Deal or No Deal? (reflections on Lent 3, Year B 2024)

 

"Cleansing of the Temple"  (Rombouts, Flem. 17th cent)

“Then God spoke all these words: I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery;  you shall have no other gods before me.” (Exodus 20:1-3)

If you never learned anything else in Sunday school, I’ll bet you got the gist of the First Lesson for Lent 3, Year B (Genesis 20:1-17): the Ten Commandments. The good folks who put together the Revised Common Lectionary have given us a theme (or motif, if you will) in the lessons from the Hebrew Scriptures. Each one of the five lessons we get during this season of Lent deals with a covenant between God and God’s people (that would be us, of course!).

On Lent 1 we got the covenant with Noah[i]. That was a pretty one-sided deal. God promised never again to use violence to end violence and gave us the rainbow as God’s signature on the dotted line, assuring us God wouldn’t go out of God’s way to destroy us anymore.[ii] On Lent 2 we got God’s covenant with Abraham in which God promised Abe some really groovy stuff like a whole nation, eternal fame, and more descendants than there are stars in the sky.[iii] All Abraham had to do was keep believing God was going to come across with the goods.

If you’re Donald Trump, you might be thinking God is a lousy deal-maker, since all of these bargains seem really one-sided. God, the Party of the First Part, signs an unconditional non-aggression pact and asks nothing in return from the Party of the Second Part. Then, said Party of the First Part promises the Party of the Second Part an entire country, world-wide recognition, and an endless line of progeny—and only asks the Party of the Second Part for a little faith. I ask you: what kind of deal is that? Trump would definitely not approve[iv].

But on Lent 3 the terms of the deal get a bit more complex. Once again, it’s a lousy deal for God. God has already delivered: God’s kept the people safe, brought them out of the hands of bondage, took them triumphantly through the Red Sea, and—as if that’s not enough—has very considerately destroyed the army of their oppressor as an added bonus. It’s only then that God asks the Party of the Second Part to remit a little gratitude by following ten simple rules. But, since the people have already received the blessing, they could simply choose to renege on the deal—which, it seems, they did and we continue to do.

In Jesus’ time, there were these guys called Pharisees who must’ve felt bad about how God kept getting the short end of these bargains. They decided the best way to be fair was to be in constant dialogue with God’s Law, parsing every jot and tittle of the Ten Commandments into a gazillion little laws and traditions, and making sure that everything they or anyone else did fell into line with the rules. To us who read the New Testament this seems pretty obnoxious, and the Pharisees always come off as the bad guys in the story. They always seem to be overly concerned about nit-picky little purity laws, and they miss the big picture about the generous and forgiving grace of God.

But let’s be fair. The Ten Commandments were really given for our benefit. If adherence to them is the goal of our life and social interactions, we’re going to end up pretty okay. That won’t be because we’ve earned God’s favor. I mean, let’s face it, we’re going to screw up some way every day. It’s just the simple fact that the world runs a whole lot better when we put God in charge and embrace care and respect for our fellow human beings as the Law requires. Again, God doesn’t get anything out of this deal. We do.

I think the Pharisees get a pretty bum rap. At the end of the day, all our Jewish forbearers were trying to do was live righteous lives, just as our Jewish neighbors do today.

In the Gospel lesson for Lent 3 (John 2:13-22), Jesus is showing a rather uncharacteristic bit of umbrage to the often shady practice of buying and selling animals for ritual sacrifice in the Temple of Jerusalem, a place considered the holiest spot in Israel. The Synoptic Gospel writers put this story at the end of Jesus’ ministry and can be attributing the Lord’s anger to the usurious practice of ripping off poor peasants by charging extra for animals or giving an unfair rate of exchange when changing blasphemous Roman coins for temple money. John, on the other hand, has Jesus denouncing the lack of piety when the holy place becomes commercialized. After all, when it’s all about the money, it’s no longer about a relationship with God.

We don’t need a magnificent temple in which to have a relationship with God—even one that took forty-six years to build. By the time John wrote his Gospel, the magnificent Temple of Jerusalem had been nothing but a pile of rocks for almost thirty years. I’m sure there were still many in Jerusalem and the surrounding areas who were locked in deep mourning because the symbol of their religion, the place where God and humanity met, was no more. But for the Pharisees, they still had God’s Law to get them through the heartache and the loss. And they still have it today.

