St. Paul Lutheran Church, Albuquerque
2nd after Pentecost (Lectionary 10C), June 10, 2007
1 Kings 17:17-24 & Luke 7:11-17
Pastor Harold Nilsson
Less than a month ago I stood beside a freshly dug, tree-shaded grave in St. Joseph, Missouri. It was my holy privilege to commit to the ground the body of a dear friend and classmate with whom I was ordained 42 years ago yesterday. Walter was a faithful pastor who served God and the church with devotion and courage. Though by many standards Walt died young (he was days short of 73), he lived long enough to see his grandchildren, and to celebrate 50 years of marriage to his beloved wife. Although the mystery and even the anxiety surrounding death were in the background that day (as they are at every death), and though our tears flowed generously, nevertheless we gathered around Walt’s grave to celebrate a life that was full and rich in the things of the spirit. He came to his death at peace with God, and his children and grandchildren could join a congregation of family and friends in singing the Easter hymns of triumph and hope. The customary cycle of life and death unfolded once again.
But it is a violation of the way things are meant to be when children die before their parents. The order of the generations is interrupted when that happens, and the grief of parents is deep and profound. The age of the child does not temper the pain, so far as I have observed. The grief of a mother named Birdene who lost a 14 year old son was rivaled by that of a mother named Marian, whose son died at 55. Memories of a miscarried or stillborn child may be dulled over time, but never forgotten. We have seen the agonized faces of too many mothers who have lost sons and daughters in Iraq, and Afghanistan, and Gaza, and Israel, and on the streets of our cities.
A single parent lost a child. The son of the widow of Nain was her only son, perhaps her only child. No doubt she was numb that day as she walked out to the cemetery with her Galilean friends and neighbors. Shock does that to people. There does seem to be a reserve of energy you can call on at those times which helps you put on a pleasant face and greet the people who’ve come to convey their sympathy. But deep within her, pain was waiting to erupt on the lonely days to come. Just as had happened more than 800 years before to the widow of Zarephath, this woman now had only memories of the child she had nursed and clothed and taught. All her dreams of his growing up and pursuing his own career and having his own family were gone. She would go to her old age alone.
If indeed she would reach old age. For in some ways the mother was as good as dead. In that time before government programs and when single older women were even more vulnerable, her son was her social security, her sole means of support. The family system was the retirement system, and that system was bankrupted by the death of her son. As the mother walked to the cemetery, she might well have wondered if there would be bread on her table next month or next year. Her religious tradition encouraged charity toward widows, but how long could she rely on voluntary handouts? A large crowd went with her to bury her son, and they supported her. But they were powerless to change her situation that day. The next day they would return to work, and to their families, and be preoccupied with their own problems. She would be on her own. Indeed, this is a story about the death of the mother as well as her son.
Jesus came upon the funeral procession, and had compassion on the woman who would be dead before her time. He touched her point of pain, the bier that bore the remains of her son. He spoke words to the dead body which were really words of healing and hope spoken to the mother. “Young man, get up.” She had walked out the gate of the city to face a lonely, hopeless future. Jesus gave her back her son, which was to give her back her future, her hope. Jesus touched her pain, spoke the powerful word of God, and re-created her. Deep awe (as it may be translated) gripped the small village of Nain that day. Understandably.
The single mother’s pain was out in plain sight, which made it easier for Jesus to touch. Hiding our pain is a skill many of us have developed well, however. We hide it from our friends and even members of our own family, and do not let Jesus touch it. We do this despite the truth that healing begins as Jesus is given access to our pain. When I was a child and would ask my mother a question, sometimes I’d get the answer, “We don’t talk about those things.” My imagination would run wild, and I would be frustrated and confused that there should be secrets about our family and friends that should be kept from me. When I later learned some of the secrets (a divorce, or a child born to an unmarried mother), I thought to myself, I could have been spared a lot of confusion and pain by being told at the time. In her defense, my mother was only practicing a skill she had learned in her own childhood in Norway. The web of silence we weave in families, and churches, and workplaces, and nations keeps us mired in pain, though, and blocks Jesus’ healing word and touch.
Dr. George Tinker, one of the pastors of our synod, is part Osage Indian. He speaks of “dangerous memories.” Dangerous memories, for example, are memories of Columbus and 1492 that tell the story from another view, the Indian view. Dangerous memories tell truths that aren’t necessarily pretty. They are dangerous because they reveal pain that one group of human beings caused another. They are dangerous because they threaten illusions, and that’s why we have an aversion to them. But they are even more dangerous if we keep them hidden, for then Jesus cannot touch them and speak to them.
