Recognizing Jesus

 

“What do you want with me, Jesus…”

Mark 5:7

 

Chapter 5 of Mark’s Gospel is packed so tightly with narrative, there seems no room for teaching; no sermonizing. From beginning to end it tells in simple and laconic language three fascinating and odd miracle stories.  It begins with one of the weirdest miracle stories in scripture: the Gerasene demoniac and the pigs.  Jesus drives the demons out of a man and (at the request of the demons) He sends them into some pigs who rush off a cliff into the sea and die.  When the people of the town hear about this, they go to Jesus and plead with Him to leave their town. And He does.

 

This story is followed by the story of the president of the synagogue who comes to Jesus pleading for help for his daughter. To my ear this story echoes the story of the Roman centurion who asks Jesus to heal his servant (MT 8:5-13).  In both stories there is an official who shouldn’t have anything to do with Jesus, who should be opposed to this itinerant preacher and His magical cures and His rule-breaking and trouble-making ways. But, in both cases the official humbles himself to come begging for help. 

 

And then there is that third miracle story which so artfully interrupts the second, so that we have a story within a story.  This interlude story is that of the woman who has been bleeding for 12 years.  Here is how Mark sets it up:  As Jesus is following the official back to heal his daughter, a woman comes up behind them and touches the robe of Jesus and is healed.  When Jesus turns to see who touched Him, the crowd is pressed around so tightly that no one can tell who touched whom.  And yet the woman comes forward and confesses that it was her—and that she has been healed. As Jesus is talking with her, people from the official’s house come and tell him that his daughter has died, there is no reason to bother Jesus anymore.  Of course, that isn’t the end of that story either.  

 

Though there is no preaching in this chapter, there is a lot of teaching going on.  Kind of a show, don’t tell, chapter—I guess.  And though there is much to be gleaned here, the message that I heard this morning was not about the miracles as much as it was about the people who sought them (or didn’t).  What I heard as I read these familiar stories this morning, was a lesson about recognizing Jesus.  And how we react when we do.

 

In the first story, it is the demoniac (or the demons within him) who recognizes Jesus. He is the one who comes to Jesus and demands: What do you want with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God?

 

And what does Jesus want, but to make him whole. To cure him of his demons.  Of course, after the man is cured, the people of the town aren’t so sure it was worth it.  Sure, the guy was possessed with demons and haunted the mountains and the caves and broke every chain they tried to lock him up with, but what about all their pigs?  They come out to see this miracle, to get a glimpse of the “show” so to speak.  But instead of sharing the joy of a man’s healing, they focus on the cost and implore Jesus to leave their shore.  Like the demons, they recognize something special in Jesus, but don’t want to have anything to do with Him.  It costs too much.

 

And then there is the official from the synagogue.  He comes from a community that has already rejected Jesus, is already looking for ways to get rid of Him.  But, this man sees something in this stranger that makes him step away from the security of his community (his peers—the Pharisees and Sadducees), to risk ridicule and rejection, by coming to Jesus and begging for help.  He recognizes in Jesus something he can’t find anywhere else: hope.

 

And like him, the woman with the bleeding comes because she has heard talk of Jesus and His healing powers. For twelve years she has sought a cure from doctors and healers and has “spent all she had” without finding any help (5:26) and so she turns to Jesus out of desperation.  She is willing to risk everything just for a chance to touch the hem of His robe.  And after she is cured, what does Jesus tell her:  “…your faith has restored you to health…”(5:34). In other words, she recognized Him. She recognized that He held the power of healing. In fact, that is the story of all these characters—they recognize something in Jesus. 

 

The demoniac recognizes in Jesus (a stranger just arrived on his shore), an authority that sets him free from the evils that plague him.  The people from the town recognize that same authority in this stranger but want nothing to do with it.  It asks too much of them.  

 

For the synagogue official, Jesus is a man spurned by the religious authorities. He is an outcast, a problem, possibly even a criminal.  Coming to Jesus must cost this man more than we can imagine.  His reputation, his position in society, his place in the synagogue… all of it is at risk simply by him seeking out jesus.  And yet he does. Because he sees in Him hope and healing. In fact he pleads with Jesus to come to his house. 

 

And the woman, who has already given up everything she has. She has not only spent everything she has searching for healing, but by her constant bleeding, she has become unclean—a person to be avoided. She has nothing left to lose, and in her emptiness she sees in this poor humble carpenter a radiance that brings her to her knees and brings her back to health.

 

Jesus comes to all three of these scenes as a stranger, an outcast, someone who by his very presence makes a demand upon us.  How will we receive Him? Who will we see when we look at Him? At this stranger? The rejected? The outcast? Or the Son of the Most High God? Jesus? Who do we see when we meet a stranger? Do we see someone who is part of the body of Christ?  Do we welcome the stranger, even reach out to her or him because we recognize they too are children of God? They too are made in the image of God… Or do we turn away because see only a burden? An expense we are unwilling to pay?

Recognizing who we are

“...the God of Jacob,
who turns the rock into a pool of water

and the flint into a flowing spring…” 
--Psalm 114:8

How often do we feel misunderstood? Or worse, unnoticed.  Unseen.  People look at us and see not a refreshing pool of water or a life-giving stream, but a jagged rock, a flinty piece of stone.  They see not us (at least not who we imagine we are), but someone else… Perhaps it is just who they think we are.

