October 26, 2024 – Twenty-Third Sunday after Pentecost

Every third Saturday of the month (like last week), when our monthly service of healing rolls around, I have to admit that I am reminded of a story that I once heard. I’m going to relay that story now, and I promise, I will tie it to today’s readings.

The storyteller says:

My father and I entered a huge building, crowded with people. He didn’t use a cane, but he really needed to, so he held onto me instead. I was nine years old, just the right size for him to lean on me to support his weight. I walked slowly, with the weight of him leaning on me.

My father had a neurological condition that grew worse over time. He had no control over his lower body. He moved his feet by swinging his arms and his chest. Eventually, he agreed to use a can, a walker, and a wheelchair. He fought each with a hearty denial. But his body never cooperated with  his strong will.

The church service began with praise music and a man named Jimmy playing the piano and belting out choruses into a microphone. Meanwhile, everyone clapped, swayed, closed their eyes, and lifted their hands up towards the God that was “somewhere up there.”

Watching my father deteriorate – observing that great patriarch diminish and become incapacitated – was difficult, to say the least. Dad didn’t have much use for doctors or physical therapists. Every time that he went to the doctor, he ended up with a different diagnosis: everything from polio to multiple sclerosis to a vitamin B deficiency. Though he didn’t see medical help often, the hope for a cure drove him. He was always looking for a miracle. That was why we were there, in that building, at the healing service.

Jimmy began to sense people in the crowd. “There is a woman,” he said, “who has just been diagnosed with cancer, and God wants to touch her.” I spotted her from across the auditorium. Her face changed. She was shocked and tears puffed up her eyes. She made her way down the aisle. People surrounded her, pleading with God to take her cancer away. She became overwhelmed and fainted. She was “slain in the Spirit.” A few ushers moved in quickly to put a modesty cloth over her knees in case her dress rode up. Jimmy pronounced, “Sister, your cancer is gone. God has healed you. It is gone!” The crowd responded by erupting in applause and shouting.

All around the room, there were other afflictions. Someone had one leg longer than another. Another had asthma. A child had allergies. One by one, they came up for prayer. And then, the first woman woke up and told everyone how she had been diagnosed with lung cancer. She did not want to come to the service, but she came regardless, and she was healed. The people yelled out, “Hallelujah! Thank you, Jesus!”

The service continued for hours, but Jimmy never said anything about Dad. I stood there, an enthusiastic religious girl, and I prayed – as hard as I could – that God would heal my dad. I prayed that Dad’s feet would become straight and his back would no longer be twisted. And I believed with my whole being that it would happen. After seeing miracles happen all around me, I knew that if I had enough faith, God would heal my dad.

But the songs and prayers ended, and we walked out, Dad’s hand bearing down on me, with his same halting steps. My heart was crushed. I began to wonder if God couldn’t hear me. I thought maybe I was doing something wrong. I imagined my prayers were bouncing off the ceiling, and never reached the ears of God. I couldn’t understand why God passed out miracles to everyone but my dad.

That is not how it works, friends. I think that’s why I hate this reading so strongly. Jesus says, “Go; your faith has made you well.” And yet, what are we to tell those who pray and have a relationship with Jeus when there are new spots in their lungs, when their bones continue to bend, when their dizziness or cough doesn’t disappear? The magic formula doesn’t always work.

So what are we supposed to do? Friends, praying to God is not a magic button. God doesn’t work for us. We work for God, to accomplish God’s purpose here on earth. It’s hard to trust this God that seems unkind, this God who at times seems even mean to us. Why did God take this person so early when there was so much life left? Why is God putting me through the misery of grieving, when I thought of God as a trusted companion?

When I offer prayers at the communion rail in the chapel, I often utter the phrase, “May our heavenly Father release you from suffering and restore you to wholeness, so that you may know the depths of God’s love for you.” We think of healing as a physical release here on earth from our pains and suffering, but sometimes that isn’t what it means. Wholeness is a promise to life forever with God in heaven, and suffering is a separation from God.

I think we need to hear “Go; your faith has made you well,” as a promise that we will be together with God. We will be made well in living in paradise forever once our mortal bodies have given out. God is good; although we may not understand why God chooses to let people die when they do, we need to acknowledge that God is in control. Once we understand that, we can hope and pray in the magic formula, the magic button, but we can be at peace knowing that God will “will wipe every tear from [our] eyes. Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more” (Rev. 21:4).

As with the cross of Jesus, our darkest hour may be God’s finest moment. It may be there that God does the greatest work, even if it is unseen to us. Instead of letting circumstances consume us, we are to be consumed with God. To that end, we pray without ceasing and trust in God’s independence. And we go forward, because our faith has made us well in the hope of what is yet to come.