Compassion & Urgency
THE NINTH SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST
2 Samuel 7:1-14a • Psalm 89:20-37 • Ephesians 2:11-22 • Mark 6:30-34, 53-56
The apostles were so busy they skipped their meals, and they’re so excited to share with Jesus about all the good work they did that they hadn’t yet hit the wall, the one that comes when the adrenaline wears off. Like a kindergarten teacher directing the children to nap time before anyone melts down, Jesus directs the apostles to a deserted place. It’s time to step out of the rush and be alone a while and rest.
They go away in a boat to what’s supposed to be a deserted place, but people had seen and recognized Jesus and company and rushed to the place they were going. By the time Jesus arrived, the crowd was waiting, all those sheep without a shepherd. We’re not told what Jesus directed the disciples to do. Maybe they were told to stay in the boat and take a nap, or maybe they were told to sit back and observe–we don't know. But Jesus went ashore, saw the crowd, and had compassion for them. Moved with compassion, he taught them many things.
Most of you know I grew up Baptist, and I heard and read a lot of the bible, the King James Version, of course. It wasn’t until I was in college, in a Buddhism class, that I heard the word compassion. Now, I looked up Mark 6:34 in the King James Version, and it says quite plainly that Jesus “was moved with compassion” in that translation, too. I must not have had the ears to hear because surely it was proclaimed from the pulpits of my childhood that Jesus had compassion, as fundamental as it is to our Christian theology. I don’t want anyone–young or old–leaving St. Paul’s without the knowledge, assurance, and understanding that we believe in and have a compassionate God. And how do we know this? Because the very Son of God was right there in the midst of the people and saw them in their need and desperation and was moved with compassion. Paul’s letter to the Ephesians highlights Christ’s reconciling work in the world for us all.
To be clear, “compassion” does not mean “pity.” Pity is seeing someone sleeping on the sidewalk and feeling sorry for them. “Such a pity,” we might say, and we keep on going. Our heart may be touched, and we might feel sad about it, though not in a way that really affects us. Compassion, however, literally “with suffering,” places ourselves alongside others, particularly in times of hardship. Your suffering is my suffering.
Before his own passion, Jesus stood on the shore and perceived the suffering of those who were seeking him. They were like sheep without a shepherd with no one to lead them beside still waters, no one to guide them through the dark valleys, no one who knows them or calls them by name, and no one to protect them, no one to whom they belong. We’re told that Jesus teaches them. We can’t know exactly what or how he taught them, but in his very presence he brings them the nearness of God. He sees them, knows them, speaks to their fears and dis-ease. Surely he comforts and assures them that in the midst of their life of struggle, they are not alone, that God is with them, that life abundant is theirs for no other reason than because they are God’s own beloved.
I feel certain about so few things as a Christian, but it was a sense of great love and certitude I felt when I realized Jesus was all about compassion.
The disciples may have had other thoughts. The deserted place was supposed to be their restorative retreat, but their leader changed the agenda. Some of the verses we skip over today include the feeding of the 5,000. When it starts to get a little late after the day of teaching, the disciples go up to Jesus and remind him that this “deserted place” doesn’t have the accommodations or food to provide for the crowd. Jesus, who knows the hunger of the people–both spiritually and physically– also knows the fatigue and frustration of his disciples. He also knows the power of the disciples’ work in faith, and he tells them what to do: to “go and see” what kind of food is on hand and then to group the people so that the blessed offering can be shared. The disciples do what they’re told, and the people are fed, they know not exactly how. Perhaps in the midst of the people, the disciples found they also had compassion and found ways to rest and be fed alongside others who were also weary and hungry. There was no division or separation between them.
Our portion of the gospel lesson concludes with travel to another place and more people recognizing Jesus and rushing toward him, with a sense of urgency. They were bringing their sick, begging to touch even the fringe of his cloak, that they, like the desperate, once-hemorrhaging woman, might also be healed. And they were.
When was the last time we rushed toward anything with urgency?
So many people rush toward concert tickets that they’re sold out in presale. The masses line up for athletic events and charge toward seasonal sales. The pattern seems to be that we rush toward things that we want but tend to be nonchalant or avoidant about that which we need. Do we judge ourselves, as if rushing toward something highlights our inadequacy or what we lack?
The disciples rushed toward Jesus to share their stories about their good work. Why wouldn’t they be excited to share their good news? The seeking and the sick rushed toward Jesus to see and be seen, if not healed. They were excited and hopeful, and why wouldn’t they want to be first in line for something so life-altering? Whether the disciples who wanted to be validated and assured or others who desperately wanted to be relieved of their suffering, they were all ready, not wanting to wait any longer, and they were willing to take risks that centered around Jesus. I might think that their risks made them look needy and desperate and maybe even foolish or naive because they didn’t know the fullness of who Jesus was, after all.
But I’d be foolish to judge. Their sense of urgency at least partially arose from anticipation and hope, and whether they knew it or not, they were all rushing toward wholeness. In their presence with Jesus, they were experiencing a unity of being that reminded them of who they were created to be, of who they really were. They weren’t followers or outcasts, healthy or sick, rich or poor. They were all children of God, and in the presence of God Incarnate. Weren’t they more fully seen and known than they had ever imagined possible? Wasn’t hope kindled and encouraged for them in a way they thought had long expired? Was it a sense of peace that surpassed all understanding that washed over them? Jesus taught them many things, after all.
Why aren’t we rushing to be close to Jesus with such urgency? God knows many of us are at wit’s end, ready to admit that we can’t do this on our own, whatever “this” may be. And maybe you do, in your polite Episcopal way, rush to the altar each week or at every chance you get, to receive the Body of Christ, knowing that in it you experience a nearness of Christ that keeps aflame the recognition of all that is holy in every encounter.
Sometimes we’re the ones marveling at the work we get to do in proclaiming God’s nearness here and now, and sometimes we’re the one who is drowning in desperation and clinging to our last hope. Always, we are the ones who bear the image of God in the world and manifest the compassion of Christ in the many ways we share love and care with others and all Creation, especially in our suffering. And it’s not about what we do as much as it is about what God has done and continues to do as faithfully and compassionately now as ever. In God is our hope, and hope does not disappoint. And if you need assurance for our hope, I encourage you to take your bulletin home and study Paul’s description of Christ’s reconciling work that has already been accomplished, the peace that already is. Then, go back and read the psalm, but instead of David’s name, use yours, and use your pronouns. Read is as a reminder of God’s promise and faithfulness, God’s compassionate letter to all God’s beloved.
© 2024 The Rev. Sara Milford
St. Paul’s Episcopal Church – Fayetteville, Arkansas