MIRACLES ABOUND
Author: Fr. Michael Byron
October 13, 2019
Three times
in the past two days I have been to visit the homes of parishioners of ours who
are dying from cancer. Two of them are younger than I am. And three times I
have witnessed a miracle at their home—a miracle that I—and I’m sure many of
you—have seen a hundred times before. At the end of their lives they are filled
not with sorrow or anger or despair, but with profound gratitude. One of those
people, who is no longer able to speak, tried to give me the blanket from his
bed as I was about to leave his room…the only way he knew how to say “thank
you.”
How do
people do that? How do you live with terrible illness and the certainty of
dying and yet respond with nothing other than generosity and peace? It can only
be faith—faith in something (or rather, someone) that is far more enduring and
desirable than absolutely anything that this world can offer, including life
itself.
That’s not
the kind of faith that is found in theology books or catechisms. It’s the faith
that is realized by knowing just exactly who you are, and by whom you are
loved—even through and beyond death. And a deep trust in all of that. That’s a
faith that is not earned by hard enough work or rigorous enough pious
practices. It’s a faith, rather, that is received as a priceless gift by
handing over your destiny to a Savior whose words of promise are absolute.
It is
significant that in both our 1st reading today (2 Kings) and in the
gospel (Luke) the lepers that were healed became so by trusting in the words of
the Man of God. Neither Elisha the prophet was actually present at the healing
of Naaman at the Jordan River, nor was Jesus at the healing of the Samaritan,
who was on his way to show himself to the priests because he was told to.
In both
cases, perhaps those men put their faith in God because they were desperate.
That’s maybe not the best of reasons, but it could be the most fruitful of
reasons. It is possible that the worst kind of suffering and isolation—even the
immanent prospect of death—is what finally causes people to decide what exactly
it is in which to hope—and to whom to pray, and with what community to be
immersed. The paradox of Christian faith is that the gift of faith is most apt
to be welcomed when we humans have run out of other options by which we imagine
ourselves to be able to be made safe and happy. And God doesn’t blame us for
that. He merely points out to us in Sacred Scriptures today that it doesn’t
have to come to that. The very same compassion and mercy that people throw
themselves upon at times of crisis is available to all of us all the time
already.
Imagine
that. The miracle of gratitude that sick and dying people have can be ours too,
right now, we who are relatively healthy and youthful and prosperous and at
least mobile enough to make it to Eucharist here at church. It requires only
that we have a personal space that is large enough to welcome the gift of faith
as it is offered every day, in word and sacrament and prayer and in Christian
community.
And our
mission, in turn, is to be that same source of encouragement to one another and
to the world by the way that we live out our baptismal call, gratefully,
confidently, hopefully, even joyfully in the face of challenge.
I don’t have
any idea whether the three miracles I witnessed among our parish members this
week are the result of faith that was late in being welcomed, or whether they
are the fruit of a whole lifetime of devotion. It doesn’t matter now. They are
still miracles. And they may be ours too. Now.
The lepers
fell at the feet of the Man of God to say “thank you.” That is what we do
whenever we gather for Eucharist too. In this we have found our trust.
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