Luke 7:11-17
Soon afterwards he went to a town called Nain, and his disciples and a large crowd went with him. As he approached the gate of the town, a man who had died was being carried out. He was his mother's only son, and she was a widow; and with her was a large crowd from the town. When the Lord saw her, he had compassion for her and said to her, "Do not weep." Then he came forward and touched the bier, and the bearers stood still. And he said, "Young man, I say to you, rise!" The dead man sat up and began to speak, and Jesus gave him to his mother. Fear seized all of them; and they glorified God, saying, "A great prophet has risen among us!" and "God has looked favorably on his people!" This word about him spread throughout Judea and all the surrounding country.

Once I have read a passage of scripture, I ask a question in order to open myself to the scripture’s significance for my life. The question I ask is, “Why is this story in the Bible in the first place?” Why, of all the accounts of Jesus that were witnessed and passed along through generations, why was this one preserved?

Early this week I asked that question as I engaged with today’s gospel text. And I had to sit in silence for quite some time. The silence then turned to anger.

Why is this story in the Bible? I didn’t know. In fact, I didn’t like this story one bit.

After all, what good is it to tell a story about Jesus raising a widow’s son from the dead when such miraculous raising from the dead does not happen today?

What good is it to tell a story about Jesus raising a widow’s son from the dead when sons and daughters today die fighting in wars, die by gunshot in the streets or schools, die in police custody…when sons and daughters die by suicide, die by cancer, die by car accidents, die by preventable disease, and die because they lack adequate access to food, shelter, and clean water.

Sons and daughters today die in any number of unfair, unjust, and unthinkable ways. What good is it to tell a story about Jesus raising a widow’s son from the dead when Jesus doesn’t raise our dead sons and daughters? Why is this story in the Bible, when it seems like God either does not or cannot act to prevent evil, suffering, and death in our world?

The question about why God would permit evil and death in the world God created has been a topic of endless reflection and debate for millennia, so don’t think I’m going to tie it up nicely with a bow in the next few minutes. In fact, I’ll go ahead and throw one more thing out there to consider. I’ll show you a clip by a British actor/humorist Stephen Fry from last year that has been viewed well over one million times and it is framed as an “epic takedown” of religion. The title of the YouTube video is actually “Stephen Fry Annihilates God.” See for yourself…

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2-d4otHE-YI (I stopped the clip at the 2:10 mark)

There are any number of ways to respond to Stephen's speech. This week, sitting in silence and anger, I choose to respond with empathy. There are so many people in the world just like Stephen Fry – people who choose to discount the notion of “God” because there is evil and suffering in our world, be it purposeless, unexplainable phenomena, or calculated evil actions. I cannot blame him or anyone else for thinking this way.

But the more I think about his argument, I find it underwhelming and unhelpful. And I’m thinking that this opinion might have to do with that story in the Bible – the one about Jesus raising the widow’s son from the dead.

In that story Jesus, with a growing crowd following on his heels, witnesses a mother grieving for her dead son. Luke tells the story with the words, “ When the Lord saw her, he had compassion for her and said to her, "Do not weep.”

This sentence marks the first time Jesus is referred to as “Lord” in the Gospel of Luke. Up to this point Jesus had accomplished a multitude of amazing feats and yet remained “Jesus.” But seven whole chapters into the gospel, and Jesus finally did something that warranted the title of “Lord.” “When the Lord saw her, he had compassion for her.”

Amazing feats and profound wisdom are all well and good; but compassion is divine.

David Lose, the President of the Lutheran Seminary in Philadelphia writes,
“[I]t’s not just the title ‘Lord’ that helps describe Jesus, but that his act of compassion describes and even defines what it means to be Lord. To be Lord, that is, is to be vulnerable to the suffering of another. To be Lord is to feel compassion. To be Lord is to not just feel compassion but to act on it, to do something. To be Lord is, finally, to heal, restore, renew, and in all ways to help.”*

That story paints the picture of a God who is intimately involved in our world, not as a puppet master or manipulator or sadist, but as an engaged, healing, holy, and powerful presence that leads people still today to the realization voiced by the awestruck crowd gathered about the once-dead, now-breathing, widow’s son, "God has looked favorably on his people!"

That changes things, folks. Recall your experience of suffering and imagine what it would mean to know that God saw you and had compassion for you in your suffering.

Imagine that God is not distant but near. Imagine God doesn’t delight in your pain, but weeps with you. Imagine that God is not callous, but completely vulnerable.

That truth wouldn't negate the anger we justifiably feel when our sons and daughters die. It doesn’t change our frustration with God’s apparent inaction in the face of suffering. But surely it would teach us how to respond to others in this world where death is all around us. Surely it would teach us to have compassion on others.

“Have compassion on others” is a bland and uninspired message better served to sell a product rather than be a divine and transformative word. I would be a poor preacher, indeed, if my message was for you to be nice to people. That’s the message Stephen Fry stands for.

Instead, as a Christian, I am called to preach the divine and transformative word that “God has compassion.” God, as evidenced by Jesus Christ, looks upon our suffering and responds with empathy, compassion, and, we pray, action.

I could rant and rave and plead and implore you to go out into the world in the name of Jesus to look for and show compassion toward people who are suffering and have compassion; but unless you have experienced compassion from God, you would not be able to do so.

Instead, I’ll leave you with the words of my spiritual muse, Henri Nouwen, who himself traveled a long road of suffering as well as compassion. He writes,

"When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives mean the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares."**

Amen.

