FIFTH SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY
Prayer of the Day: Everlasting God, you give strength to the weak and power to the faint. Make us agents of your healing and wholeness, that your good news may be made known to the ends of your creation, through Jesus Christ, our Savior and Lord.
“[God] heals the broken-hearted,
and binds up their wounds.
He determines the number of the stars;
he gives to all of them their names.
Great is our Lord, and abundant in power;
his understanding is beyond measure.
The Lord lifts up the downtrodden;
he casts the wicked to the ground.” Psalm 147:3-6
“That evening, at sunset, they brought to him all who were sick or possessed with demons. And the whole city was gathered around the door. And he cured many who were sick with various diseases, and cast out many demons…” Mark 1:32-34.
The International Star Registry (ISR) is an organization founded in 1979 for the purpose of giving the general public an opportunity to name stars in honor or memory of a loved one. The company claims to have named about two million stars since its formation. These christened stars are then copyrighted and published in a series of books. I don’t know what legal effect, if any, attaches to naming a star through the ISR. Nor do I understand quite how one can be certain that his or her star is not being resold under numerous different names and dedicated to any number of different individuals. But perhaps my concern is misplaced. After all, there are probably more stars in the heavens than we mortals can begin to count. Moreover, it is my understanding that the millions of stars we can see with the naked eye are but the tip of the iceberg. Our powerful space based telescopes reveal millions of galaxies filled with billions of stars that lie beyond our vision. It does not appear that we will be running out of stars anytime soon.
There is something reassuring about God’s knowing and even having names for each of these billions of stars, most of which we will never see. God knows intimately the stars beyond reach of our most powerful telescopes; stars that went dark ages before our planet was born but whose light continues to adorn our night sky; stars that will be born after our sun has gone dark-all of these stars and the worlds circling them are individually known and loved by the One who calls them into existence. Of course, that observation cuts both ways. When I made this same point in a prior post, an atheist with whom I occasionally correspond, one of the most thoughtful and compassionate people I have had the pleasure of meeting, replied as follows: “Why would a god who presides over the creation of such a vast and complex universe care whether a bunch of advanced apes on a single planet circling a single star in one of millions of galaxies worships him?”
My friend’s question zeros in on a critical point. The debate over God’s existence is pointless if God is unconcerned with the minutia of the universe God created. If God is indifferent to our worship, our prayers and our treatment of one another, then God might just as well not exist. Applying our best thinking can disclose much about the principles governing the world in which we live. Who can know and why should anyone care whether those principles are divinely established or just are? We could just as profitably debate the existence of unicorns on planets in the Andrameda galaxy. We will likely never know one way or the other and it doesn’t matter anyway.
But the remarkably good news Jesus proclaims is that the God he knows as “abba” is concerned with the minutia and does get involved with what God has made. No part of the universe is so small, so insignificant or so hopelessly broken to escape God’s notice and the reach of God’s healing love. That God so loved this one speck of air, water and mud floating in the arm of just one of a million galaxies of innumerable stars and existing for only a blink of an eye measured in cosmic time is the core of what we call gospel. This God who knows every star stoops down to “heal the broken hearted,” “bind up the wounds” of the sick, injured and oppressed and “lift up the downtrodden” in this one tiny corner of God’s vast universe. God puts God’s “skin in the game” by infusing Godself into our very DNA, reaching out to embrace us with human arms and to love us with a human heart. Moreover, this God’s love remains undeterred even when those embracing arms are nailed to a cross and that compassionate heart broken.
Healing is central to Jesus’ ministry. It is an extension of God’s character as the One whose creative activity is not limited to a single and discrete act at the dawn of time, but continues in the throbbing of every wave and particle of this expanding universe, redeeming what is lost, restoring what is broken and drawing the whole toward its proper end where, to use Paul’s language, “God is all in all.” I Corinthians 15:28.
