Readings

FIRST LESSON

The first lesson is from Why People Don’t Heal: and How They Can by Caroline Myss

It has become apparent to me that assuming everyone wants to heal is both misleading and potentially dangerous. Illness can, for instance, become a powerful way to get attention you might not otherwise receive – as a form of leverage, illness can seem almost attractive. Illness may also convey the message that you have to change your life quite drastically. Because change is among the most frightening aspects of life, you may fear change more intensely than illness and enter into a pattern of postponing the changes you need to make.

A central misconception of today’s holistic culture is the belief that all illness results from personal negativity, either from tragic past experiences, from negative attitudes that contaminate our minds and bodies, or from bad past-life karma. Yet negativity is not the only source of illness. It can also emerge as the answer to a prayer. It can physically guide us onto a path of insight and learning upon which we would otherwise never have set foot. It may be a catalyst for expanding personal consciousness as well as for understanding the greater meaning of life.

As terrifying as disease is, it is also an invitation to enter into the nature of mystery. Our lives are made up of a series of mysteries that we are meant to explore but that are meant to remain unsolved. We are meant to live with the questions we have about our lives, even use them as companions, and allow them to lead us into the deepest recesses of our nature, wherein we discover the Sacred.

SECOND LESSON

The second lesson is from Acts, Chapter 9, Verses 36-43

Now in Joppa there was a disciple whose name was Tabitha, which in Greek is Dorcas. She was devoted to good works and acts of charity. At that time she became ill and died. When they had washed her, they laid her in a room upstairs. Since Lydda was near Joppa, the disciples, who heard that Peter was there, sent two men to him with the request, “Please come to us without delay.” So Peter got up and went with them; and when he arrived, they took him to the room upstairs. All the widows stood beside him, weeping and showing tunics and other clothing that Dorcas had made while she was with them. Peter put all of them outside, and then he knelt down and prayed. He turned to the body and said, “Tabitha, get up.” Then she opened her eyes, and seeing Peter, she sat up. He gave her his hand and helped her up. Then calling the saints and widows, he showed her to be alive. This became known throughout Joppa, and many came to believe in Jesus. Meanwhile Peter stayed in Joppa for some time with a certain Simon, a tanner.

This Week's Sermon

Date: May 2, 2010

Title: See Me, Feel Me, Touch Me, Heal Me

Message Delivered By: Rev. Dr. Joe McMurray

An elderly man lay dying in his bed. He was alert and aware, but barely hanging on. His body felt numb from the lack of movement, so he wasn’t sure if he could feel anything. His eyes were closed so he couldn’t see anything. He hadn’t eaten in days, and doubted that he could taste anything.

Yet suddenly, death's agony was pushed aside as he knew he smelled a very familiar and comforting smell. Was he dreaming, or had his nose picked up the aroma of his favorite homemade chocolate chip cookies? Could it be that the smell of those cookies was wafting up the stairs and into his room?

He tried to call out, but his throat was too dry to speak. So he reached down deep within and gathered his remaining strength and sat up in bed, pushing his legs to the floor. He lifted himself up from the bed with the help of his bed table. Leaning against the table, and then the wall, he slowly made his way out of the bedroom. With intense concentration and focus, he found his way to the banister, and supported himself down the stairs, one slow step at a time. He gripped the railing with both hands.

In what seemed like hours, he made it to the bottom of the stairs. In labored breath, he leaned against the wall, and then continued toward the door of the kitchen.

To his amazement, there spread out on the kitchen table were literally hundreds of his favorite chocolate chip cookies!

Was this an hallucination? Was it heaven? Or, was it one final act of heroic love from his devoted wife, seeing to it that he left this world a happy man?

The man mustered one great final effort as he threw himself toward the table, landing on his knees in a rumpled posture, one hand on the edge of the table. The aged and withered hand quiveringly made its way to a cookie near the edge of the table; feeling the warm soft dough actually made the pain of his bones subside for a moment. His parched lips parted; the wondrous taste of the cookie was already in his mouth; seemingly bringing him back to life.

