Doctor J

Text: Matthew 9:9-13, 18-26

Healing is as much at the center of human existence as suffering is.

We are not just creatures who suffer, we are also creatures who are relieved of suffering. We get sick and then we get well. Our vocabulary of faith holds words like renew, restore, redeem, repent, resurrect, refresh, reborn. Words of healing.

Jesus is a healer. It was an important part of his ministry and is an important part of our understanding of who he is and what he accomplished. But we need to be careful how much we read into the many healing stories in the Gospels, and especially in Matthew. We needn't get all symbolic or theological about these episodes. We needn't worry too much about what they mean. Sometimes healing stories are just healing stories.

That does not mean they are not powerful. Being sick or sad or broken is powerful. Being treated is powerful. When we go to the doctor or therapist and come home healed, that’s powerful. When we enter a program of treatment or recovery and emerge healthier, that is powerful. We cannot help being moved.

Healing makes us grateful. Grateful to our healer. Grateful that God make us creatures that can be healed (instead of just rusting away like less lively things). Grateful that humans have developed systems and schools and structures that make healing possible.

Healing makes us hopeful. Hopeful that future ills may be likewise healed. Hopeful that we have been cured. Or permanently changed. Hopeful because our worst fears have been calmed for a while.

Healing reminds us about our mortality. Reminds us that someday we will die, of course. But also reminds us of our own physicality, our own body-ness, about how great it is to be a creature, even a mortal one. About how we are made of stuff of the earth, and our bodies made up of and being hosts to tiny other creatures. About how our thoughts are in our brains. About the amazing world of life and the gift we have been given of being a part of it for a while. That it works at all is a miracle.

And finally, healing makes us aware that we are not alone. That we are children of God. And that our brothers and sisters need and will always need to be healed.

So when Jesus tells the Pharisees that, like a physician, he comes only to those who need healing, he is making a little joke, as he often does. For the group of those who do not need healing has no one in it, and the group of those who do need to be healed has everyone in it.

There are more stories of Jesus healing people in Matthew’s Gospel than in any other. Matthew introduces Jesus—twice—as a healer. “Jesus went about all the cities and villages,” it says, “teaching in their synagogues, and proclaiming the good news of the kingdom, and curing every disease and every sickness.” In today’s reading, Jesus heals a woman who had been bleeding for twelve years. He heals a young girl and raises her from the dead. He restores relationships with the sinful tax collectors and sinners. And in the next few verses he restores sight to two blind men and casts out a few demons.

Why all these healings? Not to prove the Jesus was divine, which was probably not an issue for Matthew. The stories are here, I suspect, because according to Matthew, Jesus’ power and passion to heal are the key to the good news of Jesus Christ. Each of the healing stories in Matthew shows Jesus healing some central human hurt. Hunger. Sickness. Feelings of meaninglessness and uselessness. Craziness. Loneliness and isolation. Pain from accidents and diseases. In other words, whatever we suffer from. Whatever it is when people are broken.

This is Christ’s church. We are Christ’s disciples. And because of that the church is a place of healing by definition. And it is filled with healers. By that, I mean you. People walk through those doors off Broadway to find healing of many kinds. Some come to pray that their bodies may be healed. Some that they may have peace of mind. Some come because they are hungry or impoverished. Some to have their regrets and sorrows removed. Some to be forgiven, or for the power to forgive someone else. Some to replace confusion with clarity. Some to replace rejection with community. Some of those people might be you now, might have been you once, might be you someday.

We have been talking here recently about our mission as a church. We think of ourselves as a welcoming place. All churches think that, or they certainly should. But we are more than just a group of fun-loving hard-eating Lutherans. We are a church. That means that first we should expect people might come here looking to be healed. Second, that we ourselves can come here expecting to be healed. And third, that as we think of our mission we might ask how what we do here helps us heal others.

We feed people at the altar because they are hungry for God. We feed people at Faith Kitchen because they are hungry for food and companionship. We speak of our faith to others so that they might know that their doubts and convictions are not crazy. We pray for the health of our friends here and their friends in turn so that all might suffer less. We pray in celebration so that we remember that we are not alone.

The passages we read every Sunday come from the Revised Common Lectionary. This is a book of standard readings that are arranged in a three-year cycle. So every three years we hear the same passages. The last time we read these verses from Matthew, for example, was three years ago, in 2005. Nine years ago, three complete cycles ago, it was 1999. And on this day we heard this same passage from Matthew. Coincidentally this day was my last day at Faith as a temporary pastor. I helped here, a year before I came to be here permanently, when the previous pastor suddenly resigned. Nine years ago, of course, I had no idea I’d be returning to Faith. (Actually, that’s a lie; I certainly had wishful fantasies of returning). On that particular Sunday, my last, I thought, last Sunday at this church, I made some observations and predictions about Faith. I said this:

Faith church would be a favorite of Matthew, for this church has a gift of healing. The hospitality for which Faith is famous is a healing gift. It is not just that we like to party. It’s not just that we like to eat, though being Lutherans we do. It’s that people of all sorts are welcome here. Those who are lonely can find fellowship here. Those who sorrow find comfort. Those who are isolated find company. Those who are ashamed find acceptance. Those who feel empty can be filled with God’s spirit.

I know you have a gift of healing because I have seen you heal yourselves. I know you have the heart to survive and flourish. I know you have courage. I have seen the love you have for one another. I have seen you laugh.

I know you love the people who walk through those doors, who visit afterward for coffee, and the people who stop by from time to time and then somehow come back again week after week.

