Sermon for February 4

Gospel: Mark 1:29–39

Curing That Which Ails Us

In our reading last week, Jesus cured a man who was suffering from a supernatural unclean spirit while he was in the synagogue (a holy place). And this week we find Jesus healing a woman who is suffering from a natural illness (a fever) in a common place, her home.

It seems like Mark’s Jesus is making the point that Jesus’ power is universal. It’s not just for these special folks in these special circumstances. It’s for all of us in all our circumstances.

But, even so, Jesus apparently is not under our control. By that I mean that even though Jesus had that power, and he used it freely at that stage of his ministry, we who follow him don’t seem to have the ability to just dispense his healing power wherever and whenever we want to apply it with the flick of a switch.

Let’s face it, Jesus may have had that power in his day, but today people still suffer, diseases still ravage people and sometimes take their lives. There don’t seem to be any guaranteed incantations, or prayers, or ritualistic mechanisms through which we can channel Jesus’ healing power for our special loved ones that will save them from physical or mental suffering.

So we may end up asking ourselves, “Then does God no longer have the will to care for us? Does God no longer have the power to step into this domain and raise our mothers-in-law and restore their health? Does God no longer care for our children? Does God not hear our prayers? Is our faith in God’s compassion misguided and useless?

I think that’s just a very honest question, and I don’t think it’s one that should cause us shame to consider. I don’t think it’s a blasphemous thing to ponder. It’s just real.

I mean it’s all great to read these stories of Jesus’ miracles two thousand years ago and hear how he cast out unclean spirits in the synagogue, and raised Peter’s mother-in-law to perfect health, and cured the throngs of sick and suffering people in Capernaum. But we pray for our loved ones today, and often they don’t recover the way we had hoped. So what does that say about God and our faith in God?

Well, I think that even Jesus wrestled with this question—I mean, not exactly as we do—but there he was in Capernaum on that Sabbath day, and later in the evening, all those sick and suffering people had converged on the house he was in. And there was just this amazing outflowing of God’s power as Jesus healed those who were brought to him, and he restored their health and ushered them back into the fullness of the community.

I imagine that, afterwards, the disciples must have been just ecstatic with the possibilities. I mean, they could set up camp right there, and Capernaum would become The Destination for pilgrims to come and see Jesus and be healed. But in the morning, they wake up and find Jesus out, alone, praying. And Jesus abruptly announces, “Yes, we could stay, and I could continue doing these things, and we could remain in the comfort of our own wheelhouse. But, no, that’s not the mission God is calling me to. God is calling me—and thus us—away from this particular little niche ministry into a more universal ministry of sharing the word of God in other places and with other people.”

Imagine the shock in the disciples. “Jesus, this worked! You actually healed them, and they were so thankful, and the word spread of your power and might. If we had hundreds last night, by next week we could have thousands. And no one is bent out of shape, no one is offended, no one is railing against you! Everybody loves you, man! Don’t you see? This is how you do ministry. Just keep healing them all, just keep freeing them all.”

But Jesus said, “No.” For some reason he saw his ministry as more than just healing the sick, and casting out unclean spirits, and raising the dead. He saw his mission as more than just becoming a walk-in clinic, an emergency room, a “one-stop cure all your woes” kind of ministry.

Yes, his ministry was connected to that kind of demonstration of God’s power and compassion, but it was broader than that.

Do you remember when Jesus was confronted with what some of his disciples considered the squandering of a great gift that could have been sold for a lot of money, and then that money could have been given to the poor? But what did Jesus say? “You have the poor with you always, but you will not always have me.”

I guess that if Jesus could cure leprosy and paralysis and every variety of disease, he could just as easily have cured poverty. But he didn’t choose to make that his mission either.

His mission seems to be about revealing that the heart of God longs for good things to happen to people. The heart of God longs for the poor to be cared for, and the sick to be raised up, and those with unrelenting mental health issues to be freed from those. God can do it. God has proven both God’s compassion and God’s power . So we can know that even when we don’t see God’s power flow to this one or that, God’s love still remains constant, and we can trust that God is working behind the scenes to make all things good for all people.

