5th Sunday after
the Epiphany, Yr. B; January 22, 2012
Isaiah 40:21-31; Psalm
147:1-12, 21c; 1 Corinthians 9:16-23; Mark 1:29-39
Sermon preached at St. Stephen's Episcopal Church
But we’re not the ones who
are sick. Simon’s mother-in-law
is. We’re not told why she’s sick,
just that she has a fever. What we
do know is that she is a mother-in-law living in a son-in-law’s house. This
in itself is odd. Women
married and went to live with their husband’s family.
If a woman was lucky, she married a first cousin, and her new family was
one that had close ties with her family of origin. If the woman’s husband died, she would go live with one of
his brothers. A woman didn’t go
live with a son-in-law unless the rest of her husband’s family was dead, unless
she had nowhere else to go … unless she was destitute.[1]
So the mother-in-law we
hear about in this gospel is a woman who has lost everything, not just family
and home … but self-respect as well.
She has lost her reason for being.
She has no household of her own.
She runs no family. She has
lost her power and authority.
Maybe that is why we find her in bed with a fever. We can’t know. We can only guess. What we do know is that people with
mental illness and most forms of sickness in the first century suffered social
consequences. They were isolated
and alone, often shunned or shamed. So no matter what the affliction or what
the true cause, to the larger society they were considered “broken” or
“unclean”.
When Jesus came into the
home, Simon and Andrew told Jesus about their mother-in-law. They told him about her fever at
once. We don’t know why. My modern mind always assumed it was
because they were concerned about her, but maybe they told Jesus so quickly
because they thought he would want to avoid her. Maybe they were warning him, so he wouldn’t mistakenly touch
her and become infected, or made “unclean” by her infirmity. We don’t know their motivation any more
than we know what caused the fever.
But we do know how Jesus responded to her. Jesus went and took her by the hand and lifted her
up. Jesus went to her, and touched her. He reached across a boundary; he connected with her. He lifted her up.
Over the weekend I
traveled to Baltimore, MD to attend a yoga and drumming retreat. At the closing worship, the last thing
we did before leaving, was to bless one another. We were all standing in a large circle, about thirty of
us. We counted off by two’s and
then turned to face our partner. I
was paired with a man that I had sat with once or twice at our meals. I didn’t know him well. I didn’t really know anyone well. I had gone to all the sessions, but had
taken advantage of most of the free time to be by myself. I hadn’t had much conversation with
anyone except at meals. So at the
end of this retreat, I find myself standing face to face with this man I hardly
know.
We’re both feeling a
little awkward when the facilitator says that the blessing will involve some
physical touch. She instructs us
to ask our partner if touching is okay … because some of us just may not be
touchy feely people, and that’s okay.
She assures us that we can still participate in the blessing without
touching each other. But my
partner and I agree that the touching is okay. I mean, it can’t be that bad; can it? We’re at a retreat, and we’re in a
large group.
When the leader tells us
to decide who should go first, I point at my partner. I’ve done blessings before … let him have a chance … I
thought. The first instruction is
this. If you are the one doing the
blessing, look at your partner with eyes that are filled with love and
compassion. Have you ever looked
into the eyes of another person for more than a few seconds? It’s not easy. The temptation to look away is immense
… especially when the eyes are unfamiliar and yet tender.
The power of the eyes was
enough, but then we started the prayer.
My partner placed his hands on my head while the facilitator led the
blessing. I felt the tears welling
in my eyes when he moved his hands to my cheeks. By the time he placed his hands gently on my shoulders, a
tear was trickling down my cheek.
We ended the blessing with an embrace. Then we started over, this time … I had the privilege of
offering the blessing.
I don’t remember the
prayer. I know there was something
in there about courage and strength and faith and love … but what I remember
most poignantly is the touch. Gentle
hands … on my head … on my cheeks
… on my shoulders … and the eyes looking steadily into my own with
compassion. There was an amazing
power in that touch that pierced my heart … and brought unexpected tears and
thankfulness. I thought about all
those who do not have the regular experience of loving touch in their lives …
the elderly who live alone … the sick … the incarcerated… all those who find
themselves living far away from family.
There are so many.
Jesus came and took her
by the hand and lifted her up. We are meant to do the same. The Church has this same potential to
reach across boundaries to touch
those who are deemed broken or “dirty’ or unimportant or useless by our
society. The Church has the power
to touch and heal those places in our world where despair and isolation have
taken root … to be a light, but we have to choose to cross boundaries, to touch
those we might be warned to stay away from.
Jesus came and took her
by the hand and lifted her up.
Then the fever left her and she began to serve them. The
Greek word used for serve in this reading is diakonia. It’s
the same word that was used earlier in Mark when Jesus is in the wilderness and
the angels wait on him. The word deacon comes from that same root. Diakonia is
holy service, the service we do for others in the name of God. It can only be expressed when we reach
out to another. Simon’s
mother-in-law was healed and she immediately rose and began serving out of the
very same love that had healed her.
She was the first deacon, serving as an agent of God’s loving compassion
in her own home. She had a renewed
sense of purpose that nothing else had been able to fill. She was freed to serve in love … and
freed to accompany others on the road to healing.
Our lives can be a
blessing to others. Our way of
living can be a sign of God’s love.
Maybe that’s what those tears were about for me last weekend, a feeling
of God’s boundless love. Any
blessing is God’s blessing. Even
when I offer a blessing, I’m asking God to do the work through me. What a privilege I have. It’s one of the last things we share
near the end of our worship … a blessing.
I ask God to bless you and me, because we are all standing on the
threshold of diakonia. We’re
getting ready to burst through those doors and go out into the world to begin
serving in the name of God. And
after everything else is done, Lynne, our deacon, commissions us to go out and
cross boundaries. She says, go
in peace, to love and serve the Lord. In one church I visited, I heard the
dismissal said this way. “Go
in peace. Our worship has ended,
let our service begin”. In essence, we leave full, full of the
Spirit that will lead us into boundary crossing in radical love, in a world
waiting for healing, with people broken just as we are broken, just as Jesus was
broken, with people longing to see the light of hope that Christ offers all.
Amen.
[1] Pilch, John J.
The Cultural World of Jesus: Sunday by Sunday Cycle B. The
Liturgical Press, Collegeville, MN, 1996. p. 31-32.
No comments:
Post a Comment