Fourth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 8): 2 July 2006.

2 Samuel 1:1, 17-27 or Wisdom of Solomon 1:13-15; 2:23-24

Psalm 130 or Psalm 30

2 Corinthians 8:7-15

Mark 5:21-43

It is all too easy to overlook God's interest in human physical well-being. This is so for a number of reasons, from a misunderstanding of Paul's contrast between the flesh and spirit in Romans 8 to the continuing philosophical influence of Plato and his epigones. The upshot is that, quite without intending it, we become, at best, "so heavenly minded that we're no earthly good" and, at worst, functional Gnostics.

We ought to know better, of course. Our incarnational and sacramental theology provides a strong push in the other direction, as does our confession of "the resurrection of the body." The role that Lutheran Christians have taken in health and healing ministries (including responsibility for an astounding proportion of the hospital and long-term care beds in the United States) bears witness to the deep roots of concern for the physical in our theological praxis. Most important, the Gospels make it clear that a significant proportion of Jesus' ministry was occupied by acts of physical healing.

Two such incidents are featured in today's Gospel lesson (Mk 5:21-43), arranged in an "envelope" structure, in which one begins and ends the account, while the other is in the middle. They represent what we today would call an instance of "urgent care" and one of a "chronic condition." Contrary to our modern expectations, Jesus appears to take his time with the former case, while the latter is dealt with in a single moment. Yet in both cases Jesus is concerned not merely to heal but to do so gently and in such a way as to lift up the holistic dimension of his acts, tying them directly to the faith-life of the healed and their loved ones. Thus, despite the urgency of an important leader's case, Jesus is at pains to speak directly to the hemorrhaging woman who has imposed herself on him, including an address of endearment ("daughter"), a blessing of peace, and a commendation of her faith. In the instance of Jairus' daughter, Jesus acknowledges the fear of the parents (v. 36: [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII] literally means "Don't be afraid any more") and calls on them to believe in the face of others' despair. He clears the room of all but three disciples (as witnesses) yet includes the parents (for how could they be excluded from their daughter's presence?). Again, he uses an endearing address to the stricken one, the colloquial Aramaic talitha.

And we dare not overlook the gentle and gracious touches in these stories (pun intended). The woman touches Jesus' robe; Jesus takes the little girl by the hand. Speaking more figuratively of "gracious touches," Jesus reinforces his claim that the little girl was but sleeping when he tells the awestruck parents, in effect: "Hey, you've got a growing, twelve-year-old kid here. They're always hungry--so feed her already!"

Yet the challenge to preachers has only begun, once we recognize the central significance of holistic healing--including the physical--in the ministry of Jesus. What is one to do with the immense gap between healing as practiced in the first century of our era and as we know it today?

First, we do well to get to know physicians, particularly those of faith. Among the deleterious effects of our divorce of body and spirit has been the effective concession of bodily matters to a modern "priesthood" of experts now termed "medical providers." Yet they need the partnership of "physicians of the spirit" as much as patients and their pastors depend upon those physicians of the body. Competent physicians, whether or not they are people of faith, acknowledge that their work is art as much or more than science and that healing is far more than a protocol of procedures imposed upon the body (as the bleeding woman in the text had learned to her sorrow, v. 26). On the other hand, what is needed is not "faith healing," at least in any sense of an attempt to manipulate God's power to heal, but rather exactly what we see evidenced in the Gospel lesson: external compassion and skill, internal faith, and, when all is said and done, the gracious providence of God.

Lamentations 3:22-33 assures those who have undergone the greatest trauma in the history of Israel (the destruction of Jerusalem and the exile of 587/6 B.C.) that the aforementioned gracious providence of God is as reliable as the sunrise. Formally speaking, these twelve verses represent four stanzas of an acrostic hymn, each three-line set of which begins with a succeeding letter of the Hebrew alphabet. The lesson acknowledges the reality of human pain, even going so far as to say that "[the LORD] causes grief (Heb. root yagah [Hiphil])," yet immediately follows that assertion with a repeated assurance of God's pity and grace, concluding with the bald statement that, literally, God's heart (leb) is not in afflicting, "for he does not ... grieve (again, Heb. root yagah) anyone" (so NRSV; alternatively: "although he may grieve mortals"--cf. Luther's opus proprium and opus alienum for God's acts of grace and judgment, respectively).

To be sure, this lesson does not explicitly focus on physical ailments or healing; rather, as is typical of the OT, it simply speaks of people as holistic entities, both in suffering and in salvation. (Note that v. 23 of this relatively obscure passage is the source of the popular twentieth-century hymn "Great Is Thy Faithfulness" [WOV 771].)

2 Corinthians 8:7-15 appears at first glance simply to be the ideal text for Stewardship Sunday--and so it is. For the pastor who for whatever reason avoids "preaching about money," this is all the biblical warrant one should ever need. Yet stewardship is not simply about money any more than healing is simply about physical wellness. Paul deals almost playfully with the concepts of "rich" and "poor," by turns using them to speak of the financial condition of individuals or churches and then employing them to speak of the "happy exchange" between Jesus and us, "that though he was rich, yet for your sakes he became poor, so that by his poverty you might become rich." The latter statement is by no means to be taken as license for a theology of glory (or success). Rather, it ties that most quotidian of worship activities--the gathering of the offering--to the very essence of the gospel. Our care for one another, as others have need and we have resources, is likened to the kenosis of the Christ (cf. Phil 2:6f.) by which we become "heirs of God and joint heirs with Christ" (Rom 8:17).

The possible directions for preaching on one or more of this Sunday's texts are manifold, enabling the preacher to consider with care in what way(s) the Word can best be applied to the local hearers' situation (to be sure, an activity that one does well to undertake in preparation for any trip to the pulpit). The Old Testament lesson is a cry "de profundis" (Ps 130:1) that takes seriously the reality of grim times in our lives, of the possibility that God may be beckoning to us in acts of judgment, and of the terribly difficult posture of patience, as we wait on the Lord. Yet surer still than any affliction is God's mercy/grace/steadfast covenant love (Heb. chesed) toward us, which is God's first and final word (cf. Hos 11:1-9). The Gospel brings these general principles to bear on the specific realities of physical disease and death, identifying both as both objects of God's concern and opportunities for our growth in faith. The Epistle then adds a horizontal dimension to the issue of concern for others in their whole-human (including specifically physical) needs: "John Wayne theology" ("God helps them what helps themselves") is not Christian theology; "bear one another's burdens" (Gal 6:2) is. That "bearing" may be done through institutions (such as the aforementioned health-care facilities) or locally, even one on one. But it is as surely a part of God's "economy of salvation" as is what Jesus did in Nikolaus Herman's great Christmas hymn (LBW #47):

He undertakes a great exchange,
Puts on our human frame,
And in return gives us his realm,
His glory, and his name,
His glory and his name.

Finally, to put a bow on the package (and a red thread through all three lessons), it's worth recalling that our word "salvation" comes from the Latin salus, which means first of all "health, well-being." As we experience salus and share it with others, we recall that it was for this purpose that our Lord "has borne our infirmities and carried our diseases" (Isa 53:4a) in his own physical body on the cross. Somehow, no matter what we're preaching about, we end up back there. GCH