Rev. Isabelle Graesslé, Moderator, Geneva
The trace of God’s desire in us
Sermon at Nidaros Cathedral
Trondheim, 28 June 2003


It was a long time ago, in a magnificent garden. A woman, beautiful of course,is looking around , a man by her side smiles. They are surrounded by luxuriant nature, especially two huge trees. The woman turns her head and sees the first tree: it is the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. Attracted by its promises, she doesn't really see the other one, the tree of life. Years later, she would find herself reflecting on the fact that, actually, the destiny of the world could have been changed if, instead of the first tree, she had tasted the fruit of the other one.

Sometimes after the episode of the snake, of the anger of God, of the exit from the garden, the woman dreams as the angel of the future opens  the curtains which veil the horizon. After all, she is Hava, the Living, mother of the living people of the earth she has the right to know. One day, in the quiet of a tiny Greek island, a man called John will describe and reveal to everyone the vision of Hava. For the time being, she dreams, and what she looks at in her vision is even more spectacular and gorgeous than what she had experienced in the garden: a large river, the river of the water of life, is sparkling like crystal. It flows down the middle of the city street. And suddenly, to her great surprise, she sees in the very center of the city the tree of life, the one she regretted not noticing during her stay in the garden. At that moment, the angel of the future gets closer and whispers into her ear: ”It bears fruit twelve times a year, once every month and its leaves are for the healing of the nations” (Rev. 22,2).

And Hava understands, maybe what she did in the garden was what she had to do, in order to get out of Eden and to take care of the earth. She had to eat the fruit of good and evil, in order to become an adult and to develop a word of knowledge. But the other tree, the tree of life, in fact was not for her:it was for the coming generations of whom she was the mother. These generations would receive the leaves of the tree of life at the end of the world and, maybe even before the very end. Now she realized that she could rest in peace and rejoice in her vision. And it is at that moment that the angel of the future decides that it is time to draw the curtains, for Hava has already closed her eyes.

Time and time again after the visions of Hava,  a young man, viceroy of Egypt but from Hebrew origins, faces his brothers after years of jealousy, hatred, betrayal, withdrawal and silence. Yet, even before revealing his identity to the group who no longer recognize him , Joseph cries in secret. And at the time of revelation, which will also be the time of reconciliation, again Joseph cries, and cries. He probably  realizes then how the violence of his brothers has been both cruel and desperate. But surprisingly, these tears, more than words, will be the means of mutual comprehension, for reconciliation after all the memories of rejection and sorrow. Indeed, by his tears  Joseph shows that a reconciliation which addresses only the mind and reason would have no chance at touching the soul of those with whom it is necessary to be reconciled.

By living intensively though his emotions and by celebrating God in the midst of his life, in the intimacy of his tears thus mixing sorrow and joy, Joseph testifies to a faith, which is not merely a nostalgic faith as he turns towards the people. This is the kind of faith which recognizes on the face of one's neighbor, even though he would be vulnerable, violent, jealous and arrogant, the call for infinity. It is the call to bring to life the messianic part that we all bear inside of us. Reconciliation has something to do with the ability to accept the messianic part of each of us. Joseph, crying along with his brothers, has accepted it and this is why he can mix sorrow and joy: the sorrow of the bad memories and the joy of reconciliation.

Long after the visions of Hava, many centuries since the tears of Joseph, a man called Ieshouah finds himself on the road to Jerusalem. He passes the fringe of a heretic and strange territory called Samaria. On his way, the man meets ten lepers. They stand at a distance, simply because the law forbids them to get closer. Only the words they exchange will bring them together. And they shout: ”Ieshouah, Master, have pity on us!”. Surprisingly, the man asks them to go and to have the priests examine them, for according to Jewish law, it was the priests who had to examine you when you were healed, especially from leprosy. And the ten lepers find enough confidence to follow the advice of the young rabbi whom they had met on their road.

