Easter 5 2026

(John 14: 1-14)

There are moments in time, in history and in our own lives, when the ground seems to move beneath our feet. What once felt settled no longer feels firm. What once seemed clear begins to blur. And in those moments, the human heart does what it has always done: it reaches for something to hold.

We see it in those places around the world living with uncertainty. We see it in families facing change. And, if we are honest, we see it in ourselves—in that late night, silent battle with the mind— rehearsing what might happen, reaching for some measure of control over what has not yet come.

There is a story told of a pastor who once travelled to a small Greek island in the Aegean Sea. It was a place of remarkable beauty—clear water, open sky, a setting that suggested peace. And yet, almost as soon as he stepped off the ferry, he noticed something unusual. Everywhere he looked, people were holding strings of worry beads, turning them over and over in their hands.

Old and young. People standing along the beach or walking the narrow streets. Their fingers moved constantly, as if the motion itself might steady something within. Some held them loosely in one hand. Others use both hands, working them in opposite directions—more engaged, more absorbed.

And before long, the pastor found himself doing the same thing—standing in a shop, trying to decide which set of worry beads to take home, caught in the familiar tension of choosing, weighing up, deciding.

It does not take much.

Give us something uncertain, and we will try to manage it.
Give us something we cannot control—and we will hold on tighter still.

 

So let me ask you—what are you holding?

In today’s Gospel reading from John, Jesus speaks words we might be familiar with: “Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in me” (John 14:1).

Words spoken on the night before the crucifixion. Just moments earlier, Jesus has told his disciples that he is going away. Peter, trying to steady himself, insists that he will follow wherever Jesus goes. But Jesus answers plainly: “Where I am going, you cannot follow me now” (John 13:36).

They do not understand what is coming. But they can feel it. And it is into that moment—before anything is explained, before anything is resolved—that Jesus says: “Do not let your hearts be troubled.”

It is an extraordinary thing to say because nothing in their circumstances has changed. The uncertainty is still there. The loss is still coming. The questions remain unanswered.

And yet Jesus does not begin by explaining. He begins by calling them to trust.

That is where this Gospel meets us because most of us know what it is like to live with a troubled heart. We worry about what is coming. We replay what has already happened. We try to solve tomorrow before it arrives. We reach for control where there is none to be had.

Jesus speaks directly into that instinct. In the Sermon on the Mount, he says, “Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself” (Matthew 6:34). There is enough to face in a single day. When we reach ahead to carry tomorrow’s burdens today, we do not lighten the load—we increase it.

And still, even if we could contain our worry—limit it to what is in front of us—life eventually brings us to something deeper. There are moments that cannot be managed.

The early Church knew something of this as well. In the book of Acts, we hear of a community under strain—complaints, tensions, uncertainty about how to move forward and even that their lives are at risk. And yet, they do not unravel. They respond with clarity, with shared responsibility, with trust that God is still at work among them.

Which brings me back to the question. What are you holding?

Is it a future you are trying to control?
A past you cannot release?
A question that has no clear answer?
A fear that keeps returning, again and again?

We all have something.

And perhaps Jesus’ call to us today is not that we will suddenly stop holding—but that we will begin, slowly, to release the grip.

There is a story from the Second World War of a young girl who fled into hiding during the Nazi occupation of Warsaw. She found shelter in a cave outside the city. Alone, cut off from everything she knew, she lived there until the end of her life. Before she died, she scratched words into the wall of that cave:

“I believe in the sun, even when it is not shining.
I believe in love, even when I do not feel it.
I believe in God, even when He is silent.”

That is not certainty. That is trust. Not the absence of questions—but the decision to remain, even without answers.

And perhaps that is what Jesus is asking of us still. Not that we will understand everything. Not that the way will always be clear, but that we will loosen our grip.
That we will stop turning the things we hold over and over in our minds, hearts and hands.
That we will release what we were never meant to carry.

And then at last, do the simplest thing of all. Fold our hands together not in resignation, but in trust. Placing into God’s hands what we can no longer hold on our own—and leave it there.

Amen