Veiled Gospel

Last Sunday after Epiphany

2nd Corinthians 4:3-6

Mom called me Friday morning, just to say hello. She asked what I had on the agenda for Friday, and I said, “I’m writing a sermon today.” She said that she hoped that it would be as good as last week’s, and I told her that I didn’t expect that it would be. I said, “It’s tough to watch a bush burn” – metaphor in my mind for my experience of sermon transmission last week.

I would like to tell you that God drops a sermon in my lap every week. We actually had a man leave our church several years ago because I couldn’t honestly say that God “tells me” what I am to tell you each week. I told him what I have told you – about one out of ten messages feels to me like “a word from God.” Last week’s message was more like 1 out of 400. That had never happened to me before.

Most weeks, I encounter the text early in the week, and then let it simmer a bit before I start to put fingers to keyboard. My sermons end up being something quite personal – a reflection of what I see God saying through the scriptures to me, and what I think God might be saying to us. I don’t always get there. You know that, and I know that.

With the Old Testament and Gospel passages closely situated in the background, the epistle for today makes an interesting point. What we know of the gospel is filtered information – it is most filtered through our own mental abilities, our experiences, our language – we receive the gospel in written form and through the medium of preaching, and then we filter it through our own cognitive capacities. We don’t know everything about the good news – we couldn’t possibly know everything. When we encounter extreme holy experiences such as the transfiguration experiences mentioned in 2nd Kings and the 9th chapter of Mark, we are understandably shaken and awestruck. Burning bushes, transfigurations, miracles – these are things that are out of the ordinary, and are mostly beyond our comprehension and our comfort levels. These kinds of experiences are mysterious – in a way that turns upside down our grasp of the holy. These kinds of experiences scare us even while they attract us.

I’m always a little stumped by Jesus when He tells His disciples to keep quiet about some experience. I never quite know what to do with that command. What is His motivation for saying, “Don’t tell anyone?” Is it because He doesn’t want to “throw pearls before swine,” or is it that He doesn’t think the world is quite ready for this information, or is it because He’s not ready to deal with the world’s reaction to this information? Or could it simply be because He knows that we don’t understand what has happened, and He doesn’t want His disciples “messing things up” in an effort to babble something of the experience they’ve had?

We’ve spent the last eight weeks talking about the light that has come to our world, and I can tell you what I feel – I feel that I’m nearly as much in the dark as I’ve ever been. There’s so very much I don’t know – there’s so very much I can’t explain – I find that I resonate with Paul’s words in v.3 when he says, “even if our gospel is veiled.” I have a sense about me that all that I want to say to others about the good news – the gospel – all that I want to say pales in comparison to what there actually is that should be said, or that could be said. Whatever I have to say doesn’t hold a candle to the majestic truth and reality of the glory of God – displayed now for us in the person of Christ. I am a man of words, but in this situation, my words come up short – definitely a problem for most preachers.

So, what can we say about the gospel? Our epistle gives three or four things that are rather simple.

The gospel is important. Paul says, “And even if our gospel is veiled, it is veiled to those who are perishing.” Dunn translation – “We’re not sure how much we don’t know, nor do we know exactly how we best reveal what we do know – but we do know this – the gospel is important, if for no other reason than that people who do not have the gospel are perishing. The gospel is at least that important.”

When I made my stop at the bookstore a couple of weeks ago, I bought several books. One of the titles is “Universalism: The Current Debate.” You know what universalism espouses, don’t you? It is the theological theory or position that suggests that God will ultimately redeem every person that God has created. It is the position that states that the love of God will ultimately trump the righteousness of God, and that every person - whether they know of the gospel or not – will be saved by the love of God expressed in the redemptive sacrifice of Jesus. I’ll be honest with you – I’d like to believe that theory. It would be so much easier on my mind, and would make my work as a preacher/pastor so very much easier. I’d like to believe that, but I have to take a little more conservative option. I’d like to believe like my friend Robert Capon that God will save every person, except for those who, kicking and screaming, say with their fists in God’s face, “I’ll have nothing to do with the love of God.” I’d like to be able to find myself in that camp. But my examination of the scriptures won’t allow me to embrace that opinion. There are too many scriptures that suggest, insist, require that we hear the gospel, embrace the gospel, and then go ahead to try to live out the gospel, for me to accept that premise. I’d like to – but I can’t. The gospel is important, because there are people who are perishing because they haven’t heard it. The gospel is at least that important.

Paul offers a second thought about what we might say about the gospel. People aren’t hearing the gospel. Paul actually uses the metaphor of a “veiled gospel” and “blindness.” It is Paul’s contention that, if the gospel is truly veiled to those who are perishing, that it is veiled, at least in part, because the multiplicity of gods in this present world blinds them, preventing them from being able to see “the light of the gospel of the glory of Christ.”

