Sermon: Being the Comforter through loss (May 25, 2014, Easter 6A)

Easter 6a

May 25, 2014

John 14:15-21

Alleluia! Christ is risen! Christ is risen indeed! Alleluia!

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

            Memorial Day weekend. When we think of Memorial Day, the words that immediately come to mind are: three-day weekend, big sales, BBQ, camping, the start of summer. All very positive things! It’s finally warmer outside, we can pull out our grills and our shorts. Memorial Day is cause for celebration!

            Of course, that’s not really what Memorial Day is all about, not at all. It began after the Civil War, and was then called “Decoration Day.” It was a way to honor and remember all those who had been lost in the Civil War. By the 20^th century, it had been expanded to include remembrance of all those who have been lost to war – and in the history of America, there have been many, too many. As we come to understand the far-reaching effects of war on those who are involved, we might even expand it to include not only those who have lost their physical lives to war, but all those who have lost anything to war – a limb, perhaps, or those who came back with a severe brain injury, or Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, or who found the only way to deal with their post-war lives was to drown them in alcohol. There are so many ways that war causes loss, both for those who have fought, and for those who love them.

            Loss is such a difficult thing to endure – and not just the loss from war, but any kind that we may experience: 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 terribly difficult in the moment. Marriage, or having children, for example, lead to the loss of previous way of life. Indeed, 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 deal with it very well – either for ourselves, or with other people. I suppose we have trouble with it because we are such an optimistic society, but also  everybody deals with loss differently, so we’re not sure how to approach someone else because we don’t know their particular story or experience. 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. Just get back to your normal life as soon as you can.” Though well-intentioned, these easy-fixes often do more harm than good, and so we often are left to deal alone with our grief, no matter how big or small that grief may be.

            Every now and then, the lectionary text appointed for the day and whatever is going on culturally coincide in a really helpful way, and this is one of those weeks. For Jesus’ disciples are also

dealing with a very real grief and sense of loss, and Jesus knows it and responds to it. Today’s Gospel text comes from Jesus’ words to the disciples on Maundy Thursday, the night he was betrayed, and the night before he would die. Just imagine for a moment what it might be like there in that room on that night. Imagine you are one of Jesus’ disciples, and, having given up everything, you have been following him and learning from him for three years. Now imagine he has just told you, “One of you will betray me,” and, “Peter will deny me,” and, “I am going away to prepare a place for you in my Father’s house.” By now they are beginning to understand 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 sure how. All they know is that he is leaving them – the man they have decided to stake their lives on is leaving them, all alone. 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 comes alongside them and walks with them, but now he does not want to leave them all alone in the world, so he is sending another Advocate – the Holy Spirit.

            Let’s dwell on that for a moment. The word in Greek that is translated to “Advocate” is paracletos, and is also sometimes translated as “comforter,” “helper,” “consoler,” or, “encourager.” All of this and more is what the Paraclete, the Holy Spirit, does for us. This is the work of the Advocate that Jesus sends when he leaves earth, the work of the one who keeps us from being orphaned and alone in this world: it is to comfort, to help, to console, and to encourage.

            What’s more is that this is the same Spirit that came down onto Jesus at his baptism, and that comes into each of us at our baptism. That is to say, that the Spirit of comfort and encouragement, of consolation and help is in 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, to one another.

            So the question becomes: how does that look in our church? 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 it, but truly offer love and care and comfort in its wake?

            I think there are several ways that this happens. We can live out our Spirit-given identity by being willing to simply listen to one another, without trying to fix anything. We can do it by being willing to acknowledge that loss – our own and others’ – is real and valid even if it seems small and insignificant. We do it by being willing to hold one another in prayer even if we can’t exactly understand another person’s story.

            And above all, we do it by trusting 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 advocate for us when we have any need.

            As I close this sermon in prayer today, I invite you to consider your own losses, whatever is weighing on you this day. I will leave a space for you to speak those losses aloud, if you like, or to just hold them silently in your heart. And we will pray for and comfort one another in this way, starting here and now. Let us pray…

            God our Advocate, even though we sometimes pretend everything is fine, our hearts are often heavy with the losses we endure. We lift up those losses to you now… Take and hold these, Holy Spirit, and comfort us in whatever grief we may be feeling, and help us to be Spirit-filled comforters for one another, being your Body in the world. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.