Those blessed sheep… a few thoughts for the feast of Christ the King

 

“Come you, who are blessed by my Father…”

--Matthew 25:34

 

Such a familiar parable, this story of the final judgment, this judgment of the king.  It comes near the end of Matthew’s gospel and is that wonderful story of the goats and the sheep being separated to the left and right because of how they behaved toward the poor, the sick, the naked, the hungry, the prisoner and the outcast; basically, those in want. It is a wonderful allegory of identity and ignorance, of revelation and reward, of charity and compassion and the sorrowful lack thereof.

 

I have too often focused on the idea of the reward in this story. The fact that the king invites the sheep into His kingdom because they were charitable, and sends the goats away with a curse because they failed to be charitable; that has always stuck with me.  As if it were a warning: be on the lookout! You never know when the king is coming; and He might be in disguise!  And I think that is one of the ways it is commonly read.  As a kind of instructional warning directed at those of us who struggle with selfishness, to be ever vigilant if we want to get invited into God’s kingdom. And I can see that this is a reasonable reading of this parable.

 

And yet, I hear something echo in that word “blessing,” that speaks to me on another level.  I looked up the word this morning. It is translated from the Greek eulogemenoi which literally means “being blessed” or “to be spoken well of; to praise” and is sometimes used to mean the conferral of something beneficial; i.e. praise or good words or a blessing!  But in this passage from Matthew the invitation to come or go is directed at those who “are blessed.” Which sounds like it could also mean that they have already received their reward. They ARE already blessed.  And as I contemplated that phrase I wondered something else.  I wondered about the kind of fable like premise of this parable. 

 

The parable implies that the king has been met and served (or not served) by these people in the guise of a prisoner or a beggar, an outcast or a sickly person.  And who is that “king,” but Jesus (God).  And so what is the reward that the sheep receive for their kindness to Him? They get to be in His kingdom, His presence forever.  And what is the punishment that the goats receive (or earn), but simply to be out of His presence forever (and to burn with hunger for it—I imagine).  And if that is the reward then what about that moment when they fed the hungry? Clothed the naked? Sat with the sick and comforted them, or visited the prisoner, welcomed the outcast?  In those actions, in those moments, when they did these things “for the least of [His] brothers,” isn’t the lesson that they [we] were doing them for Him. And so, in those moments of charity and kindness, where we serve Christ, aren’t we already in His presence? Aren’t we already in His kingdom? And if so, aren’t we already blessed? 

 

As St. Catherine of Siena famously said:  All the way to Heaven is Heaven. 

 

To be with Christ isn’t just a reward, it’s also a way of life.  Every time someone asks us for help, every time someone reaches out to us for consolation or even just a moment’s kindness, we are being invited to receive a blessing. We are being invited into the Kingdom of God.  Let us open our eyes to the glory of that invitation, and let us see in every face the grace of the one who is inviting us to come and meet Him not someday—but right here. Right now. In this moment. In this place. In this person.  And that, my friends, is truly a blessing.

 

Everytime I read my Bible, I am amazed by what I discover about God’s love.  Open your Bible my friends and take a moment to read. I promise you, you will be blessed by what you find there. 

 

Here is a short prayer you might pray before you begin to read.

 

Lord, open my eyes,

that I might read your word more clearly.

Lord, open my ears,

that I might hear your message more fully.

and Lord, open my heart,

that I will be filled with the Love that is found there.

 

 

On fear and silence and the end of Mark's Gospel

 “…and they said nothing to anyone,
for they were afraid.”

--Mark 16:8

 

 

This morning I finished the Gospel of Mark.  There is so much to say about this shortest of the gospels.  Most scholars now think of it as the earliest gospel, asserting that its conciseness is a sign of its chronological place. One theory is that the other synoptic gospels derive their basic structure from it, embellishing it with details from lost sources, including a collection of sayings attributed to Jesus. The late literary critic Harold Bloom valued Mark’s gospel for its mysterious urgency and dramatic flair.  It is often referred to as a Passion narrative with a long introduction. 