Suddenly, a harsh, stinging arose from the back of his hand? What was this that caused his hand to recoil?
He looked to see his wife standing there, still holding the spatula she had just used to smack his hand.

"Stay out of those cookies!" she said. "They're for the funeral!"
_____________________________________________________________

Will you pray with me? God, no matter how much we pray or how much we care, your earth and your people continue to suffer—sometimes very visibly, and at other times under the surface where our feelings and our emotions reside. Make us aware of these manifestations of our pain and suffering; give us the will to heal ourselves and match our desire to our will; help us to release our need for others to see our suffering; and let us willfully surrender all that we are and all that we experience to you. And may my words and all of our thoughts be filled with honor and praise to you. Amen.

In the rock musical Tommy, the song by The Who (that’s the same as the title of this sermon) is about a boy who cannot see, hear or speak—but who becomes a pinball champion who is idolized by his followers. Maybe I’m on an “oldies but goodies” sermon series tour that I hadn’t planned on. (Last week was “The Green, Green Grass of Home.” Perhaps next sermon will be “Eleanor Rigby” about lonely people.)

At any rate, I like to go with my instincts in such situations. The words “see me, feel me, touch me, heal me,” in my view, say a lot about the human condition: they are words that often describe things we need but do not have. It is from that realization that I chose them for this sermon.

As we know, the scriptures are filled with stories of healing. All throughout the both testaments, but particularly the Second Testament, miracles of the healing power of God have been told and retold across the generations. Most healings took place under specific circumstances which we call “miracle events.” Some stories of healing—we assume—are symbolic. Other stories we take at face value to be authentic accounts of transformation.

Whether people are healed from leprosy, cured of blindness or disability, or whether demons are rooted out from controlling their minds, their bodies or their souls—we know that healing is possible. We know that for God, anything is possible.

Stories of people being raised from the dead were stories of hope for those who needed to believe that the impossible was possible; that health could come from sickness; and that life could spring forth from death.

Today’s account reminds us that it was not only Jesus who healed, but after his death and resurrection, the power of the Holy Spirit descended upon the disciples, allowing them to continue to heal. They felt God’s presence as they tended to those most in need, carrying on with the tradition Jesus had taught them to care for and love one another.

We don’t know why Tabitha’s death and the urgency to revive her was such a priority. We could assume that her reputation in the movement was what gained attention such that her fellow disciples, learning of Peter’s close proximity, were compelled to send for him. Perhaps it was her gifts, her kindness and charity, that compelled them to act on her behalf.

Perhaps it was her faith as she ministered to others, a faith well-noted by the other disciples. When Jesus healed, the healing was nearly always linked to the tremendous faith of that person. Many times, Jesus had said, “Your faith has saved you.” To do the work of charity requires a deep and great faith. Perhaps the absence of Tabitha’s voice would have been too great a loss for the community.

So Tabitha was brought to life again to continue with her ministry. She remained an example of the Christian way of sacrifice, so that her good works would make a difference in transforming other people’s lives. And Jesus’ disciples continued to illustrate the healing power of God, making possible the reality that new life existed through the resurrected Christ.

These miracle stories are wondrous to behold, but we seem so far removed from them. There are few people acting as renowned agents of healing these days. And while contemporary healings by health professionals can also be attributed to the healing power of God, even when we know transformation has happened, our first thoughts are usually not about some miracle that has taken place.

Many scientists and psychologists, as well as theologians and other people of faith, believe that, in many instances, we have the power to heal ourselves. Is healing really as simple as that?
I’m not talking only of the physical healing from disease, but healing from emotional, psychological and spiritual deficiencies, as well. Yes, we have the sciences to deal with many of these issues. But what about our mystical connection to God—is that not also required to bring healing to others or to receive it for ourselves?

