Meg Peery McLaughlin
May 25, 2025 / Memorial Day Weekend
Luke 7:11-17
Prayer for Illumination
Speak, Lord, for we are listening—
for hope, for healing, for the courage to go where you send us. Amen.
Scripture
Soon afterwards Jesus went to a town called Nain, and his disciples and a large crowd went with him. 12As he approached the gate of the town, a man who had died was being carried out. He was his mother’s only son, and she was a widow; and with her was a large crowd from the town. 13When the Lord saw her, he had compassion for her and said to her, “Do not weep.” 14Then he came forward and touched the bier, and the bearers stood still. And he said, “Young man, I say to you, rise!” 15The dead man sat up and began to speak, and Jesus gave him to his mother. 16Fear seized all of them; and they glorified God, saying, “A great prophet has risen among us!” and “God has looked favorably on his people!” 17This word about him spread throughout Judea and all the surrounding country.
The Word of God for the People of God.
Thanks be to God.
Sermon
Last week Jarrett spoke about the church calendar—
specifically Presbyterian Heritage Sunday—
Well today I call to mind a completely different point in the liturgical calendar—Christmas.
During Advent, I cannot resist using a poem from Iona in our liturgy
at least once during the season.
So I can promise you you’ve spoken these words before, and you will again.
The poem reads:
Light looked down and saw darkness.
I will go there, said light.
Peace looked down and saw war.
I will go there, said peace.
Love looked down and saw hatred.
I will go there, said love.
So he,
the Lord of light
the Prince of Peace
the King of love
came in and crept in beside us.
When we meet Jesus in Luke chapter 7,
he’s not the babe in the manger,
but all grown up.
By chapter 7,
Jesus has called his disciples,
preached his inaugural sermon,
and has launched into public ministry—
and it is defined by Jesus going there.
In this story, going straight into a funeral procession.
Quite appropriate for Memorial Day tomorrow.
There is a bier, which is a stretcher for a body.
There are bearers of the bier.
And a large crowd of mourners.
The body is being carried outside of the city,
because burials were prohibited inside the city walls.
It’s a funeral.
Jesus says, I will go there.
Jewish law prohibited touching the bier—
But Jesus can’t help himself.
Luke says he was moved with compassion.
In Greek, it’s splagchnizomai.
It’s a powerful verb, one you’ve likely heard us speak of before.
Luke uses it only two other times in the gospel.
This is the same compassion the Good Samaritan has for the man robbed;
the same compassion the father has for the prodigal son.
It is the kind of compassion that will not let Jesus stand still in the face of death and pain. Jesus moves toward it.
In the 1950s the journalist Edward Murrow had a radio program
called This I Believe where folks like Eleanor Roosevelt, Jackie Robinson,
as well as cab drivers and corporate leaders
distilled their guiding principles down to a few minutes.
NPR picked this back up in 2005 and for about 4 years they collected people’s core beliefs—and shared them– not to have us all agree on them,
but perhaps to prompt us to ask ourselves:
What do I believe? What in my own heart of heart really matters to me?
Bill Gates wrote, “I believe in the power of creativity.”
An English professor wrote, “I believe in being kind to the pizza dude.”
A woman wrote “I believe in taking a daily walk just to listen.”
Anthony Fauci – whose name I would not have known 15 years ago,
wrote, “I believe in the goal of service to all humanity.”
One that stuck with me, and maybe you, was an essay written by
Deirdre Sullivan, an attorney in Brooklyn. She said:
I believe in always going to the funeral. My father taught me that.
The first time he said it directly to me, I was 16 and trying to get out of going to the visitation for Miss Emerson, my old fifth grade teacher. I did not want to go. My father was unequivocal. “Dee,” he said, “you’re going. Always go to the funeral.”
So my dad waited outside while I went in.
It was worse than I thought it would be: I was the only kid there.