There’s tension even for the deeply faithful person in this matter of letting on that we are in pain. Jesus is here in this community of faith to touch our pain and heal our spirits. But we also know from experience that if we tell too much, we may be harshly judged or taken advantage of, even in the church. So we follow the advice we give to youth about MySpace and YouTube—don’t make yourself vulnerable.
Recently Shirley and I spent some days at a school reunion, reuniting with friends, some of whom we had not seen in decades. At one point we divided into groups of six to talk. Spouses could not be together in the same group. In my group of six, one man began by talking about his accomplished son, whom he and his wife dearly love. But their earlier dreams for their son were altered, when he revealed that he was gay. Their adjustment to this revelation was not without pain, but they are now at peace with it, and have come to embrace their son’s partner with a similar love.
When the first man was finished, a second spoke up. (Earlier we had noticed him and his wife quietly sharing some tears.) “My wife and I have three daughters,” he said. “Our middle daughter is a physician, and has a successful practice. But we were afraid to mention at this reunion that she is lesbian, for fear that we would be harshly judged by others here.” In that circle, he found the courage to tell a truth about his family, and his sense of relief was palpable.
We continued around the circle of six. We came to a woman none of us had met before, because she had only recently married one of our classmates. She began: “I too have a son who is gay,” she said, “a wonderful son. But I cannot talk about him to my friends in my church back home, because I could not bear their condemnation.” At the end of the hour, it was clear that the Jesus the healer had been in our midst.
Historically, Christians have used a word to describe such meetings with Jesus. Repentance. But repentance is nothing more than daring to tell the truth and letting our pain be touched. We can dare to repent—we can dare to tell the truth and experience our pain in all its ferocity, because Jesus will not take advantage of us. He does not ridicule or condemn. Rather, Jesus speaks and touches us with words of life.
Taken together, today’s readings offer a far reaching picture of the life that the word of God creates. For one, boundaries fall. Elijah, a Jewish prophet, was sent by God to a woman of Zarephath, a person of a different race, religion and nationality. She was a Phoenecian, living not far from Beirut where ethnic strife continues. Likely she worshiped Baal, the local rain god. The word of God raised her son, And the racial, religious and national boundaries faded in significance.
Jesus spoke to the dead man of Nain. The boundary of death came down for him and his mother, anticipating that boundary falling for Jesus and for us all. In the Galatians reading, Paul told how the gospel pulled him, a Jew, into his mission work with Gentiles. Later in this same letter, Paul will say that in Christ, still more boundaries are overcome—for in Christ there is no longer Jew or Greek, slave or free, male or female—we are all one in Christ.
Jesus touches pain and gives life. Boundaries fall, and people envision a future they had not dared dream of. Imagine a community of faith, a congregation, living by this gospel. Imagine a church that tells the truth about itself and faces its pain. Imagine a church that confronts its dangerous memories, and offers them to Jesus for healing. Imagine a church that reveals its corporate secrets, because Jesus gives it the strength to be vulnerable. Imagine a people who share their life with each other across the barriers of age and gender and orientation and race and income, because Jesus has made them one. Isn’t this the church God calls us to be?
One more thing about these readings taken together: they point us to the glory of God. The widow at Zarephath got her son—and her life—back. She recognized that it wasn’t Elijah that made it happen; it was none other than God. Paul’s career as a special forces agent against Christians was upended, and as a consequence, as he put it, many “glorified God because of me.” Jesus raised the widow’s son at Nain, and the awestruck onlookers realized, “God has looked favorably on [God’s] people.” We have to conclude that God’s purpose for us is not only that we should be sustained and renewed, but also that our lives give glory to God.
When my friend Walt went on hospice last December, he asked if, when the time came, I would preach at his funeral. I swallowed hard, and then asked him to reflect on some questions about his life and ministry. When the morphine gave him some lucid moments, he wrote me a moving essay. He prefaced it by saying, “It’s really hard to write about myself, because this life is not really about me. Rather, it is about the one who created life, the holy one who does not even need me, but chooses to be in relationship with me, nonetheless.”
That is what it’s all about—giving God the credit, the glory. The psalmist said it better than I can: “Therefore my heart sings to you without ceasing; O Lord my God, I will give you thanks forever.”