John the Baptist had the kind of ministry that young seminarians dream of. He threw all of himself into everything he did—he preached and taught and performed the ritual of baptism for the remission of sin. John had the kind of sheer charisma that caused crowds of people to love him. Even Herod, who probably disliked a good portion of what he was hearing, liked listening to John speak—even though whenever he heard John, Herod came away greatly perplexed. John spoke God’s own truth as he saw fit and everyone knew that he was a righteous and holy man.
Um, guys? Guys? I'm trying to talk about John the Baptist over here...
Unfortunately, one of the things John was saying that perplexed Herod had to do with his wife, Herodias. According to the Jewish historian, Josephus, Herodias divorced her husband in order to marry her husband’s half-brother. While this would simply be a piece of juicy gossip in today’s day and age, according to Jewish law, it was a pretty big no-no. The purity laws say that you shouldn’t have sex with your brother’s wife because it’s like having sex with your brother. And John was saying so. In public. Where everyone could hear.
Well, Herodias didn’t like that. She didn’t like that at all. In fact, she wanted John dead. But Herod was afraid to kill John, because John was—after all—a righteous and holy man. So Herod had him tossed in jail instead.
So, Herod and Herodias had a daughter—who was also named Herodias, just to make things confusing. On Herod’s birthday the daughter Herodias did a dance that Herod liked so much that he promised her anything she asked for. In public. Where everyone could hear.
Wow, look at the little guy go...
Herodias the daughter runs to Herodias the mother and asks her what she should ask for. And Herodias the mother says, “Ask for the head of John the Baptist.” So Herodias the daughter goes back to her father, Herod, and says, “Give me the head of John the Baptist on a silver platter. Right now.” Herod doesn’t want to, but he did promise… And so it is done.
So you have to be careful, right? You have to watch what you say, hold back a little, or you could end up with your head on a platter. Ok, not literally, but we do live in a society where it certainly feels that way sometimes. I’m reminded of an animated series called The Boondocks. In an episode dedicated to the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. they imagined what it would be like if he hadn’t died when he’d been shot in Memphis on April 4th, 1968, but rather was in a coma until the fall of 2001.
In this fictional US, Martin Luther King Jr. is a guest on Politically Incorrect with Bill Mahr immediately following the September 11th attacks. Mahr challenges him on his stance of non-violence
Psst!
in the face of the terrorist attacks, and he responds by saying that “…as a Christian we are taught that you should love thy enemy and if attacked you should turn the other cheek.”
And the crowd was stunned. Time magazine’s cover labeled him a traitor.
Psst!
And the televised news referred to him as an Al-Qaeda lover who wants us to just roll over and let the terrorists win. Because he hates America. And is a Communist.
This is the world we live in. You have to be careful what you say or else you’re an Al-Qaeda-loving-America-hating-Communist.
Hey!
Because everyone around you will take an attack on their opinion as an attack on them personally and they will come out swinging. And if they are on the internet, or worse, in the eye of the media, they can and will serve your head up on a platter.
What about David?
Well, what about David?
“David danced before the Lord with all his might…” --2 Samuel 6:14a
I guess that’s true, too. Even though it embarrassed his wife to no end, David threw every ounce of his being into the celebration when the Arc of the Covenant first arrived in Jerusalem. And maybe that’s what God wants. Maybe God wants us to do everything whole-heartedly, because even though we run the risk of being hurt in the process, that’s how God’s work gets done.
Maybe… maybe God wants us to throw every ounce of our being into everything we do because it’s the only way to be honestly and truly down into the depths of your soul happy. I don’t know about you, but even though it scares me, I think it might be worth the risk. Maybe I’ll end up with my head on a platter. But then again, maybe I’ll end up being the kind of happy that looks like dancing with all your might.
Ok, that is me, but I’m still not Jesus. However, when I read the Gospel lesson for this week I couldn’t help thinking about how I grew up in North Stonington Congregational Church, UCC. This is a picture of the Junior Choir.
