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A Sermon Preached at St. Christopher's Episcopal Church, Oak Park, IL
on the 17th Sunday after Pentecost, September 23, 2007 (Proper 20, Year C, RCL)
by the Rev. J. Paris Coffey

Readings: Jeremiah 8:18-19:1, Psalm 20:1-9, 1 Timothy 2:1-7, Luke 16:1-13

Is there no balm in Gilead? - Jeremiah 8:22a

After several comments last Sunday that my sermon was a bit depressing, I vowed I'd be more upbeat this week. When I came to the first of today's lessons, though, and read, "My joy is gone, grief is upon me, my heart is sick. Is there no balm in Gilead," I thought, "Maybe not." The Psalm was no better, and although First Timothy offered a glimmer of hope, the Gospel turned out to be a text described by scholars as one of the most difficult in Scripture.

"Where's Edmund when I need him?" I thought, remembering the not-to-distant days when either Edmund or Deb shared the preaching rotation; or barring help, "Where's hope? Where's the hope in these difficult readings?" It had to be there, I reasoned, deciding that perhaps we should use different readings, since today we honor the U.N.'s International Day of Peace. In the end, though, being neurotically loyal to the lectionary, I vowed to stay the course and find hope and peace in these texts. And I did. I found it first in the New Testament, which always contains hope in one form or another; but to my surprise, I also found it in Jeremiah's question, "Is there no balm in Gilead?"

The question is a rhetorical one, reflecting the fact that Israel's way of life had become so grave that even Gilead's healing balm was of no use. This balm, made from a turpentine-like resin from a tree in Gilead, was known for its medicinal properties to the point that it was said to be worth twice its weight in silver. For generations people had gone to Gilead on the west bank of the Jordan seeking this balm. Indeed, when Israel took the Promised Land, making Gilead part of its territory, the trade of the balm became an Israeli one. In Genesis, for example, Jacob' sons sold their brother Joseph with his coat-of-many-colors to a caravan heading back to Egypt with the Balm of Gilead; and when these same brothers went to Egypt some years later, their father Jacob sent with them "some of the choice fruits of land (as a gift, including) a little balm."

Clearly, the healing Balm of Gilead was easily accessible and readily available to God's people. Consequently, Jeremiah's question takes on an even deeper meaning as the prophet asks, "How can people so close to the source of healing, who've traded in medicinal salve, be so unhealthy themselves?" Or put in spiritual terms, "How can a once frail and forgotten people strengthened by the power and grace of God, be so far removed from God that they fail to see and strengthen others?" Certainly the Balm of Gilead/of God was there, they simply had to use it; just as the Living God is here if we will open our eyes, reach out our hands and use for good/for God the gifts and resources we've been given.

After all, God is the true owner of these resources - the healing Balm in Jeremiah and property in today's Gospel. We, though, are the merchants/the managers of these resources, called by God to use them shrewdly, including our very lives, for God's good. Lots of people are shrewd in the management of their lives and futures, but not for God. They've got fancy homes and expensive cars, fat bank accounts and savvy investment plans, but don't give a whit about others. We, on the other hand, claim to give more than a whit about God and yet are careless with God's future and the needs others. We have ready access to God's healing balm - the life of Jesus/his death and resurrection/the presence of the Holy Spirit - but we're not nearly as shrewd with these gifts (nor with worldly wealth) as are worldly folks like the manager in today's Gospel.

Instead we get complacent about God, getting caught up in our own lives - our jobs, families, comforts and the work of human hands. We ooh-and-awe, for example, over Chicago's skyline with its tall buildings and bright lights, but not at God's stately mountains or dazzling stars. We read our newspapers, trade journals or decorating magazines, but not our Bibles. We marvel at science, technology and human accomplishments, but use such advancements to write off our need for God. But I can tell, friends, God is here - as close as the Balm of Gilead was to the Israelites - and someday you're going to need Him/or Her.

