I Came for Healing

2 Kings 5:1-14; Luke 10:1-11, 16-20

I can kind of feel Naaman’s pain, right at that moment in his story when he stands on the prophet Elisha’s doorstep, wondering out loud why he just got the brush-off:
Go wash in the Jordan? What’s that got to do with healing? Isn’t the man of God supposed to come and do a ritual, call down the power of God, and directly heal this mess? I came for real help, not this; if washing can heal me, I could do that at home.

 

Now, I don’t normally want to be all that sympathetic to Naaman. He’s a big shot, full of power and privilege; he’s recently defeated Israel in battle, and now he’s come to Israel as a medical tourist, throwing his weight around with his connections, his power, his money. His demands for a showy miracle might be all about his self-image.

 

But something in me this week recognizes something else that might be in Naaman: the pain of carrying around a disfiguring, uncomfortable burden, an illness that limits his life, for which he’s found no cure – only a rumor of treatment available far from home – and a yearning to be healed, be whole. 

 

Maybe that yearning for healing is speaking, too, right along with his ego, as we hear him say: I brought this pain to the one who is supposed to be most powerful to heal it, and all I’m getting is a second-hand instruction to go bathe in the river?  Doesn’t the man of God, doesn’t God, care?

 

If that’s what Naaman’s thinking and feeling, well, I recognize it in myself today.

I’ve come to God recently – with my own privilege and power and access – seeking healing for my pain, for anxiety and grief that weigh me down. 

Pain about people dead in trailer trucks; about people living in fear as healthcare becomes fraught with danger, and established rights are taken away;
about living through the revelations of broken democracy unfolding in Congress on our TV screens.
Grief for the death of a distant friend, for the accidents and tragedies that have befallen several others I love recently;
grief for the things too many of us are still losing to Covid now that as a country, we’ve stopped trying to limit its spread. 

The horrors of beloved grandparents shot at the grocery, of children dying while authorities delayed rescue. 

And that’s not the half of it.

 

I’ve brought my pain to the gospel this week, to our assigned scripture readings this morning, because I need healing. And instead of direct balm for what ails my soul, I get Jesus’ instructions about something… else.

 

Go into all the towns and villages, taking nothing with you, proclaim peace, accept whatever you get, walk away from opposition, heal people and proclaim that the kingdom of God is near.  

 

But… I wanted the gospel to comfort my grief. I’d really like a show of divine power, the visible miracles of reconciliation, healing, justice, trust restored, safety ensured. I want it clear and present and immediate. I would very much like Jesus to wave his hand over our country – and my life – and see us healed.

 

I don’t want instructions about going on a mission trip. As practical directions for dealing with distress, Jesus’ instructions to his seventy apostles sounds just as unappealing to me as Elisha’s “go dunk yourself in the Jordan River” sounded to Naaman.
It doesn’t…feel like healing.

 

And I suspect I may not be alone in that.

Without making any assumptions about what you may be bringing to church today, I am pretty sure that many of the first disciples came to Jesus looking for healing for themselves, yearning for divine power that directly addressed the public and private burdens that crippled them. 

And often, they got it.

But I suspect many felt they hadn’t gotten their full dose of healing and revelation before Jesus sends them out to heal and reveal for others.

 

Modern psychology and centuries of lived experience both tell us that helping other people is one reliable way to start feeling better yourself. That helping someone else bear their burden for a bit makes it easier to carry our own; that sharing good news or helping bring peace helps us hear the good or feel the peace ourselves.  
I actually know it will work. I actively use this tactic sometimes when I’m sad, or lonely. 

 

And still I’m a little cranky today that this is what the gospel and church offer us for whatever healing or refreshment we come needing, today. It is, in a way, such everyday advice. Sharing good news and working to heal others is – or is supposed to be – as ordinary and daily for Christians as washing ourselves clean. 

 

But as I metaphorically stand with Naaman on this doorstep, longing for the powerful, showy, immediate miracle and listening to God direct us to something else, something almost ordinary, I have to suspect that Jesus is giving us something different than good psychological advice.

 

I wonder if perhaps Jesus sends us to work for the healing, renewal, and salvation of the rest of the world, while we’re yearning for our own healing because we can’t be fully healed of the pain the world imposes until the world is fully healed. 

These directions to go proclaim peace and God’s healing among other people are not signs that God doesn’t want to heal us, that our pain is not important, or that Jesus doesn’t care. They are signs that God wants us to participate in our own healing. And that Jesus invites us not to seek healing and renewal for only what’s broken in and among us, but to entrust the whole of ourselves to God.

