Lectionary
readings: 2 Samuel 1:1, 17-27 and Mark 5:21-43
You
may recall that I spoke recently about the Church of England’s desire to
explore ‘Christian teaching and learning about identity, sexuality,
relationships and marriage,’ under the banner heading Living in Love and
Faith, and that this would inform my preaching over the summer months, and
that we would be running the five-session Living in Love and Faith
course as a way of considering these issues together. Well, the Prime
Minister’s announcement pushing back a full lifting of current Covid-19
restrictions deep into July has meant that we will now have to look to the
early autumn to run the course; but the rest still stands. And this morning I
want to draw on our texts to consider the complex nature of the quality of our
relationships.
I
want to begin with the Gospel, where we meet a woman who has bled from her womb
for twelve years, not in menstrual cycles, but continuously and without
ceasing. Nobody knew why. The physicians did not understand her body. They
acted upon her, some perhaps with great sympathy and care, others, perhaps,
with coldness; but not least because they acted upon her rather than with her,
her investment resulted in no profit, only greater loss. Her condition is not
simply physical, but one of social isolation. She is not welcome within the
wider community, for fear that they will be contaminated by her presence, that
they or their daughters might catch her disease. And after twelve years of unwelcome,
this freak is now also penniless. No husband, no children, no prospects.
And then, she heard that Jesus was in town. And hearing, she risks everything,
pushing her way through the crowd that has come out in welcome—not of her,
never for her—to touch the hem of his cloak. That, she knows, is enough for
her, to be made well.
What
happens next transforms everything. Firstly, we are told that immediately, the ‘fountain
of her blood’ was ‘parched.’ That is, her most painful experience, the cause of
her rejection by the community, is transformed into a foretelling of, and
mystical communion with, Jesus on the cross, the Son of Man and Son of God who
cried out “I thirst!” as his blood flowed for the healing of the world. And
secondly, we are told, that she ‘came to know,’ ‘in the body’ [that was hers], ‘that
she was healed of her affliction.’ The word for ‘body’ is used both for the
physical body and for the Church as mystical body of Christ. The word for
‘disease’ is taken from the scourge of leather thongs embedded with pieces of
metal used to punish criminals, used to describe the kinds of condition that
carry a tortuous level of pain, and public humiliation. In other words, what is
revealed to us by and with and in this woman is that healing is (meant) to be
found through participation in the life of the Church. When Jesus declares back
to the woman what has taken place, he replaces a word for healing with a word
for salvation, for being brought into divine safety from the penalty and power
of sin. Through her faith—her active trust, even at personal cost,
demonstrating great vulnerability—this woman is seen, for who see is, a
Daughter of Abraham, a full member of the family, for the first time in many
long years. If the Church is not a place of such finding wholeness, whatever
else it might be, it is not the Church.
This
story is juxtaposed with that of Jairus’ daughter, a little girl of twelve
years old, who dies before Jesus can get to her. And the crowd gathered at her
home laugh when Jesus says that she is only sleeping. For they know that things
are simply the way that they are, and that you cannot change them, however hard
and sad that might be, however much you wish it were different—for there is no
doubt that there is considerable and deep-felt emotion going on here,
commotion, weeping and wailing. And Jesus responds, We’ll see. Life is
given back, relationship restored, not a continuation of what was previously,
but a transformation for all involved. And this made-new family is constituted
around a table, in the sharing of a meal. Again, the Church, hidden in plain
sight in the text, as (mistaken) potential custodians of a lost past or (taken)
potential witnesses to the inbreaking future.
With
all of that in mind, I want to turn to David’s lament for Saul and Jonathan,
The Song of the Bow (or, possibly, ‘difficult things’: so, the text can be
read, ‘He ordered that The Song of the Bow be taught to the people of Judah; it
is written in the Book of Jashar’ or ‘He ordered that difficult things be
taught to the people of Judah; it is written in the Book of Jashar’ and of
course, bow skill requires mastery of a difficult thing, as does lament). Here,
also, is a blood-soaked text, women clothed with flowing crimson, and a lost
child, a community in mourning. Here, too, are professional mourners ordered to
be silent, and a mystery to be handed on. David sings, ‘Saul and Jonathan,
beloved and lovely! In life and in death they were not divided;’ Saul, who
sought to kill David, on more than one occasion. Saul and Jonathan, who were
all-but-estranged, the father having tried to kill his own son on more than one
occasion.
And
yet, David is not ashamed to own Saul, as much as his friend Jonathan. Those whom
we love, in a variety of ways, give themselves to us, complete with complex
family histories. Those of us who help families navigate funerals know just how
much diplomacy can be required, how much pain held inside, as much as shared
before onlookers. And yet, there is more than diplomacy going on here; there is
at least the potential for the relationships between David and Saul and
Jonathan to be transformed, in the next world if not in this—and for others to
embrace healing before it is too late. Jonathan’s bow and the sword of Saul
might yet pierce our hard hearts for good.
David
exposes his own heart, his anguish over Jonathan’s death: ‘I am distressed for
you, my brother Jonathan; greatly beloved were you to me; your love to me was
wonderful, passing the love of women.’ Concerning complex relationships, some
have argued that this verse reveals a homoerotic relationship between the two
men. I find that unconvincing, and, indeed, unnecessary to the case for
affirming same-sex relationships. What I do see in David’s history is the
complexity of sexual relationships between men and women; and of
friendship—including its limits and its betrayals—between men. As we reflect on
the quality of relationships within (or, indeed, outside of) the life of the
Church, can we say that we have friendships of the depth and intimacy of that
between David and Jonathan? Or do we shy away?
It
is, David laments, death that defiles, and scorns a place as well as a people;
and love that covers over a multitude of sins, of shortcomings and compromise
and even wilful hostility. In the midst of battle, even the mighty end up
fallen, no longer anointed by God (words worth heeding before we march into
culture wars). But as the mightiest Prince of all, and Lover of our Soul, lay
slain, the weapons of war perished! And in teaching this song, there is hope.
So,
may we learn to lament, and, through our tears, to see Jesus, to see one
another, to see ourselves, anew.
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