Isaiah 58:9b-14
Psalm 103:1-8
Hebrews 12:18-29
Luke 13:10-17
In
March of 1863, the Boston physician and abolitionist Dr. Henry Bowditch,
received a terse telegram regarding his son Nathaniel serving in the Union
army: “Potomac
Creek, March 18, 1863. Nat shot in
jaw. Wound in abdomen. Dangerous.
Come at once.” Upon arriving in
Washington DC, he learned that his son had died. He wrote these words in his private papers:
“I scarcely know what to think or do. I seem almost stunned by the news. My whole nature yearns to see and hear him
once again. God has been very kind to me
all my life long, and I have an abiding faith that this blow is only a
disguised blessing. Nevertheless, at
times, I feel crushed.” The following
July would witness that
which would prove be a watershed event in the war: Gettysburg – 51,000
casualties, 7,786 dead. These two events
– a personal one and a national one – both marked a turning point in the
consciousness of the American people. In
learning about his son’s death from eyewitnesses, Dr Bowditch became convinced
that it could have been avoided had adequate ambulance provision existed. He immediately became an advocate for an
ambulance service in the Union Army. Writing
from the standpoint of a grieving parent, and hoping this would give his
argument credibility, he published, “A Brief Plea for an Ambulance System for
the Army of the United States” and argued that “the government had a wider
obligation to the soldiers it asked to fight and die in its name.” At the same time, the sheer number of the dead
and wounded in the Pennsylvania fields outside the small town of Gettysburg just
a few months later overwhelmed the nation.
The burial of the dead was an arduous task, yet hardly considered the
responsibility of the government. The
work fell on their surviving comrades and the citizens of the town itself. Shortly after the battle, and with financial
help from every state in the Union that had lost men in the engagement, a local
lawyer named David Wills oversaw the purchase of 17 acres in the town. These were soon taken over by the government,
and dedicated in November by Abraham Lincoln as the new Soldiers’ National
Cemetery. This marked the beginning of the
National Cemetery System, and helped to define the government’s commitment to
those who gave “the last full measure of devotion.” Both the military ambulance service and the
national cemeteries have since then faithfully honored those who have served to
defend the nation’s stability and well-being, as well as brought some measure
of comfort to those who love them.
By
now you may be asking, “Why all this about the Civil War?”. Well, it is because I spoke about suffering
last week, and my thinking about it extended well beyond last Sunday. Moreover, on coming across some facts about
the Civil War, I was reminded once again of the national suffering it caused,
and on what a monumental scale. It quite
simply transformed the nation, and I was brought to thinking of the
transforming nature and power of suffering itself; how it challenges us with two options –
railing in the dark or lighting a candle, while at the same time offering us
the opportunity to grow in compassion, to widen our circle of concern, to make
meaning out of its absolute meaninglessness by finding ways to redeem it, even
if only partially. We cannot escape
suffering, what Shakespeare called in Hamlet
“the heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
that flesh is heir to.” We can, however, choose our response and we
can commit ourselves to enabling others to escape even some of its effects. We either can make our suffering and that of
others have some meaning, or we can continue the cycle of suffering and
violence as we inflict it upon others.
In
the ancient near-east suffering due to either poverty, illness or disability
was an everyday reality; and the woman who approached Jesus would have been
typical of the many sick, poor or disturbed who found themselves without
resources and at the mercy of their fellow-citizens for even the most basic of
necessities. Moreover, her status as
poor, disabled, and as a woman would have marked her as an outcast. At the same time, the man she encountered in
Jesus is one who would have well understood the life of the outcast – born in
stable, raised by a single mother in a patriarchal world, and living the life
of an itinerant would have marked him
as “beyond the pale” too. And we can
only assume that it was his own lived experience that colored so distinctly his
interactions with and care for the those who suffered most, whether due to
illness or the social structures of their day.
His reputation would undoubtedly have preceded him, and so this woman found
the courage to approach him.
Nevertheless, his compassionate act of solidarity and of liberation is
challenged by the authorities who cite rules and regulations in order to stem
the tide which they perceive to be eroding their power. And their own communal memory of suffering as
slaves in Egypt, as well as the contemporary reality of their vassaldom under
the Romans seems forgotten, as they seek to enforce their own subjugation of
others. The story encapsulates the two
reactions we as human beings have to suffering.
Either it opens us up into greater awareness of the suffering of others
– seeking to make better the systems and situations that cause suffering itself,
or it closes up as we look to protect
our little patch of whatever we deem as our own. I don’t think I need to say to which of these
the Good News of God in Jesus calls us.
But
still, we are each of us left with the question for ourselves. Everyone, absolutely everyone suffers in one
way or another. It is, as I starkly said
last week, part and parcel of life. We
can be sure of it, and can rarely control its entering into our lives. But nevertheless we have latitude in our
reaction to it. Will it open us up, or
shut us down? In our suffering, will we
seek solidarity with others who similarly suffer and do something to better
their lot, or will we build a wall, cut ourselves off in the unattainable hope
of keeping suffering perpetually at bay?
Certainly, the latter is tempting, because the pain can be so terrible,
the blow so hurtful and disorientating that retreat seems the only action of
which we find ourselves capable. When
Henry Bowditch heard of Nathaniel’s death he wrote that the news struck like a
dagger in the heart. His first reaction
was retreat. Desperate to do anything to
keep his son’s memory alive, he had the young man’s body embalmed, brought home
and buried beneath an elaborate monument.
Still he was left feeling that he must do more, and move beyond the
immediate place of wounededness and grief.
It was then he conceived his idea for the army’s ambulance system. His suffering shaped him, but it did not
ultimately determine him. And that is a
subtle but crucial distinction. What determined
him was his tireless work to make provision for other fathers’ sons. We are all of shaped by suffering, but do we
allow suffering to determine us? Or do
we choose a determination which marks us out as people of courage, people of
character, people of hope? The work of
constructing meaning out of meaningless suffering is a difficult one, but it is
ultimately a work of hope which will not allow suffering to have the final word
in deciding who we are, in determining our fundamental nature. The work of constructing meaning out of
suffering draws out in us the very image of the God, who brings light out of
darkness, order out of chaos, and life out of death.
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