For others, there was another temple—the body and blood of Jesus. That temple was also destroyed, but it was raised in three days, and we have it still. We don’t need any fancy-shmancy worship space, and we don’t have to keep pining away for the “good ‘ol days” when our church buildings were full every Sunday. When two or more of us are together and in dialogue with Jesus, the church is full. Indeed, the church is full every Sunday if the people of God and the Holy Spirit are there.

That’s a pretty good deal, don’t you think?

Thanks for reading this week. Do come again.

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[i] Genesis 9:8-11 in case you forgot.

[ii] Of course, there was nothing in the agreement about God keeping us from destroying ourselves.

[iii] Genesis 17:1-16

[iv] But God probably doesn’t approve too much of him, either.

A Shout-Out to Geezer Parents (Reflections on Lent 2, Year B 2024)

 

"Abraham" Barbieri (Italian 17th Cent.)

“I will establish my covenant between me and you, and your offspring after you.” (Genesis 17:7)

Boy. Abraham is sure one old dude when God reminds him of the blessing God plans to bestow on him in our First Lesson from the Revised Common Lectionary for Lent 2, Year B (Genesis 17:1-7, 15-16).  God says Abraham’s going to be a daddy at the ripe old age of 100 years. His wife Sarah is 90, which makes parenthood for this couple seem, to say the least, somewhat unlikely. Of course, nothing is impossible for God (Especially in the Old Testament!). And, to quote the late Yogi Berra, “It ain’t over ‘til it’s over.”

I can’t say that I’ve known any centenarian or nonagenarian parents, but I do know that lots of older folks are finding themselves raising kids these days. I’ve often spoken about my buddy Rich out in Wisconsin. When we were young we ran around as only two young idiots—either one of whom could get into enough trouble on his own—would do. But today, Rich is a very stable and very conscientious father. He’s 64-years-old. His son is 10. I’m the same age but I can’t imagine what it takes to be keeping tabs on a bright and energetic ten-year-old, helping him with school work, taking him to his myriad extra-curricular activities, and planning all the camping and fishing excursions dads like doing with their sons. I’m not sure I have the energy to do what my erstwhile brother in youthful foolhardy shenanigans does every day.

But Rich isn’t the only elderly parent. Lots of folks who felt pretty sure their child-rearing days were behind them suddenly find themselves looking after grandchildren because parents are divorcing or have become homeless or have a problem with drugs or are in some way incapable or irresponsible. I’ll bet a lot of my fellow geezers are saying, “I can’t do this. I’ve already done my part. I don’t have the energy, the stamina, or the wisdom to start raising a child all over again at my age.” Of course, nothing is impossible for God.

Abraham, however, actually wants to be a dad in his maturity, but he keeps having to wait for God to come through for him. God keeps having to reassure Abraham, whom, ironically, Saint Paul praises for his faith in the Second Lesson for Lent 2 (Romans  4:13-25). You can understand why Abraham waits somewhat impatiently on the Lord because his journey of faith wasn’t exactly a day at Disneyland. Before he even gets to the land of Canaan he has a family squabble with his nephew, Lot. Then he reaches the land God has promised him, and—wouldn’t you know it?—there’s a famine. Then he goes down to Egypt where the Pharaoh almost steals his wife from him. Then he’s got to rescue his nitwit nephew from brigands. He tries to outthink God and knocks up his wife’s serving maid which, as you can imagine, causes considerable domestic unpleasantness. Abraham may have been the Father of Many Nations, but it must’ve seemed to him at times like he just couldn’t catch a break.

‘Ever feel that way yourself?

