CONTINUAL PITY

Continual Pity

The Sixteenth Sunday after Trinity

St. Luke 7:11–17

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It is not uncommon for someone newly encountering Anglican worship to ask why something is done or what a physical gesture means—like kneeling to confess our sins, or why an altar is central rather than a microphone. Why are there candles on the Holy Altar? This question has many answers, developed over the centuries as the church in every generation has searched the scriptures and contemplated the meaning of candles used in worship of God.

Why candles on the altar? Because before electricity, candlelight illuminated the missal as the priest celebrated Holy Communion at night There you go—two thousand years of church history, and we’ve finally answered the question! And yet this practical, pragmatic answer (“they need to be able to see”) leaves us unsatisfied. Why? Because even the staunchest Zwinglian, ex-carnational, anti-sacramental person senses that the candles mean something more than light- they are pointing to things beyond their mere “candle-ness.”

Moses was commanded to make a seven-branched golden lampstand, its lamps never extinguished, signifying God’s perpetual presence with his people (Ex. 25:31–40). Centuries later, Zechariah saw that same lampstand in a vision and heard the word of the Lord attached to it: “Not by might, nor by power, but by my spirit” (Zech. 4:6)—its seven lamps a sign of the sevenfold Spirit Isaiah foretold would rest upon the Root of Jesse (Is. 11:2).

St. John sees the Lord Jesus walking amongst lighted lampstands, symbolizing the Lord’s presence in and amongst his Church. These candles remind us of His presence when we gather around his Table to give Him thanks and praise.

Jesus said, “I am the light of the world: he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness but shall have the light of life” (Jn 8:12). Altar candles typify Jesus “the true Light, which lighteth every man that cometh into the world.” You see, candles are sacramental in nature; one simple solitary wax candle can lead us into far greater realities and truths.

Candles witness to the passing of time. See how spent the candelabra candles are—lighted every Sunday over these sixteen weeks of Trinitytide. The days are passing. Summer’s heat gives way to Autumn’s cool beauty. The candles speak: “Time is marching on; Trinitytide will soon come to an end.” As will this candle—in fact, this is the last service for these. The candle is a type of our lives as well. Our birth is like the lighting of a new candle; we burn bright and hot, but like the dwindling candle, our days grow shorter. I look at that candle and sense my mortality—one day the wax will simply run out. “Day in, day out,” said Seneca, “we are advancing towards death; each hour takes a little life away.” Or perhaps the divine hand of God will call me home, as the hand of an acolyte extinguishes the flame. And so the candle speaks: “At some point I will die, and you will die. Death becomes us.”

Earlier we prayed the collect for this sixteenth Sunday in Trinitytide:

O Lord, we beseech thee, let thy continual pity cleanse and defend thy Church; and, because it cannot continue in safety without thy succour, preserve it evermore by thy help and goodness; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Who will protect me walking through the shadow of death? Who shall succor or comfort me in the death-moments of life, when it seems as though “the snares of death [have] compassed me round about, and the pains of hell have gotten hold upon me”? (Ps 116:3)

St. Paul understood that no human person escapes death—for “it is appointed unto men once to die, and after this the judgment” (Heb 9:27). The young son of the widow in today’s Gospel is but another sad validation of death being the great equalizer.

Death is the villain cast in today’s Gospel. St. Luke describes the scene: a funeral cortege involving a large crowd departing a city called Nain, which means beauty. A great number of city residents are transporting a young man’s body—a life cut down in the springtime of life—to a cemetery. Luke tells us that the dead man being carried out “was the only son of his mother, and she was a widow.” Her mourning is intense, as it always is when the young die suddenly. And what is more moving than a mother’s weeping over the death of her only child? Nain, this city of beauty, is veiled with sorrow. As is the widow as she walks in the shadow of death.

You see, Luke’s Gospel narrative contains two deaths: one physical (the son), the other spiritual (the widow). The Christian life is filled with joy AND sorrow; it is χαρμολύπη (kar-moh-loo-pey), a word St. John Climacus used to describe Christian life as a joyful-sorrow, or what we might call “bittersweet.” Sometimes the bitterness of life can overtake us; tragedy knocks late at the door. Things take a turn for the worse. In these, we experience what Walter Brueggemann calls ‘death moments.’ Though alive, we experience death inside.

Jonah called out to the Lord in his great distress, “out of the belly of Sheol I cried” (Jonah 2). Death was the experience of the psalmist too: “Out of the deep have I called unto thee, O Lord” (Ps 130:1), and again, “I am counted as one of them that go down into the pit, cast off among the dead, like them that are slain, and lie in the grave” (Ps 88:3–4). Who will lead the procession of life to halt the procession of death in our souls? What consolation can be found in the throes of spiritual death? It is the pity of Christ that comforts, he who turns our sorrow into joy.

