Luke 2:25-38
Lauren J. McFeaters
December 23, 2018
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Sometimes, all we can do is sing.

Simeon knows that. Anna knows that. But truth be told, in our world of clamor and noise and incessant talk, we forget. We forget we can sing.

It’s now 40 days after Jesus’ birth. After 8 days, Jesus had been circumcised and named in accordance with Jewish law. Now, 32 days later, as faithful Jews, his parents are again, carrying out their duty by returning to the Temple. This time to offer a sacrifice and to consecrate their child to the Lord.

They must have been in a reverent mood that day, the way many parents are, in our congregation, as they bring their child forward to be baptized. And so for this very reason, Mary and Joseph are perhaps startled, even frightened, when Simeon, old beyond years, and beaming ear to ear with ecstatic revelation, comes up to them to touch the child and begins to sing. [i]

And sing he does. His song fills the temple with strange mystery.

Master, now dismiss your servant in peace,

release me in peace as you promised.
With my own eyes I’ve seen your salvation;
it’s now, out in the open, for everyone to see

is glory for your people and my eyes have seen your salvation.

It’s Simeon’s Song and it’s known as Nunc Dimittis, Latin, meaning “Now you dismiss. Now you dismiss your servant in peace.” For centuries it’s been sung in the liturgies of at the close of day:  Communion, Vespers, and Evensong.

But this is no Christmas Carol; no melody of angels and mangers, Kings and shepherds, but rather it’s a song of letting go, departing, saying goodbye. Yes, it’s a song of glory but it’s peeled back and unadorned. Simeon, the faithful, is ready to die. Juxtaposed with our Carols of glory and Wonder, it’s strange and inharmonious and dissonant.^[ii] Sometimes, all we can do is sing.

 Sometimes all we can do is watch.

Anna watched. She waited. She observed.

Like the prophet she is, her watch is insistent, steadfast, unrelenting. When Simeon begins to sing, every fiber of her soul, swings in the  direction of his news, and when she lays eyes upon the child, her watching is complete.

My Grandmother McFeaters was a watcher. I knew this as a young child. I knew it when she baked. In her recipe for Christmas Molasses Cookies, she makes a note on the recipe card – you know, those 3×5 index cards with an illustration in the upper corner (a basket of apples or a crock of kitchen utensils), well Grandma McFeaters makes a note and her recipe reads like this:

 Grandma McFeaters’ Christmas Molasses Cookies

Ingredients: flour, brown & white sugar, eggs, molasses, cinnamon, ginger. Mix.

Next: shape dough into balls, sprinkle with sugar, add a few drops of water,

Bake: 350 degrees

Then, she notes, in her charming handwriting, in capital letters and underlined twice, that you must WATCH; meaning you must be utterly dependable and diligent that the Molasses Cookies not burn. She lists no time for baking; no “bake for 8-10 minutes until edges are crispy; no cover with foil and at 6 minutes remove foil and brown; no test with toothpick at 7 minutes. No. Just WATCH.

You see, burning a cookie was not only a bad idea; not only wasteful; it was simply unnecessary, because in that moment Grandma McFeaters represented the generations of bakers who had delivered molasses cookies into the world.

• From her great-grandmother Jane McLaren,
• To her grandmother Alice Wood,
• To her mother Lida Kirkpatrick, she laid a legacy in the form of a recipe.

And when she slid that cookie sheet out of the oven, and lifted it to her nose, and closed her eyes, and inhaled that sweet molassesy aroma, it was more than a delicious treat for the end of Christmas dinner; it was an offering from one generation for the next.

Simeon and Anna; these faithful two; representing generations of the faithful and delivering God’s Promise into the world.

Of course, their friends thought they were loopy, hair-brained, and ridiculous. Who sings and watches for years on end?

How easy it would have been for Luke to stage this like a Broadway musical; the Temple filled with spotlights, shining costumes, glowing color, billowing tapestries, and radiant majesty made real by a smoke machine. The orchestra resounds, trumpets sound, timpani reverberates, and at stage left enters the Courier with scroll and declaration:

“Presenting ~ The Most Holy Family of the Universe.

The Savior of the World has entered the building.

All rise! Salvation has entered the Temple!”

No. Luke does the opposite. He chooses somber colors and shadowy corners. He leads us through quiet spaces and subdued corridors. No theater, just sanctuary, and what meets Mary and Joseph is not the Hallelujah Chorus or another round of  “Gloria in Excelsis Deo!” but a Requiem; a Lament, a Dirge.

This child in your arms, Mary, is intended

for the falling and the rising of many in Israel,

and to be a sign, that will be opposed,

so that the inner thoughts of many,  will be revealed

—and a sword will pierce your own soul too.

• No symphony of gladness. A foretelling of sorrow.
• No hymns of joy. A prophecy of grief.
• No canticle of bliss. A shadowing of anguish. ^[iii]

Just this once, shouldn’t Luke, and we, leave death outside our doors to deal with later, just like our holiday shopping bills, or the pounds we’ve put on? Can’t we ignore it at least while our families are here, and the kids are home from school. Can’t it wait until Lent?

But there it is, you see. Death doesn’t take a holiday. And it’s never more apparent than during Christmas.

Even here at Nassau, we clear our master calendar in December, because we expect more funerals; we expect more illness. It’s a time when our hopes join our fears, our expectations mingle with regrets, our reunions blend with disappointments.

Everything’s there to remind us of what has been and is no more: a cherished stanza, a favorite ornament, a savory taste, a beloved memory, an empty chair.

Simeon and Anna are no different. Just like you and me, they’ve tasted hope and despair, love and loss, joy and fear. And so Simeon sings of death, simply because he can’t help it; because he, like us, lives with it every day. Anna watches, simply because she can’t help it; because she, like us, live with it every day.

But here’s the thing. Here’s what we can’t forget. It’s that scene. Those few moments worth waiting for.

Do you see Simeon and Anna with the baby in their arms? He’s giddy. She’s chortling. He’s lifting that baby to his nose and snuffling into that neck. She’s gasping with tears and feeling that soft baby skin. ^[iv]

They are so ready.

• Every sweep of the broom and mopping of the floor,
• every stir of the soup and pressing of the dough,
• has been done in anticipation of the One who has finally landed in their arms.^[v]

And they hold him. They hold the future. They smell him, listen to him, watch over him, sing to him.

There’s another thing. Simeon and Anna aren’t finished with us.

Through the centuries; they stand back, directing our ears and our gaze. There’s one more gift under the tree.

“Can you see it?” they ask. “Look a little closer.”

“Don’t miss it.” You’re getting so close.”

“There. There it is.”

It’s a new Christmas Carol, written just for us. And it goes like this:

The Baby Jesus is settled in your arms.

Close your eyes.

Inhale the sweet, sweet scent of salvation.

Kiss him with carols. Cradle him with prayer.

For he belongs to you. And you belong to him.

He is Christmas.

 

ENDNOTES

[i]  David Lose. “Carols of Thanksgiving and Lament.” December 22, 2014, davidlose.net.

 

[ii] David Lose. “The Oddest Christmas Carol.” December 25, 2011, www.workingpreacher.org.

 

[iii] Lose, 2011.

 

[iv] John Stendahl. “Holding Promise: Luke 2:22-40.” The Christian Century, December 4, 2002, 17. Copyright by the Christian Century Foundation, 2002.

 

[v] Thomas G. Long, Something Is About to Happen: Sermons for Advent and Christmas. Lima, Ohio: CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 1996, 51.

 

John 1:1-18
David A. Davis
December 16, 2018
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Jesus said,“I am the bread of life” and “the light of the world” and “the door” and “the good shepherd” and “the resurrection and the life” and “the way, the truth and the life” and “the vine”. Jesus said “I am” all of that and he said it in the Gospel of John. Bread. Light. Door. Shepherd. Vine. Resurrection. Life. Way. Truth. Jesus is……But before all of that, before all those “I am’s” in John, Jesus is “Word”. All through the gospels and the New Testament, Jesus is Teacher and Rabbi and Master and Son of Man and King of Kings and Lord of Lords, Savior, Messiah, Christ the Lord. But before all of that in John, Jesus is “Word”. All of the symbols, the metaphors, the imagery that shape our understanding of Jesus, our relationship to Jesus, our prayer life, our spirituality: Jesus is the rock of our salvation, the Balm of Gilead, the Rose of Sharon, the Suffering Servant. Jesus is brother and friend. He is our Jubilee and our peace and our Comforter. Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. But before everything else in John, Jesus is “Word”.

Yes, Jesus as Word makes it into the hymnody of the tradition every now and then. Think: “Word of the Father, now in flesh appearing, O come let us adore him…..”. But more often, more popular, more contemporary, Jesus is grace, peace, love. Jesus is awesome. Jesus is cool. Jesus rocks. Jesus! Friend! Dude! Jesus is the man. Not Jesus is the Word! Jesus is Word. Jesus, you’re so Word. Jesus…..Word.

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” No pronoun there, only Word. The Common English translation takes its cue from v.1 and avoids the pronoun while opting for the repetition of the Word, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. The Word was with God in the beginning. Everything came into being through the Word, and without the Word nothing came into being. What came into being through the Word was life and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness doesn’t extinguish the light“. The Word. The Word. The Word. Jesus….Word.

The word for Word here in Greek is logos. The connotation is more than this word or that word. Logos; word, it’s more than a spoken expression. Logos is word with power, a word that comes with action, a word that shapes, creates, meaning. It is word with all the eventfulness of communication, a “something happens and is happening” kind of word. Professor Eric Barreto has pointed out that the Spanish translations of the opening poetry of John don’t use the Spanish word palabra (word). Instead the word used is verba (verb). Eric notes the compelling connotation of word choice in Spanish that points to a moving, active, dynamic understanding of Word rather than a static, once for all eternity sense of the Word. Jesus….word then, word now, present, active, on the move. Word that is action. Word with an “ing”. Jesus is the “wording” of God.

Years and years ago, at Princeton Seminary, Professor Bob Jacks taught me this monologue about Jesus and the Word.

I open my mouth to speak and the Word is there–
form by lips, the tongue, the organ of voice,
Formed by the brain, transmitting the word by breath.

I open my mouth to speak and the word is there,
traveling between us– caught by the organ of hearing, the ear
transmitting the thought to the brain, through the word.

Just so do we communicate, you and I–
the thought leaping from one mind to the other,
given shape and form and substance
so that we know and are known through the word.

