“Jesus is the Way”

Fifth Sunday of Easter

May 3, 2026

‍Acts 7:55-60

John 14:1-14

Children’s Message:

I’m going to be doing some traveling this week, and some of the places I’m going I’ve never been before. So, what are some ways I can use to make sure I get to where I’m going? (map, gps, compass, ask someone) Is it possible I might read the map wrong, or the gps takes me in a weird direction? Is it possible that, even with these resources, I might get lost? Of course!

I will also be doing some baking and cooking this week. What might I use to help me know how to make new foods? (cookbook, back of box, internet, pinterest) Will every instruction be the same, or might there be different ways to make the same foods? And is it possible, with all of these resources, that the food might not turn out as I intended? Of course!

So, Jesus tells the disciples that he is the Way, the Truth, and the Life and that no one knows God except through him. And I always thought that meant that Jesus was our map to get to God—our instructions to find God. But if I can still get lost using a map, and if I can still get instructions wrong, why would God ever expect ME to figure it out and get it right?

Can you think of any other way Jesus might have meant what he said? What if he wasn’t telling us how we get to God or to heaven? What if he was telling us how God chose to come to us? That’s different, isn’t it? If Jesus is the way God comes to us, then we don’t have to worry about getting it wrong or getting it right. God is the one moving. Whew! That takes a lot of pressure off of me to figure this all out.

Let’s pray. Dear God, thank you for coming to us. Help us see your way, trust in your truth, and live in your life. Amen.

Message:

I grew up in a small town. I really couldn’t tell you the name of any of the streets except the one I lived on—and only because it was part of my address. So, if I tried to tell you how to get somewhere, I would use landmarks. The old bank building, the courthouse, the restaurant that used to be Balloon’s but is now a Mexican restaurant—I don’t know the name. The bar that used to be the Shack but is now a restaurant—I don’t know the name.

And if you had to use country roads, it got much more complicated. The corner where the old drive-in theater used to be. Carlin’s Corner—which is where there’s a shed that used to belong to a guy named Carlin. Never met him.

It works fine for people who grew up there. But if you’ve spent your whole long life there and move to a place like Lincoln, using landmarks isn’t quite the same. Turn at the tall building—really? Watch for the cemetery—which one? So, in Lincoln, we reference street names. Our church is at the corner of 40th & C. And most people can figure out where to go—if not always how to navigate the construction or the marathon.

For years, I understood today’s passage as a set of instructions—directions on how to use a very specific map. The map for how to get to God. Or how to get to heaven. Or how to have salvation. It’s all interchangeable, and it’s all problematic. Because as soon as we start thinking about faith as a map for us to follow, we start creating a complicated theology that has nothing to do with grace.

When we consider Jesus as a way to God, it presumes that God is a destination. And there are no other maps, no other paths, no other directions that will take us to heaven except our belief in Jesus. It’s like a maze in which every wrong turn leads to a dead-end.

And from that presumption breeds exclusion—if there are no other ways, then all other religions are wrong and bad. It breeds fear—if all other religions are wrong, then how can we be sure that our theological approach to who Jesus is is right? It breeds certainty—if my theological approach is indeed right, then everyone else is wrong. It makes relationship with God conditional, and it makes our relationship with each other hierarchical, and it not only allows but insists on violence on behalf of God—which is why nearly every war of every age is fundamentally about religion—specifically Christianity.

And so questions and challenges to the established theology are squelched. There is no room for dissent. There is no room for exploration. And there is no room for the possibility of being wrong. It’s like making microwavable macaroni and cheese and, even if you forget the water before putting it in the microwave, you will insist that it is absolutely the way it should be—as your kitchen burns.

But what if this isn’t what Jesus meant as he tried to comfort his disciples? Theologian Jim Palmer offers a much more consistent and grace-filled way to read this passage. I’m going to read an excerpt that was shared on Facebook not long ago.

When Jesus spoke of “the Father,” …He was pointing to the ground of being itself - the source, the life, the reality in which “we live and move and have our being.” …

So when Jesus says, “I am the way,” he is not offering directions. He is embodying a reality. The “way” is not a path you walk toward God; it’s the collapse of the illusion that you were ever apart from God in the first place. The way is awakening, not arrival.

And when he says, “I am the truth,” he is not making a doctrinal claim. Truth, for Jesus, is not correct information about God. Truth is a state of being aligned with reality as it actually is. That’s why he doesn’t say, “I know the truth,” as if truth were mental content. He doesn’t say, “I have the truth,” as if truth were a possession you can distribute to insiders and withhold from outsiders. He says, “I am the truth.” Truth lives at the level of identity, not intellect.

That’s why trying to reduce Jesus’ words to belief statements completely misses the point. Beliefs belong to the mind. Jesus was speaking from being.

The tragedy is that Christianity turned a revelation into a requirement. It took a declaration of unity and made it a test of loyalty. It took an announcement of freedom and turned it into a fence. And once you do that, you inevitably end up with an “us versus them” God - a God who somehow looks suspiciously like the religious institution defending him.

So when Jesus says, “No one comes to the Father except through me,” he is not saying, “You must believe the right things about me.” He is saying, “As long as you insist on separation, you will never experience the fullness of what has always been yours.” The “me” is not a religious object. The “me” is the truth he revealed: that divine life is not somewhere else, and you are not excluded from it.

You don’t come to God by striving. You don’t come to God by improving. You don’t come to God by being right. You don’t come to God at all. You wake up to the fact that you were never apart. The only thing that ever stood in the way was the story you were told about yourself.

This is why Jesus keeps saying things that sound almost reckless to religious ears: the kingdom is within you; the Father and I are one; you are in me and I am in you. These are not metaphors meant to sound poetic while leaving separation intact. They are descriptions of reality meant to shatter it.

What Jesus was offering wasn’t a narrow doorway guarded by correct beliefs. It was the end of the house entirely—the realization that there was never a door, never a distance, never a divided world in need of spiritual immigration papers.

And the truth [Jesus] embodied is this: you belong, you are already held, and the love you’ve been trying to reach has been breathing you the whole time.

Pastor Tobi White

Our Saviour’s Lutheran Church

Lincoln, NE