I'm in the first row, second from the right.
And here I am again, a little bit older—with a towel on my head. I think maybe having a towel on your head in worship is some kind of rite of passage that every child growing up in the church goes through at some point. At least I hope so, otherwise this picture might be embarrassing.
And here I am outside of the church with my Sunday School class—we’re showing off the banner we just made. I suspect that it’s still hanging up somewhere. Churches never get rid of those kinds of things, right?
Well, maybe I’m wrong. I don’t know what happened to this banner. I do know that this was my Confirmation Class.
There are still plenty of people in that church who were there back then. People who watched me grow from that child into who I am today. And that’s a wonderful thing. So I understand why, when I was looking for a new call and the church in North Stonington was looking for a new minister, my friend Robin (who also grew up in the church—she's the one on the right below) said, “Hey Josh, why don’t you come be our minister?”
And do you know what I said to her? I said, “There’s no way I’ll ever serve a church that’s seen me in diapers.”
You see, the thing is, as much as I love that place and those people, the fact is that the people who helped you to grow up don’t hear you the same way that other people do.
I was about to say that it’s not
actually that bad, but today’s Gospel lesson implies that it is, in fact,
exactly that bad.Jesus has been out
traveling, teaching and preaching and healing and driving out evil spirits both
in the area surrounding Nazareth and across the Sea of Galilee in the gentile country
of the Gerasenes.
Soon everywhere Jesus went a crowd
followed.And last week we heard that
even one of the leaders of the synagogue named Jairus came to Jesus to beg for
a healing miracle.That’s the story
where a woman was healed of a malady that had been troubling her for twelve
years by simply touching Jesus’ cloak.It is also the story where Jesus raises a twelve year old girl from the
dead.
So what happens next? Jesus goes home again. On the Sabbath he began to teach in the synagogue, but…
...yeah, that. The people said “Where’s he getting this from? Isn’t that just Jesus, the son of Mary?” They simply aren’t hearing him the way the rest of the world was. This is what Jesus meant when he told them, “Prophets are not without honor, except in their hometown, and among their own kin, and in their own house.”
Then the scripture goes on to say that Jesus could do no deed of power there, and that he was amazed at their unbelief. And that just feels strange, doesn’t it? I mean, Jesus is still Jesus, right? Son of God? Immanuel? God in the flesh? Yes, of course he is. But the people weren’t buying into it, they refused to see it—whether they understood or not, they actually turned down the chance to have some miracles. I've heard it described as if Jesus was a butane lighter and the woman with the hemorrhage was dry grass and kindling, Jairus was like firewood that’s been stacked in your basement, but the people of Nazareth… they were like wet hay—no matter how long you hold the flame to them, they just weren't going to catch. So the flame, Jesus, was just as strong as ever, you see?
So Jesus didn’t stand around Nazareth trying to force people who couldn’t hear and didn’t want to hear to accept what he was saying. He went out into the other villages and taught there, instead. And he called the twelve and began to send them out two by two, and gave them authority over the unclean spirits.
He ordered them to take nothing for their journey except a staff; no bread, no bag, no money in their belts; but to wear sandals and not to put on two tunics. This message, I think, is particularly difficult for us as Americans. We love our stuff. Even the simplest among us would bring a change of clothes if they had a set to pack, right? In fact, grabbing an extra shirt just seems prudent, doesn’t it? So what’s the deal?
I think that Jesus, as is so often the case, is refocusing his disciples on God. Do not depend on yourself for your food—depend on God. Do not depend on the money you carry—depend on God. Do not depend on yourself for clothing—depend on God. Do not, in fact, depend on anything you could carry in a bag—depend on God.
This isn’t the same thing as going out with no plan. For one thing, Israeli culture comes from a nomadic desert existence. Most cultures where people range from place to place have a very strong sense of hospitality—nomadic cultures that come from places where having a good place to stay for the night is required for survival have even stronger hospitality. What I mean to say is, Jesus could send his disciples out into Israel with a reasonable expectation that strangers would give them food, drink, and a place to stay.
