Homeward Bound

There’s something universal about songs of longing. Every culture has them — songs that rise up from somewhere deep in the soul, where words alone can’t quite reach. The Irish have “Danny Boy,” the Armenians have “Dle Yaman,” the Jews sing “By the Rivers of Babylon,” and African-American slaves gave us one of the most haunting of all: “Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child.”

That song wasn’t written on paper; it was written on the heart — passed from one trembling voice to another in the dark fields of the South. It’s the sound of homesickness that runs deeper than geography. You can leave your childhood home, or lose someone you love, or simply wake up one day and realize you’ve drifted far from the person you used to be — and you’ll know exactly what that song means.

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

But here’s the miracle of the gospel: God heard that song long before it was ever sung. From the beginning, He has been reaching out to every lonely soul, saying, “I will not leave you orphans… I will come to you.”

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The Ache Beneath the Song

There’s a certain quiet ache that travels with us through life — the feeling that something is missing, even when things look fine on the outside. You can have a good career, a roof over your head, even people who love you — and still feel that distance deep inside.

That’s because the ache isn’t really about where we live; it’s about where we belong. It’s about being known — truly known — and still loved.

When the enslaved people of the American South sang that spiritual, they were crying out not only for freedom from bondage, but for the deeper freedom of belonging again — of being seen as children, not property; as people, not things.

And if we’re honest, that same longing beats in every human heart. Paul said in Romans 8 that “the whole creation groans” — waiting, longing, aching for redemption. We all know what that groaning feels like.

We groan when the phone rings at midnight with bad news.

We groan when the seat at the table stays empty after a funeral.

We groan when our own mistakes cost us something precious.

And sometimes, if we’re brave enough to be quiet, we groan because we know — we’re still a long way from home.

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The Orphaned Heart

Jesus knew that feeling too.

The night before His crucifixion, He gathered His disciples and said, “I will not leave you orphans; I will come to you.” He didn’t say it because they were homeless — He said it because He knew they would soon feel the ache of loss. The One they had come to trust would be taken from them.

And yet, in those words, He gave a promise for all time:

> “I will not leave you orphans.”

That’s God’s heart. He’s not distant. He’s not unmoved by our tears.

Psalm 27:10 says, “Though my father and mother forsake me, the Lord will take me up.”

Isaiah 49 says, “Can a mother forget the baby at her breast? Even if she could forget, I will not forget you. See, I have engraved you on the palms of My hands.”

You can’t get much closer than that. Engraved on His hands — the very hands that were stretched out on the cross.

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Jesus — the One Who Entered Our Loneliness

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

When Christ came to this world, He didn’t arrive in a palace. He was born in a borrowed stable. The Son of God began His life without a roof of His own.

As an infant, He fled as a refugee to Egypt.

As a man, He said, “Foxes have holes, birds have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay His head.”

And when He died, even His tomb was borrowed.

From beginning to end, Jesus entered our estrangement — our dislocation — our “motherless child” condition. He bore our distance so that we could be brought home.

And that’s why His cry from the cross — “My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?” — still pierces the world like the note of that old spiritual.

For a moment, He entered the silence of our separation so that 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.

And when you wonder if you’ll ever find your way home — He’s already opened the door.

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When the World Moves Too Fast

The tragedy of our time is that we’ve filled our lives with noise — screens, headlines, notifications — everything but stillness. Yet loneliness has never been louder.