Audio of this post is available.
2 Kings 5:1-14
Mark 1:40-45
It could have been a scaly rash on his hand that wouldn’t go away, or an itchy dry spot on his leg. Any change in the appearance of the skin, any blemish, blotch or sore, meant a visit to the priest who would take a look and declare the person unclean, “Stay away from people, don’t touch anyone or anything, and come back in a week.”
Seven days later the priest would take another look, and if the spot had healed or shrunk, he would declare the person clean. But if the spot was still there or had grown larger, the purity code was clear: You had to be isolated. You had to wear torn clothing and let your hair go unkempt; whenever you encountered people, you had to cover your mouth and cry, “Unclean, unclean,” to warn them of your presence; you had to live alone, banished from the community, in a hut or a cave in the wilderness, or in one of the empty graves on the edge of town.
The tragedy was that you may not have been very sick physically, but in terms of human social intercourse your life was over. You were dead. You would not be touched by anyone again – not your wife or your husband, not your children or your parents, not your best friend, not even the stranger on the sidewalk whose hand brushes against yours in passing. You were untouchable, for even if your skin condition wasn’t contagious, your unclean status was. Whoever touched you or was touched by you crossed the line from life in community to almost complete social isolation.
Given that cultural context, it is remarkable that the man in our story had the audacity to approach Jesus without shouting, “Unclean, unclean.” Perhaps word had spread among the untouchables that Jesus taught with authority and drove out demons. Perhaps it wasn’t desperation that drove the man to ignore the law, but hope: if this Jesus could heal the sick and command demons into obedience, he could also bring wholeness to entire communities, and bring back to life those who had been banished and excluded from it.
Now when he came to Jesus he didn’t say, “Take care of this nasty rash for me, will you?” He didn’t ask for treatment for his skin condition. He declared that Jesus had the power to restore him to life, and dared him to do it, “If you choose, you can make me clean.”
And Jesus, moved with compassion, stretched out his hand – across the vast divide that separates unclean from clean, profane from holy, life in fullness from an existence in empty tombs – Jesus stretched out his hand and touched him. Touched his hands, pushed back the torn rags and touched his arms, touched his face, reached around his shoulders and held him, the Holy One of God holding a human being who had been excluded from all things human, a human being who could barely remember what life was.
“I do choose. Be made clean,” and it was so.
Are you holding your breath? You should, because Jesus just rendered the entire purity code obsolete. An entire system, carefully built to protect the holy by defining and excluding the unclean and profane – the entire system is suddenly out-of-date. Holiness no longer needs protection from the polluting potential of blemishes, irregularities and other imperfections, because the Holy One of God is playing offense, taking life in fullness that is contagious and unstoppable deep into the opponents’ territory.
Jesus hugs the leper and declares, “You’re in. You belong.”
According to the code, Jesus now is unclean. According to the code, Jesus now bears the man’s condition and belongs outside the camp. Jesus brings life, but that very act pushes him one step closer to isolation, one step closer to the empty tomb on the edge of town. The man deprived of life in fullness and the One who embodies it, are trading places.
If you want to protect orderly life by excluding the irregular, difference on the surface becomes a prime target. Pimples, blotches, blemishes – the trouble with skin conditions is their visibility. Visible difference makes social exclusion so easy.
You may laugh or cry at the thought that something as common as a rash could lead to exclusion, but we exclude people for reasons just as laughable or sad all the time. First we determine what’s regular, and then we begin to exclude the irregular. We define what’s normal, and then we push out what’s deviant.
But the truth is, all of us are frail. All of us are wounded. All of us live outside of some carefully maintained circle of insiders. All of us live with the curse of perfection.
The real affliction is under the skin where we hide our failures and our jealousies, our contempt for others and our deceptions. We hide them because we are afraid that once they become visible, no one will want to look at us, let alone touch us anymore.
The good news comes to us in a simple line: “If you choose, you can make me clean,” and Jesus said, “I do choose.”
Jesus has chosen to touch us and declare us clean, and not a single imperfection could keep him away. Now we know that our healing and wholeness are not only our desire, but also God’s will.
“See that you say nothing to anyone,” Jesus sternly warned the man, but he went out and proclaimed it freely. I don’t think he willingly ignored Jesus’ urgent instruction; I’m convinced he couldn’t help it. He had been a dead man walking, and now he was alive – how on earth could he have kept that a secret? Go back and quietly sit in the empty tomb? No way.
The word was out, traveling on the lips of witnesses and in their hands: because now some were no longer afraid to cross lines and touch the untouchables. They were not afraid to walk on the bridge Jesus had built when he reached across the deep divide between God’s holiness and the world disfigured by sin.
Moved with pity, the text says, moved with compassion Jesus stretched out his hand and touched him. Once he’s touched us, we too reach out; moved with compassion, we walk across to the other side and touch those whom life has pushed to the margins.
Amy Gopp, Executive Director of Week of Compassion, reminds us that just this past week there were ice storms in Kentucky, tornadoes in Oklahoma, bushfires in Australia, floods in Costa Rica, continuing violence and suffering in Gaza, Orissa, and Sudan; and just this past week we were able, through Week of Compassion, to respond with gestures of support and solidarity, certainly not meeting all the needs, but letting people know that they are not alone, not forgotten. We call our ministries of disaster response and development Week of Compassion, but we know the real transformation comes from our daily walk of compassion.
Moved with pity, our translation says, Jesus stretched out his hand and touched him. Some Bibles, including those in our pews, have a footnote here that says, "Other ancient authorities read anger." What this means is that some of the ancient manuscripts of this gospel contain a different version of this verse, one that reads, “Moved with anger, Jesus stretched out his hand and touched him.”
The scholars have been exchanging learned arguments why which version should be preferred as original, and the question is not easily settled. If it was anger, at what or whom was Jesus angry?
Psychiatrist Scott M. Peck tells of a breakfast conversation with his wife during the time Peck was working on a book dealing with evil. Suddenly their young son spoke up saying, “I know what evil is.”
Of course the grown-ups were mildly amused at their child’s naivete, but decided to indulge him for a moment. “What is evil?” his father asked.
