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Since I was diagnosed with brain cancer in January, I've been doing a lot of reading about this disease. If one could ever say there is a good time to have cancer, one might say that now. Not only are there exciting and fascinating discoveries going on, but there seems to be a whole body of literature describing the spiritual and emotional dimensions of growth and healing that cancer patients are experiencing. Someone handed me one such book last Sunday at coffee hour, "At the Will of the Body" by Arthur Frank, and because it was short and very interesting, I finished reading it the next day. One very simple story in it that has been resounding in my heart as I read these scripture lessons is the story of a woman with breast cancer undergoing chemotherapy. She faithfully came to her weekly treatments, always positive, cheerful and upbeat and always bringing home-baked cookies to share with the staff and the other patients. Unfortunately, several months after her treatments were completed, she had an aggressive recurrence of her cancer and she was devastated. She just kept repeating again and again, "But I make cookies every week." She, as the Israelites of old, had "made a covenant with death, and with Sheol had an agreement, when the overwhelming scourge passes through it will not come to us." If I am positive and do what the doctors say and reach out to others cheerfully even when I feel lousy, then my cancer will stay away. If I quit smoking, cut down on fat, and exercise, the plague that stalks in the darkness will not get me. If I go to church and pay my pledge and say my prayers, my marriage will stay intact and my kids will turn out okay. Let's make a deal, God. I'll scratch your back, you scratch mine. That desperate logic which we all know so intimately is as old as the stars. The ancient Israelites were caught up in its strange logic again and again. The prophet Isaiah accuses the leaders of Israel of making a covenant with death. Death with a capital D was the name of a Canaanite god. The Israelites feared the Assyrians so much that they ran to their strong neighbor, Egypt, to form an alliance to protect them. They forgot that their God, the God of Israel, was the Lord of heaven and earth, who alone could bring security and peace. Whenever we forget who our God is and run to other things for our security-alliances, insurance policies, elaborate plans, we, too, will come up short. We will be like the poor fellow Isaiah describes, whose bed is too short to stretch out on and whose covering is too narrow to wrap oneself in. Haven't we all experienced that sort of tossing and turning--used to a king or queen size and finding ourselves having to share a double bed with our spouse, the negotiating of space and covers, the never quite being at peace? When we put our trust in what the doctors say, what our neighbors think, how our kids are doing, we will continue to toss and turn on our short bed and our narrow covers. God alone can bring peace and comfort and rest to our weary souls. So what do we do? When we find that "Let's make a deal" doesn't work anymore, but just leaves us cold and restless, what do we do? "Strive to enter by the narrow door" we are called to enter? Jesus himself is the narrow door. He is the precious cornerstone, the sure foundation of Zion, the tested stone that Isaiah foretold that will remain when justice and righteousness, like hail, will sweep away all the false alliances with death. He is, as Hebrews puts it, the mediator of a new covenant scaled with his own sprinkled blood which speaks more graciously than the blood of innocent Abel. We must enter that narrow door of Jesus and we must let go of all our pride, and our bargaining efforts, and come through that door empty-handed. That that one simple peasant Jew 2000 years ago should be the door to God is such a crazy way of thinking. Jesus is a stumbling block, a scandal of particularity. Hebrews says that God's voice of warning shakes the earth and heavens and that he will continue to shake us so that which cannot be shaken will remain. What do you and I cling to which is being shaken? I testify to the truth of these difficult and challenging words. I used to cling to my health and my strength and my intellect. Let's make a deal, God: if I live well, I'll stay healthy, right? I can serve you better when I'm strong and healthy, or if I do get sick, I can be a better witness to your healing power if you raise me up. Everything has been shaken in this cancer journey and what cannot be shaken remains. Whether I live or die, I belong to Jesus and he will carry me through and that is enough to give me peace this day. You know, at times, it could become easy for me to get caught up in the pride and the prestige of our family's move--I am the Dean's wife--what a glorious and magnificent Cathedral we have. Dust, it is all dust, that is shaken and removed. What remains is the narrow door of Jesus. "But I was the Dean's wife. But I was in the newspaper. We ate and drank in your presence and you taught in our streets, Jesus." "I do not know where you come from." When Jesus looks into your eyes on the Judgment Day, will he know you? In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen. |