John 14:1–14

14 “Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe[a] in God; believe also in me. 2 In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you?[b] 3 And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, so that where I am, there you may be also. 4 And you know the way to the place where I am going.”[c] 5 Thomas said to him, “Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?” 6 Jesus said to him, “I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me. 7 If you know me, you will know[d] my Father also. From now on you do know him and have seen him.”

8 Philip said to him, “Lord, show us the Father, and we will be satisfied.” 9 Jesus said to him, “Have I been with you all this time, Philip, and you still do not know me? Whoever has seen me has seen the Father. How can you say, ‘Show us the Father’? 10 Do you not believe that I am in the Father and the Father is in me? The words that I say to you I do not speak on my own, but the Father who dwells in me does his works. 11 Believe me that I am in the Father and the Father is in me, but if you do not, then believe[e] because of the works themselves. 12 Very truly, I tell you, the one who believes in me will also do the works that I do and, in fact, will do greater works than these, because I am going to the Father. 13 I will do whatever you ask in my name, so that the Father may be glorified in the Son. 14 If in my name you ask me[f] for anything, I will do it.

How do you respond when someone tells you not to worry? Does it help? It can sound a little judgmental. At Monday Bible study our favorite response was, “That’s easy for you to say.” What does “don’t worry” really mean? “I’m sure everything will work out, though I have done no research.” Or: “Let’s skip ahead to the part where you’re fine.” Or: “Your anxiety is making me uncomfortable.” Before you tell me everything will be fine, I want to know, have you been paying attention?

We would all like the current uproar to be over. The political commercials are so sinister sounding this year that I look forward to watching fabric softener ads. I’m tired of texts telling me the fate of civilization rests on my $3 contribution. Our fall landscape is so cluttered with political signs that I fear I may accidentally vote for a real estate agent. But will it simply end next Tuesday?

The ads will stop. The anxiety has deeper roots. Writing in the New York Times about unrest across Europe, Anton Jäger describes young people losing confidence that the future holds a place for them. You can get an education, work hard, do everything right—and still wonder what you are building a life toward. War, rising costs, and climate disruption make the future feel like something to brace for. Jäger describes a sense of “futurelessness.” There is a difference between being disappointed with how things are going and no longer believing they can get better. Anger can get people into the streets. But what will sustain them when they go home? Who will still be beside them, helping build a life when the march is over?

Imagine telling someone who feels that way, “Don’t worry. Let’s skip ahead to the part where you’re fine.” That is the part they can no longer picture.

Now listen again to Jesus: “Do not let your hearts be troubled.” He is speaking to people whose future is coming apart. They have built their lives around him, and now he says he is leaving. What can he possibly say that will hold their weight?

Listen to what is happening in the upper room. Jesus has just washed the disciples’ feet. Peter objects because he cannot bear to see his teacher kneeling before him like a servant. Then Jesus announces that one of them will betray him. Judas leaves. Peter promises to remain loyal no matter what, and Jesus tells him that before the rooster crows, he will deny him three times. Thomas wants directions. Everyone is trying to get hold of something solid.

Their fellowship is fracturing. Their teacher is threatened. Everyone has lost the thread of the agenda, and things are about to come apart at the seams. And Jesus has equipped them for whatever comes next with only a towel and a basin.

“Do not let your hearts be troubled.”

The Greek word translated “troubled” is tarassō. It means to stir up, disturb, or agitate. John uses it elsewhere to describe water being stirred. Imagine sediment rising from the bottom until you can no longer see through the water. That is what worry can feel like. Something happens today, and suddenly old fears, disappointments, and losses are swirling along with it.

But Jesus has the most at stake of any person in the room. He has been betrayed and his life is threatened. We cannot answer him, “That’s easy for you to say.”

Jesus calls them toward a trust that can sustain them when they feel pulled apart. “Believe in God, believe also in me.” “Believe” can sound like Jesus is asking them to agree with a statement. Do you believe this doctrine? Can you sign your name at the bottom?

What is Jesus asking them to do? I’m surprised the translation says believe. The Greek noun pistis is translated “faith” dozens of times. John uses the verb form pisteuō. It means give your trust, have faith in the other.  In John’s Gospel, he uses this verb nearly a hundred times, but never uses the noun pistis, faith. Faith keeps showing up as something people do. He is urging them to act faithfully, to lean into the relationship they have built with him. Perhaps alongside “believe,” we could hear “belove”—give your heart to the One who loves you.

That takes practice. There is always another message telling us to be afraid, another reason to be outraged. Fear is very good business. I say this confessionally. I can scroll the news for an hour and come away no clearer, only more stirred.

Jesus gives that trust an image: “In God’s house there are many dwelling places.” The King James Bible says “many mansions.” To our ears, a mansion suggests an enormous private home, perhaps with a gate to keep everyone else out. But the Greek word is monē, a dwelling or abiding place. Its not about real estate, it is abot a relationship

A dwelling place can sustain us along the journey. Think of a harbor. Ships are built to sail, but need shelter for repairs and provisions before heading out again. We are made to love and do what is right, but we need a dwelling place to abide. Abiding gives us courage to face the uproar. Secure in God’s love, we can act with faithful courage, defend someone others reject, or speak an uncomfortable truth. Jesus has shown them how: with betrayal unfolding, he kneels to wash their feet. Fear does not decide how he will love.

In the next chapter Jesus says, “I am the vine, you are the branches.” “Abide in me as I abide in you.” A branch lives through its connection to the vine; the life of the vine flows through the branch. That is the intimacy Jesus offers: we dwell in God, and God dwells in us.

We often hear the promise of dwelling places at funerals. We need that assurance when someone we love passes beyond our reach, and we entrust them to a welcome larger than we can provide. But Jesus also says that God will come and make their home with those who love him. We do not have to wait for death to dwell together. Even now, God makes a home in our unfinished lives, giving us love to draw on and courage to live from it.

On All Saints Sunday, we remember people who dwelled among us—people whose hearts made room. Who comes to mind? Who helped you feel at home in the world? Perhaps you remember a kitchen table where you could talk about anything. Someone who noticed when you were missing. Someone who stayed when your grief had outlasted everyone else’s attention. They had troubled hearts too. Yet they welcomed people others rejected, spoke when silence was easier, and stayed when love became costly. They gave us needed shelter.



We could not keep them forever. We miss their voices, their company, the particular shelter of their presence. The communion of saints names our trust that death does not undo our belonging to God or to one another. The love they gave us still helps us live. We draw on their patience when our own runs thin. We remember how they faced hardship when we wonder whether we can face ours. Sometimes we find ourselves offering someone the very words they once offered us. Their love has become part of how we meet the world. They taught us how to care for people when life was uncertain. Now it is our turn.

After Tuesday’s election, Wednesday morning will come. Whether we wake relieved, frightened, or still waiting for answers, our neighbors will still be our neighbors. The problems that stirred our anxiety will not disappear with the campaign signs. We must draw on the love that steadies us—and put it into practice.

There will still be a neighbor who needs a ride, a grieving person who needs company, a hungry family who needs food. There will still be lies to challenge and people whose dignity needs defending. Someone who cannot imagine a future will need us to make room and help build one.

Our votes matter. So does what we do the day after we cast them. We bring our troubled hearts to God and receive strength to take up the work again. We return to the place where we are beloved, and remember how to love.

The saints we remember cannot do our loving for us, but they have helped teach us how. They did not wait for the world to settle down before making room for us. We do not have to wait either.

Remember whose heart made room for you. Give thanks for the shelter you found there. Then carry that love into Wednesday morning. The world will still be troubled. Someone will still need a place at your table.