Our lives consist of a whole lot of waiting—waiting for some blessed event or opportunity or for some really crappy experience to pass. I think that’s why the early Church gave us this season of Lent. It’s a time to practice our waiting skills by praying more, fasting from our distractions, and being a little more sensitive to the needs of others than we are to our own stuff. In the Gospel lesson (Mark 8:31-38) Jesus tells the disciples they’re going to have to wade through some pretty ugly issues before everything starts making sense to them and they can proclaim Jesus as the Messiah the way God intended the Messiah to be proclaimed. Poor old Peter, out of the best of compassionate intentions I’m sure, scolds Jesus for even suggesting that rejection and crucifixion are going to be part of the deal. Jesus has to bring him up short and tell him he’s locked into a false, worldly idea of what God’s glory is like, and he needs to get over it. It sounds pretty nasty to us when Jesus calls Peter “Satan.” I think that’s because we associate the name with some scary red dude with horns who personifies evil. Remember that the name “Satan” just means “adversary.” An adversary is anyone or anything that stands in the way of what really ought to happen. We couldn’t know our Savior or know he knows us if he didn’t suffer as we do. It had to happen, just as Abraham had to endure his time of trial and testing before God’s promise could be made real to him.

I could never imagine the raucous pal of my misspent youth being the caring and dedicated father my friend Rich is today. Now that he’s a retiree he has little to focus on but creating—along with his wife, of course—the best possible life for his young son. He seems to be taking better care of his own health, too, and he seems more content and interested in life than I’ve ever known him to be. I don’t question that it’s a burden of sorts for other older people to find themselves suddenly back in the parenting role, but it might also be a precursor to some blessings.

Yup, old age has its indignities. We get stouter, we ache more, we can’t hear, can’t remember where we put the car keys, and we’re always thinking about having to pee. But I think we are also more patient, more accepting, and less distracted by the quotidian adiaphora which clouded our vision and our priorities when we were younger. Perhaps we’ve learned the secret of how to wait and, with it, the magic that is the ability to hope. We discover a contentment from believing our hope may not be realized in our own time, but, because we have been faithful, in God’s time and in God’s way the ends will be glorious.

So glad you joined me today. Thanks for reading, and don’t be shy about dropping me a note to tell me you’ve been here. I’d love to hear from you.

Oh! And P.S. - My reflections on these passage will be preached on the 99^th anniversary of the birth of one of the few surviving charter members of my parish. Happy Birthday, Miss Flo, and, like Abraham and Sarah, may you have many, many more!

God's in the Forty (Reflections on Lent 1, Year B 2024)

 

 “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news.” (Mark 1:15)

Okay. It’s Lent—forty sacred days (not counting Sundays, of course) of fasting and prayer and almsgiving. In Hebrew numerology, forty is a pretty special number. You’ll notice it pops up a lot in the Bible. There’s the forty days and nights of the great flood in Genesis (relating to the First Lesson in the Revised Common Lectionary for Lent 1, Year B: Genesis 9:8-17), the forty years Moses and his crew wandered around in the wilderness, and the forty days Jesus spent out in the desert being tempted by Satan as referenced in our Gospel lesson this week (Mark 1:9-15).

So what’s up with forty? I’ve been told in Hebrew numerology four is the number of earthly completeness (note for points of the compass and four seasons of the year[i]). If you stick at zero after four, you've got something that’s really complete—more than enough complete. It may not mean an exact number, but it means a good long time.

Let me start by saying a little something about the First Lesson with Noah and the rainbow. I have an old buddy from my Lutheran youth group days (over forty years ago—see how I worked that number in?) who spent some years doing oceanographic research with the US Merchant Marines. He told me that he’d spent over a thousand days of his life at sea, and I just tried to imagine what that would be like. I mean, what’s it like to get up in the morning, look out your window, and see nothing but sky and water? Imagine being in the middle of a vast nowhere. There’s nothing but the position of the sun to give you a clue as to what direction you’re moving in. There’s nothing on the horizon to aim at. Imagine dealing with that for forty days like Noah did.

Do you ever wonder what Noah might’ve been thinking? “What if the water never goes away? What if it never rains again, and we have no water to drink? How would we know where the land is—assuming this big barge is even capable of being steered?” I’ll bet he was scared.

Jesus might’ve had it a little easier spending forty days in the wilderness, but I don’t think it was much easier. Many years ago I went camping with a friend in Joshua Tree National Monument in southern California. It’s a desert. They trained the Marines there for service in Iraq. Unlike the ocean, there’s plenty to see in the desert, but it all looks alike. No landmarks. I remember getting a slightly creepy feeling out there. I thought if the trail washed out or if I should run out of gas I’d have no way of finding my way back to civilization (and this was in those Dark Ages before the cell phone!).

