A simple story simply told
Ordinary Sunday 10: 10th June, 2007
Fr John Davis, Vicar of St Peter's, Eastern Hill
When the Lord saw her, he had compassion on her and said to her, "Do not weep". (Lk 7:13)
We are back into the Sundays of Ordinary Time. Our liturgical colour is green. There is no big festival, no overarching teaching to explore or mystery to commemorate. We are now simply at that part of the year when our lessons, week by week, give us some more of the teachings of Jesus, as we have them recorded and presented in this year's gospel, that of St Luke. So we are picking up again on this cycle of Sundays that we left off in the Sunday before Lent began.
Today the focus of our readings, both Gospel and Old Testament, is on a dramatic healing. The Old Testament background for the story of Jesus raising the son of the widow of Nain are similar stories about Elijah and Elisha. Most people would already have known these stories, just as some of us can remember them from childhood Bible classes. But there are some differences — and certainly Elijah had to work harder at it. So anyone hearing this new story would realise that at the very least they were dealing with a prophet as great as Elijah. This was the sort of sign that someone who was greatly blessed and gifted by God would be expected to be able to do.
This is early on in the ministry of Jesus. People are still trying to work out where he fits and in what way he is part of an already great tradition. The key part of the dialogue with John the Baptist's followers immediately after our gospel today, is to underline that we are dealing with more than just another prophet, even a great one. This will be part of the gradual unfolding of a deepening understanding of just who Jesus is — for disciples and for those who are hearing this gospel read to them. This was the sort of story that spread far and wide.
Luke places his telling of this particular healing in a context: before it is the healing of the 'highly valued slave' of a Roman centurion, and then immediately afterwards there is that message sent back through the followers of John the Baptist with the answer to John's question as to whether Jesus is the one he has been waiting for. Jesus says to tell John what they have seen and heard — with a whole list of signs and wonders, including now the raising of the dead. This then is not just a great prophet: this is the Messiah.
Luke nicely balances acts of great care to a man — and a Roman soldier at that, and to a woman, a widow who has lost all her support. While the centurion had indicated quite striking respect and generosity, the widow at the centre of this gospel this morning is simply noteworthy for the striking nature of her tragedy, both personal and economic. There in the presence of a large crowd, there is nothing but weeping from the mother — no declaration of faith, no pleading for help. There is just a direct addressing of the young man by Jesus and we are told he sat up and began to talk to his mother. It reminds us too of little Tabitha in Acts, with Peter as the healer.
It is a statement about power. It is moving around in the same area as the raising of Lazarus or the resurrection itself. It is drawing us towards a consideration of the possibility that God, God's gifts, God's grace, are powers that are stronger than the strongest and most ultimate of conclusions we can think of: death itself. That is not to say that we will not die, or that those we love will not die — or indeed that cruelly random deaths will not continue to occur, as we have seen this week in storm and in accident. Yes there is death, but God is bigger than that; God is the broader and deeper context within which all this is to be placed. Surely, when we think about it, this is then one of the most significant issues we are ever going to be called upon to grapple with. It is probably a struggle that will go on for all of our lives.
One of the problems for us is that there is not going to be a Jesus at the gate of the city as our funeral procession goes out to the graveside. There is not going to be an Elijah who will do strange things and effect a miracle. There will probably be remarkably talented and hard-working medical staff, there might be emergency workers who risk their own safety for that of others, there will be sad 'what might have been' sorts of questions and there will be strokes of just plain good or bad luck.
For all of us though, sooner or later, will be forced to face death — of those we care for and our own. The teaching of the gospel lesson today and all the associated texts we have referred to, is that right there alongside all this and in the context of our deepest distress and grief, there is and will be the compassion of God. Suffering along with us, standing right by us, comforting and caring, and in the final sense bringing us along, through to a life that is beyond this death: a life that is continuing, past our immediate experience and understanding. That is the message we can take from this seemingly simple little incident at the edge of a small town in Galilee, 2,000 years ago.
Each Sunday, we join in the singing or saying of those lines in the Creed where we declare that:
'We look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come.'
This is statement of hope and expectation that goes beyond our experience, but it is a view of living and dying that is generous and very large. There is much more to it than this — that is the faith of the Church. With that hope firmly declared, we then set out to journey through the really painful facts of living and dying.
In the Lord's Prayer we offer that petition that is sometimes most chokingly difficult to say:
'Your will be done, on earth as in heaven.'
It is terribly hard to acknowledge that there are times and situations that are simply beyond our control or understanding, where the language of God is in fact the only one left.
We pray that we — and those we love — may be saved 'from the time of trial.' And we know many situations where that trial is all too apparent.
In our prayers for our departed we pray that eternal rest may be granted to them — we pray that they may rest in peace and rise in glory. We pray that God will grant both us and them, peace.
So let us return to our gospel narrative. Jesus and his disciples were in familiar Galilean territory, not far from Nazareth, when they came upon this common enough occurrence: a large funeral with some particularly sad circumstances. There is nothing to indicate though that he knew the family, and not a word was said by the grieving mother. However, compassion, great comfort and a renewed experience of life was what she was to find. A story simply told, but potentially of very deep impact.
We, as a community of faith, have just travelled together through the whole Easter season. Holy Week, Good Friday, Easter Day, Pentecost, Trinity Sunday and Corpus Christi. The absolute lows and the ultimate highs. Betrayal and denial, terrible pain and suffering — but also hope and joy and gift and promise. Connection, community and relationship; reconciliation. Life together and beyond and through death. All this that we commemorate and celebrate and remember year by year is there and here, to help us in our living and our dying. Jesus is at the centre.
When the Lord saw her, he had compassion on her and said to her, "Do not weep". (Lk 7:13)
The Lord be with you.
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