Staying on Message

Jesus, looking at him, loved him and said, “You lack one thing: go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow Me.” (Mark 10.21)

Understanding and Internalizing

As a marketing consultant, I constantly remind clients effective communication is all about staying on message. Not only must the message remain consistent across time. It must also stay the same on a vertical plane, until everyone at every level of the company is marching to the same beat. In time, the message morphs from strategic imperative into personal commitment that alters how employees think and work. I’ve been at this a very long time and can tell you that staying on message works. I’ll also admit it’s not easy to do. By nature, we’re more attracted to novelty than consistency. Repetition reduces our curiosity with each retelling. After we get a sense of what’s supposed to change and why it’s needed, we’re eager to move on. Yet there’s a huge gap between hearing and internalizing a message, knowing and understanding. Hearing and knowing may inform behavior, but they rarely alter it. To change behavior, a message must lodge so pervasively in the hearers’ minds that it becomes first nature to them.

Check out any business school and you’ll find entire curricula and volumes of theory and case studies expounding this principle. Still, no expert I’ve found matches Jesus’s brilliance for consistently communicating change, and no book I’ve read outclasses Mark’s gospel as a case study in effective communications strategy. Mark documents the pivotal moment in Jewish and, by extension, human history. It is the culmination of Israel’s longing for change and the start of something far greater than anyone expected: the revelation of God’s kingdom in the person and teachings of Christ. Jesus arrives, declaring change: “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news.” (Mark 1.15) From there, He takes every opportunity to reinforce His message—consistently emphasizing a New Order that disrupts tradition and overturns conventional wisdom: the last are first, the poor preferred, children lead adults, outcasts are welcomed, and so on.

After following the readings from Mark, hearing the same thing—often the same words—week after week, we open Sunday’s Gospel (Mark 10.17-31) to discover yet another iteration of Jesus’s message, It’s all we can do not groan, “Enough already! We get it!” And that’s probably true. We know full well what Jesus is saying. But do we understand it? Have we internalized Jesus’s good news to the point that we are changed? That’s why Jesus stays on message.

Life to the Fullest

There is something new in this weekend’s lesson, though. Previously, we’ve heard Jesus deliver His message to groups of people—often changing the subject to do so. In this case, He models vertical communication, delivering the same message to a “higher-up.” We watch a wealthy man kneel before Him and ask, “Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?” (v17) We’re not sure what’s on the man’s mind. We know what he means by “eternal life,” however. In Jesus’s time, the concept of eternal life transcends life after death; to live eternally is to experience life to the fullest now and always. The man asks about inheriting eternal life, recognizing it’s a gift (not a reward) God wills to us. He senses there’s more to life than all he possesses. Until he identifies what’s missing, he’ll be incomplete. To use a financial term often found in the gospels, this rich man wants to be made whole.

Jesus answers with a somewhat pat response: keep the commandments. “I’ve done that since my youth,” the man says, once again addressing Jesus as “Teacher.” With that a superb teaching moment arises. Jesus sees the man’s sincerity and loves him. “You lack one thing,” He says, instructing the man to “go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow Me.” (v21) Once the man is relieved of his burdensome riches, he’ll access the enormity of God’s wealth and discover fullness of life. He’ll be free to follow Jesus. Mark tells us Jesus’s answer shocks the man. He leaves sorrowfully. He gives up finding the missing piece of his life because he can’t (or won’t) give up what he already has to make room for it.

This is one of the gospels’ saddest moments—one of very few episodes that end unhappily. And the disciples’ reaction gives us a taste of how rare it is. They’re stunned. But Jesus stays on message, saying, “How hard it will be for those who have wealth to enter the kingdom of God!” This only confuses His followers more. They’re culturally predisposed to believe those with the greatest means have the best chances of winning divine favor. After all, they cut the most prominent profiles in the Temple; they’re the movers and shakers—elite philanthropists and entrepreneurs and job creators. How can entering God’s kingdom be so difficult for them that Jesus says it’s easier to shove a camel through a tiny door by comparison? But Jesus is adamant. Entering God’s kingdom isn’t based on what we own. It’s decided by how easily we can surrender everything we rely on: possessions, people, and even prospects. This passage ends with Jesus telling us again: “Many who are first will be last, and the last will be first.” (v31)