“Evil,” responded the boy, “is live spelled backwards.”
His father was impressed enough to write it down. Wisdom from the lips of a child. Evil is whatever gets life backwards, against the will and desire of the creator of life.
So perhaps Jesus was angry that religion could get life backwards with the best of intentions, and that the guardians of God’s holiness could become prison guards of outcasts.
Perhaps he was angry at rules and systems that add to a person’s sickness the additional burdens of exclusion and the pain of isolation.
Perhaps he was angry because we spend so much of our energy on keeping out those who are different, those who don’t measure up to our standards of purity or truth.
Perhaps he was angry because he could already see that his path could only lead to growing conflict with the line drawers and boundary keepers of the world.
I am grateful that we have two traditions of what it was that moved Jesus to stretch out his hand and touch the untouchable – anger and compassion. The two are not mutually exclusive, but go hand in hand. Anger at the powers that get life backwards, and compassion for human beings who in our weakness, fall victim to those powers.
I am grateful that in Jesus Christ the very holiness of God has invaded the unholiest moments in creation, not with coercive force, but with the power to redeem and embrace and restore.
Now the word is out: whomever we consider a threat to the perfect beauty of God’s holiness or the integrity of God’s people, Jesus is not afraid to touch. Whatever we hide from one another with fear and shame, whatever it may be we try so hard to hide even from ourselves, Jesus is not afraid to touch us. No matter how the powers that spell live backwards assail us, Jesus has come to touch us and hold us, and in his embrace our lives become whole.
The word is out: God’s word is not confined to the walls and gates of the boundary keepers; God’s word is free and at work in the world. The word is out through the words and actions of witnesses whose lips and hands proclaim the compassion of God. May we be among them.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Monday, February 9, 2009
Power to the Faint
Audio of this post is available.
Isaiah 40:21-31
Mark 1:29-39
When the Gospel according to Mark was composed, nobody remembered her name. Everybody knew her solely as Simon’s mother-in-law.
The first disciples have names, Simon and Andrew, James and John, they will be remembered. Even Zebedee, whom his sons left behind in the boat – and that’s all we know about him – has a name, and his sons will always be remembered as the sons of Zebedee. Was it because it was a men’s world, that this woman’s name went unrecorded?
Some say that she remained unnamed because she serves as an example, as a representative for an entire group. At the beginning of his ministry, Jesus first drove out a demon from a man in the synagogue, a very public place – and that man remains unnamed – and then he healed a woman in the intimacy of a friend’s home. They say that for Mark it was important to show us right at the beginning, that Jesus brought liberation and healing to both men and women, in public and in private. Perhaps that’s the case, but I still wish we could remember her by name.
Let me tell you why. Last Sunday we had a Deacons’ meeting after church. Lise had made lunch for us, and after we had eaten we learned about the role of deacons in the church – in the New Testament, in church history, and here at Vine Street.
Deacon is a title, but long before it became identified with a particular church office, it was the greek word for servant. In English translations of the New Testament, the word diakonos is translated in a variety of ways as servant, minister, or deacon, but perhaps most simply and beautifully as one who serves. In Luke 22:27, Jesus says to the disciples, “Who is greater, the one who is at the table or the one who serves? Is it not the one at the table? But I am among you as one who serves.”
A deacon is a woman or a man who learns from Jesus how to be great. A deacon is a leader who models Christian service and a servant who models Christian leadership.
When Jesus entered the house of Simon and Andrew, Simon’s mother-in-law was in bed with a fever, and they told him about her at once. The next verse is made up of plain, unadorned words, nothing printed in red, just simple descriptive terms for simple actions. He came and took her by the hand and lifted her up.
When you have lots of words on a page it’s so easy to keep reading, to find out what happened next, that evening, at sundown, or the next morning. But when you just keep reading you miss a beautiful detail; this scene by the woman’s bed reflects the whole work of Christ: He came to visit us in our need, to take us by the hand, and to lift us up.
And he lifts you up not just to make you feel better or to let you return to whatever you were doing before the fever tied you to the bed. He gives power to the faint, and strengthens the powerless. He came and took her by the hand and lifted her up. Then the fever left her, and she began to serve them.
Some say that Jesus restored her to her place in the household and the community, a place of dignity and purpose. Others say, not without a hint of cynicism, that all he did was make her better so she could go back to the kitchen and fix supper for them and then wait on them. Real healing, they say, would include her liberation from oppressive norms. Gender expectations may not tie her to her bed like a fever, but tie her nevertheless to a place defined for her by others. When he took her hand, the fever left her, but her place as a woman in a men’s world hadn’t changed. It’s a legitimate concern.
I was pondering this gospel passage when I heard a report from Pakistan. Militant groups in the tribal areas on the border to Afghanistan had started moving further inland under pressure from increased attacks by U.S. military. They took control of a strategically important valley in the Northwest of Pakistan, one of the most developed areas of the country, with literacy rates in the 90’s; among the first things they did there was to blow up all the girls schools. In their vision of life, education is for men only; power is for men only; and only men have names. In such a world, healing that is only concerned with reducing the fever, doesn’t address the real sickness.
I believe Mark chooses his words very carefully. I believe it is no coincidence that after the fever left her, Simon’s mother-in-law didn’t go and do the laundry or scrub the kitchen floor or go to the market to get groceries. Mark writes, she began to serve them.
Jesus didn’t make her feel better so she could work harder. He lifted her up and enabled her to serve; he enabled her to participate in his ministry of loving service. He lifted her up so her actions would make God’s coming rule concrete and tangible in the lives of others. Jesus lifted her up, and she became the first deacon.
Do you know who serves in the Gospel according to Mark? The word is used in only four verses, and, like I said, I believe Mark chooses his words very carefully. It first appears in verse 13 of chapter one: Jesus was in the wilderness forty days, tempted by Satan, and the angels waited on him. Serving is something angels do.
Then the word is used in the healing of Simon’s mother-in-law, and again in chapter 10 where Jesus says, “The Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life a ransom for many.” Serving is something Jesus does.
The last time the word is used in the Gospel according to Mark is immediately after the account of Jesus’ death.