Thus, we can pray for our loved ones—pray earnestly, pray hard, pray with faith that God loves our loved ones just as much as God loved Peter’s mother-in-law, and God loved the people of Capernaum, and the Roman Centurian’s servant, and the widow of Nain’s son, and all the rest of the “lucky ones.” And pray that maybe God will choose to cure our beloved one in a similar way today. I’m here to tell you that sometimes God still does. But even if we don’t see that result from our prayers, we can be assured that it’s not about God not caring about our loved one, it’s not about the sins of our past blocking God’s ability to answer our prayers, it’s not about God no longer having the power to work in such ways in our times.

It's about our God allowing the miracle of God’s created universe to continue rolling forward as it has for centuries past. It’s about God entrusting us to the flow of our times and our circumstances. Entrusting us to the evolution of our knowledge and wisdom. Entrusting us to the advancement of our skills and our compassion and powers to share God’s healing love with others. And—all the while—trusting that this God who Christ revealed to us is walking beside us always, even when we’re afraid or suffering, even when we’re despondent and demanding and angry that we’re not seeing God intervene in the ways we think God has an obligation to act.

Friends, remember, that even though Jesus had the power to cure and deliver so many from their suffering, he did not choose to use that power to deliver himself when he suffered for us on the cross. Nor did he shield his followers—so many of whom suffered in this life. Persecution, prison, and execution was the destiny of so many of those who had witnessed his compassion and power.

But the fact that Jesus didn’t reach out to save them from their own suffering did nothing to distract them from the more important point: God’s loving power—once demonstrated through Christ—absolutely guarantees that God’s mercy is the constant central fact of this and every universe in this and every time.

Friends, we may not see the miracle we desire today, but that in no way negates the infinite mercy of our God. I pray that we would rest in that knowledge, and be empowered by it to go out offering whatever healing and compassion we can for the sake of our neighbors in our times and in our places, as we share the good news that our God is an awesome and eternal presence—who remains close to each and every one of us every moment of our lives—longing for us to grasp the truth of God’s endless love that heals that which has the most destructive power in our lives: our lack of unwavering faith in the absolute goodness of our Lord.

Amen.

Sermon for January 28

Gospel: Mark 1:21–28

Real Sins, Real Grace

Sometimes a story in the Gospel just grabs you and won’t let go. I think that’s what this story has done for me this past week. It’s actually a pretty simple story about Jesus, who, after teaching one Sabbath day is confronted by a man who is described as having an unclean spirit. In his time and context, this probably meant that he had been overwhelmed by a power beyond his control, a diabolical power that caused him to act in ways that terrified others and put their lives and their own safety and welfare at risk.

The people attributed this to a spiritual entity similar in power to the angelic realms, but quite the opposite in their nature and intent. This meant that this man was likely to have been among the worst of the worst in his society, a man so foul that it couldn’t be imagined that any human could possibly act in such a way were it not for some supernatural evil within him.

Since it was a supernatural power, it was beyond all human remedy. Doctors couldn’t fix him, the rabbis couldn’t talk any sense into him, and, sometimes, the justice system couldn’t take hold of such people because they’d just break the chains that were placed on them and escape and live on the outskirts of society where they’d rave and howl and keep the more timid folks living in fear.

That’s what Jesus is confronting here. And what Jesus does is to quiet the spirits in this man, and then he calls them out—he casts them out—and frees the man from them.

And—for the people who were watching—the great miracle here is that Jesus thereby proved that he had a power beyond that of common mortals. If this man was controlled by a supernatural evil, then in order for Jesus to cast it out, he must have access to an even stronger power of goodness. So, on one level, this miracle is just about revealing the nature of Jesus—that he is the power of God on earth, a power stronger than even the strongest powers of evil.

But on another level, this is a reminder to us of God’s compassion and mercy and grace that are available for us and all people.

As I was reflecting on this story, I remembered a woman I met while I was interning in a nursing home while I was in seminary. This woman was always open for a visit, but she was adamant that God’s grace couldn’t possibly reach out to a person like her.

In all the times we visited, she never told me anything about the nature of the sins of her past, so, I don’t know, but I suspect those memories were locked up in some closet in the hidden parts of her soul. And whatever her past held, it was just too much for her to believe that God could actually forgive her. Or maybe it was too much for her to believe that God would be willing to forgive such sins as she must have committed.