You and I could understand and believe that premise quite easily. There are a lot of gods of this world which vie for our attention. The god of power appeals to our expressions of dominance and supremacy. The god of money appeals to our appetites and our need for possession. The god of relationship appeals to our insecurities and our egos as it espouses our popularities. The god of entertainment appeals to our satisfactions and our leisure. The god of success appeals to our desires and our importance. Those are gods we are all familiar with. There are other gods – more subtle gods. The god of service appeals to our need to help others, even when we enable their helplessness. The god of contribution appeals to our need to assert influence. The god of leadership appeals to our need to dictate and direct. We could go on for quite a while – there are so many gods with whom we are familiar.

Paul calls a spade a spade. The gods of this age have blinded those who are perishing. It is not a new truth. It is not a truth which supposes that we possess a position of pre-eminence over those who cannot see the gospel. It is a truth that is sometimes harsh, and often difficult – but you and I realize that far too much of the time, it is a reality. People are perishing. They are blinded by the gods of this present age, and they are perishing.

I really don’t like a possible implication of the next verse. It would be possible to extend Paul’s thought from the previous verse to this verse – the idea that people are blinded by the gods of this present age, and that, in some cases, those of us who spread the gospel might be responsible for some of the blindness, as well. That idea scares me – partially because there is some merit to the idea.

I won’t dwell on this long, but I commented to the folks at Prayer Meeting this last Wednesday that we are guilty of perverting the gospel – usually by embellishing one particular point from biblical teachings. Have you listened to those who preach a “health and wealth” gospel – the idea that if you just mail God enough money, that God will bless you? Have you listened to those who preach a gospel of “working harder” for the kingdom, as though hard work is even a part of the “gospel” message? Have you heard those who blend so much sociology with their theology that you begin to lose track of which is which? Have you watched the preachers who preach so much about healing that you’d think that’s all there is to the gospel? What about those who gloss over the personal salvation experience and move straight to subsequent signs of the Spirit like speaking in tongues? Haven’t we seen myriads of perversions of the gospel? Don’t our own hypocrisies give rise to our fears that we are helping the gods of this present age when it comes to the task of blinding those who cannot see?

I like the way this lection concludes. Paul says in vv. 5 and 6, “for we do not proclaim ourselves; we proclaim Jesus Christ as Lord and ourselves as your slaves for Jesus’ sake. For it is the God who said, ‘Let light shine out of darkness,’ who has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ.” Thank you, Paul. That puts things clearly. We are not preaching a gospel about our own capabilities, or our own ingenuities, or our own wisdom. We are preaching a gospel that majors on the one truth of the gospel; that Jesus died for our sins, that Jesus redeemed us, and that Jesus restores us by His love and grace. We don’t preach ourselves – we preach Jesus. God has shone in our hearts, and any knowledge we have of Christ is because of the light that God has placed there.

Furthermore, any light that we are able to reveal to others is on account of what God has already done for us. We can show Jesus to others because God has shown Jesus to us. But we are not the light – Jesus is the light. All we know is how to flip the switch.

Our gospel is so very simple. It is not veiled to us. Not any longer. We have seen the light of Christ. As we share our gospel with others, their veil is lifted, and the light of Jesus shines in their hearts, just as it has in ours.

Richard W. Dunn, PhD.

My Corner of the Cot

7th Sunday after Epiphany

Mark 2:1-12

Last week while I was in Oklahoma City, I stopped at a local bookstore to browse for a while. I picked up a copy of a book by Thomas Long entitled “The Witness of Preaching” – it deals with the art and process of sermon preparation. The author shares a poignant insight when he says, “To be a preacher is to be a midwife of the word, and the midwife has to be comfortable in the labor room; she is skilled and compassionate in the bringing forth of life. The midwife does not create the child; the child has already been formed. The babies she delivers are not her possessions, but a gift that she hands over. The midwife listens attentively to the heartbeat of both the mother and the child . . . The new mother has the opportunity and responsibility to embrace and nurture her gift.[1]

I like that illustration. The sermon this week is not mine. I was given this message early on Tuesday morning – startled awake from my sleep as from a bad dream. I wrestled and prayed in the darkness for about an hour, then I got up and made some notes. This has never happened to me before, and so I can tell you that this is not my message. God’s word to you is the gift – the newborn baby, and you are the waiting mother.

