While There's Hope There's Life (Reflections on Pentecost 22, Year B 2021)

Many sternly ordered him to be quiet, but he cried out even more loudly…” (Mark 10:48) 

There’s an old expression, “When ya got nothin’, ya got nothin’ to lose.” 

That’s kind of the way I see our blind protagonist in the gospel appointed for Pentecost 22, Year B in the Revised Common Lectionary (Mark 10:46-52). “Blind Bartimaeus,” as he is often called, is really one of the saddest figures we meet in the gospels. Sure, there’s the man born blind in John 9 and the Gerasene Demoniac and a bunch of other sad, afflicted, and helpless souls Jesus encounters in his earthly journey. BUT: all these other folks at least have a community. Bartimaeus doesn’t seem to have anyone on his side. In fact, he doesn’t even have a real name. The Bible tells us he’s the son of Timaeus, but we knew that anyway since the prefix “bar” means “son of.” This is a guy who has lost his own identity. 

Go figure: When Jesus asks Bartimaeus what he can do for him, the blind man says, “My teacher, let me see again.” Notice he says, “see again.” Bartimaeus wasn’t born blind. He’s lost his sight, and with it he’s lost his job, his ability to contribute, and his place in the community. No wonder nobody remembers his first name. He’s not even begging at a temple or synagogue. He’s out on the road, presumably by himself, somewhere between Jericho and Bethphage, begging from those who pass by. He’s an outcast. 

But this guy has one thing left—hope. We can tell from the way he talks that he’s heard of this Jesus guy, a guy who is very likely the Messiah. A guy who can heal the sick and the lame and make things right and whole again. So, when Bartimaeus hears that Jesus is coming his way, he starts raising a ruckus. He calls Jesus “Son of David.” He’s not just acknowledging Jesus’ genealogy, he’s invoking the name of Israel’s greatest kick-ass king. In this way he’s declaring that Jesus is the heir to Israel’s throne and probably the long-awaited Messiah. This is a pretty daring claim to make, and it doesn’t sit well with everyone who hears. The retinue following Jesus or the folks traveling the same road have so little regard for the blind beggar that they tell him to put a sock in it when he starts calling for Jesus. But this doesn’t stop Bartimaeus. No, sir. He’s going all out in the hope God will bring him back to himself. 

When Jesus calls him over, Bartimaeus jumps up and throws off his cloak—which was probably the only thing of value he had left. When you’re desperate and you have next to nothing, you have to gamble even the little bit you have. Jesus usually touches the people he heals, but in this guy’s case all he has to do is tell him he’s been made well because of his faith. 

I wonder how Bartimaeus reacted to this. I wonder if the world seemed more beautiful to him with his eyesight restored. Was the grass greener than he remembered? Was the sky deeper blue? One thing’s for sure—the world was not the same as it had been before he lost his vision. It never is when we’ve suffered great loss. When we go through a time of utter despair, depression, loneliness or whatever and find we’ve come out on the other side, we can’t be the people we were before. Our survival has to bring about a kind of repentance. Whatever Bartimaeus was before he lost his sight, he was a follow of Jesus once he got it back. 

The story impresses me with a couple of things. First, the old saying “while there’s life there’s hope” is all wrong. The truth is, while there’s hope there’s life. I always ask people who come to me for pastoral care if they can imagine a time when they won’t feel the way they currently feel. If they answer “no” I know I’m in way over my head. That’s because they’re confessing to being hopeless. Whatever our situation, we need to beg Jesus for mercy and a new vision to see ourselves in a new way, to see what God has done and is doing, and to see the road forward. If we can’t, we’ll be dead inside. 

The other thing Bartimaeus teaches us is some real gutsy proclamation. After all, the guy had nothing to lose. When he was told to be quiet, he shouted Jesus’ name even louder. Desperate times call for boldness, and that boldness can lead to empowerment and joy. 

May God’s joy be with you this week. Thank you again for stopping by. 