And—as much as I might reject that idea from a theological standpoint (and I do!)—the human side of me totally gets where she was coming from.

We Christians are odd people. We tend to believe that God is perfectly willing to forgive all the sins we Christians are willing to admit that we might commit. We tend to think God can and will forgive all our trivial little sins that don’t really cause our souls to suffer much. But we’re less convinced that God’s mercy is effective for the bigger sins, the darker sins, the real sins that fester away in our souls. It’s like we’re willing to allow that God might have the power and mercy to forgive the things that we do that pose little-to-no threat to our real ethical status, while being—like this woman I spoke with—very much inclined to believe that God wouldn’t, couldn’t, and won’t ever forgive us if we’ve really crossed the line. If we ever actually made some kind of really bad choice and engaged in some really unethical actions.

It’s like we believe Jesus had a little power over just the most minor of evil spirits. It’s like believing Jesus couldn’t possibly have cast out the evil spirits that had controlled that man if they’d been really evil spirits who did really evil things in and through his life.

In 1521, Luther was in hiding, and he was corresponding with Philip Melanchthon, who was his friend and second in command. In their correspondence, they were hashing out what God’s grace is actually about, and here’s the crucial bit in Luther’s letter to Melanchthon.

“If you are a preacher of mercy, do not preach an imaginary but the true mercy. If the mercy is true, you must therefore bear the true, not an imaginary sin. God does not save those who are only imaginary sinners. Be a sinner, and let your sins be strong, but let your trust in Christ be stronger, and rejoice in Christ who is the victor over sin, death, and the world. We will commit sins while we are here, for this life is not a place where justice resides. We, however, says Peter, are looking forward to a new heaven and a new earth where justice will reign. It suffices that through God’s glory we have recognized the Lamb who takes away the sin of the world. No sin can separate us from Him, even if we were to kill or commit adultery thousands of times each day. Do you think such an exalted Lamb paid merely a small price with a meager sacrifice for our sins?”

Friends, Luther is getting right at the heart of our Gospel here. And please understand, he is in no way suggesting we ought to go out and kill and commit adultery thousands of times each day! By no means! We are to do everything in our power to avoid such behavior, but when our humanity creeps in, when our fears bind us, when our brains cramp up and selfishness causes us to commit real sins, it is then that we should remember that God’s grace revealed through Jesus is even more real than those sins. God’s grace is even stronger, more true, and more certain.

Over my years in ministry, I’ve tried time and again to lay out the case that God’s love is Real Love for Real Sinners. Sinners like you and me. It seems like the people whose nice little sins wouldn’t offend a soul have no problem with that, but the folks who have real sins lurking in the dark shadows of their souls just can’t believe God’s grace could be that real, that powerful, and so generous as to be even for people like them—people like me—even for people like those of us who have really sinned.

It might be something like if Jesus had cast out the powerful evil spirits that were oppressing the man in our story only to have him look up at Jesus and say, “No, thank you, Jesus, for your concern, but you couldn’t possibly want to help me—at least you wouldn’t want to if you knew me. And you can’t possibly have the power to rid me of the burden of the overwhelming sin I’ve accumulated over the years. Sure, you might be able to help out those Sunday School Goody-Goody-Two-Shoes types, but it can’t work for me.”

And there’s Jesus, standing there saying, “Except I just did. I know who you are. There’s not a thought you’ve had that I haven’t been privy to. There’s not a thing you’ve done so hidden that I haven’t seen it in the full light of day. There’s not a sin you’ve committed that is too disgusting for me to bear.”

The truth is that Jesus has already done the deed: he bore our sins—all of them—on the cross. Our forgiveness is assured, so we can either go out now with thanksgiving on our lips, or we can sit beneath the imagined guilt of a past that God has already wiped clean for us. We can either suffer the torture of our own imagined hell in this life, or we can give thanks that Christ Jesus has the power and compassion to forgive even those of us who have sinned real sins.

May we go out today knowing the glory of God’s goodness, ready to share the real love of God with our real brothers and sisters who also need to know the real truth of God’s love that really sets us free. Amen.

