Sermon: Called to come alongside (May 10, 2026)

Easter 6A
May 10, 2026
John 14:15-21

INTRODUCTION

In last week’s reading from Acts, the stoning of Stephen, I mentioned that St. Paul, then called Saul, was present, holding the coats of the people stoning Stephen. He’s come a long way since then: between that story and the one we will hear today, Saul has had a major conversion experience, and has gone from persecutor to promoter of the Church. He is traveling the known world, sharing the gospel and planting churches. Today we will find him before the Aereopagus, which is both a place and the name of the group, the council, that meets there. They are Greek, so they do not share Paul’s Jewish background, so Paul is instead trying to use their own poets and wisdom to convince them that Jesus is Lord. This was one of Paul’s exceptional skills, and he knew it: he could meet anyone exactly where they were, and bring them the gospel in ways they could understand.

Our Gospel reading takes us to the same place we were last week, Jesus’ last night with his disciples before his crucifixion. The sense of grief is increasing, and Jesus, now in the role of pastor and friend, knows it. So he speaks these comforting words to them, that they will not be left alone, that in his absence another “advocate,” as he calls it, will be with them. He is promising them the Holy Spirit, which we will see come upon them dramatically in a couple weeks on Pentecost like a wild rushing wind and tongues of fire. But this moment is more tender than dramatic, as Jesus speaks to their fears with great care and compassion.

Paul proclaims that we are God’s offspring. The Psalmist promises that God hears our prayers. 1st Peter assures us of God’s presence even when we suffer, and Jesus promises us we will not be left alone. As you listen, on this day when we celebrate those who care for us, hear in these texts the promise of God, our loving parent’s, enduring care for you. Let’s listen. 

[READ] 

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

We are now in the 6th Sunday of Easter, and every single week since Easter, I have either planned or officiated a funeral – four services so far, with another one in a few weeks. I really don’t mind doing funerals; in fact, I rather like them, because this is where the Church is at its best, proclaiming a word of hope and life to people with broken hearts who are hungry for such a word. 

The death of a loved one is of course one of the most profound experiences of loss we as humans endure. But loss in its various forms is something we endure, even on a daily basis. For example, many have the experience of losing an elderly parent to dementia, or losing your independence, or your passion for your job. Or losing a cherished relationship because of divorce, or someone moving away, or a breach of trust. Even loss that is necessary or ultimately leads to better things can be hard. For instance, marriage, or having children, are generally happy occasions, but they also lead to the loss of a previous way of life. We often say people fear change, but it is not so much change that people fear as it is the loss of something that is familiar to them. And in an ever-changing world, this happens all the time. 

Yet even though loss is a common experience to all people, we don’t always deal with it very well – either for ourselves, or with other people. We just want so badly to fix it and to make the pain go away. So, we gloss over our dis-ease with platitudes like, “It’ll be okay…” or, “She’s in heaven now…” or, “It’ll get easier.” Though well-intentioned, these easy fixes can sometimes do more harm than good, making us feel alone with our grief, no matter how big or small that grief may be. 

In today’s Gospel reading, Jesus’ disciples are also dealing with a very real grief and sense of loss, and Jesus knows it and responds to it. Last week he told them, “Do not let your hearts be troubled.” He’s told them he is going to prepare a place for them, and will bring them to himself. The disciples are beginning to grasp that all these things he’s been saying – they mean he is going to die. And that somehow in this he will be glorified, but they’re not really sure how. What they know for sure is that Jesus is leaving them – the man for whom they left everything, and on whom they have decided to stake their lives, is leaving them, all alone. Just imagine how they feel.

I would feel… scared, unsure of what happens next, about the future. I would feel angry that this apparently has to happen. I would feel lonely, knowing that this dear friend and teacher was leaving me with this bunch of betrayers and deniers. I would feel frantic, wanting to change the outcome if at all possible. Perhaps most of all, I would feel a deep longing – a longing for things not to have to change, a longing to hold onto this moment forever. 

Jesus seems to get that, because then he gives the disciples this wonderful promise: “I will not leave you orphaned.” Up until now, he has been their advocate, the one who, in the incarnation, came alongside them and literally walked with them. Now, he is leaving the world in body and does not want to leave them all alone, so he is sending another Advocate – the Spirit of truth. 