It’s in such deserted places—on the flood waters or in the wilderness—that temptation lurks. Our evangelist Mark is in too much of a hurry to describe the battle of wits between Jesus and the devil as Matthew and Luke do, but he does include the detail that Jesus was with the wild beasts in the wilderness. It was and is a place of danger. When you’re in a place where you’re all alone (or you feel all alone) and completely uncertain, some pretty weird thoughts might start running through your head.

What kind of deserts do we find ourselves in? What times of testing and transition? Illness? Pandemic lockdowns? Losing a job? Retirement? Death of a loved one? Needing to move? Changing social norms? Changing times for the Church? All those times when we can’t seem to anchor ourselves or see to the end—that’s when the freakiness in our heads starts to run loose. We don’t need the devil to whisper sweet nothings in our ears. We make up our own temptations to anger or despair or overeating or boozing or…you get the idea.

Perhaps the biggest temptation of all is to forget the presence of God. Noah got a dove with an olive branch and a rainbow. The olive branch told him that there was dry land somewhere. He might have to wait a while before it appears, but it’s out there. The rainbow was his reminder that God was still in charge. God saw and knew and felt with him, and God promised never again to confront human violence with more violence of his own. Whenever the rainbow appeared, Noah could be reminded of the mercy of God.

Mark’s Gospel tells us Jesus wasn’t alone in the wilderness. Satan was there, but so were angels—God’s messengers. These messengers, depending on how you translate the Greek word, served Jesus, ministered to Jesus, or waited upon Jesus. In some way they provided for his needs in that lonely, frightening, dangerous place. God doesn’t stop being present just because we temporarily fail to experience that presence.

What are your messengers? What brings God’s presence to your mind and heart when you find yourself alone or adrift? And how are you different once you’ve come through your own “forty days?”

Jesus emerged from the desert and got to work telling everyone that God was not far away. God had not forgotten or abandoned them. God’s kingdom was right there where they were. They could forget their despair, self-pity, or inaction and get to work themselves. All they had to do was believe.

Keep believing, my friend. Thanks for stopping by and leave me a note if you wish.

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[i] If you want to get really wonky about this—and why wouldn’t you?—four as a number of earthly completion goes back, according to Biblestudy.org, to the fourth day of creation when God had the infrastructure of the universe in place. Forty is usually used as a time of probation, waiting, or transition. It occurs 158 times in the King James Bible.

Between You & God & Everybody Else (Reflections on Ash Wednesday, 2024)

 

Yet even now, says the Lord, return to me with all your heart, with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning; rend your hearts and not your clothing. Return to the Lord, your God, for he is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love, and relents from punishing. (Joel 2:12-13)

Many years ago, I taught in the Theatre Arts department of a small community college in California. I shared my office with a lanky, philosophically inclined Brit named David who reminded me for all the world of a skinny Ringo Starr[i]. David had decorated his part of our office with pictures from an old calendar—atmospheric black and white photographs with poignant sayings. I only remember one of the pictures. It was the photograph of an old man sitting in shadows on a porch. The caption read, “I no longer care if anyone truly loves me. I will settle for being treated well.”

Isn’t that the truth? The older we get, the less concerned we are with the opinions of others. There’s something liberating about old age. Once we’re retired, we’ve achieved all the status we’re going to achieve. If our hair gets thin and our flesh sags, we’ve got to decide our looks don’t matter anymore. We’re not in competition any longer—even though the gods of this world are constantly trying to tell us we must stand out from the rest of the pack. At some point we reach the place where we’ve made peace with our own ordinariness.

In her commentary on the Ash Wednesday gospel (Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21) on the Working Preacher website, Pacific Lutheran Seminary professor Alicia Vargas writes how Jesus is teaching us in these verses to focus our piety on our relationship with God and not on what the world will think of us. If we are generous, prayerful, and sacrificial (remember that fasting was not about going on a diet—it was about denying oneself so as to have resources to donate to the more needy), we don’t do it to be praised. It’s all between us and God. Dr. Vargas notes the passage begins with a warning: if we do what we do to be admired or to show someone up, we get no reward from our Father.