The Cup and the Crown (Reflections on Pentecopst 21, Year B 2021)

 

“…but to sit at my right hand or at my left is not mine to grant, but it is for those for whom it has been prepared.” (Mark 10:40) 

It might be pretty easy to shake our fingers at James and John in the gospel lesson for Pentecost 21, Year B in the Revised Common Lectionary (Mark 10:35-45). If you back up a little in the reading you’ll notice that Jesus is telling the gang for the third time—third time, no less!—about what’s going to happen to him in Jerusalem. There’s going to be mocking and flogging and crucifying. This isn’t exactly the pretty picture these boys have in their heads. Nevertheless, Jesus gives them the straight skinny even though they don’t want to hear it or understand it. The Zebedee boys—like all the rest of us who only want to listen to the news we want to listen to—act like Jesus never said anything at all and proceed in their selfish way to do a little self-promotion. 

“So, Boss,” they say, “when we get to Jerusalem and kick out the Romans and you become king, will you reward us for our faithfulness? After all, we’ve been with you from the very beginning. We left our nets and our dad and followed you. We took on an uncertain and itinerant lifestyle and went hungry at times and got kicked out of places and went on long mission trips without a second tunic or any money in our wallets. We cast out nasty demons and healed icky sick people. We even hung out with you when you ate with tax collectors and sinners. Don’t you think we’ve earned a place of honor? Shouldn’t we get a big promotion for our efforts?” 

Can’t you just imagine Jesus staring at these guys and shaking his head? Then he has to ask them, “Will you boys be ready to endure what I endure?”

 “Sure!” say James and John, probably thinking they’ve already put up with enough crap and hardship to last them a lifetime. But they’re not ready for what comes next. Jesus lays it out: they will endure what he endures—pain and rejection and imprisonment and (at least in James’ case) execution. What’s not guaranteed is any earthly reward for enduring it. 

This is awfully lousy news for anyone who’s hung up on the notion of fairness. After all, if we put in the effort, shouldn’t we get the reward? Shouldn’t living a good and virtuous life entitle us to good and virtuous things? Doesn’t God want to bless us with earthly comforts and rewards? Joel Osteen thinks so! 

Unfortunately, Jesus doesn’t. 

According to scripture, none of us are really entitled to anything but punishment.[i] Nevertheless, we seem to get a spiritual wedgie whenever we see someone besides ourselves getting blessed, and we’re quick to feel slighted when we don’t get what we want. It is nice, I’ll grant, to get a little pat on the back or a little “bonus” every once in a while for being obedient followers of Jesus, but are we really expecting a prize for doing what we’ve said we’d do—and what we know we should do—in the first place? 

We live in a sinful world, and, like James and John, we’re all going to suffer in some way. We’ll all have to hold our noses and drink down the nasty-smelling cup of pain, frustration, grief, and unpleasantness that comes with being human. It can’t be avoided. What matters is the spirit in which we drink it.

When I last preached on this text in 2018, I had just finished reading W. Somerset Maugham’s 1906 satiric novel The Bishop’s Apron. It’s about a scheming Anglican clergyman who plots to become a bishop. When he is offered a lesser post instead, he has the opportunity to reflect on how he has behaved, what his real values are, and what being in the service of God really means. Unfortunately, his self-reflection doesn’t last too long, and he re-inflates his ego and begins scheming for another position of honor. It is, after all, a comic novel.[ii] 

Since I wrote that sermon, a close friend of mine actually became a bishop. In fact, several of my seminary buddies have made quite nice careers for themselves: one a bishop, one a dean, one a seminary professor, and quite a few have moved on from their first calls to larger, wealthier, and more prestigious congregations or positions within the synod and national church organization. My daughter asked if I ever became envious of their mobility. 

I can only answer that my friends and colleagues have been entrusted with their positions because their gifts will allow them to better serve the kingdom of God by occupying such roles. Again, like James and John, we all may want the honor, but we may not be able to drink the cup of responsibility which comes along with it[iii]. Our gifts are not of our choosing[iv]. They come from the Holy Spirit. They are for those for whom they have been prepared. 

Whatever gifts we’ve been given, we are to use in the service of others. If we are not content with doing what we’re doing, perhaps we ought not to be doing it. If being a good and faithful Christian is not reward enough for us, then perhaps we are not really good and faithful Christians. Or, perhaps we have temporarily lost sight of the fact that our reward has already been prepared for us on God’s lay-away plan.

In whatever your circumstances, may your joy in the Lord be complete.  Thanks for reading.

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[i] See Romans 3:23, 6:23, Genesis 3:19, 6:9ff, john 3:16-18 and a bunch of other verses.

[ii] This should give you a pretty clear idea of how much respect Maugham had for the clergy.

[iii] I think recent history has shown how bad things get when someone gets the honor but isn’t up to the responsibility!

