Mountaintop Moments (Mark 9:2-9)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Worship on February 11, 2017, Transfiguration Sunday)

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Speaking from Experience

My housemate Nick had never been there, but he had heard wonderful things from his friends.  How the salad bar had more than just salad, but cheeses and meats and vegetables with names he did not even recognize.  How the waiters passed by your table ever few minutes, happy to grab you whatever you wished.  How the cooks prepared food behind a glass wall, so that you could watch the drama of cooking unfold before your eyes.

For months, Nick talked about this restaurant.  He speculated about what he would enjoy the most.  He theorized which dish was the best.  Until one day, it wasn’t enough just to imagine and salivate.  On that day, he messaged me and several of his friends and said, “I’ve heard about it.  We’ve talked about it.  Let’s do it.”

And so we did it.  We saved up for months and then went there for lunch.  And it was everything Nick had dreamed and more. 

In the days that followed, Nick kept talking about the restaurant.  But his talk was different now. He no longer spoke in hypotheticals.  Now he spoke from experience.  He was reliving the experience, remembering how each dish made him feel.  How each dish had touched his culinary soul.

The Difference Between Salivating and Savoring

Sometimes I wonder if religion is not a little bit like my housemate Nick and this restaurant.  What I mean is this: Nick talked and talked for months about food he had never eaten.  He speculated about recipes and cooking methods and dishes.  He recited the descriptions that he had read and heard from other people who had been to the restaurant.  But he had never been there himself.  He was talking about something that he had not experienced.

Religious folks know their scripture.  They’ve read and heard all about God.  They go to their holy places and speculate about how God moves in the world and why.  Their souls salivate with these thoughts and discussions.

But there is a world of difference between salivating over dishes and savoring them.  Between talking about food and eating it.  Between thinking about something and experiencing it.

Trivializing Our Experiences

I wonder how Peter, James, and John felt the day after their experience on the mountaintop with Jesus.  Did they think it was all “just a dream”?  That the dazzling whiteness was just a bright glare from the sun, that Elijah and Moses were just figments of their imagination, that the voice from the cloud was just their ears hearing what they wanted to hear? 

I don’t know how they felt, but I know how I would feel, how many of us might feel if we had had such an experience.  Our modern world has developed a special register for talking about mystical or otherworldly experiences like Peter, James, and John’s on the mountaintop.  Whenever we have a moment that does not fit into the normal frame of experience, we trivialize it with words like “just” and “only.”  Oh, it was just a feeling.  It was only my imagination.  It was nothing. 

I suppose we could ask these questions of Peter, James, and John’s experience.  Was it just a dream?  Only their imagination?  But I suspect that would be missing the point. 

When our friends have a dream, do we ask them: did that really happen?  No—we ask them, What do you think it means?  Because deep down we have a suspicion that there is more to the world than meets the eye.  It’s almost like the visible and material surface of our world is a curtain.  If we could peel back the curtain and see behind it, we would see the meaning of things: great goodness and beauty and truth.  That’s the way Paul talks about it in our other lectionary scripture today, where he says that the good news is “veiled” or “covered” (2 Cor 4:3).   

So whether Jesus’ clothes actually began to glow, or whether Elijah and Moses took bodily form right beside Jesus or not, may be beside the point.  Maybe the point is what these things meant.  For instance, that the man wearing a dusty robe whom they had been following was not simply a man wearing a dusty robe, but in fact the light of the world.

Mystical Moments as Experiences of Faith

Recently I have been enjoying the writing of a German liberation theologian named Dorothee Soelle.  Dorothee suggests that we have all had experiences of faith, whether we acknowledge them or not.  She ponders the possibility that as children, when we lived with a more open and trusting disposition, we all had mystical moments—moments where we experienced a deep sense of connection with the world, an unspeakable sense that all was well and all would be well. 

If you’re rolling your eyes at this idea—and trust me, in the right cynical moment, my eyes are rolling with yours—Dorothee would say that you’ve proved her point.  We trivialize these childhood experiences with words like “just” or “only,” as though they are merely flights of fancy amid the cold, gritty reality of our world.  But what if—she asks—what if these moments are in fact hints of a deeper reality?  What if they are glimpses of what’s behind the curtain of the world?

I won’t pretend to have had a full-blown mystical experience.  I doubt many of us have.  But I am intrigued with what Dorothee suggests.  Because I do remember moments from my childhood of heightened connection and wholeness.  Moments like when I lay in bed and imagined all the stars above me, and I felt lost among them, just a speck in the universe, but somehow that made me feel good and safe.  Or like when I played soccer and lost myself in the game, no longer a player but part of the flow, no longer concerned with winning or losing but enjoying the touch of the ball on my foot and the calls of my teammates and the unselfconscious joy of freedom.  Or like when I gathered with my family around a table, where we would hold hands and pray and eat and laugh, and I felt home in a way much deeper than we use that word for the buildings that we inhabit or the towns where we grow up.

