Jesus turned, and seeing her he said, “Take heart,
daughter; your faith has made you well.” (Matthew9:22)
Some
weeks back my wife suggested that we hold a healing service at church. I don’t
know if her suggestion came from seeing the unusually long roster of folks on
our prayer list, or because she’s got a number of ailments herself. Anyway, I
thought it was a good idea, and I noticed the lessons appointed in the Revised
Common Lectionary for Pentecost 2 seem to lend themselves to the theme of
healing.
If
I’m honest (and I try to be) I’m not sure I’ve been feeling all that swift
myself lately. Physically, I’m doing as well as any sixty-six-year-old dude can
do. A few aches here and there, but pretty okay on the whole. Nevertheless, I
can’t help but feel we’ve all been living in a wounded society. You know what I
mean. There’s just so much anger and discontentment around these days. And the
wounds seem to be on both sides of the social and the religious arguments. I
think what it comes down to is we’re all feeling a certain assault on our sense
of identity. Folks on both sides of the divide are feeling neglected or
betrayed or unseen. Others are feeling like their value system is getting
flushed down the crapper. And that really bites. The result is feelings of
anger or hopelessness or just plain disgust—none of which are particularly
healthy.
On
top of this, a lot of us, or a lot of the people we know and care about, have
real physical or emotional conditions which make getting up and out of bed
every day—assuming they can even do that—an act requiring some epic willpower.
Sickness is also an assault on our identity. You can see the doctor, but the
doctor may not see you. Doctor will see cancer, a knee replacement, diabetes,
or any number of frustrating, frightening, or depressing ailments, but Doctor
will not see a veteran, a retired school teacher, a great craftsman, a
wonderful mom or dad, or any of the other things which make us who we are and
give us identity and purpose.
I
think this decent into anonymity is particularly true for cancer patients. The “Emperor
of All Maladies” holds a trash-compactor grip on our imaginations, filling us
with fear and blotting out any vestige of personhood for both the patient and
his or her loved ones. I have to confess to being guilty of “cancer myopia”
when my late sister was diagnosed some years ago. I think I began every
conversation with her with inquiries about her health and state of treatment. I
never asked about all the whimsically creative things she was doing or thinking
or sharing while cage fighting with her disease.
The
other thing which tends to wipe out our sense of who we are is grief. A deep,
personal loss can put us in a bubble where we can see the rest of the world but
not be part of it. Others can see only our suffering and so may tend to avoid
us. After all, nobody wants to hang out with sad people, right?
But
what does Jesus see? In the Gospel appointed for Pentecost 2, Year A (Matthew 9:9-13,
18-26) Jesus sees Matthew at the tax booth. He doesn’t see a slimeball tool of
the occupying power ripping off his fellow countrymen. Nor does he see a Jewish
guy defiling himself by touching pagan money with graven images on it. He sees God’s
child, made in God’s image, a guy who is in need of the healing only God’s love
and acceptance can bring. And Jesus says, “Follow me.” No judgment, no pre-conditions,
no litmus test for purity or orthodoxy. When some bigshot begs Jesus to heal his
child, Jesus doesn’t see a man of privilege or a religious hypocrite or an
oppressor of the poor. He sees a dad who grieves for his little girl and who
wants her to be restored—just as any of us would. When a bleeding woman touches
his cloak, Jesus doesn’t see a sick, ritually impure, punished by God victim.
He sees a daughter of God with phenomenal faith.
Last
week the Southeastern Pennsylvania Synod of the ELCA held its annual assembly
with the theme Imago Dei—Latin for Image of God. We were reminded that
God created all of us in God’s own image. We may be anxious, depressed,
disheartened, sick, or grieving, but those things do not define us. Those things
are not what God sees when God looks at God’s own children. These ephemeral
states shouldn’t be the things we see when we look at ourselves, nor should
they be what we see when we look at anyone else. We may be sick, but God has
sent a physician to heal us.
Healing.
It comes from a Greek word meaning “to be made whole.” Ultimately, none of us
are curable. We will all die from something someday. Nevertheless, we are all healable.
We can all go to our Maker knowing we have been loved and seen for who we truly
are.
Father in Heaven, for Jesus’ sake, send your Holy Spirit upon your servants; drive away all sickness of body and spirit; make whole that which is broken; deliver your servants from evil; and preserve us in true faith, to share in the power of Christ’s resurrection and to serve you with all the saints now and evermore. Amen.