Free and Responsible (Reflections on Pentecost 6, Year B and Independence Day)

 

So just what does the Fourth of July mean to you? I suspect that, for many Americans, this is just another excuse for a backyard barbeque and a chance to watch some pretty impressive fireworks. Yes, we do celebrate the founding of our country, but what exactly does that signify? Are we just being chauvinists, saying, in effect, “We’re great because we’re us, and everybody else sucks?” 

To celebrate this day should imply putting some meaning behind it. 

I’ve been praying a lot for our country lately. I’m certainly proud of America’s founding commitment to egalitarian government (however narrowly our Founders defined that!), but the events of last January 6^th really have me rattled. I am beginning to fear that blind partisanship has taken the place of patriotism, vulgar selfishness has replaced freedom, opportunism is replacing true service, and plutocracy is taking the place of democracy. 

245 years ago, some very smart men decided they would slither out from under the thumb of a monarchy and a parliamentary system controlled by landed blue-bloods and form a common person’s democratic government. They gained their freedom, but they took on one heck of a lot of responsibility. If this is to be a government of the people, then the people must take ownership of it and be committed to its upkeep. 

Let’s face it, there’s an awful lot of responsibility on our plate just at present. We have a responsibility to tell the truth—even if that means admitting that many of those very smart fellows who formed our government were slave holders, and that the legacy of human bondage has left a still-festering wound cut deeply into the flesh of this nation. We have a responsibility to promote equality. 

We have a responsibility address climate change. We have a responsibility to demand a new, clean energy economy. We have an obligation to promote better education for our children and accessible healthcare for all our citizens. The Declaration of Independence states that whenever a government fails to provide for the safety and well-being of the citizens, those citizens have the responsibility to change the government. 

The work of living in a democracy is hard. It only works if people are invested and really believe that what we do matters. As illustrated in the Gospel lesson for Pentecost 6, Year B (Mark 6:1-13), not even Jesus could do an act of power for people who would not believe or listen. I always like Mark’s bare-knuckles approach to storytelling. Matthew’s Gospel cleans this story up by saying Jesus “did not do many deeds of power there because of their unbelief.”[i] Mark, in contrast says Jesus “could do no deeds of power there.” If hope and commitment are absent, nothing can get done. 

Emerson Powery a professor of Biblical studies at Messiah College in Grantham, PA, notes that Mark juxtaposes the tale of Jesus’ failure to reach the unbelieving home crowd with his sending out of the disciples to proclaim the Gospel. Jesus has just been disappointed by his failure to reach the locals, a sign, according to Professor Powery, that every new movement is going to face some opposition. We will always encounter people who just don’t want to be bothered with doing what is right or merciful or inconvenient. Jesus warns the disciples that this is going to happen to them. If and when it does, they are to shake it off and keep going.

Jesus’ instructions to the twelve seem to me to be pretty good instructions for being responsible citizens. He tells them not to stockpile or horde. They are to use what they have, a reminder that when we look to God to provide, enough is as good as a feast (vv.8-9). The disciples proclaim repentance, a changing of the peoples’ minds, but they also become healers of the sick. Their mission is ultimately to bring well-being. We still have a responsibility for the health of those around us. I can’t help but think that getting COVID-19 vaccinations, wearing masks in crowded places, and taking precautions for the protection of others should take precedence over our own personal likes and dislikes. 

The disciples accomplish acts of healing by anointing the sick (v.13). The sick, considered to be outcasts, are honored with oil just as a king would be. The sharing of oil with a stranger was an act of incorporation, a sign that they are included and part of the larger societal family. 

As Christians and as Americans we are always a work in progress. Our holidays should not be simply a commemoration of past events, but a re-dedication to what we are intended to be. Like the twelve, we are called to be on a mission and to do deeds of power.