And it works... on the way, they are made clean. But still, between them and their healer, the distance remains: they have had what they wanted, they admire their purified bodies and disappear from the story. Just one of them, when he sees that he has been healed, comes back, praising God in a loud voice, for it seems that for him healing means much more than the purification of his body. For the nine others, the prophet Ieshouah was a way to encounter a new life, a life of reintegration into the social and religious community. This in itself is already quite a result! For the tenth however, it is his healing which constitutes the way to pass to renewed life. For this tenth man, the gift of healing is almost overclouded by the healer. Ieshouah had asked him to let the priest examine him... actually, the man examined himself and found that he was healed. And that is why he comes back: not because he is polite, but because he has examined himself.

Then, the distances take another dimension, they disappear themselves in this movement of the coming back of the Samaritan, which suddenly finds himself very close to the rabbi on the road. Here he is, shouting again. This time, he is not asking for pity, he is just shouting his gratitude. At that moment, the physical healing, though quite spectacular, has become an inside journey. A journey where the distances are abolished and a human being is resurrected to himself: ”Get up and go; your faith has made you well”. One could also understand this to mean: ”Get up, resurrect yourself so that you can go on your new road”.

But this story shouldn't be wrongly understood, as a moral story where nine lepers remained on a very physical level, and only the tenth was capable of coming back to himself, only one was capable of re-appropriating his own history.

One shouldn't forget that all the lepers were sick and that all were healed. The only detail that the story gives us, is that for one of them, something particular has happened: he sees himself healed and this is what changes his life. To attest to this change, Ieshouah sends him back, on the road, with this affirmation: ”Your faith made you well”. Does it mean that the first nine are not yet made well... there is nothing about that in the story. Maybe, then, the miracle doesn't correspond to the healing itself... but to what happens after the healing. To what is made out of the healing...

Beyond healing, there have been words exchanged, distances have been abolished, a confidence has been re-established, a dismissal has been made in order to continue on the road. Beyond healing, it is simply a resurrection. This is what salvation means. And it's already quite a lot! For years, I didn't like the word ”salvation”. I found it dated, unsuitable to the postmodern expectations about spirituality and faith. Actually, I think I disliked more what theology had done to the concept of ”salvation” a kind of supreme goal to pursue, by virtue of moral principals or, in a more Protestant version, by virtue of tons of faith. But the story of the Samaritan leper just tells us about the fullness of life. About the many leaves of the tree of life which have fallen on our path. About the many messianic fragments which are connecting us to our divine origin.

When the rabbi on the road dismisses the healed leper for the second time, when he sends him off on the roads of the world with the assurance of a salvation given in plenty, it is to remind him of the intensity which from now on belongs to him. Although Ieshouah is the Messiah, he is the one who reveals to each and everyone their own messianic part. Salvation therefore, as the Kingdom, begins not in an imaginary future but already down here, starting from the moment that each of us is healed from missing his or her messianic part. It is when each of us is reconciled with it, which means then reconciliation is possible also with others, even when they come from Samaria. Knowing that, whether we like it or not, we are always the Samaritan to somebody!

Just after this story, the Pharisees ask Ieshouah when the Kingdom of God would come. The rabbi answers: ”The Kingdom of God does not come in such a way as to be seen. No one will say: ‘Look, here it is!’ or ’There it is!’; because the Kingdom of God is within you” (Luke 17,20-21).

It is exactly because the Kingdom is really here and now, in our midst, inside each one of us, that our lives cannot be reduced to what it is physically. Our origin calls us to more greatness as well as to more intensity. Our road is marked by small and large resurrections. This is because the word which resurrects our messianic part, the word which is resurrection, continues to send people off on the roads of life.

Besides miracles which are wonders, there are miracles of other profundity. Miracles which open an exchange of significant words, miracles which give meaning to life, which untie that which preys upon our lives, those we all know so well: for our modern leprosies often bear the names of our anxieties.

Healing and reconciliation, in our existence, have something to do with the trace of God's desire in us. A desire of seeing us reconciled, healed and resurrected to life, here and now.

To be reconciled, healed and resurrected to life, that is indeed our human vocation: May that be also our joy!

Amen