Salvation, Epistle of Galatians,
by Rev. Thomas Hall
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A
VISIT FROM GOD
a sermon based on Luke 7:11-17
by Rev. Rick Thompson
Most of us have been there.
We may have been there as the ones most deeply
and personally touched by the death of someone, those whose hearts are weighed
down heavily with grief—like the widows in our first reading or in the story we
just heard.
Or we may have been there in the
funeral procession, further back from the family, but still touched by grief,
hurting as well out of compassion for the ones whose loss is greatest—like the
crowd of townspeople in ancient Nain, accompanying the grieving widow to her
only son's burial place.
We've been there.
And we know the outcome. We
know that an urn will be placed in its resting place, or a casket lowered into
the ground, and we will hear that reminder that this one—and, one day, each
of us—will be reduced to ashes and dust.
We know the power of death, and its
finality. Oh, yes, we hear the promise of resurrection in Jesus Christ,
but that seems to be so much less real, somewhere out there in the far, distant
future.
And, meanwhile, we are acutely aware
of our loss, intensely aware of our grief.
So can we even imagine it?
Can we even
imagine what it was like that day in Nain, when Jesus showed up, when
God-in-the-flesh paid a visit, and raised a dead young man to life? Right
in the middle of the funeral procession, in the midst of the weeping and
wailing, Jesus visited the people, and raised a young man to life, and, at the
same time, restored the widowed mother's life as well!
It's not hard at all, is it, to
imagine their surprise—and their fear!
Things just don't work that way, after all! When someone's dead, they're
dead—and that's it, until the final day of resurrection!
But not so in Nain. Not so when Jesus attends
the funeral. Not so when Jesus shows up, when God pays a visit!
Jesus shows up, and has compassion
on the widow. Not only because of her intense loss; how many parents,
especially in our day, expect to bury a child? We know how painful that
is. But, in addition to her loss, the woman—like the woman in the story of
Elijah—is now among the most vulnerable of the vulnerable in her world.
Her husband would have been expected to provide for her, and, when he was gone,
her son—and, now, her son is dead too. She has no one to depend on.
She has no social security. She could easily die of poverty and hunger.
But Jesus has compassion.
Jesus is moved—deeply moved—by the woman's plight. He cares so
deeply that he enters into her reality as fully as he can. And I'd say
that a Son of God who dwells on this earth, takes on human flesh, and suffers
death by crucifixion has pretty fully entered into her reality—and yours and
mine—wouldn't you agree? Jesus knows her pain because he will experience
it. Jesus knows her sorrow. His own heavenly Father will know the
sadness and sorrow of losing a child to death. Jesus knows. God
knows. And Jesus steps in—steps right into the woman's reality, oozing
with compassion.
Nothing can stop him. Not the cultural
expectation that a Jewish man should keep his distance from a woman in public.
Not even death could stop Jesus.
Did you notice what he did? He
spoke to the woman, “Do not weep.” And he touched the stretcher on which
the dead young man was being carried. That was considered taboo!
Just as he had in the previous story—when he healed the daughter of a pagan
Roman soldier—Jesus crosses boundaries. He crosses the boundary of gender.
He crosses the boundary of death. He crosses these boundaries because the
compassion and love and mercy of God can't be limited by the cultural rules we
would allow to prevent us from reaching out and showing our concern.
If I did today, for example, what I
did when I was a senior in high school, I'd be considered crazy. I grew up
in a small town. (It's not so small anymore.) People knew each other
well. We trusted people—unless it was public knowledge that so-and-so
shouldn't be trusted. So, one day, as I was driving home from school, just
a couple blocks from home—in a neighborhood I had know for years—I saw a man
lying in the street. I stopped the car. I approached him. He
had fallen, and was bleeding from a cut on his head. And he was drunk.
In that little town, in a time when
strangers and people in need were not considered threats, I helped the man up,
struggled to load him into my car, and drove him downtown to the local doctor's
office to get patched up. It seemed like the right thing to do.
Perhaps it would even be considered compassionate. To be sure, some would
consider it crazy. I doubt if I'd do it today—even in a town I knew well.
I'd probably keep my distance, and call the police. It would be a lot
safer, wouldn't it! I wouldn't be crossing any boundaries, would I!
Well, Jesus was compassionate.
He crossed boundaries again and again, this time because he was moved by the
circumstances of the woman whose son had died. So he did what he could to
help—and what
Jesus could do was considerable! He crossed the boundaries of gender
and death, and he spoke a word--”Young man, get up! Arise!”--and the man
got up, and began to speak.
Jesus had raised him from the dead!
Now, how could Jesus do that? [continue]
