Mark 1:29-39
A Sermon for the People of St. Philip’s
Episcopal Church
February 8, 2015
Remember last week’s Gospel lesson? Last week we heard about Jesus’s first public
act of ministry…and it was a bold one.
He waltzed into synagogue, and began to teach (pretty brave, I have to
tell you, that whole teaching in a new place thing). While he was there, he was confronted by a
demon that identified Jesus as the Holy One of God. Jesus tossed it out, and his
fame began to spread throughout Galilee.
Well, this week’s lesson takes place on the
very same day…Jesus has just left the synagogue and has gone to the house of
Simon and Andrew the former fishermen.
Simon’s mother-in-law is sick; she’s laid up in bed with a high fever. Now, fever today in this country is not such
a big deal if you’ve got good health insurance, but in that time, a time without
antibiotics or Blue Cross Blue Shield, a fever worth writing about would likely
be fatal.
So Jesus enters the house and simply holds
her hand---he touches her—and immediately
she hops out of bed and she begins to serve them. Maybe she made sandwiches or a nice fish
stew.
Now, a whole lot of people I’ve talked with
this week have read this text with a feminist hat on, and they get pretty upset
about it. “What if she didn’t want to serve?”
“When Lazarus was raised he got to lounge around the dinner table!” Now, I have nothing against feminists, in
fact, I might consider myself to be a pretty good one, but here, that particular argument misses the
point.
Which is this: Momma is sick. Jesus holds her hand. She is healed. She serves.
Or, Jesus touches her. She is restored. She serves.
She is healed through the compassion of
Christ. And her immediate response is
one of service.
My grandmomma grew up in the early part of
last century, and her family, like so much of America at that time, was very very
poor. She worked hard in the fields and
then in the mills, until finally, my granddaddy returned home from the 2nd
World War and asked her to marry him. He
was a master carpenter and on his income, she was able to stay home and raise
two boys. What might seem like gender
entrapment to many of us was actually liberating for her. For the first time, most likely, she was able
to use her gifts.
Grandmomma’s home was always full of people. I
spent a significant chunk of my childhood there, and I remember that when it
was just us, the house felt weirdly quiet and strangely empty. Because, you see, my grandmother had a
spiritual gift…the gift of radical
hospitality. And so people were drawn to
her. Drawn to her welcome.
She was a woman of deep faith. In her own life, she had seen poverty,
depression, and desperation. She had
been visited by tragic illness. She had
faced hours of loneliness and worry. But
she had also known the restorative power of communion with Christ. She had been bound up in our Triune God in a
real and powerful way.
And so, you couldn’t leave my grandmomma’s
house with an empty belly nor could you leave empty handed. The tables she would set were overflowing
with dozens of dishes that usually came straight from her garden. And almost always, there was a plate of fried
chicken. The real deal, ya’ll. And
always, there was room for one more. Folks
would leave with “a plate for tomorry” or “a little something to help you get
by”. I can’t even begin to recount the
dozens of times she did without so that someone else could have what they
needed. The hours she spent tending to
family and church family and neighborhood children…or to whomever presented
themselves with need. And perhaps the
biggest gift, you couldn’t leave her side without the clear understanding that you were welcome with her and that you
mattered to someone. And that she knew
you mattered to God. Radical hospitality. Bound up in the mission of God through
service to others.
Touched by Jesus. She was restored. And she served.
The gospel goes on… “that evening, at sundown, they brought to him all who were sick or possessed
with demons. And the whole city was
gathered around the door. And he cured
many…”
Remember, that in the time of Jesus, illness
was a terrible thing. If it wasn’t the
kind of illness that would kill you, then it was likely the kind that would get
you cast out of society. Lepers, the
blind, the lame all lived on the margins.
Cast out. Unclean. Surely they did something that made God
really, really angry. Surely they were
so bad they were deserving of that punishment.
And since “good” folks wanted to stay on God’s “good side” they refused
to interact with the “bad” ones.
Illness meant a separation from society. A separation from community.
Who are our “unclean”? Those
who don’t “look like us”? Those who
speak a different language? Those who
are uneducated? Those who qualify for,
and God help them, actually accept government assistance like welfare or food
stamps? Those who are disabled? Those who worship God differently?
When you look around during your day to day
life, who do you see cowering in the corner, cut off from community, made fun
of, voiceless, powerless, and in desperate need of something…or someone?
Who?
Who is separated from community and by that separation feels cut off
from God?
One of our professors, Rolf Jacobson says, “The
church, the body of Christ, is in the business and mission of overcoming that
separation.”
Just like Simon’s mother-in-law, and like my
grandmomma, we have been touched by Jesus.
We have been reconciled to God. We
have been drawn back into community and into communion with our Creator. We are
the church, the body of our Lord!
So as church, how do we participate in the reconciliation
that has been extended to us?
I love this snippet from writer Anne
Lamott: “Again and again I tell God I need help, and God says, “Well
isn’t that fabulous? Because I need help too. So – you go get that
old woman over there some water, and I’ll figure out what we’re going to do
about your stuff.” (“Traveling Mercies,” p.120)
Whoever had a need that came into contact
with Jesus, he tended them. Simple as that. Whoever has a need that comes into contact
with us, we tend them. Simple as that. Whether it’s an extra meal for a child to
take home over the weekend, time spent helping someone learn to read, giving a
neighbor a ride to a doctor’s appointment, or simply playing a board game with
someone who needs to know that they are welcome with you and that they matter
to someone.
Your job is not to save. Your job is to serve.
You have been touched by Jesus. You are freed; you are forgiven. You have been restored to life in communion
and in community. You are beloved. Go
out in glad response to a life of service.
Amen.
p.s. Thank you Goddaddy for reminding me about the bit from Anne Lamott.
p.p.s The flowers are there because I know Grandmomma would have loved them.
No comments:
Post a Comment