This article was originally delivered as a sermon during Fuller Seminary’s 2021 Missiology Lectures.
Jesus went throughout Galilee, teaching in their synagogues and proclaiming the good news of the kingdom and curing every disease and every sickness among the people. So his fame spread throughout all Syria, and they brought to him all the sick, those who were afflicted with various diseases and pains, demoniacs, epileptics, and paralytics, and he cured them. And great crowds followed him from Galilee, the Decapolis, Jerusalem, Judea, and from beyond the Jordan. (Matt 4:23–25)
In his book, The Way of Jesus Christ, the great German theologian Jürgen Moltmann invites us to consider what is missing in our creedal statements about Christ. This is quite surprising in light of how much the creeds detail about Christ: There are statements from his pre-existence, virginal conception, suffering, death on the cross, all the way to his glorious ascension. So, is there something missing? Moltmann’s response to his own question is this: Between the statements, “born of the Virgin Mary” and “suffered under Pontius Pilate,” there is merely a comma—the implication being that what happened between Jesus’ miraculous birth and his sorrowful last days of suffering leading up to the violent death would not be worth repeating in the creedal confession!1
The theological-pastoral point is this: How different it is with the Gospels, particularly with the three Synoptics. By far the most space is devoted to Jesus’ earthly life and ministry, in other words, to the “space” occupied in the creeds only by the comma! Consider Matthew, the Gospel from where our text comes. Between the narrative of virginal conception in the first chapter and the condemnation by Pontius Pilate in the next to last chapter, there are no less than 27 long chapters telling the story of Jesus’ life. Indeed, for the Gospel writers, Jesus’ earthly life had a profound theological, missiological, and pastoral significance—without in any way undermining the significance of the suffering, cross, and resurrection. The suffering of Christ was aptly captured, but only after the bulk of Jesus’ story had been told.
What would happen if, as Moltmann heuristically invites us to imagine, Christians dwelled on the meaning of Jesus’ earthly life and ministry when reciting the creeds? What if, every time we gather for the service to recite the creed, following the clause, “conceived by the Holy Spirit, born of the virgin Mary,” we continued:
Baptized by John the Baptist,
filled with the Holy Spirit:
to preach the kingdom of God to the poor,
to heal the sick,
to receive those who have been cast out,
to revive Israel for the salvation of the nations, and
to have mercy upon all people.
. . . continuing that he also “suffered under Pontius Pilate . . .”2
Now, don’t misunderstand me; Moltmann is too good a theologian to suggest a revision to the creed. Indeed, these ancient faith formulae are not up to annual revision, as it were. His—and my—point is simply that Jesus’ earthly life and ministry—one marked abundantly by healing and deliverance as described in Mark 4—has profound theological, missiological, and pastoral
implications.
Jesus’ life and ministry, as much as his suffering, death, and glorious resurrection, provide hope for times of both health and sickness, both good seasons and crises. We lean on Jesus the healer both in times of flourishing and of suffering. We need a Savior both for growth and for disability. What Jesus’ healing ministry, as well as his deliverance ministry, was all about was giving hope to the hopeless. Jesus’ touch of the lepers and other outcasts affirmed their dignity to those despised. Jesus’ invitation for those outside the people of God was a profound invitation for belonging.
According to the New Testament testimonies, Jesus’ healings were occasioned by compassion: “When he went ashore, he saw a great crowd; and he had compassion for them and cured their sick” (Matt 14:14). The Greek word used is splagchnizomai (literally: “to be moved as to one’s bowels”), which means a thoroughgoing physical-mental reaction to the despair of the suffering person. This means that Jesus’ healings were a value in themselves. It is just a good thing to help a person in need! It does not have to serve any other purposes. Loving the neighbor, alongside one’s God, is the gospel of Christ.
Alongside compassion, the New Testament evangelists also forge an important theological-pastoral connection with the kingdom of God. The whole focus of Jesus’ coming, ministry, and proclamation was the coming kingdom established by his Father, whose ushering in he serves in the power of the Spirit. In his coming, his incarnation, the kingdom had entered the world but not yet in its fullness; the final consummation was still to be awaited. Importantly, healings, deliverances, forgiveness of sins, the inclusion into the people of God of those considered to be outside, and the welcoming of the “little ones,” the children, the women, and others, heralded the coming of the kingdom. While in the now even the ones healed would catch another disease and those raised from the dead such as Lazarus would encounter death again, in the final coming of the kingdom all sicknesses, frailties, and even the threat of death will be overcome.
