My wife and I have this running argument - discussion. We differ on how to say good bye, how to bid farewell after say, an evening at someone's home. I decide when it's time to go. I say, "Well, this has all been wonderful, and we wish we could stay, but it's late and we should be going." I then rise and move toward the door.

She sits there. She knows it's late, that it's time to go. She also wants to go. But she feels that its rude to just get up and go, so she sits there, continuing to visit, acting as if leaving has not entered her mind. So there I am, standing in the middle of the room, coat in hand, all by myself.

"Well what's your big rush?" ask our hosts. "You sure are in a hurry to get out of here!" they say to me.

Why can't we just leave? I keep asking her on the way home. No, she says. There's a way to leave. One should leave a home the same way molasses leaves a bottle.

I'll let you know if we work this out during the next twenty years of our marriage.

Yet parting, departure, leave-taking is never easy, even when you agree on how to do it. Something, something down deep in us, resists the move from presence to absence. In my last congregation, some evenings we would be visited by some of the youth who were members of our church. This flattered us. But we often noted that teenagers didn't know how to leave. After a couple of hours, I knew they had better things to do on a Friday evening, knew that they wanted to go but did not know how to go. Having summoned up the courage to visit with a couple of adults, they had no way to get themselves out of it. So there would be the awkward lingering at the door, the gaping silence of what to say next. I realized then that saying "good-bye" doesn't come naturally. One must be taught. There's a way to do it.

The move from presence to absence is a frightening one. When someone is present to us, our space is filled, we are not alone, there is conversation and communion. When someone leaves us, there is crises. Absence creates a void. What will fill it? Absence means silence, awesome, lonely, gaping silence. No wonder we fear it, avoid it, cling to their presence, anything to avoid good-bye.

But you had better become accustomed to bidding farewell. Life is a long series of leave-takings, movement from presence to absence. Judith Viorst's book, Necessary Losses chronicles the reality, the pain of our first loss of mother as we go off to school. Life is a string of farewells.

In a class on marriage, one of my friends asked his students to name a good reason to have children. "So you won't be lonely in your old age," someone answered.

"Get a dog," be advised. "Where are your parents today?" They hadn't thought about that.

When a friend's mother died recently, and I called to offer my condolence, he said, "Now I'm an orphan -- just like you."

''Nobody ever stays in one place anymore," sings Carly Simon. Every ''Hello" leads to an inevitable "Good-Bye."

And we fear good-bye. Oh, as we grow older, we learn not to cling to mommy's knees when the babysitter comes. We learn to cut out wailing by October of the first grade. But absence still hurts.

I told my friend, whose mother died, that I had found one of the cruelest aspects of death to be that you really can't remember. "He'll live on in our memories," we sometimes say of the dead. Don't believe it. Oh, we remember this story, or that day, perhaps a brief snippet of the voice, but every day, memory becomes more faint, a pitiful, inadequate comfort once presence has turned to absence. And it makes us wonder if we made progress when we learned to stop wailing for Mama in the first grade?

It's painful, frightening, to be left alone in the void, the great gap called absence. The words we use at leave-taking, though now secularized and emptied of religious significance, still harkens back to a day when departure meant a time so painful and threatening, that we needed God to help us do it. The English "Good-bye," the Spanish "Adios," the French "Adieu" all imply that when we part, in the moment between here and not here, presence and absence, we best give someone to God when we can no longer hold them ourselves. Good-bye. God be with you.

''Parting is such...sorrow."

Although you probably didn't notice, all the gospel lessons through these Six Sundays of Easter, have come from the Gospel of John. For four long chapters, John 13:17:, Jesus bids his disciples farewell. This gospel began with declaration that "the Word became flesh and dwelt among us" (John 1:14). It ends with Jesus saying "Good-bye." It takes only a few verses for Jesus to say good-bye in Matthew or Luke. John drags Jesus' departure out so long that it can be said to be the problem in this gospel -- Jesus, the one who called us, taught us, turned water into wine and raised the dead, is leaving us. All four chapters take place on a long, sorrowful evening in spring, in a garden, a garden where Jesus is soon to be arrested and taken away to death, the ultimate good-bye.

The questions of his disciples are the simple, childlike, questions of children. Mamma and Daddy gather hat and coat and prepare to depart for the evening. The children look up from their play and ask always the same questions: Where are you going? Can we come too? Who's going to stay with us?

Jesus is about to go. What's to become of us? "I won't leave you orphans," he had promised (14:18). Still, can we be sure? Though this long farewell speech of Jesus occurs, in John's gospel, before his death, it is right that we occupy ourselves with it now, in the time after Easter, when we are apt to feel the tension between presence and absence, between having and not having Jesus more keenly than at any other time in the church year.

We're after Easter. Our job on Easter was to help you sense the presence of the resurrected Christ, real, available, present, standing among us. For some of you, it worked. You really did leave church on Easter morning, striding forth into bright Easter sunlight, convinced that you journeyed not alone. He's back!

But then there are always the Sundays after Easter. The crowd dwindles, the music fails to fill every comer of the Chapel, and when you sing the post­ Easter hymn, sometimes yours is the only voice you hear. It would have been different if the church's claim were that Jesus was resurrected, brought back to life, period.

