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| Jesus raises the widow of Nain's son. |
If you know me, you may know that I love
music—all kinds. When I meditate on scripture, I often think of songs or poems,
maybe because all three of these forms are measured in verses. One of the songs
that I thought about when thinking about the readings for this Sunday is the
song “On and On It Goes,” by Mary Chapin Carpenter, one of my favorites.
I was
especially blessed last night to be able to hear Chapin sing this song live
with the St. Louis Symphony, and it was, ironically, the first song she sang.
As I looked forward to being here with you today, these lyrics in particular
caught my attention:
Every night the TV shows
one more bad day's news
A world away from what I know
and what I do
But I could save a stranger's life
if I had a clue
And on and on it goes
Attention must be paid
Before it seems we're one soul short
and a second late
On and on it flies
Across the stratosphere
At the speed of love, if you stop
and feel it you will hear
I thought
about this song of perseverance, love, and hope as I looked forward to seeing
you all again today. I thought about the many times I have witnessed many of
you reaching out to save the life of a stranger, in big ways and little ones. The
life we live in Christ moves at the speed of love. And on and on it goes.
In our
gospels today, we hear stories of people persevering even in the midst of the
darkest times they could ever have imagined, and we hear them after a week
remembering those who grieve. Monday was Memorial Day, remembering those who
died in warfare. On Thursday, many people remembered those killed by gun
violence as part of the “Wear Orange” movement—remembering not just the ones
who have been wounded and killed, but their loved ones who are left to deal
with the aftermath of this terrible calculus that seems unstoppable. Too many
in our society claim that nothing can be done, or make false comparisons about
guns and cars, or talking about laws not being enforced or the nature of
criminals in ignoring the law.
But when I
think about this crisis in our common life, I first see the faces of mothers
and fathers, sons and daughters, grieving. Saying nothing can be done—to say we
are helpless—is not the American way. Monday’s remembrances on Memorial Day are
testaments to that. Saying nothing can be done is certainly not the Christian
way, either—and not the way of Jesus that we are called not just to admire but
to follow.
In our
gospel today, we see another story of life in the balance, and this one is
magnified in several ways. This is not a slave, but a son. A widow’s son—her
only source of support—has died, and the people of the town are accompanying
her to bury him. Jesus sees that grief and loss, and acts with compassion.
Jesus reaches out and saves a stranger’s life, because, in Christ, there are no
strangers.
Biblical
scholar John Pilch writes that Jesus’s healings are about restoring not just
life but about restoring meaning—restoring wholeness at that moment not only to
the person in need of healing, but to the entire community that surrounds them.
This effect is magnified in our stories today, where people are not only healed
but resurrected. Stories like these remind us that we are a resurrection
people, an Easter people. In professing our faith in Christ, we have been given
our lives back, and given a charge: to work for renewal and resurrection within
the world and within ourselves. Like that widow, after Jesus walks away having
given her back her son, we are looking for meaning ourselves, as we try to shed
our coat of cynicism, and step out as persons of faith every day, believing in
resurrection.
This is an
important point as we consider the state of our communities. As I was revising
this sermon yesterday, within five minutes two stories appeared in my news
feed: a father shot his baby daughter, tried to kill his wife, and then killed
himself in Ohio. A 16-year-old boy was sitting on his front porch in Indiana
when he was killed in a drive-by shooting. Within five minutes.
When we hear
stories like this, we could get overwhelmed by our anger, or be filled with
feelings of impotence. Or we could act out of hope that there is a better way.
We could determine that our society might be better based not on fear,
suspicion, and division, but rather based on true love of our neighbor and
dedication to work together for the resurrection of the common good.
Our psalm
today reminds us that weeping may spend the night, but joy comes in the morning.
Today we hear two similar stories of healing, of restoration. Yes, these are
stories of miracles. I’ve known people who don’t believe in miracles. But I
heard a wise rabbi say something to me this week. As much as he lived a life
rooted in practicalities and science, he said, “Of course there are miracles!
Every breath—even painful ones—are miracles.” And he is right-- miracles
surround us. But I don’t know if we would be as sensitive to miracles if we
also were not alive to the heartbreak we sometimes also feel.
