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Jesus, Healer of Our Every IllJune 10, 2007 Second Sunday after Pentecost When my son Luke was about ten years old, with the clandestine machinations of his mother, he came home one cold day in December with a cute masked ferret. I don’t have the time or the will to go into all the pet issues we went through in those years, but suffice to say, a ferret named Bruno seemed to nicely satisfy the pet needs of three-quarters of the Bauman family and instantly held fast their hearts. Now, ferrets are very quick and naturally inquisitive and, if given half an inch of space, will attempt to squeeze through to the other side of an obstacle, which, alas, Bruno managed to do one day with one of our windows that had been left slightly ajar. He had only joined our family two weeks earlier, and unfortunately had not yet learned that he was living in an aerie, on the 19th floor of a New York City apartment building. It was the young, nice doorman who quietly knocked on our apartment door to announce his discovery below. In a soft voice he said something like, “Mr. Bauman, I think I have Bruno downstairs and he didn’t survive the trip.” Luke was devastated. After attempting to console the inconsolable, and not knowing what to do with a deceased pet in a land of asphalt and cement, I suggested the first thing that came to mind: let’s find a nice spot in a park to bury him, but Luke would have none of that. He needed to be buried close to home and close to where he died, he sobbed. Wanting to do the right thing and wanting to do it in a timely manner, it occurred to me that we could bury Bruno in the large 12’ X 12’ planters that stood 4 feet high on the side of our building; they held ornamental trees and small evergreens. Luke thought that would work. I said I wanted to wait until after dark. Of course, New York streets are never truly dark, so it was with some trepidation that, after sundown, I managed to find an appropriately over-large spoon from the kitchen drawer and leapt into the planter where we buried a small shoe box. Passersby were curious, but fortunately no one actually stopped to ask what we were doing or called the cops thinking we were stealing the shrubbery. At the time, I was just glad we could accommodate the immediate emotional requirements while no doubt breaking a city ordinance concerning the appropriate disposition of deceased ferrets. But this little ceremony accomplished its purpose. Beloved Bruno was laid to rest, close to heart and home. Oddly, I’ve thought of this little experience from time to time over the years, especially Luke’s insistence that Bruno not be left too far from where he had died, nor too far from home. That was of paramount importance to him. For instance, I thought of it recently when walking by St. Paul’s chapel, the church that became a refuge next to Ground Zero, where, as many of you will remember, an old cemetery occupies the back yard with stones dating from the 18th and 19th centuries. In those days, death and its aftermath was a close-to-home event. Persons who had died would have been laid in their homes’ parlors where friends and neighbors could come and pay their respects. Within a short period of time, the body would be taken to the church where a service of death and resurrection was celebrated; immediately following, these persons were buried in the church’s yard or in a nearby plot. There was no embalming in those days. That didn’t become widely adopted in the U.S. until the Civil War, when this European fashion was imported to help manage the final transitions of the war’s many casualties. So, this process from death to burial took place within days and hours. It was intimate, and close to heart and home. From the Christian point of view, this older ritual activity had theological merit. Death was a close part of life, not sequestered, like today, made antiseptic and at least three steps removed from ordinary experience. And, to have loved ones buried in the churchyard was a way of keeping close their memory, as well as the promise that’s embedded within Christian hope – belief in a God of life. After all, that’s what resurrection faith is. The churchyard cemetery was a potent reminder that death was a transitional part of resurrected life. From God we came and to God we returned – the passage of time in this earthly existence closely held in God’s heart and home. There’s great power and beauty in this understanding, a power and beauty that unfortunately seems more elusive in these days of well-managed funeral corporations. Surely the further we remove ourselves from death, the further we remove ourselves from life, and the great undertaking it inspires of forging meaningful, loving purpose out of the days of our lives. You’ve heard me say before that determining what’s worth dying for is one vital way of learning what’s worth living for. We worship the God of life. Everywhere in our scriptures that message rings loud and clear. From the opening pages of Genesis that tell of God’s awesome creative energy that brought matter into existence, animating a bit of clay with his spirit breath; through the stories of leaders and prophets like Moses and Elijah who were agents of God’s creative purposes; leading to the days of Jesus and then his followers. In the span of this great story, we read the proclamation about the God of life, the God who wills that life should flourish, and in particular, that humanity should have life abundant, healthful and whole. That’s who we worship in here, and that’s what inspires our community. That’s how we need to come to read the story from today’s Gospel. Jesus and a large entourage that has been following him come to the town of Nain, where they encounter a large crowd of people in a funeral procession. A widow’s only son has died and she is beside herself with grief. In all probability, he died the very day of the procession, for among Jews of the first century, it was customary to bury the dead on the very day of passing. The deceased was washed, anointed with perfume, wrapped in linen and carried to the tomb. This was the procession Jesus and his followers encountered. And this was the occasion that provided him with an opportunity to demonstrate God’s interest in life abundant. The son is restored to his mother. But the loving purpose here is not only the gift of life to the young man. Without her son, the widow also was bereft of a secure future. In the patriarchy of the day, women who were unattached to men faced a precarious situation. That’s why there are so many references in scripture to the care of widows and orphans – they were among the most vulnerable in society. It’s no accident that this is a restoration of a son to a widow, as in Elijah’s day, because God’s purposes permeate the whole of human existence, including contending with the powers that are more death oriented than life oriented. Health, healing and wholeness form God’s holy agenda. There’s no question this lays at the heart of Jesus’ message. If we come to no other conclusion about him after reading the gospels, we would have to say that he was known as a great healer. That is a significant part of his reputation. A couple of chapters later in Luke, when he’s sending out his disciples with the kingdom message he says to them, “Whenever you enter a town…cure the sick who are there, and say to them, ‘The kingdom of God has come near to you.’” [1] In other words, this restoration to health is a sign of God’s purposes in the world. And friends, this is why that, for the Christian, for the sincere follower of Christ, the matter of health care in this nation carries the freight of holy obligation. Regardless of how we ultimately resolve the matter, that it must be addressed cannot be escaped for us. Why? Because the God we worship is indiscriminate about his desire that all should have health and wholeness. Because it was the highest priority for Jesus. Because he instructed his followers to be curative as they brought the message of saving love. We may argue about methods, but that we carry this obligation simply can’t be escaped. Birth, life, death, resurrection. This is the Christian framework, the Christian’s path. At every step, a pathway to life. A pathway fraught with peril and temporary demise, no question about that. But fueled by hope born of faith with the companionship of Jesus, the healer of our every ill.
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