Divesting Every Encumbrance

In an election season fraught with cries of economic injustice and a fetishistic obsession with percentiles, how simple it would be for us to filter this text through a political lens! How smug we’d feel if all of this actually boiled down to accusing the infamous 1% of flouting Christ’s instructions! Yet Jesus stays on message to teach us—rich or poor, high or low—the life-changing power of His good news. The kingdom of God has come near. The door to eternal life is flung open. And none of us, regardless of status, can enter without first divesting every encumbrance that prevents us from following Jesus. Wealth is the rich man’s burden. But there are many burdens that can’t be measured in dollars and cents. We carry pride and intellect and relationships and popularity and sophistication and religion and advantages of every kind—including moral superiority we assume as casualties of injustice—with such ferocity that we can’t perceive life without them. We rely on them to put us ahead. But they don’t provide fullness of life. Something’s lacking. And if we’re to be made whole, we must first be willing to sacrifice everything we cherish to find it.

Let’s be real: Jesus’s message quickly loses its novelty. It’s the same thing, over and over: let go everything you think you know and understand what’s truly essential. Stop hearing and start internalizing. Once we learn to do that, we will be changed.

Jesus stays on message so that we can progress from hearing His words to internalizing them, from knowing what He says to understanding what He means.

Be Opened

Then looking up to heaven, Jesus sighed and said to him, “Ephphatha,” that is, “Be opened.” And immediately his ears were opened, his tongue was released, and he spoke plainly. (Mark 7.34-35)

Fragmented

One of the worst sicknesses I’ve ever endured occurred a few years ago, when I contracted a sinus infection that spread to my left inner ear. Pressure built up behind my eardrum, creating unbearable pain that left me in yowling in agony. I was stranded in a Dallas hotel, in the care of a local physician who called on me once a day for nearly a week and room service staff who brought me juice to wash down an arsenal of high-power antibiotics and painkillers. Before the doctor would release me to fly back to Chicago, he wanted to be certain the infection hadn’t spread to my right ear and hinted it might also affect brain tissue. Although my partner, Walt, called constantly, I was totally alone, in a strange place, facing the possibility of being hospitalized far from home. Inability to hear in my left ear compounded my sense of isolation. I lay there, in insufferable pain, helpless, contemplating terrible outcomes. Deafness. Brain damage. Very possibly waiting for Walt to get to me while strangers herded me through the ER and hospital admissions.

My condition’s most awful aspect, however, was how I sounded to myself when I spoke. The voice that came out of my mouth no longer matched the one in my head. It seemed to belong to someone else and, after a while I became unsure I could trust it. (This was partly due to the haze of medication, I’m sure.) But as my condition dragged on, I began to feel less and less in control of my situation. There was the Tim in dire pain and the Tim trying to put words around his pain, and they weren’t the same Tim. I was fragmented.

Astounded Beyond Measure

The deaf man in Sunday’s Gospel (Mark 7.24-37) is in a similar situation. Inability to hear has impeded his ability to speak clearly. The voice behind his clogged ears bears little resemblance to the one he utters. My brief experience with his type of affliction drives home how fragmented his daily existence must be. Obviously his neighbors feel for him. When Jesus passes through their region, they bring their deaf friend to Him, begging Him to touch the man. What happens next is most irregular. Rather than curing the deaf man on the spot, Jesus pulls him to the side, out of the crowd’s sight. As though diagnosing his illness, Jesus puts His fingers in the man’s ears, spits—an odd gesture Mark doesn’t explain—and touches the man’s tongue. He looks up to heaven, lets go a deep sigh (we’re not sure what to make of that, either), and, in the man’s native Aramaic, Jesus says, “Ephphatha,” or, “Be opened.” Immediately, the obstructions in the man’s ears dissolve, his tongue is released, and he’s able to speak plainly. All of the disjointed pieces inside his head come together. Suddenly being able to hear again is a miracle all its own. But being able to hear himself—having his speech reunited with his inner voice—is what makes him whole.

Even more than that, the deaf man’s restored speech brings healing to his entire community. Family, friends, and neighbors who couldn’t understand him now hear him clearly. They no longer have to compensate for his disability. They’re free from the guesswork and stress of parsing his inarticulate self-expression. Freeing the man’s ability to hear and speak is how Jesus makes the community whole. One whom they’d lost has been returned. And that miracle loosens their tongues. Jesus orders them not to tell anyone about the miracle, but they can’t keep quiet. Verses 36 and 37 read, “The more He ordered them, the more zealously they proclaimed it. They were astounded beyond measure, saying, ‘He has done everything well; He even makes the deaf to hear and the mute to speak.'” Astounded beyond measure—I so love that! It is exactly what happens when we approach Christ on others’ behalf. What Jesus does for them somehow spills over into us. We can’t possibly contain ourselves, because the wholeness Christ imparts to others inevitably makes us whole as well. We can’t help ourselves from proclaiming, “He has done everything well!”

