Healing?

Sixth Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 8 (June 30, 2024): 2 Samuel 1:1, 17-27;
Psalm 130; 2 Corinthians 8:7-15; Mark 5:21-43

Today’s gospel includes two miracles of healing. In the first, there is a woman who has hemorrhaged for twelve years. I always respond to the sentence about her suffering viscerally, I want to speak to her, to tell her how sorry I am, do whatever I can. This is miserable in so many ways, physically and psychologically. And in Jewish society, menstruating women were unclean. The many physicians who had seen her had done no good. Having heard about Jesus, she thinks that just touching his cloak would heal her. And remarkably, it does. It’s an almost invisible exchange in the crowd, and only Jesus is aware of her. He tells her that her faith had made her well. But it was not just her faith: it was Jesus’ power.

“Your faith has made you well” is one of the frequently quoted phrases from Jesus. It has often been used to blame the sick for their illness. But that’s not what Jesus is doing. All of us have known people of great faith who suffered terrible illnesses and despite prayers and the wonders of modern medicine, they were not physically healed. Like the woman in the story, they seek out medical help as well as spiritual help. And they have been healed: they are loved and cared for, and in my experience, are at peace. What faith does is to acknowledge that this is not under our control. The message here is not that faith is enough; but that you go to the doctor and have faith.

Jesus’ power is also called upon in the other miracle story. Jairus has asked Jesus to come heal his sick daughter: he is on his way, followed by a crowd, when the woman touches his cloak. After he had spoken to the woman, people came from Jairus’ house telling him that his daughter was dead. Jesus asks why everyone is mourning, as “The child is not dead but sleeping”. H goes to her room, takes her by the hand, and tells her to get up. And she does.

Both these stories recount miraculous healing. But the woman in the first story is touching a corner of a cloak, unwilling to make demands. Jairus is the leader of the synagogue, and expects to be able to ask Jesus to come. Jesus does not choose between these two people seeking help: he helps both.

These stories remind us of two important things. First, there are different ways to approach Jesus, ways we all take at different times. Sometimes we think we can just about reach the cloak, a reminder of Jesus’ presence. And that can be enough. At other times we need Jesus to come, to be exactly where we want him and take care of what we need. The other is that healing means many things, and happens in ways we do not expect. We need faith.

Have you still no faith?

Fifth Sunday of Pentecost, June 23, 2024 (Proper 7): 1 Samuel 17: (1a, 4-11, 19-23), 32-49; Psalm 9:9-20; 2 Corinthians 6:1-13; Mark 4:35-41

You really can’t blame the disciples. The Sea of Galilee is relatively narrow, but it can still see wild storms. They are in a boat, at night, when the storm comes up. And water is swamping the boat. I think any of us would be afraid. And honestly, with the teacher you admire asleep in the stern, of course you would wake him. If nothing else, you really need help bailing out the boat.

It’s what happens next in Mark’s account that is surprising. Jesus wakes up, “rebukes the wind”, and tells the sea to be still. And the wind dies down, and the storm ceases. There is a dead calm. And Jesus asks them, “Why are you afraid?” This is one of the times when I can imagine all kinds of snappy comebacks from the disciples. It starts with “WHAT just happened?” I can hear a teenager voice responding, “Why do you think?” I mean, it appeared that our boat would sink.

Jesus then asks the question that we continue to ask: “Have you still no faith?” To which my thought is, of course I have faith in you as a teacher, but I had no idea you could control the sea and the wind! Jesus is acting in a setting where we had not imagined his power.

If anything, the story of David and Goliath is even more familiar than that of Jesus calming the storm, and has become a familiar metaphor for seemingly unequal contests. But in our reading today (including the optional bits) we get the set-up. Goliath is introduced: in our text, he is six cubits and a span (roughly 9 ft. 9 in.); in others he is still 4 cubits and a span (6 ft. 9 in)–very tall, but not a giant. His armor is described in terms of the weight of the metal, and he is carrying a bronze javelin. He is, on the face of it, terrifying.

And he is not nice. Instead, he taunts the Israelites, proposing single combat to decide the fate of nations. David inserts himself into this scene, having left his sheep with a “keeper”. He proposes to fight Goliath. Saul resists: David is “just a boy”, and has not been trained as a soldier. David talks back, reminding Saul that he has killed lions and bears while protecting his sheep. David is prepared, he says, but in a different way from Goliath. So Saul gives David his armor, but David can’t move in it, so removes it. So David faces Goliath in his normal clothes, with a staff and a slingshot, and 5 smooth stones in his pouch. Goliath, meanwhile, has a shield bearer in front of him, and is covered with armor.

It is not surprising that Goliath “disdained” David, and he was also clearly insulted that the Israelites had sent someone so unsuited to the task to fight with him. But David reframes the battle. Goliath comes with “sword and spear and javelin”, but David comes “in the name of the Lord of hosts”. And suddenly the contrast works in David’s favor: Goliath draws “nearer” to meet David, but David “ran quickly to the battle line”. His speed is as important as his slingshot: he can get his shot before Goliath attacks.

Just as the disciples did not expect Jesus to calm the waters, it is pretty clear that Saul (and presumably the rest of the Israelite army) did not expect David to be successful. But no one else in the army wanted to face Goliath, so they let David go. In both these stories, the ending is highly improbable. Yet the improbable happens.

The problem for me is that while the improbable sometimes happens, it does not always. And our wanting something improbable does not mean it will happen. It does not mean it will happen even if the improbable will advance the kingdom of God in the world. The reminder that the improbable *does* sometimes happen is also a reminder of how God disrupts our expectations.