Sermon for January 21

Gospel: Mark 1:14–20

Who Are OUR Ninevites?

I love the introduction that we have for our reading from Jonah today. For years I’ve been telling folks that I think Jonah was originally a skit that the Israelites acted out around their campfires at night, with just enough humor to keep us laughing at Jonah’s many faults, and just enough solemnity to make us stop and think about our own many faults.

Well, the folks who publish the introductions to our texts have now—apparently—officially come on board with me on this one. They write, “The book of Jonah is a comedy starring a reluctant prophet who is given a one-sentence message: Nineveh will be destroyed in forty days. Much to Jonah’s dismay, the people of Nineveh repent. The point of the story is to get the reader to wrestle with the question, ‘On whom should God have mercy?’”

I’d only change a few things about this introduction. I’d say, “Much to Jonah’s dismay, the people of Nineveh repent. But even more to Jonah’s dismay, God repents!”

I think that’s the real problem here for Jonah, because according to Jonah’s message, God had already decided what the outcome was going to be. The city of Nineveh—"that great city with more than 120,000 people and also many animals”—was going to be utterly destroyed in 40 days. God had decided, God had declared it—God had made God’s word heard on the subject. The people could basically stay there and ignore God’s word and perish, or they could heed God’s warning and run from the destruction to come and perhaps survive.

That’s it. Those are the options as Jonah sees them. Although there has been this other pesky little thought needling Jonah, the thought that maybe—just maybe—God will wimp out on that promise to destroy Nineveh just like God had done in the past when God had declared that God was going to wipe out all the Children of Israel who had followed Moses. Only God had a change of heart—a moment of repentance—and God chose to hold back the destruction God had planned for them.

Jonah is thinking, “What if the prophet Jeremiah was right about God being the kind of God who was always willing to change God’s mind? And what if God is about to do that again, do it now?”

What if God was just raising Jonah’s hopes that the evil city of Nineveh was finally going to have to pay for their wretched godless ways, and setting up Jonah to go out and proclaim that message, only to have God turn from that plan at the last minute and repent of the evil God had planned for the Ninevites. Wouldn’t Jonah look like a complete idiot?

I imagine that Jonah didn’t want to look like an idiot, and he really did want to see the people of Nineveh suffer. He wanted to see them suffer because they were the very opposite of everything that his people stood for. The people of Nineveh were self-centered, self-serving idolators. Just the fact that God allowed such people as these Ninevites to exist made a mockery of those who—like Jonah—attempted to please God. Jonah had, you see, already judged the people of Nineveh and found them to be worse than guilty. Jonah had condemned them. In his mind the Ninevites—and all those like them—were an abomination, and the sooner God struck them down with a very public curse and cut them off, the better it would be for all right-minded people.

But, apparently, God wasn’t quite as sure as Jonah about all that. Even though Jonah was 110 percent convinced of their worthlessness, God still found something in them worth loving and caring for and nurturing back into health and wholeness.

That’s what really rankled Jonah, a God who was willing to love and forgive those that Jonah had tried and found guilty and condemned in his own heart. That was the last straw for Jonah. That was enough to cause Jonah to cry out against God’s injustice. That was enough to make Jonah long to curl up and just die rather than to go on living in a universe where God might choose to show mercy on those that Jonah would condemn, a universe where God would be a God of grace for all people rather than a God of grace just for the deserving people like Jonah—and me—and our own peculiar favorites.

I love this skit. I really do. Because I can so readily see the flaws in Jonah—the prophet of the Lord—and I can mock him for it. But I also hate this skit because I can so readily see myself in Jonah, and it makes me squirm beneath the indignity of my own guilt.

Friends, who hasn’t judged some other—or some group of others—and presupposed that since we hate them, God must hate them too? Who hasn’t assumed that only those like ourselves deserve God’s love and mercy? Who hasn’t felt that twinge of joy at the thought that the hated others are finally about to get their just desserts? Who hasn’t felt the rush of anger when those we had written off as unworthy are given the rewards—the fame, the riches, the glowing accolades—that we think only we deserve?

Who among us doesn’t need to stop from time to time and ask ourselves who the Ninevites in our own lives might be?