Maybe these are mountaintop moments?  The skeptic in me asks, “Well what do these moments have to do with Jesus?”  At first glance, they seem to have very little to do with Jesus.  But when I think about it, each of these moments is made up of a loss of self or ego and an intense feeling of sharing and self-giving.  And are not these the very things that Jesus proclaimed as foundations of the kingdom of God?  Losing oneself and living for others?

What about you?  Have you ever had a spiritual experience like this, a mystical moment on the mountaintop?  The way several of my friends who are parents talk, I have to think that parenting can from time to time peel back the curtain of the world to reveal the light of Christ, a light burning with sharing and self-giving.  Perhaps any heartfelt relationship invites us into these mystical experiences, if we are willing to accept the invitation.

Treasuring Our Faith Experience

There is a world of difference between salivating over dishes and savoring them.  Between talking about food and eating it.  Between speculating about something and experiencing it.  A church that only talks about what it has never experienced—what’s the point of a church like that? 

The tragedy of our present world, is that it tends to trivialize any experience that is not grounded in the rational and material world.  It tends to trivialize dreams and visions, experiences built on feeling or intuition, the sorts of experiences that give substance to our faith and around which the church gathers.  “Oh that?  That was ‘just’ a dream.  It was ‘only’ a feeling.”

But our scripture today—where Peter, James, and John see bright lights and ancient figures and hear a disembodied voice—our scripture today pushes back on this trivializing mindset.  Our scripture today asks: What if these sorts of experiences are actually the feast that our faith is all about?  What if these are mountaintop moments, firsthand encounters with the light of Christ, a light that wants to shine, to be made visible, to be shared?  What if instead of trivializing these moments, we treasured them?  Took them with us as a light into the world?  Shared them with others, and cherished them in times of darkness and difficulty?

When Peter, James, and John left the mountaintop, they entered into their own Lenten season and followed Jesus on the way of the cross.  A way that was dark and difficult at times.  And Jesus would start talking about some scary stuff: about a cross, about making yourself last, a servant to others, giving your life for others.  And Peter, James, and John did not get it.  They could not understand.[1]  But still they followed Jesus.  Why?  I think it had to do with the memory of that mountaintop.  Their faith was not an abstract thought.  Their faith had to do with an incredible experience that had imprinted itself on their hearts.

That man in the dusty robe whom they were following?  He was not just a man in a dusty robe.  He was the light of the world.  And he would be with them every step of the way.  May it be so for us.

Prayer

Shining Christ,

We catch glimpses

Of your light

Here and there,

But so often

We trivialize these moments;

Remind us

And inspire us

By these experiences

On which our faith feasts;

So that we might trust

In what we cannot see

In the dark and difficult days

Of our lives.  Amen.

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[1] Cf. Mk 8:31-33; 9:30-32; 10:33-45.

What Did Jesus Heal? (Mark 1:29-39)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Worship on February 4, 2017, Epiphany V)

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Teaching and Healing

“And he went throughout Galilee, proclaiming the message in their synagogues and casting out demons” (1:39).  Teaching and healing.[1]  If you take everything that Jesus did in the gospels and reduced it all to its common denominators, these two things are what you would end up with.  This was Jesus’ ministry.  Teaching and healing.

Last week, we went with Jesus to the synagogue in Capernaum, where Mark says—twice—that Jesus shocked his audience with his teaching.  What did he teach?  The strange thing is, Mark doesn’t say.  What Mark does say, is that a troubled man interrupts Jesus in his teaching.  And instead of ignoring him or waiting for him to be removed, Jesus stops and speaks to the troubled man.  Jesus cares for the troubled man and will not rest until he does.

The best answer that I can muster to the question, “What did Jesus teach?” is love.  In our world, a teacher’s authority means great knowledge and a bold voice.  A teacher’s authority commands respect and silence.  Disruptions are not tolerated.  In the kingdom of God, however, a teacher’s authority means something very different.  It means love.  Rather than look upon the troubled man with impatience or annoyance, Jesus looks upon him with compassion.  He cares for him and speaks to his troubles.

The Word “Cure”

So we know a little bit about how Jesus teaches.  But how about the second piece to his ministry?  What did Jesus heal?

This week, we follow Jesus from the synagogue where he has been teaching to the house of his disciples Simon (who is also known as “Peter”) and Andrew.  I imagine that they go there to eat, much in the same way that folks traditionally have enjoyed a Sunday lunch or dinner after going to church.  But when they arrive, Jesus hears about Simon’s mother-in-law, who lies restricted to the bed with a fever.

