Thirteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time B
I
spent Friday evening and all day yesterday
at
Camp Guggenheim—our diocesan summer youth camp
on
the shores of Lower Saranac Lake.
(That’s
why I’m a little more bleary-eyed than usual this morning.)
and
staff members from every season since 1972
gathered
together to celebrate.
I
was a counselor there myself from 1994 to 1996,
and
this year will be the seventh
that
I serve for a week as chaplain.
I
count it a great privilege to be part of Guggenheim’s history;
I
count it a great blessing that it’s been part of my own.
It
was fascinating these last couple of days
to watch the mix of people during the festivities.
I,
of course, enjoyed catching up with old friends
with
whom I worked so closely almost two decades ago.
But
it was also good to hear firsthand stories
from
those who had been there in the beginning—
to
see how the original dream was still coming alive.
And
it was good to visit with more recent counselors
whom
I had previously known as my campers
(…although
doing that makes me feel kind of old).
From
where I stood, anyway,
this
overlap and exchange among the different generations
was
a rather beautiful thing to watch unfold.
Many
of us had never met before,
but
we had so very much in common—
and
not just the shared experience of a special place.
Our
talk wasn’t particularly pious,
our
time not all spent in prayer,
but
it was our mutual faith in Jesus Christ
that
lay beneath all the laughter and reminiscing—
the
faith which has been Guggenheim’s very reason for existence
throughout
these forty years.
when
they share that connection.
This
Sunday, our gospel is two-for-one:
two
stories, two healings.
In
some ways, the central figures couldn’t be more different:
one
a little girl, the other an adult woman;
one
the beloved child of a fairly prominent family,
the
other marginalized by her illness
and
the poverty it has brought her.
But
their stories are put together in a sort of sandwich:
one
inserted between two pieces of the other.
This
is a mark of good storytelling;
consider
of how often—in a novel or on TV or in the movies—
the
plot cuts back and forth between one scene and another.
But
I think that what we have here in the gospel
is
more than a technique for increasing the drama;
I
think that what we have here
is a way of revealing a much deeper bond.
is a way of revealing a much deeper bond.
Jesus
wants to be sandwiched into our lives:
to
be inserted between all the other ordinary pieces of them.
He
wants to be very personally connected with us.
This
is so clear in the way that Jesus interacts with the sick.
When
Jairus begs that his daughter be healed,
Jesus
could have simply said, “Let it be done!”
and
entering into their home and into their grief.
And
when the hemorrhaging woman touched his cloak,
Jesus
could have easily let her quietly “steal” this cure,
instead
of searching her out
in the midst of the pressing crowd.
Yes,
their prayers—in both cases—
would still have been answered…
…but
there would have been no real connection,
no
personal rapport, no building of relationship.
And
since Jesus’ ministry
wasn’t
so much about the health of the body
as
it was the health of the soul,
this
simply would not do.
Jesus
had come not only to rescue us
from human sickness;
he had
come to rescue us
from the isolation, the division, the separation,
which
are the result of human sinfulness.
In
the beginning, God created and fashioned us for life;
in
Christ Jesus, God re-creates and raises us
to
a new and more abundant life—one which is undying—
by
connecting us with himself
and
likewise connecting us with each other.
Here
at Mass, we do more
than
brush against the hem of Jesus’ robe:
we
hold his risen Body in our hands.
Here
at Mass, Jesus does more
than
pay a brief visit under the roof of my house;
he
comes to stay under the roof of my heart.
one young, one old—
Jesus
does for you and me:
sandwiching
his way into our everyday lives,
healing
those parts of us touched by death,
and
putting us together with him
in a way not easily undone.
In
so doing, we find ourselves deeply connected—
not
just with Christ, but with one another;
our
stories, our lives, become completely intertwined.
What
I saw playing out
at Camp Guggenheim this weekend—
what
has touched and transformed
thousands
of young people there these last forty years—
is,
in truth, the reality played out
again
and again in the Eucharist.
Look
carefully, and a deep bond is revealed:
uniting
us in a common faith,
and so too in our responsibility
to
see that each member of the human family
has
everything it takes to be really and truly alive.
Even
if we have never met before,
we who
follow Jesus have the most essential thing in common.
No
one can be a stranger here
when
we share this Holy Communion,
when
we share this connection.
From
where I stand, anyway,
the
overlap of relationships and exchange between us
is
a rather beautiful thing to watch unfold.
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