Each of the
stories we ponder today involves heartbreak. The poet Mary Oliver reminds us
that heartbreak does serve a purpose. In one of her poems she tells a tragic
story of a group of loons. These birds arrived at the harbor near her home, and
they all died, one by one, for seemingly no reason, and it’s heartbreaking. But
just when we are wondering why she is telling this terrible story, she makes
the point that brings it home. She concludes the poem with this observation:
I tell
you this
to
break your heart,
by
which I mean only
that it
break open and never close again
to the
rest of the world.
Most of us
are born with hearts wide open, but sometimes, over time and experience, we try
to protect ourselves, and our hearts, the size of a fist in our chest, tightens
up like a fist as well. But to really love each other, our hearts have to be
cracked open, even just a bit. Sometimes a broken heart can spur us to
action, actions like empathy, compassion, and even, eventually, hope. A broken
heart knows how important it is to love each other.
And once we
love each other, no matter what, for good or for ill, our hearts will be broken
open a little more. Broken hearts are also miracles, because broken hearts at
least have known the gossamer bands of love.
One of the sources
of heartbreak we pray for today is for our country to be healed from the plague
of gun violence. It seems to be a plague that has affected us by balling our
hearts into those hard fists rather than breaking us open. Some have allowed fear
to take root under our ribcages and in our imaginations to see enemies
everywhere. Some of us try to build defensive walls and carry weapons in the
name of security and self-defense.
So why
don’t we feel safer? Why do we feel even more fearful? With every wall we make,
we overlook the fact that we have made ourselves feel ever more alone and
therefore vulnerable. In trying to prevent heartbreak, we have instead
cultivated even more fear. But this heartbreak can also remind us that we need
each other. That’s the way we are made. That’s the way we are made stronger,
and healed.
Although
it’s not in today’s epistle, in some of his earliest writings to early
Christian communities, the apostle Paul was wise in using the metaphor of the
body to try to unify Christians. Christians are all one body, Paul reminded us,
and not just ANY body—but the Body of Christ himself. As the Body of Christ, we
are called to minister to the world in the name of the love of God. We are a
priestly people. Priestly people do not give up. Priestly people, especially in
this day and age, know the power of love to transform and heal the world. Like
Jesus, our great high priest, we Christians are called to look out on the world
with compassion, and try to restore meaning through that active compassion upon
the places that especially cry out for healing, and for resurrection.
This means
being willing to step forward and envision a better society, and demand this
from our leaders-- to work for resurrection as Jesus does. It means being
willing to remember that as a nation, we too are one body, and resurrecting the
ties that bind us together as a society. Honor. Tolerance. Charity (which has
somehow become a dirty word, but literally means “heart-full-ness”). Civility.
Generosity. Compassion. Responsibility. Trust. Faith in each other. These are
the bedrocks of well-being as one people, regardless of our race, religion, or
creed—as Americans. Not surprisingly, they are also the hallmarks of the
Christian life, Jewish life, Buddhist, Muslim, and human life. I believe that
that’s a resurrection in our common life that can take root, too.
Every night the TV shows
one more bad day's news
A world away from what I know
and what I do
But I could save a stranger's life
if I had a clue
And on and on it goes
Attention must be paid
Before it seems we're one soul short
and a second late
On and on it flies
Across the stratosphere
At the speed of love, if you stop
and feel it you will hear
On and on
it goes—life, love, loss, hope. And into that unfolding always we know the love
of God.
Soon we
will gather at the table and be reminded of our common life together in Christ,
and then be asked to carry that knowledge and that power out into the world,
and act upon it.
There is
really nothing that is a world away from what we know and what we do, when we
look out upon the world mindful of our common life together. We are one body—an
injury to any part is an injury to us all. Our hearts open to the joy of that
common life, can we be willing to step out into places where there is weeping
during the night, and practice resurrection? Like Jesus, then and now, we could
change a stranger’s life at the speed of love. On and on it goes. Resurrection
moves at the speed of our love for each other and our willingness to work
together.
Amen.
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