Someday, I predict, Faith will heal others in other ways. We are already talking about distributing excess food to the hungry. Our space downstairs and our kitchen are ideal for some kind of community supper. ... We may become a place in which lonely students far from home may gather. In these ways, or some other ways, I am convinced that Faith will be known as a healing presence in this community.

And sure enough, it was so. And, I trust, in this church it will always be so. It is our call.

Jesus came to heal the world, to repair the broken people, to replace violence with peace, to feed the hungry, to bring courage and hope to the frightened. That is how he came and that is how he calls us to be. Jesus sends his disciples out as he himself was sent. Jesus is the healer. We are sent as Jesus was sent. We are disciples. We are healers.

Less of the blah blah blah

Text: Matthew 7:21-29

Blah blah blah.

We are none of us short of words. We are generous to a fault with the words that come from our mouths. We are rich to overflowing with the abundance of words that come to our ears and eyes. Everybody has something to say and there are lots of ways they can tell us about it. We are a wordy culture. Words are the primary output of our economy. Words, more often than things, are what we work with.

Not all words are reliable. We have words for meaningless words: Words are cheap. It is easy for you to say. Do as I say, not as I do. Words are untrustworthy. I misspoke, the man said.

Not everyone who says to me, “Lord, Lord,” will get what he or she expects, Jesus says. We can say, “Lord, Lord,” until the cows come home, Jesus says. It is just so many words. You’ll say: Didn’t I quote you on this or that, didn’t I invoke your name for this or that. “Jesus says such and such.” And Jesus will say, “I never knew you.” He’ll say, “Go away.” In our Bible Jesus calls them evildoers, but what he really calls them is “people who know the law, the rules, but don’t follow them.” All words, no action, would be a good way to say it. Talk the talk but can’t walk the walk.

Christianity has come to the sorry state that we are known more for what we say than what we do. We are not the light to the nations that we might be, serving by our example—by our actions—to show the benefits of a godly life. We favor proclamation to action. We are easily, and often rightly, called hypocrites. We have come to interpret the motto “faith, not works” as meaning “say stuff, don’t do stuff.” That is not, especially in this passage of Matthew, that is not what Jesus told us.

Jesus talks here about two kinds of people. People who hear these words of his and put them into practice. And people who hear these words of his and do not put them into practice. Both of these kinds of people could claim to be followers of Jesus. Following Jesus is not what separates these two kinds of people. Both could listen intently, seriously, and honestly to what Jesus said. The distinction is not about belief, or praise, or reverence. It is putting words—“these words of mine”—into practice.

What are “these words of mine,” that Jesus mentions? This passage in Matthew contains the closing words of the Sermon on the Mount. This sermon, these words, are the great ethical teachings of Jesus. “Lord, Lord,” is how students in Jesus time called on their teachers. Jesus has taught his followers how to behave. These are the words to which he refers.

It is not surprising that we give lip service to these teachings. They are really hard. Don’t kill. Don’t even get angry. Stay true to your word. Can you do that? Don’t grandstand: pray and give and fast in secret; it’s between you and God. Tough, but they get tougher. When someone begs from you, give them what they ask for. Can you do that? When someone demands something of you, give twice what they demand. Don’t amass wealth. Tougher still: don’t resist evildoers. If someone attacks you, don’t fight back. Can you do that? Love your enemies. And the toughest of all: don’t judge others. Can you do that? These words are easy to admire—or sometimes not even—but these words are hard to obey. Hard to put into practice.

Jesus must have known that. He talks about two kinds of people, but he does not condemn them. He does not say that one is better than the other. What he does say is that one is foolish and the other is wise. That’s a practical distinction, not a moral one. Something that is foolish is something that is dumb (the Greek word that Jesus uses is the root of the English word “moron”)—it is dumb and will probably get you in trouble. Something wise is smart and will probably bring you to success in your endeavors. If you want to build a nice house that will last a while, start with a foundation. If you want a house that will fall down in a couple of weeks, skip the foundation. That’s not moral advice, not spiritual advice, not idealistic advice. It is practical advice.

As hard as it is for us to believe, it must be wiser to do what Jesus says than to not. It must be wiser to put Jesus’ words into practice than not to. Jesus words are instructions to the world: if you want to build a good world, follow these instructions. Do what I say. Read the manual. Then do what it says. Not because that will make us better Christians, whatever that means. But because it is wise, practical, and effective to do so. We should try it, see if we get better results than we have so far.

Sand and rock are two ends of a continuum. Two extremes. No one would really build a house on sand. Everyone wants to build a house on rock (or at least concrete: which is modern rock). No one wants to be stupid. Everyone wants to act wisely.

But there are not two kinds of people in the world. None of us is just one kind or another. Sometimes we are foolish and other times we are wise. Sometimes we do what Jesus asks of us (more or less). Sometimes we do not. Sometimes we follow our best urgings and sometimes our worst. Sometimes we are compassionate and generous and humble. Sometimes we nasty and greedy and arrogant.

The words of Jesus in the Sermon on the Mount are commandments. The story in Matthew is much like the story of Moses and the giving of the law to God’s people at Sinai. This is no doubt intentional. Matthew wants to show us how the Sermon on the Mount is like the Hebrew law. For Christians, the words of Jesus carry as much authority as the law, as much as the Ten Commandments.

Like the law, the words of Jesus are words to live by. Not words to quote. They are our legacy. Our inheritance. We have been given these rules—these instructions—that tell us in practical terms the wisest things to do.

In the season of Pentecost we will read a lot about the teachings of Jesus and the things he did day to day. There are plenty of other times to talk about belief and theology and doctrine. There are plenty of times to proclaim our faith and our hopes. But now, especially at this beginning of the mundane season of the church, it might be wise for us to throttle back on the blah blah blah. And to practice what Jesus preaches.