Sermon from February 15, 2009

CARVING OUT LITTLE ISLANDS OF BELIEF        

   2 Kings 5:1-14

Sermon presented on February 15, 2009

 

 

Today we find ourselves in the midst of three important holidays.  Yesterday was Valentines Day.  Tomorrow is Presidents Day.  And on Tuesday Spring Training camps open for most teams.  Ernie Harwell, the great Tigers broadcaster, once said baseball is part sport, part business and part religion.  So for some of us the opening of Spring Training is a sacred occasion.  But until it makes its way officially onto the Presbyterian Planning Calendar I suppose I ought to stick with the lectionary texts.

 

            I’d like to look closely at today’s Old Testament reading, and I invite you to look with me.  It’s the story of Naaman the leper, from the Book of 2 Kings, chapter 5, verses 1-14.  Bible scholar T. R. Hobbs calls this passage simply “remarkable . . . a fascinating example of Hebrew narrative art.”  It’s a magnificent story, with appealing characters, a compelling plot, and a hopeful message.  That message is one of God’s purposes:  that as we trust God, and live more-and-more in relationship with Him, then His presence, His love and His eternal plan become clearer to us.

 

            Here is a basic Biblical truth which we can claim and to which we may cling, no matter what the changing seasons and circumstances of life.  Essayist Judith Warner, in a piece titled “Do You Believe?” laments how difficult it can be to stay happy and hopeful in this present world, a world afflicted with problems almost everywhere, it seems, and darkened with cynical pessimism about almost everything.  She writes:

                        One of the greatest risks, I think, of living in a secular

                        world is something I might call the Woody Allenization

                        of everything.  Too much reason.  Too much self-awareness.

                        Too much blah-blah.  Too little wonder, and marvel and

                        faith – in the largest and vaguest sense of the world.  You

have, in this climate, to carve out whatever little islands of

belief that you can. (New York Times, 12/23/08, A21)

 

            The story of Naaman carves out several such little islands of belief. 

 

A brief review.  Naaman was commander-in-chief of the army of Aram, in the 9^th-century BC.  Aram was located in what’s now southern Syria.  Its capital was Damascus.  Naaman was the General Patraeus of his time, both a brilliant military tactician and a highly-regarded person.  When Naaman came down with a dreaded skin disease – called leprosy in scripture, but leprosy didn’t exist in the Ancient Near east; probably he suffered from chronic skin lesions, for which there was no known cure or relief – Naaman’s affliction concerned many.  Among the circle of those anxious for Naaman was a young Israelite girl who’d been captured in one of Syria’s raids into Israel, and now was working in Naaman’s household.  It’s testimony to Naaman’s character that even those captured by him cared about him.  The girl told her mistress, Naaman’s wife, that there was a prophet of great power in Israel, Elisha.  Naaman took the girl’s counsel seriously.  He went to the King of Aram and asked the King to make arrangement for him to meet this Elisha, by way of diplomatic channels.  The King agreed.  Once in Israel, a misunderstanding occurred, nearly starting a war.  (Diplomacy in the Middle East has never been easy, has it? Still isn’t!)  Naaman finally found Elisha, but when told, through an intermediary, that all he had to do was bathe himself seven times in the Jordan River, he became angry, thinking he was being disrespected.  But Naaman’s servants persuaded him to follow the prophet’s directions, and he was healed.

 

            I propose that at least three little islands of belief emerge from this story, concerning the love of God, beliefs that are simple and sure.

 

First, we can believe, like Naaman, that there is help and hope in our times of distress and need. 

 

When word came to Naaman that the Israelite prophet Elisha might be able to cure him, Naaman didn’t raise any of the objections we might have expected:  that it’s unimaginable to suppose little Israel has any resources that can compare with the strength and riches we enjoy here in mighty Syria; that it would be embarrassing for me, a renown and powerful man, to seek the aid of a foreign prophet, and what on earth is a prophet, anyway?; and what does this mere servant-girl know, what’s her interest in this matter, and who is she to suggest to me what I should I do?  But if any of these reservations occurred to Naaman, he didn’t let-on that they did.  Rather, he acted as though trusting that there is help and hope out there, somewhere, that he is not forever stuck in a misery from which there is no release or relief. 