There were also women looking from a distance; among them were Mary Magdalene, and Mary the mother of James the younger and of Joses, and Salome. These used to follow him and provided for him when he was in Galilee; and there were many other women who had come up with him to Jerusalem
Apparently many women had not only left the kitchen but followed Jesus all the way to the cross, and they served him on the way. Provided for him sounds a little like they were just writing the checks to pay the bills, but they served him and learned from him how to serve. They were with him on the way, they ran and did not grow weary, they walked and did not faint, staying with him all the way to the cross. Serving is something faithful followers of Jesus do, and Simon’s mother-in-law was the first who got it; that’s why I wish we knew her name.
He came and took her by the hand and lifted her up. Then the fever left her, and she began to serve them. These two brief lines not only describe the whole work of Christ, but also the work of those who follow him: we learn from him how to serve.
Lawrence Wood (Living by the Word, February 8, Christian Century January 27, 2009, p. 19) tells a story about some remarkable women whose names may never be written large in church history, but he names them for us.
Every summer, Sharon, Muggs, Wanda, and Joretta would help to put on a church dinner. Another woman couldn’t help out one year, having just had a hip replacement. He doesn’t tell us her name, only what she said when he went to check on her a day before the dinner.
“They’re not using boxed potatoes, are they? The people who come expect potatoes made from scratch.”
“They’re planning to peel potatoes all morning,” he assured her.
“And the ham? Did they get a good dry ham, or the watery kind?”
“I don’t know,” he said, and then he asked her if she had always enjoyed cooking. To his surprise, she adamantly said no, that cooking was a big chore.
“Really, I thought you enjoyed doing this.”
“I don’t love the potatoes,” she said. “Really, young man, you should know I love Christ, and there are only so many ways a body can do that.”
Spoken like a true deacon. When Jesus has lifted you up, and you have begun to learn from him how to serve, it’s not about loving the potatoes, the ham, or even the cooking, but about the people who eat the meal.
Jesus, on the night before he died, didn’t give the disciples one last sermon, something to think about when he was gone. He gave them something to do by washing their feet and sharing a meal.
“I love Christ,” she said, “and there are only so many ways a body can do that.” Washing tired and dirty feet, preparing a meal for twelve homeless men, or setting the table for disciples wearied by the long road – all these actions make the promise of God’s coming rule tangible. Do this in remembrance of me, he said. Simon’s mother-in-law got it before anyone else did, especially Simon and his fellow disciples.
In the morning, while it was still very dark, Jesus got up and went out to a deserted place, and there he prayed. The need for healing in Capernaum was still great, but the disciples didn’t know what to do – and so they ran and hunted for Jesus. “Everyone is searching for you,” they said when they found him, no doubt out of breath.
Do you remember what he said in reply?
“Let us go on to the neighboring towns, so that I may proclaim the message there also; for that is what I came out to do.”
He didn’t move on because one day in Capernaum was enough. He knew he could move on because in that town there was one woman who got it – and we don’t even know her name.
Isaiah 40:21-31
Mark 1:29-39
When the Gospel according to Mark was composed, nobody remembered her name. Everybody knew her solely as Simon’s mother-in-law.
The first disciples have names, Simon and Andrew, James and John, they will be remembered. Even Zebedee, whom his sons left behind in the boat – and that’s all we know about him – has a name, and his sons will always be remembered as the sons of Zebedee. Was it because it was a men’s world, that this woman’s name went unrecorded?
Some say that she remained unnamed because she serves as an example, as a representative for an entire group. At the beginning of his ministry, Jesus first drove out a demon from a man in the synagogue, a very public place – and that man remains unnamed – and then he healed a woman in the intimacy of a friend’s home. They say that for Mark it was important to show us right at the beginning, that Jesus brought liberation and healing to both men and women, in public and in private. Perhaps that’s the case, but I still wish we could remember her by name.
Let me tell you why. Last Sunday we had a Deacons’ meeting after church. Lise had made lunch for us, and after we had eaten we learned about the role of deacons in the church – in the New Testament, in church history, and here at Vine Street.
Deacon is a title, but long before it became identified with a particular church office, it was the greek word for servant. In English translations of the New Testament, the word diakonos is translated in a variety of ways as servant, minister, or deacon, but perhaps most simply and beautifully as one who serves. In Luke 22:27, Jesus says to the disciples, “Who is greater, the one who is at the table or the one who serves? Is it not the one at the table? But I am among you as one who serves.”
A deacon is a woman or a man who learns from Jesus how to be great. A deacon is a leader who models Christian service and a servant who models Christian leadership.
When Jesus entered the house of Simon and Andrew, Simon’s mother-in-law was in bed with a fever, and they told him about her at once. The next verse is made up of plain, unadorned words, nothing printed in red, just simple descriptive terms for simple actions. He came and took her by the hand and lifted her up.
When you have lots of words on a page it’s so easy to keep reading, to find out what happened next, that evening, at sundown, or the next morning. But when you just keep reading you miss a beautiful detail; this scene by the woman’s bed reflects the whole work of Christ: He came to visit us in our need, to take us by the hand, and to lift us up.
And he lifts you up not just to make you feel better or to let you return to whatever you were doing before the fever tied you to the bed. He gives power to the faint, and strengthens the powerless. He came and took her by the hand and lifted her up. Then the fever left her, and she began to serve them.
Some say that Jesus restored her to her place in the household and the community, a place of dignity and purpose. Others say, not without a hint of cynicism, that all he did was make her better so she could go back to the kitchen and fix supper for them and then wait on them. Real healing, they say, would include her liberation from oppressive norms. Gender expectations may not tie her to her bed like a fever, but tie her nevertheless to a place defined for her by others. When he took her hand, the fever left her, but her place as a woman in a men’s world hadn’t changed. It’s a legitimate concern.
I was pondering this gospel passage when I heard a report from Pakistan. Militant groups in the tribal areas on the border to Afghanistan had started moving further inland under pressure from increased attacks by U.S. military. They took control of a strategically important valley in the Northwest of Pakistan, one of the most developed areas of the country, with literacy rates in the 90’s; among the first things they did there was to blow up all the girls schools. In their vision of life, education is for men only; power is for men only; and only men have names. In such a world, healing that is only concerned with reducing the fever, doesn’t address the real sickness.