[iv] If they were, I’d be singing at the Metropolitan Opera or pitching for the Phillies!

Some Uncomfortable Stuff From Jesus (Reflections on Pentecost 19, Year B 2021)

 

“Truly I tell you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it.” (Mark 10:15)

I got a call from an old buddy this past week, and I hope he won’t mind my using his situation as a sermon illustration. It seems that after about thirty years of marriage he and his missus are about to call it quits. As any divorced person knows, this really sucks—it doesn’t matter what the circumstances are. Broken relationships are painful, and a broken marriage can really sting in light of the gospel lesson assigned for Pentecost 19, Year B (Mark 10:2-16) in the Revised Common Lectionary for 2021.

Yup. It’s that nasty passage in which Jesus talks about divorce and adultery. Since my buddy and his wife are Catholic, this is a pretty tough piece of scripture to choke down. Our Roman brethren frown on couples who split up and have been doing so for centuries. Did you know that in Ireland, the most Catholic country in Europe, it was—as late as 1996—actually illegal to get a divorce? I mean, what were they thinking? Your spouse could be a brutal junkie, a criminal, or a psychopathic murderer, but you had to stay with them because divorcing them was a sin. Really..?

The best way to approach this subject—or any subject in the Bible that makes us feel a little queasy—is to look at the context. I’d like to remind my old friend that the Bible was written a long time ago and in a culture much different from ours. The most crucial thing to remember, however, is the radical nature of the guy who is being quoted—Our Lord and Savior. Jesus is at times prone to a bit of hyperbole. Just check out his warning to believers whose actions or words screw with the faith of newer and more vulnerable Christians (See last week’s gospel lesson Mark 9:42-50). I know we might like to think of Jesus as that gentle shepherd, blessing children and comforting the sinners, but he’s also that wild, freaky guy who overturns the tables of the money changers and pisses off the religious leaders. Sometimes he says extreme things to get our attention. If his teachings don’t make us uncomfortable every once in a while, maybe we’re not really hearing what he’s saying.

At the time this story takes place, it wasn’t uncommon for Pharisees to debate each other over every aspect of the Law of Moses. These guys really loved to split hairs. In Deuteronomy 24:1-4, it says a man can divorce his wife if she doesn’t please him or he finds something objectionable about her. But how do you define “objectionable?” I imagine these Pharisees wanted to hear Jesus’ take on this so they could pigeonhole him. But Jesus isn’t having it.

In Mark’s gospel Jesus makes it clear that a broken relationship—for any reason—is still a manifestation of sin. In Matthew’s gospel, which we believe was written later than Mark’s, Jesus makes a little caveat that you can divorce your spouse for “unchastity” (See Matthew 5:32). This is usually understood to mean adultery, but there’s a little more baggage attached to this word. The Greek word is porneo (from which our word “pornography” comes) and could refer to incest which might have been common in some parts of the ancient world. The older text, however, reflects Jesus’ reminder that a certificate of divorce—however legal it might be—doesn’t erase the fact that two people failed to get along and good faith was broken.

But good faith is broken all the time. One of Jesus’ wildest statements is made in Matthew 5:28 when he opines that anyone who eyeballs an attractive person who isn’t his or her partner and starts to imagine hooking up with them is committing adultery. Even just asking yourself “What if?” means you’ve kicked the Sixth Commandment to the curb. And that means just about every last one of us has been an adulterer at one time or another.

It is also likely Jesus is aware of the consequences of sin in his time. If a man did show his spouse the door, it was possible he was dooming her to a life of poverty. Jesus’ radical words might well have been in support of the rights of women and a reminder of the duty we all have to protect and care for the vulnerable.

We sinners really love making a hierarchy of our sins—usually ranking the ones we don’t think we’ll commit as worse than others. But Jesus reminds us of the truth: sin is sin—and we all do it, say it, or think it every day of our lives. We all are guilty, and we all are forgiven by God’s grace. The best we can do this side of the kingdom of God is be grateful, accept the consequences of our actions, and try to triage the hard choices we make based on what will do the most or least harm.