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[i] Matt. 13:58

Whose Kid Gets the Help? (Reflections on Pentecost 5, Year B, 2021)

 

“…Daughter, your faith has made you well…” (Mark 6:34) 

Daughters are special. Moms and daughters don’t always get on, but dads love their little girls. I know. It’s a stupid prejudice, but, as a teacher in public school and Confirmation classes, I find I’ve always been more tolerant of the girls when they act up than of the boys when they do the same. How does that lyric from Gigi go..? “Thank heavens for little girls…those little eyes so helpless and appealing…” I’m not a biological parent myself, but through the years I’ve sort of emotionally adopted a number of children, and they’ve all been girls. Even my pets have been female. And I can never get mad at any of them. 

I’ll bet Jairus, the synagogue official in the Gospel lesson the RCL appoints for Pentecost 5, Year B (Mark 5:21-43) felt the same way. I’ll bet his little girl was just the Cheeze Whiz on the Philly steak sandwich of his life.[i] When his little darling takes ill, there’s nothing her daddy wouldn’t do to get her well again. He’d even be willing to kneel down in front of the hippie preacher from Nazareth and plead with him for a miracle cure. 

Naturally, Jesus is ready and willing to come with this deeply religious man and do what he can for the sick child. Jairus has made it clear that this is a “lights and sirens” kind of emergency—this little girl is sick enough to die if help doesn’t come in a hurry. So I’m thinking they all took off for Jairus’ place at a pretty darn fast clip. Of course, people being people, folks noticed the hustling Messiah and, looking forward to seeing a good emergency situation, they started following Jesus, Jairus, and the other twelve to see how this thing would play out. After all, Jesus wasn’t always on the best of terms with the religious high muckety-mucks, so seeing the two of them racing off together must’ve caused some general interest. 

As things would have it, just as this whole mob of folks set off to see an emergency healing miracle, Jesus suddenly gets a weird sensation. Somebody in the crowd has touched him and snatched away a little miraculous healing power without even asking. Jesus whips around to see who it is who thinks they’re entitled to his own heavenly-ordained brand of healthcare. It turns out to be woman who’d been suffering from hemorrhages for twelve years. I imagine things got a little tense when she revealed herself. The Bible says she confessed in “fear and trembling,” and no wonder. This was a pretty audacious act for her to commit. It’s one thing to be a religious leader and ask for help, but a woman was a second class citizen. A sick woman was obviously—according to the thinking of the day—on God’s naughty list and had no business approaching a holy man. A sick bleeding woman was even ritually unclean and her touch was considered a defilement.[ii] 

What’s worse is this chick is holding up the parade. Obviously she doesn’t realize that there’s an emergency situation going on. Her little stunt has just cost precious time that could be the difference between life and death for Jairus’ daughter. In fact, by the time Jesus does reach Jairus’ house, he’s told the little girl has died. But Jesus has time for two miracles on the same day. Jairus’ daughter is also God’s daughter. So is the bleeding woman. Jesus even addresses her as “Daughter.”  Jesus doesn’t make any distinctions between a religious leader and an “impure” woman. He has love for both. 

Who deserves God’s healthcare plan? Anyone who is sick. Anyone. We so want to decide who is worthy and who is undeserving. We hate the idea that someone may get something they’re not “entitled” to or haven’t earned. We’re so hung up on justice that we’ve forgotten grace and mercy. 

I look at this story as a reminder that God has no priorities. The infant baptized is loved by God just as much as the pious elderly saint. The long-time church member who served on the council, sang in the choir, cleaned up after the potluck suppers, and contributed liberally to the offering plate is no more a child of God than the pot-smoking teenager who vanished after his Confirmation vowing never to enter a church again if he could help it. The citizen and the alien, the straight and the gay, the captain of industry and the unemployed single mom—all are heirs of grace. When we realize this as a society, we too can be agents of healing. How marvelous to look at all of God’s people as a proud daddy looks at his darling baby girl with love, tenderness, and a desire to keep her safe and healthy.

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[i] Metaphorically speaking, of course. A Philly cheesesteak would, technically, be a violation of Jewish dietary law.