The Greek word translated here as “Advocate” is an interesting and dynamic one. The word is paracletos, literally translated, “one who comes alongside.” It is sometimes translated as “comforter,” “helper,” “companion,” “consoler,” or, “encourager.” All of this and more is what the Paraclete, the Holy Spirit, does for us. The Advocate comforts, helps, accompanies, consoles, and encourages. This gift from Jesus is what keeps us from being orphaned and alone in this world. When I think of the times in my life when I have felt some of those feelings I imagined before that the disciples feel, I know what a comfort this gift is. Companionship, encouragement, consolation – these are exactly what my aching hearts longs for in these times. 

So this is really good news for those of us who are aching with the pain of loss, the fear of abandonment, the anxiety and longing of uncertainty. And we should dwell in that promise and assurance just as long as we need to in order to find healing and something closer to wholeness. 

And, at the same time, the Spirit’s coming alongside us does not stop with how this benefits us; there is also a call in there. Remember back to the second Sunday of Easter, we heard the story of how Jesus came to the disciples in the upper room, and breathed his Spirit into them. And then in a couple of weeks, we will hear the story of Pentecost, how the Spirit comes and rests upon the whole Church. And in baptism, the Holy Spirit comes to each individual, drawing us into the Body of Christ and empowering us to act as Christ to our neighbor. So this Spirit, this Advocate, does not only come to help us. The Spirit of comfort and encouragement, of consolation and help is also in each of us, each member of the Body of Christ. So when Jesus tells his disciples, and us by extension, that he will not leave us orphaned, that he is sending an Advocate, a helper for us – he is also telling us that we are to be that helper, that advocate, for one another. 

How does that look in our church and in the world? How do we encourage one another? How to comfort one another? How do we advocate for one another?  How do we face the various losses that we each experience and not offer mere platitudes and dismiss the feelings, but truly offer love and care and comfort in its wake? 

There are as many ways as there are people! We can live out our Spirit-given identity by being willing simply to listen to one another, acknowledging that the feelings are valid and real without dismissing or trying to fix anything. We do it by being willing to hold one another in prayer even if we can’t exactly understand another person’s story. We can do it by literally advocating – standing up for the rights and well-being of those who are vulnerable, speaking truth to power like so many prophets have done throughout history, or by working for positive change that benefits those who endure so much more loss than we, in our comparatively comfortable lives can ever know. 

Such a call can seem impossible, or at least very difficult, I know. Yet all of this is possible because we can trust in Jesus’ promise to us that we will not be left orphaned and uncared for, but that in fact Jesus is with us, the Spirit is with us, now and forever – there to comfort and console, to help and encourage, to empower and advocate for us when we have any need. This promise gives us the strength and courage we need to be the advocates, helpers, and companions that are so needed in this world. 

Let us pray… Spirit of truth, you come alongside us when our hearts are heavy with grief and pain. Encourage and strengthen us by your coming alongside us, so that we could be your presence for those in this world who are in need of your care. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit Amen. 

What does it mean to "do it right"?

One part of ministry that pastors tend to like is officiating funerals. One blessing I find in doing funerals is that they often give me something to think about, because I have the opportunity to learn from people what they most valued about their deceased loved one - all those life lessons that "we'll never forget, Dad!" I had one such funeral recently, in which the lesson from Dad was, "Do something right, or don't do it at all." 

This was a valuable lesson to the speaker, and I can see why. It is a call to excellence, something I also value. But when I heard it, I bristled a bit. In fact, it made me sad.

I have been lucky to be pretty good at most things I try. I wasn't always top of the heap in my various activities, but I was always pretty good. This is a good thing, since I am an enneagram 1, "the perfectionist," who always looks for things to be a little better than they are. As an adult, for my own peace of mind and craving for contentment, I have had to undo this programing that requires things be done "right," and learn how to let "good enough" be sufficient. I have had to learn to seek joy over perfection. If I only ever did things "right," I would lose out on so many things I really enjoy doing! 

So what if we reframed it. What if doing things "right" means that they have brought about the desired result - which could simply be that they brought joy to the doer? 

