In Matthew’s gospel, Jesus repeatedly seeks out people who feel bad rather than good about themselves, and calls them by name. Drawing on Matthew 9:9–13, 18–26, this sermon explores some of those moments in our lives when we have felt far from good.
I’ve not been well this week.
Don’t worry, it’s just been a mouth abscess – and it’s been treated with antibiotics.
The pain level – I’d give it 4/10.
Nothing much.
I’ve felt annoyed more than anything.
I’ve not felt good.
In fact, I’ve felt bad.
But not as bad as at other times,
such as when we’re tired at the end of the day
looking after grandchildren
and have to organise their tea time and the feeding of three dogs.
I don’t just feel bad,
I hate myself and the way that I am,
stressed and ratty (my apologies to rats).
And as for those times when there’s so much to do and so little time ….
Does illness, tiredness and stress make you feel like that?
Or, am I on my own?
It’s strange, isn’t it, how feeling physically unwell can spill over into everything else?
We don’t just hurt,
we become shorter-tempered,
less patient, less generous versions of ourselves,
and dangerous to those around us.
I remember the prayer of a woman leading intercessions.
Leaning on her walking frame, she said something along the lines of,
“Lord, you know that when we are in pain, or are ill, we no longer like ourselves”
Perhaps we can all join that prayer.
When we feel bad,
when we don’t feel well,
when we don’t feel good,
In today’s gospel (Matthew 9:9-13, 18-26) Jesus turns from one person to another,
to Matthew,
tax collectors and sinners,
the woman who had been bleeding for 12 years,
Jairus and his household
all, who, for one reason or another,
felt bad,
unwell, far from good.
Jesus meets Matthew sitting at the tax collector’s booth,
just the place we all try to evade –
even more so when the tax is going to a foreign power.
Matthew was working for Rome.
The money he collected was not for the benefit of his neighbours.
It helped keep the empire running, reinforcing its power.
To many of his fellow Jews, he was a collaborator,
a traitor, a bad man in a place of shame.
Jesus sees him,
calls him,
“follow me”
and he even has dinner with him.
The gospel tells us that this was the pattern for Jesus and those who followed him:
they ate with tax collectors,
the morally compromised,
and sinners who transgressed the rules of society,
made to feel bad: shamed and ashamed.
Maybe it was their reputation,
the reputation that Jesus and his followers kept bad company,
that attracted the woman who had been bleeding all those years,
a woman beyond the pale, physically unwell
and socially isolated because of her incessant bleeding.
That she even dared to touch his cloak was scandalous.
In the eyes of many, she was not merely sick.
She had become a problem,
a source of contamination,
someone to be avoided.
And then we come to Jairus – the synagogue ruler,
desperate for Jesus to touch his dead daughter,
so she might live.
Another scandal – reaching beyond where good people go,
touching the dead, failing to keep the proper distance.
These are incidents to remember when we count ourselves among the unwell,
when we don’t feel good,
when we feel bad.
It is little wonder that people scoffed and laughed at Jesus
and that those who felt good about themselves
criticised them.
They thought they were keeping the law, following regulations,
maintaining their religion ….
and what is more,
they were doing it in spite of the difficulties they faced in their lives.
They made sacrifices to be proud of.
And Jesus turned on them.
“It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but those who are ill.”
“Go and learn what this means:
“I desire mercy, not sacrifice.”
Jesus was picking up on Hosea’s prophesy,
which we have also heard this morning.
“I desire mercy, not sacrifice.”
One old translation uses the phrase “loving-kindness”.
I rather like that expression.
Is it kindness that is loving?
Or is it loving that is kind?
And the answer, of course, is yes
to both.
In Hosea’s prophecy God is revealed
as having a preference for loving-kindness.
It comes as a surprise to the religious leaders,
whose religion had become organised around sacrifice,
performance and proving oneself worthy.
But God says:
“I desire mercy, not sacrifice.”
Our ears catch some of the meaning when we hear the French word merci,
a response to kindness received.
The Hebrew word is hesed.
It means mercy, steadfast love, covenant loyalty, loving-kindness.
No single English word can quite contain this wealth of meaning.
It is God’s determination to remain kind towards us,
faithful to us.
And perhaps we need to hear that.
For it is not only illness that makes us feel bad.
Sometimes it is the diagnosis.
Sometimes it is the operation.
Sometimes it is discovering that life has changed us in ways we never wanted.
A diagnosis can give us a new name.
Cancer patient.
Stroke survivor.
Widow.
Carer.
Disabled.
Dependent.
Bereaved.
The surgery may have been successful.
The treatment may have worked..
But we are still left to learn who we are now.
And sometimes we do not much like this new version of ourselves.
Sometimes we grieve for the person we used to be.
Sometimes we wonder whether anyone else can still see us beneath the diagnosis,
beneath the loss, beneath the changes that have been forced on us.
That prayer comes back to me:
“Lord, you know that when we are in pain, or are ill, we no longer like ourselves.
And the gospel answers:
Yes.
And still Christ comes towards us.
Matthew had become “the tax collector”.
The woman had become “the one who bleeds”.
Jairus had become “the father of a dead daughter”.
But Jesus refuses to let the worst thing in their lives become their name.
He sees the person.
He calls Matthew.
He welcomes the woman.
He enters Jairus’s house.
He reaches out his hand.
Because God’s loving-kindness is greater than all the labels that life places upon us.
God’s mercy is deeper than our shame.
God’s faithfulness survives all the unwanted changes of our lives.
So if there are days when you do not feel good about yourself,
when you do not recognise yourself,
when you wonder whether you really belong among God’s people,
remember this and give thanks:
God desires mercy, not sacrifice.
Jesus did not come for those who felt good about themselves.
He came for those who knew their need.
God desires mercy, not sacrifice.
Not the sacrifices we make to prove ourselves,
but the mercy God delights to give.
And that mercy is reaching out to you now.
Just as you are.
Grits and Grains 