May 14, 2023 + Sixth Sunday of Easter + John 14:15-21
Do you ever miss someone so much that it is an ache deep within you?
We talk freely about backaches, stomachaches, toothaches, headaches. Aches and pains.
But there is another kind of ache. The ache of grief. The ache of loss. The ache of longing. The ache of love.
Sometimes we feel this ache at holidays, or on Mother’s Day or Father’s Day. We may miss a parent or a loved one so much that it feels overwhelming. Some of us grieve what the relationship wasn’t and the regrets or wounds we carry. For those adopted, there is another kind of ache, a longing to know their birth parents and mixed feelings to work through. And of course, when we lose both parents—at a young age, an old age, or in between—we become orphans. Even if our parents are alive, if they reject or abandon us, we may also feel like orphans, adrift. Without a safe home both without and within.
Reminds me of the African American spiritual: Sometimes I feel like a motherless child. Amid slave auctions, imagine the pain, the despair, the ache of children being torn from the parents.
There is a deep ache in the so-called farewell discourse in John’s gospel. The disciples wonder how they will go on without Jesus. Yet Jesus assures them that he will not leave them orphaned. He will not leave them comfortless. He will not abandon them.
Jesus promises to be with them—to be with us—through the Holy Spirit. In the early church, Christians often referred to the entire fifty days of Easter as “Pentecost.” We sometimes relegate hymns about the Holy Spirit to the Day of Pentecost (in two weeks). But the Holy Spirit is the major character in today’s gospel, and our hymns and prayers are full of Spirit language. These days before Pentecost correspond to the human longing for God’s presence especially when God seems absent. We plead: Come, Holy Spirit.
Have you ever thought about the Holy Spirit as God’s presence with us amid our deep ache for God, our deep longing for more in life, our deep yearning for wholeness and beauty?
I will not leave you orphaned, Jesus promises. I will send the Advocate to be with you forever. Another word for Advocate is the word Paraclete—not parakeet—Paraclete, that we sometimes have in hymns. In our Chicagoland area we know of the Advocate healthcare system. An Advocate is called to one’s side as a source of help: in the court system, in an educational institution, or to press the legislature to act on behalf of a certain cause.
Amid life’s aches, the Holy Spirit is Paraclete, Advocate, Comforter. The head of a major philanthropic foundation said that he views his role as encourager. And oh, how we need encouragement—from one another and from God. The Greek noun paraclete could be translated as “exhort,” “comfort,” “entreat,” “advocate,” “counsel,” “encourage.”2
In our aches, what we long for is encouragement. A sense of belonging. The assurance that we will be okay.
Surprisingly, one of the greats aches of our times is loneliness. Who would have thought after the explosion of social media over a decade ago, we feel more alienated and disconnected to each other.
The surgeon general under Barack Obama wrote that the most common pathology he noticed in his years caring for patients was not heart disease or diabetes, but loneliness. One politician states that he believes the root of our conflicted, polarized politics is loneliness.1
This past week I watched an achingly beautiful and moving movie called “The Quiet Girl.” The movie was Ireland’s Oscar entry for best International Feature. Cáit is a cautious, quiet, and wary nine-year old girl. Her parents neglect and ignore her. Cáit’s pregnant mother is distracted and overwhelmed by her other children. Cáit’s drunken father is impatient and absent. So Cáit makes herself as small as possible by hiding under her bed after wetting it during the night. She escapes from school where she is a slow reader and considered a “weirdo” by classmates. We only imagine the deep lonely ache within her.
Cáit’s parents send her away for the summer to stay with some relatives. The childless couple in their fifties see Cáit and her whole being changes. Eibhlín radiates motherly care. There is comfort and acceptance in her eyes as she provides hospitality, combs Cáit’s hair, bathes her, showers her with acceptance. Cáit receives what her parents do not give her and her life is transformed. But early on we sense an ache as well in what appears to be a childless couple. We notice that there seems to children’s clothing in the house. And wallpaper with trains. A mystery revealed later in the movie.
Susan Cain writes of the ache that binds us together. Her recent book, one of my all-time favorites, is called Bittersweet: How Sorrow and Longing Make us Whole. Cain describes this ache as not quite sadness. More like longing. Something that binds us—connects us—to the human experience. And invites us on the path of creativity, connection, and transcendence.
For us, we may use religious language to describe this part of being human. We are God’s offspring, we heard in Acts. In Paul’s famous speech to the Athenians, he says: “In God, we live and move and have our being.” Whatever we call this mystery, and however different religions name God or a higher power, it is the source of all that is good, all that is beautiful, all that is just. All that connects us to life itself. All that connect us to one another.
In whatever spiritual ache you carry these days. Whatever loneliness or hurt or sadness. Hear Jesus’ words: I will not leave you orphaned. I am coming to you. In your deepest yearning, I will abide in you and you in me.
The risen and wounded Christ stands among us with this day. As a mother. As a father. As a lover. As a friend. As a companion on our journey. Come, Holy Spirit! Come down, O love divine.
1Andy Crouch. The Life We’re Looking For: Reclaiming Relationships in a Technological World. New York: Convergent, 2022.
2Barbara Rossing. New Proclamation preaching essays. Sundaysandseasons.com
3Susan Cain. Bittersweet: How Sorrow and Longing Make Us Whole. New York: Crown, 2022.