Stepping over the sick

 

Text John 5.1-9

There was once a little country church, very traditional, with a leaky roof and a loyal congregation of about 12. One Sunday, just as the service began, a huge clap of thunder shook the building and in through the back doors burst a man dressed head to toe in red, with horns, a cape, and a trident. It was the Devil himself.

People screamed and scattered—diving behind pews, leaping through windows, knocking over flower arrangements. Within seconds, the church was empty… except for one old fellow sitting calmly in the front row.

Satan stomped down the aisle and growled, “Do you not know who I am?”

The old man said, “Yup.”

“Aren’t you afraid of me?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?” roared the Devil.

The man leaned back in the pew and said, “Been married to your sister for 48 years.”

That’s the kind of story I like—surprising, funny, and, if we’re honest, just a little bit close to home. Because many of us have lived through a few hellish seasons ourselves. We’ve endured things that would’ve sent lesser folk running for the hills—or at least out the side door of the church. And that’s exactly the world into which today’s Gospel reading speaks.

Jesus arrives at the Pool of Bethesda, near the Sheep Gate in Jerusalem. It’s a well-known healing site—people believed that every now and then, the waters would stir, and the first person in would be healed. It was like divine hopscotch for the desperate. Around the pool lay a crowd of invalids—blind, lame, paralysed—each hoping they’d be quick enough, lucky enough, to get their turn.

And into this sea of suffering walks Jesus. He sees one man—just one—who’s been there, waiting, for 38 years. That’s not just a long time to be ill; that’s a long time to be overlooked. And Jesus asks him: “Do you want to be made well?”

The man doesn’t even say yes. He offers a well-practised complaint: “Sir, I have no one to put me into the pool. Others always get there first.” And Jesus, with no further ceremony, simply says, “Stand up, take your mat and walk.” And the man does.

But what about everyone else?

It’s a hard question, especially for those of us who have sat beside our own pools of disappointment for many years. Bad knees. Failing eyesight. Loneliness. Grief. Unanswered prayers. Why didn’t Jesus heal the others that day? Why that one man, and not the rest?

Now, as a progressive Christian, I’ll admit I don’t get too hung up on the historicity of the miracle. I’m not terribly worried about whether or not this event happened exactly as John describes it. What intrigues me more is the meaning of the story—what truth it holds for us today, especially for those of us who haven’t experienced a miracle, who’ve not leapt from our metaphorical stretchers.

First, notice this: the man is healed not because of his great faith or virtue. He doesn’t make a beautiful declaration of belief, confess his sins and ask Jesus into his life.  He doesn’t even say thank you! The healing is sheer grace. Unearned. Unexpected. And that, I think, is part of the point. God’s grace is not a reward for good behaviour. It is not limited to the fast, the strong, or the pious. It comes—even now—as a gift.

Second, John calls miracles “signs”—and signs always point beyond themselves. This one, I believe, points to something deeper than physical healing. It points to Jesus’ refusal to accept a system where healing is a competition—where the sick are left to fight each other for a single shot at wellness. Jesus doesn’t help the man get into the pool. He abolishes the need for the pool altogether.

Which brings us to Acts, and to Lydia—the first recorded convert in Europe. Lydia, a woman of means and influence, uses her new faith not to polish her spiritual credentials but to open her home. She creates space. She welcomes the apostles. She builds community. That’s the new miracle. Not water stirred by angels, but people stirred by compassion. A Church where healing is not a prize for the quickest, but a shared calling to care.

So what does this mean for those of us still waiting?

Well—perhaps healing won’t always look like a cure. Perhaps it looks like dignity. Like being seen. Like someone noticing your pain instead of stepping over it. Perhaps it looks like other church members taking the trouble to learn your name, or phoning you when you're lonely, or sitting beside you when the news is bad.  Perhaps healing means you’re not alone anymore.

And perhaps this story reminds us that even if our bodies are still aching, our spirits can be lifted. Because grace does not depend on our strength or speed or even our faithfulness. It just comes. Sometimes it comes through a friend. Sometimes through laughter. Sometimes through a moment of stillness when we realise we are loved.

So today, let’s not get stuck asking why Jesus didn’t heal everyone at the pool. Let’s ask: how can we be the sign now? How can we be the ones who stop stepping over each other and start lifting each other up?

Because the real miracle might just be this: that a tired, imperfect, leaky-roofed Church like ours could become the very body of Christ—carrying healing, not as magic, but as mercy. And the pool we’ve waited beside for so long? Maybe, just maybe, it’s already stirred.  Amen.