[ii] See Leviticus 15:25

"Shut Up, Wind!" (Reflections on Pentecost 4, Year B)

 

“…and they were filled with great awe and said to one another, ‘Who then is this that even the wind and sea obey him?’” (Mark 4:41) 

Do you ever catch yourself reading a Gospel lesson like the one for Pentecost 4, Year B (Mark 4:35-41) and saying to yourself, “So what?” Okay. Jesus is asleep in a boat with the disciples, a big storm comes up (as storms are wont to do on the Sea of Galilee), Jesus’ buddies get spooked, they call on him, and—being Jesus—he works a miracle and the storm stops. Everybody’s safe. 

Big deal, right? 

I mean, haven’t we all heard this story a bazillion times before? Of course, Jesus stills the storm. He’s the Son of God, right? But what does that have to do with me? 

Well, if you’re reading this post you’ve already decided that Jesus is pretty important in your life. The reminder of a one-time miracle may not be floating your boat just now[i], but a dive into some of the details of the story might do the trick. 

I’ve been in pretty choppy water twice in my life. The first time was when I was sailing with some friends in the Channel Islands off the southern California coast. We’d sailed past the lee of Anacapa Island and found the open ocean a little rougher than we (or at least I) anticipated. I remember the skipper very calmly saying—as if he had to think about it for a few minutes—“I think we should put on our life jackets.” 

The second time was when I was asked to accompany friends Tom and Vicky on a sailboat race in the Gulf of Mexico in what I perceived to be nothing less than a monsoon. As I helped to raise the ship’s spinnaker, we were caught by a huge gust of wind. The ship listed to port, and your Old Religious Guy got washed over the side. Fortunately, Tom grabbed me just as I floated past the stern and pulled me back onto the boat. 

I think I can say without boasting that neither of these nautical events filled me with abject terror, even though I certainly don’t relish the idea of death by drowning. The truth is, in both cases I had tremendous faith that a more able mariner than myself was in charge of the vessel, and he would certainly know what to do if things started to go sideways[ii]. 

The disciples in our Gospel tale this week don’t seem to have the same level of confidence. In fact, they’re scared spitless, and they even seem to be a bit uncertain that the only begotten Son of God gives enough of a rip about them to wake from his nap and save them. And maybe we’re in the same boat with them right now.[iii] 

For the ancients, water was a metaphor for chaos, and chaos isn’t very comforting. Now, you’d think that experienced fishermen would have a little more confidence in their own ability to pilot a boat safely back to shore even in rough weather conditions, but everyone gets rattled from time to time—even the folks who have been rescued over and over again. Jesus isn’t too gentle with his scaredy-cat buddies here. He asks them why they have no faith, and that’s the question which is always germane, isn’t it? 

Yes. Things are wild and crazy now. In fact, they’re even existentially crazy. We have a planet that is speeding like a greased-up bullet towards climate catastrophe and a bunch of guys in charge of the government who may be more interested in oil prices than survival of our species. We have a political system in freefall. We have city streets turning into shooting galleries. We have hungry people at the southern border and right down the block. Our marvelous digital age has put out the welcome mat for a whole new classification of criminal activity, and I could go on and on. I certainly wouldn’t blame you for feeling scared or not having faith, because I’m starting to perspire a little myself. 

We’re all in the same boat and getting knocked around by the chaos and wondering why God seems to be asleep. Perhaps we forget that we’ve been rescued before, and it is God’s will to rescue us again if we are willing to be faithful. There are some notable details in this story that give me a weird sense of uncomfortable comfort. The first is that Jesus “rebukes” the storm (v. 39). The word in Greek is epetimesen (epetimhsen, literally, “he rebuked”). This means Jesus didn’t just ask the chaos to stop. He ordered it to stop, scolded it, reprimanded it, kicked its butt and took down its name. He told that chaos it had no business doing what it was doing. He not only faced it, but directly challenged it. What’s more, the Greek which we translate as “Be still!” (pephimoso or pefimwso for those of you like to read it in the original[iv]) is in the perfect tense passive voice which could be translated “Be stilled!” or “Be silenced!” meaning “Shut the freak up and don’t talk again!” 

