“I will not leave you orphaned,” Jesus says. “I am coming to you.”
It is one of the tenderest promises in John’s Gospel. And it comes at a moment when tenderness is desperately needed. Jesus is speaking to his friends on the night before he dies. The table has been shared. Feet have been washed. Judas has gone out into the night. The machinery of religious fear and imperial power is already moving. The disciples do not yet understand everything that is about to happen, but they know enough to be afraid. They can feel the ground shifting beneath them.
Jesus is leaving. The one who called them, loved them, fed them, challenged them, defended them, and showed them the face of God will no longer be with them in the way he has been. And so Jesus speaks not as a lecturer, not as a distant monarch issuing commands, but as a friend preparing beloved friends for hard days ahead. “If you love me,” he says, “you will keep my commandments.”
We have to be careful with that sentence, because it has too often been made to sound like a threat. As though Jesus were saying, “Prove your love, or else.” As though Christian faith were a test of obedience, a demand for submission, a divine loyalty oath. But that is not the tone of this passage. Jesus is not building a system of control. He is preparing a community of love.
And in John’s Gospel, Jesus’ commandment is not mysterious. He has already told them what it is: “Love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.” That is the commandment. That is the test of Christian faith. Not domination. Not purity. Not exclusion. Not the defense of power. Love.
And not love as sentiment. Not love as mere politeness. Not love as being nice while injustice rolls on. The love of Jesus is practical, embodied, costly, and public. It looks like feeding the hungry. Touching the untouchable. Welcoming the rejected. Honoring women in a world that dismissed them. Standing with the poor. Challenging those who used religion to burden others. Washing feet. Laying down one’s life.
So, when Jesus says, “If you love me, you will keep my commandments,” he is not asking for religious performance. He is saying: If you love me, then let my love take flesh in you. Let my way become your way. Let my truth become visible in your life together.
That matters deeply in our own time. We are living in a moment when Christianity is being loudly invoked in public life, but often in ways that bear little resemblance to Jesus. The name of Christ is used to bless cruelty, exclusion, contempt, and fear. Christianity is twisted into a tribal badge, a weapon of grievance, a defense of domination. It is used to sanctify the powerful while the vulnerable are blamed, threatened, erased, or abandoned.
But Jesus does not say, “If you love me, seize power.” He does not say, “If you love me, protect your privilege.” He does not say, “If you love me, make your nation first.” He does not say, “If you love me, fear the stranger.” He says, “If you love me, keep my commandments.” And his commandment is love.
That is why Christian nationalism is not simply a political problem. It is a theological betrayal. It takes the self-giving love of Jesus and replaces it with domination. It takes the cross and turns it into a flagpole. It takes the gospel, which is good news for the poor and release for the captive, and makes it into a shield for those already in control.
The Jesus of John’s Gospel speaks to frightened disciples in the shadow of empire. Rome knew how to define power: power as control, power as spectacle, power as violence, power as humiliation. Religious authorities knew how to preserve their status by cooperating with that power. And into that world, Jesus reveals another truth: the truth of God’s love.
Not soft love. Not passive love. Not private love. Love strong enough to confront empire without becoming empire. Love courageous enough to stand before Pilate and refuse the logic of domination. Love deep enough to forgive, resilient enough to endure, and free enough to serve.
Then Jesus promises, “I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate, to be with you forever.” The word Advocate is rich. It can mean comforter, helper, counselor, defender, one called alongside. The Spirit Jesus promises is not an abstraction. The Spirit is God’s presence alongside us, among us, within us. The Spirit is the one who comes near when we are afraid, when we are weary, when the work feels too large, when the grief is too much, when the world seems to have lost its mind.
Jesus knows his disciples cannot do this alone. And neither can we. We cannot resist cruelty by willpower alone. We cannot sustain hope by outrage alone. We cannot protect the vulnerable, defend democracy, tell the truth, welcome the stranger, care for the earth, and love our enemies simply by trying harder. We need the Advocate. We need the Spirit of truth. We need the presence of Christ abiding among us.
And notice this: the Spirit is not given as a private possession for individual spiritual comfort alone. The Spirit is given to the community. Jesus is speaking to “you” plural. The Advocate comes among the disciples so that together they may continue the life and love of Jesus in the world. That means we should expect to encounter the Spirit not only in moments of inward peace, but in acts of communal courage. We should expect to see the Spirit wherever people come alongside one another in truth and love.
When someone sits with the grieving and does not try to explain away the pain: there is the Advocate. When a congregation welcomes the person whom others have rejected: there is the Advocate. When citizens refuse lies and insist that every human being bears the image of God: there is the Spirit of truth. When people of faith say no to racism, no to antisemitism, no to Islamophobia, no to transphobia, no to the demonizing of immigrants, no to the worship of the nation, no to the use of Christianity as a tool of fear: there is the Advocate still speaking. When we come alongside those whom the powerful would leave orphaned, we are participating in the ministry of the Paraclete.
“I will not leave you orphaned,” Jesus says. That word orphaned matters. To be orphaned is to be left without protection, without belonging, without someone to speak for you, without someone who will come when you call. And so much of the world’s cruelty depends on making people feel orphaned.
Authoritarian power tries to isolate. It tells targeted communities, “No one is coming for you.” It tells immigrants, “You do not belong.” It tells the poor, “Your suffering is your fault.” It tells queer and trans people, “You are alone.” It tells the elderly, the sick, the disabled, the imprisoned, the refugee, “You are disposable.” It tells truth-tellers, “Be quiet.” It tells the church, “Stay spiritual. Stay harmless. Bless what we do.”
But Jesus says, “I will not leave you orphaned.” And if Christ does not leave us orphaned, then we cannot leave others orphaned either. That may be one of the clearest measures of Christian faithfulness in this moment. Who is being abandoned? Who is being made afraid? Who is being targeted? Who is being told they do not matter? Who is being sacrificed for the ambitions of the powerful?
The church’s place is there. Alongside them. Not because we are saviors. We are not. But because we follow the Savior who came alongside us. To love Jesus is to refuse abandonment. To keep his commandments is to become a community where no one is treated as disposable. To receive the Advocate is to become advocates.
This does not mean we will always feel brave. The disciples were not brave that night. Their hearts were troubled. Their questions were anxious. Their faith was fragile. Jesus did not shame them for that. He promised them presence.
That is good news for us. We do not have to pretend we are not afraid. We do not have to pretend we are not tired. We do not have to pretend the threats are not real. The gospel is not denial. The gospel is presence. “I will not leave you orphaned. I am coming to you.”
And Christ does come to us. Christ comes in the Spirit who strengthens us for the next faithful step. Christ comes in the community gathered around word and sacrament. Christ comes in bread broken and wine poured. Christ comes in the neighbor who sits beside us. Christ comes in the courage we did not know we had. Christ comes whenever love rises again after fear has done its worst.
“Because I live,” Jesus says, “you also will live.” That is not only a promise for heaven. It is a promise for now. The life of Christ is already moving in us and among us. A life stronger than empire. Stronger than lies. Stronger than fear. Stronger even than death. So let the world see what Christianity looks like when it is not captive to power.
Let it look like love. Let it look like truth. Let it look like courage. Let it look like accompaniment. Let it look like people who refuse to abandon one another. For Jesus has not left us orphaned. The Advocate is with us. The Spirit of truth abides among us. And the living Christ is still calling his church to keep his commandment: Love one another. As I have loved you, love one another.