 

Like all the gospels, all of scripture—I guess—I like it for its strangeness.  With this gospel, in particular, I am drawn to the way it seems to rush along, beginning in media res, then rushing head-long into the action, with Jesus “at once…” going out, and the disciples “at once…” following Him and the demons “at once…” crying out and the sick “at once…” being healed, etc etc.  As Bloom, and others, pointed out, everything in this story happens with a strange urgency.  Some translations use the word “immediately” (cf 1:12, 1:18, 1:20, 1:42, etc etc) to express this urgent movement.  I find this element of the book compelling and strange and worth meditation.

 

But this morning I am thinking of a different element from the end of this Gospel.  In my New Jerusalem Bible there is a note on 16:8 that informs me Mark probably originally ended there with the story of the  women who witnessed some manifestation of the resurrection and, overwhelmed by it, went away in silence and fear. No “immediately,” no “at once,” but only a kind of strange quiet and stillness—as if suddenly everything stopped. Ending as it began, in media res (which is Latin for “in the middle of things”).  The scholars speculate that the next 12 verses were an addendum derived from the other gospels and added in order to harmonize Mark with Matthew and Luke.  Those kind of issues, I have no insight into.  I leave that to the historians and the scholars with their degrees and dissertations.

 

My thought today is only of that image of the women saying nothing to anyone, “because they were afraid.”  They have received the “good news” of the resurrection, of the conquering of death, of the return to life of their beloved friend… Why wouldn’t they rush off to share this news? Why wouldn’t they be blowing a trumpet and crying from the hilltops to anyone and everyone?  Yet they “said nothing to anyone, because they were afraid.” 

 

Why? What were they afraid of? Looking foolish?  Being ridiculed? Rejection? I think quite often I remain silent out of fear of how someone will react. What they might say to me. How they will treat me… Or worse, that they might question me, challenge me, make me begin to doubt what I know is true.

 

I fear that they won’t really hear what I am saying, but only the weakness of my words, my failure to express myself adequately.  Often, when I am overwhelmed by an experience, my words fail me. Too often, some might say, I flounder a bit and then suddenly (at once, and with a strange kind of immediacy) I melt into tears. And feel like a fool. 

 

What was it that made the women leave the tomb of Jesus and go away in silence and fear?  What was the author (Mark) trying to say about their experience? About the experience of the early church? Why that fearful silence?

 

It forces me to remember the many times I too remained silent for fear of how people might react.  But it also makes me aware of the importance of another kind of silence. Of the willingness to listen when someone comes to you with something to say. The willingness to hear them out and even to let them have the last word.  The willingness to listen, openly and completely; the willingness to listen without feeling a need to correct, or challenge or show my own intelligence.  To just listen to the message that the other person brings, their experience, their perception, their desire to share, and their witness to the wideness of the world.

 

There are so many lessons to be found in the Gospels, and even a few to be found in the footnotes.

Making God’s word effective: The Syro-Phoenician Woman & the theology of inclusion

“In this way you make God’s word

ineffective for the sake of your own tradition.”

--Mark 7:13

 

I have always had trouble with the way Jesus speaks to the Syro-Phoenician woman.  She comes to Him seeking help for her daughter who is possessed by a demon.  This is a classic situation for Jesus to reveal His power, and His Father’s healing love.  But instead Jesus responds to the woman’s plea with a kind of parable or koan-like statement about taking food away from children and feeding dogs.

“The children should be fed first, because
it is not fair to take the children’s food
and throw it to little dogs.” (Mk 5:27)

Upon first reading, it sounds not only like Jesus is being dismissive of her pain (and her daughter’s suffering), but also a little insulting. Why?  This is not the Jesus we expect. He doesn’t seem to be the same guy who just  walked on water, fed 5000, healed Jairus’s daughter (as well as the woman with her bleeding), and anyone the crowds brought to Him, the guy who ate with sinners, calmed the sea and taught that the Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath. Clearly, he’s not someone who seems wrapped up in rules and regulations. And, prior to this, has shown no hesitance when asked for help.  And yet, what He says to the Syro-Phoenician woman sounds like a dismissal and a veiled reference to a rule is the only explanation He offers.  To me, this strangeness is a theological speed-bump. It slows me down, in fact--stops me in my tracks—and demands my attention.  I don’t like it.  It makes me uncomfortable. Why is Jesus acting like this?  What does it mean?