Of course, I would be the midwife in this example, and if that is so, for too much of our time together, I have not done my job very well. Most weeks, I have not done a good enough job of placing this gift of “a word from God” in your arms, and then encouraging you to embrace and nurture it. You watch me each week as I rise from my place. I come from among you, and I am one of you. Too much of the time I am too concerned about being one of you to speak that which we need to hear. Too much of the time I hand you a word that is less than the word of God, and then wonder why you don’t embrace and nurture the gift. I haven’t done my job well – I’ve been too busy trying to be one of you that I haven’t challenged you to be the best you.

Do you remember the first time you heard this story from the scriptures? I remember this as one of the earliest stories of my childhood – most likely from the third grade. As a boy, I liked much of this story – there was a lot of action in this story. Friends carrying a friend – knocking a hole in the roof – lowering their friend to Jesus, because he couldn’t get to Jesus any other way. I liked this story. I still like this story.

The “Jesus part” of this story is easy for us today. We’ve been hearing a lot of healing stories over these past several weeks – Mark spends most of the first and second chapters of his gospel pointing out that Jesus was present and ready to heal in every circumstance. By the time we get to this story, we get the point. Jesus was ready to heal this man. There were certainly barriers. Too many people were crowded around Jesus that day. Too many people were in the way. But He was ready and willing to heal this paralytic. There were those who were standing around, maybe in the doorway, who were ready to condemn Jesus for healing – first the man’s heart, as He said, “Your sins are forgiven,” – and then the man’s physical infirmity, as He said, “Stand up, take your mat and go to your home.” They were ready to condemn Jesus, but He remained present and ready to heal this man. The Jesus part of this story is so very clear to us – Jesus does the healing, which in this story, is more than just a metaphor for “accomplishing our salvation.”

We best understand a story when we can put ourselves in the place of the characters of the story. We have been several of the characters in this story – but we have not been Jesus. If we think we have been Jesus in this story, we must ask for forgiveness. We may have been guilty of sitting back and saying to ourselves, “If he really wants to be healed, he’ll find a way to get himself in here were I can do something about it.” We may have found ourselves sitting in this place – wondering why more people weren’t knocking down our doors to get in here and find healing. I don’t think that was the question Jesus was asking Himself that day. I think He was asking a different question – I think perhaps He was asking Himself, “I wonder when that man’s friends are going to go get him and bring him to me? I wonder when the church is going to find a way to get the people to me who need what I have to offer?” No, I don’t think we have been Jesus in this story.

But we have been this man – this man who needs Jesus, but doesn’t have a clear means by which he can get to Jesus. We have been this man, and much of the time we are still this man. Even after we become Christian, we are always needing to get to where Jesus is – we are always in need of healing and the touch that Jesus offers. There are people in this room this morning who are being carried to Jesus by your sheer presence this morning, or by the kindness of your voice as you listen to their prayer requests, or by the way you lift your voice to God as you sing choruses and hymns of faith to our God. Each week, I am carried to Jesus as I sense your desire and need to hear the word of God, stated by your presence, your gifts, and your words of encouragement. I need you to help me get to Jesus – every week. If we are honest enough to admit it, every person in this room needs the other people in this room to help get us all to Jesus – each and every week.

I received an e-mail this week that had a picture of a church marquee on it which read, “Staying at home and shouting, Oh God! Does not constitute going to church.” You know that much of my preaching reminds you and me of the wonderful gift which is ours, that we call church – especially “this” church – Cornerstone. You and I have been given a gift. Know this - while I preach often about the value of our church, I do not simply equate “church attendance” as a metaphor for “serving Christ.” But as the same time, I know that the gift that has been given to us is something tremendously important. It is valuable, like a newborn baby, and we must lavishly and consistently nurture our congregation as we would a newborn infant.

In this story, we are also like the four friends. A couple of weeks ago I attended a funeral. At the end of the funeral I watched as the pall bearers lined up to help carry the coffin from the church to the hearse. Five of the pall bearers found their place rather quickly, and then they waited on the sixth person to arrive. It was a poignant moment as they waited for the person to show up to help carry their share of the burden.

The scripture tells us that there were four friends who carried the paralytic. You and I have picked up our corner of the cot for those who need to get to Jesus. I thought on Tuesday morning what those four corners might represent. I think one corner of that cot represents presence. We began the service this morning by talking about the difference between greeting someone at worship, and welcoming someone. When we invite people to our homes, we welcome them – we want them to feel that our home is inviting and warm and safe as they spend time with us. When we welcome people to church, we do much the same. One corner of this cot represents presence as we welcome people who come to Christ.

A second corner represents compassion. That word literally means “with” and “passion.” We welcome people into Christ’s presence, and we show them that we truly and sincerely care. We care about their need, we care about their hopes and dreams, and we intend to walk alongside them as we carry them to Jesus.