Voluntary Deaf-Mutes

In the wake of the US political conventions, I’ve also been astounded beyond measure—though not in the good way witnessed in Mark. I’ve been thoroughly astonished, in some cases disgusted, by the prevalence of clogged ears and twisted tongues in our community. From the highest podiums of power to running commentaries flooding social networks, we are encompassed with people whose hearing and speech are severely hampered. Their ears are clogged with inflammatory rhetoric that impedes their ability to express themselves clearly and effectively. Hearing and reading what they say, I think, “Surely that’s not what they believe.” Surely their inner voices cry out for an end to poverty, violence, and injustice. Surely they hear a booming call for righteousness in the depths of their being—a resounding declaration that callous indifference for the least among us must cease. Surely something within them wants to convey concern for others beyond themselves. But the deafening roar of tyrants and charlatans has robbed their freedom to express their faith and humanity in understandable ways. And, all contrary evidence aside, I must believe this is true, lest my ears also become infected and clogged, lest my own speech also becomes harsh and nonsensical, lest I too become a burden to my community, a liability that makes those I live with less than whole.

At the same time, I’m convinced the political deafness and jabber polluting current discourse are merely magnified symptoms—an outbreak, if you will—of a more invidious contagion. We no longer care to listen to one another, let alone the voice of God that calls to us from deep within. We’re no longer concerned about what we say, let alone how we say it. We have become a culture of voluntary deaf-mutes, purposefully closing our ears to anything we don’t want to hear and disregarding the confusion and harm our words create.

We’re becoming increasingly fragmented as people, with the holy person inside us bearing little resemblance to the vain, self-serving one portrayed in our words. We need to find Jesus and beg Him to touch us. We need Him to diagnose our sickness, penetrating the garbage cluttering our ears with His pristine fingers, loosening our twisted tongues with His mighty hand. We need Him to speak to us in language we understand, commanding us to be opened. When our ability to hear and speak clearly is restored, we will be made whole. Our communities will be made whole. Peace, justice, and compassion will be restored. We will be astounded beyond measure and say, “He has done everything well!”

Lord Jesus, if ever we needed healing it’s now. We beg You, come to us, pull us aside, lay Your hand on us, and command us to be opened. Amen.

We have become a culture plagued by clogged ears and slurred speech. We need Christ's healing to be made whole.

Twister

We must no longer be children, tossed to and fro and blown about by every wind of doctrine, by people’s trickery, by their craftiness in deceitful scheming. But speaking the truth in love, we must grow up in every way into Him Who is the Head, into Christ. (Ephesians 4.14-15)

A Winning Proposition

Remember Twister? It’s the deceptively simple children’s game that forces players into increasingly difficult contortions to see which of them can stick to their positions without collapsing. If it were played individually, the player with the most stamina and flexibility would win. What makes Twister hard is that you’re asked to work around other players to find your spot on the mat. Consequently, you’re required to twist yourself into crazy positions just to stay in the game—which sounds like fun, but ultimately proves futile. Twister is one of those perverse kiddie games that have no winner. When the clumsiest, weakest player goes down, everyone falls. Of course, kids will play again and again for the fun of it. But the game loses its appeal over time. As kids mature, they see it for what it is: a ridiculous exercise that leads to embarrassment more often than pride.

Invite a group of teenagers to play Twister and they’ll smirk. It’s a silly game unworthy of their time. They’d rather hang out and talk to one another and listen to music or watch TV or try their hands at more challenging games—all of which appears less engaging than Twister’s contrived gymnastics. Yet teens get it. Things they love to do intuitively hone their understanding of the world, each other, and themselves. Hanging together is how they learn to live together in community, and the surest way to land on the outs is by forcing others into uncomfortable positions and demanding they stick to them. Teen life is defiantly agile and fluid and unsettled. That’s why it’s the scariest passage in life. It raises more questions than it answers, more than a community can handle, more than anyone can process. That’s also why most of us mature into adults who abandon the quest for community and revert to Twister-like games we’ll never win.