And when the Lord saw her, he had compassion on her, and said unto her, Weep not. And he came and touched the bier: and they that bare him stood still. And he said, Young man, I say unto thee, Arise. And he that was dead sat up, and began to speak. And he delivered him to his mother.

Jesus came into this world to conquer death—every death—to bring life from death, joy from sorrow, hope out of despair. He boldly and compassionately walks toward the procession of death and stops it in its tracks. With pity, his divine hand touches the funeral bier, thereby making himself unclean; he willingly enters into death and handles it, that from his touch might come life: a son revivified, a mother consoled. It is the pity of Christ that compelled him to give himself for life. He will not leave our souls in the clutches of Sheol. Yes, Christian, you will die, but by continually trusting and loving Jesus, “you will walk before the LORD in the land of the living.” You shall be raised from the dead, as the widow’s son was, yet never to die again—raised unto life eternal.

But know this: the Lord who has promised to raise your soul and body on the last day has the power and the pity to reverse every death we experience in this life. Did he not revive the widow’s heart in her time of trial and great suffering? This is why the collect tells us to pray continually for God’s pity, because his mercy and love are always needed for our comfort, peace, and continual well-being. Ask for his pity because the world will not comfort you. Your things will not bring solace. These are fading away but the love of God is forever.

We must invoke our Lord’s continual pity to strengthen such as do stand, to comfort the weak-hearted, to raise up those who fall, and finally to beat down Satan under our feet. Sorrows come both from without, the turbulence of this life, and from within, the infection of our own natures—for though baptized and forgiven of original sin, we still struggle to live virtuously.

The path of death is to order our lives APART from Jesus Christ. So many people are as dead men walking, hollow within and wasting daily from sins and vice, full of hatred, envy, lust, and anger toward their neighbor and often against God—not realizing they have removed themselves far from Jesus. Some of the most tragic cases mistake church attendance and knowledge of Scripture for life in Christ, going through the motions of faith while their hearts run after the world. They are white-washed tombs, spotless without, but within selfish, wicked, and corrupt—wearing the appearance of life while standing on the very precipice of death.

Jesus describes, however, the path to life. Humility and repentance halt our death-march and turn us back towards life. Friends, Jesus wants to halt the procession of death and raise us from the bier of sin, back to life. When your conscience compels repentance and you confess your sins, He pardons, cleanses, and reconciles you to Himself, because he loves you.

What sweet and soothing music to the ears of imperfect pilgrims like us. He offers comfort as we stumble on the journey towards eternal life. Your God rejoices over and embraces every prodigal pilgrim who returns, declaring, “My son was dead and has been brought back to life again.” Every act of repentance begins a glorious resurrection of the soul.

Jesus was journeying through Nain on his way to Jerusalem, where another mother would watch her son die and carry him to be buried outside the city walls. But it was through his loving death that he made resurrection possible for all of us, teaching us that to save our life, we must lose it. This is the path of life: losing ourselves for others, loving as Jesus first loved us, dying to sin and living unto righteousness. Jesus says, “Whoever would save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will find it” (Mt. 16:25). We have to die if we want to live.

But don’t fear this ‘dying to yourself,’ for Jesus takes what is dead and makes it live because He is love and full of compassion. He will not leave you in death, for he saw your great need, and processed from heaven to earth— He “came near to the city.” By his death, he halted the procession of death in which you and all of humanity are numbered. He is the One who called you out of darkness and will mercifully resurrect you today if you confess your sins and trust him with your life. He is here and He is calling you out from the parade of death: “Young man, young woman, I say unto thee, Arise, rejoice, and live.”

Friends, at the end of our worship the acolyte will come and extinguish the candles and the sanctuary will grow just a bit darker. Do not mistake the candle for the light. It is only ever a witness, wax and wick pointing beyond itself to the true Light of the world. So let the candle go out—it has done its work during this long season. But do not let its going out be a picture of your own soul. He who is “the true Light, which lighteth every man that cometh into the world” does not flicker nor fade, and does not fear the acolyte’s hand. Let this candle’s small flame remind you, here in Trinitytide, that a far greater light already burns in you—and it need never be extinguished.

“What reward shall I give unto the LORD for all the benefits that he hath done unto me? I will receive the cup of salvation, and call upon the Name of the LORD. I will pay my vows now in the presence of all his people: right dear in the sight of the LORD is the death of his saints” (Ps 116:11–13). Amen+