Miracles happen

            I can remember with great clarity the first time I prayed for a miracle.  I was ten years old and one of my best friends was a large and elegant black and white cat named Jack.

            Jack was active and affectionate, and he was the first pet I had who was really mine.  He wasn’t the family cat; he was my cat.

            When Jack was three years old he was diagnosed with feline leukemia.  The disease quickly drained his energy, and my once spry and lively cat became sluggish and weak.

            We tried a variety of treatments to no avail, and eventually the veterinarian told us that the gentlest, most merciful thing we could do for Jack was put him to sleep.

            I remember the night before my father took Jack for his final trip to the vet.  At bedtime my mom brought him into my room.

            She said, “One last night,” and she laid him down next to me on top of the covers.

            Funny thing, I remember having come to grips with the fact that Jack was going to die, but I desperately wished we did not have to put him down.  So, that night I prayed earnest, deeply heartfelt prayers that Jack would die peacefully as we slept.

            I prayed for the miracle of a peaceful death, speaking quietly to God for what seemed like hours, until eventually I fell asleep.  When I woke up in the morning Jack was not in my bed.  I raced downstairs and found my dad in the kitchen.

            “Where’s Jack?”  I said.

            Dad pointed to the corner.  Jack was alive and sleeping soundly in a basket.

            My dad said, “Your mother got him after you fell asleep.  We were afraid you would roll over on him.  Do you want to go with us to the vet?”

            I answered, “No, I don’t want to go.  I’ll stay here.”

            In spite of all my praying Jack was alive.  I had prayed for a miracle, and it did not come.

I was too young and too sad to dwell    for very long on why my miracle did not come.  But I think about my miracle mystery sometimes when I encounter Jesus performing miracles in the gospel.

            In this morning’s gospel piece Jesus gives his twelve disciples the power and authority to perform miracles.  By some wondrous work of Grace, Jesus gives the twelve the power to cure the sick, raise the dead, cleanse the lepers, and cast out demons.

            My miracle experience (or lack thereof), contrasted against the miracle accounts in the Bible, begs a number of questions - for me anyway.

            Do miracles happen anymore?  If they do, then who gets miracles?

            Most people I know don’t have miracle stories of disappearing cancer cells, and broken bones magically mended.

            So, are the Bible’s miracle stories just impotent stories and legends of the past?  Maybe they really happened back then, but they don’t happen anymore?  God does not work in that way anymore?  Perhaps we are meant to take the miracles on a purely symbolic level?

            What do you think?

            I believe that the miracle stories contain both historical and symbolic truth.  That is, I believe that the water was really turned into wine, the blind man really regained his sight, and the two we met last week, the dead girl and the woman who was bleeding, well, I believe that the girl was raised from the dead, and the woman was healed.

            And I believe that those miracles shine like great light symbols from the past into our present lives.  I mean, the miracles stories of Jesus and his disciples are vehicles, great cargo vessels, that bear and carry hope from God and pass it on to us.

            What does that mean?

            An example - I am possessed by the miracle story of the woman we met in the gospel last week.  She is so sick, and so desperate.  She throws all caution and discretion to the wind, and she sneaks up on Jesus.  She believes that if she can just get close enough to touch the very edge of his cloak, she will be healed.  It is her last hope.  She crawls up to him through the crowd, reaches out, and the tips of her fingers brush the outermost edge of the tassels of his garment.

            Jesus turns on her, and she is healed.

            I love that story, and I know it must be true.  The desperate weary hope of the woman feeds me, it gives me hope, and I wonder if I can get that close to Jesus too.  I wonder if I can be healed too. 

            My struggle is with infertility.  Doctors have told me it would take a miracle for me to be able to procreate naturally.  We have tried a number of things to overcome infertility, not the least of which has been praying for a miracle, but so far nothing has worked, which leads me to yet another round of questions. 

            What is healing?  And what constitutes a miracle?

            My cat did not miraculously die peacefully in his sleep, but through that difficult journey my young eyes were opened, like as from blindness, to the normal life rhythms of sickness, and death, grief, and disappointment, and the healing that comes as we live through sorrow and come to laugh again, and feel God’s presence in the darkness.

            Is that some measure of eye opening miracle answer to prayer? 

            I have not experienced a miracle medical cure to the malady – infertility – however, my journey with infertility has been riddled with strange power and movement that feels like the stuff miracles are made of.

            For one, I consider it some wonder of God’s grace that a young couple who so want to start a family can live through bearing the news that that dream won’t be naturally possible.  It is no small wonder of God’s grace that that young couple maintains their faith in God through the roller coaster journey of adoption. 

            And my daughter Gracie, well, she is a miracle!

            I guess what I mean to say is that I have been healed of infertility.  That is, I have been healed of the life wrecking devastation that a diagnosis like             that might bring on a young man.

            I am not devastated; I am alive; I know that even when I die I will live; I am hopeful; and I feel the miracle presence of God in my life.

            I am healed and not by my own hard work, some self help book, or a rigorous routine of positive thinking.  I have been healed by nothing less than God’s possessing, enveloping love.

            Miracles happen, but we need to be careful with them when they come, and be careful with ourselves when they don’t.

            See, miracles are not the point.  They are never the end point when we witness them in the biblical story, and they should not be the focus of or the basis for our faith when we experience them in our lives today.  Our faith is in God made known in Jesus Christ, and our hope lies in God’s redemptive love.

            Miracles are icing on the cake, if you will, they are signs that point to God, they are rare and wonderful; and a lot of the time they are all but hidden in the folds of the fabric of everyday life.  I think I spotted one in a story I read last week.  We’ll finish with it - the story was in a running magazine.

            There is a blind man in his fifties named Dave.  Dave loves to run.  Blindness makes it tough, but he runs anyway.

            I don’t know the first thing about Dave’s faith life, but as I read his story it became apparent to me that he has been cured of his blindness.  Only God could be behind the cure.

            See, the story about the blind man Dave is that he ran seven marathons on the seven continents in seven days.

            Running a marathon is difficult, a blind man running a marathon is ridiculous, and a blind man running seven marathons on the seven continents in seven days is just beyond crazy, which is why I say this man has been cured of his blindness.  That is, blindness has not held him back.  He is not handicapped by the darkness.  Blindness has not made him hopeless, or left him without vision and focus.  It has not even caused him to slow down apparently.  

            He runs all over the world.  He has been healed.  It must be a miracle.

            They happen, you know.

            Amen.