We all know what’s coming next.  Jesus will “cure” her, right?  That’s the word we commonly find in our translations for how Jesus responds to the sick.  For instance, later in this passage, when a whole crowd of sick people gathers at the door of Simon’s house, Jesus “cures” them.

I don’t know about you, but for me, the word “cure” suggests that the body has a problem to which there is a sure solution.  I think of “cure” in the same way I think of a mechanical problem with my car.  When my car doesn’t work, I take it to the mechanic.  He finds the faulty part, and he fixes it.  And my car is “cured.”

For me, the word “cure” turns bodies into machines.  It turns care into control.  When I think of Jesus “curing” people, I think of a man with magical powers, instantaneously fixing the faulty parts of body-machines.

Jesus’ “Therapy”

But the word “cure” in the Greek is therapeuo, from which we get the word therapy.  As our word therapy suggests, therapeuo has to do with care and presence and practice.  It has to do with something much bigger than an isolated moment of magic.

When Jesus comes to Simon’s mother-in-law, Mark does not use the word therapeuo.  Instead he shows us what therapeuo looks like.

“He came,” Mark says, “and took her by the hand and lifted her up.”  Which is to say, Jesus touches her in her sickness.  Elsewhere it is said that Jesus bore our diseases as his own.[2]  I wonder if that is the first step to his “therapy.”  He shares our sickness, so that he may then lead us—lift us—to new life. 

When Mark describes Jesus’ “therapy” for Simon’s mother-in-law, he talks about more than an isolated fix to her body.  He describes the result.  “Then the fever left her,” Mark says, “and she began to serve them” (1:31).  Sickness had limited Simon’s mother-in-law.  It was not simply that her body-machine had been malfunctioning.  It was, rather, that the condition of her body had limited her from living.  She had been shut away from the world, confined to a bed.  She had been kept away from her calling.  But when Jesus shatters her isolation, touches her sickness, and enacts his therapy, he pulls her from confinement into community.  He pulls her from incapacity to calling. 

After Jesus has lifted her up, I imagine her suddenly coming into her own.  I imagine her entering into her element as a hostess, bustling about with preparations for the evening dinner.  In other words, Jesus does not merely fix her faulty body-machine.  In his therapy, he does so much more.  He restores her to life.  He restores her with a sense of call that moves her.  He restores her to the community that makes her who she is.

A Modern Day Story of Healing, Or “Therapy”

It’s hard to talk about faith and healing, though, when we all know people who never received a full fix for their diseases, despite plenty of prayer. 

What does this mean?  That God chooses to cure some people and not others?  That there are reasons beyond our comprehension for care shown to one person but not another?

I would imagine that we all have different answers to these questions.  And that’s fine.  Our faith is not uniform.

But our faith is united.  We all trust in a God of healing, in one way or another.

Let me share one story from our church that gives me hope in a God of healing, a Christ of divine therapy.

If you were here at all in the last couple years, you know Tom and Candice.  It’s hard not to know them, as sociable as Tom is.  Because of diabetes complications, Tom has been on dialysis for the last couple years.  He and Candice had been exploring the possibility of a kidney transplant, but right now that looks unlikely.

I won’t sugarcoat it.  Life has been rough for Tom and Candice.  It would be a lot easier if Tom did not have to deal with dialysis on a daily basis.

But if you were to ask Tom about all of this, he probably wouldn’t let you dwell on the difficulties.  As he’s said to me on more than one occasion, “I don’t want anyone’s pity.”  Instead, Tom will talk about what he’s learned through his experience and his desire to help others navigate the uncertainties and confusions of diabetes and dialysis.  In other words, Tom—and Candice too—feel a call on their lives, a call to share their experience and to give others hope.  And it goes without saying that Tom and Candice maintain a strong sense of community.  Their friendships fill them with life.

Life Is More Than Biological

I continue to pray for Tom’s health.  I honestly don’t know about cures—why they show up for some people and not for others.  What I do know, is that God is our healer.  Like Jesus who came to Simon’s mother-in-law, touched her, and lifted her from confinement to community and from incapacity to calling, so I believe that Christ journeys alongside Tom and Candice, lifting them too into a life-giving calling and vibrant community.  I believe in the healing of Tom.

Our faith tells us that life is more than biological.  Life is more than merely a mechanical tick-tock.  Jesus came not so that we might have the mechanics of a beating heart, but so that our lives might be abundant with meaning—with a sense of calling and communion.

What did Jesus heal?  He healed more than the faulty parts of our body-machines.  That would be a feat far too small for the love of God.  Jesus healed lives.  He wrought wholeness in the shape of calling and community.