Sometimes this isn’t necessarily unpleasant.  At least a few times I have been standing in the frozen food aisle at HEB and had someone ask me where the eggs are?  Or, wandering through Barnes and Noble, I am occasionally stopped by someone looking for a particular book.  Both cases might be explained by the fact that I was wearing a tie and looked like I could be an employee.  But, explain this one: I was waiting at the light at Gessner and I-10 when someone pulled up next to me and rolled down his window. I thought he was going to ask directions, so I rolled mine down ready to help. But, instead he said, Hey! Are you a preacher? You look like a preacher.  (I wonder what he would have thought if he had seen that I was wearing my red pants!)

People have their ideas, their opinions; I still remember overhearing a salesman tell my mom that I had wide hips like a girl.  I was 8 years old.  That was 1967. I was in the dressing room at the Craig’s store at Memorial City.  All, I wanted were some hip-huggers and a Nehru shirt! But what I remember is that comment.  It has stuck with me. In my imagination I was a lean, athletic build. A cross between Peter Noone and Jimmy Wynn! Was it true? Did I have wide hips?  I don’t know. Do I still? Does it matter? I guess the answer is obvious; to an 8 year old boy it did.

No matter how hard we try to be a fountain, too often the world looks at us and sees only a pile of rocks (in mom-jeans). 

Anyway, perhaps because of my life-long concern over my hips, I try to exercise every day. I get up and go for morning walks.  It is something I’ve written about before-- my morning walks to the park; and over the years a part of my morning routine has become picking up the trash at the park.  I try to make the place look a little better for the people who come after me.  I’m not alone in my efforts. There are a few of us.  We have a kind of community.  No special handshakes or anything, but we know each other’s faces and we thank each other for our efforts. And when the messes get really bad, we offer sympathy and a helping hand.

But during the school week I am often out extra early—before dawn, so I don't see my trash buddies, and when it is that dark I can’t always see the trash --or what’s in it.  One morning I had the awful experience of picking up a pizza box only to have a swarm of ants come streaming out complaining that they hadn’t finished breakfast.   So, on this particular morning I was just walking, praying my rosary and enjoying the stars. The sky was beautiful and clear and the trees were thick dark shadows against it. At that hour the park is pretty empty, but occasionally someone would pass and--not wanting to disturb the quiet-- we would mutter a quiet good morning to each other.  Near the end of my walk as I was coming around the far end of the park to the street side I caught a glimpse of something in the headlights of a passing car.  It was a Burger King bag standing on the curb. I thought about just leaving it. Someone else will get it.  But, instead I walked out the gate. Picking up the bag, of course I found more: a cup and fry envelope close by and burger wrapper a few feet away with some wadded up napkins and a couple of ketchup packets.  Anyway, there I was bent over by the curb carefully trying to pick up a straw and cup lid without letting go of everything else, when I heard a voice call:  Hey. I haven’t seen you for a while. How are you doing?   

Looking up, there was the silhouette of a woman paused on the track.   After a few niceties, she thanked me for picking up the trash and waved and disappeared into the dark. Only after she was gone did I realize it was Sara. The freckle-faced woman in the hijab that I talked about in another of these essays.  I couldn’t see her face, but I knew it was her by two things: first, her speed. She’s a pretty serious runner. And second, and most certainly, as she passed under the dim glow of a street lamp I caught a glimpse of her head covering.

After putting the trash into a can, I headed home feeling slightly giddy. I kept hearing those words in my head: she hadn’t seen me for a while.  She had stood out to me, because I don't see many women dressed like that. Full body jogging suit and a hijab. But me, I'm just a goofy old guy who walks at the park. We're a dime a dozen! No one even sees me...  And yet...

It feels good to be noticed. Makes us feel –what? Seen. As if someone has recognized that we matter. We have value.

But how? Why had she recognized me? We don't really know each other. We just see each other at the park --and not that often.  I was out in the street, a good 15 or 20 yards away from her. And it was dark. And the nearest street lamp was half a block away. And my back was to her; I was bent over the curb picking up trash and… oh.  That!  She recognized me not by my face, not by my clothes, or even my name, but by what I was doing. She knew me by my action. 

And in that moment I felt truly recognized. Like I had been truly seen. And it felt wonderful. Almoast home, I paused at the corner.  My shadow stretching out over the damp grass, across a driveway and into the street ahead, majestic and tall --a reflection of how I felt at that very moment.  I looked up into the sky in wonder at the feathery edges of the tall pine trees against the fading night. And I remembered those beautifull lines from Gerard Manley Hopkins’ poem, “As Kingfishers Catch Fire.”

“Each mortal thing does one thing and the same…

…what I do is me: for that I came.”

And I thought –yes. This is who I am. This is why I came.  I am more than the mistakes I make. The annoying habits I can’t seem to quit.  More than the foolish things I say in public.  I admit that sometimes I may be a rock, a real stumbling block.  But sometimes, gosh darn it! I can also be a pool of cool and refreshing water. And standing there I had the wonderful feeling that this person, this near stranger, had recognized that. Had recognized me.

Of course, there is more to me than what I do at the park.  For instance, in the 5^th grade a girl told me I was a good kisser.  You can probably tell, I am still very proud of that.  And of course, there is more to Sara than her head covering, her speed and her great posture.  But for the moment, I felt seen, truly seen and it felt very good.  Realizing that I still had to get home and shower before work, I started walking again. And noticed again my shadow stretching out before me.  Looking at it now, I realized how comical and elongated it actually looked. And I noticed something else; the shape of it bounding ahead of me shrinking slightly as I came to the next street lamp. Watching it, I realized there was something about the middle… the shape… in fact, the pockets of my walking shorts seemed oddly prominent. I touched them.  In one was my phone; the other had a packet of Kleenex and my rosary; but there was something else about the shape of it --of me... something about the hips…  Oh well… At least I was recognized. That’s what really counts.  Right?