I believe Mark chooses his words very carefully. I believe it is no coincidence that after the fever left her, Simon’s mother-in-law didn’t go and do the laundry or scrub the kitchen floor or go to the market to get groceries. Mark writes, she began to serve them.
Jesus didn’t make her feel better so she could work harder. He lifted her up and enabled her to serve; he enabled her to participate in his ministry of loving service. He lifted her up so her actions would make God’s coming rule concrete and tangible in the lives of others. Jesus lifted her up, and she became the first deacon.
Do you know who serves in the Gospel according to Mark? The word is used in only four verses, and, like I said, I believe Mark chooses his words very carefully. It first appears in verse 13 of chapter one: Jesus was in the wilderness forty days, tempted by Satan, and the angels waited on him. Serving is something angels do.
Then the word is used in the healing of Simon’s mother-in-law, and again in chapter 10 where Jesus says, “The Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life a ransom for many.” Serving is something Jesus does.
The last time the word is used in the Gospel according to Mark is immediately after the account of Jesus’ death.
There were also women looking from a distance; among them were Mary Magdalene, and Mary the mother of James the younger and of Joses, and Salome. These used to follow him and provided for him when he was in Galilee; and there were many other women who had come up with him to Jerusalem
Mark 15:40-41
Apparently many women had not only left the kitchen but followed Jesus all the way to the cross, and they served him on the way. Provided for him sounds a little like they were just writing the checks to pay the bills, but they served him and learned from him how to serve. They were with him on the way, they ran and did not grow weary, they walked and did not faint, staying with him all the way to the cross. Serving is something faithful followers of Jesus do, and Simon’s mother-in-law was the first who got it; that’s why I wish we knew her name.
He came and took her by the hand and lifted her up. Then the fever left her, and she began to serve them. These two brief lines not only describe the whole work of Christ, but also the work of those who follow him: we learn from him how to serve.
Lawrence Wood (Living by the Word, February 8, Christian Century January 27, 2009, p. 19) tells a story about some remarkable women whose names may never be written large in church history, but he names them for us.
Every summer, Sharon, Muggs, Wanda, and Joretta would help to put on a church dinner. Another woman couldn’t help out one year, having just had a hip replacement. He doesn’t tell us her name, only what she said when he went to check on her a day before the dinner.
“They’re not using boxed potatoes, are they? The people who come expect potatoes made from scratch.”
“They’re planning to peel potatoes all morning,” he assured her.
“And the ham? Did they get a good dry ham, or the watery kind?”
“I don’t know,” he said, and then he asked her if she had always enjoyed cooking. To his surprise, she adamantly said no, that cooking was a big chore.
“Really, I thought you enjoyed doing this.”
“I don’t love the potatoes,” she said. “Really, young man, you should know I love Christ, and there are only so many ways a body can do that.”
Spoken like a true deacon. When Jesus has lifted you up, and you have begun to learn from him how to serve, it’s not about loving the potatoes, the ham, or even the cooking, but about the people who eat the meal.
Jesus, on the night before he died, didn’t give the disciples one last sermon, something to think about when he was gone. He gave them something to do by washing their feet and sharing a meal.
“I love Christ,” she said, “and there are only so many ways a body can do that.” Washing tired and dirty feet, preparing a meal for twelve homeless men, or setting the table for disciples wearied by the long road – all these actions make the promise of God’s coming rule tangible. Do this in remembrance of me, he said. Simon’s mother-in-law got it before anyone else did, especially Simon and his fellow disciples.
In the morning, while it was still very dark, Jesus got up and went out to a deserted place, and there he prayed. The need for healing in Capernaum was still great, but the disciples didn’t know what to do – and so they ran and hunted for Jesus. “Everyone is searching for you,” they said when they found him, no doubt out of breath.
Do you remember what he said in reply?
“Let us go on to the neighboring towns, so that I may proclaim the message there also; for that is what I came out to do.”
He didn’t move on because one day in Capernaum was enough. He knew he could move on because in that town there was one woman who got it – and we don’t even know her name.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Whose Voice? Whose Authority?
Audio of this post is available.
In case you want to read Mark 1:21-28 first.
Authority. Authority is a big word.
Authority speaks with confidence. Authority doesn’t end its sentences with a question mark but with a full stop – this is it, period. Authority speaks with the expectation of being heard and recognized and obeyed. But authority has fallen on hard times.
Just the other night, Nancy and I picked up a rather heavy countertop, about six feet long; we needed to figure out how to move it around the room and over and around various pieces of furniture to place it on top of a cabinet.
Having done this kind of thing a few times before, I confidently declared, “I’ll tell you what to do and you just do it.” Her reply? “Don’t make me laugh, or I’ll drop it.”
Clearly, authority isn’t what it used to be anymore. We know its abuses too well to simply let its voice or demeanor compel us to jump. Where authority puts a period, we immediately add a question mark.
The rabbis have a beautiful story about religious authority. Many rabbis of Europe were known for boasting distinguished rabbinical genealogies – the farther back one could trace his lineage, the more weight his teaching carried. Once they had a gathering, and soon each began to boast of his eminent rabbinical ancestors. Then came Rabbi Yechiel of Ostrowce’s turn. There was no famous rabbi among his ancestors and his father was a baker. He rose and said, “In my family, I’m the first eminent ancestor.”
His colleagues were shocked by his lack of respect and humility, but said nothing. The conversation quickly turned to matters of interpretation of Scripture, and each was asked to discuss a saying of one of his distinguished rabbinical ancestors. One after another they delivered their learned dissertations, steeped in venerable tradition.
At last it came time for Rabbi Yechiel to speak. He arose and said, “My masters, my father was a baker. He taught me that only fresh bread was appetizing and that I must avoid the stale. This can also apply to learning.” And with that Rabbi Yechiel sat down.
The wisdom of our ancestors, come down to us in trusted tradition,deserves our attention and respect – but any teaching that derives its authority solely from tradition is in danger of becoming stale like old bread.
When Jesus taught, people were astounded, for he taught them as one having authority, and not as the scribes.