Of late, we’ve seen a whole lot of Twisting going on. Political posturing in the UN, Europe, and the States has forced otherwise nimble people into rigid positions that endanger global stability. The bigoted comments of a fast-food CEO have contorted buying lunch into a moral dilemma. At the Olympics, eight badminton players were ejected from the Games after bending over backwards to increase their odds of winning medals by intentionally losing preliminary matches. A Mississippi congregation bowed to pressure from a handful of hypocrites and closed its doors to an African-American couple asking to be wed in their sanctuary. Our contempt for these and similar shenanigans can only go so far before it boomerangs, because we all—in some way, shape, or form—play Twister. Indeed, many of us have got so good at it we play multiple rounds at once. We strike a position here, another there, and yet another over there. And we’d rather get buried beneath the weight of our contortions than confess that it’s a loser’s game. In Sunday’s readings, Paul urges us to grow up and pursue lives of faithfulness that strengthen community. He gives us a winning proposition.

A Perfect Seven

If we listen attentively to the text (Ephesians 4.1-16), we’re immediately startled in that it offers us a choice in how to live, while explicitly telling us we have no choice. Paul writes,  “I beg you to lead a life worthy of the calling to which you have been called, with all humility and patience, bearing with one another in love, making every effort to maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace.” (v1-3) We are called into community and told how to create and sustain it—humbly, patiently, lovingly, and peacefully. Either we heed our calling or we don’t. Our attitudes and behaviors either foster unity or they defeat it. We’re free to get twisted up in positions and poses. But if we decide to do so, we disqualify ourselves from any hope of togetherness. “There is one body and one Spirit, just as you were called to the one hope of your calling, one Lord, one faith, one baptism, one God and Father of all, Who is above all and through all and in all,” Paul tells us in verses 4-6. Reread that and count the ones: a perfect seven. Our unity—our commitment to community at the expense of personal persuasions and preferences—makes that possible.

Before we break out the rainbows and lollipops, we should note the community Paul describes is remarkably diverse and multifaceted. He defines it not by the compatible personalities or common interests of its members, but by the vast array of gifts Christ has given to them. There are specific callings within the greater calling, Paul says, all of them designed “to equip the saints for the work of ministry, for the building up of the body of Christ, until all of us come to the unity of the faith and of the knowledge of the Son of God, to maturity, to the measure of the full stature of Christ.” (v12-14) In other words, your talents, my talents, and those of every other believer are given for one purpose: growing together in the community we call “Christ.” And if we follow Paul’s metaphor to its obvious outcome, we admit we have no means of predicting what the fully matured Body of Christ looks like, how it behaves or thinks. Jesus and the Apostles tell us what it should look like, how it should behave and think, but how that happens remains a mystery. Thus, we are not called to shape the Body—presuming to dictate the nature of its growth by contorting ourselves into ridiculous, self-serving positions. We are summoned to contribute all of our gifts to community making, to invest our whole selves for the sake of a greater whole. This is a grown-up’s intentional endeavor to build unity, not a childish game that collapses in loss.

The Community Challenge

“We must no longer be children,” Paul writes, invoking images of a different sort of twister: “tossed to and fro and blown about by every wind of doctrine, by people’s trickery, by their craftiness in deceitful scheming.” In our determination to twist faith into certainty, we invite division, decay, and instability. Our vain contortions guarantee collapse. Paul’s letter comes to us in a timely fashion, when we need to be reminded Twister is a silly, pointless game beneath our calling. Instead, we should undertake the community challenge Paul issues at the end of Sunday’s passage: “But speaking the truth in love, we must grow up in every way into Him Who is the Head, into Christ, from Whom the whole body, joined and knitted together by every ligament with which it is equipped, as each part is working properly, promotes the body’s growth in building itself up in love.” Then, and only then, will we achieve the perfect seven, united in one body, one Spirit, one hope, one Lord, one faith, one baptism, and one God.

We’re called to make community not take positions.

Awestruck

I am fearfully and wonderfully made. (Psalm 139.14)

The psalmist ponders the care and thought God invested in creating him and he’s awestruck. “I am fearfully made!” he sings. The utter genius of his physiology and all of its functions flabbergast him. But it’s more than that. It’s how his body has been shaped to house the mind and spirit God placed in him. We are God’s finest creation—God’s ultimate masterpiece. And each of us is all of a piece. “Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you, which you have from God, and that you are not your own?” Paul asks in 1 Corinthians 6.19. We must know that. And we must respect the truth of our making, accepting who we are and what we’ve been given. We are fearfully—perfectly—made so that we can witness our awesome God’s perfection in the world. We are made to love, to bless, to honor, to serve God and our neighbors. We are not broken, incomplete, or misshapen in any way. We are mirrors of our Maker: awesome, perfect, miraculous, and complete. Everything about us is fearfully made.

