I Will Not Leave You Orphaned
John 14:15-21
by Jim Westmoreland
I have just returned from the West Area Youth Work Retreat at Camp Kum-Ba-Yah at Kentucky Lake. We had 33 come and we were able to get quite a lot done, despite the Friday night rain storm. A couple from Henderson came to serve as sponsors and they brought their 4-month old baby girl, Alicia, along with their teenage son. Alicia was a happy baby and received much attention from her proud mother and daddy, as well as the four young people they brought to the work retreat.
Do you remember leaving your children with a sitter and seeing that look on their face when they saw you were leaving them? Sometimes, it was the look and sound of anger and fear and the feeling that you had left them. That is the feeling of being abandoned, however temporary or permanent it is. It is a real feeling that we have seen young children experience and that we have all felt ourselves at sometime in our lives. Eventually, our children begin to understand that we will be back for them, that we have not abandoned them.
One of our great fears in life and love is that we will be abandoned, forgotten, left alone. Remember having a fight with your best friend, or having the person that you were dating exclusively suddenly dump you. Our hearts ache when things we care about suddenly disappear.
Imagine the pain of those who have been emotionally abandoned by a parent or spouse that is addicted to alcohol, to drugs, to sex or pornography, to self-pity, or to anything that causes us to withdraw emotionally or physically in a relationship. That pain is real, and we can feel it very intensely. We can feel so lost and helpless that we describe ourselves as a "basket case."
Sometimes, we who have lost loved ones to death can feel abandoned as we work through our grief. A clergy friend shared with me about a man in his forties who died suddenly. He was active in the church and married with two teenagers. He had been rushed to the hospital, and the minister was called to go as well as the man's wife. The minister arrived first and was waiting when the man's wife arrived. Together, they went into the room where the man's body still lay. Overcome with emotion, she pounded the bed crying, "How could you do this to me?" She felt abandoned.
Whether it is from death, divorce, affairs or other deep disappointments that fracture relationships, we sometimes feel abandoned. Or, maybe we live with the fear of being abandoned in some way.
Fred Craddock, in one of his many insightful sermons, has said that the overwhelming issue for the early disciples, after Jesus' death and resurrection was His absence. Their hearts were empty and heavy with the everyday reality that He was no longer with them. They who could still remember the sound of His voice, they who had felt His touch and known His love and compassion, they now felt the loss of His presence, and now, He was gone. How could He leave them? They too had those feelings of abandonment to deal with. They felt like orphans. They were needy and without direction, a helpless group.
Understand that this text and their situation anticipate what we will celebrate in two weeks, on Pentecost Sunday, when the Advocate, the Holy Spirit came upon them and they came to know and have the assurance of the continuing presence of Jesus in a new way. But now, they felt left alone. How could He leave them?
And so, John, writing many years later, tells us about one of those later times with Jesus. He was telling them how to live and said, "If you love me, keep my commandments." And then, responding to their apprehension of His absence, He continues talking to them, saying, "And I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate, to be with you forever." And then, he finally says, "I will not leave you orphaned. I am coming to you."
"Derek Redmond was determined. He had to finish the race. Period. He was a young British runner, one who had sky-rocketed to fame by shattering his country's 400-meter record at age 19. But then, an Achilles tendon injury forced him to withdraw from the 1988 Olympic Games in Seoul, and he endured five separate surgeries. When the Summer Olympics arrived in Barcelona in 1992, Derek Redmond was absolutely aching for a medal.
On the day of the 400-meter race, 65,000 fans streamed into the stadium, anxious to witness one of sports' most thrilling events. High in the stands is Derek's father, Jim, a faithful witness to every one of his son's world competitions.
The race begins and Derek breaks through the pack to seize the lead. "Keep it up, keep it up," his father says to himself. Heading down the backstretch, only 175 meters from the finish line, Derek is a shoo-in to win this semifinal heat and qualify for the Olympic finals.
But then, Derek hears a pop. It's his right hamstring. He pulls up lame, looking as if he has been shot. His leg quivering, Derek begins to hop on the other leg, and then he slows down and falls to the track. Medical personnel run toward him as he sprawls on the ground, holding his right hamstring.
At the very same moment, there is a stir at the top of the stands. Jim Redmond, seeing his son in trouble, begins to race down from the top row. He is pushing toward the track, sidestepping some people and bumping into others. He has no right or credential to be on the track, but all he can think about is getting to his son, to help him up. He is absolutely, single-minded about this and isn't going to be stopped by anyone. On the track, Derek realizes that his dream of an Olympic medal is gone. He is alone. The other runners streak across the finish line. He is a lonely figure on the track--pitiful, hurting, alone.
Tears pour down Derek's face, and all he can think is, "I don't want to take a DNF." A "did-not-finish" was not even part of his vocabulary. When the medical crew arrives with a stretcher, Derek tells them, "No, there's no way I'm getting on that stretcher. I'm going to finish my race." And so he lifts himself to his feet, ever so slowly and carefully, and he starts hobbling down the track.
Suddenly, the crowd realizes that Derek isn't dropping out of the race. He isn't limping off the track in defeat, but is actually continuing on one leg. At first, there is hushed silence as the crowd looks to understand what is happening. As Derek bravely limps onward, the fans rise to their feet and begin to cheer louder and louder, building to a thundering roar.
At that moment Jim Redmond reaches the bottom of the stands, vaults over the railing, dodges a security guard and runs out to his son. He reaches Derek at 120 meters from the finish line, and wraps his arm around his waist, "I'm here, son," Jim says gently, hugging his boy. "We'll finish together."
Derek puts his arms around his father's shoulders and sobs. Together, arm in arm, father and son struggle toward the finish line with 65,000 people on their feet cheering, clapping and crying. Just a few steps from the end, with the crowd in an absolute frenzy, Jim releases the grip he has on his son so that Derek can cross the finish line by himself.
"I'm the proudest father alive," Jim Redmond tells the press afterward. "I'm prouder than if he had won the gold metal. It took a lot of guts for him to do what he did." Together, they kept a promise they had made to finish the race, no matter what.
Jesus told the disciples, "I will not leave you orphaned." He said that He would not abandon us or leave us alone. Whenever we feel the most alone, whenever we have been hurt and disappointed and we feel that there is no one there for us, Jesus says, "I'm here. We're not taking a 'Did-Not-Finish.' We'll finish together."(1)
Century Christian Church, May 1, 2005 - Sermon by Jim Westmoreland
1. Story about Jim Redmond from Homiletics, May-June, 2005, Vol.17, No. 3, p. 12-13.