 

It’s the same attitude that characterized the fellow in the New Testament passage, also afflicted with a dreaded skin disease.  He came to Jesus, and said to him:  “If you choose, you can make me clean” (Mark 1:40-45).   Like Naaman, he didn’t surrender to despair.  He didn’t admit defeat.  He didn’t give-up hope.  He trusted that help is available, so that tomorrow, or perhaps the day-after-tomorrow, will be better than today.

 

Hope is a worthy and useful attitude, of course.  In the great closing line spoken by the character Andy Dufresne, from the movie Shawshank Redemption:  “Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things.”   Being hopeful is a good way to be. 

 

But unless hope is grounded in something reliable and real, then it’s merely the mind playing tricks.   We can be people of hope, not as technique – you’ve got to be something, so why not be hopeful (?), there’s nothing to lose – but in response to the promise of God that He is merciful, just and kind, and that all things work together for good for those who trust Him.

 

This sounds comforting and encouraging as its slips off my tongue (doesn’t it?), all so simple and sweet.  But the life of faith isn’t easy at all (is it?).   What makes it difficult, is that God gives us this promise of deliverance, but not a plan.  Naaman did not know, had no way of knowing, that God was already waiting for him in the waters of the Jordan River.  To move within this force field of God’s love required him to leave the security of his present life – he may have been miserable, but the misery we know may be preferred to the joy we can only imagine — and to travel to another place, a place where his power and prestige gain him nothing, to be helped by someone he has never heard of before and over whom he has no power or authority.  Naaman had to go-forth into the unknown, driven solely by hope. 

 

Thinking about Naaman, I wonder about myself, and then I wonder about all of us:  are we willing and able to do this, to go forth into the unknown, driven solely by the hope that God is there?   For all of us find ourselves afflicted, at one time or another, or for some, much of the time, like Naaman was afflicted; with a problem (or problems) so deep we cannot solve them by ourselves, leaving us needy, despondent, confused and afraid.  May we, like Naaman, be bold to go forth in the hope that God’s unexpected gifts and graces will come to us, to strengthen and deliver us.

 

In a sea of uncertainty about what to believe, here’s a second island of belief:  that we can believe, like Elisha, that God will use us to bring help and hope to others. 

 

The primary task of a Christian is not to bring deliverance to others.  That’s the work of God.  But we know that God uses his people as agents of reconciliation, strength, healing and hope, people through whom His graces flow into the world and to others;  like Elisha, for example.

 

Elisha is an enigmatic Old Testament character.  He worked great miracles.  Bible stories tell of Elisha parting the waters of the Jordan, clearing the spring outside Jericho with impurities, and feeding 100 men with twenty loaves of barley and a few ears of grain.  Most remarkable of all, a dead man was revived when he came into contact with Elisha’s bones.  In this instance, though, Elisha chose not even to see Naaman.  Rather, through an intermediary, he told Naaman to wash in the Jordan River.  Naaman was insulted.  He regarded being treated this way as dismissive and disrespectful.  But in pointing Naaman away from himself, and re-directing him toward the one true source of God’s help, Elisha was, among other things, modeling for us the true character of discipleship.

 

Clifford Morris, who studied under C.S. Lewis at Oxford, recalls that he once asked Lewis why he didn’t preach more often.  Lewis replied that after he’d deliver a sermon, people would shower compliments and praise on him, and he’d quickly come to think, “yes, what a clever and fine fellow I am,” so that “I had to get to my knees pretty quickly to kill the deadly sin of pride.”  Lewis preferred to speak to college students, who were more likely to file-in and file-out without flattery.  Now, I’m hesitant to tell this story, lest you withhold kind words from me.  Encouragement is always appreciated.  But Lewis’ attitude was quite Elishaic, if that’s an okay adjective to use; in the spirit of Elisha, who, not drawing attention to himself as a source of help and hope, instead pointed Naaman toward the one true source, the one God whose love is reliable and strong, and endures forever.

 

Thinking about Elisha, I wonder about myself, and then I wonder about all of us:  are we able and willing to do this, to regard ourselves as humble servants of the Word, whose highest calling and greatest joy is in bringing people into the force field of God’s love.

