Text: Mark 1:40-45
God forgive me. For the second Sunday in a row and maybe for only the second time in my life, I’m going to mention football. But this week when Leonard Pitts, syndicated columnist and fellow UCC member, commented on the Tim Tebow phenomenon, it seemed that Pitts, as I, had been meditating on the story of Jesus healing the leper. For those who didn’t catch Wednesday’s column, Pitts defended a quarterback’s right to express his religious faith with a touchdown ritual, but respectfully questioned the depth of that kind of faith.[i] For those who don’t see the influence of Mark 1: 40-45 in Pitts’ commentary, let’s return to today’s text.
In a story that raises many questions, the conclusion of today’s reading seems especially puzzling. Why does Jesus heal a man and then tell him NOT to tell anyone? And, mind you, this man is not the last person Jesus will pinky swear to silence.
I’ve started to wonder if Jesus tried to muzzle the leper man because Jesus was worried the man would go all Tebow on him.
Surely Jesus considered practical matters of ministry. The lepers and blind men and sick women Jesus was healing attracted ever larger crowds when they shared stories of their dramatic healings. Jesus must have wondered how he could keep up with the demand of those in need. We’re not even through the first chapter of Mark and we see how beleaguered is Jesus the miracle worker. He knew there were limits to what he alone could do, that he’d have to equip his disciples before his healing ministry could be expanded and maximized.
But I also suspect Jesus tried to hush those he healed because he wanted to encourage their growth in faith. As a church planter, I’m as interested in the depth of our congregation’s spiritual foundation as I am in the breadth of our influence. For the blind man’s own sake, Jesus may have cautioned: “Wait awhile before you tell it, my brother. Maybe there’s ‘yet more light and truth to break forth.’[ii] Spend some time reflecting on what has happened to you and what God is showing you."
Let’s try to imagine—as Jesus might have—the kind of story the newly healed were likely to share. “I once was blind but now I see” is powerful testimony. But what happens to us and through us in the days and years after we open our eyes? Maybe Jesus sensed the leprous man didn’t know Jesus well enough, hadn’t had time to ponder long enough on that life-changing experience. Maybe Jesus thought the man would emphasize the impressive but surface changes to his life without having yet experienced the deeper changes that would come as the former leper re-entered his community, as he regained his true identity apart from the disease that had totally defined him.
Perhaps Jesus simply wanted those who were healed to have time to grow into their truest selves before they let untransformed language shape an elusive experience into something superficial. Scholars think the Messianic secret we discussed last week is a literary device used in Mark to build up to the revelation of Jesus’ full identity on the cross. His self-giving love could not have been fully known nor his mission apprehended by any of Mark’s clueless characters—not even the disciples—until then.
Besides, have you ever noticed that the faith stories we tell can become more about our own egos or our own culture and prejudices than about God?
Back to Leonard Pitts’ column—which speaks to the difficulty of telling stories of our spiritual transformation, especially in the public arena. “Faith,” he says, can become “a thing to be brayed . . . for political gain. It becomes a crowd gathering on courthouse steps to bemoan the removal of a rock bearing the Ten Commandments, becomes a school board trying to use the Book of Genesis in high school science classes, becomes a justification to abuse Muslims and gays. It becomes license for regrettable behavior. Moreover, it becomes a whirl of God talk and God iconography, a cross as fashion statement . . . a football player kneeling on the field.
“But that is faith externalized for public consumption, faith that runs the risk of being shiny and superficial. It doesn’t speak to the decisions we make, the people we are, when despair comes creeping into the midnight hour. Nor does it speak to any obligation toward the scabrous, the lost, the unwashed, the impoverished, the disgusted, the detested, the detestable.”
In case your ear did not catch the word scabrous in Pitts’ descriptors of the folks the faithful are obligated to care about—let me call your attention to it and remind you that scabrous and leprous are synonyms here. People of faith are obligated to care for the leprous, Pitts is saying. I think he has been reading Mark’s gospel.
The columnist concludes: “Those whose faith is most loudly externalized are often the ones most silent on that obligation. . . . There is . . . a tension between faith externalized for public consumption—and that which wrestles despair in the midnight hour. Each has its place. But only one will see you through till the morning comes.”
Because Jesus did not prevent the leper from sharing superficial testimony, he, like Leonard Pitts, apparently felt individuals have the right to express their faith as they wish. And let's never wait to share from our hearts. But as Pitts cautions, the transforming power of faith is not all about me and my experience. Jesus leads people to encounter a God who cares for our emotional, physical, mental well-being—and who heals not only individuals but communities. In fact, healing, as we saw in last week’s story, involves restoring one to the community so that one then can serve the community.
The leprous man was the detested of his day, more like an AIDS victim than a Tim Tebow, someone whose physical ailment ostracized him. Lepers—those with any number of skin conditions that made people ritually “unclean” according to Jewish purity law—were barred from the community. If the skin condition healed, a priest had to authorize the former leper’s return to the community. No wonder this man was eager to tell others his healing story.
But the deepest faith stories are told by the lives we live. As St. Francis said, “Preach the gospel at all times; when necessary, use words.” Faith stories are best shared, not in stadiums with strangers, but in communities among friends; not to the cheers of the crowd but often through the tears of the faithful.
The life of faith is not about a list of beliefs I claim but about a community in which we grow, together. We belong to a faith community partly to share our faith stories and hear others’ stories as they continue to evolve, partly to create a shared story together. The story I tell you today about my faith journey is an unfinished story. I’ll tell you a different story tomorrow. My story doesn’t merely express my faith; it shapes it.
I have permission to tell you a story about one young man who was for a short time part of our faith community and who may soon be restored to us, a young man now in prison. . . .
(My sermon next included a story I had permission to share with our congregation but not with others. I concluded the sermon with some guided reflection to help us discern how Open Table might support this young man as he starts composing a new story. Thanks be to God for a congregation sharing in the process of discerning God’s ongoing call upon our lives.)
PRAYER
O Christ, the healer, we have come
to pray for health, to plead for friends.
How can we fail to be restored
when reached by love that never ends?
Grant that we all, made one in faith
in your community may find
the wholeness that, enriching us
shall reach and prosper humankind.[iii] Amen
[i] Pitts, Leonard. “It Speaks Volumes When ‘God Talk’ Sparks Jitters” Mobile Press-Register (8 Feb. 2012) 10A.
[ii] Quoting anachronistically here from United Church of Christ forebear, John Robinson, pastor to the Pilgrims. http://www.ucc.org/about-us/ucc-firsts.html.
[iii] Words from the hymn “O Christ, the Healer, We Have Come” by Fred Pratt Green. @ 1969 Hope Publishing.
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