It’s anyone’s guess why Mark glued Jesus’ teaching on divorce to the incident related in verses 13-16. Here Jesus scolds the disciples for trying to stop folks from bringing their children for him to bless. Perhaps Mark liked the juxtaposition of innocent kids—kids who haven’t yet learned how to judge others or become their own jailhouse lawyers—with the legalistic and excuse-making Pharisees. Jesus says that we all need to approach him like children who need to be loved and are willing to accept love and forgiveness. That’s how we get through this life with all our past mistakes and our incurable human tendency to sin. We just come into Jesus’ embrace, cry a little on his shoulder, say we’re sorry, and promise to do better next time.

Don't Block the Priest (Reflections on Pentecost 18, Year B 2021)

 

For truly I tell you, whoever gives you a cup of water to drink because you bear the name of Christ will by no means lose the reward.” (Mark 9:43)

“You’re good, Father!” said John the toll booth guy at the Burlington/Bristol Bridge.

“Say what?” I asked.

“You’re good. The guy ahead of you paid your toll for you. Have a nice day.”

Cool, I thought. It’s starting out to be a pretty good morning. And what a generous thing for some stranger to pay the $4 it costs for me to cross the Delaware River into Pennsylvania.ⁱ I wonder why they did it? Were they just in the mood to do a good deed, or did they look in their rearview mirror, see my clergy collar, and figure they’d do a kindness for one who bears the name of Christ? I guess they won’t be losing their reward!

Martin Luther would say that anything we do in Christ’s name for anyone else is a priestly act. A priest is, historically, anyone who makes the intercession between human beings and God. Anyone whose words or deeds do Christ’s work is, essentially, a priest. You don’t need a seminary degree or a stole around your neck. And all of us are called to some kind of priestly vocation.

In both our gospel and Hebrew Scripture lessons assigned for Pentecost 18 in the Revised Common Lectionary (Mark 9:38-50 and Numbers 11:4-6, 10-16, 24-29) we read stories of folks who may not have been officially sanctioned but were carrying out priestly duties. In Mark, the apostle John gets his shorts in a bunch because some folks are performing exorcisms in the name of Jesus but they’re not officially Jesus’ disciples. “Casting out demons” as the text says (v. 38), could be taken literally, but it could also be a reference to prayers for healing since our early Christian ancestors believed that sickness was caused by demons. Jesus orders John not to stop these guys. After all, it would be like telling someone not to give a bleeding accident victim first aid unless you’re wearing a paramedic’s badge.

The Lectionary pairs this passage with a story form the exodus journey. The children of Israel—as they were wont to do—had been griping and whining about the crappy food in the desert and a host of other petty grievances. This was really getting on Moses’ nerves, and he starts to complain to God that his workload in caring for these ungrateful crybabies is getting to be too much for him. God then suggests that Moses delegate some responsibility to a church council. Moses gathers seventy elders, and God anoints them with some of Moses’ spirit. Two other guys, Eldad and Medad (who clearly didn’t get the memo they were supposed to report to the tent of meeting like the other seventy dudes), also got dosed with some spirt. They begin to prophesy, even though they’re not on the church council. This ruffles the feathers of Moses’ right-hand guy, Joshua, who doesn’t like to get his prophecy from anyone but the main man. He tells Moses to stop these two unsanctioned prophets, but Moses lets them go on. He’s probably just glad that someone is talking about the word of God and not bellyaching about having to eat manna at every meal.

It’s a sad commentary on Christians that we believe we all have a priestly vocation but we constantly try to keep others from exercising that vocation. We just love to throw rocks in their way. It’s not just the Jim Bakkers or the Jimmy Swaggarts or the pedophile priests whose hypocrisy turns people off from the faith. It’s been all the rest of us who have tried to narrowly define what the priestly mission is and limit who has the right to do it. Over the millennia we’ve told gifted ambassadors of the Word, “No. You can’t be a priest.” We’ve barred the door because someone is a woman, or LGBTQ, or not the right race, or not educated enough. We’ve thrown so many stumbling blocks in the way of ministry that we’ve begun to trip over our own feet.

My own particular stumbling block is denominational loyalty. I know Lutheranism is the way God speaks to me, but I sometimes forget that it might not be the only way God is speaking. If giving a cup of water in the name of Jesus is a sign of God’s presence, than God is certainly present with our Seventh Day Adventist brothers and sisters who have just given out 100,000 bottles of water to victims of the August 14^th earthquake in Haiti.