But let me speak to a very small child and the words mean nothing
for she does not know my language.
And so I must show her;
“This is your foot”, I say, “and it is meant for walking”
Or I help her up
“This is how you walk”
Until one day, “walking” shapes in her brain,
through the Word.

God has something to say to us,
but the words mean nothing,
for we do not know God’s language.
And so we are shown, “behold the man.”

God says, “this is the image, the thought in my mind
humanity as I mean it, loving and serving.
I have put him in flesh. Now the Word has shape and form and substance
to travel between us.

Let the Christ Child show forth love, until one day loving shapes in your brain
through the Word.

Logos. Verba. Word. If you will excuse the Advent pun, the Word is pregnant with meaning here in John. Word bursting forth. Word as “performative utterance” the philosophers say. Words that don’t just say something. They do something. Not just saying “peace” for instance, but creating peace. Not just signing “with love” at the end of a handwritten note, but being in love, or loving the other as you write it, as you sign it. The example most often given in the literature is the marriage vow. One doesn’t just say “I do, or I will” or “I, take you, to be my husband”. The words are the action. The promise made, the promise spoken, the promise heard, is the covenant, the marriage covenant. The theology of a marriage ceremony long held in the Christian tradition is that the officiant, the celebrant, the clergy or the one ordained for the occasion is a witness just like everyone else. The couple marries themselves with the promise made, the promise spoken, the promise heard. My explanation to couples about limiting intrusive photography and lots of flashes, it’s not because of a nod to the holiness of the moment or the sacredness of the space, it is simply about distraction and the affirmation that promise not heard…is not a promise.

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God…. The Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.” The Word; not just reason, or rationality, or intellect, or thought, but God communicating life itself, life in all of its fullness, life itself through the Word. God passing on, communicating, bearing, something of God’s own being, through the Word. Word. Light. Promise. “The Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.” Or as it says in the King James, “The light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.” Did not comprehend it. Did not overcome it. The light shines in the darkness and the darkness “comprehend-ith” it, “overcome-ith” it not. God’s word. God’s light, God’s promise, the darkness neither gets it nor dampens it, neither understands it nor crushes it, neither embraces it nor blows it out.

To be honest with you, whenever I find myself quoting or referring to this verse from John in a sermon or in the prayers of the people, I make a change. I’m not sure I’ve thought about it before. But I mess with the tense. I change the tense and strengthen the verb. You’ve heard it over and over again from me. But have you noticed. “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness shall never overcome it.” That’s what I say. That’s what I pray. That’s what I believe. “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness shall never overcome it.” Unapologetic paraphrase by Davis. Because an active, dynamic, present, communicative, life-giving, something of God’s very being understanding of Word overcomes the tense. Word. Light. Promise. The promise overwhelms the tense. It is not just the promise of the angels long ago in a land far away. It is not just the promise of what is to come when the roll is called up yonder. It is the very promise of God today. Now. “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not, does not, will not, shall not ever overcome it or comprehend it.”

One Christmas Eve when I was in high school, I came home after singing in the choir at the late candlelight service to find my parents with their bags packed. My brother and his young family had moved that fall to Cincinnati, Ohio where my sister already lived. It was going to be the first Christmas Eve at home in Pittsburgh with just the three of us. We were going to make the five-hour drive over on Christmas morning and arrive early in the afternoon. But when I arrived home, my parents were piling the gifts by the door and they both were sort of giddy. They kind of had a sparkle in their eye. Before I said anything, my dad said “We’ve decided to go now”. It was 12:30 on Christmas morning.

So we packed up the yellow Chevy Chevette and headed out on Interstate 70 in the middle of the night. It wasn’t snowing but the temperature was single digits. We stopped for gas in Zanesville, so that would have been about 3 am. I kid you not, the man working at the gas station in the middle of night on Christmas Eve had white hair and a beard. After getting gas, I offered to drive. Surprisingly my father said yes. My parents promptly fell asleep and left the all night driving to the teenager. At one point the check engine light came on. It was 8 degrees and four in the morning. So I just kept driving and never said anything to my folks. Our plan was to arrive at my brother’s apartment. Sneak up and put the gifts on the front stoops. And then wait for my sister to arrive and them make a grand entrance for the best of Christmas surprises. It seems however, you can make pretty good time in the middle of the night when no one else is on the road. It was still dark when we were sitting in the parking lot of my brother’s place. Back then, places closed on Christmas so there was no getting coffee or hanging out at IHOP. So we sat in the car for another hour and a half waiting for my sister to arrive.

We did make a grand entrance. It was a great surprise. And we had a wonderful, unforgettable Christmas morning. At one point my sister’s partner, he said to my dad, “Bob, that might be the dumbest thing you’ve ever done.” I don’t know about dumb, but it was bold, audacious, assertive, a bit courageous, urgent, and immediate. “We’ve decided to go NOW”.

This time of year, some will tell the stories of the birth of Jesus and heave a nostalgic sigh of remembrance like they had been there in Bethlehem that night. Others may yearn for a Christmas get away. Not a trip somewhere but the chance to set everything aside for a night, for a day, for a bit. Take a break from the world, turn away from it all, and just do Christmas and forget about it. But some years in your life, in the life of those you love, some years in the world, there are some seasons of life when the Advent hope and longing is more urgent. When the Advent prayer “Come, Lord Jesus, quickly come” is less about Jesus and the Second Coming and a whole lot more about the bold, audacious, assertive, a bit courageous, urgent, and immediate promise of God.
It is the belief that God’s Word still speaks. That God’s light doesn’t just flicker in the darkness. God’s light shines in the darkness. Word. Light. Promise. Now.
The bold, audacious, assertive, courageous, urgent and immediate love of God made known in Jesus Christ to you, for you and for the world.
Come, Lord Jesus, quickly come.

Luke 2:8-14
David A. Davis
December 9, 2018
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“Do not be afraid.” We hear it a lot from scripture this time of year, during Advent. “Do not be afraid.” We here it at Easter too. But it’s all through Advent – in the Advent narratives of the gospels. It’s like a gospel refrain almost. And it comes from the angels. “Do not be afraid.” In Matthew’s gospel, just as Joseph had resolved to dismiss the now pregnant Mary “quietly”, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in dream and told him, “Do not be afraid.” Here in Luke, just a bit before this morning’s reading, it’s Zechariah, husband of Elizabeth, father to be of John the Baptist. The angel appeared to him at the side of the altar as he was performing his priestly duties and said, “Do not be afraid.” When the angel appeared to Mary, after “Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you,” the assurance came quickly, “Do not be afraid. Mary, for you have found favor with God.” And to the shepherds out keeping watch over their flock by night, when the glory of the Lord shone around them, the angel said, “Do not be afraid.”

Quite a bit of fear…this time of year. Fear in the biblical narratives that tell of the Savior’s birth. Enough fear that the angels in heaven sought to address it… often. But upon further review, all that fear is not the same. For instance, Joseph’s nighttime dream-time assurance sounds more like the grandfatherly encouragement and slap on the back offered to a jittery groom unsure about what the future will bring. “Come on, Joseph, don’t be afraid to marry her. It’s going to all be fine.”

And Mary, well you know Mary just rocks it all through the story. It’s not even all that clear that Mary was afraid. According to Luke when the Angel Gabriel appeared, Mary was “much perplexed and pondered what sort of greeting this might be”. That sounds less like fear and more like she just trying to wrap her head and her heart around unimaginable news. You remember she did hesitate to question the heavenly messenger. Fear didn’t hold her back. “How can this be?” she pushes back at Gabriel. Whatever and what on earth and how that angel Gabriel might have presented to Mary in sight and sound and presence, she was a lot more reflective than scared. At least when you compare how she is described with the fear attributed in Luke to Zechariah and the shepherds.

Some will remember that last week during the Time with the Children, Andrew Scales told the story of Zechariah and his visit from the Angel Gabriel. When Andrew came to the part where Zechariah sees the angel there next to him at the altar of Lord, Andrew let out this outside voice, high pitched, not usually heard in this room, flat out scream. It was like mouse just ran between the fount and table. I laughed out loud along with many of you. An unnamed church member leaned over to an unnamed family member of mine and whispered, “I don’t think that part is in the bible.” But after some study this week, looking at the fear described in these key players, looking at all the fear in the bible this time of year, I think Andrew’s oral interpretation was spot on. Contrast Luke’s description of Zechariah’s fear with what I just described for Mary and for Joseph. Luke writes, “When Zechariah saw the angel of the Lord, he was terrified; and fear overwhelmed him.” His fear is described with repetition; fear times two. It is as if, both in the Greek and the English, the gospel writer is looking for a way to say that Zechariah screamed…..like Andrew. And the angel said to Zechariah, “Do not be afraid.”

Which brings us back to the shepherds who were “keeping watch over their flock by night”. According to Luke, “Then an angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified.” Now, does anybody remember how the terror of the shepherds is translated in the King James Bible? Yes, “the Lord shone round about them, and they were sore afraid.” Sore afraid. Now as much as I would like to suggest a play on words; that they were so afraid it hurt them physically, the better dictionary definition of “sore” here is “severely, acutely”. They were severely afraid. In this case the King James seems better and the NRSV loses something in the translation. Because the Greek text offers an even stronger redundancy for emphasis than with Zechariah’s fear. Closer, better, would be “and they were frightened with great fear.” They were scared—scared, afraid – afraid, terrified—terrified.

At our Wee Christmas flash mob pop up Christmas pageant for the youngest among us, the director had a new idea for this year’s production. That would be me. We have a few of those really bright, intense work lights here in the building. I ask Edie Estrada to help me. I was leading the group of shepherds, three maybe four in costume with their stuffed sheep under their arms, I was leading them around the sanctuary as they watched their flocks by night. When it came for the angels, for the glory of the Lord, for all that brightness, Ed stood up on a stool over by the piano, held the work light high, and flipped the on switch. Well, I underestimated how bright it was. I think we temporarily blinded the shepherds. And dutifully as they had been instructed when we rehearsed all of about 7 minutes before, the shepherds dropped their sheep, hit the ground and cover their heads in fear. The problem was that when I tried to get the shepherds to move closer to the angels when they started to sing, to move closer to the light, they wouldn’t budge. I prefer to conclude they were intent on following the earlier stage direction rather than waiting for their sight to be restored. Regardless, they were paralyzed with fear. They were frightened with a great fear. And the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid.”

