"I will not leave you occupied": Sermon for 21 May 2017

"I will not leave you occupied”

Sermon for Sunday 21 May 2017

Sixth Sunday of Easter

Lutheran Church of the Redeemer, Jerusalem

The Rev. Carrie Ballenger Smith

John 14:15-21

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

A few years ago, I was invited to preside at the wedding of a church member’s daughter. The service was to take place at the groom’s home congregation, in a town about an hour away. But as I drove up to the address and glanced at the church sign, I burst into a fit of inappropriate laughter. The sign itself was not the problem—it was quite tasteful. It didn’t carry any crazy political messages or cute sayings, as many American churches do. But I couldn’t help laughing because the church was called: “Holy Comforter Episcopal Church.”

Now, if this doesn’t strike you as funny, you should know that in American English, a “comforter” is a blanket. A bedspread. A fluffy duvet, used in cold weather.

I laughed even more when I said the church’s name out loud to myself, and imagined not a “holy comforter” but a “comforter with holes”, which might describe a good number of my favorite blankets. Quilts with stitches missing, cotton blankets with the silken edges unraveling, favorite fluffy things with holes from years of use.

This is what I was thinking about as I drove up to “Holy Comforter Episcopal Church”, and greeted a confused couple with tears in my eyes and cheeks red from laughing!

Now, my best friend, an Episcopal priest, patiently explained to me that this is a quite common name for churches in the Episcopal tradition. It comes from our Scripture reading today, in which Jesus says to the disciples: “And I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate, to be with you forever.”  The word translated in our reading today as “Advocate” is “paraclete” in Greek. “Paraclete” is a word that is basically untranslatable into English. “Comforter” is one attempt to capture its meaning. Other translations might be Counselor, Helper, Strengthener, or even “the one who runs to our side and helps us up.”

Given these options, I can see how “Holy Comforter” might be easier to fit on the church sign than “The Church of the One Who Runs to Help When We’ve Fallen and Can’t Get Up.”

Still, it seems to me that careful translation of this Greek word alone does not capture the essence of the Holy Spirit. How are we to understand the nature of the One who is coming to us after Jesus’ departure? Who is this helper, this counselor, this strengthener, this holy comforter who will be with us after Jesus is ascended into heaven?

As I read today’s Gospel lesson from the 14^th chapter of John, I find an important message about the nature of the Spirit not in the Greek word “paraclete” but in this phrase: “I will not leave you orphaned. I am coming to you.”

“I will not leave you orphaned. I am coming to you!” This message is part of Jesus’ Farewell Discourse from the night he was arrested. Gathered with his friends after supper, Jesus knew that after the crucifixion—and especially after his Ascension into heaven—the disciples would be asking themselves, “Now who will lead us? Who will guide us? Who will love us?”

He knew his followers would feel lost, like children without parents.

He knew they would wonder who they were!

He knew they would wonder to whom they belonged.

Now, I don’t know what it feels like to be orphaned. Both of my parents, thanks be to God, are still alive and well. I can no more speak about being an orphan than I can speak to you about what it is to be a man, or a brain surgeon, or Ivanka Trump. These are foreign realities, not part of my experience of the world.

But I do know a little about what it means to lose one’s identity and sense of belonging.

As many of you know, a few months ago, on a Saturday evening, I was robbed on Nablus Road. The thief took the bag containing my passport, driver’s license, credit cards, keys, important medicine, and (very tragically) my old-school, paper, weekly calendar. I felt devastated, and violated, and lost. It felt like the thief took everything that grounded me here in Jerusalem.

Of course, the things taken were just things, and things can be replaced. But my feelings of being lost only increased when I visited Jerusalem’s US Consulate office to apply for a new passport. 

“We need to see some form of identification,” they said.

“Well, it was all stolen,” I told them.

“Still, we can’t just give you a passport without proof of who you are,” they told me.

“But…it was all in that bag!” I said again.

It went around like this for a little while, until I started to think, “What if they don’t give me a passport? Where will I go? What will I do? How will I prove who I am?”

We worked it out eventually, but it was still a few weeks before the new passport arrived. And in the meantime, I couldn’t go anywhere. I couldn’t cross any checkpoints. I certainly couldn’t leave the country. I was even nervous to walk outside of my normal routes in the Old City, afraid that a soldier would ask to see identification. And what would I say? “Just trust me, officer. I belong here.”