In fact, perhaps you already do. Perhaps that's why you're here - because illness has taken hold, depression has set in, life is overwhelming you, or age has begun to rattle your bones. Perhaps children are challenging your patience, money problems have surfaced, the loss of a loved one has turned your whole life upside down, or the demands of work leave you shouting, "I'm dancing as fast as I can." Perhaps love has gone out of your relationship, you know you're drinking too much, or your children are struggling in ways that you can't fix. It's hard - life can be hard - but the good news is, God is here, offering hope and peace as Martin Luther King, Jr. reminded one congregation in 1967.

Preaching at Mount Pisgah Baptist Church in Chicago, less than a year before his death, the Rev. Dr. King said, "The first twenty-five years of my life were very comfortable years, happy years; didn't have to worry about anything. I have a marvelous mother and father. They went out of the way to provide everything for their children. I went right on through school. I never had to drop out to work or anything. And you know, I was about to conclude that life had been wrapped up for me in a Christmas package."

"Now of course I was religious," King continued. "I grew up in the church . . . and the church meant something very real to me, but it was a kind of inherited religion and I had never felt an experience with God in the way you must have if you're going to walk the lonely paths of life. Everything was done, and if I had a problem I could always call Daddy, my earthly father; things were solved. But one day after finishing school, I was called to a little church in Montgomery, Alabama, and . . . the white people in Montgomery . . . started doing some nasty things. They started making nasty telephone calls . . . (and) one night very late . . . the telephone started ringing and I picked it up. On the other end was an ugly voice (that said to me, in substance), 'We are tired of you and your mess now, and if you aren't out of this town in three days, we're going to blow your brains out and blow up your house.'"

" . . . I couldn't sleep. I was bewildered. And then I got up and went back to the kitchen and started warming some coffee . . . I started thinking about many things. I . . . thought about a beautiful little daughter who had just been born about a month earlier . . . She was the darling of my life. I'd come in night after night and see that little gentle smile. And I sat at that table thinking about that little girl and thinking about the fact that she could be taken away from me any minute. And I started thinking about a devoted and loyal wife who was over there asleep. And she could be taken from me, or I could be taken from her. And I got to the point that I couldn't take it any longer (when) . . . something said to me, you can't call on Daddy now; he's up in Atlanta 175 miles away. You can't even call on Mama. You've got to call on that something in that person your Daddy used to tell you about, that power that can make a way out of no way, and I discovered then that religion had to become real to me and I had to know God for myself."

King had hit bottom. He knew he couldn't go on alone; couldn't manipulate all the pieces so that everything would turn out just right. And so he surrendered, and in that moment encountered the kind of God you must have if you're going to walk the often-tough and lonely paths of life; the kind of encounter that led King to end his sermon saying, "And so I'm not worried about tomorrow. I get weary every now and then . . . but I'm not worried about (the future) ultimately because I have faith in God. Centuries ago," said King, "Jeremiah raised a question, 'Is there no balm in Gilead?'. . . He raised it because he saw good people suffering so often and evil people prospering. Centuries later our slave foreparents came along. And they too saw the injustices of life, and had nothing to look forward to . . . but the rawhide whip of the overseer, long rows of cotton in the sizzling heat. But they did an amazing thing. They looked back across the centuries and they took Jeremiah's question mark and straightened it into an exclamation point . . . (singing), 'There is a balm in Gilead to make the wounded whole. There is a balm in Gilead to heal the sin-sick soul.'"

King went on to say of the first stanza of this African-American spiritual, which speaks of discouragement, that he didn't mind telling folks that sometimes he felt discouraged, and so do we. We feel discouraged in our own lives when things go wrong. We feel discouraged when the Church threatens schism because people can't agree on justice issues. We feel discouraged on International Peace Day as war continues to rage in the world. Indeed sometimes we feel discouraged and think our work in vain, but as that beloved slave-written spiritual asserts, "Then the Holy Spirit revives our soul again."

Is there no balm in Gilead?" asks Jeremiah. "Yes," says God, "there is; right here in your midst. All you have to do is let go and let God."

Amen.