But here’s where I see a dichotomy. I agree our motive should be to do what is right, denying the values of this world, and storing up our treasure in heaven. At the same time, isn’t doing what is right almost always about our relationship with others? Aren’t we commanded to love God and love neighbor? Although this scripture—a passage we read every year on Ash Wednesday—tells us not to disfigure our faces, we purposely do so.

Why?                                                                               

We do it to be witnesses to one another.

The Late Christian writer Rachel Held Evans, in her beautiful book Searching for Sunday[ii], tells of how a radio interviewer once asked her why, since she had so many doubts and questions about her faith, she could remain a Christian. Her answer was, “I’m a Christian because Christianity names and addresses sin. It acknowledges the reality that the evil we observe in the world is also present within ourselves. It tells the truth about the human condition—that we’re not okay.[iii]”

The cross of ashes on our foreheads on Ash Wednesday is a witness to the truth that we are sinners, we hurt and are hurt, and some day we will die. We come before one another on this sacred day and get these ugly truths out in the open. And somehow, once the truth of who we are and what we are is out there, it doesn’t seem quite so shameful anymore.

The liturgical formula for this ancient rite comes from Genesis 3:19

“By the sweat of your face shall you eat bread until you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken; you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

I always try to remember that in the story told in Genesis, God had banished the man and his wife from Paradise and had condemned them to a life of sweat and toil. Yet God did not make good on the threat God had issued about eating from the forbidden tree[iv]:

“…but of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil you shall not eat, for in the day that you eat of it you shall die.”

Instead, God commuted the death sentence and gave disobedient humanity another chance to learn obedience and gratitude and love—treasures stored in heaven with no promise of earthly acclaim or reward.

Let us all begin this season of Lent in humility, aware of our common vulnerability and of the graciousness of God.

[i] David Herman was a gifted teacher and theatre director. Several years my senior in age, he was the closest thing I’ve ever had to a “big brother.” He was always very patient and kind with his young colleague. He passed away in 2006. I think of him often.

[ii] Evans, Rachel Held: Searching for Sunday: Loving Leaving, and Finding the Church (Nashville, TN, Nelson Books, 2015). It’s a good book. You should check it out!

[iii] Ibid. p. 67.

[iv] Genesis 2:17

Wearing White (Reflections on the Feast of the Transfiguration, 2024)

 

"Transfiguaration" A. Bouts 1451 Fitzwilliam Museum

“This is my Son, the Beloved; listen to him.” (Mark 9:7)

The Feast of the Transfiguration has always been a tricky festival for me. What do you do with “Shiny Jesus?” I was thinking this year I’d just let my Assisting Minister, Pastor Natt from the Lutheran Church of Liberia, tackle this one, but Pastor Natt has to work his secular job this Sunday. So, I guess I’ll have to dig into this very unusual text (Mark 9:2-9) one more time.

If we back this story up a little, we find Jesus and his posse have been doing their thing around the village of Bethsaida just north of the Sea of Galilee and were on their way to Caesarea Philippi on the Mediterranean coast, a journey of some 55 miles or so as the crow flies. (I suspect their itinerary had less to do with a desire to go to the beach and more about a need to go around the neighborhood where the Samaritans lived in order to avoid any possible unpleasantness caused by religious differences.) On the way, Jesus asks the rather touchy question about who the disciples think he is. Good old Peter finally blurts out that he thinks Jesus is the promised Messiah. Jesus affirms this, but warns the boys that being the Messiah is going to lead to some pretty nasty business—rejection, abandonment, and crucifixion. He further informs them that no small amount of sacrifice is going to be required on their part, too. But, he goes on to assure them it’s all going to be groovy in the end—the Son of Man will be raised, and those who lose their lives for his sake will actually find their lives.

Six days later, Jesus takes Peter, James, and John—his best buddies—on a little prayer retreat on top of a high mountain. What strikes me about Mark’s telling of this tale this year is that Jesus’ “clothes became dazzling white, such as no one on earth could bleach them.” This isn’t some ancient Clorox commercial. The white garment has special significance. In the book of Daniel God appears on his throne dressed in dazzling white.[i] I guess seeing Jesus similarly turned out might’ve been meant to suggest Jesus’ divinity. In the book of Revelation all the souls before the throne of God are wearing white robes, some are martyrs who have “washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb,[ii]” which seems rather counter-intuitive to me as a laundry instruction, but there you are.

