Sixth Sunday of Easter

I will not leave you orphans; I will come to you.

In the Gospel today, we hear Jesus’ words from the Last Supper Discourse, what he says to his closest disciples the night before his Passion, sharing the secret, the meaning of everything he has done and soon will do.

What was the point? Who are you, Jesus, and why did you come? Imagine the apostles, after the Resurrection, thinking back upon these words. Before: partial glimpses, intimations. In the moment of trial, they missed it. Now, it comes into view again.

We, too, have our partial glimpses. But as soon as we get close, the answer slips away. We long for an answer, but rather than trusting God’s way, we take what the world gives. And soon find out: it isn’t what we wanted. It isn’t what we needed.

Or maybe the obstacle isn’t so extraordinary. Another Sunday, trying to get everyone ready on time. Burnt toast; a fight between the children; last-second laundry; thinking where you have to run off to right after Mass. Or perhaps a sadness you haven’t been able to shake.

And so the Readings cascade over you like water on a windshield, as you stop, try to settle down, and listen.

And the homilist tells you these are the most important words ever said? (Right as your child starts pulling your hair and spills their drink. Or right as you drift off, staring at stained glass.)

It’s the alluring tug of the world and the flesh, but also the mundane, quotidian facts of life, the numbing power of routine. How effective can it ever be, to stand up there and just say: these words are the answer you’ve been looking for your whole life?

But maybe that’s the wrong expectation. Maybe these words are the slow drip, the ritual habituation, the slow tilling of the soil, patiently disposing us to the unexpected timing of the Holy Spirit.

The great secret Jesus has been building up to, the whole point of his mission. What Advent and Christmas and Lent and Holy Week and the Easter season have all pointed toward: the Ascension, Pentecost, the Holy Trinity, Corpus Christi, the Sacred Heart.

Surely you’ve heard it before. But suddenly, a piercing light hits you, a movement of grace. And you hear it again as if for the first time:

Whoever loves me will be loved by my Father, and I will love him and reveal myself to him.

As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you.

On that day you will realize that I am in my Father and you are in me and I in you.

It might hit you in a moment of desperation, when a fellow Christian comforts you, not for any gain, but because of the love of God, when you realize that you too are beloved.

It might be some overwhelming beauty, when you realize the Lord prepared this moment from eternity, composed this, for you.

It might be when a familiar prayer hits you with unexpected force, when you realize that the Mother whom Jesus gave you, every time you fled to her protection, implored her help, and sought her intercession, never left you unaided.

It might be when you choose to help someone who has hurt you, and despite their offenses, despite their wounds, you see the good within, when you realize in that moment: this is how the Father sees you.

Or it might be some particular Mass, when you realize that these words reveal a love greater than anything the world could know, when suddenly you hear them again as if for the first time:

Take this, and eat of it; this is my body, which will be given up for you.

Some spiritual writers call it a signal grace. Others, a consolation without previous cause. Either way, there’s no doubting it when it comes: the Gift of the Holy Spirit.

As Jesus says: On that day you will realize that I am in my Father and you are in me and I in you.

You can’t produce it. It’s pure gift. But you can prepare for it, to take it and run with it when it comes.

Jesus says: Whoever loves me will keep my word, and my Father will love him and we will come to him.

Years ago, a Protestant pastor I knew kept a sign on his door I’ve never forgotten: Expect a miracle.

I think this is the best we can do. Keeping his word. To not despair, to keep coming, keep listening, keep remembering. Awaiting that gift from on high. Expecting a miracle. Believing what Jesus says:

I will not leave you orphans; I will come to you.