It’s so easy to limit God’s spirit in our own selves. Over the years I’ve spent in parish ministry I’ve heard people complain when a lay music leader gave a theological explanation of a new worship song. A grumbling member told me it should be the pastor’s job to explain doctrine. He didn’t trust it coming from anyone else. Similarly, there are those who believe only the pastor should do home visitations, or pray at a committee meeting, or lead a Bible study. Lay people just aren’t good enough. Some have even feared their own priestly vocation and doubted their ability to share their faith with their own children.

In the gospel lesson Jesus gets pretty graphic in his description of what it means to discourage others in their faith. I always say that my job as a Christian is to find the way of Christ in other people and then be that way of Christ for other people. We should be on our guard against limiting the Holy Spirit’s inspiration in others or in ourselves.

This week someone crossing the Burlington/Bristol Bridge might’ve thought they were doing a priest a favor. I wonder if they knew they were the priest.

God’s peace, my priestly friend.

i^ Interestingly, there is no toll if you cross from west to east. It’s free to go to New Jersey, but you have to pay to get out.

When Jesus Comes from Afghanistan (Reflections on Pentecost 17, Year B 2021)

 

“Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all.” Then he took a little child and put it among them; and taking it in his arms, he said to them, “Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me.” (Mark 9:35-37) 

I was checking out at the Dollar Tree a few weeks ago, just about the time the first planeload of refugees was arriving in Philadelphia from Afghanistan. As usual, it seemed that continental drift was moving faster than this check-out lane. I looked on with envy as the folks in the adjacent aisle zipped through, each one greeted with a “Have a nice day!” from a portly African American woman cashier whose joyful demeanor contrasted starkly with the wooden-faced employee holding up my line. 

I couldn’t help but notice a lady in the next aisle who was dressed in full Muslim garb, her head modestly covered with a hijab. As she approached the register, the cheerful cashier, taking her (I can only assume) for a newly-arrived Afghani, turned on her 5,000 watt smile[i] and almost shouted “Welcome to Philadelphia!” The Muslim lady thanked her, but sweetly informed her that, although she was an immigrant, she was not Afghani and had been living in Philly for many years. 

I have to give credit to the cashier, even if she was a bit premature. She did what good hospitality and the Bible demand: she welcomed the stranger. I like to think she was welcoming Jesus, too. After all, as Matthew’s gospel tells us, Jesus was once a refugee himself.[ii] 

In our gospel lesson in the Revised Common Lectionary for Pentecost 17 (Mark 9: 30-37), Jesus tries to teach his disciples about welcoming, receiving, and caring for the least and most vulnerable. He’s already told these boys that his lot is to be rejected, reviled and killed. In fact, he’s tried to tell them a couple of times now. They still don’t get it and they’re too afraid to ask him to explain. So, he does what any good teacher in the ancient Mediterranean world would do: he uses an object lesson. He takes a little child (I’m thinking this is a little girl because, although all kids were considered like property, girls were even less valued than boys)[iii] and tells them that this needy, powerless, lowest in the pecking order individual is just as valued and adored in the eyes of God as any of them. They are to welcome and receive the lowest in the society as if they are receiving their own beloved rabbi. 

This must’ve blown their minds. After all, like all the rest of us sinners, they were hung up on status and priority in the societal food chain. I’m sure they truly loved Jesus and were passionately devoted to creating a new world as his disciples. Still, it seems they were taking themselves a little too seriously and were just a little too obsessed with their own importance. Self-importance leads to self-righteousness and self-pity—which are not particularly attractive traits. I guess the disciples knew this deep down, because they were embarrassed to confess to Jesus their stupid argument about their own merits. 

There’s certainly a part of me which identifies with the twelve. I don’t particularly like dealing with needy people. When I have to do so (which is pretty often these days), I feel ever so slightly superior. It’s pretty easy when, let’s say, my congregation has housed a homeless family for a month. I secretly think I’ve earned another merit badge on my heavenly Scout uniform. But serving isn’t above and beyond the call. It IS the call. 

Jesus doesn’t stutter when he tells us what discipleship means. It means serving the least and the lowest. If we love Jesus, we will be servants. If we are to be the church, we’d best be thinking first about the needs of the world around us.

I'm glad you stopped by this week. Please come again, and may God bless your servanthood.

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[i] At least I THINK she was smiling—she was wearing a COVID mask so it was hard to tell!