Faithful Acts of Hatred

He was teaching and saying, “Is it not written, ‘My house shall be called a house of prayer for all the nations’? But you have made it a den of robbers.” And when the chief priests and the scribes heard it, they kept looking for a way to kill Him; for they were afraid of Him. (Mark 11.17-18)

The Things Jesus Hated

A couple weeks ago, our pastor came across a 1950 directory from our congregation and shared some of its contents with us. From a paragraph called “The Meaning of Church Membership” she read these words:

To be a worthy church member, one must have the temper and disposition of Jesus, taking His attitude toward God and man, looking at life from His standpoint, hating the things which He hated, loving the things which He loved, and doing in cooperation with others the kind of things which He did.

Hating the things which He hated? We’re not the kind of church that ascribes hatred of any kind to Jesus. God is love. Jesus is God. Ergo, Jesus is love. Yet in this context, paired with “loving the things which He loved,” I was struck with a new awareness that Jesus truly did hate many things about our world. Prejudice, false piety, selfishness, violence, callousness, political ambition, deceit, resentment—all of the things that destroy love for God and one another—He despised. He made no room for ambivalence about them. He hated them. What's more, He wasn’t reluctant to say so, regardless how difficult expressing His hatred made His own life.

In fact, as we retrace His steps through Holy Week, we’re initially stunned by what can only be described as conscious acts of hatred from Jesus. In the wake of the Triumphal Entry, we see Him return to Jerusalem on Monday morning, not to bask in the upsurge of adulation, but to express overt hostility toward the religious and political corruption of His day. His audacity and disregard for His popularity, which is at its peak, are breathtaking. And while three of the four Gospels report Monday’s main event—the clearing of the Temple merchants—Mark and Matthew couple it with a rather bizarre incident that shocks us, as it seems completely out of character for Jesus.

On Their Side

The Palm Sunday story ends with a cliffhanger. After the crowd’s enthusiastic hosannas die down, Jesus walks into the Temple, looks around for a moment, and leaves. All that’s missing from the scene is “I’ll be back.” Sure enough, come Monday morning, Jesus’s first order of business is returning to the Temple. He doesn’t even wait for breakfast. As soon as He can get the disciples together, He heads back into Jerusalem—having spent the night in an outlying village—and along the way, He gets hungry. He sees a tree and decides to make do with one of its figs. But the tree is barren because figs aren’t in season. Jesus knows that, which makes His response to not finding fruit curiously upsetting. He curses the tree! “May no one ever eat fruit from you again,” He hisses—so loudly that the disciples hear Him. (Mark 11.14) What’s the problem here? Is Jesus in a bad mood? Is He overtired and impatient? Perhaps. He’s coming off an exhausting day and anticipating an even tougher one, given what He plans to do in Jerusalem. Still, His reaction seems weirdly out of scale.

The Temple is humming by the time Jesus arrives. It’s Passover week and many provincials have turned up early to attend to various sacrifices and offerings before the feast. In the courtyard, moneychangers and livestock traders are open for business, which is booming. As Jesus enters the Temple, He’s keenly aware of stepping into a seller’s market. It’s the ancient equivalent of a modern theme park, where out-of-towners pay ridiculous prices for things that would cost a fraction of the money at home. Jesus hates what’s going on. He goes on a rampage, overturning the moneychanger’s tables and livestock traders’ chairs. Then, in a stunning display of authority, He shuts everything down. Verse 16 says, “He would not allow anyone to carry anything through the temple.” You bet everyone who doesn’t yet know Who He is wants to find out what He’s all about. Jesus begins to teach right there on the spot, knitting prophecies from Isaiah and Jeremiah together as He indicts the price-gougers: “Is it not written, ‘My house shall be called a house of prayer for all the nations’? But you have made it a den of robbers.” (v17) Mark says when the Temple establishment hears this, it stokes their determination to kill Jesus. They’re afraid of Jesus, we’re told, because His hatred of those who exploit the worshipers resonates with the crowd. Jesus is on their side and He’s unconcerned about what may happen to Him for standing with them. His deep hatred of evildoing gives Him power to confront it head-on.

