I am sitting in room 17 of the Intensive Care Unit at Portsmouth Regional Hospital.
Outside the window, beyond the hospital rooftops, there is a stand of those junky trees that, this time of year, look like weeds that someone hasn’t gotten around to cutting down yet. Through the naked limbs of these trees, the only motion that I can see – the neverending stream of cars passing north on the i-95.
When I got here, shortly after visiting hours began at 8AM, I found Cynthia awake in her bed. The ICU nurse that has been assigned to her, was patiently and kindly interacting with her.
“Do you know this young man?” she asked. The question was asked lightly heartedly, but the little jest had, I knew, a subtle diagnostic intention, and, for a moment I feared that she might not know me.
“Yea” she said.
This was a relief, but I immediately noted that “s” was missing from her “yes.”
“It’s your pastor,” I said – also with a touch of forced levity.
I took her hand.
She looked different. The left side of her face had shifted – a clear indication of a stroke. But more jarring was that she was not composed. She did not exude that quiet command; that indulgent way she has of letting you know that she is putting up with you because, of course, you are so very dear to her. Instead, there was a kind of surprised fear in her eyes.
In those first few moments I knew that I had not adequately prepared myself for this visit. Though I have been at my share of hospital bedsides, I had somehow arrived thinking “I’m going to see Cynthia” not “I’m going to see a woman who has just had a stroke.”
Her grip was strong.
“Are you comfortable?” I asked.
“Mmm” she nodded
“Are they treating you well?
“Ya” she pointed at the nurse and nodded.
The nurse was attending to buttons. There are always buttons in the ICU – buttons and beeping.
“Sure” she said, from over in the land of bedside buttons… “we take good care of you, don’t we?”
Small talk can be boring, but with Cynthia, it has always been a distinct pleasure. This is because Cynthia doesn’t engage in useless small talk – her small talk effortlessly moves into medium-sized, or even big talk – and all this talk – in every size – is accompanied by that wicked glint in her eye, that knowing half smile that comes at you a little sideways, making you feel happy.
But that lovely small talk is hard to do, when her contribution is limited to yes” and “no.” It’s hard, too, because the questions that habitually come out of our mouths – “How are you doing?” “What’s going on?” – well, they all sound silly! They sound silly because they are silly. The ICU transforms the banter of daily life into painful irony. Mortality is too close. All levity is forced.
But that doesn’t mean we are not communicating. There is plenty of meaning being expressed. It’s just not through words.
At a loss, I offer to pray. But a minute into my prayer, her breathing changes. When she closed her eyes, she fell asleep. So I close the prayer, and pull a chair up to the edge of the bed watching her as she settles into much needed rest.
**
The post resurrection story from the gospel of Luke that we heard this morning can be broken into two main themes.
In the first part of this story, Jesus takes some pains to prove to the disciples that he is not a ghost. Their first assumption, when he shows up, is fear – ghosts inspire fear. Jesus must prove that he is a person who, like them, has a three dimensional, physical presence. Jesus achieves this purpose by doing two things: he instructs them to touch his hands and feet, and he eats a piece of broiled fish. You cannot touch a ghost, and a ghost cannot eat fish – and so, even though they all saw him die three days before, these actions convince them that he is not a ghost, and that he has resurrected.
In the second part of the story, Jesus points out to the disciples that they really shouldn’t be all that surprised by this state of affairs, because he told them it was going to happen this way, and what’s more, the psalms and the prophets prophesied it all.
When all this work has been done, Jesus concludes his discourse with a significant exclamation point. Jesus says:
“You are witnesses of these things.”
Take note of what it means to witness.
Witness, in this story, involves physical presence – Jesus shows up among the disciples.
Witness, in this story, involves touch. Jesus allows the disciples to touch him.
Witness, in this story, involves bodily function. Eating broiled fish is an essential process of the body.
Witness, then, is physical.