All the fear in scripture this time of year is not the same. For the shepherds, the fear was unique. Their fear-fear was distinct. They were terrified when the glory of the Lord shone. They were terrified by the glory of the Lord all around them. Not just an angel. Not just a light. But the glory of the Lord. It is a unique and specific fear; the shepherds fear.

Interestingly, there is not all that much “glory of the Lord” in the rest of the gospel of Luke, in the other gospels, in the New Testament, for that matter. “Glory of the Lord”, that’s pretty much an Old Testament expression. Exodus, and Moses, and Mt. Sinai, and the pillar of fire, the cloud; Exodus is full of “the glory of the Lord”. When it comes to the prophet Isaiah, “the glory of the Lord” is pretty much in the prophet’s sweet spot. “Then the glory of the Lord shall be revealed” (Is 40), “the glory of the Lord shall be your rear guard” (Is 58), “the glory of the Lord has risen upon you” (Is 60). The glory of the Lord and the Old Testament, like hand and glove; “the earth will be filled with the knowledge of the glory of the Lord, as the waters cover the sea.” (Habakkuk 2:14)
But when it comes to the New Testament, there’s not so much “glory of the Lord.” To be sure there are plenty of examples of praise and adoration being offered to the glory of God. An act of praise, a doxology offered to the glory of God. But that’s a bit different than the glory of the Lord shone all around. Paul writes in II Corinthians of unveiled faces reflecting the glory of the Lord. Paul asserts in Romans that “all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God.” But none of that is the same as an eyeful of God’s glory. When the glory of the Lord shone all around them, the shepherds fell to the ground, with their heads and eyes covered, paralyzed in fear. “But the angel said to them, ‘Do not be afraid…. for see, I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign for you: you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.”

Do not be afraid. Good news. Great Joy. Savior. Messiah. Christ the Lord. And a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger. Do not be afraid. The glory of the Lord is now this. Do not be afraid. The glory of the Lord is this little, teeny baby. What’s to be scared of, unless you’re King Herod or brand new first time parents. The sign, that sign, the sign for the shepherds, the sign of the good news of great joy, it is a manger cradling the glory of the Lord. “Do not be afraid.”

From fear to great joy. In salvation history, the glory of the Lord forever transformed. The glory of the Lord come all the way down. From some kind of terrifying sensory other worldly experience of the divine to a child nursing at his mother’s breast. The glory of the Lord came down. In the child wrapped in bands of cloth, in his flesh, in his life. God’s glory shone. In his life, his baptism, his teaching, his touch, his embrace, his reach, his words, his prayer, his action, his taking, breaking, and blessing, his forgiveness, his tears, his selflessness, his suffering, his sacrifice, his death, his resurrection. Glory shone. Embracing sinners. Welcoming strangers, caring for the sick, raising the dead. Forgiveness unrestrained. Boundary lines crossed. Dividing walls smashed. Power structures tumbled. The hungry fed. The poor lifted up. The rich challenged. Lepers touched. Children embraced. The glory of the Lord come all the way.

There is a lot of fear this time of year, and not just in scripture, and not just this time of year, either. “The hopes and fears of all the years” as it says in “O Little Town of Bethlehem.” Plenty of fears, you and me. But the Advent Promise of the Christ Child, the promise of the Advent of his presence in your life and in mine, is that there is absolutely no room, no place, no role for fear in the gospel of Jesus Christ. That when it comes to God’s glory, God’s presence, God’s love, God’s plan, God’s kingdom and your seat in it, you have nothing to fear. For you are being held now and forever in the hand and the heart of God. The Advent invitation is for you take all your fears, or just one of your fears, and bring it to him, lay it before him, give it to him, hand it over to him, submit it to him. Allow the Good News of Great Joy to wash over you this morning and calm you fear. For that Child in the manger, the Savior, the Christ, The Messiah, the Glory of the Lord, he is the one who said, “I will be with you always… Do not be afraid.”

Luke 4:14-30
David A. Davis
December 2, 2018
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Jesus is in Nazareth standing in the synagogue on the sabbath day. Reports about him had spread not just around Galilee but to surrounding parts of the region as well. He was teaching in synagogue after synagogue. As those reports spread and as more and more people heard his teaching, the praise of Jesus was coming from all directions. So when he shows up in Nazareth, his hometown, when he comes to Nazareth and stands up in the synagogue to read, there would have had to have been quite the crowd. The expectation, the anticipation, the energy in the synagogue, it must have been palpable.

Jesus stands up to read. It is the sabbath. Like those who attend to the sacred scrolls when you and I attend a bar or bat mizvah, there are those in the synagogue who attend to the scrolls. On this day, the scroll of the prophet Isaiah is brought to Jesus; opened before Jesus. With the help of the attendees, Jesus finds the place, the place where it is written, “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me…”. He could have unrolled the scroll to where it is written, “The people who walked in darkness have see a great light…”. He could have found the place where it is written, “A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse, and a branch shall grow out of his roots. The spirit of the Lord shall rest on him….”. He could have unrolled the prophet’s words to “comfort, O comfort my people” or “Listen to me, you that pursue righteousness, you that seek the Lord”, or “Arise, shine, for your light has come”. Maybe it was an assigned reading for that particular day. Regardless, the scroll of the prophet Isaiah was unrolled to that place, that text, that spot.

 

And Jesus read, “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,
because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives
and recovery of sight to the blind,
to let the oppressed go free,
to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.”

 

And Jesus rolled up the scroll, handed it back to the attendant, the keeper of the sacred scrolls, and Jesus sat down.

Jesus read, “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me…” and he sat down. “bring good news to the poor….proclaim release…recovery of sight….oppressed go free….to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.” And he sat down. There in the crowded synagogue, the room full of the hometown crowd, he sat down.

According to Luke, “The eyes of all in the synagogue were fixed on him.” Fixed. The King James translates it “fastened”. “The eyes of all were fastened on him.” It is not all that common of a word in the Greek New Testament. It’s a word used mostly by Luke. A Lukan word. It’s the same word Luke uses to describe the look the servant girl gives Peter in the Garden as he was denying Jesus: “The servant girl, seeing him in the firelight, stared at him and said ‘This man was also with him.’” In the very beginning of Acts, as Luke writes about the Risen Jesus ascending into heaven, Luke writes “While he was going and they were gazing up toward heaven.”Gazing; same word in Greek. Jesus was being lifted up to heaven, out of their sight. They were more than gazing, their eyes were fixed on him.

In the book of Acts when Stephen is being martyred, when he is being killed, Luke writes about Stephen, “filled with the Holy Spirit, he gazed into heaven and saw the glory of God and Jesus standing at the right hand of God.” “Gazed” in the NRSV doesn’t sound strong enough. As he was being killed, Stephen’s must have been “fastened” to the glory of God. His eyes must have been “fixed” on Jesus. The word for “fixed”. It must be more than stared. More than watched. More than an expectant gaze of those waiting for the sermon to begin. More than simply looking at him. Their eyes were fixed on him.

And at that electric, unforgettable, spiritually charged moment; at the moment when everybody knows something is about to happen and it’s not just going be a sermon; right then, in one of those thin moments, like a Celtic thin place where heaven and earth meet, one of those holy moments, one of those times when God breaks in, right then as the eyes of all in the synagogue are fixed on Jesus, he said “today, this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.” If he said anymore right then, Luke doesn’t record it. If Jesus went ahead with a full sermon on Isaiah, Luke doesn’t say. Luke does tell that there in the aftermath of “the moment”, Jesus said, “today, this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.”  And “all spoke well of him and were amazed at the gracious words that came from his mouth.”

“Gracious words”. It is a puzzling description, an interesting phrase. “Gracious words”. He spoke well, enunciated well? He exuded gracefulness with his words? His “gracious words”. If I did my homework correctly, nowhere else in the four gospels is Jesus teaching or preaching described as “gracious words.” There are no references in the rest of the New Testament, no instances of Jesus being described as using “gracious words.” Certainly Jesus could have preached a whole unrecorded sermon that sabbath day in Nazareth. But according to Luke, he read from the prophet, he sat down, and all eyes fixed on him, he said “Today, this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.” Gracious words.

In the gospel’s drama, as you heard in the reading, the amazement and words of praise shift pretty much in a heartbeat to rage. But at the moment, in that thin moment, when all their eyes were fixed on him, he had them at “today.” Today. Right when he said “today.” “Today” is the gracious word.

Jesus stopped in the reading from Isaiah at this: “to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.” The year of the Lord’s favor. The year of the Lord’s favor. That’s a reference to the year of Jubilee. According to the law in the Book of Leviticus, every fifty years, after seven sabbatical cycles of seven years each, every fifty years it was to be the Year of Jubilee. During that year the land was to rest (fields to be left fallow), all debts were to be forgiven, servants were to be set free, and land that might have been sold by prior generations was to return to the ancestral family owners. Jubilee. It was a leveling of the economic system, a redistribution of wealth, an acknowledgement that God had led Israel out of bondage, that God had given the land, that everything that was owned (people, property, resources) it first came from the gracious hand of God. So once in a lifetime, there was to be a kind of do-over, a mulligan, a fresh start. Jesus said, “Today”!

Interestingly, scholars report that there is little to no historical evidence that a Year of Jubilee was ever celebrated in ancient Israel. There is no reference in scripture or in texts beyond scripture that it was ever carried out; that promise of the fiftieth year. Not surprising when you think that for those who had much, those who had all the property, all the power, all the wealth…any mention of the “year of the Lord’s favor” would be viewed as a threat. When Jesus said “today”, maybe that is exactly when some in the room started to plant the seeds of rage. Some didn’t want “today”. They would have preferred, “tomorrow” or “One day” or “Some day”. If the Year of Jubilee had never been experience in Israel’s history, it certainly wasn’t going to happen “today.” And it didn’t happen that year. Or the next year. Or the year after that. The year of Jubilee. It has never happened.

But Jesus said “Today”. The word of grace is “today.” The year of the Lord’s favor, the reference must have meant more than Jubilee. It was more than a year. When Jesus said, “today” he meant so much more. More than a year. More than a transaction. More than an off-season for the soil. “Today” is a reference to the very reign of God, to the Kingdom of God on earth as it is in heaven, to a kingdom that belongs to those who are poor, where those who are hungry now are blessed, and blessed are those who weep now, for they shall laugh. Jesus and his “Today” is about the kingdom of God. Where the proud are scattered in the thoughts of their hearts, and the powerful are brought down from their thrones, and the lowly are lifted up. Where the sick are healed, and the storms of creation are calmed, and the power of death is conquered once and for all. The reign of God. Sins are forgiven. There is no hurt or destruction. His sacrifice is once and for all. The Lord makes all things new. Death has no sting. God wipes away every tear. Jesus and “today”. It was a sign of the kingdom. Where the stranger is always welcomed. The nations learn war no more. And the prodigal always comes home to a warm and tear-filled embrace.