Living in between the “already” and “not yet” dynamic, every opening of the eyes of the blind points to the coming of the glory too bright for human eyes to look upon; every opening of the ears of the deaf signifies the coming of the kingdom with sounds so beautiful that they are never heard in this life. Every healing witnesses to the coming of the era of endless shalom and well-being. Yet—and this is very important pastorally and missiologically—there was nothing “automatic”—no formulae, no standard prescriptions—about Jesus’ healings and the coming of the kingdom’s promises. Why is that? Simply because the kingdom has not yet arrived in its fullness! Until that happens, the final coming of God’s shalom, every healing, every cure, every raising from the dead is not yet final, only anticipatory, promissory. The fullness is yet to come.
It is exactly here that the so-called faith healers fail—and at times make the sick more sick! Because they do not acknowledge the “already-not yet” dynamic of the coming of the kingdom of God. Thereby, these Christian teachers make faith—the faith of the recipient of the healing—the condition for the cure. The logic is simple: No cure, no authentic faith. How merciless, how uncompassionate! The New Testament testimonies to the role of faith are far more complex. Indeed, you can find at least three kinds of perspectives on faith-and-healing relationship. First of all, there are instances in which faith is called forth as the condition of healing—and to those passages faith healers typically appeal. Second, at times the faith of other people is called forth, as in Mark’s story of the four men carrying their friend on a mat before Jesus. Third, at other times, there is no mention of faith at all. The point is clear: While desirable, the faith (of the suffering person) can never be made a precondition for divine cure, if not for other reasons, then for the simple observation that in the New Testament there are instances where all sick people were healed, other times when only some, and still others when no one was. This is the “already-not yet” dynamic at work. As mentioned, healing is always provisional as later in life other sicknesses will come. On the other hand, there is always the assurance of the final consummation in the coming of the kingdom. While it may not console a dying cancer patient on the deathbed, it still is true that the hope for final cure in the kingdom of God is sure and guaranteed. Always, when following the healer who ultimately faced suffering and death, there is the shadow of the cross present among both the healed and those not healed. All of us are awaiting the final resurrection and the creation of the new heavens and the new earth.
Ultimately, Jesus’ own destiny manifests the presence of both healing and suffering in human life. Yes, he was the healer, but he was also wounded for our wounds and pains. Yes, he was the fountain of water quenching the thirst of all, but he also thirsted on the cross. Yes, he was the harbinger of resurrection, of hope, but he also faced death on the tree. The famous book by the late Roman Catholic Henri J. M. Nouwen, The Wounded Healer, illustrates this dilemma. Based on an ancient Jewish legend (with several versions), the book tells a story about a young rabbi who wants to meet the Messiah. Not finding the Messiah anywhere, one day the rabbi encounters the prophet Elijah in the mountains and asks him where the Messiah can be found. In response to the rabbi’s question, Elijah simply responds: “You can find the Messiah down in the valley on the other side of the mountain with a lot of poor and suffering people.” To the question of “How can I recognize him,” the rabbi receives only a brief nod from the elderly prophet, “You will.”3 In the valley, the rabbi sees a big host of wounded people, all of them suffering greatly. Wounded and bleeding, they all bandage themselves with both hands. The prophet wonders where on earth the Messiah is. Finally, he notices one person who, while bandaging his own wounds with one hand, is at the same time rushing to help others with his other hand as soon as help is needed. He recognizes the Promised One. This is the Wounded Healer, himself suffering and yet, at the same time, giving aid to others in suffering.
Martin Luther speaks to the same issue with his famous distinction between God’s “proper” and God’s “alien” work, at times called his right and left hand work. The proper work of God includes healing, restoring, bringing about new life, and raising hope. The alien work means striking with sickness, causing despair, and taking away hope. The one putting trust in the God of the Bible receives both works as coming from God; this is the attitude of the “theologian of the cross.” As opposed to the “theologian of the glory” who only embraces God and God’s work of glory, power, and splendor, the theologian of the cross is willing to follow in the footsteps of the suffering Messiah on the way to Calvary. Whereas the human mind imagines God after our own image, namely victorious and powerful, the mind illuminated by the cross is content with the lowly and dying Savior and healer.
Yes, the message of the kingdom of God brings hope for a flourishing life. It is a message of healing and restoration, a message of new beginnings. At the same time, it reminds us of the fact that flourishing takes place in the quotidian and is a life of mixed experiences. Human life in the quotidian is all we have at the moment, a life of health and sickness; a life of light and darkness; a life of success and failure; a life of raising to new life and a life under decay. But that is not all. We also have a powerful hope for final consummation. In the meantime, recall, we live our lives between the times, as it were.