New Wholeness and Holiness

So we understand Jesus’s actions in the Temple—and we understand how they seal His fate, which will play out in agonizing extremes on Friday morning. Now, what about the fig tree? On Tuesday morning, returning again to the city, Peter notices that it’s shriveled down to its roots. It’s not dead. But it will need to be revived before it can yield fruit. When Peter points out the tree, Jesus explains the situation by saying that faith’s power is double-edged. It can build things up and make things grow. It can likewise cause things to crumble and wither away. “Truly I tell you,” He says in verse 23, “if you say to this mountain, ‘Be taken up and thrown into the sea,’ and if you do not doubt in your heart, but believe that what you say will come to pass, it will be done for you.”

This mountain—the Mount of Olives, which they’re descending to reach Jerusalem—is a holy place. According to the prophets, it’s the site where the Messiah will first appear and His appearance will split the mountain wide open. (Zechariah 14.4) Jesus is saying that nothing is ever so sacred—or sacrosanct—that it’s immune to being dismantled and remade. A barren tree can be reduced to its roots to regrow and yield new fruit. A holy hill can be torn asunder and thrown into the sea to make way for a New Order. A Temple defiled by exploitation of captive believers can be cleansed and reestablished as the house of prayer that God ordained it to be. Jesus tells us when we couple hatred of what we know is unhealthy and displeasing to God with faith that it can be replaced with something better, what we say will come to pass. Faithful acts of hatred spring forth in new life and new growth—new wholeness and holiness.

As believers, we are called to hate the things that Jesus hated. But our calling doesn’t stop there. Jesus teaches us to speak to those things, to act against them—and to pay no regard for the consequences that may befall us. We are called to decry and oppose poverty, prejudice, exploitation, violence, hypocrisy, and every other ill that defiles God’s creation. Love that ignores harm or tolerates indifference is harmful and indifferent. It’s no love at all. The world’s evils justify our hatred and the actions we take to dismantle them. As we will learn next Sunday, destructive hatred will never defeat its righteous counterpart. Why? Because hating the things that Jesus hated is an act of love. And love always wins.

In cleansing the Temple, Jesus teaches us that evil merits our hatred—and nothing is so sacred or sacrosanct that it can’t be dismantled and replaced by new life, new growth, new wholeness and holiness.

Podcast link: http://straightfriendly.podbean.com/2012/04/02/faithful-acts-of-hatred/.

Delayed Reaction

“Which is easier, to say to the paralytic, 'Your sins are forgiven,' or to say, 'Stand up and take your mat and walk'? But so that you may know that the Son of Man has authority on earth to forgive sins"—He said to the paralytic—"I say to you, stand up, take your mat and go to your home." (Mark 2.9-11)

Through the Roof

Mark’s Gospel tells a great story about a paralyzed man whose friends are so bent on helping him they destroy a house to do it. Many of us first heard this tale during childhood, when climbing on roofs and tearing stuff up sounds really exciting. When we return to the scene as adults, however, we’re not so sure.

Here’s what happens. Jesus returns to Capernaum from a ministry trip and when word leaks that He’s there, people rush the house and spill into the yard. Friends of a paralytic bring the man to Jesus, but they can’t reach the Lord because of the crowd. They get the bright idea to tear open the roof and lower the sick man into the house so Jesus can cure him. Maybe it would be okay if the house belonged to one of the friends. But we assume it doesn’t, since Mark doesn’t comment on who owns the place. So they’re taking a huge risk—and probably breaking the law—when they tear apart a neighbor’s roof. In fact, the whole thing is risky. Ancient Palestinian roofs are flimsy affairs, comprised of reed mats thrown over crossbeams, with a thin layer of mortar applied to protect against rain. That’s why the friends can take the roof apart quickly. But they also risk falling through, hurting themselves and/or Jesus in the process. What’s more, raising their friend to roof-level will require looking to others for help, which most of us would be hesitant to provide, given the liabilities we’d assume by pitching in. But, apparently, people do come to their assistance, because the disabled man makes it from ground level to the roof, and from the roof to Jesus.

Once Jesus Lifts the Stigma

Let’s go into the house for a minute. Jesus is talking and stops when He hears a lot of commotion outside. It sounds like it’s coming from the roof. Big chunks of ceiling start to fall. Everyone scrambles for cover. No doubt a disciple or close friend tries to pull Jesus out of danger. But Jesus sits tight and watches as the paralytic is lowered into the room. He looks up to see the friends who have taken great risks to make this happen and Mark 2.5 says, “When Jesus saw their faith, He said to the paralytic, “Son, your sins are forgiven.”