“Today” was so much more than a year. Promise and Expectation. Fulfillment and waiting. Rejoicing and celebrating. Hoping and Singing. All of it here and now. The world’s dis-order forever transformed to Christ’s reign of peace. “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing,” Jesus said. Such gracious words. He had them at “today” As one poet describes it, “He is the incarnation of the Year of Jubilee. Jubilee. Jubilee. Jesus is our Jubilee.”

Have you ever noticed that some days in Princeton, sometimes right there on Palmer Square, the aroma of food is probably better than the taste of the food itself? Sometimes it happens right after worship when I am out there standing on the porch waiting for the greeting to begin. I track the changing seasons of creation with the trees on the square and take a whiff of what’s cooking for lunch around town. Sometimes when you get a smell of something cooking, there is an immediate anticipation. Like when José is in the church kitchen making fresh biscuits for coffee hour, or your standing over the grill on crisp fall night. Other food aromas, they come with both a memory and a future. Like a few weeks ago when the smell of a roasting turkey filled the house, or when the spaghetti sauce made with your grandmother’s recipe is in the slow cooker; that recipe you passed on to your children, and they will pass it to your grandchildren….some aromas have a past and a future.

Like this bread and this juice, early on Sunday morning when we unwrap the plates covered since yesterday, when the plate passes before you, that tray of all the grape juice. The smell has a past and a future….taste and see and smell that the Lord is good. It smells like “today”; a whiff, a reminder, a hope for the coming reign of God.

It is Advent in the worship life of faith. We celebrate his coming and we wait and pray and hope for his coming again. The coming of his kingdom. Come quickly, Jesus. Quickly come.
It is Advent, so when you share this feast, take a whiff, and keep your eyes fixed on Jesus, and hope that bread, and take that cup, and whisper, pray, or even say it aloud….
Today. Today.

John 18:33-38
David A. Davis
November 25, 2018
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Jesus answered, “My kingdom is not from this world.” This king, his kingdom, it is not from this world. It is not of this world. His kingdom, it is in the world, but not of the world, not from this world. A kingdom not from here. He is not a royal commander leading the troops to a hard-fought victory. He is no political hero winning the hearts and minds of all who hear him stump from one rally to the next. He is not the offspring of a beloved king or queen, one who waited patiently in the wings for someone’s death to bring about his own coronation. He doesn’t plan to defend himself with might. He has no intention to rule by force or to silence enemies, or to crush opponents, or to ridicule any who disagree, or to occupy or takeover or destroy other lands.

This king has no subjects. He has followers. They don’t pledge allegiance, they give of themselves. Those who would follow don’t simply kneel or bow in obedience, they pick up their pallet and they walk, they open their eyes and they see, they take up their cross and they walk, they come out of the tomb and they live. His followers, his disciples, they come to know and believe that those who want to be first have to be last and those who want to lead must serve, and those who want to receive must first give.

Jesus said to Pilate, “My kingdom is not from this world.” For him glory and adulation and praise came in suffering and death. All the power of his office, the power of his kingdom was on display while he hung on the cross. The only crown he ever wore was a crown of thorns. The crowds who called out to him in hope, who gave him the honor of their shout, they were the same crowds that demanded his death. This king was a teacher who taught what the world could never learn. He embodied a wisdom the world was never to understand. He lived with a selflessness the world would never accept. His legacy was a self-emptying that remains a mystery to most. His love and compassion for the other forever redefined “unconditional”. His welcome of the stranger, his embrace of the unclean, his preaching of good news to the poor, his release of the captives, his unshackling of the oppressed, his taking a child in his arms, his care for the sick, his stopping for the blind man, his talking to the foreign woman, his challenge to the rich young ruler, his forgiveness of the woman who had an affair, his turning of the other cheek…all of it, the world said “yeah….no”. Then, now, forever. The world says “no”.

Of course, this kingdom’s upheaval, the complete redefinition, absolute reversal of power and authority, it was there from the beginning, from before the beginning. That light that came into the world. A light the world’s darkness shall never overcome. The king born to something other than a royal family. The baby king lying in a feeding trough full of hay. No gathering crowd for the birth of a king, only a few shepherds. No shouts, no bulbs flashing, only the brightest of lights shining high up in the sky. And a mother who right then pondered the whole kingdom come on earth part, she pondered it all right then in her heart.

Pondering Christ and his kingdom. “My kingdom is not from this world.”, he said.  And yet his presence surrounds us, fills us. His kingdom embraces us. The promised presence of Christ and his kingdom. The promised and yes, sometimes unsettling presence of Christ and his kingdom. Christ behind, Christ before. Christ beside. Christ above. Christ within. The Christ who stands in royal protest when those moments inevitably come, those days of thinking that God is only here for our most recent beck and call. The Christ who rises above to sing notes of love and compassion when it would be so much easier to choose words of bitterness and hard-heartedness. The Christ who sits before us as a pressing reminder of forgiveness and life in a world so preoccupied with vengeance and death. The Christ who continues to dwell within, pointing to the parts of life so easy to keep from his reign. The Christ who looks to speak in that part of life where relationships are nurtured and relationships are crushed, in that niche where fiscal decisions reveal true priorities, in that far corner where honest fears lurk, in that vulnerable core where your true self-doubts. The Christ, Christ the king who stands watch over our ability to discern between the kingdom of this world and the very reign of God.

“My kingdom is not from this world.”  The kingdom to which we have been called. It’s not of this world. It is a kingdom of light in a world filled with darkness. The world’s darkness is real, very real. And there is no attempt in this kingdom to deny how hard it is to see, or to pretend that the shadows of grief aren’t really painful, or to gloss over the suffering that can come at the midnight hour of our lives. This kingdom, it’s not about keeping your chin up, or the guarantee of no suffering, or the promises of more cash in your pocket. It is about the divine hope, the steadfast love, and the eternal promise that breaks into the darkness, causing a flicker of light. This kingdom, it is about God’s love, God’s light, God’s hope ever breaking into the world’s present darkness. Breaking in. Inbreaking. A kingdom of God’s inbreaking.

Where tears of sadness do turn to tears of joy. Where new beginnings are offered everyday in the name of resurrection hope. Where forgiveness offered and forgiveness received both come with a taste of holiness. Where lending a hand and taking time to listen and offering a kind word and refusing to give in to hate, where all of it radiates from the sacred. Where the oldest are told to have faith like a child and the youngest are told that the king loves them like his own.

Where the grieving and broken heart knows the wordless comfort and presence of the Shepherd King even in the valley of the shadow of death. Where the wandering soul finds meaning not in wealth or success or achievement, but in the knowledge way down deep of being a child of God. Where imaginations shaped by the Holy Spirit begin to see what the kingdom come on earth looks like. Where hearts touched by God’s grace begin to crave what the kingdom come on earth looks like. Where lives transformed by the King’s own vision of what the kingdom come on earth looks like, begin to work for it.

In the world, not of it. His kingdom. But you can see it, you can taste it, you can feel it. You can see there…. when the determination to not succumb to the world’s chaos and noise is rooted in a prayerful start to each morning, words spoken out loud in the bathroom mirror: “this is the day the Lord has made, let us rejoice and be glad in it!” You can see the kingdom there….where the loneliness and struggle on a crowded campus is negotiated in part with the memory somewhere deep within of hearing a familiar voice say, “This water helps us to remember that nothing, nothing, absolutely nothing can ever take away from how much God loves you.”  You can see the kingdom there….where the response to being on the receiving end of someone’s vindictiveness or nastiness at work, where the reaction to seeing the destructiveness of another’s hate, where the peer pressure to fall into despair is so high, and yet the notion to respond in kind is squelched by the feisty, counter-cultural, bold call and response that comes into the head and heart: Christ is Risen! He is Risen indeed!  You can see the kingdom there….where the discipline of another week sober or the determination to achieve the unexpected or the courage to speak for another who has been wronged, where it all comes from an affirmation like “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me”, or the deeply held conviction “to do justice, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God”, or the everlasting promise of the king himself, “I will be with you always, even to the end of the age.”

Jesus answered Pilot, “My kingdom is not from this world”. This king, his kingdom, it is not from this world. It is not of this world. His kingdom, it is in the world, but not of the world. A kingdom not from here. But, a kingdom that is here. A king who is here. And in that kingdom, to that kingdom, for that kingdom, his kingdom, God’s kingdom, Jesus says to you, “Come, follow me.”

 

 

Mark 7:31-37
Lauren J. McFeaters
November 18, 2018
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An unusual story from beginning to end. Jesus returns to the Sea of Galilee by way of Sidon, ending up in the area of the Decapolis or the Ten Towns. That would be a little like going from Princeton to Richmond by way of Boston and ending up in Atlanta.

And the Gentile crowds in this vast area, are again and again, bringing to Jesus people in need of significant healing from substantial illnesses. On today’s stop, the people bring Jesus a deaf man who could hardly speak; and they beg him for a laying on of hands.” ^[i]

Who is this man? He has a name. We don’t know it. What we do know is his deafness is profound and his speech twisted, and tongue tied.

The first time I remember experiencing this story was in Mrs. Mahaffy’s Sunday School Class. This was in Mount Lebanon, PA. She often taught us by having us sit on the floor and bringing out a big blue felt panel. She told us the stories of Jesus with Biblical paper characters, about 8” high, that would stick to the felt board and could easily be moved around as the story was told.

It’s kind of like Flat-Stanley, so often used in schools as the character that travels with children wherever they go. This was Flat-Jesus and his paper cutout is always handsome, robed, serene, and welcoming. Friendly scampering children, cute lambs, and puppies, always surround the Paper Jesus. His arms are outstretched in welcome. A radiant smile plays on his face. You can almost hear the strains of sacred music in the background. And the story? It’s quick and sure:

• Paper Friends enter stage right bringing the Paper Deaf Man to Jesus.
• Paper Jesus bids them welcome and asks what’s the problem.
• Jesus warmly takes man aside. Hands on ears. Spit on tongue. Healing is complete.
• Man can hear. Man can speak. All rejoice.
• Paper Children jump for joy. Lambs and puppies sound out their delight.
• All go home.