The scribes, of course, had the authority to teach; they had the proper training, they had passed the necessary ordination exams, and they had been duly installed. But when they taught, the place didn’t exactly smell like a bakery.
With Jesus, there’s not the usual stale slices from a time‐honored bag, but a fresh, fragrant loaf, still warm. He could rise and say, “In my family, I am the first eminent ancestor,” but he doesn’t – he leaves that for us to discover.
Jesus’ authority doesn’t come from tradition, but directly from the Author of life. Jesus doesn’t heat up yesterday’s bread, he makes his own and freely shares it.
One fascinating detail about Mark’s account of the synagogue scene is that we’re not told one word of what Jesus actually said. The emphasis is not on what he taught, but how. Our attention is drawn not to the teachings, but to the teacher.
And we already know this is no ordinary teacher. He was in the wilderness forty days, tempted by Satan, and he returned proclaiming the kingdom of God. He came not to edify or enlighten his audience, but to free us.
"No one can enter a strong man’s house and plunder his property without first tying up the strong man; then indeed the house can be plundered," he would soon teach his disciples.
Jesus has entered the strong man’s house, and now he’s plundering his property. The Son of God is in the house, ready to redeem all who were under the power of sin and evil. It smells like fresh bread and freedom.
Jesus is in the house, and the anxiety level among demons and evil spirits is at an all‐time high. They know him, and they know his mission: to tie them up and throw them out.
“What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth?” they shriek. “Have you come to destroy us? I know who you are, the Holy One of God.”
Jesus is in the house, their time’s up, and they know it. No matter how much they cry and whimper, trying to resist, they cannot stand against the word and authority of Christ. “Be still, and come out of him.” Period. And the unclean spirit comes out; the man is free.
This brief scene represents Jesus’ whole mission: he doesn’t just teach about the kingdom, he brings it, he embodies it. He frees human beings from the power of all the forces opposed to God’s reign.
In Psalm 33 we find words to describe such authority:
Let all the earth fear the Lord;
let all the inhabitants of the world stand in awe of him.
For he spoke, and it came to be;
he commanded, and it stood firm.
Jesus is not just another teacher or scribe, nor even first among all teachers of all times – he speaks and acts with the authority of God.
The evil spirits know that, and the people encountering Jesus are beginning to see it: “He commands even the unclean spirits, and they obey him.”
He speaks, and it comes to be; he is the author of a new reality. He speaks, and the oppressed go free; the possessed are redeemed; the wounded are healed; and sinners are forgiven.
Jesus is in the house, the kingdom of God has come near, and the whole place smells like fresh bread and new life.
I used to think that demons were little more than an imaginative way to explain mental illness in ancient times. I used to think that talk of demons was outdated after the arrival of medical science and pharmacology.
But then I watched with horror as ancient hatred exploded in former Yugoslavia and Rwanda, as violence shredded the fabric of life in Darfur and the Congo – oh yes, there are historical factors and political reasons and economic circumstances, but only if you keep your distance. The closer you get, the less the learned academic explanations will do.
We live in a world where powers are at work that shape us against our will, against our best intentions, and against our own best interest. There are powers at work that laugh at the authority of our knowledge and our technology.
I got to a point where I realized that talk of demons is not only appropriate but an accurate assessment of our bondage. We need to know what we are up against, and we need to know that we are not alone.
There are people who make us feel small and powerless. There are systems that take away our names and reduce us to numbers in a data base. There are voices, many voices that tell us that to be acceptable we must be somebody else.
But Jesus has entered the house of the strong one and bound him. The demons are shrieking for they know who he is and why he has come. The reign of sin is over and the kingdom of God is near. Now the door is open and the captives are returning home, an endless stream of former slaves.
Jesus is in the house, with fresh, fragrant bread and the power to redeem, and a man in Capernaum goes home free. All around the world, communities of disciples are called, equipped, and sent to proclaim Christ in word and deed, and God’s love and truth set people free, one at a time.
It was on the sabbath that Jesus came to Capernaum. It was on the day of fullfilment when all things are made whole that Jesus came to the synagogue. Jesus didn’t tell the man who was possessed by an unclean spirit that he didn’t belong in that holy place on that holy day, and that he should leave; he told the evil spirit to leave the man. He didn’t exclude the man, but restored him to life in God’s sabbath community.
The church hasn’t always been faithful to this way of holiness. We have a long and sad history of demonizing and excluding others who did not measure up to our standards of holiness, not realizing that we had fallen victim to the evil spirits of arrogance and self‐righteousness. But through the gospel, again and again, God convicts us of our sin, frees us and calls us anew to live as brothers and sisters of Christ.
We are here together, in this holy place on this holy day, to meet Jesus, and he comes to us as judge and redeemer, as teacher and savior, as friend and Lord. He comes with the authority to call evil out of us and set us free.
The battle takes place wherever the living Christ confronts the demonic forces; it’s his battle, not ours, and he’s already won. We remember that, and no authority on earth can convince us that our struggle for peace and wholeness is hopeless. We rember that, and we speak and live with confidence, with authority. We remember that, and people will come drawn by the aroma of fresh bread.
In case you want to read Mark 1:21-28 first.
Authority. Authority is a big word.
Authority speaks with confidence. Authority doesn’t end its sentences with a question mark but with a full stop – this is it, period. Authority speaks with the expectation of being heard and recognized and obeyed. But authority has fallen on hard times.
Just the other night, Nancy and I picked up a rather heavy countertop, about six feet long; we needed to figure out how to move it around the room and over and around various pieces of furniture to place it on top of a cabinet.
Having done this kind of thing a few times before, I confidently declared, “I’ll tell you what to do and you just do it.” Her reply? “Don’t make me laugh, or I’ll drop it.”
Clearly, authority isn’t what it used to be anymore. We know its abuses too well to simply let its voice or demeanor compel us to jump. Where authority puts a period, we immediately add a question mark.
The rabbis have a beautiful story about religious authority. Many rabbis of Europe were known for boasting distinguished rabbinical genealogies – the farther back one could trace his lineage, the more weight his teaching carried. Once they had a gathering, and soon each began to boast of his eminent rabbinical ancestors. Then came Rabbi Yechiel of Ostrowce’s turn. There was no famous rabbi among his ancestors and his father was a baker. He rose and said, “In my family, I’m the first eminent ancestor.”