A bit of comedy ensues—one reminiscent to Monty Python’s send-up of the Sermon on the Mount in Life of Brian. Everyone settles down and someone asks, “What did He say?” Another replies, “’Your sins are forgiven.’” A nearby group of legalists hisses, “Who does He think He is? Only God can forgive sins!” Jesus senses their alarm and replies, “Which is easier, to say to the paralytic, 'Your sins are forgiven,' or to say, 'Stand up and take your mat and walk'? But so that you may know that the Son of Man has authority on earth to forgive sins"—He said to the paralytic—"I say to you, stand up, take your mat and go to your home." (v9-11) The man steps into the yard to show everyone he’s been cured. Onlookers praise God and say, “We’ve never seen anything like this!” (v12)

Mark ends the story there, as if to say, “The rest you know.” So let’s play with that for a moment. What happens next? In all likelihood the man’s friends gather around. There’s a lot of joyful laughter, pats on the back, possibly even a happy jig from the healed man. Realizing they’ve just disassembled someone’s roof and interrupted Christ’s conversation, they may scoot off to celebrate out of earshot, saying, “We’ll come back and clean up later.” And as they walk off, the healed man stops, taking a moment to absorb everything that’s happened. “Wait a second!” he says. “I’m forgiven! Do you know what that means?”

Of course, they know. In their world, disability is linked to sinfulness. Living in a climate that dreads God’s wrath, it’s automatically assumed anyone felled by disease has angered God. So Jesus not only cures the man’s condition. He frees the man from shame. More than that, He refutes the notion that physical anomalies signify God’s displeasure. If that were the case, Jesus would tell the man what He tells others who subscribe to harmful thoughts and behaviors: “Go and sin no more.” But Jesus doesn’t say that. In two quick steps, He frees the man—from stigma and then disease. And since He addresses the sin question before the curing the illness, He leaves no doubt that erasing condemnation is His first priority. Healing comes once Jesus lifts the stigma.

Everything We Need

I imagine a lot of you, like me, have heard this story plenty of times, preached and taught in many ways. It’s a spectacular example of faith in action, a noble instance of high-risk compassion, and a telling portrayal of how easily we succumb to religious dogma and common myths that impede faith. But for those of us wending our way down Lent’s road there may be something more here that we can reach for.

Whether we come to Jesus on our own—as so many in the Gospels do—or, like the paralytic man, loved ones are instrumental in bringing us to Him, what we experience on arrival is multilayered and complex. What draws us to Him may actually be secondary to a deeper need. It’s unlikely the man or his friends ever consider that, without forgiveness, the healing is incomplete. Yet Jesus recognizes that and He takes care of first things first. In our little post-healing scenario—a midrash based on the story of the cured leper who returns to thank Jesus—the man’s acknowledgement of what’s happened is typical of delayed responses we often have. Repeatedly, awareness that Christ makes us whole sneaks up on us. We have to stop and exclaim, “I’m forgiven! Do you know what that means?” It means the stigmas that paralyze and make us sick have been removed. Misguided opinions of why we are as we are have been dispelled. Not only obvious limitations that cripple us—but also the unspoken ones that bore deep into our psyches—no longer confine us. We are free.

As we travel Lent’s desert, I pray we walk humbly, yet confidently, with songs of praise interrupting our prayers of repentance. May we see our journey to the cross as a return to the source of all that is good in us—the place where our forgiveness, healing, and most of all our freedom from shame and stigma are revealed in a Savior Who understands and provides us with everything we need.

However we come to Christ—whether on our knees or on a stretcher lowered through a torn-up roof—we leave the experience in astonishment that Jesus sees to our every need.

Postscript: Question 8

Can you share an example of delayed reaction in your own faith, when you realized there was more to what you received from Christ than you initially thought?

Breaking Down

The sacrifice acceptable to God is a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise. (Psalm 51.17)

The Great Artist

An artist friend called me breathless with excitement. “I just leased this great loft near you and you’ve got to come see it right now!” As she’s normally a slow-and-steady type and few things are more disheartening than having no one to share your joy with, I instantly headed over. I walked into a massive raw space that looked as though its tenant had fled in the night. It was a mess. Apparently the previous renter was a potter of some sort, because my friend—who worked in a variety of media—had already swept up three piles of derelict projects and clay shards. I would have been furious that the landlord hadn’t cleaned up before renting it. But she couldn’t have been more thrilled. “Just look at all of this!” she said. “Think of what I can do with it!”

