As I sit with Sunday’s passage, John 14:1–14, I notice these poignant lines that speak to the existential ache and beauty of being human: “Don’t let your hearts be troubled.” “I go and prepare a place for you.” “I will come back and take you to be with me.” “How can we know the way?”
Jesus had been the disciples’ home base for three years before he spoke these words on the eve of his murder. Drawn by a deep desire to be with him, the disciples had given up their homes, their vocations, and their communities to follow him into the wilderness. They’d slept around campfires, stayed in strangers’ homes, and moved from town to town, embracing a lifestyle that was unstable, unpredictable, and uncertain. While even foxes have dens and birds have nests, these disciples had no place to call home except the presence of Jesus himself. Jesus had become their primary attachment figure, their certainty in the midst of all the uncertainty.
After three years, Jesus was going to die. Change was upon them. There would be no going back to the life they had led before him.
What, in our contemporary life circumstances, might plunge us into the level of uncertainty that would soon befall the disciples? How might Jesus, the risen Christ, be with us in these moments?
I think of the monumental loss of a life partner, either through death or the breakdown of a relationship. I think of the death of a child. I think of the trauma of being betrayed by someone you love, or having to relocate your family to make ends meet. I think of our refugee neighbors who have lost their homes.
There is an intense uncertainty and ache when home, whatever that word means to you, is taken away. When that person or place that gives you a sense of belonging, security, and attachment is gone, we feel bereft, abandoned, afraid. How will I get through this? Will there ever be a place where I feel at home again?
Maybe you have lived through this kind of uncertainty in your life. Maybe you are doing so now.
This passage is usually understood as a reference to life after death. And yes, there is a beautiful promise here. One day, each of us will die. On that day, we will let go of everything we’ve known to be home — all the people, places, and things we have ever loved, that have ever meant home. In that letting go, Jesus says, do not let your hearts be troubled by the uncertainty of what you do not yet know. Because when you cross over from death to life, I will be there, waiting for you. I am preparing a room of your very own in God’s house. I will come and get you and bring you there. Finally, you will be home. In my presence, the fulfillment of your deepest desire is as inevitable as your own death. This is a huge comfort.
But I don’t think the comfort of this passage is only meant for the uncertainty of death. I think it speaks into the uncertainty of life too. I believe that Jesus is with us in the present and also waiting for us in the future, preparing places for us in a future we do not yet know.
In this passage, I hear Jesus speaking words of assurance into our uncertainty too: when change happens, and the ground lurches beneath your feet, and everything feels destabilized, Jesus says, “Don’t let your hearts be troubled. I am going ahead of you into the future to prepare a place for you.” Like Johnny Appleseed, he is sowing seeds into the soil of the future so that, when we get there, there are apples waiting for us to eat.
Is it sound to trust that Jesus goes before us into the future? Is it safe to believe that one day we will feel at home in our skin again?
I believe so. I have experienced it too many times not to believe.
Blessings, Anne