Following Jesus:

Bringing Love and Life

It’s all beginning to click for me.  Jesus came teaching and healing, Mark says.  What did he teach?  Love.  What did he heal?  Lives. 

And all of this, Mark says, is part of the message that Jesus proclaims: “The kingdom of God has come near” (1:15).  What is the kingdom of God?   The kingdom of God turns on love and life.  To ask if something is the part of the kingdom, is perhaps as simple as asking, “Does it bring love to the world?  Does it bring life to others?  And not just the mechanical tick-tock kind of life, but a life full of meaning—a life filled with calling and community?”

“Follow me,” is the daunting invitation that Jesus gives us.  Follow Jesus?  How?  We can’t preach like he did.  We can’t heal like he did.

Or is that just the voice of doubt?  Because we can love like he did.  And we can share life with the sick, walking with them as they rediscover their calling and their community.  We can preach the most beautiful sermons wordlessly by loving others, and we can make miraculous healings with the simplest gestures of touch and words of hope.  We can, we can.

“Follow me,” he says.  We can.

Prayer

Caring Christ,

Whose touch

Restores us

To abundant life:

To a calling that moves us

And a community that makes us more.

Empower us to follow you,

Preaching love with our deeds

And bringing life with our presence. 

Amen.

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[1] Cf. Matthew’s summary of Jesus’ ministry in Matt 4:23.

[2] Matthew 8:17.

What Did Jesus Teach? (Mark 1:21-28)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Worship on January 28, 2017, Epiphany IV)

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A Memorable Synagogue Gathering in Capernaum

Jesus must have made a real impression on that sabbath day when he visited the synagogue in Capernaum.  The way Mark tells it, that was the day that people began talking about Jesus.  That was the day that “his fame began to spread.”  The most memorable thing about that day, the one detail that Mark repeats in his story, is how Jesus’ teaching impressed his audience.  The way Jesus taught “astounded” and “amazed” them.

If I’m being honest, I’m not sure I can distinctly recall more than a handful of sermons that I’ve heard in my lifetime.  That’s a harrowing observation for a preacher.  So when Mark twice remarks that Jesus’ teaching astonished his audience, that it left a real mark on their memory, naturally I’m interested to learn just what Jesus taught.  What was his message that day in Capernaum?

Mysteriously, Mark doesn’t say a word about what Jesus taught that day.  I can hardly believe it.  For someone who’s gone on and on about how Jesus shocked the synagogue with his teaching, about how it left such an impression on folks, to say nothing at all about what Jesus actually taught seems rather odd.  To me, it feels like a puzzle piece is missing: what did Jesus teach?

A Memorable Church Gathering in England

One of the most memorable church services from my time in England was an evening worship gathering in a small, old-fashioned cathedral.  All stone and stained glass, drafty doorways and dark, dusty corners.  Quiet, except for the reverberating voice of the priest.  The place felt holy to me.  Sacred.

Until about halfway through the sermon, when a man on the aisle several pews ahead became visibly agitated.  As he writhed about in his seat, a couple of crouched parishioners waddled to his side and began a whispered conference.

All the while, the priest preached.  He became noticeably upset himself.  With a look somewhere between annoyance and impatience, he plodded on, occasionally stealing glances at the gathering crowd on the end of the pew.  Their voices were hushed, but nonetheless distracting.  He had to have known that no one was listening any longer to his sermon.  But he continued.  Finally the small crowd near the aisle dispersed, and several helpers escorted the troubled man out of the sanctuary. 

I learned later that the man had a heart condition.  He had been taken to the hospital, where he eventually recovered.

What I remember most about that night is not the disruption of the service.  What I remember most is how the service itself continued as though nothing was the matter.  What I can recall most clearly from that evening is the priest’s face.  It haunts me.  It haunts me because I can’t help wondering if that wouldn’t have been my face too.  It haunts me because I wonder if his face wasn’t, in some way, the face of the church.  In other words, I wonder if the church does not sometimes become so concerned with its own program—its teachings, its plans, its customs—that it ignores the suffering who are in its very midst.  That it becomes annoyed with the suffering for disrupting the program and impatient for them to get in line.

From Disruption to the Only Care in the Room

I don’t know exactly what a synagogue gathering would have looked like in first century Palestine.  But I do know that the Pharisees and the scribes valued law and order, and that they did their utmost to honor a number of rules and traditions.  So I imagine that a synagogue gathering would actually have looked rather similar to a church worship service today.  There would have been assigned roles and prescribed rituals and a general aura of sanctity.  There would have been a program.

And so I can’t help but wonder if disruptions back then would not have been addressed with a similar measure of annoyance and impatience.

