Widow's Son

Scripture: The Third Sunday after Pentecost (Lectionary 10), A.D. 2016 C

Homily:

Grace, mercy and peace to you from God our Father and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.

  

We have two stories this morning about young men raised from the dead.

The first story involves Elijah, greatest of the Old Testament prophets. While on the run from the wicked king and queen, Elijah takes shelter with a poor widow and her only son. When her son grows deathly ill, the widow despairs. “You have come to bring my sin to remembrance,” she cries, “and to cause the death of my son!” Here the holy man has come to her, and his righteousness is too much for her to bear. She thinks that God is punishing her for a lifetime of secret sin.

But Elijah has come to her in compassion and humility, not in judgment. He prays over the child, beseeching God’s mercy. Three times he stretches out over the boy’s breathless form. And the Scripture says: the life of the child came into him again, and he revived. And so Elijah gave him back to his mother. “See,” he said, “your son is alive.” And the widow replies as though she herself had been raised from the dead. “Now I know that you are a man of God,” she says, her tears of bitterness turned to tears of joy. “The word of the Lord in your mouth is truth.”

This story is not about the child, nor the widow, nor even Elijah. It’s a story about God, what sort of a God He truly is. When holiness comes to the house of a sinner, does it bring judgment and death? Or is the Spirit of God the Spirit of forgiveness and new life? The widow knows now what the word of truth is. For all her sins, all her fears, all her pain—God has not forgotten her. God loves her.

Our second story comes many centuries later, and it intentionally echoes the first. Jesus comes upon a similar situation: a widow who has lost her only son, her only support, her only comfort and hope in this life. While the state of the son in the first story is left somewhat ambiguous, this son is quite definitively dead. In fact, the pallbearers are carrying him out, and a loud crowd has gathered for the funeral. Jesus abruptly halts the procession, and publically proclaims: “Young man, I say to you, rise!” And the Scripture says: the dead man sat up and began to speak; and Jesus gave him to his mother.

Note the differences. Jesus’ miracle is worked not in secret, but in public. Whereas Elijah prayed and pled with God, prostrating himself upon the widow’s son, Jesus simply commands—Rise! Live! Get up!—and it is so. Elijah humbled himself before the Word of God; Jesus is the Word of God. The same voice that proclaimed “Let there be light!” and there was light, now speaks a single command and the darkness of death is put to flight.

Christ is greater than Elijah. Christ is the one who sent Elijah. And now He has come in the flesh to do far greater things even than the wonderworkers of old. Again, the story is not about the son, nor the widow, nor even the prophet. The story is about God: who God truly is. And fear, it says, seized them all, and they glorified God—for here is God in the flesh.

Now, having established that the point of these stories is to reveal the true face of God—a face not of harshness and punishment but of life and renewal—I nonetheless wonder what exactly happened to the sons in these stories. Both men had been raised from the dead, returned to the land of the living and to the lives that they knew. Theirs was not like the resurrection at the end of the age, when the dead shall be raised imperishable. No, they presumably lived out their lives and died a second time, hopefully at a ripe old age, surrounded by loved ones, having long since laid their mothers to rest. But who’s to say?

We know almost nothing about them, not even their names. They were nobodies. Anonymous fellows living quiet lives, farming or laboring, supporting their mothers. No one special. And yet God saw such value in their lives that He miraculously revived them so that their story could continue for another chapter. Elijah did not pray for the deliverance of a prince or a prophet or a great general. He prayed for a nameless widow’s son. Jesus did not call up from the dead Caesar or Alexander or the Pharaohs of Egypt. He pulled up a regular guy, a common man.

Never once did God say to these men, “Make sure you earn this. Make sure you conquer a kingdom or invent the steam engine or write the great American novel.” No. What God did, with both of these men, was simply to give them back—back to their mothers, back to their fields, back to their communities. They were worth saving as they were. There was such value in their quiet, anonymous, unremarkable lives that God thought it good that they continue their work, when He made no such miraculous offer to heroes or poets or warriors of renown. It seems that in the eyes of God it is no bad thing to celebrate a simple life.

In fact, this is a pattern that we can discern throughout the entirety of the Bible. When the world celebrates youth and vigor, God chooses Abraham, an old man “as good as dead,” to set in motion the salvation of humankind. When the world celebrates the trailblazer, the innovator, God consistently picks the younger brother over the elder. When the world lionizes power and glory, God raises up a nation of nobodies, of exiles and slaves, to oppose history’s mightiest and most ruthless empires. And the nobodies win. When the world expects God to come as a giant, a superhero, a cosmic Messiah with fire in His hands, God instead empties Himself to be born of a virgin in a little cave in a little town, surrounded by sheep and welcomed by shepherds.

Those who live a quiet, humble life, those who toil in anonymity, those who care for their mothers and whose names history deigns to forget—these are the people whose lives have such astonishing value in the eyes of God. People whom the powerful treat with indifference and contempt. People who end up in unmarked graves, or nailed to crosses in some godforsaken desert.

Brothers and sisters, from the moment we are born, we are pushed to achieve: to win the medal, to earn the grade, to make the promotion, to publish the book. From a young age, our stories are about people who are special, people who are famous, people who matter. And so we spend all of our childhood and most of our adult lives chasing trophies, chasing accomplishments, chasing awards as if they mean something, as if they prove that we’ve made it, we’re special, we’re worth it.

But it’s all a lie. Because you never “get there,” you’ve never “made it.” There’s always another level, a more exclusive club. Why do you think our most famous celebrities and politicians and business moguls are all so obviously miserable? It’s because while they were chasing the big things, they failed to see that life consists in the small things. The small joys, the small relationships, the small accomplishments. That’s what matters. That’s what’s real.

In 50 years, all the celebrities everyone can name will be forgotten by our grandkids. And none of them will care if Grandpa got a PhD. None of them will remember whether Uncle Joe got that bonus. But they will remember that Daddy read to them at night. They will remember that Grandma baked cookies with them at Christmas. The big accomplishments will be forgotten, the trophies will gather dust, and all that will remain is the love that we pass on.

Rich or poor, simple or clever, strong or weak, unknown or famous—none of that matters. None of that gets beyond the grave. But the child we raised, the parents we thanked, the hungry we fed, the naked we clothed, the sick we nursed, the dying we comforted, the community we built—these things we did for God. God accomplished them through us. That’s what death cannot claim. That’s what will live forever.

Love your neighbor. Raise your children. Live with gratitude. Die at peace. And know that we too shall hear the command of Jesus: “Young man, I say to you, rise!”

In the Name of the Father and of the +Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.