“Choose Love”
Let me tell you about my
friend John.
John was a paraplegic. He
and his partner Roger had both contracted HIV some years back. Roger died; John
survived, but an opportunistic infection left him paralyzed from the waist
down.
I was introduced to John
by a member of St. Andrew’s in Mer Rouge, who had met John through GoCare—a
non-profit that provides comprehensive medical care to low income, marginalized
folks, especially LGBT folks. He had been ministering to John for some time but
was moving to NOLA. Would I take over taking communion to John? he asked me.
John lived in rural La., down in the Eros
area. His mother was his primary caretaker, but she worked swing shift in the
paper mill. John was often alone. He became proficient at rolling around the
house in his wheelchair doing laundry, fixing meals, and so forth.
John was a very thin man
but boney man. Through the years, he struggled constantly with the kind of
pressure wounds people get when they spend all of their time sitting or lying
down. It was as if he just couldn’t keep enough flesh between his bones and his
skin.
So John had surgery, over
and over again, to try to graft skin of flesh in a ways that would enable his
wounds to heal. And sure enough, one day I got a joyful message from him: “I am
wound free!” But that lasted about a month, and then new wounds, a new round of
surgeries.
After surgery, again
being confined to flat on his back in bed, John occasionally developed
pneumonia. He’d be on a vent; it didn’t look good. How can his body keep on
fighting? But he did. And he’d recover.
John and his family were
basically unchurched, but John had been baptized and wanted to be confirmed. He
wanted his mother to be baptized, and when Johns set his mind to something, he
could make it happen. and did, at the St. Alban’s Easter Vigil probably 5 or 6
years ago.
I never saw John grumpy,
bitter, or feeling sorry for himself. He might sound a bit discouraged, but
just me showing up with communion and he’d be over the hump.
This coming Tuesday, I
will officiate John’s funeral. I had not seen John for a couple of years, due
in part because he had sort of dropped off social media—how we communicated—and
then the pandemic. But I learned from his mother via FB that he had had yet
another surgery. At first he improved, and then he took a turn for the worse. I
got to the Glenwood ICU in time to read a Psalm and say prayers.
He did not open his eyes,
but I have to believe at some level he knew I was there. And this time, his
body just couldn’t pull him through. Less than 48 hours later, John died.
John had a sweet,
indomitable spirit. So many times I would head out into rural La. west and
south of West Monroe feeling overwhelmed by all I had to do, somewhat annoyed
by this drive into the countryside I didn’t have time for—only to be leave
John’s side after an hour or so… restored, grateful… rejoicing.
In today’s gospel lesson,
Jesus sends the seventy ahead two by two to heal the sick and proclaim the Kingdom of God. They return rejoicing.
That’s the point I want
to focus on today: They return rejoicing.
You have perhaps
experienced this phenomenon. You have perhaps heard others talk about their
experience. We go to minister and we are ministered to.
But this phenomenon is
not merely the joy of a job well done. It’s not merely the good feeling we get
when those we minister to are grateful. Or that glow of virtue we get from
having done a good deed. There’s something deeper than all of that going on.
The people Jesus sent out
were ordinary folks, probably what we would consider working class—literally
laborers. We know that because those are the kind of folks who followed Jesus:
fishermen, carpenters and such. They most assuredly were not religious
leaders—pharisees, sadducees, priests and such—because those folks spent their
time arguing with Jesus and plotting against him, NOT following him.
These ordinary folks
lived in a terrible time, a time of oppression by a brutal foreign power, a
time of local corruption and food insecurity. Life was fragile.
And Jesus warned them
that it would not be easy. Some would reject them. They were like sheep going
among wolves.
But these ordinary folks
went as sent by Jesus, and they were changed by their acts of mercy. They came
back rejoicing, exulting in what they had been able to accomplish—which clearly
exceeded their fondest hopes and expectations. You can hear the glee in Jesus’
voice as he greets them, proclaiming that he had seen Satan fall from heaven
like a flash of lightening.
Jesus also explains to
them that he had given them power over enemies, but then he cautions: don’t
rejoice over the power; rejoice that your name is written in heaven.
Here’s what I think all
this means: Our actions are not what brings about the Kingdom of God.
Rather, the Kingdom
of God comes forth in
us through our action and interaction with those we serve. We do not first
love God then serve others. We serve others and in serving others become God
lovers. Love’s demands transform us.
Here’s how Mother Teresa
of Calcutta put
it: “Only in
heaven will we see how much we owe to the poor for helping us to love God the
better because of them.”
Today we are sent into a
world full of “wolves” of war, violence, greed, and conflict over scarce
resources—like food and water—due not only to war and greed but climate change
accelerated by our own behavior.
Today’s primary disease
is no longer leprosy or tuberculosis, but possibly the utter loss of hope that
comes from feeling unwanted, uncared for, abandoned by everyone and unable to
make a difference in one’s own life, much less the world.
It is hard to have hope
in today’s world. Yet we are sent, and as we go, I think we will find that hope
is like love: It’s not something we have that enables us to act, it’s something
that we create by acting.
Moreover, love and hope
are contagious. Our acting transforms not only us, but those around us. Our
hopeful act, our loving act make us more hopeful and loving, and those around
us start acting in a more loving and hopeful way.
In sum, love and hope are
not feelings we have so much as choices we make. And by making and acting on
those choices, we are transformed into loving, hope-filled people.
In the name of God,
Father, Son & Holy Spirit, AMEN.
[2
Kings 5:1-14; Galatians 6:1-16; Luke
10:1-11,26-20]