All of which leads me to ponder the disruption that Jesus encounters in the synagogue in Capernaum, where a man with an “unclean spirit” interrupts the program with loud cries. The synagogue leaders would probably have considered this troubled man to be an unwelcome disruption.  But for Jesus, it is the opposite.  This troubled man becomes the only person in the room whom he cares about.  Rather than ignoring the man and waiting for him to be escorted out, rather than plowing on imperiously with his teaching, Jesus responds to the man.  “Be silent,” he says to the unclean spirit that torments the man, “And come out of him.” 

Have you ever had someone speak so directly and caringly to your pain and your trouble that it felt like their words were actually touching your skin and healing you as perhaps a doctor’s sure and steady hand would?  Have you ever had that feeling of catharsis?  Because that’s essentially what happens in today’s scripture.  The word for “unclean” in the Greek is akarthatos.  To be “unclean” is to be akarthatos, to be in need of catharsis, cleansing, release.  When Jesus stopped and spoke to the troubled man, it was a moment of holy catharsis: his heartfelt attention and words touched the man, cleansed him, released him.

The Different Authority of Jesus: Love

Mark says that Jesus taught in a manner that was different from the other teachers—that he taught with authority.  At first, I wondered if this meant that he simply taught with a greater knowledge of the scriptures or with a bolder tone of voice.  But that, of course, is what authority means to us humans: power and knowledge.  And Mark says that Jesus’ authority is different.

How, then?  How is his authority different from the priest in England who plowed on preaching amid the disruption?  How is it different from the scribes and Pharisees who had great knowledge to expound and boldly?  What exactly is Jesus’ authority that astounded and amazed?

In one of our other lectionary scriptures for the day, Paul exclaims, “Knowledge puffs up, but love builds up” (1 Cor 8:1).  Is there any better description of the difference between the authority of our world and the authority of God?  Just like the synagogues of old, the church boasts great knowledge.  Pharisees and priests alike preach with bold voices.  Their authority is knowledge and power.  How strange indeed, then, is an authority that would actually stop its own preaching and care for the very thing that disrupts it.  How otherworldly.  How divine. 

Consider what the gospel of Mark remembers from that day in Capernaum.  What is so great about Jesus’ teaching is not his teaching itself—Mark doesn’t say a word about that.  What is so astonishing and so memorable is the way that he loves.  The way that he stops and sees to the man who is troubled.  The way he stops to speak solely to him who needs speaking to.

What is it that liberates that troubled man in Capernaum?  Is it great knowledge?  Is it a voice that overpowers?  Or is it a love that stops and looks him square in the face, that cares for him and will not rest until he does?  What our world needs is an authority entirely different from its own.  Not an authority that puffs itself up, but that builds up others.  An authority that cares for people over principles and programs.  What our world needs, is exactly what Jesus shows us: love.

Follow the Leader

I still wish I knew just what Jesus taught that day in Capernaum.  But maybe that’s beside the point.  Maybe there’s a reason Mark is silent about that.  Maybe what Jesus really taught had less to do with the scripture he read and the words that he preached, and more to do with the astounding authority by which he stopped the gathering in its tracks in order to see and speak to the suffering man.  To love him and build him up.

Last week, when Jesus called his disciples, he said, “Follow me.”  Let us follow our leader, then, as strange as his authority may be.  Let us relinquish our claims to knowledge and power, so that we might stop and see to the holy disruptions in our midst.  Let us renounce our quest to be right and to prevail, so that we might love the suffering and build them up.

Prayer

Christ,

Whose lesson is not a discourse

But a life to be lived:

Love incarnate—

Disarm us

Of the need

To be right and to be strong;

Disrupt us

With your cry

For love;

And move us to see to

The suffering among us.  Amen.

The Good News Is Not Jesus (Mark 1:14-20)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Worship on January 21, 2017, Epiphany III)

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Scandalous Church Signs

You know how some churches have fancy signboards out front, updated weekly with alluring sermon titles and pithy proverbs?  A number of these have made internet fame.  You’re probably familiar with some of their messages: “Don’t let worries kill you.  Let the church help.”  Or, “The sermon topic will be, ‘What Is Hell?’  Come early and hear the choir sing.”  Or this one, whose sentiment some of you might share: “Whoever’s praying for snow, please stop.”

I’m grateful right now that we don’t have such a signboard outside.  With a sermon title like today’s, I would worry for my future as a minister.  If word got round to the seminary, they might worry about just how I passed through their doors.

But we don’t have such a signboard outside, thankfully, so all that’s left is for you to worry about the state of my soul—and perhaps for the pastoral search committee to worry about how my heretical faith went undetected.