Rightly, Moltmann reminds us: “Only what can stand up to both health and sickness, and ultimately to living and dying, can count as a valid definition of what it means to be human.” Hence, the secular definition of “total health” as an index of human flourishing in terms of functionality is highly problematic. It implies that the opposite of healthy is “dysfunctional.”4 Allow me to illustrate with a personal experience. Among my four siblings, my late youngest brother Mika was born with very severe Down’s Syndrome. Typical of these kids, he also had a heart condition, alongside other deficiencies. Mika brought so much happiness and joy to my childhood family; he was the hero. And he passed away before his first birthday. Yet, his life was precious and valuable. It was a gift and a treasure. On the index of “total health,” he was a total failure. But on the index of the values of God’s kingdom, he is among the greatest of us. I will meet my youngest brother in the kingdom, and I so much look forward to it.
This is not to glorify sickness, nor suffering—any more than poverty and injustice. There is nothing noble about any of it. It is rather the realistic acknowledgment of our life in the quotidian. It is life with both health and sickness, happiness and sadness, joyful and downcast spirit. Rightly, Moltmann reminds us that “Love for life says ‘yes’ to life in spite of its sicknesses, handicaps and infirmities, and opens the door to a ‘life against death.’”5
Yes, following the title of this reflection, Jesus’ compassionate healing ministry brings hope for the fractured world of the third millennium.
Veli-Matti Kärkkäinen (MAT ’89) is professor of systematic theology and has been a member of Fuller’s faculty since 2000. He also holds a teaching position at the University of Helsinki as Docent of Ecumenics. A prolific writer, he has authored or edited about 20 books in English (and seven in his native language, Finnish), including Christian Theology in the Pluralistic World: A Global Introduction (2019) and Doing the Work of Comparative Theology: A Primer for Christians (2020). He recently completed a five-volume series covering all topics of systematic theology titled A Constructive Christian Theology for the Pluralistic World (2013–2017). He is ordained by the Evangelical Lutheran Church of America (Minister of Word and Sacrament, 2015). He has taught and lived with his family on three continents: Europe, Asia (Thailand), and North America (USA). He has also lectured and served as visiting professor in various schools around the world.
This article was originally delivered as a sermon during Fuller Seminary’s 2021 Missiology Lectures.
Jesus went throughout Galilee, teaching in their synagogues and proclaiming the good news of the kingdom and curing every disease and every sickness among the people. So his fame spread throughout all Syria, and they brought to him all the sick, those who were afflicted with various diseases and pains, demoniacs, epileptics, and paralytics, and he cured them. And great crowds followed him from Galilee, the Decapolis, Jerusalem, Judea, and from beyond the Jordan. (Matt 4:23–25)
In his book, The Way of Jesus Christ, the great German theologian Jürgen Moltmann invites us to consider what is missing in our creedal statements about Christ. This is quite surprising in light of how much the creeds detail about Christ: There are statements from his pre-existence, virginal conception, suffering, death on the cross, all the way to his glorious ascension. So, is there something missing? Moltmann’s response to his own question is this: Between the statements, “born of the Virgin Mary” and “suffered under Pontius Pilate,” there is merely a comma—the implication being that what happened between Jesus’ miraculous birth and his sorrowful last days of suffering leading up to the violent death would not be worth repeating in the creedal confession!1
The theological-pastoral point is this: How different it is with the Gospels, particularly with the three Synoptics. By far the most space is devoted to Jesus’ earthly life and ministry, in other words, to the “space” occupied in the creeds only by the comma! Consider Matthew, the Gospel from where our text comes. Between the narrative of virginal conception in the first chapter and the condemnation by Pontius Pilate in the next to last chapter, there are no less than 27 long chapters telling the story of Jesus’ life. Indeed, for the Gospel writers, Jesus’ earthly life had a profound theological, missiological, and pastoral significance—without in any way undermining the significance of the suffering, cross, and resurrection. The suffering of Christ was aptly captured, but only after the bulk of Jesus’ story had been told.
What would happen if, as Moltmann heuristically invites us to imagine, Christians dwelled on the meaning of Jesus’ earthly life and ministry when reciting the creeds? What if, every time we gather for the service to recite the creed, following the clause, “conceived by the Holy Spirit, born of the virgin Mary,” we continued:
Baptized by John the Baptist,
filled with the Holy Spirit:
to preach the kingdom of God to the poor,
to heal the sick,
to receive those who have been cast out,
to revive Israel for the salvation of the nations, and
to have mercy upon all people.
