Homily – 5th Sunday of Easter (A)
John 14: 1-12
I wonder if you can remember how it felt the first time you fell head over heels in love? Dredging
deep into my own memory, since it is a few years ago now even for me, I seem to remember it being
an amazing but quite confusing feeling – alternating between deep, almost nauseating excitement at
being together and a terrible, dreadful anxiety that something would go wrong and the relationship
might not last. Every waking moment seemed to be filled with plans for what to do next together, or
happily recalling experiences already shared. But what seemed strangest was the effect it had on
time. Hours spent together seemed to whistle past in seconds – and an hour spent apart seemed to
drag on for what felt like a century, no matter how many important things there were to do. In
short, when we were together, I felt whole, and – in a funny sort of way – invincible (though in
reality, I was (and still am) often tongue-tied and a bit goofy). When we were apart, I felt out of
sorts, that something was missing, rather empty.
Now you may well be wondering why I mention this, but what brought this “personal history” to
mind was reading today’s gospel passage from St John. It is an important passage; it marks a
transition in the gospel passages for Eastertide, a transition which first occurred last Friday (that is,
two full weeks before the traditional feast of the Ascension). From this point onwards, all the gospel
readings are taken from cc. 14-17 of John’s gospel – often called the “Farewell Discourse”, set at the
Last Supper. At the close of c.13, after washing his disciples’ feet, the departure of Judas and Jesus’
prediction of Peter’s betrayal, Jesus begins a long passage of teaching for his friends, of which
today’s pericope is the introduction.
I have often been struck by passages from this section of John. They are very familiar, and often used
in liturgical celebrations. For example, part of today’s reading is set for the Reception of a Body at
funerals – so I have heard it read in the cloister of our monastery nearly fifty times since I joined the
community. Equally, I think nearly every wedding I have ever celebrated has used John 15, the next
chapter, as one of its texts. But what struck me most powerfully this time were those words of Jesus
at the beginning: I shall return to take you with me, so that where I am, you may be too. This is not
the only time Jesus has used words like these to his disciples. A little earlier, in c.12, just after the
parable of the wheat grain which, dying, bears fruit in abundance, he says: If anyone serves me, he
must follow me; and where I am, there shall my servant be also; if anyone serves me, my Father will
honour him (Jn.12:26). What struck me, though, is the difference in tone. In that earlier passage,
speaking openly in public, the tone is general, inclusive, universal. In the Upper Room, however,
Jesus’ tone is completely different – it is intimate, close, personal. To each of his friends, he says I
want you to be with me... I want you to be where I am. It is as if he were saying to each of them: I
cannot bear to be separated from you.
Two things make this all the more remarkable. The first is that this discourse comes at the Last
Supper, just before his betrayal, passion and death. John makes it abundantly clear that Jesus was
fully aware of what was coming, of just how things were about to unfold. One might have thought
that his mind would have been on other things, that he might have been too distracted to think of
anyone except himself. Instead, he gives the clearest indication imaginable that – despite the
circumstances – it is his love for his friends that is paramount, his longing that they should be with
him that is at the forefront of his mind. The second point is similar since, in a way, it gives us the
source of that love and that longing – that is in Jesus’ own relationship of intimacy with his Father.
Not once but twice he makes the extraordinary statement: I am in the Father, and the Father is in me
– and adds also: it is the Father, living in me, who is doing this work. Without that core relationship
of love between Jesus and the Father, nothing would be possible. Perhaps more amazingly, it is that
same intimacy and love that Jesus promises to the Eleven – that they may be with him in that same
relationship he has with the Father. And of course, Jesus’ words are not just for the Eleven. He
speaks those same words today to each and every one of us, just as surely as he did to Peter or
Philip or Thomas: so that where I am, you may be too – because the Father and I cannot bear to be
separated from you.
I hope it’s clear by now why I started this homily where I did – reflecting on my first experience of
being overwhelmed by love. Perhaps we can sometimes be too shy of comparing our own human
experience of love with God’s love, with that love we know Christ showed in his life, Passion, and
Death. Perhaps we are all too aware of our mixed motives in loving, some good, some bad, some
utterly centred on the other, some only on ourselves. Indeed, I can remember very clearly having to
learn the distinctions between eros, philia and agape in one of the first RE classes at school – with
the very strong subtext that a proper Christian should make do with agape, and certainly have no
truck with eros. I think that is wrong. There is certainly truth in those distinctions, and there can
certainly be dangers if we love only selfishly. But speaking personally, my experience has been that –
even when there is no “romantic attachment”, and certainly no physical content at all in a
relationship – it is when I have been most overwhelmed with love or concern or service of others, at
those times when my whole heart and mind have been wrapped up in their hopes, their dreams,
their fears, their sorrows and not in my own, that Christ has felt most present with me, and that the
Father has let his face shine through most clearly. Perhaps you too have felt the same. It is as though
our limited human loving is a gateway, an icon, perhaps even a sacrament of the divine love which
God has lavished upon us.
I know there is nothing startlingly novel in all of this, but perhaps there is no harm in that. Our
Eastertide celebrations each year give us the time to reflect anew on the mystery of the new life we
share in Christ, on the mystery of what he has done for us. So often, I think, we think of the new life
of Easter as something we will inherit only after death – it is something for tomorrow and not today.
Yet Jesus calls us already to share this new life, this love, calls us already to share in that mystery of
divine intimacy which we celebrate at each and every Mass, in every communion. His command to
us is simple: Love one another, as I have loved you (Jn. 15:12) – and the means to fulfilling that
commandment are also his gift: We love because he first loved us (1.Jn 4:19). Perhaps today, then,
we should each find the time to ponder this deeply, we should prepare ourselves to take the risk of
being overwhelmed by Christ’s love, take the risk of being “turned inside out” by his love – just as we
risked all when we first experienced human love. His gift to us each Easter is no less than everything
– how can we repay him with anything less?
16.5.14