The third corner of the cot represents understanding. You know, understanding someone takes a commitment of time and energy. We have all known the touch of someone who took the time to get to know us, because they wanted to help us find what we needed. People need many things. You and I know that the thing they need the most is really a person – our friend, Jesus.

The fourth corner of the cot represents our will. Jesus may have been wondering how these friends were going to get their friend to Jesus. Perhaps they were wondering, too. There were obstacles. Four people carrying one person just a short distance isn’t an easy thing. There were too many people in the way – they couldn’t get in through the front door. So they went up on the roof. The scripture says that they removed the roof and dug through it. That couldn’t have been easy, let alone safe. But they had decided to get their friend to Jesus – whatever it took. He needed help, and they took him to Jesus.

At my pastor’s meeting on Monday, we talked about how people view church today. Far too many people have a consumer mentality of church – they come to church because they perceive that they will “get something out of it.” We must start thinking of the church differently. This is our church. We are all needed. When you don’t show up, one corner of the cot is left unattended. Each one of us has a corner of the cot to take up. It’s hard enough to carry someone when all four corners are covered – but when people start letting go of their corner, it becomes virtually impossible to carry those who need to get to Jesus.

There’s one other question to think about in this story. How did word get to these friends that their paralytic friend wanted to get to Jesus? Did the friend cry out to them, “Help me get to Jesus?” Or did the idea dawn on one of them, and then he recruited three others to help him?

About 20 years ago, I went through a seminar on church growth that advocated “Friendship Evangelism.” They made one important point that has stuck with me for these years. They did research on how people get to church, and more importantly, how they remain at church. Do you know what they found? The people who joined and remained active in a church found and developed seven friendships. That was the critical number. If they had seven or more friends, they were significantly more likely to remain in the church than if they had six or fewer friends.

You and I know people who need to get to Jesus. Don’t try to get them here all by yourself. Using the props from the story, if you do that, you’ll end up dragging them on their cot, and that’s not a pretty picture. Rather, look to others in our church who can help you get your friend, or your relative, or your neighbor to Jesus. We’ll help. We want to help.

I can hear the voices from this story. I can hear the man crying out to his friends, “Help get me to Jesus.” Can you hear him? I can hear Jesus as He sits wondering, “When is the church going to help that guy get here?

And I can hear the church. I can hear us as we say, “I want to help carry his cot. I want to pick up my corner of the cot. Let’s find a way to get him to Jesus. Jesus will help him. All we have to do is get him to Jesus.

Richard W. Dunn, PhD.

[1] Thomas Long, “The Witness of Preaching,” Westminster John Knox Press, p. 13.

Beyond Abanah and Pharpar

6th Sunday after Epiphany

2nd Kings 5:1-14; Mark 1:40-45; Psalm 30; 1st Corinthians 9:24-27

This story of Naaman was not a familiar story to me until I was introduced to the lectionary. It is one of those stories that you do not often hear preached, and that is a travesty. This story deals with some of the most profound reasons that we do not find healing in our lives in the abundance and measure that God would desire.

You know what I’m talking about. Sitting here in this room, we realize that the healing that each of us desires is elusive. We want what we cannot have, and we know that we cannot have what we want. Most of us walk around as “less than whole” people – we are traumatized by the events of our lives, by the scars on our psyches, by the harmful side of the relationships that we work so very hard to sustain. We deal with symptoms rather than causes – suspicions rather than realities – and as a result, we are less than whole. Healing, for us, is elusive.

In seminary, I took several counseling courses – probably just enough to make me dangerous as a counselor. Most of what I’ve learned about counseling I did not learn by trying to help others – I learned most of what I know about counseling by observing those who have tried to bring healing to my life over the years. In counseling class in seminary, the professor spoke about what he called “the presenting problem.” He said that in our counseling, we would soon learn that when a counselee came in for a session they would present to us a problem that they wanted help solving. But he went on to say that we would soon learn that this problem, as presented to us, wasn’t the real problem – that there was usually a deeper, underlying problem that the counselee was either unaware of, or unwilling to address. Our task, as counselors, was to help them uncover this “real” problem – to get to the nitty-gritty of the issues in their lives.

When I moved to Dallas to serve at Casa View Baptist Church and at the same time begin my doctoral work at the seminary, I began to deal with some extreme difficulties related to feelings I had suppressed regarding the circumstances surrounding Travis’ birth and subsequent illnesses. I began a process of therapy, and that process continues today. The first time that I went in for counseling, I spoke to my counselor about the tragedy of his birth, and what I perceived were the mistakes that were made as he was being born, how he was medically and socially treated in those early weeks and months, and since that time. That counselor didn’t do much for me, but the next guy I spoke to some years later decided that I needed to talk about my anger. I was confused. This was not my problem – in my mind, it was a problem inflicted upon my family – by fate, by circumstances, by God – but it didn’t really matter – what wasn’t at issue was my anger.

