religion into sword and shield? 

Or will we receive the Spirit again? Will we let the Advocate come alongside us? Will we remember that we are not orphaned? Will we allow the love of Jesus to become visible in us precisely when love is hardest?

That is the invitation. And, thanks be to God, it is not only personal. It is communal. We walk this path and do this holy work together. 

So, what would it mean for Holy Apostles to live as a community that truly believes Jesus has not left us orphaned? It would not mean we never feel anxious. It would not mean we never disagree. It would not mean we never grieve what has changed or wonder what comes next.

But it would mean that underneath all of that, there is a deeper confidence.

Christ is alive. The Spirit abides. God is near. We are not alone.

And because we are not alone, we can love, we can serve, we can take the next faithful step.

Because we are not alone, we can welcome the stranger, care for the hurting, teach our children, tend our elders, forgive one another, tell the truth, and bear witness to the life-giving, liberating love of God in Jesus Christ. Not because we are so strong. But because the Spirit is with us.

Because the Spirit is in us. Because Jesus keeps his promises.

“I will not leave you orphaned; I am coming to you.” These are words for frightened disciples—for weary churches—for anxious hearts. Words for anyone who has ever wondered whether they are going to have to carry the whole thing alone.

You are not orphaned. You are not abandoned. You are not left to your own devices.

The risen Christ is not simply someone we remember. He is the One in whom we live, and move, and have our being. The One whose Spirit abides. The One whose love becomes highly visible when his people keep his way—living in love.

And because he lives, we also will live. So love him. Keep his way. Receive the Spirit. And do not be afraid.

For Christ has promised: “I will not leave you orphaned.” And Christ always keeps God’s promises.

Amen.

The Rector’s Corner: Set Apart and Sent — May 6, 2026

The power of our name at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles comes in realizing that God sets us apart to be sent into the world bearing the Good News of Christ!

Dear Holy Apostles,

Instead of my normal Rector’s Corner—this week I feel called to share the sermon I preached on the Feast of the Apostles—Philip and James. As we celebrated these apostles whose feast bears (part of) the title of our church, I challenged you/me/us to not only remember our name but to embody it with our very lives. I’d love to hear your feedback. Thank you for reading.

To listen to an audio recording of it, please click here.

Holy God, may my words be your words and when my words are not your words, may your people be wise enough to know the same. Amen.

There is a line from Shakespeare that many of us know: “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” And in one sense, Juliet is right. A rose does not become beautiful because we call it a rose. Its fragrance does not depend on our language. The thing itself is the thing itself.

And yet, names do matter.

Names carry memory, identity, story, and calling. When someone says our name with love, we remember we belong. When someone forgets our name, or refuses to learn it, we feel it. Because names are not just labels. They are invitations into relationship. 

And names matter for churches, too. 

Before anyone walks through our doors, hears our choir, receives communion at this altar, comes to a Bible study, a potluck, a youth event, a funeral, a baptism, or a time of fellowship, they may hear our name:

The Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles.

And before we have said anything else, our name is already preaching

Let’s break down our name for a moment.

Holy — not because we are perfect. God help us, that is not what holiness means. Holy means set apart. Consecrated. Claimed for God’s purposes.

And Apostles — not because we are impressive, not because we have it all figured out, not because we are somehow better than anyone else. Apostle means one who is sent. One entrusted with a message. One sent out with good news.

So our name is not merely decorative. It is not simply something that looks nice on a sign, a bulletin, or a website. Our name is vocational. We are Holy Apostles. We are set apart and sent.

Tonight we gather on the Feast of St. Philip and St. James, stepping into an ancient Christian practice. Churches across the globe have long celebrated patronal feast days — days connected to the saint, mystery, or holy name a community bears. These feasts help a community remember: Who are we? Whose are we? What story have we inherited? What calling has been placed in our hands?

And tonight, we remember Philip and James.

Philip, the apostle who in John’s Gospel account says to skeptical Nathanael, “Come and see” [Jesus the Messiah]. Philip, who does not have all the answers, but knows enough to invite someone else toward Jesus.

James the Less, quieter in the scriptural imagination, but no less part of the apostolic witness. James reminds us that faithfulness does not have to be flashy to be holy.

And the Gospel appointed for this feast gives us Philip in one of his most human moments.

Jesus says to the disciples, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life.”

And then Philip says, “Lord, show us the Father, and we will be satisfied.”

I love this from Philip because it allows to plead with God to show up in our lives, even when the Holy One has been there the whole time. 

 

Because Philip has been with Jesus. He has seen the signs. He has heard the teaching. He has walked the roads. He has watched the healings. He has shared the meals. He has been close enough to the mystery to touch it.

And still he says, “Show us.”

Show us God.

Show us clearly.

Show us plainly.

Show us enough that we can finally be satisfied.

Friends, that is not faithlessness. That is honesty.

And Jesus responds, “Have I been with you all this time, Philip, and you still do not know me? Whoever has seen me has seen the Father.”

In other words: Philip, you are not waiting for some other revelation. You are not waiting for some distant, abstract, disembodied God to appear. You have seen God in the face of love. You have seen God in mercy. You have seen God at the table. You have seen God washing feet. You have seen God drawing near to the poor, the sick, the grieving, the sinful, the frightened, and the forgotten. You have seen God in Jesus, the Christ.

And that is where our reading from Second Corinthians comes alongside the Gospel so beautifully. Paul writes, “For we do not proclaim ourselves; we proclaim Jesus Christ as Lord.” Then he says, “For it is the God who said, ‘Let light shine out of darkness,’ who has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ.”

The glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ.