Really. Who do we think of as the worthless ones, the abhorrent ones, the abominations, the ones God definitely will never allow in God’s heaven, God’s kingdom, God’s embrace? Who?

Are they those who follow a different political agenda? Are they those who sense their gender identity as something other than the simple “this or that” that we were raised with? Do we assume that those poorer than us are deservedly poor? Do we assume those richer than us must therefore be greedier and more corrupt than us? Do we assume the very worst of those who enter our nation through dubious means? Do we suspect that the unhoused thousands must have gotten themselves in this scrape because they were less honest, less upright, less intelligent, less hard working, less holy than we are? Do we assume that God hates all those who were raised to know God under a different name and through different set of scriptures?

Who are our Ninevites? Who do we relish the thought of seeing finally get their “comeuppance”? Who do we long to see suffer the eternal destruction that WE believe our Lord has vowed to save only us from? Who will it be that—when we see the Lord extend grace to them—will drive us to our knees, not with praise and thanksgiving for God’s great goodness, but with anger and jealousy and genuine disgust?

Oh, I wish I could stand before you today and say that I honestly don’t have a person that comes to mind, but that would be a lie. I still have a bit of Old Jonah in me. I still have a touch of lingering hope that a few of my favorite Ninevites will suffer a bit for their sins. I still savor a little hope that God’s grace won’t extend quite as far as the more thoughtful side of me believes it will.

I know there is still a need in me for repentance. I know that I have not yet opened my mind and heart as wide as God would have me open myself. I know that there is work for God to do within me as God prepares me to love as purely, and generously, and broadly as God loves.

But, in spite of my tendency to channel Jonah’s faults, there’s also a part of me that just longs for the day when—rather than grinding my teeth at God’s penchant for being merciful—I will find myself praying that God will truly love those who stretch my patience, stretch my openness, stretch my own love, just as I know that I must surely very often stretch God’s own grace until I am remade—until we are remade—with hearts as loving, and open, and generous, and changeable as God’s own. Amen.

Sermon for January 14

Gospel: John 1:43–51

Come and See

I have to tell you that I am somewhat conflicted about all the jumping around we do with our Scripture texts this time of the year. This is the second year in our three-year lectionary rotation, so this is the year of Mark, and you’d think we might just start reading the Gospel of Mark and stick with that. But instead, here we are bouncing back into the Gospel of John. On the one hand, I think we lose a lot of the continuity of the text. But, on the other hand, I think that at this moment, as we enter the season of Epiphany, John’s Gospel is the perfect fit.

Epiphany is a season of revelations. It is a season in which our eyes are opened to new insights about God and God’s love and grace as revealed to us by God through the Scriptures, through nature, through the amazing powers of God, and, most clearly, concisely, and fully, through the Word made flesh—Christ Jesus, our Lord.

So here’s why I think John’s Gospel is perfect for this moment—because John’s Gospel is a gospel of signs.

A sign is something that points us in the right direction . . . we hope. A sign says, there is the city you’re looking for. Stay on this road for 30 more miles, and you’ll see it on the right. A sign reveals the way to our destination.

And that’s exactly what John’s Gospel does: it very strongly leans Into the idea that each event, each person, each story and act of Jesus is always about pointing us in the direction of who Jesus is, just as Jesus is pointing us to the true identity and nature of God.

In John’s Gospel we have this chain of witnesses who act as signs. Jesus is baptized by John, and a dove descends from heaven on Jesus, and that is a sign for John that Jesus is indeed the Son of God. So John points his own disciples away from himself and toward Jesus. Then Jesus reveals himself to Philip, and Philip finds Nathanael and points him toward Jesus, and this chain of witnesses grows, and they become signs for the crowds and for us. Each of them revealing something unique about Jesus through their own relationship with him.

I think this story of Philip pointing Jesus out to Nathanael is really a very telling example about how we are to live as signs and witnesses revealing Jesus to others.

In the story, once Philip has met Jesus, he is—apparently—just filled with a sense of joy, and wonder, and hope. He can’t help himself. He can’t hold it in, and he can’t hold himself back, so he runs to find his friend Nathanael, and he proclaims just what he has seen and heard.

