Sunday 3 May 2026 | The Rev'd Clare Barrie
Psalm 31:1-5, 15-16; John 14:1-14
May the words of my mouth and the meditations of all our hearts be always acceptable in your sight, O God our Strength and our Redeemer.
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John’s gospel is unique in giving us this long, intimate account of Jesus’ conversation with his followers, gathered for a final meal. It is a farewell scene – though the disciples don’t fully understand that yet. But they do sense that something is ending, and they are anxious, unsettled, unsure of what is coming next.
And it is into this moment that Jesus speaks these words:
“In my Father’s house there are many dwelling-places…”
These are among the most familiar words in the Christian tradition – it’s no surprise that they are often heard at funerals. They offer a deep reassurance: perhaps we don’t know where Jesus is going, but we trust that he does, and that there is a place for us there – a place where we belong.
But most scholars suggest that something richer is going on here than simply a promise about going to heaven after we die.
Because if we reduce these words to “going to heaven when we die,” they have very little to say about how we live now – and very little to offer a world that is in need of transformation.
Jesus’ teaching about the kingdom of God (the reign of God) was never about escape from this world, but about the renewal of it – a new creation, a new heaven and a new earth. And we are called to participate in that vision here and now.
Before we think further about these “many rooms,” though, we need to pause at Thomas’s question: “How can we know the way?” And Jesus’ response: “I am the way, and the truth, and the life…”
We can easily misunderstand these words – as if Jesus were setting a kind of pass/fail test about belief, or dismissing all other faith traditions outright. But that would be to miss the context in which he speaks.
Because just moments earlier, Jesus knelt on the floor among his disciples, wrapped a towel around his waist, and washed their feet. In doing this, he has taken the role of a servant, and then told them that they must love one another in the same way.
The whole arc of these chapters in John’s gospel – the setting of their shared meal, the footwashing, the command to love one another, the promise of God’s dwelling-place – is not abstract teaching. It is about relationship. The New Testament vision of faith is not about a life lived in isolation – it’s about being drawn into a life shaped by love, service, and belonging.
All of this is the truth of who Jesus is. All of it is the life he offers. All of it is the way to where he is going.
And so we return to the image of God’s house, with many rooms.
We so often hear comfort in these words as something for the future. But they reflect back into this life as well – and they carry a challenge.
There are many rooms – and the doors are open.
There is a place for me in God’s house now – not just when I die. And if there are many rooms, then there is a place for others too. Not just people like me, but people who are different from me. People I understand, and people I don’t. People I find easy to welcome, and people I struggle with.
Perhaps that vision begins with ourselves – with the deep, sometimes difficult work of accepting that we ourselves have a place in God’s love. Not just the parts of ourselves that feel sorted or successful, but also the parts that are uncertain, or wounded, or incomplete.
And then we can widen the circle even further.
What would it look like for God’s house – here and now – to begin to reflect that vision of many rooms, with open doors?
Jesus shows us that it is not an abstract idea. It looks like kneeling on the floor, washing feet. It looks like attention to the particular, and the embodied, and the very human. It’s not always comfortable and easy. It is often awkward, confronting, and deeply real.
As we gather, Sunday by Sunday, it is our task to reflect that vision as best we can to be a community that is accessible, welcoming, and attentive to those who might otherwise feel excluded. I give thanks that this is part of the DNA of this community named for St Luke.
But it is also our task to carry that vision beyond these walls.
Because our world continues to reveal deep faultlines of inequality and insecurity in the growing cost of living, in housing, in access to healthcare, in the pressures on families and communities. And those pressures are not evenly shared.
Over the last couple of weeks, we’ve been reflecting on how the ground under our feet is feeling less steady than it was…and so the need for places of welcome, of belonging, of care, is only growing.
What might it mean for us to live as if God’s house truly has many rooms and that the doors are open?
I want to conclude with words from Desmond Tutu, whose whole life was dedicated to breaking down the barriers that exclude and divide:
“We are made for goodness. We are made for love. We are made for friendliness. We are made for togetherness. We are made for all of the beautiful things that you and I know. We are made to tell the world that there are no outsiders. All are welcome… all, all, all. We all belong to this family, this human family, God’s family.”
Amen.