A Word to those who Weep

Luke 7:1-17

7 After Jesus had finished all his sayings in the hearing of the people, he entered Capernaum. 2 A centurion there had a slave whom he valued highly, and who was ill and close to death. 3 When he heard about Jesus, he sent some Jewish elders to him, asking him to come and heal his slave. 4 When they came to Jesus, they appealed to him earnestly, saying, “He is worthy of having you do this for him, 5 for he loves our people, and it is he who built our synagogue for us.” 6 And Jesus went with them, but when he was not far from the house, the centurion sent friends to say to him, “Lord, do not trouble yourself, for I am not worthy to have you come under my roof; 7 therefore I did not presume to come to you. But only speak the word, and let my servant be healed. 8 For I also am a man set under authority, with soldiers under me; and I say to one, ‘Go,’ and he goes, and to another, ‘Come,’ and he comes, and to my slave, ‘Do this,’ and the slave does it.” 9 When Jesus heard this he was amazed at him, and turning to the crowd that followed him, he said, “I tell you, not even in Israel have I found such faith.” 10 When those who had been sent returned to the house, they found the slave in good health.

11 Soon afterwards[b] he went to a town called Nain, and his disciples and a large crowd went with him. 12 As he approached the gate of the town, a man who had died was being carried out. He was his mother’s only son, and she was a widow; and with her was a large crowd from the town. 13 When the Lord saw her, he had compassion for her and said to her, “Do not weep.” 14 Then he came forward and touched the bier, and the bearers stood still. And he said, “Young man, I say to you, rise!” 15 The dead man sat up and began to speak, and Jesus[c] gave him to his mother. 16 Fear seized all of them; and they glorified God, saying, “A great prophet has risen among us!” and “God has looked favorably on his people!” 17 This word about him spread throughout Judea and all the surrounding country.

It’s been almost a full year since the Coronavirus pandemic upended every aspect of our lives. Each day seems to unveil new reminders that reiterate just how long it has been. The Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo just announced the cancellation of this year’s event. And while most of us probably saw that coming a mile away, even as we try to steel ourselves against continued disappointment, it forms yet another landmark of loss. Even if you’ve never been and never intended to go, the rodeo is such a part of this city’s spring psyche, that the weight of its absence affects much more than our calendars or economy. Locally, it was the loss of this communal ritual last year that made clear to many of us just how significant the danger was becoming.  As we approach this anniversary and the various things that won’t happen…again, and are struck by the stark awareness of what hasn’t gotten better… it stirs up the old fears, heartache, and trauma.  The impact is multiplied as this crisis left us without many of the ways we would usually cope and care. And of those that have remained, we’ve already had to extend their reach far beyond what we ever anticipated…again and again.

 At this point, which one of us doesn’t feel ill and close to death multiple times a week or even in a day? And if not us directly, then likely somewhere within the circle of people near to us that we value highly. This on top of medical diagnoses, relationship struggles, existing mental health concerns, and continued injustice.

 I read an article on Huffington Post this week called “It's Not Just You. A Lot Of Us Are Hitting A Pandemic Wall Right Now.” Our body’s natural adrenaline and cortisol systems that keep us going during stress have been working on overdrive. One licensed mental health counselor explained that “when our fight-or-flight system has been totally overworked like that, even little things that might not have bothered us before can get to us. Eventually, those feelings build up and can become emotionally exhausting. “We’re at more risk for burnout because of the circumstances and because of the fact that we’re continually re-traumatized and [reactivating] that cortisol spike.”

Our bodies and souls yearn for healing. Off in the distance, we’ve heard that this is exactly what some teacher named Jesus is up to.

The Centurion gives voice to this longing. He speaks this need for healing and shares this need with his community. He puts forward the suffering of another which has clearly become his own suffering as well. Everything is laid out in the open in trusted relationship and in vulnerable hope. I suppose healing is not entirely impossible in silence and seclusion, but it seems significantly encouraged when wounds are no longer hidden entirely. Downplaying and distracting ourselves from the hurt simply doesn’t accomplish actual healing.

