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The Widow of Nain (Luke 7: 11- 16)
October 18, 1998

A young mother in Oklahoma City once told the following: "It was one of the worst days of my life: the washing machine broke down, the telephone kept ringing, my head ached, and the mail carrier brought a bill I had no money to pay. Almost to the breaking point, I lifted my one-year-old into his highchair, leaned my head against the tray, and began to cry. Without a sound, my son took his pacifier out of his mouth and stuck it in mine."

There are those times when life seems absolutely crushing. The cause may be grave and serious, or it may be the result of an accumulation of minor things, but in any case, a person’s sorrow can become inconsolable, and the grief overwhelming. And unfortunately, no one has yet perfected a pacifier for adults.

So, in such times, we may find ourselves in the ashes of grief with no prospect of joy anywhere on the horizon. The words of Job speak of this condition: "Oh that my grief was thoroughly weighed, and my calamity laid in the balances; for it is heavier than the sands of the sea . . . My soul is weary of my life; I will give free utterance to my complaint, I will speak in the bitterness of my soul" (Job 6:2-3; 10:1). Can you hear words of this sort on the lips of the widow in our Gospel today?

As the Lord approached village of Nain on that day long ago, his eyes landed on the tragic scene unfolding there: a widow attending the burial procession of her only son. Needless to say, he found her weeping: weeping over the loss of a child, her only child - a sorrow greater than which is hard to imagine; weeping, for having lost her husband previously, now she found herself totally alone in the world; weeping, for as a woman without a husband or a son, she had lost all means of support for herself ; weeping, we can be sure, because at that point life had absolutely crushed her. What reason could there be for her to carry on?

And yet, even as her mind was filled with such sorrowful considerations, in midst of her moaning and wailing and crying, and that of the crowd, she beholds a strange man approaching and hears him utter these words: "Weep Not."

When we pull back from that scene to reflect on our own lives in the here and now, it is not hard to recognize her experience in ours. Like her case, it could be the death of a loved one, or it could be a grave and debilitating illness. It could be because of a business enterprise in the throes of near collapse. It could be because of a marriage torn by conflict, betrayal and resentment. It could be because of a child that has wandered far from the pure and holy ways of Christ. The possible circumstances are endless, but the result is the same: we find ourselves swallowed up by sorrow, consumed by grief, battered by bouts of sadness. Our hope has faded, our vitality has ebbed, and joy cannot even be remembered. We read that Job took a piece of broken pottery to scrape his boils and sat down in the ashes – the ashes of grief - and we can identify (see Job 2:8). It was at just such a time that this widow heard that voice announce: "Weep Not."

I am not suggesting that the entrance of Christ into your time of sorrow will necessarily be so bold, dramatic, and miraculous as that described in the gospel. In this case, Christ touched the boy and the cause of this woman’s grief was eliminated instantly, totally, and irreversibly. He touched the bier, the boy rose, and a mother’s sorrow was turned into joy. Does it always happen in such a manner? I don’t think so.

The point of this gospel is not to teach that Christ will always instantly appear to take every cause of sorrow away from our lives; it is to illustrate – dramatically and powerfully – that the power of resurrection is still present, even in the ashes of grief.

The widow’s five senses told her undeniably that her son was dead. Her emotions confirmed that the situation was hopeless. Her reason verified that nothing could be done about it. But then Christ appeared and overturned the evidence of her senses, untied the knot of her emotions, and undid the connections of her logic. He manifested life and power beyond her wildest expectations and dispersed the ashes of her grief.

This is the core message of this gospel for us, my brothers and sisters in Christ. The one who raised the boy is himself risen. He wields life and power way beyond our expectations ("All power is given unto me in heaven and on earth" Matt. 28:18). His abilities range far above what our senses can perceive, what our emotions will allow, and what our reason can understand. The power of His resurrection is nonetheless there - perhaps subtle and hidden - even when we are least prepared to accept it, as we sit in the ashes of grief.

Only by grasping on to this in faith, only by grasping on to Him in faith, do we avail ourselves of the unimaginable possibilities that lie on the other side of grief. There, once again, the light can dawn, hope can arise, and fresh opportunities for joy manifest themselves, beckoning and calling to us, awaiting our response to the invitation to reassume life. The mystery of God’s providence, which before may have seemed so dark and cruel, is revealed - still no less mysterious - but nonetheless a warm and encouraging presence. And in this presence is the power to burst the self-concocted boundaries of our sorrow and self-pity. It thrusts into our sight the faces of those who love us, the desperation of the needy, the joy of serving others, the comfort of the gospel, the beauty of the liturgy, the glory of God’s creation, the satisfaction of work well-done, the triumph of a life well-lived, and the certain hope of life eternal.

Yes, my brothers and sisters in Christ, any encounter with the Savior reveals the narrowness of the confines we erect by our senses, our emotions, our expectations and our reason and replaces them with TRUTH. He offers us so much more than a pacifier.

So in those times of desperation, those times when we feel that life’s adversities have crushed the last little bit out of us, let us turn to him, seeking him fervently and unceasingly as the Church has taught us to pray - "O Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me!" - until his life-giving presence is once again manifest to us, and we sense the power of resurrection in the sorrow of our soul.

May he who raised the son of the widow to life, and raised the of his mother from the ashes of grief, lift from you every weight that hinders you from sensing that life-giving presence and grant you, even here and now, the foretaste of his unending life. Amen.

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