His colleagues were shocked by his lack of respect and humility, but said nothing. The conversation quickly turned to matters of interpretation of Scripture, and each was asked to discuss a saying of one of his distinguished rabbinical ancestors. One after another they delivered their learned dissertations, steeped in venerable tradition.
At last it came time for Rabbi Yechiel to speak. He arose and said, “My masters, my father was a baker. He taught me that only fresh bread was appetizing and that I must avoid the stale. This can also apply to learning.” And with that Rabbi Yechiel sat down.
The wisdom of our ancestors, come down to us in trusted tradition,deserves our attention and respect – but any teaching that derives its authority solely from tradition is in danger of becoming stale like old bread.
When Jesus taught, people were astounded, for he taught them as one having authority, and not as the scribes.
The scribes, of course, had the authority to teach; they had the proper training, they had passed the necessary ordination exams, and they had been duly installed. But when they taught, the place didn’t exactly smell like a bakery.
With Jesus, there’s not the usual stale slices from a time‐honored bag, but a fresh, fragrant loaf, still warm. He could rise and say, “In my family, I am the first eminent ancestor,” but he doesn’t – he leaves that for us to discover.
Jesus’ authority doesn’t come from tradition, but directly from the Author of life. Jesus doesn’t heat up yesterday’s bread, he makes his own and freely shares it.
One fascinating detail about Mark’s account of the synagogue scene is that we’re not told one word of what Jesus actually said. The emphasis is not on what he taught, but how. Our attention is drawn not to the teachings, but to the teacher.
And we already know this is no ordinary teacher. He was in the wilderness forty days, tempted by Satan, and he returned proclaiming the kingdom of God. He came not to edify or enlighten his audience, but to free us.
"No one can enter a strong man’s house and plunder his property without first tying up the strong man; then indeed the house can be plundered," he would soon teach his disciples.
Jesus has entered the strong man’s house, and now he’s plundering his property. The Son of God is in the house, ready to redeem all who were under the power of sin and evil. It smells like fresh bread and freedom.
Jesus is in the house, and the anxiety level among demons and evil spirits is at an all‐time high. They know him, and they know his mission: to tie them up and throw them out.
“What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth?” they shriek. “Have you come to destroy us? I know who you are, the Holy One of God.”
Jesus is in the house, their time’s up, and they know it. No matter how much they cry and whimper, trying to resist, they cannot stand against the word and authority of Christ. “Be still, and come out of him.” Period. And the unclean spirit comes out; the man is free.
This brief scene represents Jesus’ whole mission: he doesn’t just teach about the kingdom, he brings it, he embodies it. He frees human beings from the power of all the forces opposed to God’s reign.
In Psalm 33 we find words to describe such authority:
Let all the earth fear the Lord;
let all the inhabitants of the world stand in awe of him.
For he spoke, and it came to be;
he commanded, and it stood firm.
Jesus is not just another teacher or scribe, nor even first among all teachers of all times – he speaks and acts with the authority of God.
The evil spirits know that, and the people encountering Jesus are beginning to see it: “He commands even the unclean spirits, and they obey him.”
He speaks, and it comes to be; he is the author of a new reality. He speaks, and the oppressed go free; the possessed are redeemed; the wounded are healed; and sinners are forgiven.
Jesus is in the house, the kingdom of God has come near, and the whole place smells like fresh bread and new life.
I used to think that demons were little more than an imaginative way to explain mental illness in ancient times. I used to think that talk of demons was outdated after the arrival of medical science and pharmacology.
But then I watched with horror as ancient hatred exploded in former Yugoslavia and Rwanda, as violence shredded the fabric of life in Darfur and the Congo – oh yes, there are historical factors and political reasons and economic circumstances, but only if you keep your distance. The closer you get, the less the learned academic explanations will do.
We live in a world where powers are at work that shape us against our will, against our best intentions, and against our own best interest. There are powers at work that laugh at the authority of our knowledge and our technology.
I got to a point where I realized that talk of demons is not only appropriate but an accurate assessment of our bondage. We need to know what we are up against, and we need to know that we are not alone.
There are people who make us feel small and powerless. There are systems that take away our names and reduce us to numbers in a data base. There are voices, many voices that tell us that to be acceptable we must be somebody else.
But Jesus has entered the house of the strong one and bound him. The demons are shrieking for they know who he is and why he has come. The reign of sin is over and the kingdom of God is near. Now the door is open and the captives are returning home, an endless stream of former slaves.
Jesus is in the house, with fresh, fragrant bread and the power to redeem, and a man in Capernaum goes home free. All around the world, communities of disciples are called, equipped, and sent to proclaim Christ in word and deed, and God’s love and truth set people free, one at a time.
It was on the sabbath that Jesus came to Capernaum. It was on the day of fullfilment when all things are made whole that Jesus came to the synagogue. Jesus didn’t tell the man who was possessed by an unclean spirit that he didn’t belong in that holy place on that holy day, and that he should leave; he told the evil spirit to leave the man. He didn’t exclude the man, but restored him to life in God’s sabbath community.
The church hasn’t always been faithful to this way of holiness. We have a long and sad history of demonizing and excluding others who did not measure up to our standards of holiness, not realizing that we had fallen victim to the evil spirits of arrogance and self‐righteousness. But through the gospel, again and again, God convicts us of our sin, frees us and calls us anew to live as brothers and sisters of Christ.
We are here together, in this holy place on this holy day, to meet Jesus, and he comes to us as judge and redeemer, as teacher and savior, as friend and Lord. He comes with the authority to call evil out of us and set us free.
The battle takes place wherever the living Christ confronts the demonic forces; it’s his battle, not ours, and he’s already won. We remember that, and no authority on earth can convince us that our struggle for peace and wholeness is hopeless. We rember that, and we speak and live with confidence, with authority. We remember that, and people will come drawn by the aroma of fresh bread.
Come and See
This post refers to John 1:43-51.