Good News

Good news is what the gospel of Mark is all about.  For one thing, it’s practically the first word of the book.  “The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ,”[1] Mark says, as he launches into his story (1:1).  But it’s not just one of Mark’s first words.  It’s also the subject of Jesus’ inaugural address.  Mark says that when Jesus began his ministry, he went about “proclaiming the good news of God” (1:14).  “The time is fulfilled,” Jesus says, “and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news” (1:15).

What is the good news?  If you had asked me twenty years ago in Sunday School, I probably would have said “Jesus.”  And not just because “Jesus” was nearly always the correct answer in Sunday School.  Maybe I would have quoted John 3:16: “For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believeth in him shall not perish but have everlasting life.”  In other words, Jesus was the good news because Jesus was my ticket into eternal life. 

But that good news was only half of the story that I learned.  The other half of the story was not very good.  Some might even call it bad news.  The other half of the story was that I was born dirty—or sinful—and God would not have me unless I were cleaned up—or forgiven.  If I remained sinful, then God would have no choice but to condemn me to hell for eternity.  So Jesus was good news, but only because God was bad news.  If it weren’t for Jesus, then God would have no choice but to throw me into the flames forever.

The Self-Silence of Jesus

In today’s scripture, Jesus proclaims the good news.  Interestingly, he doesn’t say a word about himself.  If he were the good news as I had been led to believe years ago, I’d expect him to say so.  I’d expect him to announce himself as the superhero messiah, to give everybody fair warning that he was their ticket into heaven.

But he doesn’t do that.  When Jesus proclaims the good news at the beginning of Mark, he doesn’t say a word about himself.  In fact, throughout Mark he is markedly silent about himself.  This strange silence has perplexed readers long enough that it has been given a name.  Scholars call it “the messianic secret.”  Several times throughout the story, when Jesus heals someone or when his own disciples talk about him being the messiah, Jesus shushes them and urges them to tell no one.[2]  Jesus, it would appear, does not want this story to be about him.

Pointing

Have you ever tried to point a cat or a dog to a distant object?  Instead of looking at the object, they look at your finger.  You may be pointing to something infinitely more exciting than a finger, a toy, perhaps, or a treat.  But your pet misses out on the promise, because all they look at is your finger. 

When Jesus came “proclaiming the good news of God,” he was pointing.  Not at himself.  Listen again to the good news he proclaims: “The kingdom of God has come near” (1:15).

What is the kingdom?  How is this good news?  The way that Jesus will describe it, the kingdom of God is where the poor are blessed, the hungry are filled, the lowly are lifted up, the grieving are comforted, the stranger is welcomed, the enemy is loved, offenders are forgiven, peace is made, children are cherished, the sick are cared for, the nobodies and nothings are given pride of place at the table.  That is good news if I’ve ever heard it. And it is has arrived, Jesus says! 

Stop looking at my finger.  Look at where with all my words and all my deeds I’m pointing.

Putting the Emphasis on the Wrong Syllable

My grandfather was fond of saying, “We put the emphasis on the wrong syllable.”  When we turn Jesus into the good news and don’t look beyond him to the good news that he’s actually proclaiming and living, that’s what we’re doing.  We’re putting the emphasis on the wrong syllable.

The good news is not Jesus alone, as though simply saying “Lord, Lord,” would secure our salvation,[3] or as though faith is about having the right membership and being on the winning side. 

When we proclaim Jesus as the good news, as the password for eternal life, as the membership club of the winning team, we make the good news infinitely smaller than it is.  We make it about “me” rather than “us,” about personal security and satisfaction instead of familial and national and cosmic salvation.  We make it about being right instead of about being reconciled and restored.  We make it about joining the in-crowd rather than living with the down-and-out.  We turn the good news from a bountiful feast beyond our wildest imagination into a measly, greasy, mass-marketed happy meal.  The question is not, “Are you saved?” “Have you prayed the right prayer?” “Are you on the winning side when eternity arrives?”  The question is, “Have you heard about the kingdom of God?  Where forgiveness triumphs over retaliation, where the least and the last are the leaders, where everyone is welcome at the table, where death is the not final word but in fact the seed of new life?  Have you heard about it?  It’s arrived, if you could believe it!  It’s here, now!  Let’s live together in it.”

Jesus’ Invitation

That’s essentially what Jesus says when he proclaims the good news.  “Repent, and believe in the good news,” could be translated more literally, “Change your mind, and trust in the good news.”  In other words, change your mind from the ways of this world, where you seek control and security and your own interests, to the radically different way of the kingdom.  Trust in the kingdom, in the way of self-giving love and mercy and servanthood and hospitality.