It can be dangerous to assume that our healing is based primarily on our own will to be healed. I have known many very strong and faithful people who, though they transformed themselves spiritually in ways I never thought possible, they never healed their bodies.

Still, we must consider the possibility that the mind is a very powerful tool in the process of initializing our healing—and that includes physical as well as emotional, psychological or spiritual healing. I believe that in many ways God makes it possible for each of us to heal ourselves and to heal one another.

Though miracles happen every day, it takes great faith and trust in God to experience healing. But here’s the catch—we can never judge that for other people. We cannot look at people who don’t seem to heal and proclaim that their faith must not be strong enough, or that they do not trust in God enough to bring about their own healing.

We cannot look at our sisters and brothers who struggle with cancer, AIDS and other life-threatening illnesses and point to them and say, “Oh ye of little faith!” Many of these sojourners are the strongest, most courageous, most faithful people we know. Most of us have no idea what they are going through.

And so, we have a right to judge the capacity for healing for ourselves alone.
Others may be experiencing a healing on the inside that is not apparent on the outside. After all, healing comes to us in many forms, and some of those forms are beyond our comprehension.

Caroline Myss believes that in our hands lies the power to take charge of our own healing. Again, this is not to say that people who do not heal wish not to be healed—often we are not aware of the power of our minds to control our bodies. But we do wield more power than we gives ourselves credit for.

Caroline Myss says that we can change the narrative of our disease, we can transform ourselves not just by waiting for miracles to happen, but by making them happen for ourselves. She suggests that often we postpone the changes that we need to make in order for healing to happen in our lives.

In her book, Why People Don’t Heal and How They Can, she tells the story of her friend, Mary, who was a victim of incest. Though the trauma in Mary’s life was devastating and real, victimhood had become Mary’s identity. She couldn’t think of herself in any other way except as a victim. As traumatic as her experience was, because Mary continually defined herself as a victim, she lived her life in that same way.

Mary would eat, sleep and breathe her victimhood. She surrounded herself with others who had had similar experiences. She was part of a support group, to which she had an extremely strong attachment, a group that shared similar fears and concerns. Part of the healing process that Mary chose was to continuously name the locus of her pain—to confront the conflict, even though by doing so, she continually relived it. This was, no doubt, her way, or her therapist’s suggested way, of dealing with her experience and ultimately accepting it.

But when Caroline attempted to address the fact that Mary’s whole identity was wrapped up in her victimhood, Mary dismissed her for not having shared the experience, thus making it impossible for Caroline to identify with her on that deep level.

That reminds me of the AIDS support groups I experienced in San Francisco in 1991. There were so many deaths attributed to AIDS that there were specific support groups—groups that met weekly with no limitation—open-ended groups for those who were partners and caregivers of PWAs.

I remember quite well the two women in our group—one whose brother was dying of AIDS and another who was a hospice worker dealing with a continuous stream of clients who were dying or had died of AIDS. (I recall my own resentment at their presence in the group. After all, they were not partners of PWAs so they couldn’t possibly relate to my suffering or the suffering of my peers—at least, this was my view at the time.)

Ultimately, when your partner eventually died, which everyone’s partner did in those days, you “graduated” from that group to another group—a 12-week grief and loss support group. Again, there was resentment that not all those in the group shared the same experience of the loss of a partner.

In other words, quite innocently and from a place of pain and anguish within our own suffering, those of us who had lost partners couldn’t imagine that someone who lost a sibling or a client could possibly relate to our notion of pain. We had unwittingly placed a “value” on the type of grief we were experiencing, which, in retrospect, was an incredibly short-sighted and selfish thing to do.

As in this situation Caroline Myss writes about, Mary could not envision Caroline as able to understand her pain because Caroline had not experienced incest. And so she shut her out and aligned herself only with those who shared in her specific type of suffering.