Jesus’ healing work was intensely political. In the First Century, it was generally assumed that illnesses, injuries and physical impairments were inflicted as divine punishment for sin. Knowing this, we can better understand Jesus’ words to the paralytic lowered down to him on a stretcher through the roof of the house where he was staying. “Your sins are forgiven,” Jesus tells the paralytic. This, I believe, is not an absolution as much as a proclamation. Jesus is saying, in effect, “this paralysis is not your fault and you do not deserve it.” That is a word the man needed very much to hear. Naturally, Jesus’ critics who assume the contrary are deeply offended. “Who are you, Jesus, to question the wisdom of God in afflicting this man? Who are you to say that the sin obviously bringing this illness upon him is forgiven?” Jesus’ subsequent act of healing further reinforces the point. God is not the source of human sickness and suffering. God’s will is for people to be made whole. Thus, the sick, the blind, the lame and the injured are not under a harsh judgment for sin. They are God’s objects of compassion and, for the disciple, an invitation to “share in the works of God.” John 9:1-4.
I would like to believe that, given our deeper understanding of disease processes, we have left behind the notions of blame, fault and punishment formerly associated with sickness. But I am not sure that is the case. Though we generally manage to leave God out of the equation these days, it is not uncommon to place responsibility for illness, injury and disease upon the shoulders of the sufferer. People who suffer from Type II diabetes are frequently shamed for obesity, poor diet and lack of exercise. Cancer patients are often led to believe that their disease stems from lifestyles, diet and habits. That might be true in part, but it is hardly the rule. Serious illness strikes down otherwise healthy people in the prime of life and frequently leaves the profligate unmolested into old age. to A young woman I met during my seminary years was diagnosed with breast cancer. “I don’t understand it,” she said through tears. “I’ve been a vegetarian all my life. I exercise. I do meditation. I drink only distilled water. Why is this happening to me!” We seem to have an unwritten, unarticulated belief that if we eat well, exercise and stay away from unhealthy habits, we will remain healthy and live to a great old age. We reinforce this belief by telling ourselves stories about eighty year olds who run marathons, ninety year old business executives and hundred year old folks who still do New York Times crossword puzzles, as though such healthy longevity can be ours as well-as long as we follow the rules.
Illness does not affect the sufferer alone. One’s family and friends are also involved in the disease process as caregivers and providers. The financial and emotional toll of caring for a chronically sick loved can be overwhelming. We are only human and the stress of being on duty 24/7 with little or no support leaves precious little opportunity to recharge our own battery. People who are sick and hurting are not their best selves. Caring for them can try one’s patience to the breaking point. Over and over in my ministry I have heard caregivers share feelings of anger and frustration adding, “Pastor, I know I shouldn’t feel this way.” Of course, I remind them that feelings are not right or wrong, they just are. Caregivers need support and care for their own needs-something that is frequently lacking.
Sufferers are generally aware of stress facing their caregivers and carry their own load of guilt in these situations. None of us wants to be a “burden” on our families and friends. None of us wants to be in a position in which we cannot contribute to the household and feel we are taking more than we give. All of this is exacerbated or perhaps caused by flaws in our nation’s health care system-such that it is. Illness is hard enough to endure without having to negotiate the complex and confusing phone menus required simply to reach a genuine human being in a medical practice, to say nothing of the layers of byzantine procedural obstacles one must clear to obtain authorization from insurers for treatment. It is hardly surprising that people afflicted with chronic illness frequently suffer depression as well. It is hard to escape the feeling that you are useless, a burden on your family, a nuisance to your medical providers and an expense to society. We don’t need God to inflict guilt upon those who suffer. We are perfectly capable of doing that all by ourselves.
Attitudes toward the ill and impaired were not always so heartless. In the church of the middle ages, care for the poor was not merely a civic responsibility. To the faithful, it was a spiritual exercise. So far from being a burden, the blind, lame and lepers were considered holy opportunities for practicing compassion, patience and mercy. Caring for them was sacramental, for in their broken bodies and wounded flesh the sufferings of Christ became visible. The sick and suffering were not merely social problems to be solved, but icons in whom the face of Jesus could be seen.
The sick, the impaired and the dying face some formidable challenges in our culture beyond those inflicted by their infirmities. Reforming our inhumane and inadequate health care system can do much to alleviate such suffering. The burden of caring for chronically ill family members can be reduced significantly through improving and making more widely available and affordable home health care services. Anxiety over financial ruin can be eliminated where adequate health care is made available to everyone regardless of one’s ability to pay. Simplifying the methods by which medical care is provided and financed also reduces anxiety and ensures that no one falls through the cracks.