But that isn't the story." In a little while, you will see me no more," says the Christ. The one who says "Hello" on Easter, soon says "Good-bye." Emmanuel, God with us. The Risen Christ, God away from us. If Jesus' resurrection meant that we had this two-thousand year old, resurrected, perpetual 33 year old, still standing among us, we wouldn't have a problem. But that's not what happened. That's never the way it is with this Christ. He is always coming and going, arriving and departing. No matter how close the presence on Easter, there's always the absence after Easter.

He isn't here" said the angel to the woman at the cemetery, "he's gone on before you."

Easter morning, Mary Magdeline went out to the tomb to dress the decaying body of Jesus with spices. But his body wasn't there. She asked a "gardener," "where have they taken him?" But this was no gardener. It was the Risen Christ. Then Mary realized that nobody keeps Jesus tied down, fixed in one place.

Mary tried to cling to Christ, to hold him close so he couldn't get away again. "Hold me not!" he tells her (20:17). To hold Jesus is to limit him, grasp, define him. But you can't hold Jesus. He is Risen! He's moving out, beyond the confines of our expectations and categories. He's out to get hold of new life for us, so we can't his comings - and goings.

Again and again, in John's Gospel, the story is the same, the disciples, like Mary, try to get a hold on Jesus, fix him, define him. But he keeps vanishing, leaving them as quickly and mysteriously as he came.

"I'm going to prepare a place for you," he tells them. He can't prepare if he doesn't go. So we can't hold Jesus.

The Christ after Easter is a living God, not some containable, definable pet of a God for whom we whistle and he is there. He comes and he goes. He is present, then absent. Hello. Good-bye. We have no means like Peter Pan of closing our eyes, believing very, very hard in fairies and bringing Tinker Belle back to life. The Risen Christ isn't Tinker Belle. His comings and goings are at his determination, not ours. If you meet him here in the Chapel today, He comes as a gift, not as the result of our efforts.

The free, living Christ of Easter thus explodes some of our pieties: "Since I took Jesus into my heart." "Since I put Jesus in charge of my life."

No. We can't take the Risen Christ anywhere. He takes us places! He comes and be goes, not because he is mercurial, undependable. He has work still to do, that's why he goes. He has other sheep to bring into his fold, a place to prepare for us.

So we're at the end of Easter. Jesus came back to us, surprised us. But even as he couldn't be held by death, so be cannot be held even by his disciples. Even a place as big and thick walled as Duke Chapel can't capture him. It's the end of Easter. Jesus is getting, ready to go, to ascend to his Father and our God. Where are you going? Can we go to? Who is going to stay with us? These are the questions, good normal, post-Easter questions of disciples.

In response, Jesus doesn't promise us that we'll never feel alone, doesn't say that the times of absence, the dry valley of loneliness, is not hard. He doesn't assuage our fears with cheap consolation ("I'll live on in your memories.")

What he does do is, before he goes, he prays for us. You can tell much about people by observing the way they leave, the way a person says good-bye. I think of Moses' speech to Israel as they stood on the threshold of the Promised Land and Moses stood on the threshold of death. General McArthur's farewell speech to Congress, in which he managed to say good-bye and to pay back Truman at the same time (Old Soldiers never die. They just fade away.")

Jesus has spoken farewell words to his disciples. But at the end, at the pinnacle of his farewell, He prays for us. That's what today's scripture is: Jesus' prayer -- for us.

I don't know why you've come here today. (Maybe you don't know the real reasons why you've come.) I don't know what burdens you brought in those big oak doors. But I know enough about a congregation to know that you can hardly find a place to sit out there for all the baggage, burdens, fears, unresolved grief, conflict and pain that's dragged in here on even an average Sunday.

And you know, if you've been here before, that no matter how good the music, the hymns, the sermon, the presence, you'll probably drag a lot of baggage out with you when you go, when Jesus goes, in the absence. So what's going to become of you?

I'll tell you. Jesus prays for you. As Hebrews says, we've got a great high priest, seated high in the heavens, who is good at interceding to God for us because he sits next to God. Our priest knows a great deal about human hurt because he came and stood next to us.

And when he goes, he doesn't say farewell and forget about us. He prays for us, never stops talking to God about us. He's gone away so he can be so close to God that he's always able to get God's ear when he needs to.

Today, when you say good-bye, I don't know where you are going, what tough paths you'll be walking, what burdens you'll be carrying. I do know this: Jesus prays for us.

Jesus comes to us, goes, comes back to us, then goes again, not to abandon us, but rather so that he might get so close to God that he might better pray for us.

Have you noticed? Here at Duke Chapel we put the prayers after the scripture is read, after hymns are sung, after the sermon. We do this to make the point that prayer, talking to God about human need, is the very pinnacle of worship, the moment toward which all other acts of worship move. And we clergy do our best to gather up as many of your concerns as we can and lay them before God. But, it's an impossible task to pray for you, as you really need to be prayed for. There are just too many of you, too many deep needs, too many of your secret, unspoken desires. How can we pray for you, as we ought to pray?

Fortunately, you have a better priest even than Nancy or me.