Troubled Hearts -- Fifth Sunday of Easter

John 14:1-14

May 10, 2020

            Troubled hearts. Sometimes words or phrases resonate with me, but these two particular words rang out in my head and my heart like a gong or giant clanging cymbals. My heart feels exceedingly troubled in these days, so I tried to list out some of the reasons for this.

            What troubles my heart these days?

·         Is it that in so many ways things look normal outside, but in reality what we thought was normal is long gone?

·         Is my heart troubled because a store security guard, who was doing his job, asked a customer to wear a mask and was shot and killed?

·         Is it because in two months more Americans have died due to Covid-19 than in the Vietnam War? And is it because we don’t seem interested in memorializing or grieving for these people on a large scale? Weren’t they our brothers and sisters? Weren’t they our neighbors? Even if we don’t know them. When will we lament them?

·         Is my heart troubled because when people die, so many die alone, family unable to be with them, to hold their hands, to say goodbye, because of this rotten, stinking virus?

·         Is it because so many people are out of work, and even with public spaces slowly reopening again, people are going to remain out of work?

·         Is it because in many ways I am grieving over what we have lost, as a community, as a nation, as a world?

·         What troubles my heart? Is it my sense of powerlessness, and helplessness in the face of something that is still so unknown and unpredictable?

·         Is it because I know that no matter how hard I try, I still cannot fully embrace the gospel of radical love that broke through the darkness with the birth and life and death and resurrection of Jesus the Christ? Deep down, I still have a hard time with that radical love, because it calls me to love not just the people I am inclined to love, but to love the ones that I am disinclined to love. It calls me to be a neighbor to people I don’t like, and radically disagree with. It calls me to give and live sacrificially even for people who don’t appreciate it or care all that much.

·         I know that my heart is troubled because I stand in opposition to that gospel more often than I care to admit. I push back against that gospel, against that kind of love. It frustrates me and challenges me, and even when I do sometimes rise to the challenge, it is with great kicking and screaming. It troubles my heart. It all troubles my heart.

These words of Jesus to his disciples are part of what scholars and commentators call his Farewell Discourse. We most often hear them at our funerals, our witnesses to the resurrection. That is when I have spoken them the most often, when I am trying to give comfort to people who are grieving. One writer commented that most of us pastors speak these words to people at the edge of another’s grave, but Jesus was speaking them at the edge of his own grave. So if the disciples had some inkling of what was really about to happen, it is easy to understand why their hearts were troubled indeed.

John’s gospel gives the disciples the biggest benefit of the doubt. In other words, he cuts them the most slack for their lack of understanding, their inability to fully grasp who Jesus was and what he was there for. But in this passage in John’s gospel, the disciples seem bewildered and confused at best. When Jesus says,

“In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself. So that where I am, there you may be also. And you know the way to the place where I am going.”

I’ll be honest. John wrote beautiful prose, but the meaning of each phrase, each word sometimes, is so layered and deep, that when I hear it or read it, I have to think and think and think some more about what is actually being said. So it is no surprise to me at all that Thomas responded to Jesus by saying,

“Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?”

I get Thomas’ consternation and I get the disciples’ confusion. Their teacher was leaving them. He made no bones about it. He was leaving them. And they were afraid and disappointed and confused and anxious and sad and grieving. Their hearts were troubled.

But Jesus was reassuring them. He was reassuring them, that they did know the way. They knew where he was going, because they had been with him for three years. They had learned from him, walked with him, watched him, been challenged by him, been taught by him, witnessed what he had done. They had stayed with him, which in John’s gospel is not about a place, but about relationship

Because they had been in relationship with him, they had been in relationship with God his Father. While he was going to his heavenly home, and they could not go with him, they were not being left abandoned or alone. In the verses after the ones we read today, Jesus promises them the Holy Spirit. But even before they hear about this Advocate, they are receiving the promise of presence, of ongoing relationship.

As I said earlier, we most often hear these words at funerals. We hear these words about many dwelling places, many rooms, and we think of a heavenly kingdom that is roomy and wide and welcoming. But Jesus talked often about how with his coming, the kingdom of heaven had come to earth. And I wonder, if Jesus was also trying to tell about making room here and now for all of God’s children. I wonder if Jesus was not trying to tell them that being in relationship with God was not exclusive to them, but an invitation for all.

I wonder if Jesus was exhorting them to understand that the kingdom of heaven on this earth is roomy and welcoming and here. Their hearts were troubled, but Jesus wanted them to see that death could not end their relationship with him, and through him, with God. They would still stay with God, and others would be invited to come and stay as well. God was making room.

God was making room, so we must do our best to make room for others too. I read a story about an elementary school teacher in Connecticut who made room. A mother of one of her students called in distress. She had Covid-19 and she was going to have an emergency C section. She needed the teacher to call her husband and tell him. The family are recent immigrants and English is their second language. The teacher called the husband and he gave her permission to act as a go between with the hospital. The mother gave birth five weeks early. The baby was in neonatal ICU and the mother was in a coma for three weeks. If that were not hard enough, the older son, the teacher’s student and his dad had to quarantine for two weeks. But the baby was supposed to leave the hospital. Where would he go? The teacher made room for him. She took him home. She told the father that she realized he barely knew her, and it was understandable if he did not fully trust her, but she would make room for that baby until they could take him home. She would make room. And she did. And she cared for the baby until he could go home to his family, safely and securely.

When I read a story like this, the trouble in my heart diminishes. Because, in spite of everything, people are still making room for others, for strangers, for friends, for neighbors, for family. And God makes room for us, for all of us. So let not our hearts be troubled. Believe in God. Believe in Jesus. There is room. There is room for all.

Amen and amen.