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The Sixth Sunday Of Easter
O God, who hast prepared for those who love thee such good things as pass man's understanding: Pour into our hearts such love towards thee, that we, loving thee in all things and above all things, may obtain thy promises, which exceed all that we can desire; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who liveth and reigneth with thee and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.
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The Sixth Sunday Of Easter
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Scripture citation(s): John 14:23-29
A Sermon by
The Rev. Dr. Alison Turner
on
John 14:23-29
✛
Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you
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John 14: 23-29
Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.
Like many of you here I like to travel, and yet it seems that journeys these days are so often interrupted by anything ranging from a simple inconvenience, unfortunate delay or outright disaster.
Journeys too create a rush of adrenaline, that accompanies the coming and goings of any new or unfamiliar adventure, not to mention all the planning and preparation required in the lead up to the very journeys themselves.
What to pack? What to wear? Where to check in? What if I miss my connection? Both trivial and angst driven lists of questions and directions flow and too can be compounded when entering security with its multiple impersonal instructions about what you can and cannot do, can and cannot take with you. All of which seems remote from departures scenes, and the varied stories that brought travelers to that place, stories of where they are going and where they have been and are often readily observed in the range of emotions on show in the eyes of the lone traveler, the embrace of people leaving home, for the first time, moving away, saying goodbye.
The description of our Lord’s imminent departure, from what is commonly known as the final discourse and is nestled in our gospel reading this morning, pays little attention to detail regarding the story of emotion in the Upper Room, as the news of Jesus‘s death, and departure unfolds. Having been uprooted, having followed this man, having heard his death alluded to many times before he, Jesus, once again opens up their own wounds of fear, and their journey of grief begins. He is going, to leave them, for real.
This type of parting sounds like is no sweet sorrow, as we glimpse just a few of the disciples immediate questions which are most likely accompanied by a whirlwind of trivial and important questions that flow around the room. What? Why? How? Who? When? or Where will this happen? Alongside flash backs to milestone moments and memories as the time with the One who has taught them, healed them, encouraged, cajoled them, calmed their storms, led them up cloudy mountains, taken them to new shores, and is yet to depart.
Oftentimes at funerals the life of and one’s relationship with the person who has died is reflected in song. Some years ago my friend farewelled his mother with Judith Durham’s rendition of The Far Shore with its backdrop of grief and reminiscence of mountains climbed, storms they’d survived, waters they had crossed, and hope for the future. This somewhat mirrors the disciples onset of grief and Jesus’ offering of hope of meeting again, not knowing where or when, and also not one that is or wistful or fainthearted, but faithful and real.
I would imagine many of you have had an experience of grief that accompanies change, and the preparation for departure from a treasured place or time. Some of you, even with new opportunities on the horizon that are yet to greet you, may even be feeling some of this as we approach the end of term, with your last camp, evensong, and day of school. Many of us too have experienced grief in anticipation of a loved ones death, with its rush of questions, the urgency for answers, compounded by deep emotions and, uncertainty about the future. Each brings its own litany of lasts: Last suppers, last memories, last places, and last time conversations take root in the memory, in the soul, which often in hindsight, as we look back to these last experiences the very ordinary even taken for granted things, take on an extraordinary value and meaning. As experienced in the way so many people could recall the color of the sky or exactly where they were on 9/11 2001. Everything take on an exaggerated or extraordinary quality, through the lens of grief and when we realize it is the moment, the word, the meal was the last.
When my father was ill and it was time to depart and take my long journey home, I would often run back to him to hug him, even as an adult, knowing though without ever saying, this might be our last time together, I simply didn’t want to leave him, or bear to think of life without him. I can recall so many lasts with him, as if it was yesterday. It was as if there was a rallentando, a slowing down of time in particular during the last special days I had with him. Every moment mattered. In one of those parting moments, he quietly handed me a small gift, this small wooden box, (HOLD UP) containing a brooch, which remains one of least costly yet my most important treasures I own, it was inscribed, as a mizpah, a blessing or promise which said,
The Lord watch between me and thee when we are apart from one another.
This gift is of course just a thing, but remains a reminder, a symbol if you will, of a God given connection and love in which now, even after nearly 20 years since he died, we are never fully apart.
As the disciples were immersed in so many lasts with Jesus, the disciples were given, a symbol of his love not in the form of a trinket, or a thing that could be lost. They weren’t offered empty words, rather they were offered repeated words of comfort, words filled with a promise, filled with hope not abandonment, of reassurance not fear. A promise that they would not be left on your own to navigate all that seems unknown.
A gift offered to his disciples, and that is also offered to us today. A gift in the form of a promise that in the midst of everything that has changed and was to change, they were not alone. In the comings and goings of this life, when we are at crossroads or the departure gate, we are not alone. If life is dark, filled with a grudge, grief is rife, hope is gone, we are burdened by guilt, weighed down by sin, we are not alone.
Hear this promise proclaimed today, for them, for all of us.
I will send you the Holy Spirit, the Counselor, the Comforter, the Paraclete, the one who will come alongside you, enfold you, surprise you when light seems absent, who will let the love of God be heard when that seems far from true or real or even possible, when grief swamps the soul or wounds the heart of a community. Jesus says, I will bring you the gift of peace, shalom. A peace that’s is not simply in worldly terms as an absence of conflict, of noise or turmoil, or a well-meaning ideology, momentary or shallow personal sentiment, but a deep peace that is living, pro-active, creatively seeking forgiveness, reconciliation, and is woven through uncertainties and the comings and goings of all our lives.
As we anticipate Christ’s ascension into heaven, next week, when his awaited departure becomes a reality before the disciples’ eyes, we will be reminded afresh that this gift of peace is offered for us all to open, to pray upon, ponder and share.
As summarized in Peace, a sonnet by Malcolm Guite.
Not as the world gives, not the victor’s peace,
Not to be fought for, hard-won, or achieved,
Just grace and mercy, gratefully received:
An undeserved and unforeseen release,
As the cold chains of memory and wrath
Fall from our hearts before we are aware,
Their rusty locks all picked by patient prayer,
Till closed doors open, and we see a path
Descending from a source we cannot see;
A path that must be taken, hand in hand,
Only by those, forgiving and forgiven,
Who see their saviour in their enemy.
So reach for me. We’ll cross our broken land,
And make each other bridges back to Heaven.
