Rev. Martha Koenig Stone
I Kings 17:8-16, (17-24)
Second Sunday after Pentecost –
Henrietta UCC Galatians
1:11-24
“Life Renewed” Luke
When I prepare a sermon, I like to read the text over and over, focusing
first on this part, then on that one, looking for things I haven’t noticed
before, or for a phrase that sparks some measure of hope or passion in my
soul—something I can sink my teeth into, something that feeds me, something
that challenges or inspires me. I
sometimes try to put myself in the story, to imagine what I would have done, or
to relate to one or more of the characters.
But I confess to you that as I began to prepare this sermon, I struggled
with the gospel text. It hit a little
too close to home for me. Because, like the widow in this story, my family has lost a son,
just a few weeks ago. But when
our Christopher fell off the trail on
So I wrestled with this text this week.
If this story is only about Jesus’ power to raise people from the dead,
then it leaves me feeling cheated. We
want our Christopher back!
What, then, am I to make of this story for my situation, today, and for
my brother and sister-in-law, whose son has died, and for their older son,
whose brother is gone?
I puzzled on this for several days.
I went back and forth from the computer to the piano, reading and
thinking, playing hymns and crying. I
looked at the context of the story and at the other lectionary texts that are
assigned for this week. I showed the
texts to my friends and my husband. And
at first, I just was not able to get any further with my thinking. But gradually an insight began to emerge that
I want to share with you.
The stories in Luke’s gospel that come before this one tell of Jesus
moving about the countryside, teaching his disciples and meeting new
people. But everywhere he goes, there
seems to be uncertainty about him. Is he
for real? Can we trust him? Is he a prophet? Are his teachings true? Does God work in him? Never mind his colorful stories, his wise
sayings, his confrontations with the authorities, his
tenderness toward the young and vulnerable—those aren’t enough to convince
people.
His miraculous healings, on the other hand, now those are what catch
people’s attention. When Jesus raises
this boy from the dead, that’s when people sit up and take notice and say,
“Wow! A great prophet has risen among
us! God is smiling on us now!”
Luke’s story of the widow at Nain echoes a similar Old Testament story
in the book of I Kings. There, it’s the
prophet Elijah, visiting in the home of a poor widow, who raises the widow’s
dead son. And the woman says to Elijah,
“Now I know that you are a man of God, and that the word of the LORD in
your mouth is truth.”
Luke seems to be drawing on this long-standing tradition, in which a
prophet has to prove himself with miraculous acts in order to be taken
seriously. It’s as if Luke is saying,
“See! This Jesus is for real! Now you know you can trust him. We’ve gotten those doubts out of the way; now
let’s follow what he has to say!” Jesus
has been given his credentials; he’s gotten his “doctor of prophecy”
degree. So, in a way, Luke is pointing
us back to Jesus’ teachings, sending us back for a second look.
Once I figured that out, I was able to let go of my fixation on the
raising of the dead son. Instead of
asking, “Why can’t my nephew be raised,” I began to ask myself, “What is Luke
teaching in this story? What does he
want us to know?”
In that light, the text took on a new meaning for me. I looked back again at the context of the
story. All throughout Luke’s gospel, as
Jesus travels around the
What became clear to me as I studied this text is how important these
issues of community and caring and economics are to Jesus’ way of life. It’s not a new insight, but I was impressed
again by its importance to our lives as Christians. And I was struck by how
hard it is for us to put these teachings into practice. Okay, we try to be
loving and caring, we try to share, and our abilities to heal have gotten
better and better with advances in medical science and technology. But widows and orphans are still vulnerable
to poverty and illness in our world. And
most of the world’s wealth is horded right here in our own country. We still rely on a “might makes
right” philosophy in most corners of the globe.
Jesus’ message of love for enemies and sharing of resources is still
ignored much of the time. It’s as if we, too, are waiting for some miraculous
event before we can fully trust God’s goodness and believe the good news of
Jesus Christ and let him lead our world. As Randy put it to me this week, “If
Jesus were running for President of the
Well, would you? Would you trust
in Jesus’ way of life to order our society and our world? What would Jesus have to do to prove to us
that love is stronger than death? Would
he have to trample a bunch of armies or make dollars out of daisies or push
back the waters of a flood?
I got this far in my sermon, and then I went back to the piano and
played some more hymns. And I thought
back on our celebration of Christopher’s life at my brother’s church in
I thought that day how many other families in the world go through the
same kind of grief, not only because of accidents in the mountains, but because
of poverty and illness and political oppression and war. And I thought about how often this kind of
grief pushes people into acts of blame and anger, of retaliation and
violence. And I prayed that day, not
only for our own family and friends, but for those other families as well. I prayed that they too might be surrounded by
communities of faith and hope and love, and by a grace that transcends
death. And I prayed that our world might
be transformed into a place where Jesus’ prophetic words might be trusted and
lived out, not only in our churches and other faith communities, but in our
politics and our economics, in our relationships and our technologies, across
the boundaries of class and country and religion.
After the memorial service was over, we continued our conversations out
in the garden over a lovely luncheon prepared by the church folks. And we met the newest cousin in the family,
little Lucas, only 19 days old. And when
most of the congregation had left, the family gathered again around the piano
to sing a new hymn:
Let my Spirit always
sing, though my heart be wintering,
though
the season of despair give no sign that you are there,
God, to whom my days
belong, let there always be a song.
Though my body be confined, let your word engage my mind,
let
the inner eye discern how much more there is to learn,
see
the world becoming whole through the window of the soul.
Let your wisdom grace
my years, choose my words and chase my fears,
give
me wit to welcome change, to accept and not estrange,
let
my joy be full and deep in the knowledge that I keep.
Let my spirit always sing, to your Spirit answering,
through the silence, through the pain know my hope is not in vain,
like a feather on your breath trust your love, through life and death.
So that’s where I’ve ended up this week, as I’ve mused over this text
and my experiences of the past month.
I’m still grieving, but I’ve landed back at the feet of Jesus, hearing
his call to care for others, wanting to trust him, wondering what that might
look like in the days to come. I want to
ponder how I might let trust in God truly take hold in my life, and how I might
share that with others. I’m so glad that
I don’t have to do it alone, and I look forward to exploring the possibilities
with you, my brothers and sisters in Christ.
Let us pray: Holy God, you have come
to us, over and over, with wisdom and healing, with instruction and compassion,
with comfort and challenge. You have pursued
us with the life that cannot be changed by time or death or dread. You have set us in the midst of community and
fed us with your Spirit. Help us now, to
trust in you, and to give ourselves fully to your way, that our lives may be
full and our communities may be whole and our world may be healed. Amen.