Fifth Sunday of Easter Reflection
READING: John 14:1–14
“Do not let your hearts be troubled.”
“Hello darkness, my old friend…”
Those opening words from the Simon and Garfunkel song, The Sound of Silence, have resonated across generations because they name something real. That sense of unease that sits quietly in the background of our lives. The thoughts that come uninvited in the night. The worries we carry about the future, about relationships, about the state of the world.
Anxiety is not unusual. It is deeply human.
And today, it is everywhere.
Recent studies suggest that around 1 in 5 young people in the UK—nearly 20% of those under 18—experience significant anxiety or related mental health challenges.
That is not a small issue on the margins. That is a generation growing up with a persistent sense of uncertainty and pressure. Add to that the wider world—conflict between nations, economic instability, climate concerns—and it is not hard to see why hearts are troubled.
So when Jesus says, “Do not let your hearts be troubled,” it can sound, at first, almost unrealistic. Even dismissive. As if we are being told simply to calm down or to have stronger faith.
But that cannot be what is meant.
Because Jesus speaks these words on the brink of betrayal, violence, and loss. Nothing about the situation is calm. Nothing is resolved. He is not speaking from a place of comfort, but from within the storm itself.
So this is not a command to feel differently.
It is an invitation to stand differently.
You see, faith is not an escape from difficulty. It is not a way of avoiding anxiety or pretending everything is fine. Instead, faith becomes a way of reorienting ourselves within what is already real.
The trouble remains.
The fear remains.
But the centre of gravity shifts.
We are no longer defined only by what threatens us. We are drawn into a deeper trust, into that love source that we name confidently as God. We remember and acknowledge that we are held within something larger, something that cannot be undone even by suffering or uncertainty.God remains with us no matter what.
And this is where the image Jesus uses becomes so powerful…In that reading for today he says ..
“In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places.”
Too often, we have reduced this to a kind of future promise—rooms prepared somewhere else, for later, for some people. But read more generously, this is about the nature of God.
God is spacious.
God is not limited or narrow. God is not anxious about who belongs and who does not. The image here is not of a small, guarded house, but of something vast, open, abundant.
There is room.
More than enough room.
And that has profound implications for how we see ourselves—and how we see others.
I wonder what is at the heart of our anxiety….where does in come from and what are its roots? For many it comes from a fear of not being in relationship . We worry about belonging—whether we are enough, whether we fit, whether we will be accepted or excluded. That fear runs deep, especially in a world that often draws sharp lines between insider and outsider.
We see it everywhere.
In public life.
In communities.
Even in the Church.
We create boundaries—sometimes consciously, often unconsciously—about who belongs and who does not. Who is “in” and who is “out.” Who is safe, and who is suspect.
And yet, Jesus speaks of a house with many dwelling places.
A house that reflects not our fears, but God’s generosity.
This theme of inclusion has been explored powerfully in stories we know. Think, for example, of The Greatest Showman. Beneath the music and spectacle is a deeper story about people who have been excluded—labelled as different, strange, or unworthy—and who discover a place where they are seen and valued.
“This is me,” they sing.
It is a declaration of belonging in a world that had denied it.
And in many ways, that echoes the Gospel.
God’s life is not a closed circle. It is an open invitation.
The troubling implication of this is that many of the lines we draw begin to look less like divine truth and more like human fear.
If God’s house has many dwelling places, then who are we to limit that space?
And this brings us back to the opening words.
“Do not let your hearts be troubled.”
This is not about denying anxiety. It is about addressing its deepest root.
Much of our trouble comes from the sense that we might lose our place—socially, relationally, even spiritually. We fear exclusion, abandonment, meaninglessness.
But if the “house” truly has many dwelling places, then the ground beneath us is more secure than we imagine.
Faith does not guarantee that circumstances will stabilise.
But it suggests something more profound: that our place within God is not at risk.
Even in uncertainty.
Even in failure.
Even in the midst of a troubled world.
We belong.
And that changes how we live.
Because if we trust that kind of spacious belonging, then we are called to reflect it.
To make room where others are excluded.
To widen the circle where it has been narrowed.
To recognise that the love we receive is not scarce, but abundant.
So this passage moves in two directions at once.
Inwardly, it invites us to shift from fear to trust—not by removing anxiety, but by grounding ourselves in a deeper belonging.
Outwardly, it calls us to embody that same generosity—to become people and communities where others can find space, welcome, and dignity.
“Do not let your hearts be troubled.”
Not because there is nothing to fear.
But because there is something greater to trust.
And perhaps, in a world where so many feel anxious, uncertain, and excluded, that is not just comforting.
It is transformative.
Amen.
Image: Рома Морозов (Unsplash.com)