 The widow of Nain isn’t given a voice in her grief, there are no words or prayers that we can hear or see. And yet, we know she is still surrounded by her community to share the weight of this moment.  She has allowed her grief to be seen in public and she is not abandoned.

Jesus hears the Centurion’s agony and moves toward it. Jesus sees the Widow’s heartache and is moved with compassion, a suffering with those who are suffering. Jesus tends to the sick and engages the sorrow. Jesus touches the bier, the thing that carries the dead, breaking through the boundary of “good clean” religiosity. Jesus extends a hand to the place of death and decay to bring healing and renewal.

God draws near when hope seems far and speaks a word of wholeness. God leads a procession of life right into the middle of a procession of death, disrupting its pull, and giving rise to renewed joy that overflows.

 While there are other stories where Jesus heals inside someone’s home or at the place where they set up to teach…here, healing is not something that happens as a static location, it happens in motion. It is not a set place that the wounded make pilgrimage to, but something that unfolds along the way.  It isn’t bound to the place we’d know to call sacred nor the places we fortify with control, but transpires in the space in-between.  

 Nor is this healing contained to one people, but transcends to the vast diversity of creation. The widow is Jewish like Jesus. She’s part of the family and tradition that gives guidance and clear directive for care. The Centurion is Roman, meaning not-Jewish, not a part of the people Israel, not a part of the family, and even part of active opposition. God is present and at work just as profoundly, even beyond what the world might define as proper or just.  Faith is seen and experienced even in what the righteous might call profane. In Christ, there is room even for opposing peoples to know healing. 

There’s a fairly popular saying that sits in the back of my mind whenever faith and healing and community come up. It proclaims, “the church is not a museum for saints, it is a hospital for sinners.” It’s a word of comfort when I don’t feel very saintly and when I want others who feel similarly to know they are welcome here too. But, I wonder if it doesn’t ring a bit hollow when we’re really in the thick of it, when the idea of hospitals and healing seems laughably quaint as we’re being carried out on what feels like a funeral bier. Perhaps the church is not a hospital for sinners; it is a morgue for the dead. Yet, it is the strangest of morgues—people arrive dead as doornails and leave alive! I have experienced this as true even when it appears that no obvious miracle has arrived. Healing doesn’t always look like cure, but it can also be care.  Healing doesn’t always mean physical resurrection, but it does mean restoration and wholeness.

This is a powerful Word. It’s the kind of word that isn’t limited to proximity, but can reach across time and place and people to create what it says. There is power in community, in presence and gathering, but also in Word, in what is spoken to become being.  As Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel once said and as every poet already knows, “words create worlds.” Jesus, who is The Word embodied, creates a new world and a new way where there seems to be none. The Centurion particularly recognizes this – that if Jesus says something, it can be counted on as complete. And the mourning masses become a part of that Word, spreading the word of One who has arisen to give rise to impossible hopes.  Speaking is its own kind of resurrection from death which creates silence. As they tell others of the pieces of their own story that were dead and now show signs of life, it sparks life in others. 

And listen, I’m not saying that life is immediately lush and flowering. It may look like something on the clearance rack at the nursery and be wilted and damaged and parts of it may or may not grow back, but it can and will live and grow. God’s specialty seems to be the broken, bruised, and totally dried up things anyway.  God sees our heartache and hurt, we need not be afraid or ashamed of showing it. God tends to us where we are most tender. God says we are holy and whole and in so doing, revives us when from what feels too far gone.

May we see and hear and know and hold and reflect this life-giving Word today and tomorrow and throughout our story. Amen.

 ……..

 What does this sacred story show us about God? Where are you in this story or what part is about you?

What is the Holy Spirit saying to you here?  What does it move you to say to others?