The Gospel according to Mark 1:29-39

As soon as they left the synagogue, they entered the house of Simon and Andrew, with James and John.  Now Simon's mother-in-law was in bed with a fever, and they told him about her at once.   He came and took her by the hand and lifted her up. Then the fever left her, and she began to serve them.  That evening, at sundown, they brought to him all who were sick or possessed with demons.  And the whole city was gathered around the door.  And he cured many who were sick with various diseases, and cast out many demons; and he would not permit the demons to speak, because they knew him.  In the morning, while it was still very dark, he got up and went out to a deserted place, and there he prayed.  And Simon and his companions hunted for him.  When they found him, they said to him, "Everyone is searching for you."  He answered, "Let us go on to the neighboring towns, so that I may proclaim the message there also; for that is what I came out to do."  And he went throughout Galilee, proclaiming the message in their synagogues and casting out demons.

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He came and took her by the hand and lifted her up.  And the fever left her.”  Simon and Andrew, the brothers who had just recently dropped their nets to become “fishers of people,” probably told him about her because they were embarrassed.  They were just trying to explain why she wasn’t meeting them at the door, offering them something to drink.  They wanted to impress him; they certainly didn’t want him to think that they didn’t know how to entertain.  So when he entered their house, they told him the reason.  “My mother-in-law is upstairs with a fever,” Simon said. 

Every beat of her heart was like another breath of air inflating a balloon in her head, a balloon building pressure as it expanded along the route of least resistance–toward her eyeballs.  She lay very still with a cloth over her eyes.  And under all those blankets, she still shivered. 

She heard them come in downstairs.  She felt just the tiniest bit guilty, but she didn’t move at all, didn’t even think about getting up.

The brothers were surprised by his reaction.  The only reason they had told him was to explain why she wasn’t serving them.  But he didn’t seem concerned about that at all.  All he seemed concerned about was her. 

As he moved toward her room, he could see how shocked they were as they finally realized where he was headed.  An unmarried man, not even a member of the family, going into her room when she was lying in the bed, undressed, her hair down.  He could tell they were upset, dismayed, aghast even.  But he knew they wouldn’t object because they were a little awe stricken.  He chuckled and opened the door.

She heard the footsteps in the hall.  “One of the boys,” she thought with her pounding eyes, “probably wondering if I could rally for just a little while to make a good impression on whomever this is they brought home.”  She did not move, did not lift the cloth covering her eyes.  “I’m too sick; I’m sorry.  I just can’t move,” she said softly. 

“That’s all right,” he said.

The cloth that could not be moved flew off.  The head that could not be lifted swung up.  “Oh, my God!” she said, clutching the blanket to her neck.  And then she felt the pounding, the dizziness that didn’t care who was in the room.  “Oh,” she sighed as she slid back down.  She was too sick to be offended, to sick to care.  Before she closed her eyes again she saw the boys, standing in the hall, peeking in like children fascinated by a room they are afraid to enter.

Years later she would still talk about it.  She was never bitter about the boys leaving, going off to live their lives following him, going off to give their lives following him.  People expected her to be bitter, but she never was. 

She would tell them of the time he broke all social convention and came into her room, of how he came to her, took her hand, and just held it, gently, for a long time.  She would tell how she had been too sick to object to this crass behavior.  After he had held her hand for a long time, it seemed as if he somehow knew that it was time, and he lifted her up.  She didn’t resist, didn’t even think or worry about the eyes, the spinning, the weakness, the ache; she just trusted him and went.  And she would tell them the part she knew they wouldn’t believe: 

“And then it was just gone,” she would say. 

“What was gone?”  They always asked that.

“The fever.  The illness.  All of it.  It was just gone.  I felt fine.  He had taken it away.  I have no idea how.  So I went and served them because I wanted to do something to say ‘Thank you.’  And then word got around and our house was full of sick people all evening.  And he healed them.  I don’t know how.” 

She could usually see it in their faces.  “You’re nuts,” they were thinking.  But she didn’t care.  And she was never bitter that Simon and Andrew had gone off with him. 