Israel still has a reputation for being amazingly hospitable, by the way. Michael J. Totten, a foreign correspondent and foreign-policy analyst who has reported from the Middle East, the Balkans, and the former Soviet Union, once blogged about the subject of Israeli hospitality. He said that every time he publically announces that he’s about to make a trip to Israel, his “in-box fills with offers of generous assistance from Israelis who are total strangers. Most offered to buy him dinner. Some offered to let him sleep on their couch or in a spare bedroom. And a few even offered to show him around, introduce him to people—some even offered to set up appointments for him!
I do wonder, however, what Jesus would say to the Christian church in the US about all of this today? Would he send us out into the world with just a walking stick and the clothes on our backs? After all, if we’re honest with ourselves about the culture we live in, we have to admit that our sense of hospitality isn’t anything like it is in Israel. In America, as the saying goes, there’s no such thing as a free ride.
On the other hand, there are plenty of 250-year-old congregations meeting in 200-year-old buildings struggling to make ends meet as they literally pour good money after bad into heating and maintaining those beautiful, huge old buildings that haven’t been filled since 1950-something. I’ve often wondered what would happen if one of those churches sold off their building, rented some office space, and put all the money that they’d been throwing at their building towards mission and outreach?
I recently got into a huge Facebook discussion about church vitality with a fellow Andover Newton Theological School alum. She’s part of an activist movement that I suspect is a little too leftward leaning for me to get whole-heartedly behind—but being a part of that movement has put in her in contact with non-Christian activists. These are good people, ethical, in many cases "spiritual," but—she says—the idea of church holds no appeal for them. Even though they see Christian activists and recognize that their activism comes out of their sense of what it means to be Christian and live out the Gospel, nobody has asked her, “Where can I find a church like that?”
She has come to the conclusion that the church “…needs to stop being inside and go out into the world and serve, because that is what people can relate to. It is the only thing that will touch them, engage them, and make our faith claims mean anything at all.” So she left me with this question: “…how can we move the church out into the world? What will the body of Christ look like tomorrow, when the forms have crumbled and the buildings have been sold?”
Although she might be a little… vigorous, she’s not wrong. We can’t keep doing church as if it were 1950 anymore. The world has moved on. The good news, though, is that this isn’t the first time in the history of Christianity that the world has moved on. It’s ok if the current forms crumble—with the wisdom taken from all of the previous forms, we’ll build new ones. As for buildings, well, in all honesty, I believe that our church buildings—in most cases, anyway—will continue to be useful tools. As long as we remember that they are tools and figure out together how best to use them.
I don’t have all the answers. But there seems to be something to my classmate’s thought: the church needs to stop being inside and go out into the world and serve. Jesus taught in the synagogue—then he went out to the villages—then he sent the disciples out into the world. They stopped being inside and went out into the world to serve.
I’d be a little scared by the thought of it if I thought we were unprepared. But we aren’t unprepared. The Bible is full of examples of people who felt unprepared who turned out to be world-changers. Moses told God that he wasn’t a good enough speaker to change the world. Isaiah told God that he was a man of unclean lips. Jeremiah told God that he I didn’t know how to speak because he was only a boy. And David—dear goodness, David was far from perfect, but the people anointed him king over Israel anyway. And—and this is the important part—and David became greater and greater, for the Lord, the God of hosts, was with him.
So we have no excuse to hide here, in this building, to try to preserve something of the way the world used to be and let everything out there just go on changing without us. If we want to be disciples of Jesus we have to go out into the world and serve. It’s the only way to touch people, and engage them, and to have our faith mean anything at all.
Abiding God, Lord of hosts, be with us as we go out into the world. Help us to be greater and greater as we serve the world in the name of your Son, Jesus Christ, Amen.