“Have you still no faith?” My answer is that I have faith in the risen Christ who died for our sins. I’m not sure I expect Jesus to calm the storm, cool the temperatures, or mitigate the consequences of climate change. Here David and Goliath provide important context: it may have seemed unequal, but David had spent years preparing, building the skills he used to kill Goliath. It is not enough to wish for the improbable to happen: we have to prepare the ground for it.

Fourth Sunday of Pentecost, Proper 6, June 16, 2024: 1 Samuel 15:34-16:13; Psalm 20; 2 Corinthians 5:6-10,[11-13],14-17;
Mark 4:26-34

Samuel goes to find a King for Israel, and the Lord tells him that one of the sons of Jesse the Bethlehemite will be the one. Jesse, called upon to produce his sons, first brings out the oldest. It should be the oldest son, that’s what is expected. Samuel is impressed, but the Lord tells him that this is not the one. “The Lord does not see as mortals see; they look on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.” One by one, seven of Jesse’s sons pass before Samuel, but none are chosen. When pressed, Jesse admits that his youngest son is out keeping sheep. David is called. He is described as having beautiful eyes and being handsome. And the Lord tells Samuel, “this is the one”.

How often are we expecting one person to be key when another turns out to be more important? I’m pretty sure Jesse was just as surprised as Samuel that it was his youngest son who was chosen. Many of us know the story that follows: David is a key figure in the history of the people of Israel, called the author of the psalms we say each Sunday. It’s important that Joseph is “of the house and lineage of David”, linking Jesus to this royal line. David matters. As we will see over our readings this summer, David does some things that are noble, and others that are not so noble. But it’s easy to forget that he was not the expected choice. It’s a reminder that, as in the words of William Cowper’s hymn, “God moves in mysterious ways/ His wonders to perform”.

Our gospel reading today tells us of other mysteries: the way the Kingdom of Heaven grows. It is like seeds that we plant: we don’t know how they grow, but they do. And then farmers will harvest them. Or, Jesus tells his disciples, it is like a mustard seed: it grows from a tiny seed to a great bush, big enough for birds to nest in it.

Here’s the thing: in Jesus’ time mustard was not a cultivated crop, but a weed. Mustard will self-seed. You cannot control where it will grow. Farmers might not welcome the appearance of mustard, because it disrupted their plans. We are familiar with the sense that with the Kingdom of God something small becomes something big. But we often forget that the Kingdom of God takes its own shape, and grows where it will and how it will. In spite of the efforts of church administrators over 2000 years, the Kingdom has been deeply resistant to fitting in with their plans. Many of those now revered as saints, after all, were actually finding their own way to live out the Kingdom whether or not the organized church agreed!

We are part of the Kingdom, and we scatter our seeds. We never know which will grow. It may not be the ones we expect, and they may not grow where we think they should. But David was not expected to be the one chosen by Samuel, and the mustard plant sends its seeds all over. Amazing things can happen, if we just let them. We cannot control it, because God does indeed move in mysterious ways.

White mustard, the type native to the Mediterranean.

Who is my king?

Third Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 5, June 9, 2024: 1 Samuel 8:4-11, (12-15), 16-20, (11:14-15); Psalm 138; 2 Corinthians 4:13-5:1; Mark 3:20-35

The elders of Israel came to Samuel, and ask to have a king appointed over Israel. Samuel is not happy, but the Lord’s response is that the people “have rejected me from being King over them”. Samuel warns the people that a King will exploit them: take their sons for the military, draft workers to work his land, take daughters to work in his kitchens. He will, Samuel warned, take a tenth of your flocks, “and you shall be his slaves”. But the people are determined: all the neighboring nations have Kings, and they want one too. So Saul became King.

Samuel’s warning about the abuses of power seem prescient, and often get lost in our understandings of scripture. Samuel was right in the history of Israel, as we will read in the Hebrew scriptures over the course of this summer. He was right also in history, in our experience. Whether the petty tyranny of a manager or the use of power by those in positions of political authority, we have all seen the way power (even very little power) can go to people’s heads.

The Lord’s reminder in this is that the Lord should be King: the Lord is the one who should exercise power. I am not sure that we, like the Israelites, actually want to have the Lord as King. It can be a bit terrifying. Why that is so is evident in today’s reading from Mark’s gospel.

When our reading opens, Jesus has just healed a man with a shriveled hand on the Sabbath, and has appointed his disciples with power to cast out demons. The crowds are uncertain, and some say that Jesus himself is possessed by demons. His response rejects that idea, but is still challenging.

Jesus denies that he is possessed, for “How can Satan cast out Satan”? In the words that Abraham Lincoln quoted in his House Divided speech in 1858, “A house divided against itself cannot stand”. So Satan could not fight Satan.

Even more important than Jesus emphasis on unity, is Jesus’ comment on family. His mother, brother and sisters have come for him, concerned for his safety. Jesus asks who are his family. Then he affirms one of the more radical elements of his teaching: “Here are my mother and my brothers! Whoever does the will of God is my brother and sister and mother.”

The family was the basic social unit of Palestinian society. In rejecting his birth family, and creating a new family, Jesus was challenging the social order. He is also challenging us. Are we ready to think of “whoever does the will of God” as a member of our family? Episcopalians in the Diocese of San Joaquin have experienced divisions among Christians, among those who all claim to do the will of God. Can we reflect God’s love with our divisions?

Together, today’s readings ask us to think about how we see ourselves in the world. What is our relationship to structures of power? Do we open ourselves to all who do the will of God, or do we live in the cocoon of our family? Do we live in a bubble of people who largely agree with us? Do we see those who understand God differently as members of our family? I suspect that few of us are completely open to those who do God’s will. And this is perhaps a reason we are not eager to have the Lord as a King over us: an earthly King may abuse us, but will not challenge the way we live our lives as much as Jesus does.