There is a balm, to make the sin-sick whole.
rev. hannah elyse cornthwaite, CDW
October 19, 2025
Luke 18:1–8
Yesterday, at diocesan convention, the choir — which included one of our own — sang:
“There is a balm in Gilead, to make the wounded whole. There is a balm in Gilead, to make the sin-sick whole.”
Gosh, it was so moving, and just encompassed the wide array of feelings people brought with them - curiosity to excitement, despair to hope, everything from… this really isn’t how I want to spend a Saturday - to - this is my favorite day of the year.
As I was listening — I was resting in awe of the beautiful turnout of folks who joined our pop-up protest outside the cathedral — proclaiming that God is good, singing songs of resistance: “We Shall Overcome,” “Lift Every Voice and Sing.”
We chanted, we sang, we prayed with our bodies.
And it was amazing — to step outside for a moment, to take all that business and turn it into something embodied, something that there is no doubt was prayer. It made what we were doing inside the cathedral feel like it actually mattered — that maybe this church thing we do really can be a balm in this sin-sick world.
As the choir sang:
“Sometimes I feel discouraged, and think my work’s in vain,
but then the Holy Spirit revives my soul again.”
I felt it in my core.
Because we’re living in times where it’s so easy to get pulled into hopelessness — when it feels like nothing is ever enough, like our small acts of love or justice couldn’t possibly make a difference. And then a moment happens — a song, a prayer, a shared breath, a public statement — that revives your soul again.
This song rises out of longing — out of the ache for healing, justice, and hope. It’s a song of persistence. And as the voices of the choir washed over me, I could feel the prayers, the longings, the cries for justice in that room: the joy, the love, the hope, the worry, the frustration, the wonder, and the peace.
That sure hope that there will be a balm.
That same sure hope the widow had — standing before that judge again and again, refusing to give up.
Her quiet returning — it is no small thing.
She was seen. God saw her. God saw her courage, her stubborn faith, her refusal to disappear quietly.
She kept showing up before that judge who didn’t care about God or people — and yet she believed justice was still possible. She made him see her.
But it wasn’t only persistence that kept her coming back — it was dignity. She knew her worth.
She knew that her life, her voice, her cause, mattered enough to be heard.
It reminds me of Cole Arthur Riley’s “Prayer for Worth” in their book Black Liturgies:
“Let us rest with the knowledge that we have nothing to prove;
our dignity, perpetual as it is divine.
We will not shrink. We expand.
Remind us of our making.
For we too contain the divine.”
That’s the kind of knowing the widow carried with her.
That’s the knowing that let her stand before power and not be erased.
And that’s what faith looks like — not always tidy or polished, but faithful. The kind of faith that keeps showing up even when nothing seems to change.
Don't ever feel discouraged,
for Jesus is your friend,
who, if you ask for knowledge,
will never fail to lend.
That’s the balm.
The steady, healing knowledge that God will give us what we need to keep going —
to keep praying for one another,
to keep trusting that God still shows up.
When Jesus asks, “When the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?” —
I wonder if he’s asking; will you still be there with the widow?
Will you still be showing up.
Still praying.
Still loving.
Because the balm in Gilead is not just for our wounds — it’s for our persistence.
It’s what keeps us loving when we’re tired,
keep hoping when the world feels heavy,
keep singing when the road is long.
Beloveds, may we sing, with faith and with hope:
There is a balm in Gilead, to make the wounded whole.
There is a balm in Gilead, to heal the sin-sick soul.
Amen.