This story made an impact because I can still remember it, but when we grow up and our ears grow up, there’s a new lesson to be learned.

We know from a few verses before that Jesus is exhausted. By the time we encounter him he’s in serious need of rest. And yet, there’s such a hunger for his word and his touch, he’s not able to escape the great need of the crowds, and he’s full of emotional ups and downs, has a frayed temper, and is overwhelmed by the burden of his call. There’s no Paper Jesus here. No one-dimensional, perpetually happy guy.

• He’s exasperated by the foolishness of the disciples.
• He’s beset by the neediness of humanity.
• He’s tired of having to be “on” all the time. [ii]
• And now a man who can not hear. Cannot speak. Cannot be understood lands at his feet.

I cannot begin to imagine being deaf or being deaf in first century Palestine.

For millennia, all over the globe deafness is treated as a severe deficit. In our own country, deafness has historically been treated as a disease, a disorder, a disgrace.

More recently, we know deafness, not as a deficit, but as a unique culture with a language that uses a signs as its medium for personal expression, a spatial and visual language, that emphasizes hands, faces, bodies and eyes. [iii]

Where did our contemporary deaf culture have it’s beginnings? One place is in the church and in particular at the Methodist Camp Meetings of Martha’s Vineyard. For most of the 18^th and 19^th centuries, long before it was a vacation spot, Martha’s Vineyard was center of Christian Education. It was a bilingual community. It was a bilingual because everyone spoke both English and – not French, or Spanish … but sign language.

You see, deafness was a recessive hereditary trait, and Martha’s Vineyard was a pretty isolated genetic population — which meant that any given person on the island could have both hearing and deaf siblings. In the mid-1800s, 25% of the population was deaf. So deafness was just a trait some people had, like blondness or tallness. And everyone spoke sign language.

But everyone didn’t speak sign language in the region of Decapolis, where our deaf man, lives.

This week I started wondering, what if Jesus showed up on Martha’s Vineyard 150 years ago when deafness was just a trait and not a disease, would the collective “THEY” of our story, who brought him a deaf man to heal, have nothing to do? Because it would kind of be like them bringing Jesus a man born blonde and begging Jesus to fix him.

I understand there’s not a whole lot of talk about psychology and identity politics and disability rights in Biblical times … but I can’t help thinking that the “THEY” might be using this man’s deafness to be what a family systems therapist would call their “identified patient.”

Nadia Bolz-Weber puts it the best way possible. She says: Hello Jesus – we, the people who are just fine, are bringing you the broken man, so you can fix him. I can’t help feeling, it would have been more realistic, if all of the THEYs, who brought the deaf man to Jesus, also would have sought healing for themselves. But that’s not how we operate, she says. We let the obviously broken people carry all the brokenness for us. It’s quite the convenient system really.

Like when someone is an active alcoholic, we are thrilled not to have to look at our own drinking. When someone is noticeably greedy, we’re not jazzed to have to look at our own grasping. When someone is withholding of tenderness and compassion, we’re not likely to come clean about our hardness of heart; our easy judgements.

This system, she says, the one we have where we all agree on who is the real addict, the real liar, the real emotionally needy person, works well for us. That is, until Jesus shows up. Because when Jesus shows up and leads a deaf man away into some privacy and sticks his fingers in the man’s ears and gathers some spit from his tongue, he raises his face to heaven and sighs. Jesus looks to heaven and groans. There’s no rebuke. There’s no casting out a demon. There’s only a touch and a word and a sigh: Ephphatha. Ephphatha. Be opened. Be opened. Be opened.

Are those not the most beautiful words for healing? Be opened. Be opened. Jesus sticking his fingers in all of our ears and saying, “BE OPENED.” Sanctified fingers burrowing down to our eardrums, “BE OPENED.” Anointing our mouths with spit, “BE OPENED.”

Bolz-Weber proclaims: Jesus is like that.

• Be opened, he says.
• Be opened to a life where you aren’t the broken one anymore.
• Be opened to the possibility that there is healing in the world, and it might not look like you think it should.
• Be opened to knowing that your own brokenness doesn’t need to be hidden behind someone else’s brokenness.
• Be opened that you are stronger than you think.
• Be opened that you may never get what you want and that you’ll be OK.
• Be opened to your own need for healing especially if you are yourself a healer.
• Maybe that’s what healing really is.[iv]

We think it’s about identifying what’s wrong with someone else or with ourselves, and then having that thing cured, but I wonder if spiritual healing has more to do with being opened than being cured. It’s not easy. Healing hurts. It can feel like a loss as much as a gain. Because sometimes healing feels more like death and resurrection, than a piece of cake and glass of milk.

Maybe you are someone who deals so much with the brokenness and sickness of others in your work that you forget that you need healing too.

Maybe you are someone who has experienced healing of hospitality here in this community, and yet you’ve not gotten to the point of offering the same to others.

Maybe you, like myself, would rather not admit to needing anything from anyone. Including Jesus.

And to all of this, Jesus keeps sticking his fingers in our ears, looking to heaven, sighing, and saying, “Be Opened.” Be Opened because there is more. [v]

• When we are deaf to hear, and mute to speak;
• When Jesus comes at us with fingers extended and arms outstretched,
• We better be ready to be opened,

What if this becomes our prayer?

• What if, when we wake up the morning, the first words that come to mind are Jesus saying, “Be opened.”

What if this becomes our thanks?

• You’ve given hearing to our ears; speech to our souls.
• Our continual gratitude becomes, “Thank you for opening me.”

What if this becomes our church?

• Our collective ears open and tongues loosed.
• Our song is of the marvelousness of the Lord.

And there’s one more thing I want to tell you. One more note about Openness. One more thing to share.

The most famous school in the world for the deaf is Gallaudet University in Washington D.C. There’s nowhere else on earth where deaf culture is more celebrated, and advocated, and encouraged as it is at Gallaudet.

And Gallaudet University has a motto. And the motto is this:

‘Ephphatha.’ ‘Ephphatha.’

Jesus’ words.

‘Be opened.’ ‘Be opened.’ 

And is not because they’re a community of the deaf.

It’s because we are.

Are you deaf to hear?

Are you mute to speak?

Be opened.

 

ENDNOTES

[i] David Lose, “In the Meantime:  Mark 7:31-38.” June 25, 2012, davidlose.net.

[ii] Charlene Han Powell, “Mark 7:24-30: Desperate Belief.” September 6, 2015, day1.org.

[iii] Note on Deaf Culture. The American Deaf community values American Sign Language as the core of a culturally Deaf identity. Through ASL, members are given a unique medium for personal expression, a spatial and visual language that does not require the use of sound and emphasizes hands, faces, bodies and eyes. Members of this community share a common history, values, morals, and experiences. Deaf individuals come from diverse backgrounds and influences, and as a result that variation is reflected in the community. Different types of sign systems are used to varying degrees, and the Deaf community welcomes this variety. Handsandvoices.org.

[iv] Nadia Bolz-Weber, “Sometimes It Hurts; A Sermon on Healing.” September 11, 2012, sojo.net.

[v]  Nadia Bolz-Weber.

 

 

Mark 5:1-20
David A. Davis
November 11, 2018
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The calm didn’t last long. The dead calm of the sea as Jesus and the disciples came ashore on the other side. Calm probably never lasts long enough. Nothing could be less calm than the scene described here in Mark as Jesus stepped out of the boat. “Immediately a man out of the tombs with an unclean spirit met him.” No, the calming of the sea didn’t last long or long enough. The magnitude of the man’s suffering confronts Jesus right away as his feet hit the shore. A magnitude of suffering that the reader is not allowed to miss either. Here, even by chapter 5, Mark’s reader has learned to expect brevity, and an affinity for less words than the other gospels. But not here, not on the shore just after the calm. The reader has to linger for a while with Jesus and the tormented soul, linger there in the seaside burial ground, linger in the arena of unspeakable suffering and in the presence of evil and surrounded by death. The very description of the man puts an exclamation point on his suffering. It doesn’t read “a man met Jesus who had an unclean spirit and lived in the tombs.” Not the sentence is front-loaded with his torment. “A man out of the tombs with an unclean spirit met him.”

Jesus’ encounters with demons in Mark are typically short, terse, brusque, curt. As in Mark chapter one: “and Jesus cured many who were sick with various diseases, and cast out many demons,” as in Mark chapter three: “Whenever the unclean spirits saw Jesus, they fell down before him and shouted, ‘You are the Son of God’”. But here, the expanded description of the man and his demons is haunting in its detail, specific on the impact on others in the community, and downright frightening in its portrayal of how the man was living. It’s pretty clear that in describing what confronted Jesus right after the calm, in describing the depth of pain and anguish that hit Jesus smack in the face when he stepped off the boat, that the gospel writer intends to confront the reader as well with all that suffering.

A few days ago a person walked into the office asking to see a pastor. After some introductions out at the reception desk, I invited the visitor into my office. I recognized the person having seen them around town at various spots. “Father, can I tell you something about me and God?” I said “yes, of course”. “I’m really mad at God these days.” I could have said, “well, join the club” but I just continued to listen. “I’m an alcoholic, and when I drink, I get vulgar, and I am not nice to people. I’ve been homeless for 20 years and I’ve battled mental illness since I was a teenager.” I kept listening. Though this person from around town never told me specifically what made the anger at God come, I figured the anger was sort of about everything. “You know, God has big shoulders” I said, “God can take your anger. The bible is full of people who express their anger, their frustration at God. Full of people who shake a fist at God.” The person started to shed some tears “Father, that’s the nicest thing to hear. You’ve made my day. I’m going to remember that, ‘God has big shoulders.’” I asked what more we could do, if a hot meal would help. “No, no, you given me all I need today.”