We still use the white robe on special occasions. Think of baptismal gowns, First Holy Communion dresses, confirmation gowns, wedding gowns, and the alb worn by pastors. We don the white as a symbol of God’s purity (given to us by grace, not any purity of our own), but each of these moments when the white gown is worn is only a milestone on a journey. It’s never the end, just a new beginning.

Mark tells us that Peter and the other two were “terrified” by the sudden change in Jesus’ appearance and the mysterious presence of two long-dead Jewish prophets. (I’d be too, wouldn’t you?) But Peter’s response to all of this divine glory is to suggest pitching tents and hanging out on the mountaintop. He doesn’t quite get that this moment isn’t the end—it’s the start of a new chapter in Jesus’ ministry. It’s the start of the chapter that leads to the cross. Peter likes seeing the glory, but he’s not too crazy about what must come next.

Both the special guest stars in this gospel story have “mountaintop” tales of their own. God, through Moses, led the children of Israel out of slavery in Egypt and through the Red Sea. In return, the Almighty expected a little more obedience from them. He called Moses up to Mount Saini and gave him the Ten Commandments. You’ll remember when Moses first came down from the mountain with the tablets of the Law there was all that nasty business with the Golden Calf. Moses, in a rather unbecoming fit of temper, smashed the tablets.[iii] He then, after a little punitive slaughtering of the chief idol-worshipers, had to go up the mountain again to have another chat with God and, presumably, asked the Lord to cut him a replacement set of tablets. When he came back down, he was glowing like an all-night taco stand. He was shining so bright the other Israelites had to put a vail over his face.[iv] But this isn’t the end of the story.  Poor Moses had to go on for another 40 years, leading a bunch of recalcitrant cry-babies through the desert. The glory on the mountain with God was just a promising chapter, but there was lots of pain to follow.

Ditto with Elijah. He’s the prophet who come along during the reign of Ahab and Jezebel. He’s dealing with a whole nation of God’s people who have driven the bus into the ditch. Ahab and Jezebel have the folks worshiping foreign gods, and Ahab is as crooked as a dog’s hind leg. Elijah has the difficult task of bringing a corrupt nation back to God. He does this by challenging the priests of Baal to a contest on Mount Carmel[v]. His moment of mountaintop glory comes when God vindicates him by nuking his sacrifice with a bolt from Heaven while the prophets of Baal stand around with their mouths hanging open. Elijah is victorious and gets to indulge in a little punitive slaughter of his own. Unfortunately, Queen Jezebel just can’t get used to the idea that she lost the contest, so she puts a hit out on him and forces him to flee to the desert in frustration and despair.

Wouldn’t it be great if the mountaintop, white robe moments lasted forever? Alas, they don’t. You may find yourself feeling comfortably close to God one minute, and then lost in the wilderness of this world the next. You may do everything right and still get treated like a criminal. You may find yourself recognized by some for who you are and who God wants you to be, but then be misunderstood and rejected by others. The challenge of faith is to find the glory in the not glory.

It sounds pretty simplistic, and I guess it is, but it all comes down to listening to Jesus, doing what he says, and knowing there’s one more garment of dazzling white we’ll wear someday.

I’ve appreciated your visit this week. Do come again.

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[i] See Daniel 7:9

[ii] Rev. 7:14. See also Rev. 3:5, 4:4, and 7:9.

[iii] Exodus 32:19

[iv] Exodus 34:29-35.

[v] 1 Kings 18:20-40.

Using Words When Necessary (Reflections on Epiphany 5, Year B 2024)

 

Healing of Peter's Mother-in-Law (Rembrandt c. 1658)

He answered, “Let us go on to the neighboring towns, so that I may proclaim the message there also; for that is what I came out to do. (Mark 1:38)

My Confirmation students were reading about Saint Paul this past week. I had them look at Acts chapter 9 where Saul gets converted to faith in Jesus Christ and starts preaching the gospel. This led to some umbrage being taken by the Damascene Jews who previously thought Saul was on their team. Their response to the previously anti-Christian zealot hooking up with this new fraternity was to put a hit out on him (those Middle Eastern folks really take their religion seriously!), causing the Christian community to sneak Saul out of town in a basket lowered through an opening in the walls of Damascus. This, of course, sparks some moral questions like “Would you be willing to put your life at risk for your faith?” or “Is it just enough to live a good life or do others need to hear about Jesus from you?”