It took many sessions, spread out over a number of years, to come to grips with the truth of that diagnosis. No counseling in the world would change the circumstances of Travis’ birth. But something could be done about my healing – about my wholeness. Much progress has been made – much is yet to be made. I can tell you this – now when I take opportunity to receive a little counseling, the sessions are much more fruitful and productive – we “cut to the chase” – and usually we deal with more of my anger issues.

I tell you all of that story to say that I see some things in this story of Naaman that are so very familiar to me. Naaman was famous – loved by king and country. He was the Dwight Eisenhower of his day. Successful in battle, to the point that the Arameans were known as a vigorous and often victorious opponent. But he had a problem – he was inflicted with leprosy. Enter, stage left, the lowly servant girl – a girl of no status and little consequence to this great general – in fact, she was servant to Naaman’s wife. But she speaks up. Boldly. Assertively. She goes to Naaman’s wife and mentions this lowly prophet over in Israel. The wife speaks to her husband, and then her husband speaks to his boss, the king. The king handles things the way kings handle things – he throws the pomp and circumstance of money and power at the problem, along with a heavy dose of “mano a mano” influence, one king to another. He sends Naaman, not to the prophet, but to the king of Israel.

Scene Two. Naaman brings his letter of introduction and all of the gifts from the king of
Aram to the king of Israel, and the king of Israel has a little fit – he thinks that the king of Aram is trying to set him up so that he can pick a fight with Israel. He decides to redo his wardrobe, and word filters down to Elisha, who comes to the rescue.

Scene Three – Naaman shows up at Elisha’s house and Elisha doesn’t even come out to meet him. He sends word out that Naaman is to go wash himself seven times in the dirty, muddy Jordan river, and then he will be restored. Naaman explodes in anger. “What is this prophet suggesting? I’ve gone to all this trouble, and not only do I not get to meet the guy – he tells me that I need to go take a bath in that stinkin’ Jordan? I thought I was at least going to get a little magic show (of attention) out of the prophet? We have cleaner rivers in Damascus – the Abanah and the Pharpar are both a heck of a lot cleaner than this stinkin’ Jordan.” And he turns to leave.

I don’t know if it’s still Scene Three, or if we move to Scene four – but somehow, Naaman’s traveling servants point out the simplicity of this plan and the wisdom of doing what he can do with what he knows. They must have been convincing – Naaman relents, takes his “baptismal bath,” and is immediately cured – the scripture says “his flesh was restored like the flesh of a young boy, and he was clean.”

I am most struck by the paradox of this story. Paradox of the foolishness of those who are exalted and mighty juxtaposed to the wisdom of those who are lowly and insignificant. Paradox of the arrogance of unrepentance and the humility of obedience and faith. We have all been Naaman – we have sought wholeness and healing, but we can’t seem to move beyond Abanah and Pharpar. We’re stuck in old paradigms of salvation and healing, and we can’t move beyond the sickness and failure that we know in order to try something – in faith – that just might help us find the healing and wholeness we so desperately want. They say that the very definition of insanity is continuing to do the same thing over and over and expecting different results. Well, Naaman’s initial position was insane – and when we refuse to trust something beyond what we already know, we border on insanity as well.

I don’t claim to have found healing from my own emotional difficulties. I still struggle with anger. It can well up within me at a whisper of distress or conflict, and I know the power of anger all too well. But I have made this bit of progress. I know what battle I am fighting. I have moved beyond the “presenting problem” of victimization, and have acknowledged and begun to assault my true foe.

For me, and I think for most people who begin this journey toward wholeness, I began by recognizing the limitations of my own power, and at the same time acknowledging the incredible power of God to bring healing and wholeness to my life. Listen to the Psalmist – “I extol you, O Lord, for you have drawn me up, and did not let my foes rejoice over me. O Lord my God, I cried to you for help, and you have healed me. O Lord, you brought up my soul from Sheol, restored me to life from among those gone down to the Pit.” And toward the end of the Psalm – “You have turned my mourning into dancing; you have taken off my sackcloth and clothed me with joy, so that my soul may praise you and not be silent. O Lord my God, I will give thanks to you forever.” The scripture speaks often of the “fear of the Lord” – that’s a phrase that more accurately could speak of an understanding and acknowledgement that God is God, and we’re not. That God has power that we can only dream of. That God wants healing and wholeness for us – much more than we can imagine, much more than we can conceive, and certainly much more than we can effect.