God is with us? Really?

Text:  Acts 9.36-43

Preached on the occasion of commissioning a prayer ministry team.

There’s a story I love about a little boy who came out of church one Sunday with a very serious expression on his face. His mum asked him what was wrong. And he replied, “The vicar said God is everywhere. Is that true?”

“Yes,” she said.

“And she said God is with us all the time?”

“Yes,” she said again.

“And God is here right now?”

“Yes!”  

He looked around anxiously and whispered, “Well, I wish he’d stop staring at me.”

It’s hard to be certain what we really believe about God’s presence in the world. We say “God is with us,” but it often feels more like a slogan than an experience. Especially when we read dramatic Bible stories like the one from Acts today—where Peter prays, says a few words, and a woman is raised from the dead. Really?

Now, let me be blunt. I do not believe that the job of the church today is to go around attempting resurrections. If you’ve come this morning expecting a literal raising of the dead, I’m afraid you’ve mistaken your preacher for someone from a Marvel film. And yet—and yet—there is something deeply holy in this story of Peter and Tabitha.

Luke tells us that Tabitha—also known as Dorcas—is a disciple, one of the few women in the New Testament to be called that explicitly. She is remembered for her good works and acts of charity. When she dies, the widows she has clothed weep and gather around her body. Peter comes, prays, and she lives again.

Now, I don’t know whether this story is historical reporting or holy storytelling. But what I do know is this: the early church remembered Tabitha not because of the miracle, but because of her love. They remembered her stitching tunics. They remembered her kindness. She brought life while she lived. She was, in her own way, resurrection-shaped.

The miracle, you see, is not just what happened in the upper room. The miracle is what happened before it—through years of faithful, quiet, loving service. And the miracle is what happened after it—when her life was remembered and her love became part of the DNA of the church.

Likewise, in John’s Gospel, Jesus says, “My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me.” This is not a promise of magical powers or invincibility. It’s a promise of presence. Intimacy. “No one will snatch them out of my hand.” That’s not a guarantee that bad things won’t happen. It’s a statement of ultimate belonging.

And here’s where I want to get controversial. I think we have trained ourselves to expect too little of God—and too much of religion. We say our prayers, go to church, do our bit, and hope that somehow, God is vaguely pleased and will avoid smiting us. But we do not expect transformation. We have lost the audacity of resurrection. We have made peace with death—not just physical death, but the death of hope, the death of courage, the death of compassion. We have settled for a polite church, rather than a living one.

But resurrection is not polite. Resurrection breaks things open. Resurrection stinks of the tomb and sings of eternity all at once. And it still happens.

Not with trumpets or spotlights. Not usually with the literal reversal of death. But in hospitals, when a nurse holds the hand of a patient and says, “You are not alone.”

• In community kitchens, where a man long dismissed as a drunk finds a sense of worth as he learns to cook for others.

• In the soft words of a prayer offered quietly at the communion rail, while bread is broken and wine is poured and someone dares to whisper to God again after years of silence.

• It happens in the laying on of hands. Not because we are magical. Not because the prayer ministers being commissioned today are better or holier than anyone else. They are not. If anything, they’ve simply agreed to make themselves vulnerable—to be channels of love, to hold the pain and longing of others, and to offer it to God with hope and humility.

And let me tell you, that is resurrection work. Because it takes more courage to stand beside someone who is suffering than it does to perform a miracle in a story. It takes more faith to pray for someone with no guarantee of outcome than to believe a tale of ancient wonders.

In a world addicted to spectacle, we need the quiet power of touch, of presence, of human connection infused with divine possibility.

We are not here to raise the dead in the way Peter did. But we are here to raise each other. To offer hope where there has been despair. To speak life where there has been shame. To clothe the grieving and listen to the lost and remember that no one is ever snatched out of God’s hand.

So let the laying on of hands be a rebellion. A small, sacred uprising against apathy, against numbness, against the idea that prayer is pointless or that love is weak. Let it be a sign that we still believe in healing—not always of the body, but of the soul, the memory, the heart.

Let it be our version of Tabitha’s tunics. A work of love. A sign of grace. A practice of resurrection.  Amen.

