The Widow at Nain

A Homily for the 16th Sunday After Trinity

The Rev. Deacon Timothy Wilson

“And when the Lord saw her, he had compassion on her, and said unto her, Weep not.” (Luke 7:13)

The Gospel reading brings before us one of the most tender and powerful moments in our Lord’s earthly ministry: His raising of the widow’s son at Nain. We see here Christ face-to-face with the great enemy of mankind, death itself. He confronts it not in the halls of the powerful, nor in the disputes of the synagogue, but on the dusty road of a little town, as a poor widow follows the bier of her only son.

The evangelist paints the picture in a few strokes, yet how full of pathos it is! A widow, already acquainted with grief, already marked by loss, now loses her only son. The child upon whom her hope, her comfort, and her livelihood depended is gone. The whole town shares her sorrow as they accompany her in procession, but they can do nothing to restore what is lost. The scene is one of hopelessness, that is, until Christ enters it.

And when the Lord saw her, He had compassion. His “initiative is in keeping with the spirit of the OT commandments regarding the care for widows.” But in his compassion, “perhaps Jesus sees in the situation a foreshadowing of the sorrows of his own mother at the death of her only son.” (Gadenz) He had compassion… It’s the heart of the Gospel: the divine pity, the mercy of the Son of God who stoops to bear our sorrows. In his commentary on this passage in St. Luke, Saint Cyril of Alexandria makes a fascinating observation: he remarks, “He did not wait for the woman’s entreaty, for her prayers, for her request. He anticipated her wish by His divine compassion.” St. Cyril points out a very interesting fact: the widow had not asked Jesus to act. I can only imagine that she was too broken, too lost in grief. Yet Christ, unbidden, moved by mercy, intervenes.

This, my dear friends, is the Christ we worship, the One who sees us in our brokenness, who acts before we even know how to pray, who reaches down into the dark abyss of human despair with the power of His divine life. Notice also how Christ accomplishes this miracle. He does not offer platitudes or parables, and in fact, He didn’t even speak many words of comfort. How many of us, when we have experienced loss, have felt that friends’ words alone would ring hollow in the face of death? But Christ says to her, “Weep not.” Then comes up to the bier, touches it, and commands, “Young man, I say unto thee, Arise.” Immediately, the dead young man sits up and begins to speak. You see, Christ’s word is not like ours; His word does not ring hollow, His word carries the power of the life-giving Spirit. Where we are powerless, He is almighty.

You see, this miracle at Nain is a foretaste of Easter. It foreshadows Christ’s own victory over the grave and points to the final resurrection of all who belong to Him. Saint Chrysostom said: “He raised the dead boy with a word, showing that He is Lord both of the living and the dead. He who has authority to call the dead to life will surely raise all at the last day.” (On St. Matthew, Homily 27). So, this event is not merely a kindness shown to one widow, though it surely was that. It is a sign for the whole Church and for all creation: that Christ has come to destroy the final enemy, He’s come to destroy death itself, and to bring life and immortality to light.

Now, you may ask, how does this miracle connect to our lives? Doubtful, any of us has seen a dead man raised to life. But all of us have stood, or will stand, in the place of that widow, grieving, broken, and powerless before the reality of loss. And in such moments, we are tempted to despair. But here, we must remember that the same Christ who had compassion on the widow has compassion on us. The Compassionate Christ is in Our Midst, and He has not changed. His pity is the same yesterday, today, and forever. And just as He intervened without being asked, so often He comes to us unbidden, sending His Spirit to comfort, His Word to strengthen, and His people to embrace us in love.

Two short years ago, two uniformed Marines came to my door at two O’clock in the morning. They informed me that my oldest son was dead. I don’t pretend to understand all the whys. But this I know, Christ stood with me at the funeral, just as real as He stood with that widow of Nain. We may not all experience a son restored to life on this side of eternity, but we all have the promise that Christ is with us in our grief and that He has conquered death for us. He did not merely comfort from afar; He, Himself, entered death, bore it in His own body, and rose victorious.

What did St. Paul say in our Epistle lesson from Ephesians 3? Saint Paul prays that we might be “strengthened with might by his Spirit in the inner man; that Christ may dwell in your hearts by faith.” It is this strengthening, this indwelling of Christ, that sustains us in the face of death and grief. Without it, we are overwhelmed. With it, we are able to say with Paul, “O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?” And St. Paul goes further. He prays that we might “know the love of Christ, which passeth knowledge.” The miracle at Nain is not merely a display of divine power; it is a revelation of divine love. In Christ’s compassion, there is a window into the infinite, unfathomable love that moved Him to die for us while we were yet sinners.

And how does Christ communicate this compassionate, life-giving love to us today? He does so chiefly in the Blessed Sacrament of the Altar. Here, in the Holy Communion, the same Jesus who touched the coffin at Nain comes to touch us. The outward signs of bread and wine carry the efficacious inward grace of His Body and Blood, given for us, that we might be strengthened with His life.

At this altar, we are reminded that His death was for us and that His resurrection is our hope. Here we taste the powers of the world to come. Here, He nourishes us with Himself, assuring us that though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death, we are already united to Him who is the Resurrection and the Life. Beloved, every Eucharist is a proclamation: “Young man, I say unto thee, Arise.” Every Eucharist is a pledge that our mortal bodies will one day be raised incorruptible. Every Eucharist is Christ’s compassion made present, His love poured into us, His life overcoming our death.

So let us come to His table today with faith, knowing that the same Lord who comforted the widow, the same Lord who destroyed death, the same Lord who fills His people with the power of His Spirit, is here for each and every one of us. To Him be glory in the Church by Christ Jesus throughout all ages, world without end. Amen+