. . . continuing that he also “suffered under Pontius Pilate . . .”2
Now, don’t misunderstand me; Moltmann is too good a theologian to suggest a revision to the creed. Indeed, these ancient faith formulae are not up to annual revision, as it were. His—and my—point is simply that Jesus’ earthly life and ministry—one marked abundantly by healing and deliverance as described in Mark 4—has profound theological, missiological, and pastoral
implications.
Jesus’ life and ministry, as much as his suffering, death, and glorious resurrection, provide hope for times of both health and sickness, both good seasons and crises. We lean on Jesus the healer both in times of flourishing and of suffering. We need a Savior both for growth and for disability. What Jesus’ healing ministry, as well as his deliverance ministry, was all about was giving hope to the hopeless. Jesus’ touch of the lepers and other outcasts affirmed their dignity to those despised. Jesus’ invitation for those outside the people of God was a profound invitation for belonging.
According to the New Testament testimonies, Jesus’ healings were occasioned by compassion: “When he went ashore, he saw a great crowd; and he had compassion for them and cured their sick” (Matt 14:14). The Greek word used is splagchnizomai (literally: “to be moved as to one’s bowels”), which means a thoroughgoing physical-mental reaction to the despair of the suffering person. This means that Jesus’ healings were a value in themselves. It is just a good thing to help a person in need! It does not have to serve any other purposes. Loving the neighbor, alongside one’s God, is the gospel of Christ.
Alongside compassion, the New Testament evangelists also forge an important theological-pastoral connection with the kingdom of God. The whole focus of Jesus’ coming, ministry, and proclamation was the coming kingdom established by his Father, whose ushering in he serves in the power of the Spirit. In his coming, his incarnation, the kingdom had entered the world but not yet in its fullness; the final consummation was still to be awaited. Importantly, healings, deliverances, forgiveness of sins, the inclusion into the people of God of those considered to be outside, and the welcoming of the “little ones,” the children, the women, and others, heralded the coming of the kingdom. While in the now even the ones healed would catch another disease and those raised from the dead such as Lazarus would encounter death again, in the final coming of the kingdom all sicknesses, frailties, and even the threat of death will be overcome.
Living in between the “already” and “not yet” dynamic, every opening of the eyes of the blind points to the coming of the glory too bright for human eyes to look upon; every opening of the ears of the deaf signifies the coming of the kingdom with sounds so beautiful that they are never heard in this life. Every healing witnesses to the coming of the era of endless shalom and well-being. Yet—and this is very important pastorally and missiologically—there was nothing “automatic”—no formulae, no standard prescriptions—about Jesus’ healings and the coming of the kingdom’s promises. Why is that? Simply because the kingdom has not yet arrived in its fullness! Until that happens, the final coming of God’s shalom, every healing, every cure, every raising from the dead is not yet final, only anticipatory, promissory. The fullness is yet to come.
It is exactly here that the so-called faith healers fail—and at times make the sick more sick! Because they do not acknowledge the “already-not yet” dynamic of the coming of the kingdom of God. Thereby, these Christian teachers make faith—the faith of the recipient of the healing—the condition for the cure. The logic is simple: No cure, no authentic faith. How merciless, how uncompassionate! The New Testament testimonies to the role of faith are far more complex. Indeed, you can find at least three kinds of perspectives on faith-and-healing relationship. First of all, there are instances in which faith is called forth as the condition of healing—and to those passages faith healers typically appeal. Second, at times the faith of other people is called forth, as in Mark’s story of the four men carrying their friend on a mat before Jesus. Third, at other times, there is no mention of faith at all. The point is clear: While desirable, the faith (of the suffering person) can never be made a precondition for divine cure, if not for other reasons, then for the simple observation that in the New Testament there are instances where all sick people were healed, other times when only some, and still others when no one was. This is the “already-not yet” dynamic at work. As mentioned, healing is always provisional as later in life other sicknesses will come. On the other hand, there is always the assurance of the final consummation in the coming of the kingdom. While it may not console a dying cancer patient on the deathbed, it still is true that the hope for final cure in the kingdom of God is sure and guaranteed. Always, when following the healer who ultimately faced suffering and death, there is the shadow of the cross present among both the healed and those not healed. All of us are awaiting the final resurrection and the creation of the new heavens and the new earth.