For example, I will never be an excellent ukulele player. I appreciate an excellent player, and wish I could do that, too, but the reality is that I don't want to learn how to play an E chord because it hurts my hand. Finger picking frustrates me. I don't have any need to be much better than I am, a solid intermediate player. So I play simple songs that I like to sing with chords I know, occasionally learning (and then promptly forgetting) a new chord I need for this song only. I sometimes play chords badly, but not so badly that it makes me want to stop. And boy, do I enjoy it. It brings peace and delight to my heart. And when my fingers start to hurt, I stop. Done.

Or, I like to ride my bike. I'm not exactly sure how to ride a bike besides, you know, staying upright and a rudimentary knowledge of how gears work. That's enough for me. It allows me to ride around the neighborhood with my kids, maybe go to the store. It thrills me that I live in a neighborhood where I can get places by bike. I don't intend to enter any sort of distance racing activity. Riding my bike badly is enough to accomplish what I seek: it gets me outside, I get to move my body, and spend time with my kids, and I am reminded of the thrilled of riding bikes as a child as I fly down the street (at speeds that really aren't that fast). Purpose fulfilled.

What do you do badly, that brings you joy? What does it mean to you to "do it right"? 

Sermon: A place for troubled hearts (May 3, 2026)

Easter 5A – “A place for troubled hearts.”
May 3, 2026
John 14:1-14

INTRODUCTION

One sort of quirk about the Easter lectionary is that the first few weeks of Easter we hear stories of post-resurrection appearances, as you might expect, but then this 5th Sunday of Easter, we are brought back to Holy Week – specifically Maundy Thursday. Here’s what has happened right before this exchange: Jesus has washed the disciples’ feet and given them a “new commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you.” Judas has just left to betray Jesus. Peter has just sworn he will never leave Jesus, and Jesus tells him that in fact, Peter will deny three times even knowing him. And to top it off, Jesus has told them he’s leaving, and they can’t come with him. You can imagine, the room is thick with anxiety and fear. And we are invited in to be a part of this intimate moment.

Some context is helpful for our first reading as well, about the stoning of Stephen, the first Christian martyr. Stephen was a deacon, set apart with six others to bring food to widows. But then he was accused of preaching blasphemy, and sentenced to death by stoning. That’s the part we’ll hear today, and you may notice there are some similarities between his death and Jesus’ death: like he forgives his accusers, and he commits his spirit to God (quoting today’s Psalm). Also notice, there is a young man named Saul serving as a witness – that’s Saul, also known as Paul, yes, our Paul, St. Paul. This is his first appearance in Acts. He started as a persecutor of the church before being called as a missionary and church planter. God can use anyone for God’s purposes!

As you listen today, be aware of the state of your heart – is it anxious, fearful, joyful, wondering. How do these texts speak to your particular heart place? Let’s listen. [READ]

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Risen Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.

Last week and this, we are asking you to fill out a very quick assessment on congregational engagement. It’s nothing official, we’re just trying to get a snapshot of the congregation to guide us in the work of our council retreat this coming Saturday. Last week I sort of sprang it on you last minute, but here is some background: 

These 12 principles of engagement (which apply not only to churches but to non-profits more generally) came out of years of research by Gallup polling. You’ll notice that the principles listed don’t measure things like, “How often do you go to church,” or, “how many committees do you serve on.” Though many engaged members do these things as well, the research found that things like these were not the true indicators of engagement. Rather, indicators were things like, having meaningful and authentic relationships in the congregation, knowing your role in the congregation’s mission, and having your spiritual needs met and cared for. 

Last week, Deacon Emily talked in her sermon a bit about clarifying our mission and vision, such that members can better find our place in it and be excited about it. That is one of the key principles of engagement and a foundation of church growth, and as such, working with us on this is the particular ministry we have called her to do. 

This week, I’m especially interested in the principles about having spiritual needs met. I’ve had a couple of conversations with members about that this week, in which people expressed a desire to have a space to ask vulnerable questions, the sorts of questions that reveal that maybe you don’t have it all together. Questions that may reveal your doubts or concerns, or your ignorance about something, or even that leave space for what author Kate Bowler calls, “the ache of being human.” I believe, and both research and anecdotal evidence supports, that these vulnerable spaces are the places where people build and develop those authentic and meaningful relationships that so many of us crave. 