I doubted I could say, “It’s ok, my Jesus will not leave me orphaned! He is coming to me!”

During this time, I became a little obsessed with the plight of others who possess no identification, no passport, no state. I didn’t have to look very far. In my church office alone, my co-workers possess multiple kinds of IDs and permissions: West Bank IDs, Jerusalem IDs, refugee cards, Jordanian passports, Laissez passer. The ability to travel, to come to work, and to receive medical care is wholly dependent on what these papers say, and whether one can obtain them. Identity, and belonging, are all determined by a worker in a government office, and even by the actions (or inactions) of the international community.

When I told co-workers about my passport plight, they were of course angry and concerned for me. But there was something else, too. A few of them said to me, with a twinkle in their eyes: “Now you will understand how it feels to be Palestinian.”

Awhile back there was a movie starring Tom Hanks called “The Terminal”, about a man who lives in an airport for nine months because his passport is no longer valid, and he lacks permission to enter any country. I remember not actually liking this movie, to tell you the truth, but I thought it might be a good metaphor for this sermon—until I learned it wasn’t a metaphor at all. This movie was based on the life story of Mehran Nasseri, an Iranian refugee who lived for eighteen years in the Paris Charles de Gaulle airport after being denied entry to any country. Eighteen years, in an airport terminal! Can you imagine?

Eighteen years with no place to call home.

No papers.

No permissions.

No helper, no counselor, no advocate.

No comforter.

Belonging nowhere, and to no one.

This is the feeling—this airport terminal, lost in-between feeling—is the feeling Jesus was addressing when he said to the disciples, on the night of his arrest, “I will not leave you orphaned. I am coming to you.”

This is the feeling I can only imagine the many thousands of refugees feel as they place their families in boats and set off from violent shores, hoping for someone, somewhere, to receive them and give them a place to belong.

This is the feeling we may have when we see the state of the world today. As Christians, how do we find our place in the midst of war, injustice, terror, fascism, occupation, human cruelty, and violence committed in the name of God? Do we even belong in this world? Where is Jesus when we need him?

Hear again the words of Jesus, who says to every believer: I will not leave you orphaned, I am coming to you.

The God of Creation, the One who loves us enough to be born among us and to walk among us, does not abandon us.

The God of the cross, who loves us enough to suffer with us and for us, does not forget us.

The God of the empty tomb, who loves us enough to break through stones and walls even of our own making, does not leave us alone.

The God we have come to know through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ does not leave us orphaned, but comes to us as Spirit.

The Spirit comes to us as Holy Comforter, wrapping us in perfect love.

She comes to us as Advocate, standing with us and for us, in the face of every power and principality.

She comes to us mother. As father. As our heritage and our future.

The Spirit gives us a name, an identity, and a promise.

The Spirit of God is our identity card, our passport, and our laissez passer.

Thanks be to God, this Advocate Jesus has promised gives us not only the permission but the power—and therefore the responsibility—to move, to speak, and to act for the sake of the Gospel in this broken world.

But dear friends in Christ, do not worry if others don’t recognize that permission.

Do not be surprised when others challenge your God-given passport to prophesy against injustice, or question the power of the Spirit given to you in baptism. For Jesus said to the disciples:

“The One Jesus is sending 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!”

And as it is written in our reading from 1 Peter chapter 3 this morning:

“Always be ready to make your defense to anyone who demands from you an accounting for the hope that is in you; yet do it with gentleness and reverence. Keep your conscience clear, so that, when you are maligned, those who abuse you for your good conduct in Christ may be put to shame.”

Dear sisters and brothers in Christ, do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not be afraid—even when others falsely identify you as refugee, foreigner, illegal, inappropriate, outsider, outcast, or occupied.

Hear again the Good News! Jesus said:

I will not leave you without a name.

I will not leave you without a place to call home.

I will not leave you without an inheritance.

I will not leave you without a future.

I will not leave you without somewhere to visit for Christmas.

I will not leave you without someone to attend your graduation.

I will not leave you a refugee.

I will not leave you homeless.

I will not leave you stateless.

I will not leave you occupied.

I will not leave you orphaned. I am coming to you!

For lo, I am with you always, to the end of the age.

May the peace of God which passes all understanding keep your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus. Amen.

Jerusalem, 21 May 2017