 

Several commentators point out the vulnerability that Jesus is asking of us, going into a potentially hostile world not alone, but without any of the things that allow us to provide shelter and food or basic security for ourselves; depending on others not only for our physical needs, but for success and even the opportunity to work.
That’s challenging enough when we’re feeling good about the world, or about ourselves. 

And only trusting God without reservation, with absolutely no limits, makes it possible to do this while we grieve, while we seek our own healing.

 

That’s both terrifying, and exactly what we need in order to receive healing for the hurts that go so deep we don’t know how to seek healing, can’t even show them to others to be healed.

 

Naaman – supported by his household – decided to take that risk. To entirely trust God’s word, given second hand, and do the stupid, everyday, task of bathing. And it healed not only his visible leprosy, but the deep space inside him that was longing for an encounter with a God powerful enough to spectacularly heal him. (The next sentence in the Bible, where Naaman returns to Elisha to declare that now he knows God, is inexplicably left out of what we read today.)

 

However they’re feeling about the world and about their own hurts and healing when Jesus sends them, the seventy disciples take that risk, too.  They trust themselves to God in this extraordinarily risky way of everyday being with other people, and come back full of joy, renewed and powerful, to hear Jesus declare the final and ultimate defeat of evil – the healing of all creation, happening now, in their ordinary, risky lives.

 

You and I – whole and healed, or grieving and hurting – are invited to entrust ourselves to God, in vulnerable things we already know we should do:

helping one other person find the care they need;

standing as one among many, or raising our voices, to reject the violence or injustices we see before us;

invoking peace – not the cosmetic absence of conflict, but the gift of deep, shared groundedness and trust – one vulnerable conversation at a time;

doing what feels like too little until it leads you to the opportunity to do a lot;

doing ordinary, risky things to heal and bring joy to others, even as we seek that healing for ourselves.

 

And the peace we give will return to us, we’ll share in its expansion, Jesus promises. We may just find our souls healed of hurts we never knew how to name.

And God will celebrate with us the ultimate defeat of evil, and of the pain the world imposes, as we find healing that is more gradual and quiet, but more powerful, deep, and transformative, than any instant, showy, miracle we ever longed for.

Long-term Relationship

John 16:12-15; Romans 5:1-5; Proverbs 8:1-4, 22-31 

Time seems to be running short, all of a sudden.

 

Many of my friends and family are in the throes of the end of the school year – when everything is due all at once, and transitions and goodbyes and celebrations all happen at once.

 

Deadlines and decisions are coming thick and fast into my inbox every day now as the General Convention of the Episcopal Church is being rebuilt to a much shorter calendar just a month before we convene to do critical business of the church.

 

And around a table in Jerusalem, all of a sudden time has run short for Jesus and his first disciples, and he’s talking to them about the great end and transition they are about to experience.

 

I have so many things for you to know, he tells them, and you can’t take them in right now. This time is too short, too constrained by who we’ve been, and what you already think you know. You need more.

 

We need more.

 

And we have it.

Because the Spirit comes.

 

Jesus promises that the Spirit is going to guide us into all truth – all the things Jesus has been trying to teach us, all the things we think we’ve got, but we don’t really understand, all the things we don’t know yet that we don’t know, and need to know. Guide us into all the things Jesus is.

With the coming of the Spirit, our relationship with Jesus continues, this relationship goes on and on and on and beyond the dramatic moments of ending. The Spirit is united with Jesus who is united with the Father, and all of this – this whole united relationship – is what we are being guided into as the Spirit comes and stays to guide us into Truth. 

Into God. All of God.

Forever. Past forever, present forever, future forever.

 

The Trinity – this promise Jesus is making to his disciples about how the Spirit is going to give to us everything that the Father and Jesus share; this way of inviting us into the relationship of entwined unity shared by Jesus and the Spirit and the Father – is a story about forever. 

About the long term, the time that reaches past every ending, every transition, in all directions. The Trinity is a long-term relationship for every short-term moment.

 

That thread of enduring relationship, long-term connection, runs through most of the scripture the church asks us to hear this “Trinity Sunday”. It’s here, in the gospel story, as Jesus promises his friends and faithful followers on the threshold of everything ending that they do, in fact, have all the time they need together, that his own death won’t stop us from being led into the whole unity of God.

 

That thread of long connection is woven through Wisdom’s invitation to all God’s people to dance with her into this relationship with God, of God, that begins before we can count time, in the moments of creation.

 

And it’s in Paul’s exhortations to the church in Rome. He wants them not to yield to the present pressure to be ashamed of the trouble they may find themselves in, as friendships and family relationships and business relationships are disrupted, even ending, because of this new faith that changes how they live and behave in the world.  
Through God’s love, he says, this suffering, this trouble brought to us by our commitment to our faith produces patience, steadfast perseverance. And that endurance produces character, proof of worth, which leads to hope, to confident expectation, which is cause for celebration, of which we can never be ashamed. 