My students (bright lads, both of them) seemed to be in line with the thinking of Saint. James who said, “I, by my works, will show you my faith.[i]” That is, they don’t feel it’s necessary for one to go about spouting one’s belief system all over the place. It’s better just to do the works of love, mercy, generosity, and compassion and let those things speak for themselves. Preaching the gospel without words as Francis of Assisi would say[ii].

In the gospel lesson appointed for Epiphany 5, Year B (Mark 1:29-39) Jesus is doing more works and less preaching. He’s already given what we have to believe was a pretty provocative sermon in the synagogue in Capernaum, but when he gets to Simon and Andrew’s house, there’s a medical situation which requires him to take some action. Simon’s mother-in-law[iii] is in bed with a fever. In the days before NSAID’s or antibiotics, this could be a pretty serious condition. Jesus responds by working a miracle. He takes the old gal by the hand and raises her up. The fever leaves her, and she gets back to serving her family and their guests. The word for “serve” in the Greek is diekonei, which the old King James Bible translated as “ministering.” It’s actually the same word Mark uses for what the angels did for Jesus in 1:13 when Jesus was led into the wilderness to be tempted by Satan. I like this because it suggests what this lady did was more of a calling than a socially enforced gender role.

Having done this one good work, Jesus is now called upon to play doctor to just about everybody in the neighborhood. The word gets out, and before Mrs. Simon’s Mother-In-Law can serve dessert, half of Capernaum shows up on the doorstep expecting Jesus to heal their diseases or cast out their demons. Jesus—being Jesus—gets to work and spends the evening doing his thing for the sick and demon-possessed.

The works Jesus did in Capernaum should, you’d think, speak for themselves. You’d have to think people would be grateful to be healed or have their loved-ones healed. They’d be impressed by this rabbi’s relationship with God, and their lives would be powerfully impacted. I don’t doubt some of them felt this way. But, human nature being what it is, I have to believe some others were happy to have been healed or to have witnessed a miracle or two, but they really didn’t get the message. Maybe that’s why Jesus had to sneak off in the early morning darkness to have a private word with his Dad. He prayed, and the answer he got was, “Proclaim the message.”

Jesus didn’t come just to be a local healer. He came to proclaim God’s Kingdom. Using words was necessary for his mission—even when his deeds of power underscored the message. Not everyone is called to be a preacher or an evangelist. But I believe when we articulate our faith, we strengthen and heal each other.

Yes, we’ve all known people who don’t seem to be able to stop proclaiming the message of their faith. When they begin sentences with, “I was reading in my Bible last night,” or “I think the Lord is telling me,” you might just feel like slapping them. But I think our polite, restrained, Northern European Lutheranness often keeps us from proclaiming the message at all—or even being sure of what the message is.

My little congregation—on the ropes as she may be these days—is still doing deeds of power for those in need. But I don’t often hear us using words of faith outside of Sunday worship. I’m going to propose an interactive mid-week series for Lent which will ask participants to speak about their faith experience. I know we’re kind of shy, so I’m not sure how well it will go over; nevertheless, I’m willing to give it a shot. Sometimes it’s just necessary to use words.

So let’s talk, okay?

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[i] See James 2:18

[ii] Actually, the famous quote “Preach the gospel at all times and, if necessary, use words” has never been conclusively proven to have been said by St. Francis. It sounds good, though.

[iii] The term “mother-in-law” is kind of confusing. It was not uncommon in Jesus’ day for many families to live together in a single home or compound. It’s probable that Simon lived with his wife’s family. It’s also possible that the term “mother-in-law” is used as the Brits used it and the sick lady is Simon and Andrew’s step-mother. Of course, this distinction doesn’t really matter since Simon left her (whoever she was) to follow Jesus. I just thought you might be interested.