Frankly, I didn’t know what to think. It looked like useless junk to me. When I offered to help, she suggested, “Let’s get it all in one place so I can sort everything out and decide how I’m going to use it.” I picked up a half-finished piece and asked, “You don’t want to keep this kind of stuff, do you? You’re just talking about the smaller bits.” She replied, “Are you kidding? Drop it.” Huh? She repeated her order. I let the piece fall to the ground and shatter. Smiling wryly, she said, “That, my friend, is called ‘breaking down.’ Now I can use it.” A few months later, when she brought me a serving tray inlaid with a magnificent pattern made of its pieces, she asked, “Remember this?”

Unfortunately, I lost the platter (another story for another time). But the memory remains fresh and resurfaces whenever I read scriptures like Psalm 51.17: “The sacrifice acceptable to God is a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise.” And it especially comes to mind during this time of year, as I envision Lent’s metaphorical desert strewn with shattered pieces that we drop along the way. There they wait, seemingly forgotten and useless, until the Great Artist sweeps them up, sorts through them, and reorders them into something magnificently—serviceably—new.

A Shattering of Self

We tend to imagine broken-hearted people as sufferers. Something has disappointed them. Someone has wounded them. In other words, we see them as passive. Yet the Hebrew word Psalm 51’s poet uses (nisbarah) is neither definitively active nor passive. The breaking can result from another’s cruelty or arbitrary misfortune; but it can also be a sacrificial act—a shattering of self in pursuit of wholeness. We break down the contents of our hearts to inventory what we’ve stored in them—to examine their pieces and allow the Creator Who heals and restores to reassemble them in remarkable ways. We do this in response to God’s call in Joel 2.12-13: “Yet even now, says the LORD, return to Me with all your heart, with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning; rend your hearts and not your clothing. Return to the LORD, your God, for God is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love, and relents from punishing.”

The poet Jan Richardson taps into this sensibility in her Ash Wednesday blessing, “Rend Your Hearts”:

Let your heart break

Let it crack open

Let it fall apart

so that you can see

its secret chambers,

the hidden spaces

where you have hesitated

to go.

She concludes:

And so let this be

a season for wandering

for trusting the breaking

for tracing the tear

that will return you

to the One who waits

who watches

who works within

the rending to make your heart

whole.

The loveliness of Richardson’s poetry raises gnarly questions, though. Once we’ve broken down our hearts, what are we looking at? Which of our pieces glimmer with radiance and beauty? Which of them are deeply scarred with dark doubts and unsightly faults? Which are ready-made for the Great Artist’s use? Which must be reworked to allow God’s vision to come forth in us? Which will fall into place? Which must be reshaped to fit into a new, magnificent, and serviceable whole?

Naming Parts

The process involves more than falling apart so God can reassemble us. After we do the breaking, it asks us to name our parts—to call the components of our hearts for what they are. This is by far the most challenging aspect of Lent’s work, because we are all exceptionally gifted at turning blind eyes to our weaknesses. When we speak their names, however, we force their recognition. Here are my misgivings. Here are my resentments. Here are my vanities. Here are my prejudices. Thankfully, there are other parts we’re honored to claim. Here are my certainties… my mercies… my humility… my openness.

When we look at our pieces, we don’t know what to make of them. Suddenly the beauty of breaking down rises before of us, because the making—actually, the remaking—of our broken hearts belongs to a God Who, by Self-admission, is gracious, merciful, patient, unfailing in love, and fiercely forgiving. Like my artist friend, our Maker surveys the heap of shards we’ve created and exclaims, “Just look at all of this! Think of what I can do with it!”

We do the breaking; God does the remaking.

Podcast link: http://straightfriendly.podbean.com/2012/02/24/breaking-down/

Postscript: Question 3

Predictably, most commentators on Psalm 51.17 immediately link its brokenness and contrition with guilt for past sins. And, to be sure, harmful thoughts and actions produce shattering consequences in our lives. Yet, more appropriate to Lent’s purpose, I’d like us to think of broken-heartedness as a self-induced, sacrificial act. And this raises a huge question I believe we must ponder while we undertake the breaking: what is faith’s role in our sacrifice?

I’m not sure there’s a definitive answer to that. In fact, each of our responses may be very different. I’ve added my thoughts to the comments and invite you do the same. This breaking business isn’t easy by any stretch and sharing our perspectives will no doubt encourage all of us to rend our hearts.