In a positive sense, you could say that initially at least, this sense of shared experience reminded Mary that she wasn’t alone. That was probably a good thing. But in the long run, in a negative sense, the people she constantly kept in her life prevented Mary from moving forward. Instead of relieving herself of the trauma that incest had caused—not only her own but all the others in her peer group—she and they constantly relived it.

As it turned out, Mary also had a history of a series of chronic illnesses. She was always in pain, always suffering, always in trauma. This became a part of who she was as much as the color of her hair or the way she breathed. Caroline Myss describes this as “woundology”—“the condition of defining oneself by one’s wounds” thereby “burdening and losing one’s physical and spiritual energy and opening oneself to the constant risk of illness and disease.”

Caroline Myss found this universal behavior in her travels around the world. She says that people “confuse the therapeutic value of self-expression” and give themselves “permission to manipulate others with their wounds. Instead of viewing the uncovering of their wounds as an early stage of the healing process, they use their wounds as a flag and their groups as families . . . and wear their deepest wounds on their sleeves like a red badge of courage.”

None of this is to say that pain isn’t real, that suffering isn’t real, that we don’t experience illness and disease and woundedness. And that we don’t need to share our burdens and our troubles.

But it is to say that quite often, instead of advancing our energies toward healing, a healing that God makes available to us—we sometimes become addicted to our suffering. This addiction allows us to wallow in pain, thus increasing our suffering.

And if we are not suffering, though we might feel better in some ways, we fall out of the pattern to which we have become accustomed. Suffering keeps us entrenched in a particular identity that serves us one way or another, despite how much pain we are compelled to endure.

When we are wounded, the temptation is to settle into our woundedness, which often attracts the woundedness in others. We want others to know about our woundedness. It brings us attention, it gains us sympathy. And it lowers others’ expectations of us, allowing us to shy away from promises we’ve made or responsibilities we’ve agreed to fulfill. Our woundedness allows us to “pass” on certain aspects of life and accountability.

Some wonder if illness itself (whether body, mind or spirit or any mixture of the above) is directed to them by God with intention—as if it’s acting as some sort of test. I’m not willing to go that far. I don’t believe these challenges are given to us, and most certainly not to test us.

But in some instances, I believe we attract, even cause specific illnesses in our lives. When I completed my work as a chaplain, after reading a person’s medical chart (which we were required to do) and then having sat with them, talked to them, listened to their stories, and heard about their fears, I would often discover that the locus of their illness was exactly the place where they held their body pain memory.
I was amazed at how many patients with cardiac problems were also people whose hearts had been broken and damaged in relationships. I was surprised at how many stomach and intestinal diseases were experienced by people who had endlessly stuffed and stifled their feelings and emotions.

In these cases, there is then a purpose that the illness serves—a reason that the unpleasant circumstances came about. Realizing this, we must respond in some way. Rather than seeing such events as “acts of God” or “God’s desire to test us,” these are the opportunities for us to rise to the challenge of change within ourselves.

When we evaluate honestly and realize how we contribute to our suffering, when we witness how we might have manipulated our suffering and pain so that it remained within the confines of our bodies, when we admit that we garner sympathy through our suffering and seek compassion or a free ride by not having to keep our promises, there lies an opportunity for us to grow, to change, to rise to the challenge and take responsibility for our own healing. From that place, then, we can get on with the next opportunity, which is to participate in the healing of the world.

There is but a short distance between our deep woundedness and our ability to heal. There is a short distance between our suffering and our ability to bring joy to the world. For it is from our woundedness that our ability to heal comes. Healing entails these things: understanding, empathy, honesty, the ability to listen, the ability to relate, patience, endurance, the ability to witness failure without surrendering.

These are the compassions we require when we are wounded. And once we understand them, we have the power to turn around our own woundedness, heal ourselves, and then get on with the business of healing others.

God did not leave us isolated and alone to suffer in misery. God gave us the tools and the insight to care for one another and to heal one another. The healing presence of God awaits us whenever we decide we are ready.

May we continue to follow where God is leading. Amen.