When the condolence line deposited me in front of Miss Emerson’s shell-shocked parents, I stammered out, “Sorry about all this,” and stalked away. But, for that deeply weird expression of sympathy delivered 20 years ago, Miss Emerson’s mother still remembers my name.
“Always go to the funeral” means that I have to do the right thing when I really, really don’t feel like it. I’m talking about those things that represent only inconvenience to me, but the world to the other guy. You know, the painfully under-attended birthday party. The hospital visit during happy hour. The Shiva call for one of my ex’s uncles.
In my humdrum life, the daily battle hasn’t been good versus evil. It is hardly so epic. Most days, my real battle is doing good versus doing nothing.
Do you agree?
Has doing nothing become our norm?
Not because we don’t care—-
but because we’re just all so distracted, busy,
or because we’re scared we don’t know what to say?
It’s not always easy.
And it can be mighty uncomfortable,
for someone else’s pain reminds us of how vulnerable we actually are.
But could we, church? Go to the funeral.
Move toward pain. Say out loud in our minds, I will go there.
And then do it, really go there.
I think you all know this, but it’s the showing up that’s the key thing
– you don’t need to say anything.
And actually, please for the love, don’t repeat Jesus’ words from this story.
Jesus says “Do not weep.”
And I suppose Jesus gets to say “Do not weep” since he’s the one who will eventually dry all tears from all faces.
But pro tip: don’t tell people not to cry.
Actually, when we sit with someone in pain, just in silence, and cry with them, that can be the most holy care of all.
So, go. Sit. Stand. Cry. Don’t explain. Don’t offer platitudes.
If you need to say something, say, “I don’t know what to say
other than I am so, so sorry.” Say, “This church family cares for you so much .”
If it is someone who is grieving, tell them a story about how
he pulled the fish hook from your hand,
how she sent you a handwritten note that you’ve saved in your top drawer for years.
Move towards the hurt in the spirit of the One who came to earth
to be proximate to our pain.
Move towards the hurt in the Spirit of the One who confronted death with the power of Easter.
Go in the Spirit of Christ.
Luke Powery who is the Dean of the Chapel at Duke points out something important about what Christ is about here.
He writes:
In this story, which only includes one dead body on the bier,
In this story, there are actually two dead people.
This is not just a funeral for a man, a “mother’s only son.”
This is a funeral for a woman, a widow.
And if you’re thinking, but wait, the mother is right there alive, walking with the mourners. Powery continues, “You can be breathing but still dead.”
And it’s true, sometimes the systems around us can kill us, no?
In biblical times, widows had no economic security and no legal standing.
When Jesus raises the man from the bier, that’s one thing.
Thee gospel says that Jesus gave him to his mother,
And that’s a whole other thing.
Jesus moves toward both deaths:
The death of the son
And the death of the widow.
It’s a reminder– to me at least–
that the pains to which Jesus is drawn
are not just our individuals pains,
but the systemic ones.
The ache of a mother burying her child is personal—
But the vulnerability of a widow with no safety net? That’s structural.
Jesus’s compassion shows up where grief and injustice meet.
And perhaps ours can too.
Deirdre Sullivan concludes her essay saying:
“On a cold April night three years ago, my father died a quiet death from cancer. His funeral was on a Wednesday, middle of the workweek.
I had been numb for days when, for some reason, during the funeral,
I turned and looked back at the folks in the church.
The memory of it still takes my breath away. The most human, powerful, and humbling thing I’ve ever seen was a church at 3:00 on a Wednesday…full of inconvenienced people who believe in going to the funeral.”
That’s the power of presence. That’s the holy defiance of showing up.
It’s all an echo of the heart of Christ.
UPC looked out and saw suffering.
We will go there, said the church.
UPC looked out and saw injustice.
We will go there, said the church.
UPC looked out and saw fear.
We will go there, said the church.
So we,
With hearts lit by light,
With steps steadied by peace,
With hands moved by love,
Go in and stand beside them.
In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.