* David Lose “Dear Working Preacher” June 5, 2013
** Henri J.M. Nouwen, Out of Solitude: Three Meditations on the Christian Life

Luke 7:1-10

After Jesus had finished all his sayings in the hearing of the people, he entered Capernaum. A centurion there had a slave whom he valued highly, and who was ill and close to death. When he heard about Jesus, he sent some Jewish elders to him, asking him to come and heal his slave. When they came to Jesus, they appealed to him earnestly, saying, "He is worthy of having you do this for him, for he loves our people, and it is he who built our synagogue for us." And Jesus went with them, but when he was not far from the house, the centurion sent friends to say to him, "Lord, do not trouble yourself, for I am not worthy to have you come under my roof; therefore I did not presume to come to you. But only speak the word, and let my servant be healed. For I also am a man set under authority, with soldiers under me; and I say to one, "Go,' and he goes, and to another, "Come,' and he comes, and to my slave, "Do this,' and the slave does it." When Jesus heard this he was amazed at him, and turning to the crowd that followed him, he said, "I tell you, not even in Israel have I found such faith." When those who had been sent returned to the house, they found the slave in good health.

Now, in this day and age, it can be theologically risky for pastors and preachers to wax patriotic in worship, so please bear with me, that is not my intention. We do not worship our country here. We do not worship our flag. We do not worship the war that makes a holiday weekend like Memorial Day necessary. I want to be clear about that. And, while we honor them, we don’t worship soldiers or military men and women, either – our own or those of any other nation.

But it is a holy kind of coincidence that this Gospel reading shows up for us on a Sunday like this – this weekend when our country calls us to remember and give thanks for the sacrifice of all the men and women who have died in military service to our country. Men and women who have lost their lives – we hope and pray and trust – for the sake of, and in the name of, peace and justice in this world. And I’ll come back to this and try to explain myself in a moment. But first, this Gospel story from Luke, which speaks for itself well enough if we know some of the things Luke assumes we know about the players in this story.

See, Jesus is summoned today to the home of this Gentile centurion, having been asked to heal his slave. And, because neither Jesus nor the centurion himself are supposed to be all that inclined to like one another – let alone expect favors or perform them for one another – all of this humility ensues, this “I’m not worthy,” “I’m not worthy,” stuff from the centurion. (Do you remember that old Saturday Night Live, “Wayne’s World” sketch?)

It started when the Jews who summoned Jesus in the first place, try to explain to him why this particular Gentile centurion is worthy of Jesus’ help. Unlike so many other Gentiles, this guy was one of the good ones they say – he loved the Jewish people, he cared about his sick, suffering slave, he even helped to build the synagogue in town. See? He’d earned it. He deserved it. And the Jews thought their recommendation would help his cause and matter to Jesus.

And then, the Centurion himself gets into the game. Once he finds out Jesus is on the way, he sends his people out to stop him, saying something like, “I didn’t want to bother you. Please know I’m aware I don’t deserve this. I wouldn’t presume to impose upon you. I’m not worthy. I’m not worthy. I’m not worthy.” Again, he stated his case. He was appropriately humble. He apologized for imposing and tried to lessen Jesus’ burden.

And the truth is, this Gentile centurion was as worthy by the world’s standards as he was unworthy in the eyes of the faithful Jews of his day. To so much of the world, he was powerful, after all. He had slaves and knew what it was to tell soldiers to come and they would come, or to go and they would go. To the Jews, though, he was as unworthy as any Gentile – he was a Roman pawn, an outsider, a non-believer, not one of God’s Chosen Ones, a sinner, by every faithful definition of the day.

But somehow – and only in the eyes of God’s messiah – he was worthy. And Jesus proves it by offering up the healing of his slave, just as he knows the centurion desires.

The point is, of course, none of us is worthy when measured by our own standards, or the world’s – Jew or Gentile; Centurion or Slave; Capitalist or Communist; Saint or Sinner, no matter how hard we try. And yet, by God’s grace – and by God’s grace alone – every one of us is worthy, Jew and Gentile, Centurion and Slave, Capitalist and Communist, Saint and Sinner. And God’s love in Jesus Christ means to feed us and fill us and love us with such overwhelming abundance and grace and mercy and more, that we are called to practice receiving it and letting it change us into men and women and children of God who long to love others in return.

Which brings me back to Memorial Day and this holiday we’re called to honor. Just like that Centurion wasn’t worthy, for so many reasons in the eyes of the world around him, to receive what Jesus showed up to offer, when I consider all the lives lost so that I can live more freely and more comfortably and more safely and more soundly than so many men, women, and children around the world, the only honest confession I can find is, “I’m not worthy. I’m not worthy. I’m not worthy.”

[And, as if the thousands who have died in battle, in the act of fighting or preparing for or engaging in war isn’t bad enough, I read this week that nearly 30 veterans out of 100,000 commit suicide each year, which amounts to something like 22 veteran suicides per day. The sacrifices we remember on Memorial Day are not confined to the battlefield, that’s for sure. And “I’m not worthy. I’m not worthy. I’m not worthy.” I don’t know who among us could pretend to be.]

So I guess what I’m feeling this weekend, and in light of this Gospel story, is a deep gratitude for the ways grace finds us, in spite of ourselves. And I wonder if we aren’t being called to look for ways – with humility and gratitude – to receive the blessing and love and generosity that finds us in ways we could never earn no matter how hard we try.

And I’m feeling called to let all of that be a reminder about… a witness to… a celebration of… just precisely how God’s love and grace and mercy and forgiveness come into my life – worthy or not. And then hope it inspires some ministry or service, some generosity, gratitude and humility, at least – in me and in each of us – that will share grace with somebody else – anybody else – who doesn’t deserve it any more than we do.

Amen

"Compassion is Divine" – Luke 7:11-17

"I'm Not Worthy" – Luke 7:1-10