[ii] See Matthew Chapter 2

[iii] If you want to get really wonky about this—and who doesn’t?—the word Mark uses in Greek for “little child” is paidion (paidion). The word for house maid or slave girl is paidiske (paidiskh). I guess you can tell from the similarity where little girls ranked in the society.

So Who Are You Anyway? (Reflections on Pentecost 16,Year B 2021)

 

“For those who want to save their soul will lose it, and those who lose their soul for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it.” (Mark 8:35) 

“Who are you anyway?” the angry man yelled at me. He’d heard me scolding his son who was riding his bicycle through the playground of the St. Michael Lutheran Summer Tutorial Day Camp in the East Mount Airy section of Philadelphia. Younger children were playing there, and, as Camp Director, I was getting pretty fed up with neighborhood kids using our property as their BMX track and endangering the safety of my campers. 

I thought, “What do you mean asking ‘Who am I?’ It should be obvious. I’m an adult and your son’s a kid and he has no business doing what he’s doing. I have every right to chastise the little miscreant.” 

But I didn’t take into consideration the fact that I was a white dude in a shirt and tie in a predominantly Black neighborhood. When I thought about the rather acrimonious encounter I’d had with this angry father, I realized “Who are you anyway?” wasn’t intended as an insult to impugn my right or authority. It was actually a legitimate demand that I identify myself. 

The next day I saw the father out in his yard. I went over and apologized to him, told him who I was, and explained the difficulty the camp had been having with neighborhood bike riders. We ended up shaking hands and he promised to tell his son not to ride on St. Michael’s property when the younger kids were there. 

So who are you anyway? Who do you think you are? Who do people say you are? What gives you identity? Who are you in your soul? 

The gospel lesson in the Revised Common Lectionary for Pentecost 16, Year B (Mark 8:27-38) has Jesus asking this question about his identity. When the disciples answer him, it seems like everybody has some idea of who this weird rabbi from Nazareth is or is supposed to be. There are some pretty interesting guesses, but they’re wrong. Finally, the Holy Ghost whispers into Peter’s ear, and he blurts out, “You’re the Messiah!” 

Then Jesus does whacky thing. He tells the disciples to keep his identity under wraps. Why? I always figured it was because nobody really understood what being the Messiah was supposed to mean. Jesus would rather be just an obscure itinerant preacher from the sticks than have everybody and their Uncle Ralph hail him as something he never had any intention of being. 

Who is he? He’s the guy who is going to hang on a cross. He’s the guy who is going to be the object of hatred and scorn. He’s the guy who will watch as, within the space of a few days, all his acclaim is stripped away and he becomes someone the folks will be happy to do without. He’s the guy who is going to look like a failure, a blasphemer, and a self-deluded whacko. 

Of course, Peter isn’t having any of this because he doesn’t get who the Messiah is supposed to be any more than anyone else does. Jesus has to take him to task for this, which, I imagine, didn’t make Peter feel very good. Still, the world’s ideas of glory, prestige, honor, and whatever are not who Jesus is. To follow Jesus means to give up your own idea of what’s important. It’s about giving up your identity. Jesus, in this text, actually asks us to give up our souls. 

Now, I’ll grant that this may sound a little counterintuitive. The New Revised Standard Version Bible translates the Greek word psyche (yuch) as “life.”[i] You might figure from this that Jesus is telling the lads they’d better be ready to die for him—and that’s probably true. The word can mean physical life. But: it can also mean inner life or our inmost being. So, Jesus might be asking us to give up our sense of self-identity or our idea of ourselves. He’s asking us to surrender all that we value—or hate—about ourselves for his sake. 

If someone were to ask me today “Who are you?” I’d happily and proudly tell them I’m the pastor of Faith Lutheran Church of Philadelphia. I must confess I’d be pretty self-satisfied saying that. But it’s starting to dawn on me that there’s more of my active ministry life behind me now than ahead of me. Who will I say that I am when I no longer do what I do? I must confess I’m not looking forward to asking myself that question. 

But then I can look to Jesus—the one who let all his identity go when he hung on the cross. He was anointed by God, not for praise and position, but for sacrifice and loss. Jesus knew we’d all suffer and face some loss of our inner selves. He came to guide us through our delusions into the truth. To answer the question, “Who are you?” might mean answering the question “Who is Jesus to you?” 

The old hymn says: 

Forbid it, Lord that I should boast

save in the death of Christ my God.

All the vain things that charm me most,

I sacrifice them to his blood.       

