A Prayer for the Strong

A Prayer for the Strong

A sermon shared online

April 2020

Scripture: Mark 14:3-9

         Earlier this month, I read a blog post written by a British medical professional who has been caring for others during the pandemic. The title of her piece was “Thanks for the support, but I don’t want your clapping.”

The author recognized the good intentions of those who have hung out of their windows to cheer passing doctors and nurses, who have flooded social media with emotional tributes to those laboring in hospital emergency rooms, and who have hailed health care workers as superheroes. But she pointed out that the people who are working in the medical systems around the world actually want and need something other than applause.

What they really yearn for, she argued, is better funding, more resources, and the political resolve to make sure those things get delivered. All of the celebrations mean nothing if we do not also help and protect the individuals who put their lives on the line for us every day—and on whom the lives of others depend.

         I took her point to heart. But I also saw in her piece an implicit recognition of two very different perspectives on who these medical professionals are as human beings—indeed, on whether they are human beings at all.

From the viewpoint of the cheerleaders hanging out of their windows, the strength and courage of these doctors, nurses, and other first responders makes them seem almost invincible. This perspective prompts the superhero comparison, which imagines such individuals as blissfully removed from considerations of their own mortality—worries over the occasional chunk of kryptonite notwithstanding.

But the perspective of the health workers themselves differs substantially. Sure, they feel proud of their sacrifices and successes, as they should. But they also feel exhausted, frustrated, apprehensive, and even angry. This should not surprise us. It’s only natural. They’re human. And here’s the point: we forget that, but they don’t.

We imagine them in capes and think them invulnerable. They know better. They spend every day in the looming shadow of their vulnerabilities.

In this sense, when we cast them as superhuman we do not honor them—we misunderstand them. We deprive them of their humanity. And, in the course of doing so, we may place them outside of the scope of our care, even if we do so unconsciously and inadvertently.

Caring for the strong does not come naturally to us. As a practical matter, strong people do not appear to need our help. “They’ll be fine,” we think, often adding: “I wish I had their strength.”

And our confidence that they can get by without us grows in direct proportion to the strength and courage they exhibit. As a result, we may do little or nothing to care for the strongest among us—while at the same time we continue to pile new and weightier burdens on their shoulders.

Alas, our faith may only reinforce such an approach. The gospels pay a great deal of attention to the “least” in the kingdom. Over and over again, they call us to care for those who struggle to care for themselves—the impoverished and the imprisoned, the homeless and the hungry, the depressed and the disabled. Blessed are the meek and the poor in spirit, Jesus says.

But what about the nurse who works the long shift at the emergency room, the doctor who spends all day intubating patients, the fireman and ambulance driver who help transport the profoundly ill, the police officer whose beat includes a viral hot spot, the grocery store employee who continues to show up for work despite the risks, the immigrant laboring in the field so we have food, and so on and so on?

Do we secretly entertain the thought that they’re too strong to need our care and God’s blessings? That such things are reserved for the rest of us? Surely, it doesn’t work that way.

I recall reading a novel years ago where one character says to another, “the problem with your philosophy is that it leaves no place for the weak.” We might wonder whether our own leaves any place for the strong. But, of course, for our moral precepts to make any sense, they must do so.

After all, we cannot exclude anyone from our care—let alone those who dedicate their strength and courage to helping others. We cannot deny anyone their humanity—even if we do so in the friendlier form of transmuting them into omnipotent beings in tights. We cannot refuse anyone our compassion—particularly those for whom compassion is in their job description.

If we take a closer look at the scriptures, we will see that they make this painfully clear.

Consider the example of Jesus’s anointing. The story appears in all four gospels, although the details vary. In general, the narrative goes like this: Jesus is visiting a home. Honored by his presence, a woman anoints him with very expensive ointment. Some of the others who are present object that this is a waste: they could have sold the ointment and given the proceeds to the poor. But Jesus admonishes them. The woman, he explains, has done something beautiful: she has cared for him.

Now, think about that. Can we imagine anyone with greater strength and resolve than Jesus? The one who resisted the temptations in the desert? The one who moved without hesitation toward his divine destiny of suffering? The one who carried his cross and endured his crucifixion? The one who took the sins of the world upon himself? The one who gave his life that others might live? The one who pled for forgiveness of his tormentors?

And yet even Jesus—even Jesus—wanted and needed to experience compassion’s tender graces. Indeed, if we do it right, we replay the dynamics of his fulsome humanity during Holy Week: his bravery on the entry into Jerusalem; his courage at his betrayal; his pain on the cross. We seek to empathize with him, to feel some small part of what he felt, to connect with him—as only human beings can connect with each other.

One of the most serious theological mistakes that we could make would be to allow the fact of Jesus’s resurrection to transform him into some kind of superhero, to ignore his vulnerability, to deprive him of his humanity.

And Jesus does not want our clapping. He wants us to change our lives. And we cannot do that if we objectify him into an abstraction.  

Furthermore, through its many books the Bible repeatedly calls us to find strength in our faith. Nowhere—nowhere—does it suggest that the consequence of doing so will be to fall outside of the care of God or of our fellow human beings. To the contrary, it anticipates that our strength will expand our connectedness with others and with the divine, not diminish it.

I know lots of individuals who our society sees as “strong people.” Doctors. Nurses. Emergency medical technicians. Police officers. Firemen. Members of the military. Political figures with vast responsibility. Clergy.

I know how they struggle with the expectation that they never show even a hint of weakness. That they be super-human. That they be non-human.

And current events have revealed the tremendous inner strength of many people who we might have come to take for granted. Parents. Teachers. Farmers. Postal workers. Truck Drivers. Small business owners. In a pandemic, the list of the strong goes on and on.

They struggle, too, with the heroic expectations of perfection that their roles bring. Being strong every day for your children, your students, your employees—even just for yourself—is an exhausting and lonely business.

But here’s the thing about all of these people: No matter what they do, no matter how much strength they show, no matter how convincing the façade of confidence—they still fear; they still get tired; they still have doubts; they still need our recognition of their humanity and our care. Not just our applause. Our care.

During this pandemic, a wise and wonderful friend of mine named Kevin has, from time to time, posted on Facebook that he’s headed out of his house to run errands. When he does so, he usually asks: “Does anybody need anything?”

I love that. Seriously.

“Does anybody need anything?” I mean, how much more broadly can you cast the net of your compassion?

And, whenever I read it, I think: “Yes, Kevin. Yes. Actually, everybody does. Everybody does need something. Every last one of us.”

The meek.

The poor in spirit.

The downtrodden.

Even the strong.

Sometimes, especially the strong.

Let us keep them, too, in our prayers.

And let us work to support them in their labors of the heart.

Amen.