It’s hard to start down that path. I took me years to get started. But there is a simplicity to the honesty required to begin this journey. I can’t adequately describe the easiness of admitting certain things are real, and that certain things are true, and of knowing that there is value to absolute honesty in matters of personal introspection. When that kind of honesty exists, our relationship with God can change. Take as example our gospel for this morning. Another leper story – I love the way the lectionary does that for us – put two stories with similar circumstances side by side for our examination! This leper comes to Jesus, and begging Him, says, “If you choose, you can make me clean.” What faith!! What boldness. Can you imagine what was going on in this leper’s mind? “Here is a man who can heal me. He has the power. I wonder if He has the will? I will confront His power to will such a thing.” In essence, this man stood toe to toe with the Eternal God of the ages, and dared God, in the person of Jesus, to heal him. I like that kind of audacity. That kind of boldness only comes when we have nothing else to lose, and everything to gain.

Jesus spoke truth to him. He said what God always says to us when we dare God to heal us. God does choose wholeness for us. God does choose healing for our lives. There is a lesson here for us. We don’t have to wonder about the power of God. And we don’t have to wonder about the desire of God. God has the power to heal us – to restore us. And God wants to heal us. It’s in God’s purpose to help every one of us who will find wholeness and healing. God created us for relationship with God, and so it is in God’s best interest and purposes that we find healing and wholeness.

It sounds as though the movement toward healing and wholeness is entirely up to God. Is there anything that we can do? I mean, other than allowing God freedom and access to work in our lives, is there anything we can do to help? The Olympics started this weekend. Those athletes know what Paul said to the Corinthians. “Run in such a way that you may win.” On the Today Show Friday morning, they were looking at some of the technology that is present at these Olympic games that has never been there before. New kinds of material sown into body suits that decreases wind resistance. Steel alloys impregnated into the runners on the bobsleds that actually changes composition during the course of the race, hardening the steel, so that less resistance is felt. Athletes at these games know that a part of winning the race is removing resistance. It’s the same in our quest for healing and wholeness. We remove resistance to the work of God in our lives, and God is blessed with freedom and access to work in our lives.

Paul says, “Athletes exercise self-control in all things.” I went to lunch with Dr. Pontious this last week. I took the elevator up to his office to collect him for lunch, and then stopped to check in on the scales there in the hallway at the clinic. I’ve lost a little weight. Not as much as if I were to have walked up the stairs, but I’ve lost a little. Then he showed me a little gizmo that computes your body mass index – your BMI. I didn’t like that little gizmo. It said I’m fat. I won’t tell you at what level it said I’m fat, but I’m not happy about what it indicated. I want to lose weight, but I don’t want to give up Blue Bell and Mexican food. When it comes to losing weight, food isn’t as much my difficulty as is self-control. I can exercise self-control – but I don’t. It’s a choice, don’t you know. The athletes in Torino exercise some measure of self-control that I won’t. That’s the difference.

Paul says one more thing about what we can do. He says, “I do not run aimlessly . . .” Purpose. Goals. Decisions. Plans. Focus. These are words that describe the athlete who competes to win. These are words that describe what we can do to help God as God works to accomplish healing and wholeness in our lives.

I’ve learned one truth in my quest for healing and wholeness. The journey never ends. Just this last week we dealt with DHS on issues surrounding Travis’ care. I was not happy with the results of our meetings and phone calls. We’re not where we need to be. I began to feel those same feelings of anger well up within me that surface nearly every time something of substance becomes an issue for my son. This week I redirected those feelings of anger – I channeled them into activities that were more productive. I’d like to say that’s always the case. Management of my anger is a daily exercise – sometimes multiple times in the day. I don’t always succeed. But now I know that God wants healing for my life. Now I know that God wants wholeness for me. And so I continue the journey.

Richard W. Dunn, PhD.

while it was still very dark . . .

5th Sunday after Epiphany

Mark 1:29-39

Agatha Christie said, "Dogs are wise. They crawl away into a quiet corner and lick their wounds and do not rejoin the world until they are whole once more."[1]

Each week as I start working on my sermon, I look for some intriguing way to title the sermon. Over the years, I suppose that some majority of those sermon titles have been, simply, a phrase from the text from which I am preaching. This week, as I read over the text several times on Monday, one particular phrase jumped out at me – “while it was still very dark.” It is such a descriptive phrase – it immediately caught not only my attention, but my imagination as well.

