A Motherless Child

I. The Song That Never Dies

Every culture has its songs of longing — the melodies that rise from somewhere words cannot reach.

The Irish have “Danny Boy.”

The Armenians sing “Dle Yaman.”

The Jews mourn “By the Rivers of Babylon.”

And from the dark fields of the American South came one of the most haunting of all:

> “Sometimes I feel like a motherless child, a long way from home.”

That song wasn’t written on paper; it was written on the heart.

Passed from one trembling voice to another, it carried the ache of people who had lost everything — family, freedom, name, and nation.

But it also carried something deeper than sorrow.

It carried the hope that Someone, somewhere, might still be listening.

And the miracle of the gospel is that God had heard that song long before it was ever sung.

From Eden’s first exile, the Father’s heart has been reaching toward every lonely soul with a promise:

> “I will not leave you orphans; I will come to you.” (John 14 : 18)

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II. The Ache Beneath the Song

There’s a quiet ache that follows us through life — the feeling that something is missing even when everything seems fine.

You can have success, companionship, even faith, and still sense a hollow place that nothing on earth can fill.

That ache isn’t about where we live; it’s about where we belong.

It’s the longing to be known — truly known — and still loved.

Paul wrote that “the whole creation groans.” (Romans 8 : 22)

We know that groan.

We hear it in the midnight phone call with bad news,

at the empty chair after a funeral,

in the silence that follows our own failures.

It’s the sound of the world remembering what it lost — and who it lost.

Even creation itself knows it was meant for more — for reunion, for home.

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III. The Orphaned Heart

Jesus understood that ache.

On the night before the cross, He looked at His disciples — the men who had left everything to follow Him — and said,

> “I will not leave you orphans.” (John 14 : 18)

He knew how soon they would feel abandoned.

He knew the silence that was coming after Gethsemane,

the fear behind locked doors,

the confusion of watching Love crucified.

And so He gave them this promise: You will never be alone again.

That word orphans runs deeper than circumstance.

It speaks to the human condition — the disconnection sin has caused.

Psalm 27 : 10 says,

> “Though my father and mother forsake me, the Lord will take me up.”

Isaiah 49 adds,

> “Can a mother forget her nursing child? Even if she could forget, I will not forget you. See, I have engraved you on the palms of My hands.”

The very hands that were stretched out on Calvary now bear your name.

You can’t get closer than that.

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IV. Jesus — The One Who Entered Our Loneliness

The story of salvation is the story of God entering our homelessness.

Jesus did not arrive in privilege.

He was born in a borrowed stable, fled as a refugee to Egypt, lived without a home of His own, and when He died, was laid in a borrowed tomb.

From first breath to last, He stepped into our estrangement.

He carried our distance so that we could be brought near.

And when He cried from the cross, “My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?” He entered the silence of every orphaned heart — so we would never have to face it alone again.

When you feel forsaken, He’s already been there.

When you feel like a motherless child, He’s already sung that verse.

When you wonder if you’ll ever find your way home, He’s already opened the door.

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V. When the World Moves Too Fast

Our world hums with noise — constant, merciless noise.

We live surrounded by headlines, notifications, and the endless hum of digital life.

The irony is painful: never have we been more connected and yet more alone.

The world promises connection but breeds isolation.

We can scroll for hours and still not feel seen.

We can collect followers and still have no one who truly knows us.

Blaise Pascal once wrote,

> “All of humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone.”

In that quiet room, the old song returns.

Sometimes I feel like a motherless child.

But that ache is not the enemy; it’s the echo.

It’s the homing beacon of the soul reminding us where we came from and who is waiting.

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VI. The Father’s Heart of Adoption — A Preview

Before we leave tonight, I want you to hear the next note of the song.