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February 19, 2006 - Epiphany 7, Year B

If you haven't guessed it by now, seven weeks into the season of Epiphany and seven weeks into the gospel of Mark, Mark was someone
who would've like to have been
a photographer.
He would have been right in the thick of it all,
political campaigns,
wars, fires,
and even the odd wedding,
there would be Mark,
clicking away with his camera,
sometimes with one of those huge zoom lenses almost as long as your arm
trying to get the best shot.
The only problem is
that Mark lived
close on 2000 years ago,
long before there were cameras.
Paper wasn't even invented; papyrus was hard to come by,
and even drawing, unless you were wealthy,
was most often done with a stick in the dirt
or perhaps scratched into a shard of clay.
And so Mark
But everywhere he went
Mark took photos,
quick pictures in his mind
of the things he saw and heard.
He captured the details in his head, and then years later,
armed with papyrus and pen and maybe even a scribe to help him out,
he wrote them down as best he could,
all the details he remembered, and he filled in the gaps with whatever else he could get from his buddies who were there,
but they were all old by then and their memories were failing, so it was mostly just the bare bones that we get, this place at this time
and this person
was healed.

And so what this first part of the gospel looks like
is a photo album. Mark has been following Jesus around
and taking photos in his mind.
John the Baptist,
with camel's hair clothing and eating bugs.
Jesus, standing in the river Jordan with water dripping off him;
a voice from heaven.
Two fishermen, sweaty from the day's work,
dropping their nets and following him.
A man in convulsions, screaming,
"What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth?"
Simon's mother-in-law, lying in her sick bed,
suddenly well enough to cook dinner for a crowd.
The disciples hunting for Jesus in the early dawn,
finding him alone and praying.
A leper, begging Jesus
to make him clean.
Crowds, pressing in from every side
demanding miracles.
And today's story, a paralyzed man,
rolling up his mat and walking out the door.

But there's something different about this story. Because if each of the others
could basically be fitted into one or two photos, this one takes a whole slide show of its own.
First we have the people all crowded around the house, pushing their way through the door, even sitting on the window sills
so many
that Jesus could barely make his voice heard.
And then, suddenly, up on the roof, four men and a stretcher,
and they're pulling away the tiles to make a hole
big enough to lower their paralyzed friend down through.
And then Jesus
turning to the man dangling half down,
"Your sins are forgiven,"
and in the background a bunch of dark suited me — what are they doing there anyway? — turning their backs.
Then we see Jesus, over beside them, and he seems to be arguing, and in the next photo
he's back by the paralyzed man, who by this time has made it all the way down to the floor,
and in the final photo
all we can see of the paralyzed man
is his back — the stretcher is slung across it and he's heading out the door to see his friends, who are scrambling excitedly back down from the roof.

This story
is different
from the ones that went before it,
this story
stuck so clearly in Mark's mind
that he remembered every detail.
And he remembered it, I suspect
because it was so different
from everything
that had gone before.

They were healings, for the most part, those earlier photos, apart from a few that could be labeled "preparation for the mission."
And they were pretty straightforward. Someone was ill or injured or disabled
and Jesus healed them, just like that,
as if he were some kind of super doctor.
But this one is different. This one,
it's obvious what is wrong. The man is paralyzed.
We would expect Jesus to reach out his hand, touch the man's legs and tell him he is healed.
And that's pretty much what he does — eventually.
But it's not how he begins.
He begins, he begins
by looking at the man lying on the stretcher
and suddenly
out of nowhere
says
"Son, your sins
are forgiven."

It makes no sense. The man didn't come
to get his sins forgiven, he didn't ask
to get his sins forgiven;
what he wanted
was to get healed
so that he could walk and work
and have a normal life.
And Jesus forgave him?

I suspect
that if I had been that man
I would have felt really
really
cheated.

At least until Jesus turned back again
and told me
to get up, and suddenly I could feel the muscles in my legs begin to twitch
and a peculiar sensation in my feet
and stretched myself upright
picked up my stretcher
and began to walk out the door.
Then I would know
that I was healed.

Everything came right in the end. The young man
went home healed;
his friends went home
their confidence in Jesus
justified.
Except that we're left
with the nagging question,
what on earth
was Jesus doing
with that business
of forgiveness?