Ultimately, Jesus’ own destiny manifests the presence of both healing and suffering in human life. Yes, he was the healer, but he was also wounded for our wounds and pains. Yes, he was the fountain of water quenching the thirst of all, but he also thirsted on the cross. Yes, he was the harbinger of resurrection, of hope, but he also faced death on the tree. The famous book by the late Roman Catholic Henri J. M. Nouwen, The Wounded Healer, illustrates this dilemma. Based on an ancient Jewish legend (with several versions), the book tells a story about a young rabbi who wants to meet the Messiah. Not finding the Messiah anywhere, one day the rabbi encounters the prophet Elijah in the mountains and asks him where the Messiah can be found. In response to the rabbi’s question, Elijah simply responds: “You can find the Messiah down in the valley on the other side of the mountain with a lot of poor and suffering people.” To the question of “How can I recognize him,” the rabbi receives only a brief nod from the elderly prophet, “You will.”3 In the valley, the rabbi sees a big host of wounded people, all of them suffering greatly. Wounded and bleeding, they all bandage themselves with both hands. The prophet wonders where on earth the Messiah is. Finally, he notices one person who, while bandaging his own wounds with one hand, is at the same time rushing to help others with his other hand as soon as help is needed. He recognizes the Promised One. This is the Wounded Healer, himself suffering and yet, at the same time, giving aid to others in suffering.
Martin Luther speaks to the same issue with his famous distinction between God’s “proper” and God’s “alien” work, at times called his right and left hand work. The proper work of God includes healing, restoring, bringing about new life, and raising hope. The alien work means striking with sickness, causing despair, and taking away hope. The one putting trust in the God of the Bible receives both works as coming from God; this is the attitude of the “theologian of the cross.” As opposed to the “theologian of the glory” who only embraces God and God’s work of glory, power, and splendor, the theologian of the cross is willing to follow in the footsteps of the suffering Messiah on the way to Calvary. Whereas the human mind imagines God after our own image, namely victorious and powerful, the mind illuminated by the cross is content with the lowly and dying Savior and healer.
Yes, the message of the kingdom of God brings hope for a flourishing life. It is a message of healing and restoration, a message of new beginnings. At the same time, it reminds us of the fact that flourishing takes place in the quotidian and is a life of mixed experiences. Human life in the quotidian is all we have at the moment, a life of health and sickness; a life of light and darkness; a life of success and failure; a life of raising to new life and a life under decay. But that is not all. We also have a powerful hope for final consummation. In the meantime, recall, we live our lives between the times, as it were.
Rightly, Moltmann reminds us: “Only what can stand up to both health and sickness, and ultimately to living and dying, can count as a valid definition of what it means to be human.” Hence, the secular definition of “total health” as an index of human flourishing in terms of functionality is highly problematic. It implies that the opposite of healthy is “dysfunctional.”4 Allow me to illustrate with a personal experience. Among my four siblings, my late youngest brother Mika was born with very severe Down’s Syndrome. Typical of these kids, he also had a heart condition, alongside other deficiencies. Mika brought so much happiness and joy to my childhood family; he was the hero. And he passed away before his first birthday. Yet, his life was precious and valuable. It was a gift and a treasure. On the index of “total health,” he was a total failure. But on the index of the values of God’s kingdom, he is among the greatest of us. I will meet my youngest brother in the kingdom, and I so much look forward to it.
This is not to glorify sickness, nor suffering—any more than poverty and injustice. There is nothing noble about any of it. It is rather the realistic acknowledgment of our life in the quotidian. It is life with both health and sickness, happiness and sadness, joyful and downcast spirit. Rightly, Moltmann reminds us that “Love for life says ‘yes’ to life in spite of its sicknesses, handicaps and infirmities, and opens the door to a ‘life against death.’”5
Yes, following the title of this reflection, Jesus’ compassionate healing ministry brings hope for the fractured world of the third millennium.
Veli-Matti Kärkkäinen (MAT ’89) is professor of systematic theology and has been a member of Fuller’s faculty since 2000. He also holds a teaching position at the University of Helsinki as Docent of Ecumenics. A prolific writer, he has authored or edited about 20 books in English (and seven in his native language, Finnish), including Christian Theology in the Pluralistic World: A Global Introduction (2019) and Doing the Work of Comparative Theology: A Primer for Christians (2020). He recently completed a five-volume series covering all topics of systematic theology titled A Constructive Christian Theology for the Pluralistic World (2013–2017). He is ordained by the Evangelical Lutheran Church of America (Minister of Word and Sacrament, 2015). He has taught and lived with his family on three continents: Europe, Asia (Thailand), and North America (USA). He has also lectured and served as visiting professor in various schools around the world.
Jennifer Ackerman, director of Brehm Preaching, describes the role preachers play as prophetic witnesses to truth.