 

Here’s a final little island of belief:  we can believe, like the servants in the story, that God works His will through improbable people.

 

            Have you noticed the role of the “little” people in this story?  It was an Israelite servant-girl who suggested that Naaman seek help from Elisha.  And once he was there, it was his servants who persuaded him to calm down from feeling slighted, and to go ahead to the Jordan as Elisha counseled.  The names of these servants aren’t given.  They’re not important, as the world measures such things.  But the whole story turns on their actions.  God’s purposes are fulfilled by way of these unnamed “little” people, speaking truth to power.

 

            The Lord works through those whom the world ignores.  So we dare not ignore anyone.  Is there something you and I can do this week that will live-out this idea of scripture?  There may be a word of appreciation to be said to someone we’ve long taken for granted, a gesture of interest shown in someone who in some way serves us yet whom we rarely engage as equals, a time of attention paid to someone who has been trying to connect with us, a respectful regard for someone who lacks our intellectual knowledge of the faith but who may have much to show us about what it actually means to live for Christ.   It might be simply making a decision to suspend, as best we are able, everything snarky, cynical and critical about how we regard others, and to be open to the wonders of God’s love, as such wonders come to us through improbable people whom God sends our way.

 

                        Too much reason.  Too much self-awareness.  Too much

                        blah-blah.  Too little wonder, and marvel, and faith.

 

            If this is indeed a correct diagnosis of our present condition, and I think it is, then let us claim and cling-to what scripture declares and Christ himself demonstrates:  that there is healing in the love of God, healing and strength and joy, and much more besides.

 

           

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sermon from February 1, 2009

                                                     ON DOING THE RIGHT THING

                                                   EVEN IF NOBODY IS WATCHING

             Mark 1:21-28, 12:38-40

                Sermon presented on February 1, 2009

 

 

Jesus and the disciples entered the synagogue in Capernaum.  Capernaum was a Roman military post along a major highway, so a fairly important city with a diverse population, probably of about 2,000.   In 1969 archaeologists working at Capernaum began to unearth walls of a first century synagogue, buried beneath the remains of a larger 4^th century synagogue.  It’s thought that these lower level remains are from the actual synagogue where Jesus taught.  In Bible times all men were invited to participate in the reading and interpretation of Scripture, so there was nothing exceptional about Jesus speaking on this occasion.  He was no doubt regarded as a faithful and capable member of the congregation, and in teaching he was conforming to the normal religious life of the people.

 

            But though this Sabbath day service began as something ordinary, it turned into something extraordinary, instead.  Scripture doesn’t report what Jesus said.  There’s no mention of content.  Rather, it is written:  [The people] “were astounded at his teaching, for he taught them as one having authority, and not as one of the scribes.”

 

            Now, our sympathies may go-out to any scribes who happened to be there at the time.  They hadn’t said or done anything that day.  Has this ever happened to you – you’re someplace, quietly minding your own business, and suddenly you’re busted? 

 

I was at a Super Bowl Party once, watching the game.  Alot of people were milling around the outskirts of the room, not interested in the game at all, but chatting while waiting for the commercials.  I was vaguely aware that a group to my right, and little behind me, was debating whether or not you have to go to church to be a Christian.  This topic is of some interest to me, but not as much as the game, so I ignored it.  Until a woman said, in a shrill voice I couldn’t ignore, or pretend to ignore:  “It’s the preachers these days, all they ever do is ask for money.”  Suddenly there’s silence in the room, an awkward silence, as everyone looks at me.  And I’m thinking:  what did I do?  Lady, I don’t want your money.  I just want to watch the game.

 

So, we may imagine the scribes in the synagogue that day – listening to Jesus teach, perhaps; or planning their own lessons, because experts believe that in Jesus’ time scribes were not mere copyists, as the name suggests, but scholars of religion and law; or perhaps they were doing crossword puzzles, or texting one another, or whatever, who knows.  But on this day, anyway, they’ve neither said nor done anything offensive.  Suddenly, there’s this silence in the room, an awkward silence, as people look to Jesus, then over to them, and exclaim:  this man from Galilee teaches “as one having authority, and not as one of the scribes.”  And if I’m a scribe, I’m thinking:  what did I do?