 

Paul’s not trying to tell us about God’s love as a miracle cure for suffering. He’s painting a picture for his friends in Rome of what has happened to him personally, what is happening to them now. As we encounter resistance, the love of God poured into us over long, slow days and years, cushions our tendencies toward anxiety, resentment, and defeat, and instead forms patience in us, which forms worthy character, which roots us in hope, in confident, joyful expectation of glory shared with God.

 

Our relationship with God is – it must be – long term. 

It does not end, and God does not change, at any deadline, or any death, or any transition, or any loss, or any triumph and celebration of completion. When it seems to end – when Jesus dies, when oppression or depression, or suffering of many kinds makes us feel cut off from God – the Spirit pours love and truth into us, day after day after day after day after year after year, giving us forever to become part of God’s forever. To draw us, slowly and deeply, into God’s own long-term relationship with God.

 

Think for a minute about your own long-term relationships. With parents, children, siblings, spouses. Or with that friend from grade school, or from a job long ago; that friend who lived down the block from your first house… 

 

When I think about my own long-term relationships, I notice that most of them are built of very many, very ordinary moments. Built of extremely everyday, unmemorable, routine experiences – commutes, and loading and unloading the dishwasher, and hours after school that all blend into one another and have no distinguishing characteristics. 

Built of hour after hour of being present with one another, often when we would have preferred not to be – because the meeting was excruciatingly boring, the fifth hour of the family car trip was already eighteen hours too many, because our disagreements felt tense and uncomfortable, or I had better things to do. 

Built of hour after hour of being present in unremarkably good ways – loading and unloading the dishwasher in a rhythm that makes life easier, falling asleep on each other’s shoulders, laughing about nothing, feeling tension or restlessness soothed by familiarity.
Slow afflictions and gradual blessings, steadily, continuously, unhurriedly forming us in patience and persistence, in character and worth, in hope and expectation. In love of the long, resilient, trustworthy kind.

 

That’s the relationship that God has with God.

That’s the love that God is inviting us into.

When Jesus’ disciples stand on the brink of crisis and ending, he promises them the persistent, patient Spirit of truth to teach us, to form us, into sharing this long-term, unending, forever relationship of God with God.

 

This absolute opposite of whirlwind romance is exactly what I need to hear sometimes. 

When everything seems to be urgent, I need to hear and remember that the relationship of God with us is long, and slow, and patient, and trustworthy, and expectant. Because that’s who God is.

 

When my relationship with God is boring – slow and uneventful – I need to be reminded that this is exactly what eternal love means – trust and confidence formed deep and strong by the long, slow, boring stretches of long term relationship.

 

When I regret my lack of a bright, sudden moment of insight and transformation and conversion like Paul’s, I need to be reminded that the long, slow, generational, daily relationship of uneventful prayer and worship and scripture reading – and crankiness and laughter and all the ordinary spiritual equivalents of unloading and loading the dishwasher – show me the patience and persistence and trustworthy character of God as powerfully as any sudden moment of revelation can. And that those ordinary, gradual days and years are how God shows me the abiding, slow, reliable, expectant soul within me that links me, and you, just as deeply into the heart of God as any instant miracle could.

 

Sometimes, it seems like everything is running short.

Other times, it seems like nothing has been happening, forever.

All the time, though, we have all the time we need.

All the time, we have the forever, persistent, trustworthy relationship of God with God, 

inviting us in, 

pouring slow, unending, patient, hopeful love into our hearts, 

uniting us, slowly and forever, with the forever loving Trinity. 

In Thoughts and Prayers

John 17:20-26

You’re in my prayers.

I say that often, and perhaps you do, too. 

After all, when a friend is sick, or facing a challenge, suffering a loss – or anticipating a joy – I want to bring that need or hope to God, trusting that God’s resources are greater than our own, and can bring support and healing and grace to my friend beyond my own resources.

 

So many people are in my thoughts and prayers, so often.

And then there are the times when that seems like it can’t possibly be enough. That thought and prayer is wildly inadequate. When the complicated family situation seems impossible to solve. When the diagnosis is stark and bitter. When the longed-for joy seems impossible. When tragedy strikes and hits hard.  

This week, for example.

 

I have several families, several friends, in tragic or unsolvable situations, on my heart already this month. I’m praying for the victims and survivors and community in Buffalo, and Laguna Beach...
And then the world just shatters all over again as 19 children and two teachers are murdered in Texas, their classmates and colleagues shot and wounded and traumatized, a community’s trust broken in multiple ways.

And even the most sincere, whole-hearted, soul deep prayers feel weak and inadequate.