Jesus calls to us today in the same way that he called out to the fishermen in the second half of today’s scripture: “Follow me,” he says.  He’s not calling for fanboys or groupies.  He’s not calling attention to himself, proclaiming himself to be a hero who will independently solve our problems.  Rather he’s inviting us on a journey and pointing us to something.  He’s inviting us to leave behind our old ways and to follow him into the kingdom, into a new way of living, where the poor really are blessed, the sick are cared for, the grieving are comforted, the stranger is welcomed, the enemy is loved, children are cherished, the nobodies and nothings are given the best seats at the table.

If You Would Believe It…

I hope by now I’ve dispelled any concerns for the state of my soul or for the search committee’s competence.  I believe that Jesus is the way and the truth and the life.  And for precisely that reason, I believe that the good news is not Jesus.  That’s putting the emphasis on the wrong syllable.  The good news is the way that he walked, the truth that he embodied, the life that he lived.  It’s what Jesus was pointing to. 

The good news is the kingdom of God.  And if you would believe it, it’s here today.

Prayer

Jesus Christ,

Our way and truth and life—

Grant us the courage

To do more than proclaim your good name;

May we leave behind

Our old ways,

Follow you,

And trust in the good news of the kingdom of God—

Which is here and now,

If we would believe it.  Amen.

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[1] The syntactical ambiguity of the phrase to\ eujagge÷lion touv qeouv, “the good news of Jesus Christ,” raises the question of what the good news is.  “Of Jesus Christ” may be read as a subjective genitive or objective genitive, which is to say: it may be read as “the good news from Jesus Christ” or as “the good news about Jesus Christ.”  Several modern translations indicate a preference for the latter, but this homily will explore Mark 1:14-20 as hinting toward the former.

[2] Cf. Mark 1:40-45; 3:7-12; 8:27-30.

[3] Cf. Matthew 7:21; Luke 6:46.

Who's Finding Whom? (John 1:43-51)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Worship on January 14, 2017, Epiphany II)

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Finding Yourself

“Finding yourself” is a cultural trend in our world.  At a crossroads in your career?  Take some time off to find yourself.  Exhausted from years of school?  Why not get away from it all for a little bit, so you can find yourself?  In a rut in your relationships?  Allow yourself some space to find yourself.

What does it mean to find yourself?  The phrase implies that you are not completely yourself, that there’s at least a piece of you missing.  You have to find it.  For many people, then, finding yourself means traveling to new places, trying out new activities, making new friends.  The bestselling book Eat, Pray, Love has become an excellent cultural symbol for what it means to find yourself.  Dissatisfied with her life, the author embarks on a global quest; she indulges herself in different activities, eating in Italy and praying in India; and she makes new friends, ultimately meeting her new partner in Indonesia.

As a cultural trend, finding yourself reflects the values of our hyper-individualized, consumerized society.  It’s all about you.  Have it your way.  If it makes you happy.  Finding yourself is like a trip to the store, except on a global and existential scale.  You try things out.  You decide what you like and what you will discard.  The customer, of course, is always right.[1] 

Finding God

Two thousand years ago, the world was a little bit different.  Life was not the story of a privileged individual, a consumer ever on the quest for a more satisfying product.  Life was the story of all the world, and the world was full of mystery.  Dissatisfied people did not embark on global journeys to find themselves.  That would seem rather short-sighted.  Rather they hoped to find God. They hoped to unlock the secrets and resolve the problems of the world.

That’s where our story today begins.  When Philip excitedly exclaims to his friend Nathanael, “We have found the one Moses and the prophets wrote about!” (cf. 1:45), what he’s really saying is something like: we’ve found God!  We’ve found where God is moving, what God is doing! Jewish folks like Philip and Nathanael believed in an ancient promise that God would one day anoint a king to restore the kingdom of Israel and usher in a new age of peace and well-being.

But Nathanael is a no-nonsense kind of guy.  News like this is almost too good to be true.  He responds to Philip with a question not unlike the one we heard this week about Haiti and El Salvador.  “Can anything good come from that outhouse of a town, Nazareth?”[2]  Of course, we all know the answer to that question.  Our salvation comes from that outhouse.  Which raises the question for me: Could it be that today our salvation comes from places like Haiti and El Salvador?

In any case, they go and meet Jesus.  Before Nathanael can say anything, Jesus empathizes with Nathanael’s honest approach to life.  Nathanael cannot believe it.  Jesus seems to know him already.  Philip, it appears, was right.

Being Found

On the surface, then, this is a tale of two men finding God—an ancient precursor to Eat, Pray, Love, if you will.  But the gospel of John is rarely as simple as its surface.  It delights in symbols and hidden meanings, in showing us that there is always more than meets the eye.