 

We have to look elsewhere in the Gospel to answer that question.  One of those elsewheres is Mark, Chapter 12, verses 38-40, where it is written that Jesus said:

            Beware of the scribes, who like to walk around in long

            robes, and to be greeted with the respect in the marketplaces,

            and to have the best seats in the synagogues and places of

            honor at banquets!  They devour widows’ houses, and for

            the sake of appearance they say long prayers.

 

Here lies the crucial criticism of the scribes: that they act “for the sake of appearance.”  What matters most to them is that others are watching them.  They walk-around all the time, drawing attention to themselves.  They strut and preen in elegant, expensive clothes; the phrase “long robes” doesn’t refer to the length, really, but to the extravagant abundance of rich flowing fabrics.  They grab the best seats, right down front, not only in the synagogue, but at private meals and parties, as well; it doesn’t matter what the occasion is, they regard themselves as celebrities, always claiming the center of attention.  The clown in Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night could have been addressing the scribes when he tells Malvolio:  “Leave thy vain bibble babble.”  The scribes also leveraged their status to squeeze money from people.  And Jesus’ final criticism of the scribes is that they pray long prayers, not because they have a lot of to say to God, nor because they want to be open to hearing what God reveals to them, but “for the sake of appearance,” they just want everybody to watch them, and to be impressed by their holiness.   They speak “presumptuously,” as is written of the false prophets in the Book of Deuteronomy.

 

So, then, back to the story:  the people in the synagogue that day were astonished, not by the content of Jesus’ teaching, but by his integrity.  “He taught them as one having authority, and not as the scribes.”   Whereas they were arrogant and vain, he was humble and self-giving.  Whereas they wanted attention, he re-directed peoples’ attention to God.  And whereas they were always performing, pitching all they did to the crowd, he taught the sublime truth – and lived it, as well – that what matters most is doing the right thing even if nobody is watching.

 

In fact, this may be seen as the very definition of integrity: what we do when nobody is watching.  When we’re trying to impress others there are various ways our actions may be affected, all bad.  Like the scribes, we may act full of ourselves in order to disguise the emptiness inside.   We may say what’s clever and pointed rather than what’s truthful and kind.  We may be so in love with ourselves that there’s no room for anyone else, so vain we think the love song is about us.  Or the opposite may occur, as well:  we may act sweet, charitable and generous of spirit when others are watching, but then do quite the opposite in private, when nobody is watching, the hypocrisy Jesus so often denounced as an enemy of true discipleship.  No, what matters most is that there be a seamless continuity between our inner and outer lives, between what we say and what we do, between our faith and our life.  This is the quality of character the people saw in Jesus that day.  It was so unusual, and so compelling, that they were “astounded.”

 

What happened next astounded them, as well.  A man with an unclean spirit entered the synagogue.  What this man’s exact problem was, we cannot know; apparently it was some mix of physical, psychological and of course spiritual afflictions.  Jesus healed the suffering man.  This electrified everyone.  “They were all amazed,” it is written.  But notice, again, that what most touched and transformed the people was not the miracle itself, anymore than what had astonished them earlier was the content of his teaching.  Rather, they’re amazed that Jesus acted “with authority,” that is, with more than just power, but with integrity, as well, and holy purpose, and transparent honesty and holiness.

 

Writer John Updike died on Tuesday.  At his best, Updike was an artful story-teller and essayist, usually taking with great seriousness the role of religion in the lives of his characters.  Updike wrote:  “Truth should not be forced.  It should simply manifest itself.”  I thought of his comment this week, in relation to the text before us today.  The difference between the scribes and Jesus was that they were forcing people to pay attention – to them, to their words, to their rules and requirements; whereas in Jesus the truth simply manifested itself.

 

As we come to the Lord’s Table, let us respond to Christ’s invitation in a spirit of humility and holiness, praying for grace to be people of integrity, that we would not be multiple selves — an outer self and an inner self, a public self and a private self, a normal self and a religious self – but one self (body, mind and spirit), with Christ at the center, fully devoted to Him.