We're used to talking about forgiveness and Jesus in the same breath:
it's the very core of our understanding of what the events of Good Friday were all about.
But why here? Why does Jesus mess with forgiveness here at the beginning of his ministry on earth, when up till now it's all been about healing? Why does Mark think it's important enough
to tell this story in all its detail
rather than giving us just a quick snapshot.

I think
that there are two reasons. One is to do with Jesus, and the other one
to do with us.

First about Jesus.
If you look at the gospel of Mark
something like a third of it
is about the passion, the death of Jesus. In chapter 11, out of 16, he tells the story of Palm Sunday; We have 6 chapters or thereabouts
to tell the story of the last week of Jesus' life. And only 10
to tell the rest of the story.
For the first chapter
Mark has been setting the scene.
He's told us a bit about Jesus' background — his cousin John the Baptist, his baptism, his temptation, his calling of the first disciples —
and he's told us of those first few astounding miracles.
But now it's time to face another truth. Jesus is more
than just a wonder worker.
He's not just another one
in a long line of prophets
who could do miracles.
Jesus
can do more. He can forgive sins.

But, we hear the scribes, the academics say,
in our tradition
only God can forgive sins. You say you forgive them? You trespass
on God's territory.

And that's exactly
Mark's point. Jesus
is trespassing
on God's
territory.
Jesus, somehow
has the power
of God.

It's not news to us. Matthew and Luke and John
tell the same thing
in another way, Matthew and Luke
with the annunciation
of this baby
Jesus, Emmanuel, God with us.
John talks about
the word made flesh
God incarnate.
But Mark,
he skips the story of Jesus' birth and jumps straight to his ministry.
And so when Mark tells us
that Jesus
forgives the young man's sins
he is telling us,
"Pay attention! God is at work here."

That's Jesus.
But part of this story
is about us too, or at least
about how human beings
relate to God — and we're included in that category.

You see, it's one thing
to come to Jesus
and ask to be healed.
Being sick, being injured, being disabled,
those are terrible things,
but in the end
it's not so different
from going to a doctor.
We might not like talking about it, but
there's nothing to be ashamed of
when we admit our bodies aren't working right.

But asking for forgiveness,
that's a whole different matter. Because when we ask for forgiveness
somewhere, deep inside
we're admitting
that we might have done something wrong.
Deep inside
we're admitting
we've failed.
Deep inside
we're admitting
we're not perfect.
This is about our hearts and our souls
and it's hard to admit.

And so when Jesus takes the initiative
we kind of breathe
a sigh
of relief.
Because maybe
that means
that God doesn't hate us.
Maybe it means
that we're not
so bad. Maybe it means
that we're not beyond
redemption.

This last week, I've been reading a book by a Roman Catholic theologian
called James Alison. The book is called "On Being Liked."
And what it's about
is the idea that not only does God love us,
but God likes us.
God actually likes us.

You know how it is. It's quite possible to love someone, without liking them. Think of those family members — we all have them — the ones we politely call characters.
We wouldn't go near them with a 10 foot pole if we didn't have to, but they're family, and so we get on with loving them
the best we can. But we still
don't like them.

But what if, as well as loving us, what if
God
actually likes us?
If God thinks we're good, if God delights in us?

And what if
the reason God forgives us
is not because we're such horrible terrible people
that the only way the holy and perfect God can come near us
is to look the other way and then give us a free pass,
what if the reason God forgives us
is because God likes us so much
that God can't stand seeing us stuck in the messes we create for ourselves?
What if God forgives us because God likes us so much
that God wants us to be free, free of all the things that drag us down,
free of the guilt and shame and all the things
that get in the way of us really living,
and living in all the joy and celebration
that we were created to live?

When Jesus forgives that young man, forgives him even when he hasn't asked for it,
Jesus is saying, it's okay. I like you. God likes you. And I want you to be free,
free to live
into the very best of life
that you were created for.

God likes us. God forgives us. And God sets us free,
free of shame and embarrassment and all the things that drag us down,
free to live in that wonderful new creation
of life with God.

Sermon ©Raewynne J. Whiteley 2006