Nevertheless, while health care reform is critical, that alone cannot cure our culture’s ostracizing approach to the ill and infirm. Those of us who identify as disciples of Jesus are uniquely positioned to open the eyes of our world to the wealth of wisdom and understanding suffering people have to share with us. We need to recapture the message Jesus sends us in the gospels. We need to learn once more what we have forgotten, namely, that the sick and the dying have gifts to offer us. Living as they do on the frontiers of eternity, they can school us in recognizing our own mortality, our own frailty and the fragility of life itself. Like the most distant stars, they live their lives near to the line were our universe expands into its Maker. In the practice of healing the bodily sick, we are confronted with our own spiritual sickness, our failure to treat reverently every day as though it were our last, our arrogant presumption that our health is a sign of God’s blessing and approval, our coldness and indifference to the call of Jesus coming to us from the injured, disabled and chronically ill.
Here is a poem by James Dicky bridging the gulf between illness and health and taking us near the frontiers of life.
The Hospital Window
I have just come down from my father.
Higher and higher he lies
Above me in a blue light
Shed by a tinted window.
I drop through six white floors
And then step out onto pavement.
Still feeling my father ascend,
I start to cross the firm street,
My shoulder blades shining with all
The glass the huge building can raise.
Now I must turn round and face it,
And know his one pane from the others.
Each window possesses the sun
As though it burned there on a wick.
I wave, like a man catching fire.
All the deep-dyed windowpanes flash,
And, behind them, all the white rooms
They turn to the color of Heaven.
Ceremoniously, gravely, and weakly,
Dozens of pale hands are waving
Back, from inside their flames.
Yet one pure pane among these
Is the bright, erased blankness of nothing.
I know that my father is there,
In the shape of his death still living.
The traffic increases around me
Like a madness called down on my head.
The horns blast at me like shotguns,
And drivers lean out, driven crazy—
But now my propped-up father
Lifts his arm out of stillness at last.
The light from the window strikes me
And I turn as blue as a soul,
As the moment when I was born.
I am not afraid for my father—
Look! He is grinning; he is not
Afraid for my life, either,
As the wild engines stand at my knees
Shredding their gears and roaring,
And I hold each car in its place
For miles, inciting its horn
To blow down the walls of the world
That the dying may float without fear
In the bold blue gaze of my father.
Slowly I move to the sidewalk
With my pin-tingling hand half dead
At the end of my bloodless arm.
I carry it off in amazement,
High, still higher, still waving,
My recognized face fully mortal,
Yet not; not at all, in the pale,
Drained, otherworldly, stricken,
Created hue of stained glass.
I have just come down from my father.
Source:The Whole Motion: Collected Poems 1945-1992 (c. 1992 by James Dicky; pub. by Wesleyan University Press). James L. Dicky (1923-1997) was an American poet and novelist. He is best known for his novel Deliverance, which was adapted into the acclaimed 1972 film of the same name, but he also authored several other novels and books of poetry. Dickey was born in Atlanta, Georgia. After graduating high school, he completed a postgraduate year at Darlington School in Rome, Georgia. Unhappy with that institution, he dropped out and enrolled a year later at Clemson Agricultural College of South Carolina. But after just one semester, he left school to enlist in the military. Dickey served with the U.S. Army Air Forces during the Second World War where he flew thirty-eight missions in the Pacific. He later served in the U.S. Air Force during the Korean War. Between these periods of service, he attended Vanderbilt University where he graduated with degrees in English and philosophy and a minor in astronomy. He also received an M.A. in English from Vanderbilt. Dicky’s teaching career was tumultuous. He began teaching English at Rice University in 1950, but left his position to serve his second stint with the Air Force. Following his discharge, he took a teaching position at the University of Florida. Dicky resigned from that position following a protest by the American Pen’s Women’s society over his reading of a poem deemed offensive, effectively ending his academic career for several years during which he worked as a copy writer for several corporations. Dicky returned to academic life seven years later, working as a visiting lecturer from 1963 to 1968 at several schools including Reed College, California State University, Northridge, University of Wisconsin–Madison, University of Wisconsin–Milwaukee, Washington University in St. Louis and Georgia Institute of Technology. Dickey accepted a position in1969 as professor of English and writer-in-residence at University of South Carolina where he continued to teach full time for the rest of his life. You can read more about James Dicky and sample more of his poetry at the Poetry Foundation website.
Peter's Outer Cape Portico 