Did you feel that? Did that hit you right here, the way it does to me? Do you have a song that hits you really hard? Maybe it was one that was played at a specific funeral? Or maybe it’s a hymn that has been played at too many funerals by far. Some songs, like the one we just listened to, are directly about mourning and some come to be associated with mourning through our own experiences of loss. I have strong memories of listening to the song “Ordinary World” over and over again right after my grandmother died when I was a Freshman in high school. I know a whole group of people for whom “Freebird” does it because it was performed at the funeral of a young man associated with Silver Lake. So what songs do it to you? What songs hit you right here? Do you feel that?
Then one of the leaders of the synagogue named Jairus came and, when he saw him, fell at his feet and begged him repeatedly, "My little daughter is at the point of death. Come and lay your hands on her, so that she may be made well, and live." I don’t have any children of my own, let alone a 12 year old daughter, so I can’t imagine, not really, how distraught and fearful and desperate Jairus must have been in that moment.
Can you? Your 12 year old daughter laying on her death bed and your only hope lies with this popular itinerant faith healer. Not just any healer, either, but one who has been drawing huge crowds and causing all kinds of political problems for you and your fellow authorities. But in that moment none of that matters—it only matters that you be able to make it through the crowd, that you get to Jesus, that he come and lay his hands on her, so that she may be made well, and live.
And just as you barely dared to hope, Jesus drops everything and follows you back to your house. But the crowd… oh the crowd rises up and presses in on all sides and, well, I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed but crowds go nowhere quickly. Your 12 year old daughter is laying on her death bed and your only hope lies with Jesus getting there on time. And time is short, and fleeting. Can’t you almost feel yourself trying to will the crowd along faster with your mind? Oh hurry… we must hurry… we really must go faster…
And then Jesus stops. He stops dead in the road. You probably take three steps before you can stop yourself because you’re hurrying so much. And Jesus says, “Who touched my clothes?” In the middle of that huge, jostling crowd! “Who touched my clothes?” Are you kidding me?
Then a woman comes out of the crowd, clearly terrified, and sinks to the ground in front of him, and told him that she’d been suffering from hemorrhages for twelve years. She had endured much under many physicians, and had spent all that she had; but it had only gotten worse. But she had heard about Jesus, an, she thought that if she could just touch his clothes, she would be made well. So she came up behind him in the crowd and touched his cloak and immediately her hemorrhage stopped; and she felt in her body that she was healed of her disease.
Then, while you stand there waiting, desperate to save your own daughter, Jesus says to this woman, “Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace, and be healed of your disease.”
“Daughter, your faith has made you well…” Jesus called this woman he didn’t know from Eve… Daughter. Even while you waited impatiently for him to go help your daughter. And suddenly it hits you for the first time that Jesus believes that we’re all equally important—and that he may be right.
Then the world comes crashing down. Some people from your house find you standing there, impatiently waiting for Jesus to finish talking to this woman he calls “Daughter,” and they tell you to stop bothering Jesus. Your daughter is dead.
Dead.
Did you feel that? Did that hit you right here, the way it does to me? Your daughter is dead and just as soul-crushing grief rushes in through the shock like water tearing open a damn, Jesus turns to you and says, “Do not be afraid—only believe.” Then he takes three of his disciples and goes into your house. You can hear Jesus loudly say to the mourners you hired (as was the costume then and in that place) “Why are you weeping? This child is not dead, but merely sleeping.” And then he kicks them out of the house. Only then does he take you and your partner into the house.
It is clear to you that she really is dead. There’s no question in your heart that she is dead. But Jesus says, “Talitha cum,” little girl, get up. And she does! She’s alive! Alive! The two of you are so overwhelmed by your pure joy and happiness that Jesus must remind you to feed the poor girl. And then he warns you not to tell anyone what had happened there.
