The Bones of St. Nicolas
Advent
Once while some Israelites were burying a man, suddenly they saw a band of raiders; so they threw the man’s body into Elisha’s tomb. When the body touched Elisha’s bones, the man came to life and stood up on his feet. 2 Kings 13:21
Once a year, in the port city of Bari, Italy, a procession of Catholic priests descends a flight of stone stairs into a decorated crypt supported by columns capped in Roman and Byzantine carvings.
After consecrating the small space with the soft, earthy haze of frankincense, the Archbishop of Bari kneels on a thin red cushion and stretches out to reach into a marble tomb. After a few moments, he reappears, stands, and lifts above his head a crystal vial holding a small amount of clear liquid.
Outside the crypt, those struggling with illness and ailments gather in the cathedral to reach out and touch a mystery – the bones of Saint Nicolas are oozing a sweet-smelling oil that has the power to heal.
Little is known about the life of Saint Nicolas. Scattered details say that he was born around 270 AD in the Greek seaport city of Patara, Lycia (modern day Turkey) to wealthy Christian parents. Around age 34, he became the bishop of Myra, Turkey. One reliable document lists him in attendance at the first ecumenical council of Nicaea (325) from which emerged one of the earliest creeds of the Christian church. Having inherited a great deal of wealth from his parents, Nicolas gave away his fortune to help the poor, sick, and suffering.
He died on December 6, 343 at the age of 73 and his body was placed in a stone tomb underneath the church where he served as bishop.
In 1087, the city of Myra was under attack by Muslim Seljuk Turks. Fearing damage to the bones of Saint Nicolas, a group of Italian sailors broke into the crypt, rescued his remains, and carried them to Southern Italy for safe keeping. In a basilica in Bari, his bones were enshrined in a marble tomb and have rested there for almost 1,000 years.
While he was alive, Saint Nicolas was known for his joyful generosity, but in the decades and centuries after his death, some stories swelled into tales of miraculous wonderworking. A few of these accounts include calming a storm at sea, rescuing innocent soldiers from wrongful execution, casting a demon out of a tree, providing food during a famine, and throwing gold coins through a window to save three young women from a life of servitude.
These vivid and well circulated stories so powerfully captured the imagination of people living in the Middle Ages, Nicolas was widely regarded as a beloved saint long before he was officially canonized in the 15th century, and his oozing bones have been the destination of seekers in search of healing for 1,600 years.
In the middle of Matthew chapter 9, Jesus is interrupted by a synagogue leader named Jairus. He comes to Jesus with a desperate request – My daughter has just died. Willing to do anything to reverse the unfolding nightmare, Jairus dares to ask for the impossible – come and put your hand on her, and she will live.
Jesus sets off immediately, but on the way, a woman who has been bleeding for 12 years whispers to herself, If I only touch his cloak, I will be healed. Sensing that someone has touched him in faith, Jesus spins around, sees her and says – Your faith has healed you. Jesus continues walking and quickly reaches the house where the child has died. Jesus enters the house, holds the hand of the girl, and says, My child, get up! Her spirit returns, she stands on her feet, and news of the miracle spreads like wildfire.
Matthew 9 is a story within a story. Inside of a larger frame, Matthew tucks a tiny picture of radical faith – a woman suffering from a chronic illness defies cultural norms, fights her way to the front, and is healed by reaching out to touch the linen threads hanging from the clothes of Christ. Her faith is inspiring and challenges the unbelief that can slowly grow in our hearts, undetected.
But the larger picture that Matthew paints is the story of the young girl. The death of a child is tragic and shocking reality that sadly, all of us are familiar with. Some know the grief intimately and acutely. Others are one step removed, but still close enough to feel the stinging pain. The death of this daughter is heartbreaking, but Matthew, in his narrative arrangement stresses a hidden layer to the story that is subtle but striking – her physical death is a portrait of the human tragedy of being spiritually dead in our transgressions, completely powerless to reach out.
According to Scripture, sin is a disease with a terminal diagnosis that infects the whole of humanity.
In Advent, we feel the ache of this hopeless situation deep in our bones. Trusting in the faithfulness of God and filled with longing fueled by the Old Testament prophets, we resist the temptation to despair and instead, wait for the promised cure. While we wait, we catch glimpses of God’s promised restoration when we experience unpredictable moments of healing in this life. When God’s power flows through linen threads, the bones of a bishop, prayers of a faith community, or prescribed medications – gratitude fills our hearts.
But God knows that we need a deep and lasting remedy that will extend into eternity – a cure that is beyond what we could ever hope or imagine.
In 1925, two chemistry professors from the Adriatic University of Bari examined the liquid coming from the bones of Saint Nicolas. What was always rumored to be sweet-smelling oil was revealed to be ultra-pure water – free from salt, completely transparent, and sterile. Since then, skeptics have suggested that the water is nothing more than condensation since the tomb sits below sea level in a port city. Others say the tomb was analyzed thoroughly and found to be impenetrable – so condensation is implausible.
In the end, no one can say conclusively where the water is coming from and why it’s so pure. Even experts admit that the phenomenon is not easily explainable.
The mystery of heaven’s power flowing through leaking bones or linen threads may never be fully explained or understood. But every year without fail, we pilgrimage in our hearts to Bethlehem, to witness and receive a radical healing miracle on Christmas.
When sin stole our strength, dragged us into the shadows and severed all hope for the future, God made himself poor, becoming one of us, to heal in a way beyond what we thought was possible – drawing near to reach out, hold our lifeless hand, and lift us into the warmth of resurrection.