 | |
|
© 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.
No comments:
Post a Comment