We talked a bit more. Shared some laughs. As we were parting company, the visitor told me of homeless friend who carried around an old Billy Graham daily devotional book. “Do you know, on p. 63 of that book Billy Graham said that mental illness was evil?” I said “really?” And starting to leave my office, my friend said, “And I think that’s a load of crap.” But that wasn’t the word used. “I’m sorry Father!” I said, “that’s okay, I think it’s a load of crap, too!” And I used the same word.
The bible, and Mark’s story of what the tradition calls the Gerasene demonic, is not a treatise on mental illness or the spirituality of mental health or a prescriptive example of mental health care. Yes, description of suffering and the impact on family, loved ones, and the community certainly seems timeless. But here in Mark 5, in the world created by the New Testament, it is the story of Jesus going to toe to toe with evil. After the calm, Jesus stepped out of the boat into a world that reeked of suffering and death. He stepped onto a place considered religiously impure, foreign, even tainted. The land of the tombs would have been considered unclean and a place where evil lurked. All those pigs running around puts an exclamation point on the uncleanliness of the scene. The symbolism is not to be missed. It’s sort of stacked up; a legion of spirits, tombs, pigs. Demons, death, and the epitome of what is unclean according to the law all lumped together and thrown into the sea so recently calmed by the voice of Jesus himself.

This healing, this miracle doesn’t work out too well for the pigs. Last week it was the fig tree in Mark 11. This week the pigs and, of course, the pig farmers. Presumably their livelihood was just drowned in the sea, for the sake of one man made whole. Not great math, not great economics, not great policy, Jesus. After the herd had plunged out of sight, the pig farmers ran to tell in the city and in the country. I take that to mean they told everyone. Mark records that “the people came to see what it was that had happened.” The people rushed to see Jesus, to see what he had done. Then all the people saw the man, that man, “sitting there, clothed and in his right mind, the very man who had had the legion.” It was then, that the people were afraid. It was then that the people talked about it. You know how people are, they probably talked about it endlessly. Spreading the word of discontent. Fomenting anger, fear, even hate. People are good at that. The people kept talking about what Jesus did to that man and how that scary guy among the tombs was just sitting there in clean clothes and with his mind clear. They got so worked up about it that they “began to beg Jesus to leave their neighborhood.”

If Mark had described the anger of the swine keepers, then maybe we could convince ourselves that the community was upset with Jesus because of the economic disruption of an entire herd gone into sea. But Mark tells us that the people arrived from the country and from the city. Mark doesn’t record that they were led back by the pig farmers. It was the people who heard all about. The people who saw the tortured man now sitting with Jesus. They saw him and they were afraid. The people were afraid. Jesus takes on the presence of evil, evil multiplied over and over again. Jesus takes on evil, and suffering, and death and brings wholeness to one man. And they were afraid.

It was much easier when they knew to be scared of the chain man down at the tombs, when they knew where evil was, when they knew where to look, and where to point. It’s so much easier to know when evil is contained somewhere or in someone, when you know what and whom to hate. There is a lot of clarity in life when there is an enemy or when someone is demonized. The people were afraid because Jesus took the locus of evil away in their town. He took away the focus of their fear. They looked into the face of the one now made whole and were so ruled by their fear that they begged the Son of God to leave the neighborhood. They begged the Light of the world to leave them in darkness. They begged God with us to just get the heck out of here.
Jesus stepped out of the boat into a world of suffering and torment and violence and destruction and disease and death. A world where no symbolism is needed, no exclamation point is needed. Because the uncleanliness of it all speaks for itself. A world where evil lurks and death is real. A world where the shackles and chains of oppression and poverty and malnutrition forever bind vast numbers of God’s people. A world where the precious memories of the fallen in war can so easily fade when tensions rise and weapons are flaunted. A world where hatred and bigotry and the demonizing of entire populations of people is used for all sorts of purposes and then turns to brutal violence in just a heartbeat. A world where local bars, and houses of worship, and yoga studios, and schools become crime scenes. A world where trips to the cemetery never really stop and the phone calls about a friend’s diagnosis or distant family member’s passing never let up and the reminders of the reality of death are certain and sure. Jesus stepped out the boat right into your world and mine.

Jesus, the Son of God, Jesus the Light of the World, Jesus, God with us, stepped into your world, birthed from Mary’s womb bearing our very flesh and with heart like ours that aches when surrounded by the darkness and the suffering of this world. Jesus brought healing and wholeness to that one man. And when you linger with the man from Gerasene for just a bit on the bench just outside the tombs, allow another burial ground to come to mind. One with an empty tomb. For the Savior who steps into your world again and again, this Son of the Most High God has conquered death and plunged the depths of hell itself. He has forever broken the chains and the shackles of those forces, those powers, those principalities, the chaos, of all that works against the ways of God. And for those of us who live in a world, in land of deep darkness, on them, on us, a light has shined.

So indeed, in this world of ours, God’s people will dare to hope, and God’s people will not fear, though the earth should change, though the mountains shake in the heart of the sea, for God is our refuge and strength. We will dare to pray endlessly for peace, for one day the people shall beat their swords into plowshares, and nation shall not lift up sword against nation. That one day God’s people will learn war no more. God’s people will work for justice and mercy and compassion knowing that one day the kingdom in heaven shall surely be coming on earth, a kingdom where they will hunger no more and thirst no more, and the Lamb at the center of the throne will be their shepherd, that one day this God with Us will guide them to springs of living water, and that one day God will wipe away every tear from their eyes.

Until that day, when you find yourself surrounded by the darkness and suffering of the world, when your hearts aches, why don’t you go home to your friends and tell them how much the Lord has done for you. Tell them of the mercy, the love, and the grace of God. Because some days, most days, every day, you and I ought to be sharing something good with one another. Something good, like the goodness of the Lord.

 

 

Mark 11:12-14
David A Davis
November 4, 2018
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They say it is a miracle; that it is a miracle of Jesus. That the cursing of the fig tree is a miracle of Jesus. If you look it up, if you google “the miracles of Jesus”, you will find listed there the cursing of the fig tree. It doesn’t seem like a miracle; a traditional miracle. It wasn’t much of a miracle for the fig tree. In Matthew, Jesus curses the fig tree and it withers right away, right there on the spot. Here in Mark, a couple verses later it’s the next morning when Jesus and the disciples pass by the tree and Peter sees the withered, cursed, tree. “Rabbi, look!” Peter says. It’s kind of negative for a miracle; maybe more like a plague or something. Jesus and the fig tree.

How about Jesus here? Getting all testy with the fig tree. Frustrated by a tree. Letting the tree have it. It’s not really the Jesus of the gospels we’ve come to expect. A more complicated Jesus. A more challenging Jesus. A more human Jesus. It says Jesus was hungry. He wasn’t just hungry, it sounds more like he was “hangry”. That is angry and hungry put together. It’s actually in the dictionary. Anger due to hunger. “Hangry”. Every parent of a toddler knows exactly what that means. It is the Jesus of the “snickers” commercial; needing a little something, something, a bit of sugar, something to tide him over. Clearly, it is the fully human part of Jesus. The cursing of the fig tree. It’s not very miracle like and it’s not very Jesus like.

A church member saw the sermon title and the sermon text this week on our website: “Leaves but no figs, Mark 11:12-14”. That morning, the member had been to their farm co-op to pick the family share. The farm has a grove of fig trees and though they are just about finished bearing fruit, folks were invited in to glean the last few figs. The member sent me the pictures that happened to have been taken just Tuesday morning. Still green, still lots of leaves, but only a few figs and they were way at the top, presumable because the low hanging fruit had been picked all through the season. So you had to pull the branches down to pick the last figs the tree had to offer. Sounds like a bit of work actually.

Jesus and the twelve had finally made it to Jerusalem after the long trek…up. The last part of the trip included the colt, and Palm branches, and shouts of “Hosanna”. They looked around Jerusalem a bit that evening and then headed out to Bethany for the night. The next morning, on the trip back to the city, Jesus was hungry. He saw a fig tree off in the distance. The tree had plenty of leaves but it wasn’t the season. Maybe Jesus thought there might still be a few figs up near the top. Turns out that would be no; leaves, but no figs. “May no one ever eat fruit from you again!”, Jesus said mostly to himself and to the tree, but according to Mark, “His disciples heard it.” The disciples and those passing along the first of the oral tradition, and the earliest readers of the gospel, and early church forebearers, and the church in every age, and you and I, we all heard it. We all got wind of it. Jesus and his hunger and his cursing of the fig tree.

They all heard it and they even called it a miracle. Which is kind of interesting. A couplet of verses that points to Jesus’ humanity and everyone wants to preserve his divinity by calling it a miracle. Yes, Jesus and the fully God part is always the harder part to fathom but the fully human part is always the more challenging or discomforting part for the believer. That Jesus would lower himself to talk to the Samaritan Woman, that he would not come right away when Lazarus was dying, that he would allow the woman with the expensive perfume to anoint his feet, that he would beg God to not have him go through with the suffering and death part, that he would compare the Canaanite woman begging for her daughter to be healed to a dog, that he would be hungry and frustrated and angry and curse a fig tree. Jesus must have been hoping he didn’t really say that out loud. But the disciples heard it, and yes it is true, when it comes to life in the gospel, when it comes to a gospel life, words matter.

In the flow of Mark’s gospel, the cursing of the fig tree and Jesus and the disciples walking past the withered tree the next morning, the story of the fig tree bookends, it frames, Mark’s telling of Jesus cleansing of the temple. The cleansing of the temple is right in between the cursing of the fig tree and Peter pointing to the withered tree the next morning. You remember the story of the money-changers right in the temple and the selling, the marking up of the price on the necessary animals to be sacrificed in temple worship. Jesus tossing tables and chairs and shouting that they have made the house of prayer into a den of robbers. In the literary form of Mark, chapter 11, the fruitless fig tree and the religious institutional corruption kind of meld together. Jesus’ hunger and frustration and the cursing that comes from Jesus toward the tree foreshadows his anger and the tossing of tables and his indictment of the temple leaders.

But I have to tell you, I’m not comfortable going down that temple cleansing road this week. That’s why I didn’t even read it. I’m not willing to lift up a text that has been historically used by Christians to stereotype, characterize, and blame the Jewish people. Because yes, parts of the gospel have fed the seeds of antisemitism since the beginning and Christians ought to just stop and confess and lament that this week rather than reach for some kind of timeless takeaway from first century religious practices that too often comes with a self-righteous superiority and an overly negative view of the Jewish people and their traditions; a sinful arrogance not justified but covered up by the dark side of theology for centuries.

