A Sermon Delivered by The Rev. John D. Painter at Centenary United Methodist Church Metuchen, New Jersey April 27, 2008 (The Sixth Sunday of Easter)

Text: John 14:15-21
“If you love me, you will keep my commandments. And I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate, to be with you forever. This is the Spirit of truth, whom the world cannot receive, because it neither sees him nor knows him. You know him, because he abides with you, and he will be in you.

“I will not leave you orphaned; I am coming to you. In a little while the world will no longer see me, but you will see me; because I live, you also will live. On that day you will know that I am in my Father, and you in me, and I in you. They who have my commandments and keep them are those who love me; and those who love me will be loved by my Father, and I will love them and reveal myself to them.” —John 14:15-21, NRSV
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“I will not leave you orphaned; I am coming to you.” (John 14:18, NRSV)

It seemed to happen quite naturally. The faithful remnant of the small Bible Study group had gathered. It was our last evening together, and we were focusing on the final theme in our months-long study of the book of Ecclesiastes: “Life and Death.” As we re-read some of the most important passages, we were all becoming a little uncomfortable. Qoheleth (That is the Hebrew “name” of the book, and of its author. Though it is often translated as “Teacher” or “Preacher,” it more accurately means “Assembler,” or “One who assembles the people.”) has a decidedly pre-Christian view of death—no inclination toward any kind of life beyond the grave—but even more disturbing was what we perceived to be his rather “gloomy” view of death (not that it’s a particularly cheerful subject) as it relates to life. For example, Qoheleth says, “The living know that they will die, but the dead know nothing; they have no more reward, even the memory of them is lost. Their love and their hate and their envy have already perished; never again will they have any share in all that happens under the sun” (Ecclesiastes 9:5–6, NRSV). Or this cheer-filled “gem,” “For who knows what is good for mortals while they live the few days of their vain life, which they pass like a shadow? For who can tell them what will be after them under the sun?” (Ecclesiastes 6:12, NRSV).

Having bombarded ourselves with those and similar observations from the “Assembler” until it felt to me like a dark cloud covered the ceiling, we finally closed the book of Ecclesiastes and began talking about our own perceptions of life and death. Is it true, I asked, that even the memory of those who have gone before us is lost, as Qoheleth asserts? And that’s when it started. As if in deliberate defiance of the “gloomy Gus” we had just been reading from, some in the class started sharing their memories of those they knew and loved who had died. The memories were rich, the stories sometimes amusing, occasionally inspiring. And, maybe it had to do with it being the week before Mother’s Day that year, they seemed heavily weighted toward mothers. For most of us in the room, our mothers were gone from this earthly life. Some had died many years ago; a few only recently. But the memories were as fresh as yesterday. Take that, Qoheleth! We do remember, and it offers us a bittersweet joy.

It happened again a week later at another Bible Study. We weren’t looking at Ecclesiastes, but rather at the passage from the Gospel of John we just heard. I asked the group to reflect on the word “orphan,” and to describe what that word means to them, how it feels. There was an awkward silence—we seem to get those now and then when the questions are a bit closer to home—and then the words were spoken: “lonely;” “nobody to depend on;” “abandoned.” Those were some of them. Then one of the saints in the group pointed out that her translation of this passage had Jesus saying, “‘I will not leave you comfortless…’” She said she liked that better, as I recall. It gave her—comfort. And then we noted that just a few verses later (outside the purview of the verses we read this morning) Jesus said, “‘Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid’” (John 14:27, NRSV). “Peace:” shalom, wholeness, healing, comfort: A gift.

My mother died on February 1, 1993. My father followed her on November 13, 1993, just a little over nine months later. It was not long after my father’s death that a friend was talking with me and used the word “orphan” in the conversation. What bothered me was the realization that he was referring to me—that I was an “orphan” now that both my parents were “gone.” An orphan?! No way! In my mind, orphans were little kids who, like (Little Orphan) Annie and her parentless friends, languished in frightful orphanages overseen by the likes of Miss Hannigan, while they sang:

“It’s the hard-knock life!
Got no folks to speak of, so
It’s the hard-knock row we know.”
“It’s the hard-knock life for us!
No one cares a smidge
when you’re in an orphanage.”

