Texts: Lamentations 3:22-33; 2 Corinthians 8:7-15; Mark 6:1-13
We are now in the second half of the Church Year, when we consider what it means to be a Christian. In a sense, all that we read and reflect on in this part of the year is a variation on the theme we had last week. The central question for us, as it was for Christ’s terrified disciples in the boat, is, who then is Jesus? If the waves and the wind obey him, who is he? If sickness and death yield to his power, who is he? As we continue through this part of the year, that is the question we should have simmering away gently in the back of our minds.
And the related question is, who are we who claim to be followers of Christ? What is required of us as followers of Christ? How should we live out our lives as his followers? And that question is a little different from wondering what it is that we believe as Christians – or, worse still, what we should believe as Christians? All that was decided a long time ago, and is concerned with who Jesus is. But Christianity is not primarily a belief system, a philosophy or even a theology. Christianity is first and foremost a way of life to be lived out in the particular circumstances in which we find ourselves for the time being.
Recently I had the pleasure of meeting with a young couple who are in the early stages of planning their wedding. I asked them why they might want a religious rather than a civil ceremony. They were refreshingly honest and open with me. They hadn’t really thought about that issue at all; they were focussed on the practical details, in particular, where they would like the ceremony to be held. They thought of our church as a lovely venue for the wedding, without thinking too much about what we would do in it – what the ceremony would involve.
And I sometimes wonder if we in the church aren’t a bit like that ourselves. In a parish like ours, blessed with two beautiful historic churches, the temptation to focus on the buildings and not what we do in them is always there. If – God forbid! – Holy Trinity were to collapse into a heap of stones and rubble or St Barnabas were to go up in a puff of smoke, what would that do to our faith? Would we – could we – continue as a faith community – or would our faith become ever more a private personal thing that we keep to ourselves?
Which gets us back to the question, how do we live out our lives as followers of Christ? And we are offered some key elements to ponder in our three readings today.
Our first reading from the Book of Lamentations is an interesting choice, given our gospel reading today. The gospel reading is clearly based in part on the story of Elijah praying for the dead son of the widow of Zarephath (1 Kings 17:7-24), so we might have expected that our first lesson would come from that story. But it doesn’t. Instead, we have this passage from the Book of Lamentations, which is more of a counterweight to the gospel story than an earlier version of it.
The message from our first reading is that faith is about trust in God even when there is no obvious ground for believing in God. When things are going well, faith may come a little easier; when they are going wrong, faith may disappear just as easily.
So we need this reminder from the first lesson that faith is grounded in the nature or character of God, more than in the actions of God. Of course, our faith history and memory of God’s past deeds help to reveal to us God’s character, and we believe in the goodness of God because of what he has done in the past. But the essential message from this reading is to look past the flashy miracles that we are sometimes too eager to focus on, and look to the character of God.
No doubt the widow of Zarephath found it easy to believe in God when her son’s life was restored to him; but would it have held if her son had remained dead? The author of Lamentations is in the pit of despair. This is from the time of defeat and exile. He says he remembers my affliction and my wandering, the bitterness and the gall. But there may yet be hope. How can there yet be hope in such terrible circumstances? Because of the Lord’s great love and compassion. Hold on to your trust in God, says the author, because God is trustworthy.
With that background we can perhaps look a little more deeply at today’s gospel reading. At one level it is a straight out “success” story – or rather two straight out success stories interwoven into one. Jesus saves the little girl who has died; and the chronically ill woman is healed by touching the hem of his robe. They are miracle stories, and they are clearly about who Jesus is. Jesus has the same power over life and death as God has; therefore Jesus is God.
But they are also dangerous stories. Very often commentators on these passages stress the important role played by faith in these stories, and there is no denying that faith plays a part in them. Jairus clearly believes that Jesus is able to save his sick daughter. It may be that his faith wobbles a bit when news reaches him that his daughter has died, because Jesus has to reassure him: Don’t be afraid; just believe.
And the chronically ill woman clearly had faith: When she heard about Jesus, she came up behind him in the crowd and touched his cloak, because she thought, “If I just touch his clothes, I will be healed.” And, of course, when she is healed and Jesus has identified her he says to her Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace and be freed from your suffering.
So clearly faith is important. But the danger in these stories lies in over-stressing that element. First, that approach leaves us nothing to hang onto in those cases when healing does not occur. If the woman had not been healed, would she still have believed in Jesus, or would she have shrugged and accepted that she was wrong about his power to heal her? The crowd at Jairus’ house laughed when Jesus said the little girl was only sleeping. How much more they would have laughed at him if she had not been raised back to new life.
Secondly, what does this approach say about the power of Christ’s love? Does it depend on our faith? Can he only love us into wholeness and healing if our faith, or at least somebody’s faith acting on our behalf, is strong enough to help him? But if these stories are not primarily about our faith, what are they about?
And I wonder if the clue to that question is to be found in our second lesson. At first sight, it seems an odd reading to go with these other two. It’s about the collection that St Paul is organising for the saints, the believers, in Jerusalem. St Paul is encouraging the Corinthians to be as generous as possible in giving to their fellow Christians who are in need in Jerusalem. But generosity of this kind is not always easy because it is not always welcome.
Sometimes in ministry it is exceedingly difficult to give help to someone in need because they will not accept it. Suppose the saints in Jerusalem had been brought up as Anglicans: what would have happened when the collection was raised and Paul’s emissary’s had arrived in Jerusalem with the dosh? My experience suggests there would have been a fair chance that the saints in Jerusalem would have rejected it. “We’re fine, thank you very much. We don’t need charity.”
In other words, I’m suggesting this morning that one of the key lessons we might draw from our gospel stories is about our willingness to acknowledge our needs, and to seek and accept help for them. How can we help others if we are unaware of their needs? How can others help us if we do not let it be known that we are in need? We tell ourselves that we don’t want to be a nuisance, we don’t want to impose on others; in other words we follow our cultural norms. But at root, is that anything other than pride speaking?
Our faith norms are different. Within the body of Christ we are called to bear one another’s burdens. We are told that if any one member of the church is suffering we are all suffering, because we are one body. Therefore, should we not learn from Jairus? He was an important person, with a significant position in the local community. Yet in full public view he came and knelt at Jesus’ feet and begged for help. It is true that the chronically ill woman approached Jesus secretly, as it were, but she had very good reason for that. She was “unclean”; if the crowd had known of her condition they would have driven her out, and quite possibly killed her.
She recognised her need for help; neither she nor Jairus let pride get in the way. That is an important message for us, I think. I am always saddened when somebody in the parish is unwell, and they insist that I am not to tell the rest of you; mustn’t put it in the pewsheet, or mention it in the service.
How can we help one another – how can we be helped by others – how can we be a community of faith, members of one body - if our needs are to be kept from one another? Perhaps we seek only a miracle direct from heaven, and preferably under cover of darkness.
But that’s not the Christian way of life, is it?
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