Perhaps, like me, you have been reaching out to the people you love more intentionally than ever before. Facebook, emailing, texting more frequently. I hate talking on the phone, but I’ve succumbed to it, hour-long conversations with friends I would normally meet for lunch. Zoom coffee meetings with my dad, FaceTime conversations with my niece, showing her the 3-week old baby chicks in my backyard, a Mother’s Day celebration today with the help of technology. Striking up conversation with my neighbors, them on their porch, me on the sidewalk. Even waving at and greeting complete strangers during my morning runs. And of course, I don’t think I have ever been in so much digital communication with all of you, so many one-on-one contacts. In the past eight weeks, the following truth has come into focus for me: In this moment, we have nothing else but one another and God. In times previous, we may have deluded ourselves into thinking we could rely on something else: money or employment, health or intellectual prowess, prestige or power. Turns out, each of these can all too easily end.
Some of us already knew this, knowledge hard won. Some of us—or dearly loved people in our lives—have endured accidents or medical conditions that resulted in months in the hospital, rehab, or isolation at home. Some of us have experienced abuse or trauma. Some of us have fought in wars or otherwise given of ourselves through military service. Some of us live in bodies who by their very demographic leave us particularly vulnerable to prejudice and even violence, like Ahmaud Arbery who was shot and killed during his regular daily jog this past February in what appears to be a racially motivated crime. These close-up experiences of uncertainty, fragility, and vulnerability have taught many not only the value of relationships with God and one another but the slippery nature of relying on anything else. Now, we all live in a time of vivid uncertainty, fragility, and vulnerability, conditions difficult to avoid in this pandemic. But if we allow them to, this uncertainty, fragility, and vulnerability can profoundly teach us what is real.
Today’s Jesus story sets us in the middle of Jesus’ long good-bye to the disciples after three years of ministry together. In the gospel of John, though Jesus references his upcoming crucifixion and death, as usual, the disciples don’t get it. They no doubt assume his glorious kingdom come will look like a political and even a military victory in a Roman occupied Israel. But just prior to today’s story from John 14, in John 13, Jesus washes the disciples’ feet and shares that one of them will betray him and that Peter will deny him. Immediately after, Jesus begins today’s story saying: ‘Do not let your hearts be troubled’ and then assures the disciples he is preparing dwelling places for them in the place where he too is going. Hearing of betrayal and denial from among their own ranks and of Jesus’ imminent death, the disciples face the uncertainty of their own and Jesus’ future, the fragility inherent in life, and the vulnerability of God’s kingdom come. Do not let your hearts be troubled? Jesus’ words seem almost comical. What could possibly soothe troubled hearts now?
When Jesus references the dwelling places he will prepare for them, he is not necessarily talking about heaven or a physical place. Rather, the root Greek word used here is meno which means “remain” or “abide,” a verb used many times in the gospel of John. The dwelling place to which the disciples will find their way is a relationship with God, and a “way” there is a relationship with Jesus.
Almost three years ago, I embarked on a journey to Iowa for sabbatical. The middle of the first day, I dropped off Richard, who is now my spouse, in Colorado with his bike and continued on my way. For a month, I visited old friends from childhood, college, and seminary. I sat for hours in a screened Iowa porch and wrote liturgy and about liturgy. Most days, I ate meals alone, biked alone, walked alone, wrote alone. I lived out of a suitcase. Don’t get me wrong: I was perfectly content, delighted to be back on the campus of my alma mater, reveling in the green grass, largely pollution-free air, and cool evenings. At the end of the month, I got back in my car and retraced my route through Colorado. In a small town near Durango, I picked up Richard with plans to hike at a national park. Together, we traveled to Utah, a place I had never been but is, I am convinced, the most gorgeous place on earth. You all need to go! It’s amazing! I had never been there before, and I was still living out of a suitcase. But I found myself at home, with Richard, at home with much laughter, lively conversation, and shared experiences. Like falling into a deep armchair at the end of a hard day or being transported back to a memory of love through a particular smell. Loving relationships include challenges for sure; this particular one for me includes much debate and discussion about an endless variety of topics and the occasional misunderstanding, miscommunication, or even disagreement. Despite that, loving relationships provide safe space to be who and how we are, a jumble of silly and serious, wise and foolish, tearful and joyous. We dwell in our most important relationships, or to borrow a cliché that in this case is true: Home is where the heart is.
Today, Jesus says: In my father’s house, there are many dwelling places. I go to prepare a place for you. Or in other words, there is a home for us in the love of God. A God who sees all of who we are and rejoices in us. A God from whom we cannot hide a thing and forgives us. A God on whom we may call at any time in prayer. A God present with us in every difficult and joyous moment. A God who comforts us in times of grief and challenges us through the Holy Spirit to use our gifts for the common good. A God whose love for us does not end. Not only that, through baptism and the life we share in Christian community, we are at home in our relationships with one another and all those who care for us tenderly in the jumble of our human experience. Even though life in the present moment is uncertain and fragile, and even though we may feel vulnerable, the relationship we have with God and the relationships we have with one another sustain us. Here and now, in this present moment, we love and are loved, and that is enough.
The crisis we have endured and will continue to endure—because dear friends, this is not over—this crisis might teach us what has always been true, what has always been real: that our relationships with God and one another are all we have, but, thanks be to God, they are enough! Amen.