Mark 9:14-29
Rev. Dr. Debbie Clark
March 12, 2023
Thank you, Willie and Laura, for sharing your powerful stories of healing. Thank you, choir, for lifting up the image of God’s healing as a river. The stories and the music draw me into our gospel text in a new way, inviting me to enter into it from the perspective of the disciples.
So I invite you to join me in imagining that we are the disciples who stayed in the valley. Jesus took Peter, James and John up the mountain for a shiny, shimmering experience. We remained behind in the murkiness of life in the valley. Perhaps we feel hurt—why weren’t we chosen to go up the mountain? We might be feeling insecure—does Jesus see us as second-class disciples, unworthy of a shiny spiritual experience?
In the midst of our hurt and insecurity, a father and son approach us, looking for Jesus. The son is suffering terribly, writhing and twisting and unable to speak. The father, though in control of his body and voice, is also suffering terribly, as he worries for his son. When we tell him we don’t know when Jesus will be back, the father asks us to heal his son. We see the desperation in his eyes, and we are filled with compassion. We know we have to try.
We whisper among ourselves. What exact words did Jesus use with the centurion’s slave? Where exactly did he touch the leper to evoke a healing response? We try to figure out Jesus’ formula and replicate it with the boy. Nothing happens. We try again. And again. We pour every ounce of our energy into healing this child. If anything, it seems to make his convulsions worse. We are devastated—for the father and son. We are devastated by our own inability to ease a child’s pain.
To make matters worse, a crowd has formed. They are judging us as failures and frauds. Then Jesus comes down from the mountain, all happy and glowing at first, then jarred by this scene. The contrast expresses itself in anger and frustration—directed at us, or so we imagine. Seemingly without any effort, he heals the child. We are relieved. The child’s suffering is finally over. We feel awful that we couldn’t do it ourselves.
That night, in a quiet moment, when Jesus’ anger and our frustration have subsided, we muster up the courage to ask Jesus what we did wrong. “This kind,” he says, “can only come out through prayer.” No one, he reminds us, can heal another person by virtue of our skill or energy or words or touch. We can only participate in God’s healing spirit.
This is such a complicated, loaded story. I cringe at Jesus’ anger at his disciples; that’s not the Jesus I want to follow. I’m not sure what to make of a child possessed by a spirit; that’s not the way I understand illness. I struggle with all the stories of physical healing in the Bible; they have been used too often to accuse someone who is sick of not having enough faith.
Even with all these complications, this story speaks profound truth about what it means to be a follower of Jesus, what it means to travel together, with Jesus, toward Easter.
On this journey, we, like the original disciples, are confronted by the pain of a world in desperate need of healing. People we love are suffering—from illnesses that limit their lives, from depression and anxiety, post-traumatic stress and addiction, from excruciating pain in many forms. Our nation is suffering—from the trauma and losses of COVID, from injustices and racism that have compounded over centuries, from hate and divisions that feel deeper and wider than ever before. Our world is suffering—from war, from totalitarianism, from the denial of women’s rights, from the devastating impact of global climate change.
Like the disciples 2000 years ago, we feel inadequate. How can we be a source of healing when we are so aware of our own brokenness, so in need of healing for ourselves, when we don’t know the right things to say or do?
Like the disciples left in the valley, we feel compelled to try. We research the best places to donate our money to have the greatest impact. We study history so we can figure out how to be part of dismantling racism. We practice our active listening skills. We attend workshops and conferences. We bless prayer shawls. We bake cookies. We do everything we can, working as hard as we can, drawing upon all our strength, sometimes until we have nothing left to give.
There are times we see the fruits of our efforts: a friend who feels heard, a tear on the face of a loved one in a hospital bed, a moment of celebration for a community in mourning, relationships that are deepening in trust. Other times our efforts fall short—or so it seems to us. We fear we are not good enough, not powerful enough.
Does that sound familiar? Fortunately, it’s not the whole story. When we slow down and listen, we hear Jesus’ reminder to his disciples, to us: “This one can only come out through prayer.” Ah, right, we almost forgot. No one, no matter how wise or energetic or dedicated, has the power to heal anyone else, or even ourselves. We cannot do it alone. Thanks be to God, we don’t have to. We are part of something much bigger than ourselves. God’s healing spirit is at work in and through us.
Our anthem, Healing River, offers a vivid picture of God’s healing spirit as a river that flows through our lives and our world. As we try to understand our own role in God’s healing, I find it helpful to envision ourselves as tributaries of that river. Just as the banks of a stream are shaped by the waters that overflow from the river, so the contours of our lives are shaped by the healing waters of God’s love overflowing for us. Each tributary of a river is different; the water absorbs the particular minerals in the soil of the banks. The particular healing qualities of our individual tributaries are enhanced by the minerals from the soil of our life stories, our passions and our dreams. Our church community is the flood plain of the river. The tributaries that are our lives weave in and out of each other, sharing our unique healing gifts, connecting and reconnecting with the river of God’s love.
However we envision our role in God’s healing spirit, our scripture reminds us that being a follower of Jesus means embracing that role. As we travel together, with Jesus, toward Easter, we are called to open ourselves to God’s healing spirit. That means acknowledging our own need for healing and asking for help. It means choosing not to turn away from the pain of the world, but instead facing it with compassion. It means praying, connecting with a power beyond ourselves, remembering that we do not have to do it on our own. It means doing what we can with the gifts we have, even when it doesn’t feel like enough. It means trusting that God is working in and through and beyond us, whether or not we see the fruits of our efforts.
I find myself wanting to re-imagine the gospel story once more, this time from the perspective of the father and son. They were in search of a famous healer; instead they found a group of ordinary human beings who cared enough to try. These strangers were willing to put themselves out, to risk looking foolish, to expend all their energy, all out of compassion. Were the father and son changed by this expression of God’s healing love?
Maybe, when Jesus came down from the mountain and cast out the spirit, he was finishing what the disciples had started. Maybe his frustration was not that they had failed but that they didn’t recognize the ways God was working through them. Maybe Jesus’ words about the power of prayer were intended to assure them that they were already part of something so much bigger and more wondrous than they had ever imagined possible.
I am grateful to Willie and Laura for sharing their stories of healing—ways they experienced God’s healing through someone’s presence, ways they were part of God’s healing for another person, ways they experienced God’s healing river flowing through them. A child’s touch. Being heard. Making music. The power of shared prayer. What are your stories of healing and being healed?
Friends, we are all in need of healing. Thank goodness, God’s river is flowing in our midst. Friends, our efforts to offer healing matter in ways we may never know, for we are tributaries of God’s river. Let us dare to ask for healing. Let us dare to do what we can to be a source of healing. Thanks be to God. Amen.