“He came and took her by the hand and lifted her up.  And the fever left her.”  Jesus was a healer throughout his ministry.  When I relive stories about his healing ministry, like the healing of Simon’s mother-in-law, I find I’m sometimes like one of the people she tells the story to.  Often my first reaction is not, “Thank you, Jesus, for all the healing you do among us,” but “Yeah, that was then, and this is now.  I don’t see many of those miraculous healings these days.  We seem to be left with disease and death and our hope is in medicine, and it will always, in the long run, let us down.  We pray for miracles of healing, and we usually don’t get them.  People we love get sick and die.  Jesus is gone, and he took miraculous healing with him.” 

That’s not my high-filutin’, seminary trained self responding.  It’s certainly not my best self.  That’s my heartbroken, tired of watching people die, tired of seeing pain I can’t stop, gut-reaction-self responding.  I guess I’m jealous of the healing miracles.

So, I’ve made my confession about my not-best-self’s reaction to miraculous healing stories.  Some of you may feel the same way.  But that really isn’t our best selves.  There’s no shame in acknowledging that part of ourselves, but we are called not to settle for that, not to live out of our not-best-selves.

So, as Christians, let’s strive for how we can look at this from the perspective of our best selves, the selves God created us to be, the selves that reflect the light of Christ.  I’m going to offer some reflections, and I hope you’ll have some of your own. 

I begin by thinking about the power of God that Jesus taps into, and how he does that.  In our Disciples of Christ in Community program this week, we were talking about Jesus as the model of health.  He was a man who always knew exactly who he was, a man absolutely void of paralyzing fear, anxiety, the need to control, the need to impress, the need to acquire.  Jesus was a human being who was free of the bondage we other human beings are so often willing to tolerate in order to serve those unhealthy desires which distort our relationship with God, ourselves, and others. 

In a word, Jesus was “shalom,” which means “wholeness and wellness of being.”  We translate it, somewhat inadequately, as “peace.”  “The peace of the Lord be always with you.  And also with you.”  In that exchange, we wish for one another the greatest gift of being and relating one can fathom. 

I think Jesus’ healing probably was special; he didn’t just possess shalom as part of who he was; he didn’t’ just get glimpses and moments of shalom the way I often do; he embodied shalom (wholeness, wellness, peace), and because of that, he seemed to access shalom in others in a special way. 

Christ seems to sometimes still effect dramatic healings like he did to Simon’s mother-in-law and so many others in the gospels.  But I can’t explain why or how or when, and it seems a rare exception rather than the rule.  But I think it’s instructive that rather than us trying to bargain with God for healing, we should instead focus on shalom, peace. 

How can we do that?  Here’s one hint: I don’t think it’s an accident that right after this healing episode, Jesus gets up early and goes off by himself to a deserted place to pray.  Prayer is not a negotiating session or a duty; it is time spent nurturing our relationship with the source of shalom, the source of peace, of freedom, wholeness, wellness of being. 

When we have the perspective that relationship gives, we see differently.  First, we see that God’s healing is all around us.  I’m reminded of my surgeon who wouldn’t let me thank him for healing me.  “I just cut and stitch and move tissue,” he said.  “God does all the healing.”  From cancer remissions to scraped knees, God does all the healing. 

But our relationship with the source of shalom also gives us another perspective; all will be well.  I have bad news for you: you are going to die.  God never said you wouldn’t, and you will die no matter how much and how sincerely you pray.  Ask not for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for you. 

But I have some good news, great news, actually.  When you know the peace of God, you know that even though you die, all will be well.  You will be at peace, well and whole, at shalom — healed. 

I don’t have all the answers to questions raised by Jesus’ healing ministry.   But I’m pretty sure of this: whether we are taking communion to someone, or visiting a friend in a hospice or hospital, or dealing with someone who has hurt us or whom we have hurt, we are called to do as Jesus did with Simon’s mother-in-law.

Go to them.  There is power in presence.  And, whether in thought or deed, with or without words, touch them with the gift that God has given you: shalom.  And whether they live or die, if they know that Christ bids them shalom, God will heal them.

“He came and took her by the hand and lifted her up.”  Shalom.

The Rev. James H. Pritchett, Jr.  St. John’s Episcopal Church, College Park , GA.

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