That is what Philip is being invited to see.

That is what James bore witness to.

That is what the apostles proclaimed.

The glory of God is not found in domination, religious control, worldly success, or being right all the time. The glory of God is seen in the face of Jesus Christ — the one who reveals that God is… self-giving love. The one who shows us that the way of God is mercy, humility, courage, forgiveness, justice, and peace.

And here is the remarkable thing: the passing of Christ’s miraculous light did not originate with Philip and James. Nor the nine other faithful apostles.

Because before Philip and James preached, before Paul wrote, before churches were built, before dioceses were formed, before our parish had a name, Mary Magdalene stood in a garden and heard the risen Christ call her by name. And then she was sent.

She went and announced to the disciples, “I have seen the Lord.”

Mary Magdalene, the apostle to the apostles, stands near the beginning of this great line of sending, this line of sharing the light of Christ.

From Mary Magdalene to Philip and James. From Philip and James to the early Church. From the early Church to the desert mothers and fathers, who went into the wilderness not to escape the world, but to learn how to love God and the world more truthfully. From them to the reformers, prophets, teachers, martyrs, mystics, matriarchs, and patriarchs of the faith.

From generation to generation, ordinary and extraordinary people have been set apart and sent.

Sent to preach, pray, build, heal, challenge unjust powers, teach children, preserve the faith, and reform it!

And eventually, by the grace of God, that apostolic succession, that connection the literal laying on of hands passing along the light and energy of Christ through the ages, eventually that holy line made its way here. To Alabama. To this diocese.

Through lay leaders, bishops, priests and deacons who carried the Gospel in this place — imperfectly, surely, because every generation carries both grace and sin, courage and blindness. And yet, the light kept shining through those who founded this diocese.

Through our bishops from the first Nicholas Cobbs to Bill Stough and Henry Parsley, and even now to Glenda Curry and soon enough Richard Lawson.

Through faithful people whose names will never be printed on the Church’s calendar of feast days, but whose trust in God still echoes in parishes, camp cabins, altar guild sacristies, choir rooms, vestry minutes, baptismal records, and lives changed by grace.

And, in God’s good timing, that apostolic line made it’s way here through Maggie Taylor, the founding rector of Holy Apostles, and through those first members who dreamed and prayed and worked and risked and gave so that this parish could become a living community.

They, too, were set apart and sent. Not to create a monument. Not to preserve a religious club. Not to build something frozen in time. They were sent with good news. And now, beloved, so are you, so am I, so are we.

That is the heart of this feast.

Tonight is not only about looking backward with gratitude, though we should do that. We give thanks for Philip and James, Mary Magdalene, and all the saints and souls who came before us.

But we do not remember them simply so that we can admire them. We remember them so that we may join them. The apostolic faith is not a museum exhibit. It is a living fire.

And as Paul says, “Since it is by God’s mercy that we are engaged in this ministry, we do not lose heart.” We do not lose heart. That line feels important right now—because there are plenty of reasons to lose heart.

There is hurt in the world. There is loneliness in the world. There is war in the world. There are children who do not feel safe. There are adults who are exhausted. There are families carrying grief. There are people wondering if the Church has anything life-giving to offer anymore. There are people who have been wounded by religion. There are people desperate for belonging. There are people who cannot imagine that God’s love could include them.

And into that world, God sends apostles. Not just the famous ones.

Not just the ordained ones. Not just the ones with feast days. You. Me. Us. The Church of the Holy Apostles.

Set apart and sent.

And our work, our care, and our delight is to discern where God is sending us now with good news, which puts so many good and fruitful questions before us:

Where is God sending Holy Apostles with good news?

Where is God sending you?

To whom are we being sent?

What wounds are we being invited to tend?

What loneliness are we being invited to notice?

What mercy are we being invited to practice?

What truth are we being invited to speak?

What tables are we being invited to set?

What doors are we being invited to open?

The prophet Isaiah gives us an image for this discernment:

“When you turn to the right or when you turn to the left, your ears shall hear a word behind you, saying, ‘This is the way; walk in it.’”

This is the way; walk in it.

That is such a tender image of God’s guidance.

Not always a thunderclap.

Not always a detailed five-year strategic plan descending from heaven.

Sometimes it is a word behind us.

Sometimes it is a quiet nudge.

Sometimes it is a holy restlessness.

Sometimes it is a need we cannot unsee.

Sometimes it is a person whose story breaks our hearts open.

Sometimes it is the Spirit saying, “This is the way. Walk in it.”

And the psalm gives us the prayer we need if we are going to walk that way:

“Teach me, O Lord.”

“Give me understanding.”

“Incline my heart.”

“Turn my eyes.”

“Give me life in your ways.”

That is apostolic prayer.

Not “Lord, make us impressive.”

Not “Lord, preserve everything exactly as it has always been.”

But: Teach us. Give us understanding. Incline our hearts. Turn our eyes. Give us life.

Make us the people you are sending us to be.

Holy Apostles, our name is not an accident.

It is a gift.

It is a memory.

It is a calling.

We are holy — set apart for God’s purposes. We are apostles — sent with good news. And we stand in a long line of witnesses: from Mary Magdalene, Philip, and James, all the way to Maggie Taylor, the founding members of this parish, and countless saints in between.

They were set apart and sent with good news for us. Now it is our care and our delight to discern where God is sending us with good news for a hurting world. So may we listen for the voice behind us saying, “This is the way; walk in it.”

May the light of God shine in our hearts.

May we see the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ.

May we listen with expectant hearts for the movement of the Holy Spirit.

And may we, the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles, remember our name — and embody it with our very lives. Amen.