(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Worship on July 1, 2018, Proper 8)
Our Eyes Are Trained on the Top
“How the mighty have
fallen!” These words have had a
long life. Uttered first in tears
over three thousand years ago at the death of King Saul, these words find voice
today too, although sometimes in mocking tones. When scandal breaks around political figures or business
leaders or pop stars, how often have we heard someone crow with gloating
satisfaction, “How the mighty have fallen!”
Whether these timeless words
express genuine lament or smug celebration, they remind us of what appears to
be an eternal truth. Our world has
eyes only for the mighty. Our eyes
are trained on the top—the powerful, the prosperous, the beautiful. That’s what we care about. Because that’s where we want to be.
There is no public crying or
crowing for the single mother endlessly juggling the demands of parenting and
multiple jobs. There’s no
collective outcry when disease strikes a low-income family and forces them to
subsist on a food-stamp diet. No
one sings, “How the lowly have fallen!”
Because that’s not whom we identify with. In our ambition and our anticipation, we identify with the
top, the place we dream about, the place we want to be.
Just a glance at how this nation
handles its money will tell you where our interest really lies. For while we question welfare for the
poor, we “hardly blink at welfare for corporations or for the banking and
military systems.”[1] We care about—we identify with—the top.
What’s Happening Below
In today’s gospel story, we can
hear faint echoes of the ancient chorus of David: “How the mighty have fallen.”
The story begins with Jesus and
Jairus, a synagogue leader, which is to say, a privileged and prominent person
in the community. Jairus begs
Jesus to see his little daughter, who is at the point of death. So Jesus follows Jairus, and a large
crowd follows Jesus. I think there’s a reason for this large crowd. The misfortune of this prominent man
and his daughter has seized the public’s attention. We can almost hear the whispers and rumors among the crowd,
as some share their sorrow and others glibly speculate. “Poor man. He doesn’t deserve this, after all that he’s done for the
community.” “Yeah, it’s tragic,
isn’t it? I imagine this’ll break
him.” And if we listen closely
enough, I imagine that we might hear someone in the crowd mutter that mournful
phrase, “Oh…how the mighty have fallen.”
With everyone consumed by what’s
happening at the top, no one notices what’s happening below. No one notices a ragged woman making
her way through the crowd. For
twelve years, she’s suffered from hemorrhaging. Every time she’s visited the doctors, they’ve taken her
money but left her worse off than before.
They have bled her dry. So
she’s poor. She’s impure. And as you might have noticed, she’s
nameless. She’s anonymous. No one cares about her, the way they
care about the synagogue leader Jairus.
Even though she has fallen too.
I’m nearly certain that we’ve all
seen this woman before. But when
we see her on the corner of the street, we wonder why she doesn’t get help, why
she’s begging. We don’t know that
she’s already sought help and been bled dry. We don’t know her tragic back-story. And doesn’t everyone have a story?
He Cares for the Lowly First
So there go Jesus and the crowd
to the home of the prominent and privileged Jairus, when suddenly this poor,
impure, no-name woman reaches out and touches Jesus. Immediately she can feel it. She is healed!
But Jesus can feel it too.
He asks who touched him, and if it weren’t Jesus asking, we might expect
a reprimand or a rebuke or worse from him. For not only is this woman poor and insignificant, she is
also impure. In ancient Israel,
impure folks like her were supposed to keep separate from the public. People thought that touch transmitted
the impurity, as though it were a contagious disease. For her to rub shoulders with the crowd, to reach out and
purposefully touch a clean person, was a significant social transgression. It would be like that woman on the
street corner grabbing a passerby and then coughing into their face.
But listen to the first word out
of Jesus’ mouth: “Daughter,” he calls her. To everyone else around him, there is one only one fallen
daughter that matters right now. The
daughter of the mighty. The
daughter of the prominent synagogue leader. But Jesus addresses this poor, impure, nameless woman,
“Daughter.” This daughter matters
just as much as the next.
While the rest of the world is
looking to the top, singing, “How the mighty have fallen,” Jesus looks at this
lowly woman and cares deeply for how she has fallen. Of course, the procession resumes and Jesus shows the same
care for the synagogue leader’s daughter, raising her to new life too. But I can’t help wondering at the
meaning of this sequence. Today’s
gospel story begins like the story of our world. It begins with the headline news or what you’d hear at the
top of the hour. Everyone’s
a-chatter about what’s happening among the powerful and prosperous. And when Jesus hears the news from the
synagogue leader himself, he follows him at his request. Suddenly this headline story has gotten
even bigger. This rabbi who’s been
causing quite a stir—Jesus—has gotten involved. So far, the story is following the way of our world. But then from among rabble emerges a
lowly outcast figure, who touches Jesus and interrupts the grand
procession. And instead of casting
her aside, or telling her to wait her turn, or calling for the authorities,
Jesus turns toward her full of love.
He cares for the lowly first.
The First Verse in the Kingdom of God
For over three thousand years,
our world has sung in almost perfect unison, “How the mighty have fallen.” But when Jesus came proclaiming the
kingdom of God, he sang a different song.
“Oh look how the lowly have fallen.” And we hear it from him again and again. Not until the last are first, he said,
and the least are greatest, and the leaders are servants, and the lowly are
lifted up in love—See how they’ve fallen—not until then will the kingdom of God
arrive in its fullness. Not until
we stop idolizing and identifying with the top and instead seek life in
relationship with others, seeing where they have fallen and singing their songs and stories, not until then
will the kingdom of God arrive in its fullness.
We’ve all caught glimpses of this
kingdom where the lowly are lifted in song before anyone else. I know we have. We’ve caught glimpses in the hospital,
where suddenly all the furor of the front page fades, and we hold the hand of a
fallen person whose hardship no one knows—except for us, who sing their song. We’ve caught glimpses across the street
at the memory care unit, where the pomp of the world pales in comparison to the
fanned embers of life in folks whom the world has forgotten—but we haven’t
forgotten, we who sing their song. I caught a glimpse recently in the face of a refugee youth
who works sixty-hour weeks (night shift, no less) in the summer break for the
sake of his family. Unsung by the
powerful men and women whose decisions determine his world, his life I sing
this morning.
Oh look how the lowly have
fallen. Thus begins the first
verse of the kingdom of God, where the last are first, the least are greatest,
the leaders are servants, and the lowly are lifted up in love.
Prayer
Compassionate Christ,
Who directs our gaze
From the privileged to the poor;
Whose love does not obey
The conditions of purity or worth;
Help us not to be conformed
To the principles of this world—
Power, privilege, prestige—
But rather to be transformed
By the upside-down vision
Of your kingdom,
For which we pray always.
Inspire us to sing,
With you,
“How the lowly have fallen.” Amen.
[1] Richard
Rohr, “Protecting the System,” https://cac.org/protecting-the-system-2018-06-26/,
accessed on June 26, 2018.
No comments:
Post a Comment