I was 49 years old, for Pete’s sake (another euphemism?)! There was no way I was an orphan!
So much for my parochial, intellectual notions. The emotional reality struck home just a few days later. Hard as it was to accept that word and that concept, I really was an orphan in the strictest definition of the term. Toward the end of the fifth decade of my life, my parents were dead, long before I (or they) would have expected. The words that came forth from the good folk at that Bible Study suddenly seemed so very real and personal: “lonely;” “nobody to depend on;” “abandoned.”
The realization hit me hardest just before Mother’s Day fifteen years ago, when I was in the card shop and suddenly realized I didn’t “have to” purchase a card for my Mom. I almost wept right there in the aisle. The Thanksgiving and Christmas that followed—after Dad’s death—seemed strange without the usual phone calls to them in Florida. It hit me again three years later, when I joined with members of our Church choir at the time, and the Seton Hall University Touring Choir, to sing the Brahms’ Requiem . “Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord,” we sang. Words I have read or spoken hundreds of times, yet they brought tears to my eyes as I sang them anew, all the while saying, “Yes!” “Yes!” in my heart and mind. And then three years ago this month, with the death of my Aunt Reba—my father’s last sibling—and the passing this past year of Aunt Ruthie—the next-to-the-last of mother’s sisters—I realize this 64-year-old “orphan” is being increasingly thrust into the role of being the “senior” and “final” generation for my son, especially on his father’s side.
Many of you are blessed—your parents are still alive. Some are as close as a walk down the street (or to another room in the house—and for some of you here, just a glance across this Sanctuary or even in the seat next to you!); others are a short drive away; many at the other end of a long-distance phone call or a quick E-mail. Numerous others of us have experienced the death of one or both of our parents—several many years ago, others more recently, as the announcements in our bulletin and Lamplighter frequently bear witness. Yet, for all of us, there is a word of hope and promise.

“I will not leave you orphaned…” Jesus told his disciples and, through them, us. And true to his promise, he has not left us “orphaned” (or “comfortless,” or “desolate”—words also used in the translations of this phrase—or “lonely” or with “nobody to depend on,” or “abandoned.”). Quite the contrary, Jesus has left us with a “community,” a “support group,” a gathering of “friends”—even, if you will, a “family.”

At whatever age or stage it has come, our adoption by—and into—this family called Centenary Church has granted us a certain sense of identity, offered us a measure of direction and purpose, and, perhaps most important of all, given us a place—roots—in an increasingly nomadic, anonymous culture. Over the last few years the water bill here at Centenary had increased slightly because of a number of baptisms. We celebrated two baptisms just two weeks ago, and I believe there are a number more “waiting in the wings.” We have received the young children and others who have been brought before us for baptism as the newest members of this household, even as we have promised each time to “surround [them] with a community of love and forgiveness, that they may grow in their trust of God, and be found faithful in their service to others.” We have welcomed them “as members of the family of Christ.”

We are not “orphans” after all! For in his wisdom and grace, Christ has provided a household within which each of us has a place of importance and responsibility. He has given us a name, an identity, and a purpose. Like all good and “normal” families we will have our dysfunctional moments—moments of conflict and struggle about how our life together is going; moments of sadness, grief and concern as we experience losses and share one another’s burdens; moments of joy and affirmation as we welcome new children, new families, recognize and celebrate the achievements of members of the household and of the whole family; moments of quiet contemplation as we seek direction and strength for the tasks ahead.

Our household is at its best when it recognizes that Christ is its head; that he is the One who sets the agenda and calls us together to live out his commandments. “If you love me, you will keep my commandments” (John 14:15, NRSV) Jesus said to his disciples, as they sat at table and shared a final meal with him. And just what are his “commandments?” Quite simple, really, and yet they encompass everything we do and all that we are with and for one another:
• First, love God with all your heart and soul and mind and strength (with your whole being);
• Second, love your neighbor as you love yourself; and,
• Third, love one another as I have loved you.

There they are, the sum and substance at the heart of what it means to be members of this household of faith, this family, where the Spirit of Christ resides among us, and we are “orphans” no more.

Thanks be to you, O Christ, for this gift and for this challenge.

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PRAYER
God, who called the heavens and earth into being—show us how to love you today, heart, soul, mind and strength.
God who calls us into community—show us how to love our neighbor today.
God who calls each one beloved, and in whose image we are made—show us even how to love our own selves today. Amen.
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