“Don’t fear. Believe.” That may be the world’s shortest sermon. And I believe that those words of Jesus are actually the most important part of the story. Personally, I think that line about “she’s only sleeping,” was for the benefit of the strangers in the house, and for the crowd outside, because for whatever mysterious reason, Jesus wants to keep this miracle on the down-low. After all, once the girl in question was up and walking around again, who would question it? Sleeping… yeah, that must be it. She couldn’t have been dead.
To Jairus, though, Jesus says “Don’t fear. Believe.” The woman who touched Jesus was brave, and believed, and she was healed. Jesus said, “Don’t fear. Believe.” And then he simply raised that little girl from the dead.
I don’t know about you, but the place where I always struggle with the healing miracles—and especially with this story—is when I stop to think about all those people who don’t heal. It is hard for me to hear these words of Jesus when I’ve known faithful people who love and trust God and suffered and died anyway. For time out of mind, theologians have wrestled with this question and none of them have come up with an answer that feels anything resembling right and good.
And yet, Mark tells us the story anyway. Jesus said, “Don’t fear. Believe.” And maybe that’s what we’re supposed to do whether our loved one gets up and walks again or not. Maybe Mark is telling us here what he told us in the story about the stilling of the storm. The point is that Jesus is with us, that God is with us, that the Holy Spirit is always with us, both in the storm and in the calm, in sickness and in health, in plenty and in want, in joy and in sorrow, and no—not even death can keep us apart.
Once again, David is a good example of what I’m talking about here. David always acted without fear and believed in the living God—so much so that it’s clear to me that the two things go hand in hand: Believe and you shall not fear. The story of how David killed Goliath, of course, is a good example of this fact, but this morning—well the lessons this morning are about grief. So let’s talk a little bit about David and Jonathan and Saul.
So, a couple weeks ago we heard about the prophet Samuel anointing David, and the last part of that lesson said that the Spirit of the Lord came strongly on David from that day forward. The very next part of the story says that the Spirit of the Lord left Saul and that God sent and evil spirit to torment Saul. I have heard it said that there is a very fine line between a prophet and a madman—I believe that Saul fell headfirst over that line. I mean to say that I believe Saul went mad.
So, basically, David got to hang around Saul’s court a lot because he was a great musician and good music seemed to calm Saul down a bit. That’s why he wasn’t out taking care of his family’s sheep when Goliath issued his challenge. Well, we all know how the whole Goliath thing turned out, but the part we don’t always get to hear is that the slaying of Goliath is how David met Jonathan.
Now, Jonathan was a true prince—a valiant and noble warrior—Saul’s eldest son. Once David had killed Goliath, Saul speaks with him, and then the scripture says, “When David had finished speaking to Saul, the soul of Jonathan was bound to the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own soul. Saul took him that day and would not let him return to his father’s house. Then Jonathan made a covenant with David, because he loved him as his own soul…. David went out and was successful wherever Saul sent him…”
Now David was so successful that he became more popular with the people of Israel than Saul was. And Saul was crazy-paranoid-delusional. So most of the rest of Saul’s story is about how Saul repeatedly tries to kill David while continuing to war with every nation within sight of Israel. For David’s part, he refuses several times to kill Saul, despite how crazy-paranoid-homicidal Saul is.
But David and Jonathan continue to be very close, in fact there comes a point where it becomes clear to Jonathan that his father, Saul, really is serious about killing David. So he goes to David in secret and warns him off. It really is a very touching scene—they embrace and weep before Jonathan goes back to the palace of his father and David escapes into the night.
And now the war has taken both David’s worst enemy and a man David loved with all his heart. David is not afraid. He believes in God. And David mourns. And David, musician and poet, puts his hurt into word and song. I’m going to leave you with those words, and since I don’t have David’s music I’m going to borrow a piece that feels right to me. But before I do that, please understand, and if you only remember one thing from this sermon, let it be this: Being unafraid and faithful does not mean that you will never mourn. It simply means that you know God mourns with you.