Shaking the dust from our feet

Text: Mark 6.7-13

Today’s Gospel reading offers us a snapshot from the life of Jesus, as told by Mark.  It's a story of mission, of vulnerability, and of the messy, beautiful, and often challenging work of spreading a message of love and liberation.  We hear how Jesus, surrounded by his growing band of followers, sends them out. Notice, though, that he doesn’t send them as a large, well-equipped force, ready to dominate the powers of the world by force.  Rather, he sends them our two by two, armed with nothing but a staff and the authority to cast out unclean spirits.  Think about that for a moment.  No grand strategy, no vast resources, just the simple act of pairing up and stepping out in faith.

Mark says "He called the twelve and began to send them out two by two, and gave them authority over the unclean spirits."  What, I wonder, are these unclean spirits?  In Jesus's day, they were often understood as malevolent entities, external forces of evil that possessed individuals, causing physical and mental suffering.  But we must ask ourselves: what might these "unclean spirits" represent to us today, in our context, and with our more scientific understanding?  Could they be, perhaps, the internal demons we wrestle with – the self-doubt, the fear, the ingrained prejudices that hold us back from living fully and compassionately?  Could they be the systemic injustices that plague our world – poverty, racism, environmental destruction – the forces that corrupt and diminish the human spirit?  I believe they are all these things, and more.  Consider, for example, the spirit of greed that drives environmental destruction, or the spirit of fear that fuels xenophobia. These, too, are unclean spirits that we must confront.

Jesus gives his disciples the power to cast out these unclean spirits.  This isn't about some magical ritual or some scene from a horror movie in which demons are cast out.  It's about the power of love to overcome fear, the power of hope to conquer despair, the power of community to dismantle oppressive systems.  It's about recognizing the inherent worth and dignity of every human being and working to create a world where everyone can flourish.  This power resides not just in some select few (the qualified exorcists among us, perhaps).  It resides in each and every one of us.  We are all called to be agents of healing, to confront the "unclean spirits" in our own lives and in the world around us.

Mark goes on: "He instructed them to take nothing for their journey except a staff—no bread, no bag, no money in their belts—but to wear sandals and not put on two tunics."  This instruction speaks to a radical simplicity, a reliance on the generosity of others, and a detachment from material possessions.  It's a reminder that our true strength lies not in what we have, but in who we are and the message we carry.  It's a challenge to our consumer-driven culture, which constantly tells us that we need more, that our worth is measured by our possessions.  Jesus's words invite us to consider what truly sustains us, what truly matters.  Is it the accumulation of wealth and power? Or is it the connections we forge, the love we share, the difference we make in the lives of others?

Next, Mark tells us, the disciples are sent out to preach repentance.  Now, in our modern ears, the word "repentance" can sound harsh, judgmental.  But in its original context, it carries a different meaning.  It's not about self-flagellation or wallowing in guilt.  It’s not even about the rather subjugated tones of the confession that this 17th century service offers us, with its repeated cries for mercy on “us miserable offenders”.  Rather, true repentance is about a turning, a reorientation, a shift in perspective.  It's about recognizing the ways in which we fall short of the love and compassion that Jesus embodies, and choosing his path, his Way, instead of our own.  It's about acknowledging our complicity in systems of injustice and committing to work for change.  It's an ongoing process, a lifelong journey of growth and transformation.

And then, finally, Mark brings us to the image of shaking the dust from our feet.  "If any place will not welcome you or listen to you, shake the dust off your feet when you leave, as a testimony against them."  This powerful symbolic act can be easily misinterpreted as an act of anger or judgment.  But I believe it's something far more profound.  It's an act of self-preservation, a way of letting go of negativity and refusing to be dragged down by those who reject the message of love and inclusion.  It's a way of saying, "I have offered you what I have to offer.  I have shared the good news.  And if you choose not to receive it, that is your choice.  I will not let your rejection define me or diminish my commitment to this work." 

Perhaps you know someone, in your life, who refuses to forgive another for the wrong they have done.  They remain trapped by that unforgiveness.  It eats them up, with anger and sleepless nights.  You advise them, you counsel them - that to hold back forgiveness is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.  But they cannot hear you, they will not hear you, even though they love you.  You must persist…it’s your job to try to turn them to the Light.  But you cannot be dragged into their world.  You must not accept their hate and feed it by accepting it.  Ultimately, you have no choice but to shake the dust from your feet, to recognize that you have done all you can, and to release them to their own path.  As the old saying goes:  “There is a Saviour, and you are not him”.