Sometime last year I started wearing reading glasses. I had noticed that the letters on the pages were doing interesting things like losing their edges and turning into greyish pixel patterns.
I went to the optometrist and complained, “I can no longer read in bed unless I try to hold the book between my toes. What’s wrong with my eyes?”
He just laughed, “Nothing that being under 45 wouldn’t fix.”
Some of you have already told me that when it comes to reading glasses, I’m a baby. Apparently +1.25 is nothing compared to what I have to look forward to from here on out, and eventually I may just have to get me a pair of binoculars.
I did OK in worship, with the bulletin and the hymnal, until Christmas Eve when I noticed – with the lights dimmed just a little – that the words I was singing didn’t always match what you all sang. Within a year, seeing, for me, changed from something I pretty much took for granted, to the daily miracle it actually is.
One afternoon last year, I learned another lesson about vision. It was a simple test: watch a video clip of two basketball teams and count how many times the team in dark jerseys pass the ball to each other. They were a fast-passing team, but I can be very focused when I have to, and I had my new reading glasses that didn’t give blur a chance. I watched that ball like a hawk eyes a rabbit, followed its every move, and counted, 1‐2‐3‐4…
The clip ended, I had counted sixteen passes, and I was eager to have my count confirmed. Instead, I was asked if I had seen the guy in the gorilla suit.
Gorilla suit? No, I hadn’t, but there’s no way I’d miss a guy in a gorilla suit showing up in the middle of a basketball game – I thought. I played the clip again, and there he was, in plain view, casually walking among the players, big, tall, hairy, turning to the camera and waving, and slowly walking off the scene. I was so busy counting passes, I would have missed just about anything in that clip that didn’t announce its coming with a bang or a flash.
I have to assume that this is how I see things not just in funny little experiments; this is how I look at the world, this is how my attention can be so absorbed by some things, that I literally fail to notice the gorilla in the room. They don’t make glasses for that.
The first thing Jesus says in the gospel according to John is a question, “What are you looking for?” In the flow of the story, the question is addressed to a couple of disciples who used to follow John the Baptist, but now follow Jesus. In the flow of my reading, the question slows me down to a complete stop, and I ask myself, “What am I looking for?”
I am looking for peace and joy; I am looking for truth, for a sense of fulfillment, for a way out of some of the messes we have made. I am also looking for a job for my friend who couldn’t make his mortgage payment in three months; I am looking for a future without fear for him and his family.
But I’m also the guy who needs glasses to see clearly what’s within arm’s reach; I’m the guy who’s so good at keeping his eye on the ball that he misses the gorilla – I wonder if somehow the things that I’m looking for keep me from seeing things that are obvious to others, more important things, perhaps?
What are you looking for? You have your own responses to that question, just like Jesus’ first disciples, and Jesus simply says to all of us, “Come and see.”
His words are an invitation to look at the world from the perspective of his path, an invitation to seek in his company whatever it is we are looking for; but his words are also a challenge to leave, a challenge to walk away from familiar ideas, expectations, and preoccupations, a challenge to have our vision adjusted by him. Come and see, because until you come there’s nothing to see.
Warner Sallman has done a number of religious paintings, and one of his most famous ones shows Jesus standing at a heavy wooden door, knocking.
The frame of the doorway and other elements of the composition create a heart‐shape so obvious that you don’t need to know the title of the painting, Christ at Heart’s Door.
The message is clear: Christ is at the door, knocking, open your heart and let him in.
Here at the beginning of the gospel of John, the message is almost the opposite: open the door and come out; leave the confines of your familiar world and see. You cannot have one foot on the threshold and the other on the way, stretching your neck to catch a glimpse of what may lie ahead. You gotta come in order to see.
In Sallman’s painting, it’s only Jesus outside the door, but in John’s opening chapter the scene looks different: it’s pretty crowded. There’s Andrew and Peter, Philip and Nathanael – it’s like John drilled a little peephole in Sallman’s door so we can see some of the disciples who are on the way with Jesus and overhear what they say.
“We have found the Messiah,” Andrew tells his brother.
And Philip says to Nathanael, “We have found him about whom Moses in the law and also the prophets wrote, Jesus son of Joseph from Nazareth.”
They have found something, someone, and we don’t know if what they found is what they were looking for, or if whom they found forever changed what they were looking for.
Nathanael hesitates, he is suspicious. “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?”
Martin Luther thought the question impertinent and Nathanael a dunce and called him “a silly old sheep.” Others, however, including Augustine, suggested that Nathanael was a much better student of Scripture and prophecy than Philip and therefore knew that the Messiah long expected would be neither the son of Joseph nor a native of Nazareth.
I’d say, if you don’t expect anything good to come out of Nazareth, you don’t pay attention to what’s coming out of Nazareth, and you’re likely to miss the best thing ever to come out of Nazareth.
Philip’s response is marvelous. He doesn’t argue with Nathanael; he doesn’t call him prejudiced or “a silly old sheep;” he doesn’t pile up theological assertions loud enough to silence any doubt or dissent; instead he quotes Jesus in the most inviting way possible, saying, “Come and see.”
On Christmas Eve, when the heavens opened and shepherds heard the good news of great joy and angels singing, “Glory to God!” – what did they do? They said to one another, “Let us go now and see this thing that has taken place, which the Lord has made known to us (Luke 2:8‐15)."
And the wise men in the East, who saw a star announcing the birth of a king – what did they do? They set out and followed it until it stopped over the place where the child was (Matthew 2:1‐12).
The good news of Jesus Christ doesn’t begin with a set of doctrines about the Messiah, the Son of God, or the king of Israel, but with a word that sets people in motion.
In John’s gospel there are no angel choirs in the fields or bright shining stars that attract exotic people from far away. In John’s gospel there is Andrew who talks about what he has found in Jesus, and Philip who talks about Jesus who found him, and we can see them through the peephole in the door, and they say, “Come and see.”
The first thing Nathanael discovers in his encounter with Jesus, is that Jesus knows him, and that he saw him long before Philip called him.
The scene resonates with lines from Psalm 139,
O Lord, you have searched me and known me.
You know when I sit down and when I rise up;
you discern my thoughts from far away.