In this case, we have Philip who first proclaims to have “found” the messiah and then suggests that he and Nathanael go “see” the messiah.  These two words—“find” and “see”—are crucial.  Because when we read the text more closely, we discover that Philip’s story is backwards.  Philip says, “We have found him!” but just before that, the storyteller reports that Jesus “found” Philip.  Philip invites Nathanael, “Come and see,” but when Nathanael and Jesus meet, the storyteller reports not that Nathanael saw Jesus but that Jesus “saw” Nathanael.[3] 

All of which is to say—before we see Jesus, he sees us.  Before we find him, he finds us.  Faith means being found. 

The problem with the modern quest to find oneself, or even the ancient quest to find God, is that we’re the ones doing the finding.  We’re the ones doing the seeing.  And we’re naturally self-absorbed creatures.  We will see what we want to see.  We will find whatever pleases us. 

What we will not find, however, is something greater than ourselves, something outside us that redefines us.  What we will not find is the love that comes from being found.

Seeing Ourselves as God Sees Us

There once was a notorious woman.  Whether her reputation was justified, I cannot say.  But the facts are this: she had married five different times.  And in the end, she lived with a man to whom she had not committed herself.  Why so many husbands?  One can only speculate.  Perhaps she was looking for herself and caught satisfying glimpses of herself in each one. 

What we do know for certain is that one day, her life was transformed.  She went to draw water from the well in the heat of the day, which was usually the most convenient time to draw water, because no one else would be there.  But this time there was someone there.  A man.  And rather than keeping quiet or averting his eyes or simply leaving, as most men would have done, this man asked her for a drink.  They got to talking, and soon enough this man, a complete stranger, had told her her life story.  You may think that was a miracle.  But the real miracle was that he said it without a hint of disdain or judgment in his voice.  They started to talk of spiritual things, and the woman speculated about the savior, the messiah, who would one day come and make everything right.  And the man said, “I am he.” 

That was crazy!  But what was even crazier, was that the woman believed him.  Because already she was beginning to feel different about herself, like he had made something right within her.  To begin with, he had talked to her when no one else would.  But besides that, he knew everything about her, every unsavory detail.  Most of the time when someone else knew about her life, and especially when they started to talk about it, she felt a deep shame.  But with this man it was different.  He welcomed her as she was.  He loved her, as no man had.

This story from the gospel of John—the story of Jesus and the woman at the well—is also our story.  It is the story of being found.  When Jesus finds us and sees us, we begin to see ourselves differently.  We see ourselves honestly—all the unsavory and painful details, yes—but we also see something deeper than that.  When we are found by God, we see that at the unchangeable core of our being, we are loved.  And that love calls forth parts of ourselves that we did not know existed.  The woman at the well did not leave Jesus ashamed of her past and still trapped within it.  She left excited about whom she and all the world were becoming.  

The God Who Finds Us and in Whom We Find Ourselves

Right now in the church it is the season of Epiphany, when we celebrate God’s appearing in our world.  When God appears, there is often a “aha!” moment or light-bulb realization—which is to say, we have an “epiphany.”  Part of that epiphany has to do with God.  We see God in a new way.  But part of that epiphany also has to do with ourselves.  Because whenever we see God or find God, God has first seen and found us.  And being found changes the way we see ourselves.  We “find ourselves” in a way we never could have on our own.  We see what God sees. We see the bad parts, yes, and we see parts of ourselves that are false, but we also see a person who is loved completely by God and called beyond themselves to a life of goodness and beauty in the world.  It is no coincidence that so many of the characters in the gospels leave Jesus’ company rejoicing and with renewed purpose.

I don’t think Eat, Pray, Love got it wrong.  I don’t think our modern world has it completely wrong.  “Finding yourself” is not a bad quest to go on.  Nor is finding God.  But these quests are misguided, or incomplete, if we do not relinquish ourselves to the possibility that we cannot see everything on our own.  If we are the masters of the quest, then we will only ever find what we want to find, a self defined by our fantasies and fears, or a God who looks like us.  What we need—and what this world needs—is something much greater and other than that.  And that’s precisely the truth that the gospels proclaim: In the end, what will save us is not what we find. What will save us is the God who finds us, whose love draws us and all the world out into who we really are.

Prayer

God who finds us

Right where we are:

Disarm us of our false selves—

Our small selves—

So that we may be found

In the greatness and otherness

Of your love.

In the name of our “aha!” moment, Jesus Christ.  Amen.

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[1] As a further sign of its conformity to our market-based world, finding yourself appears to be largely a privilege of the rich, a commodity that only the well-off can afford.  To find yourself takes time and money.

[2] My paraphrase.

[3] Jesus himself insists that he “saw” Nathanael before Nathanael had even heard the news about Jesus.