He doesn’t give Nathanael a lecture or a sermon or a theological treatise on prophetic views of the Messiah from Moses to Zephaniah. He just blurts out his truth to him, “We’ve found this guy who we think might be the one God promised to send. It’s Jesus from Nazareth. Do you think this could be him?”

And Nathanael says, “Nazareth? Nazareth? That Podunk little nothing of a town. Where do the Scriptures even hint at Nazareth? Where in the Scriptures is Nazareth even mentioned? And, given Nazareth’s reputation, can anything good come from Nazareth?”

I tell you what, if I were Philip, I would just love to dive into it with Nathanael. “Oh, Nathanael, you little smarty-pants! Nazareth may not be named in the Hebrew Scriptures. But all through the texts, the Messianic hints are about who Jesus descends from, not where. He will be the offspring of David, and you know as well as I that that might be a metaphorical offspring of David rather than a physical descendant of him. It could just as easily be that God’s promised one will be someone who epitomizes God’s justice and wisdom and grace in a manner like David—or even surpassing David . . . and that would make him—metaphorically—a branch of David.

Oh yeah, I would have loved to have gone nose-to-nose with old Nathanael and have it out with him in a theological debate.

But Philip was so much wiser than I am. He didn’t try to argue or debate Nathanael into a belief in Jesus. Instead he just says, “Well, humor me . . . come and see.”

And Nathanael must have figured it was the least he could do for his buddy Philip, so he went down and they found Jesus. And Jesus revealed himself to Nathanael in a way that uniquely spoke to Nathanael and convinced him fully and passionately that Jesus was indeed the absolute Son of the Living God. Nathanael followed Jesus.

That’s the template for us as well. In the season of Epiphany, we are not called to just sit back and marvel at the way God has revealed God’s self to humanity throughout history. It’s not a matter of being wowed by the memory of God’s appearance to Moses on the mountain It’s not about recalling how the prophets once spoke God’s message to the people. It’s not about remembering God’s mighty acts that defied science and nature and logic—and therefore communicated the presence of the one who is beyond nature, above the mundane, and the very definition of the divine. It’s not even about us reflecting on the acts of Christ Jesus in our Scriptures.

The Epiphany season is not a season to just look over our shoulders into the past. It’s a time for us to open our eyes to who Jesus is to us now. It’s a time to see how Jesus’ presence in our lives impacts us in our now. It’s a time to consider whether or not we still see in him the power and grace that reveals God’s true identity to us . . . and if so, it’s a time for us to ask ourselves how that changes us, grows us, and drives us on into a better future because of it.

The deal is that if this doesn’t excite us as much as it once excited Philip, then maybe we need to ask ourselves why that is.

Why am I not running to find my friends and share with them what it is that I think I’ve found in this man from Nazareth? Why am I reluctant to speak, reluctant to admit my faith, reluctant to own my faith in public? Is it because I’ve forgotten the truth of it? Is it because it has somehow become so mundane to me that I now just take it for granted? Do I no longer believe in the aspects of this faith in God revealed through Christ Jesus that were the most vital and compelling and life-giving to me in the beginning? Do I worry that if I called someone to “come and see” with me, we might end up seeing nothing at all anymore?

I’ll grant you that that might be the case. Maybe we’re not so naïve as we had once been. Perhaps our faith in his revelations had a limited shelf life, and now we no longer believe like we once did, and we only continue because our tradition and sense of loyalty demand it.

But if that’s the case, I would remind us that the God of power and might—the creative energy that brought this world and universe to life—is still as full of power and love and creativity as God was in the very beginning. God has not given up caring for us and showing up for us in our daily lives. God’s miraculous signs still happen today. They happen in hospital rooms and school rooms and grocery stores. They happen wherever two or three meet and find a way to love one another even if they happen to worship God under a different name, or vote for that other party, or watch that other cable news network.

God’s nature is still revealing itself to us today through the Scriptures and the mighty acts of God, and also through those who dare to encounter God face-to-face, honestly and humbly, and who find God through the man from Nazareth, who sees us as we are and loves us where we are and longs for us to come and see more closely . . . and invite our loved ones to come and see with us as well. Amen.