Belief is connected to the idea of witness. Witness, here, is a kind of understanding that is built upon physical experience.
The disciples do not simply see Jesus. They witness Jesus – the physical experience of his presence convinces them of the truth of his resurrection.
And get this…
When the disciples witness Jesus’ resurrection in this very physical way, something happens to them. They are given a new way of understanding their identity, and their role in the world.
They are now witnesses.
By perceiving the physical reality of something – by being part of the story of that person or idea – a person is transformed from being a passive perceiver of life, into an active participant in truth.
**
Cynthia asleep, my mind wandered.
I got up and wandered over to the window, looked out at the sad trees that had not yet gotten the message about spring. I absently watched the cars zipping north on the highway.
The day before, I’d resisted making the two hour drive to Portsmouth because I was concerned that this would happen – that I would end up hanging around in a hospital room, waiting for Cynthia to wake up.
I have done this vigil many times. It is not fun. Hospitals can be sterile and depressing – but that’s the least of it really – the emotional weight is the hardest part. To be fully present for someone, when she is facing eternity. I am aware that it is a great honor to be with someone at this moment of ultimate significance. But at the same it’s also an almost impossible task. What do I know about eternity?
But if we are to follow Jesus Christ, he teaches us, in this morning’s passage, to place ourselves in this position of witness. To witness is to create truth by being physically present.
By showing up – by being physically present in the time of need – we witness. We create truth. To witness another person’s suffering – being there with them in it – means that you are properly attending to the reality of that suffering. You are not ignoring it. To do this is to actively bring God’s love into the world.
In our modern life, we have made an art of not physically showing up. Telephones. Cell Phones. Zoom. Texting. Social media. The infrastructure of our lives is set up to make it unnecessary to show up.
But God’s witness requires us to show up. To be physically present.
Jesus could not have proven his physical reality if he had to do it on a zoom screen. No one would have believed that he actually ate a broiled fish. That could be too easily fabricated by AI. God’s salvation requires your physical presence.
Last night, as I was writing this sermon, I received a text from my daughter Isabel. She was watching the news about the Iranian drone strike on Israel. I did not know about it until she told me.
Drone strikes are a good way to kill people, because it can all be done from a distance.
Without missiles and drones, we would not be able to kill each other as efficiently. Efficiency in killing requires you not to be present. God’s love, on the other hand, requires you to be present.
Netanyahu is not starving right now. He is having nice meals. In order to do this, he must not be present among the starving people in Gaza. If he were actively present to witness children dying slowly and painfully of starvation, he would not be able to do what he is doing.
But you are not like Netanyahu.
You are not little Putins.
No.
You are witnesses.
As painful as it is, when we are present with our loved ones – when we deepen our “sight” with truth of “witness” – we become God’s eyes in the world.
When we witness we turn God from a noun into a verb.
To witness is “to God.”
To God, is to be present and attentive to the greatness of each other’s souls.
To the greatness – for example – of Cynthia’s soul.
This is what I knew, as I stood at the window of room 17, looking past the trees at the cars rushing north on i-95.
Being there with Cynthia – just being there – holding her hand and praying with her was the most important thing that I could do – whether she knew I was there or not.
And then, there, in the no-man’s land between the hospital and the highway, under the scrub trees, I saw a small purple blessing – a crocus, popping out of the dirt.
Let us pray:
Dear God
It is a beautiful spring morning.
The morning gilds the sky.
But here, in this sanctuary
our hearts are breaking,
because we love a great soul
and we witness
that her life has been an expression
of your love in the world.
We know this because we have been
present and attentive to the greatness of her soul.
Your son taught us
through his witness – his presence with us –
to replace the reflexes of power
with the intuition of love.
Bring about such a world.
make us instruments of such a hope.
so that the drones may be grounded
and the missiles may be emptied of there
terrible guts and turned into
planters, to be overrun with spring crocuses
and daffodils.
Amen