It intrigues me because I know this territory, this sensation, this opportunity. Hunters know about the hours before dawn. I don’t hunt all that much in the mornings – I’m really not all that good at getting up early. But during hunting season, and especially during the two weeks or so that I spend in Texas, I discipline myself to get up every morning – as Henry David Thoreau suggested; “I went to the woods because I wanted to live deep . . . and suck out all the marrow of life! . . . And not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.”[2]

Four-thirty comes early – the coffee pot starts to brew, a few morning essentials, and then a short drive up the hill. There is a walk in the dark from the truck to the stand. It takes a few minutes to get situated, and then there is the stillness and the silence of nothing. Deafening silence. Absolutely nothing, until those first moments before the dawn.

It’s not in the context of hunting, but Jesus knew something of these pre-dawn hours. Mark lets us in on a little bit of the secret – he gives us important details. Jesus slipped away to regain something of Himself – reorientation, calming, focusing, gathering. He needed this time alone. Too many people needed something from Him, and you can’t give of yourself without it actually and ultimately costing you something. Jesus knew.

The larger scene is still in Capernaum. Mark tells us that when they left the synagogue, they went to Simon and Andrew’s house. I saw a documentary on this a couple of years ago – archeologists had unearthed some significant findings in the place that they think was ancient Capernaum. In fact, the present day residents indicated that they were descendants of Simon Peter. While we can’t particularly trust that information, I want to try to draw a mental picture of what this residence may have looked like. In those days, extended families lived together in something of a commune – there was a courtyard, surrounded by two-story buildings all around. There might be several generations of the same extended family living in rather close proximity to one another. It is likely that they shared all of their meals together, as well as many of the “household” tasks. Sleeping quarters were separated, but much of the living space was shared.

Jesus and His new-found companions leave the synagogue, and enter this living environment. They are immediately confronted by the reality that Simon’s mother-in-law is ill – she had a fever. We don’t know more than that. Someone tells Jesus, He goes to her, takes her by the hand, and heals her. Mark goes on to point out that she then arose from her sick-bed, and waited on them – I think he tells us this to illustrate that she wasn’t simply “feeling a little better,” but that she had found complete healing from her illness. She was well enough to get up and get to work.

I need to back us up to the story line from last week. While He was in the synagogue, Jesus was confronted by a man who was demon-possessed. Jesus spoke directly to the demon, and the possessed man was exorcised. Now we find Jesus being somewhat obligated to heal the mother-in-law of his host, Simon Peter. This is where the story gets predictable. Word begins to spread throughout Capernaum, and by nightfall, there is a steady stream gathering at the courtyard door. Mark actually says, “the whole city had gathered . . .” Evidently Jesus heals most, if not all of those who show up, and that day ends.

Most of us can identify with this scenario. We live complicated lives. Most of us live lives where much is required of us. We work 40 or 50 or 60 hours at a job where we serve various masters. We come home, hoping for a little sanctuary, only to discover that the fence needs mending, the clothes have stacked up in the laundry, the grass needs mowing, and the bills need to be paid. If that weren’t enough, the children complain about not understanding their math homework, and so we lunge into 8th grade Algebra again, all the while hoping to understand it better than we did when we were in the 8th grade. Dinner is served, and we sit down only to be disrupted by four phone calls – two from telemarketers, one from the PTA president, and one from your sister (whom you would really like to talk to for about an hour). The evening wears on, and suddenly we realize that the 10 o’clock news is on, and it’s time to start thinking about bed.

It’s not that we mind such a schedule. The pace of it doesn’t really bother us. We don’t really mind all of the interaction. But something does disturb us – the notion that we no longer own our lives, our time, our priorities, our destinies. Too many priorities compete for our attention, and we start to feel that not only do we not have a say-so anymore, but that we don’t have a right to have a say-so.

Does that feel familiar to you? Jesus must have felt something of the same – and He had only been at this ministry business for a couple of months. Here’s where Mark grabs my attention. “And in the early morning, while it was still dark . . .” He slipped away early in the morning, while it was still very dark. He slipped away to regain something of Himself, His priorities, His focus. And while He was away, He prayed.

I don’t know about you, but I don’t spend enough time just praying. More than 20 years ago, I was introduced to a theological idea that I found helpful in the past, but now wonder if it has truly been all that advantageous. I was at a point in my life where competing priorities were starting to take their toll on me, and at the same time, I was feeling some guilt about not spending enough time in prayer and personal devotion to God. Someone suggested that I learn to “pray as I go.” The theory was simple – that most of us live lives that are simply too busy to try to take any more time out of them for something as simple as prayer. So, we must learn to pray as we go – to pray during our activities of life. I didn’t spend a lot of time analyzing this concept – I didn’t really have any time to spend on it. So I rather easily adopted this as a modus-operandi. I stopped feeling guilty about not having time to stop to pray, and I started praying on the fly. I would pray while I drove to and from work or school. I would pray while I was in class, or on the job. I would pray when I read the headlines of the newspaper, and I would pray as I was moving my mouth toward that first bite of lunch.