 

Often when this story is discussed, the emphasis is put on the fact that the woman is Syro-Phoenician (a Gentile; non-Jew). There is a tradition of Jews referring to Gentiles as dogs, and so this makes some sense.  Yet, Jesus has just cured another Gentile of demonic possession back in chapter 5 (cf. Mk 5.1-20 the Gerasane demoniac & the 2000 pigs). So, why is He suddenly hesitant to cast out another demon from another Gentile?  Why this sudden change? Again—a theological speed-bump, encouraging us to slow down and take a moment (or a life-time) and pay attention. Contemplate this.  Let the Word of God open itself to you and see where it leads.

 

And so, here is where it lead me—backwards.  I remembered that in Matthew’s version of this story, the disciples complain to Jesus about the woman.  They want Him to do something so she will stop following them.  And so, in Matthew’s Gospel it makes sense to read this story as a lesson for those same disciples.  They have come from a world where people like this woman are often referred to as dogs. So, when Jesus refers to throwing food to the dogs (Mt. 15:21ff) it seems quite plausible that He is making a point specifically for His disciples. He is demanding that they confront their own language and prejudices against the Gentiles.  But here in Mark there is no mention of the disciples.  We have only the woman and Jesus.  Within that context, we must ask ourselves, what is Mark saying here?  And a trick I learned from N.T. Wright (an Anglican theologian) is to look at the surrounding text. What has just happened prior to the troubling verse, and what comes after.  Well, just prior to this, Jesus has been having a discussion with the Pharisees and scribes about the rules.  They want to know why the disciples eat with unclean hands. Why don’t the disciples follow the rules about washing their arms up to the elbow before they eat?  These rules come not from the Torah, but from tradition; in effect, they are an interpretation of scripture, a reading of God’s law; they arise out of theologizing –thinking about God and God’s law.  But here’s the problem. Jesus points out to the Pharisees and Scribes that their form of theologizing ends up being very exclusive. It tends to “rule” people out.  Just as it does here with this question about clean hands, the way they read God’s law ends up excluding people for a variety of reasons. In fact, it seems that the lens they use for reading God’s law is a lens of exclusion. It tends to read God’s law (God’s love) as being only for an exclusive group—those who meet certain qualifications.  And so it is constantly looking at the rules to measure out who meets those qualifications.  It is as if they have a telescope turned round the wrong way and are looking at everything through the wrong end. Everything looks smaller, looks tighter, looks narrower through this lens.  Harder to attain, and much less open for discussion (or inclusion).

 

Jesus tells them point blank:  In this way, you make God’s word ineffective for the sake of your tradition. They put their tradition, their interpretation, above everything; including the effectiveness of God’s word.  And with that in mind, let us return to this Syro-Phoenician woman and those dogs under the table.

 

I wonder if this vignette, this very brief miracle story, is actually a lesson in interpretation.  A kind of lesson in theologizing. Think about it this way: who is she talking to? The Word made Flesh.  What is she doing? Humbly coming to the Word seeking healing, seeking comfort, seeking guidance.  But what does she find?  She is confronted by an unpleasant truth (or what seems like an unpleasant version of the Truth, the Way, and the Life). But, how does she react? Does she go away in search of another religion? Another miracle healer? Another way, truth or life? No. She accepts the terms that Jesus puts forward, accept the truth of what He says and then she offers a theological reading of that truth.  She offers an interpretation based on His terms, His words, His Truth. She says:

“Ah yes, sir… but little dogs under the table eat the scraps from the children.” (Mk 7:28)

 

And with that response, becomes, it seems to me, an icon of the Christian theologian. Unlike the Pharisees who seem only to see the law as a way to exclude others, she--without contradicting the truth of God’s word, accepting it completely under its own terms-- discovers in it an effectiveness that resounds with the love of the God that has been revealed to us, a God of love and grace and mercy. She discovers even in this unpleasant saying, a broadness and a grace that at first was not apparent.  It is as if in her words here, in this brief response, she teaches us a theological approach: how to read the Word of God through a lens of inclusiveness, how to discover in even the most difficult sayings and unpleasant passages a love that transcends human understanding. 

 

Is that not the true work of theology: to discover and reveal the truth of God’s love? And should that not be the tradition that guides us?  A tradition of love, of mercy, of compassion, a tradition that opens doors, lights lamps, makes pathways straight; a tradition that proclaims always the loving message of a loving God: Come unto me, all you who are weary, and I will give you rest. A tradition that proclaims: At this table, all are welcome.  

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?