I would rather linger with the fig tree, and with leaves and fruit for a while. Here in Mark, when Peter points out the fig tree now withered to Jesus, Jesus says “Truly I tell you, if you say to this mountain, ‘be taken up and thrown into the sea’, and if you not doubt in your heart, but believe that what you say will come to pass, it will be done for you. So I tell you, whatever you ask for in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours. Whenever you stand praying, forgive, if you have anything against anyone, so that your Father in heaven may also forgive you your trespasses.” Standing there next to the withered tree, Jesus strikes a familiar gospel tone and teaches about faith, prayer, and forgiveness. It’s a little “Sermon on the Mount moment” there by the dead tree. Complete with the rhetorical flare, and preacher’s license of mountains moving, and lasting affirmations of life in the kingdom of God. Faith. Prayer. Forgiveness. Standing next to the now fruitless fig tree, Jesus preaches about, riffs on, lifts up, points to, extols, celebrates, the fruit of a faith-filled kingdom life. Faith. Prayer. Forgiveness. The tree bears no fruit, but you, O my people, O my children, O my followers, you bear the fruit of God’s mercy and grace!

The fig tree had no fruit to offer when Jesus was hungry that day. But think of all the fruit bearers in the gospel that Jesus acknowledges, lifts up, extols, celebrates. All those who give testimony to a faith-filled kingdom life, even here in the short gospel of Mark. The friends who worked so hard to lower the paralyzed man down through the hole they dug in the roof. Jairus, the synagogue leader who repeatedly begged Jesus to heal his daughter. The woman with the hemorrhage in the crowd who believed that if she just touched Jesus’ clothes, she would be made well. Yes, that Syrophoenician woman who boldly, courageously, found her voice; “Sir, even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.” Blind Bartimaeus who refused to stay quiet but all the more loudly cried out for mercy. And the widow, the poor widow, the widow with the two copper coins; Jesus turned to the twelve and told them to look at her, be grateful for her, she put in more than everyone else. She was giving her all. She put in her whole life. Jesus was frustrated by the lack of fruit on that fig tree even as he spends the whole gospel pointing to, bearing witness to, expressing gratitude for, the lives of the saints who bear the fruit of faith.

I will not soon forget what the Rabbi of the Tree of Life synagogue in Squirrel Hill said to Anderson Cooper Monday night. It was the eve of the first of the funerals for those brutally murdered in Pittsburgh while at worship. The Rabbi was asked about the tone, the content, the themes of the upcoming services. The question was clearly looking for an edginess or an anger or a response to the evil and the tragedy. The Rabbi sounded just a bit surprised by the question and he said that they would do what they always do at a funeral. “We give thanks to God for sharing life and we celebrate life and we remember.” He went on to say there will be no anger, no hatred, no outcry. Only grief, gratitude, remembrance, and celebration of each one lost and the absolute gift they were to all who knew them. In other words, according to the Rabbi, at the Tree of Life, they were going to spend the week giving thanks to God for the fruit.

Cathy and I attended Shabbat services yesterday at the Jewish Center of Princeton. During his sermon, Rabbi Feldman, barely holding back his tears, said that the descriptions of the lives of the 11 killed made him think of folks in his congregation: greeters, matriarchs, doctors, life long members. They are the folks sitting in every synagogue on Saturday and every church on Sunday. Or to use the language of our tradition, they are part of the great cloud of witnesses, the saints in every congregation. Those who share the fruit of a life in God: faith, prayer, forgiveness. Or as the Apostle Paul painted the fruit in Galatians: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control.

Every time we eat this bread and drink this cup, we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses; those who have come before and those who will surely come after. Yes, Jesus cursed the fig tree that had no fruit to offer, but he spent his life bearing witness to the fruit of a life in God. He gave his life for that fruit. That you and I might be fed, nourished here, so that we might bear the harvest of our fruit out there.

 

Mark 10:46-52
David A Davis
October 28, 2018
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Every one of us has been “shushed” at some point in life. “Shushed” as in “Shhhh!” It happens to everyone no matter what age; very young to very old. It must be part of the universal language; “shushing”. We’ve all been on the receiving end and we’ve probably all, at some point, been on the delivery side as well. Shh! In the theater, at a concert, in a lecture hall, in the classroom, at church, in a museum, on the quiet car, at the movies, at the dinner table, in a restaurant. It happens pretty much everywhere. Sometimes polite, more often probably not. People try other things to attempt silence: holding up the hand with a peace sign, zipping the lips as a sign, a hand clap or two. But it all comes back to the “shush”. When hosted my group of pastor friends last May, the din of all the fellowship often needed to be squelched. So I resorted to shouting “the Lord be with you”. It worked every time. It is just part of the human experience, isn’t it? “Shushing”. In all of its forms. So utterly common and ordinary; telling someone else to be quiet. Except this one. This one is different. Here in Mark, chapter 10, the man who was blind, named Bartimaeus and those who tell him to be quiet. This one’s different.

Mark 10:32-11:11
Do you know that one scene in a movie when you get an inkling of how this all is going to end? Or that chapter in a good mystery when you as the reader find yourself beginning to have a take on who did it? Or that particular point in a choral or orchestral performance where you begin to pick up the notes, the harmonies, that touch of the melody that will then come to the fore in its conclusion? Something like all of that is happening here with the healing of Bartimaeus. In the Gospel of Mark, there’s a turn here, some kind of a shift, a light bulb going on. Something happening here that the reader ought not to miss.

Jesus and the disciples were “going up the road to Jerusalem.” The seasoned reader of scripture knows that the phrase “going up the road to Jerusalem” is a loaded phrase because Jesus is now going up to the cross. But, as if for the sake of a first reader’s naivete, Mark’s Jesus pulls the disciples off to the side and tells them again, tells them the third time, what was going to happen to him on up the road. That “the Son of Man will be handed over to the chief priests and the scribes, and they will condemn him, and spit upon him, and flog him, and kill him, and after three days he will rise again.” The “rise again” part is mysterious at best and not all that clear. But the handed over, and the condemnation, and the spitting, and the flogging, and the killing? That’s pretty clear.

And right then, on the way up, is when James and John ask the teacher to do for them whatever they ask. They want to sit, one at his right one at his left, they want to be right next him in all his glory. Jesus is trying to get them to understand what is going to happen when they get up there; What’s going happen to him. And they want to bask in his glory. The only thing more embarrassing for James and John than flat out asking for the Lord’s favor, for priority seating, the only thing worse is that in Matthew’s gospel, in Matthew’s telling of this “on the way up” conversation, in Matthew, James and John have their mother ask for them!

When the ten other disciples heard, they were angry. No mention of them being horrified by the thought of what was going to happen, of his suffering now on the horizon. No, they were mad at James and John for asking. They were angry at James and John for asking to hog the glory. They were mad that they didn’t think to ask first. Jesus tells all twelve of them what he has told them before. “Whoever wishes to become great among you must be your servant, and whoever wishes to be first among you must be slave of all. For the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve and to give his life a ransom for many.” On that road up to Jerusalem, Jesus is trying to get them to see….. and they can’t.

So then they get to Jericho and a blind man named Bartimaeus is sitting along that same road up. Bartimaeus could hear from the large crowd now going along with Jesus and the twelve, he could hear that it was Jesus. “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!” he shouted. And they “shushed him”. Actually, it says “many sternly ordered him to be quiet.” That means they told him to shut up. It doesn’t say whether the disciples were the ones. Neither does it imply that the whole crowd joined in. Just many. Many “sternly ordered” him. Ordered him to be quiet, to shut up. So Bartimaeus did it again. Bartimaeus cried out more. Bartimaeus shouted even louder. “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!”.
And according to Mark, “Jesus stood still.” He stood still. It should be as powerful and as memorable and as quotable as “Jesus got into the boat” and “Jesus wept, and “Jesus had compassion” and “Jesus took bread.” Jesus stood still. There surrounded by a crowd that was now on the move. In the face of others ordering Bartimaeus to be quiet. There along the road that was heading up to Jerusalem, the road Jesus so firmly intended to walk. Right then, on the threshold of the Palm Sunday caravan up to Jerusalem, Jesus stood still. In response to the crying shout of Bartimaeus, Jesus stood still. In response to one man’s plea for mercy, one, just one, one man, Jesus stood still.

Jesus asked him the same thing he asked James and John; “what do you want me to do for you?” Like James and John, he called Jesus “teacher”. But unlike James and John, having cried out for mercy, he asked to be able to see. But even before Bartimaeus was healed, he could see. He could see what the disciples could not. In his shout and in his plea for mercy rather than glory, Bartimaeus could see Jesus. “Go, your faith has made you well” Jesus tells him. And Bartimaeus could physically, literally see, according to Mark, immediately. Both the first reader of Mark and the seasoned reader of Mark, all the readers of Mark then know and sense that significant understatement that sums it all up. Bartimaeus “followed Jesus on the way”. That would be the way…up. The way up to the cross. The way of being a servant, of being the least, of coming to serve not to be served. The way of the gospel of Jesus Christ.

No this was not your run of the mill “shushing” there along the way…up. Because along the way of servanthood, you can’t just “shush” another person’s plea for mercy. James and John might have been part of the crowd that ordered Bartimaeus to stop or maybe they weren’t. Regardless, those telling him to keep quiet errored on the same side of James and John who were trying to keep Jesus for themselves and horde his glory. But when it comes to the kingdom of God, you can’t keep trying to hold others back from the Savior. You can’t act like the Teacher is just for you. And for heaven’s sake, you can’t try to “protect” the Messiah from the suffering of a child of God you would just assume stay silent, stay invisible, or just go away.

The last Sunday of October is often celebrated as Reformation Sunday. These watchwords come from the very heart of the historic Protestant movement. Watchwords, fenceposts, takeaways: “grace alone, faith alone, scripture alone.” And when it comes to grace, it’s God’s first move, first love, first to us. As Paul unforgettably puts it in Ephesians: “For by grace you have been saved through faith, and this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God.” Part of the wonder of God’s grace, the ever present mystery of God’s grace, is that you don’t deserve. I don’t deserve it. No one deserves it! And if you don’t deserve it, you didn’t earn it, then you don’t control it. More to the point, if you don’t deserve, you don’t get to decide if someone else, if anyone else deserves it. You cannot silence another person’s plea for mercy, another person’s yearning to be heard. In response to one man’s plea for mercy, one, just one, one man, many tried to tell him to be quiet, to just go away. But Jesus stood still.