And there are plenty of people who will tell you so.

 

Public figures condemning thoughts and prayers as hypocrisy, along with half of the users of social media. Survivors of previous gun massacres, grieving relatives, communities who have personally felt that loss, telling us that “thoughts and prayers” are almost an insult – certainly an insult if offered in place of action.

 

And it’s true that if our prayers don’t strengthen us to act, in any way we can, to relieve and prevent the suffering that prompts our prayers, it’s not enough. 

 

Praying for a friend’s healing, for example, should help us notice ways to help – and then I’ll offer to pick up prescriptions, wash the dishes, spend half an hour on hold to help schedule a delivery of medical equipment for a friend who can’t sit up that long, take over a responsibility for a while, or just be present when things get lonely. 

And as we pray for the victims and survivors of Uvalde this week, and Buffalo and Laguna Beach last week, and everywhere else all those other weeks, we should never let any option for action to protect current, future, or past victims of violence go undone. Never feel like we’ve exhausted our options to protect children once we have prayed that God would do something. 

 

I know that for many of us, it feels like nothing we’ve tried to do works. I know that for many of us, anything we do do or say feels loaded with politics and danger. I know that some of us are exhausted and numb, and some of us are utterly broken by grief, last week, or this week, or every time. 

If this were easy, we’d have solved it already, and we’d just be praying for nice weather this holiday weekend, and I’d be preaching a sermon about the curiosities of Paul and Silas’s adventures in Philippi.

 

Even if our actions so far haven’t ended violence, domestic terrorism, or gun massacres yet, we can still march, write, vote, or take up difficult conversations with people who disagree with us so that we can find common ground, and respect, and a way forward. We can still speak up, and act. And pray.

 

Because while we do all that, Jesus is praying for us.

 

This morning we listened to Jesus praying for his disciples. Praying that they share in his own glory, in the glory of God eternal, and that they may be one – united deeply and completely, the way Jesus himself is united with the whole fullness of God, while walking among us as one of us. 
Jesus prays that his followers – you and I – may be one of God.

And not just for his followers gathered to listen then or now. Jesus prays also for everyone else, everyone who encounters Jesus, encounters God, through the word or action of one of those disciples.

That’s us – you and me, today – since we depend on the word, the stories, the actions of those who knew Jesus before we did – who wrote the gospels, who taught friends, who taught their friends…. And we are also hearing Jesus pray for those who will encounter Jesus through us, through your words and actions, and mine.

 

Jesus doesn’t pray without action, of course. All his actions – miracles of healing, the details and persistence of his teaching, the arguments he gets into and the ones he avoids, the ways he engages powerful and public figures, are related to his prayer that we will be more closely and gloriously united to God. All his prayer is part of his action of becoming one of us, so that we can become one of God.

 

That can be true for us, too. In many cases, the actions we take to help in healing or protection, or to keep someone else from feeling alone, especially when we act on things we know we cannot solve by ourselves – those actions are prayer. Are part of our expression of hope and trust and longing that God will bring the fullness of healing, protection, unity and transformation. 

And our prayer is part of our action. I know that when I write a letter, run an errand, take a public stand, open a difficult conversation, I feel myself actively praying, inviting God into the action, to take it further than I ever can.

 

And I can do that, you can do that, we can do that – we can act and pray in the face of private disasters and public tragedies, act and pray for personal joys and universal transformation – because Jesus is praying for us – and for those who will be touched by our faithful action, and our prayer.

 

For the disciples gathered round a table with him before he died, for you and me, and for those who will meet Jesus through us, and through others, Jesus keeps praying. Praying that we will be united with each other, united with him. That we – you specifically, me specifically, will be one of God, as God has been one of us.    

 

That unity which Jesus prays for doesn’t mean perfect agreement on all details. It means that when someone else is hurt, we hurt; when someone else is healed, we are healed; when we are joyful, when we lament, those who are one with us in God also rejoice and weep.  
And when we are one with God, we may begin to see the world through God’s eyes – to see possibilities for transformation, for love, for glory, for healing and unity, that don’t seem real or reasonable from a human perspective. And that makes it possible for us to act, to live as though what touches one of us touches all of us, to act every day as if unity and transformation and glory not only can, but must be the everyday reality for the children of Uvalde, for shoppers in Buffalo, for survivors and bystanders and the leaders of this nation and your neighbors and yourself. For every one of God’s beloved children.

 

You are in my prayers, my friends. 

In this week of tragedy, in the daily struggles and joys and hopes and challenges, the tragedies and the transformations that don’t make the news, in all your actions for hope and justice and healing, you are in my prayers. 

But more than that, you are in Jesus’ prayers.
And so are all the people your life and prayers will touch.

And that changes everything.