And in my experience, it is also where we meet God most profoundly, and where that life-giving relationship with the divine is best fed and deepened.

Usually, we think of having faith as being sure and confident in the power of God, and yes, I suppose at the end of the day (or at the End of Days), that is what it is all about: certainty in God’s promises. We can see glimpses of that in today’s Gospel reading in Jesus’ words, “Don’t you know that I go to prepare a place for you? I will take you there, so that where I am, there you may be also.” He tells the disciples and us that he is the Way, the Truth, and the Life. In him, we have everything we need for the abundant life that we heard about last week that he came to give us. It’s all great news, trustworthy, and true, and provides a lot of hope for both now and in the hereafter.

But in light of the conversations I’ve had this week about making space for questions, I find myself drawn not just to the certainty in the room, but to the anxiety. This room where the disciples are gathered with Jesus is an anxious place, full of worry and uncertainty about the future. They already taste a sort of grief that they cannot yet fully perceive. Jesus is leaving them, Peter, of all people, will deny him, Judas is who knows where – the anxiety is increasing by the moment, and Jesus clearly notices, for the next words he says are, “Do not let your hearts be troubled.” But their hearts are troubled! You can hear it in their questions. Thomas asks, “We don’t know where you are going – how can we know the way?” Philip asks, “Show us the Father, and then we will be satisfied.” You can hear their pain: we don’t have what we need, Lord. We don’t know what is happening. How can you tell our hearts not to be troubled, when there is so much going on that is extremely troubling! 

Ugh, that feels familiar, right? And so it is a great comfort to me that Jesus makes space for this. I have sometimes read Jesus’ words as dismissive of their concerns. “Oh, don’t worry. You know what to do! You’ve got this!” But when I read it through the lens of the longings of my own troubled heart, I see that Jesus is actually taking the time to hear their concerns, to leave space for them to ask their questions. To see them in their anxiety. And then yes, also to offer them comfort. But he doesn’t just say these comforting things and then say, “M-kay? You good then? Cool, cuz I’ve gotta get going to the garden to pray, get arrested, get crucified, and then change the world. Bye!” No. He doesn’t just rush away; he stays with them – for another four chapters! He stays with them in that place of uncertainty and questions, and guides them on this next phase of life, telling them how to live going forward, without him physically present with them. He promises that they will remain connected, like a vine and its branches, and that he will continue to be present with them in the form of his Spirit, the Comforter and Advocate, whom he will send in his name. He prays with and for them. He stays with them and their troubled hearts for four whole chapters! That’s as much time as John gives to Jesus’ entire passion, resurrection, and post-resurrection
combined! That’s significant! That’s how important it is!

So it would seem then, that making space not only for the certainty of faith, but also for the questions and wrestling of faith, are a part of what it means to be in Christian community. Seeing it play out here, in this most anxious of moments with the disciples, gives us the assurance that Jesus makes and is also present with us in that space of questioning and grappling and fear. 

Of course, acknowledging the reality of troubled hearts doesn’t mean that Jesus wants our hearts to stay that way! And so he also offers words of comfort, that begin with the simple command, “Believe in God, believe also in me.” In John’s theology, that word, believe, is not about intellectual agreement with a doctrine. It is about dwelling, abiding, with Jesus in relationship – a dynamic and ongoing relationship of trust that brings abundant life. So when Jesus says, “Believe in God, believe in me,” he is reminding them of this relationship, this trust and promise. It is as if to say, “You trust God. You trust me. And because that is true, you can bring your troubled hearts to this relationship, and know that I see you, and I love you, and though I am leaving you in body, I will not leave you in Spirit.” 

That is what makes it possible for us to endure through all the thoughts and realities that so trouble our hearts. That promise is what makes it possible for us to gather as Christian community and be honest about our anxiety and fear, and to be present with and for one another in it. It is because Jesus promises that none of our anxieties and questions and fears will ever block or sever us from our relationship with the Source of Life himself, the one who is the Way, the Truth and the Life, the one who will always draw us to himself.

Let us pray… Abiding God, so much in life troubles us. Be present with us and our troubled hearts. Assure us of your loving and enduring presence. And show us the way to deeper relationship with you. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.