You cannot keep someone else from being recognized as the child of God that God created them to be. Even if you kill them, driven by the sick evil hatred of racism, bigotry, and anti-Semitism. Lord have mercy on us. You cannot live like God’s glory shines all over you but never on someone who looks different, or believes different, or whose very presence somehow offends you. Lord have mercy on us. You cannot try to legislate a person’s identity away, keep them silent, tell them to go away because their sexual, gender identity doesn’t conform to your theological framework, your hording of what it means to be created in the image of God. Lord have mercy on us. You cannot ask for God’s favor and yearn for God’s mercy and expect God’s blessing and then act like the earnest plea of someone else is little more than the white noise of nothingness. Lord have mercy on us. If Jesus stood still for one blind man begging for mercy on the way up, you know he has to be standing still for one, two, hundreds, thousands, walking for miles in a caravan who are crying out for God’s mercy and seeking something better for those they love. Seeking God’s blessing. Lord have mercy us.

Bartimaeus could see what the others could not. That there is always enough of God’s mercy to share. There is enough of God’s grace to go around. There is enough of God’s glory for all. Along the way of servanthood, along this kingdom way, you can’t just “shush” another person’s plea for mercy. . In response to the crying shout of Bartimaeus, Jesus stood still. In response to one man’s plea for mercy, one, just one, one man, Jesus stood still. Jesus stood still. You have to remember that. Never forget that. Jesus stood still for Bartimaeus. That means he stands still for you, too. And for ever last one who cries out for mercy.

 

Mark 2:1-12
Lauren J. McFeaters
October 21, 2018
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I don’t know if any of you read The New York Times?

Anyone?

I read the digital edition.

But I’m an old-fashioned girl. I had a hard time when the Times went from black and white to color. I’ve gotten over it.

My usual reading trek starts with the US section, then World, then New York. But my favorite columns are The Ethicist, anything in the Theater section, the Film section, and anything by Matthew Desmond. My guilty pleasure? The Modern Love column.

Yup, Modern Love is one of my favorites. It’s full of weekly essays that explore the joys and tribulations of love.

The one Modern Love column[i] I’ll never forget is about Layng and Linda Martine, a married couple with a “love-at-first-site-kind” of marriage. They enjoyed years of what Layng calls “a charmed life,” that is until a horrendous car accident paralyzed Linda and changed the course of their lives forever.

This Modern Love essay, written by the husband, Layng, is about the emotional and spiritual aftermath of such an accident when a spinal cord is severed, and no movement is possible from the waist down. He says:

We knew we had a lot to learn, but we had no idea how much. Hearing the word paraplegic and paralysis made us focus on the big thing, the fact that Linda could no longer walk. Less anticipated were the smaller humiliations and inconveniences, like bathroom habits, sores that came out of nowhere and took months, years to heal, and inaccessible restroom stalls that caused Linda to have to catheterize herself in the public area where people were washing their hands and talking. And on it went, the list of indignities. She couldn’t watch television if she reached for her glasses and the remote fell off the bed. She wet the seat on airplanes and in friends’ cars.

 

But, Layng says, we’ve learned and adapted. Now we know the places with good handicapped-access bathrooms (Starbucks), which airline makes things easiest (Southwest), which cities have smooth curb cuts (San Francisco), and which movie theaters don’t make us sit four feet from the screen.

 

After Linda and Layng Martine finally arrived home from months of treatment and surgeries at the Hershey Medical Center, they sat at their dinner table and Linda burst into tears. “I don’t know if I can do this for the rest of my life,” she said. All her husband could say was, “We’ll do it together.” [ii]

 

We’ll do it together.

Oh, the places we’ll go.

 

Sounds like Jesus.

We’ll do it together. Oh, the places we’ll go.

 

In Mark’s Gospel, having just healed a man with mental illness, restored Simon’s mother-in-law, cured a leper, and many others of diseases and possessions, we find Jesus at home. He’s traveled to Capernaum and we’re told the crowds have followed him. Word’s gotten out. Word’s spread. There’s a man who teaches and heals and brings wholeness.

People want to see him. People want to hear him. People want to touch him.

Maybe that’s why when Jesus went back to Capernaum he returned to a standing-room crowd. It was wall-to-wall people inside the house and an overflow crowd on the outside too. Even with a shoehorn you couldn’t squeeze in one more person. Jam-packed — people pressing, body heat, smell, and sweat. We’re talking a big crowd in a small space.

Houses like this weren’t made for crowds. Scholars think it was more square in shape, made of clay, and had a set of steps along the side to access the roof so families could escape the heat of the day by reclining on the rooftop in the cool evenings

Inside the house with Jesus were the hot shots—some of the teachers of the law—Scribes—who wanted to hear this Jesus for themselves.

And sure enough, latecomers arrive, four men and their paralyzed friend, thinking they’re going to find a spot they turn and see the crowd beat them there.

Then one of them stepped back to get a better view. He sees the steps and says, “We’ll do it together. We’ve got this. There’s a place for us to go.”

 So up to the roof they go. Slow but sure and I can only imagine that once up on the roof, they had to stop and listen for this man who was said to be a healer. And maybe it was because they could no longer hear him that they went full speed ahead and started digging – braking up clay, digging out the brushwood and branches to stuff their paralyzed friend, mat, and all, through the space between beams, right to the feet of Jesus.[iii]

 

You see Mark measures faith not by its orthodoxy but by its determination, courage, and persistence.[iv] And the places we’ll go with determination, courage, and persistence? Everywhere.

All the commotion got everyone’s attention—first the rattling and clatter, then the falling clay and brush, people dodging debris the best they could. Then a beam of light, silhouetting the form of a man on a mat being lowered, as those below caught him and lowered him to the floor.[v] Boom.

 

I feel like this is where we need to pause — to wave away the dust and grit, to wipe the sand off our shoulders, and pick the bits out of our hair. Because what comes next needs a cleansing breath to take it all in. ‘When Jesus saw their faith, he said to the paralytic, “Son, your sins are forgiven.”’

Your sins are forgiven.

And man is lowered through a roof and Jesus says: “Your sins are forgiven.”

Patricia Raube asks it this way, does he mean to imply that the man is somehow responsible for his own paralysis, for this dreadful condition that makes his life a nightmare? The people crowded into that room would have heard it differently. This juxtaposition—sin and sickness—would have made sense to them. It’s a tune they have heard before.

Sin and sickness are often said to be connected. Think of all the examples in scripture.

• Here’s one, Miriam, sister of Moses who dares to question his authority—and so God smites her with leprosy. Pretty clear cut: her sin leads to sickness.
• But then there’s Job where the connection between sin and sickness is challenged…suffering terribly Job is not a sinful man, he is a righteous man.
• But a lot of the time, each one of us will see or hear about someone’s dire disease and think, what has that person done to bring this on? [vi]

 

There’s another way in which sin and sickness are related. Just as in our day. Sin and sickness go hand in hand—corporate sin, communal sin, society’s sin:

• The kind of sin that oppresses people and keeps them from enjoying even the fruits of their own labor, or from being able to be productive in the first place.
• The kind of sin that locates toxic waste near slums, so that the people living there suffer from chronic disease.
• The kind of sin that says we must never speak about the sexual battery, and exploitation that has literally laid bare women, youth, men, children.
• The sin of a racism that is so metastasized that we give up thinking we have any responsibility for stomping out its lethal hold on the human spirit.
• The kind of sin that renders the weakest members of society expendable.
• There is a connection between sin and sickness… it’s just not the one we expect.

‘When Jesus saw their faith, he said to the paralytic, “Son, your sins are forgiven.”’ Their faith. Your sins forgiven.

Jesus looks upon these five friends and the places they were willing to go for one another, what they were willing to do together, not letting anything stand in their way.

Jesus sees — faith.

Whether faith in himself, or faith in their friend, or even faith in one another — we have no idea. But Jesus sees faith. And through that faith, a man is set free. [vii]

It’s not blasphemy.

It’s not a violation of the law.

It’s not sacrilege.

It’s a gift.

A gift of forgiveness that turns into freedom; that turns into glory.

 

Maybe it’s like that for Linda and Layng Martine from the Modern Love column. Now, decades later, having lived within a devoted marriage and ardent friendship, they’ve clawed through the ceilings of plaster and limits of boundaries to find a life together.

They have three children.

Linda started driving again. Her car has hand controls.

And Layng says:

So long ago since that fateful night, looking across the dinner table at my wife, or seeing her across the room at a party, the hopeless crush I have on her is as wonderfully out of control as when I first saw her more than five decades ago. I’m still thrilled when after work, I pull in the driveway and know I’ll soon get to see the beautiful, very funny person I live with.[viii]

 

You know, there’s one more thing about this passage. One more thing we should say. Martha Spong reminded me of it:

Sometimes I wish someone would put us all down through a roof and lay us before Jesus; lay us right there at his feet so he could look us right in the eye, and we could look at him, and then he would forgive us and fix what is broken in us.

Maybe that’s what happens when we come to worship.

We have one of those flat ceilings, you know. Look up.

It’s the kind of ceiling a hole could be broken through. The kind someone could break through and lower us on our mats, right into the pews. There’d be rattling and clatter, chunks of plaster would fall with dust and grit and sand. It would be a beautiful mess.

And who would do the lowering. Who would those people be?

Maybe that’s exactly what we’re doing for each other. Maybe it’s the person sitting right there beside you – you know – the one you’ve known for fifty years. And then the one on the other side that you’ve not yet met.

We’ll do it together. We’ve got this. The places we’ll go.

Oh the places we’ll go when we:

• pray for one another
• sing for one another
• hold one another
• challenge one another
• and find a way to get on top of the house, dig down through it, and put one another right where we need to be; right at the feet of Jesus. [ix]

 

Thanks be to God.

 

ENDNOTES

[i] Thank you to Patricia Raube for a reminder of this essay from her sermon, “Fierce Friendship: A Sermon on Mark 2:1-12.” March 15, 2009, magdalenesmusings.blogspot.com.

[ii] Layng Martine Jr. Modern Love: “In a Charmed Life, a Road Less Traveled.” The New York Times, March 6, 2009, nytimes.com.

[iii] Virginia Stem Owens. Looking for Jesus. Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1998, 41, as quoted by John Scott McCallum.

[iv] Alan Culpepper. Mark. Macon, GA: Smyth & Helwys, 2007, 77, as quoted by John Scott McCallum.

[v] John Scott McCallum. Sermon: “Whatever it Takes.” First Baptist Church, Hot Springs, AR,

June 29, 2014.

[vi] Patricia Raube. “Fierce Friendship: A Sermon on Mark 2:1-12.” March 15, 2009, magdalenesmusings.blogspot.com.

[vii] Patricia Raube.

[viii] Layng Martine Jr.

[ix]  Martha Spong. Sermon: “They Removed the Roof.” Feb 13, 2012, marthaspong.com.