Know who you are, my friend. Thanks for reading me this week!   

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[i] In the good old King James Bible, the translators translated it as “life” in verse 35 but as “soul” in verses 36 and 37. It’s the same word.

Being Open (Reflections on Pentecost 15, Year B 2021)

"The Syro-phonician Woman and Jesus" Etching by Pietro del Po (1650)
(Note doggie in lower right corner)

 

He said to her, “Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.” (Mark 7:27) 

I think we all get a bit uneasy when we hear the above passage. In our gospel reading for Pentecost 15, Year B (Mark 7:25-27) Jesus seems to be pretty rude to this poor Syro-phoenician lady who has come to him to beg for a healing for her demonically possessed daughter. But, let’s give the Lord a break here. He’s been trying to get a little R & R, so he’s travelling in Gentile territory—well away from his adoring fan base—and is staying incognito in an obscure location. But—wouldn’t you know it?—somebody must’ve spilled the beans about where the prophet and worker of miracles was hanging out, and some shiksa comes around looking for a healing for her kid. 

I’ve never thought that Jesus’ calling this mother and her possessed child “dogs” was really said out of ire at having his personal time interrupted. Rather, I think that Jesus, being a good Jewish boy, was reminding the lady that he’d been sent by God to the people who had been set apart in order to be a blessing to the world. When God first cut a deal with Abraham, God intended that these folks would keep themselves from the ways of the world around them.[i] They needed to get their own act together first before they could be a blessing to the nations. Notice that Jesus doesn’t tell the Syro-phoenician woman her daughter won’t be healed, but foreigners just have to wait their turn. 

I think a lot of folks in America can sign on to that sentiment. Some time ago, a former US president made the pronouncement that he was going to “put American first.” I’ll bet a whole horde of people went, “Yippee!” when he said that. They probably were thinking, “It’s about time! Why should we send good American money overseas when there’s plenty of need right here at home? What has the rest of the world ever done for us, huh? We deserve to keep what is ours, gosh darn it!” 

There’s something in our human nature that just can’t stand the idea that someone might be getting something they’re not entitled to get. We’d much rather see the needy go hungry than see someone jump ahead in line. In this way, we sanctify the credo of “looking out for Number One.” It’s us first, and the rest of you can wait. 

We hear this sentiment in the church, too. Even though no one’s said anything to me yet, I’m wondering if there are some in my parish who are wondering why Pastor is asking for donations to aid Haitian earthquake victims at a time when COVID-19 has decimated our worship attendance, we’re bleeding money like a ruptured artery, and we have to dip our fiscal bucket into reserve funds to pay an organist. They may be asking, “Shouldn’t we be putting our own needs first?”[ii] 

But our ideas of “fairness” may only be an excuse to turn our backs on need. The Syro-phoenician woman isn’t willing to turn away when it’s her own child who is suffering. She’s willing to take the insult from Jesus. She’s even willing to kneel at his feet and beg. She’ll humble herself and do whatever it takes for her child. Wouldn’t you? She reminds Jesus that a sick Syro-phoenician child suffers just as much as a sick Israelite child. She’ll sacrifice her own dignity out of love for another. 

Jesus will do exactly the same for us on the cross. 

As Americans, we can shut our eyes to the world’s needs, but those needs won’t go away. It’s a very small planet we live on, and, one way or another, ignoring the pain of this world will not be possible. It will come back to haunt us somehow. Our eyes must be open to see it, our ears to hear the voices of others, and our speech must be plain and sincere. There is simply no other way to exist. 

Similarly, we as Christians must always be looking outward to be a blessing and a source of hope and consolation to others. The church must be in mission even when that mission seems to be beyond our capabilities or contrary to our self-interest. From our most meagre of resources there will always be some crumbs left over. If we neglect to hand them out, we will divorce ourselves from the purpose for which the church exists. 

Let’s keep our hands and our minds open. Thanks for reading my blog this week. Please come back.

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[i] See Deuteronomy 7:6-11

[ii] The August 14^th quake in Haiti has, so far, cost over 2,200 lives and left a nation that was already in political turmoil in even greater need of the basic tools of survival—particularly clean drinking water. Faith Lutheran partners with the Beersheba Seventh Day Adventist Church which uses our worship space on Saturdays. This church is made up of Haitian immigrants and Haitian-Americans. Many have loved ones still in Haiti who are suffering.