The reaction of the disciples to this rebuke is pretty whacky. Our wimpy New Revised Standard Version translates it as “they were filled with great awe.” (v. 41). But, if you look at the original Greek (or even the dear old King James Bible which is a bit more faithful—to say nothing of poetic), the disciples bhqhsan fobon megan, which literally translates “feared a great fear” when Jesus silenced the storm. I guess confronting and denouncing the chaos scared them just as much as the chaos itself did. This kind of makes me think that following Jesus always tends to be a little bit scary. If we’re not scared to act as Jesus acted, maybe we’re not doing it right. 

But there’s one more little detail which doesn’t seem to figure in the story. In verse 36 we learn that the disciples’ boat isn’t alone on the lake. There are “other boats” with them. The Greek calls them ploiaria or “small ships.” That is, they were smaller than the ship Jesus and the twelve were in. I remember when I fell into the Gulf of Mexico that there were other boats very nearby. If my shipmate hadn’t pulled me back, some other craft would’ve rescued me. I think the Bible is trying to tell us that, scared as we are, we’re not alone. If our little ship goes down, there will still be others who will make it across. We have a very able captain. Why should we ever be in doubt? Let’s face the storm.

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[i] Pun intended.

[ii] Another pun intended.

[iii] Had enough of the sea-going puns yet?

[iv] And who doesn’t?

Being Part of the Clan (Reflections on Pentecost 2, Year B)

 

“And if a house is divided against itself, that house will not be able to stand.” (Mark 3:25) 

Do you ever think your family is weird? Are there folks who swim in your gene pool you just don’t understand or who don’t understand you? Well join the club. Nobody’s family is the Brady Bunch. TV sit-com clans were pulled out of somebody’s Pollyanna imagination, because—I swear—I’ve never met a family that didn’t have its issues. In the Gospel lesson for Pentecost 2, Year B (Mark 3:20-35) we see that even Jesus’ family had their disagreements. 

(Don’t you feel better now?) 

It seems to be our nature to divide our houses. Ever since the Garden of Eden (see the First Lesson, Genesis 3:8-15), human beings have been at enmity with each other. Today our American house couldn’t be more divided if we started shooting each other like we did back during the Civil War. 

In our Gospel lesson, Jesus, accused of having an unclean spirit by those who are jealous of him, declares that a nation or a family at war with itself is doomed to collapse. He speaks about plundering the house of a “strong man.” Most Bible scholars will say he’s talking about Satan. Even if you don’t believe in a personal devil, you’ve got to admit that there’s a powerful urge to do really dumb, hurtful, and vile things to each other. Just turn on the TV news if you don’t believe it. The Strong Man is holding a lot folks hostage in his house—everyone who is bound by selfishness, misplaced values, anger, frustration, jealousy, deluded justification, or anything else falling under the general category of SIN. 

The basic teaching of our faith is that Jesus came to plunder the Strong Man’s house and liberate the captives.  Let’s face it: whatever may divide us in politics, race, sexual orientation, religious identity, or just a good ol’ fashioned tendency to want our own way at the expense of everybody else, we all have two things in common: 

1.      We’re all sinners.

2.      We all need God’s forgiving grace. 

When I was vicar at Grace Lutheran of Yorktown Heights, New York, my old boss, the Reverend Doctor Tim Kennedy, would start his First Holy Communion class by telling the kids that the sacrament of the altar was a glue that united this divided house. When we take Holy Communion, we are becoming part of the holy community. In this sacrament we recall that human beings are capable of devising something as evil as crucifixion, and that God is capable of loving us enough to be crucified for our sake. Everyone who comes to this table is an heir of guilt and shame, and everyone who comes to this table is deeply and dearly loved and forgiven as a child of God. When we take the Lord’s body and blood, we are admitting that we are one with everyone else who takes communion, and with everyone else who ever has taken communion, and with everyone else who ever will take communion until time itself comes to an end. 

Division is a side-effect of sin, but God’s love unites. Yes, even Jesus’ nuclear family had some stuff going on, but “family” is a relative term for Christians. Those who seek the will of God—in spite of our differences—are all part of the same bloodline. All brothers and sisters in a family which is always growing and always embracing. 

It’s good to be at the table with you all.