So for us modern evangelists, shaking the dust from our feet might mean something different than the literal action it did in Jesus's time.  Perhaps it means recognizing when our efforts are being met with resistance and knowing when to shift our focus.  Perhaps it means acknowledging that we cannot force anyone to believe what we believe, but we can continue to live out our faith with integrity and compassion, trusting that our actions will speak louder than words.

The disciples went out and preached repentance.  They cast out many demons and anointed many sick people with oil and healed them.  Their mission was not easy.  It was met with both acceptance and rejection.  But they persevered, sustained by their faith and their commitment to the message they carried.  And so too, are we called to go out into the world, not with certainty or arrogance, but with humility and compassion, offering the gifts of love, hope, and healing.  We are called to be the hands and feet of Christ, working to bring about a world where justice prevails, where peace reigns, and where all are welcomed and valued.  Let us go forth, then, from this service, in the spirit of those first disciples, empowered by the love that unites us, ready to face whatever challenges may lie ahead, and committed to sharing the good news with courage and compassion. Amen.

The Unclean and the Unspeakable: Confronting the Stigma of Disease

Text: Mark 1:40 to end

My friends, today we journey with Mark to a time when fear and misunderstanding ruled the hearts of many. A leper, outcast from society, approaches Jesus, his voice trembling with desperation. "If you will, you can make me clean." (Mark 1:40)

We do well to remember that at this time, sickness was usually thought of as a punishment for sin.  People with major illnesses, or disabilities were judged by their neighbours to have either been a bad sinner, or the son of daughter of one.  This man, bearing the weight of a disease considered both physical and spiritual, represents the marginalized of our own time – those living with disabilities, mental illness, poverty, or the consequences of social injustice. They are often seen as "other," their humanity diminished, their dignity trampled.  

Just think, for a moment, about the different ways in which we treat people who we consider ‘one of us’, and those we consider ‘unlike us’.  Just as an example, it is all but illegal for news cameras in England to show the picture of a child’s face, without the written permission of their guardian.  But news cameras in Africa, or Palestine, have no such compunction.  Think too about the round-the-clock news coverage we get over, say, the stabbing of a British young person.  But the ongoing murder from the sky of thousands in Palestine, or the abduction of children from their homes in Nigeria, get barely a mention.

Jesus, in his radical compassion, shatters these societal constructs. He does not recoil in fear or disgust from the man whom everyone else thinks is a sinner, or ‘other’ than them. Instead, he reaches out, his touch a symbol of radical inclusion. "I will; be clean." (Mark 1:41)

This isn't just a physical healing, but a profound act of social justice. Jesus dismantles the barriers of exclusion, restoring the leper to his rightful place within the community.

But what are we to make of the instruction that follows: "See that you say nothing to anyone." (Mark 1:43)?  It feels like Jesus wants to suppress the truth. Perhaps he’s worried that people will start to view him as a ‘miracle healer’ more than a wise teacher.

However, through a Progressive Christian lens, we can choose to see Jesus’ instruction as a call for sensitivity and respect for the individual's journey. Healing is a deeply personal process. It requires time for reflection, for reintegration into society, for the individual to reclaim their sense of self.

Furthermore, the emphasis on following the Law of Moses (Mark 1:44) can be seen as a recognition of the importance of both spiritual and physical well-being. While acknowledging the limitations of the Old Testament, we can appreciate its emphasis on ritual purity as a metaphor for inner transformation and social responsibility.

Just as Jesus healed the leper, he calls us to heal the brokenness within ourselves and our world. This requires us, first to:

• Challenge the systems of oppression: We must dismantle the structures that marginalize and dehumanize individuals based on their differences. This includes advocating for accessible healthcare, affordable housing, and social justice for all.

• Secondly, we are called to embrace radical inclusivity: We must extend compassion and understanding to those who are different from us, recognizing the inherent dignity and worth of every human being.

• Thirdly, we are called to cultivate empathy and compassion: We must strive to see the world through the eyes of others, to walk in their shoes, and to understand the challenges they face.

The story of the leper is not just a historical anecdote. It is a powerful reminder of the transformative power of love, compassion, and radical inclusion. It is a call to action, urging us to build a world where everyone, regardless of their background, their abilities, or their perceived imperfections, is embraced with dignity and respect.

May we, like Jesus, be agents of healing, not just for the physical ailments of the body, but for the deeper wounds of the soul. May we strive to create a world where the marginalized are uplifted, the oppressed are empowered, and all are welcomed into the embrace of the Beloved Community. Amen.