Jesus set something of a different example for us. He may have lived his life, praying with every breath. But some of the time – in fact, quite a bit of His time – He spent in solitary communion with the Father. He stopped what He was doing and stepped away for a while. His example gives pause for reflection – if Jesus found this kind of quality time with the Father necessary, might not we?

The next part of this story feels familiar, as well. The other players in the story wake to find Jesus gone from the scene, and they go looking for Him. Eventually they find Him, and prompt Him to return. I don’t suppose we would blame them. We aren’t sure of their motives for going after Him – I suspect that they had already emotionally “bought in” to what Jesus had been doing at Peter’s house and at the synagogue – perhaps they thought this was going to be a “healing” ministry. They bought in to what they had seen, and now it was time to get back to the show. There were more people waiting in line to be healed, and the main actor in this little drama was “taking five.”

Do you remember the movie from about 10 years ago, Mr. Holland’s Opus? It’s the story of a burgeoning composer, played by Richard Dreyfuss, who has to take a job at the local school teaching music and band in order to make ends meet at home. Along comes a child, and the job and driver’s ed classes and family responsibilities start to take their toll on him. He tries to write, but time simply doesn’t allow for it. At one point in the movie, in frustration, he berates his wife because she has called him to task, and he lets her know that he’s tired of giving of his time to everyone except himself.

Simon points out that they had a pretty good show going on back at his house, and Jesus simply says, “Say boys – I think we’ll go on to the next town. I want to do a little preaching – you see, preaching is my main focus.” And with that, Mark tells us that “he went throughout Galilee, proclaiming the message in their synagogues – and casting out demons.”

Pastor, what does this message have to do with our season of Epiphany? I’ve been trying to make the case to us over the last several weeks that a part of the “epiphany” of this season is that we are called to be in the “gospel sharing” business. I don’t know that we particularly have a problem with that idea – but, at the same time, we have to make a living, and raise families, and do a few things for the church, and try to be good citizens of our community, and keep our yards looking nice and do a little upkeep on our homes. And we’re supposed to find time to eat right and exercise every day, and we’re supposed to keep up on current events, and read a book every once-in-a-while. We have parents to care for, and children to take to basketball and scouts, and we don’t remember the last time we took a little time “just for ourselves.”

“Jesus, just when are we supposed to do this gospel sharing business?”

Did you hear the last part of v. 39? “And he went throughout Galilee, proclaiming the message in their synagogues – and casting out demons.” Jesus slipped away for a while, spent a little time with the Father, reminded Himself of His priorities, and then took off for the new cities, preaching message in hand.

Oh, and by the way, he continued to cast out a few demons.

Jesus refocused His ministry toward those things toward which He felt called. He went back out into the world to proclaim His message. That became again for Him His focus. Good for Him. But while He went about His renewed focus, He still had time for casting out demons. He still had time to meet the needs of others.

You know, each week when I share this sermon with you, you must know that I’ve been living with it for several days, if not weeks. I have to make application to my own life. Here’s the application I have discovered – when I am least effective in my work – this kingdom work – is when my priorities are out of kilter. For me – and this may not be true for you – I am out of sync much of the time. I am doing my calling and praying at the same time, thinking that prayer should be a by-product of everything that I do. Jesus changed that around a little – He prayed first, and then went about His work – and having made that little adjustment to His schedule, He found time to meet the needs of others as they arose. That’s the lesson that I’ve learned from this story.

Sister Tracy preaches this morning on the Isaiah text we heard a while ago, and about which the choir sang. She uses as an illustration particular observations of the eagle. She quotes researchers when she says, “`Though eagles possess the power to sustain flapping flight, they rarely do. One eagle we observed averaged less than two minutes per hour of flapping flight.’ The rest of the time the eagle soared and glided on the thermals – not fighting the air currents, but using them.”[3]

I like that illustration. You and I know a few people who do all the same stuff that we do in a day, and more – and all the time they make it look so very easy.

Jesus was one of them.

Richard W. Dunn, PhD.

[1] Who knows where this is really located – I did a Google search, and several sites quote her on this – none of which gives the original context.
[2] Adapted from Henry David Thoreau on his experience at Walden
[3] Tracy Dunn-Noland, sermon from 5 February 2006, http://thankyadarlin.blogspot.com/2006/02/waiting-on-lord.html