I am aware that not many sermons are memorable, at least not memorable in the sense that you can remember vividly the details of the story and the emotion it created years later, but I recall one such sermon from my childhood. John Tuft was the preacher then in my home church. Newly out of seminary, full of passion and grace, he preached with incredible vulnerability about his own life, and he shared with us his family story of "Poopsie." Even today if you mention the "Poopsie" sermon to anyone who heard it - I can almost guarantee they would remember.
Poopsie was a child that his sister brought home during a Christmas holiday. She had worked with special needs children, and Poopsie was one of these children. Poopsie, although a few years past toddlerhood could not speak, or move freely on her own, and she still needed to have diapers changed. At first the family was angry that Poopsie was brought home without anyone else's permission. She required constant care and attention in a family where care and attention were already being stretched thin. There were arguments behind closed doors, resentment enough to go around, and thinly veiled thoughts that this child couldn't possibly be very lovable which is probably why she didn't have anywhere else to go.
But over even a few days, Poopsie's smile became infectious, because she smiled even while they scowled. This bad news turned surprisingly good. A child they wanted to hate became someone that they loved. When Poopsie died, the family was crushed, and as we heard that sermon years ago, we too were crushed for a child we didn't even know. Now, they knew her possibilities were severely limited, that her life would not be anywhere near what could be called "normal." But that didn't seem to matter. Love crosses boundaries in ways we cannot easily imagine.
A leper came to Jesus. This verse of scripture starts out with that same twinge of dread. A leper comes to the master because he thinks there's even a small possibility that he might be healed. But we know that there's a needs to be caution when it comes to lepers. Leprosy is catching, and anyone who gets it becomes an outcast from the rest of society. Poopsie's condition was certainly an inconvenience to the Tuft family, but getting close to a leper is a risk for one's own health. Jesus had a good ministry started, if he became a leper, the whole show was over. But he didn't turn this person away. He stretched out his hand and touched him.
Touching and letting our lives be touched are two of the hardest things for us to do. That's why marriages are tough and parenting is tough. We let other people have a piece of our hearts, of our very beings. Even when we take our vows and commitments quite seriously, we ultimately cannot guarantee that the other person will be there for us in every way we want them to be, especially when sickness sets in and steals the breath right out of the relationship.
It may be the birth of a special needs child, the signs of depression in your partner or teen, early onset Alzheimer's in your parents, or a friend whose needs spiral out beyond your capacity to show them love and support. These burdens feel like an awful cross to bear. We falter under the load. Our resentments grow. Our grumblings get louder, or we disengage. The relationship withers and dies. Then our other relationships suffer too. Our strength gets stretched to it's limit, and the cords of love break.
We are but human. The psalmist speaks of being restored from the pits of hell, and at times, we're all right there with him, buried under so much pain that it seems impossible to be lifted up. At those times, our lives are longing to be touched. We pray for our lives to be worth something, hoping beyond hope that we are indeed better off alive than dead. In those moments, God tenderly removes our sackcloth and clothes us in joy. Jesus touches our sores and heals us. Our souls may offer praise when our mourning is turned to dancing - but we must remember that the mourning is nevertheless very real. That's what makes the dancing so joyous!
It doesn't seem fair for Jesus to tell the leper who was healed to be quiet. I can recall much smaller joys when I couldn't keep my mouth shut. What else can the leper do but be thankful and praise God - rejoicing that his life has been made whole? The reason that the Poopsie sermon lasted so long with me was that it was real, in the truest sense of that word. It was real that they were originally appalled with the thought of caring for this child, and it was real that they were devastated when she died. It was a stark and naked revelation of the love of Christ incarnate.
One of the criticisms of ministers in the last 60 years or more is that many of them don't really believe what they preach. Statistics abound over how many clergy lack faith in scripture, or who deny the Virgin birth, or who doubt the resurrection. But those aren't the most dangerous criticisms. Our faith will die if we as clergy and lay people together cannot see the possibilities for healing and transformation in the power of God's love through the touch of our Savior. Preaching and the honest compassion that comes from God's Word have the power to turn our mourning into joy. I think the real problem is not disbelief, but fear of being that vulnerable. It took great courage for Rev. Tuft to admit that his family was not all that enthralled about having a high maintenance special needs child in their midst. He didn't exalt their family's specialness for taking this child in, nor did he encourage us to go out and find a "Poopsie" to love. He talked about how hard it was, and how the burden, through no power or gift of their own was removed.
Poopsie did not survive in one sense. Her disabilities and frailty led to her natural death, but amazingly, her story did not fade away in my memory, and I know that Rev. Tuft, now that he is a Christian author, is still dedicating stories in her name. The leper's story could not be shut up in the beginning and we still tell it today. Wherever and whenever people are bold enough to share their truth, lives are touched, and Jesus continues to stretch out his arm and reach the lives of people in deep pain.
One thing I've learned is that we cannot go out and create these types of situations on our own, but there's something about how we respond when we're in them. I'll never be a pastor like Bud Ogle who responds to the pain of poverty and violence day after day in inner city Chicago. Not everyone can be a Mother Teresa, who gave her life to physically bound up the wounds of the sick and dying. Our callings don't always take us out to be healers or martyrs. It won't save ourselves to find someone unlovable to love, but real life puts us in those scenarios often enough. In our own families and friendships, at church, in our neighborhoods, someone will show signs of needing Jesus to reach out his hand. What will we do when that happens? We may even help begrudgedly. I don't think we even need to like walking in Jesus' way all the time, but we walk nonetheless, because we must. And the good news will be told over and over, and over again.
Amen.