You search out my path and my lying down,
and are acquainted with all my ways.
Nathanael has his eyes opened when he realizes that Jesus has seen him and known him all along, that searching and finding is not just a one‐sided quest of people looking for answers, but God’s mission long before we begin to ask.
Nathanael has his vision adjusted and his outlook changed, and we overhear his confession, “Rabbi, you are the Son of God! You are the king of Israel!”
In John’s opening chapter, the cup of testimony overflows with names and titles, each adding new dimensions to the identity of Jesus the Savior: Word become flesh, true light, Lamb of God, Rabbi, Messiah, king of Israel, Jesus son of Joseph from Nazareth, Son of God ‐ but as long as we remain behind the door, peeping through the spy hole, we are just watching religious theater, spiritually uplifting theater perhaps, but theater nonetheless. The key line is, “Come and see.”
The promise to those who open the door and step out is the fulfillment of an ancient dream.
Jacob, son of Isaac, and ancestor of Israel, was on his way to Haran to find a wife for himself. He spent the night in the field, “and he dreamed that there was a ladder set up on the earth, the top of it reaching to heaven; and the angels of God were ascending and descending on it.”
The Lord renewed to him the promises made to his ancestor Abraham, and said, “Know that I am with you and will keep you wherever you go; I will not leave you until I have done what I have promised you.”
Then Jacob woke from his sleep and said, “Surely the Lord is in this place—and I did not know it. This is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven.” Genesis 28:10‐17
At the beginning of his ministry, Jesus promises to those who come that they will awake as from a sleep and they will see what God’s people had been looking for since the days of Abraham and Sarah. Come and see.
Sometime last year I started wearing reading glasses. I had noticed that the letters on the pages were doing interesting things like losing their edges and turning into greyish pixel patterns.
I went to the optometrist and complained, “I can no longer read in bed unless I try to hold the book between my toes. What’s wrong with my eyes?”
He just laughed, “Nothing that being under 45 wouldn’t fix.”
Some of you have already told me that when it comes to reading glasses, I’m a baby. Apparently +1.25 is nothing compared to what I have to look forward to from here on out, and eventually I may just have to get me a pair of binoculars.
I did OK in worship, with the bulletin and the hymnal, until Christmas Eve when I noticed – with the lights dimmed just a little – that the words I was singing didn’t always match what you all sang. Within a year, seeing, for me, changed from something I pretty much took for granted, to the daily miracle it actually is.
One afternoon last year, I learned another lesson about vision. It was a simple test: watch a video clip of two basketball teams and count how many times the team in dark jerseys pass the ball to each other. They were a fast-passing team, but I can be very focused when I have to, and I had my new reading glasses that didn’t give blur a chance. I watched that ball like a hawk eyes a rabbit, followed its every move, and counted, 1‐2‐3‐4…
The clip ended, I had counted sixteen passes, and I was eager to have my count confirmed. Instead, I was asked if I had seen the guy in the gorilla suit.
Gorilla suit? No, I hadn’t, but there’s no way I’d miss a guy in a gorilla suit showing up in the middle of a basketball game – I thought. I played the clip again, and there he was, in plain view, casually walking among the players, big, tall, hairy, turning to the camera and waving, and slowly walking off the scene. I was so busy counting passes, I would have missed just about anything in that clip that didn’t announce its coming with a bang or a flash.
I have to assume that this is how I see things not just in funny little experiments; this is how I look at the world, this is how my attention can be so absorbed by some things, that I literally fail to notice the gorilla in the room. They don’t make glasses for that.
The first thing Jesus says in the gospel according to John is a question, “What are you looking for?” In the flow of the story, the question is addressed to a couple of disciples who used to follow John the Baptist, but now follow Jesus. In the flow of my reading, the question slows me down to a complete stop, and I ask myself, “What am I looking for?”
I am looking for peace and joy; I am looking for truth, for a sense of fulfillment, for a way out of some of the messes we have made. I am also looking for a job for my friend who couldn’t make his mortgage payment in three months; I am looking for a future without fear for him and his family.
But I’m also the guy who needs glasses to see clearly what’s within arm’s reach; I’m the guy who’s so good at keeping his eye on the ball that he misses the gorilla – I wonder if somehow the things that I’m looking for keep me from seeing things that are obvious to others, more important things, perhaps?
What are you looking for? You have your own responses to that question, just like Jesus’ first disciples, and Jesus simply says to all of us, “Come and see.”
His words are an invitation to look at the world from the perspective of his path, an invitation to seek in his company whatever it is we are looking for; but his words are also a challenge to leave, a challenge to walk away from familiar ideas, expectations, and preoccupations, a challenge to have our vision adjusted by him. Come and see, because until you come there’s nothing to see.
Warner Sallman has done a number of religious paintings, and one of his most famous ones shows Jesus standing at a heavy wooden door, knocking.
The frame of the doorway and other elements of the composition create a heart‐shape so obvious that you don’t need to know the title of the painting, Christ at Heart’s Door.
The message is clear: Christ is at the door, knocking, open your heart and let him in.
Here at the beginning of the gospel of John, the message is almost the opposite: open the door and come out; leave the confines of your familiar world and see. You cannot have one foot on the threshold and the other on the way, stretching your neck to catch a glimpse of what may lie ahead. You gotta come in order to see.
In Sallman’s painting, it’s only Jesus outside the door, but in John’s opening chapter the scene looks different: it’s pretty crowded. There’s Andrew and Peter, Philip and Nathanael – it’s like John drilled a little peephole in Sallman’s door so we can see some of the disciples who are on the way with Jesus and overhear what they say.
“We have found the Messiah,” Andrew tells his brother.
And Philip says to Nathanael, “We have found him about whom Moses in the law and also the prophets wrote, Jesus son of Joseph from Nazareth.”
They have found something, someone, and we don’t know if what they found is what they were looking for, or if whom they found forever changed what they were looking for.
Nathanael hesitates, he is suspicious. “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?”
Martin Luther thought the question impertinent and Nathanael a dunce and called him “a silly old sheep.” Others, however, including Augustine, suggested that Nathanael was a much better student of Scripture and prophecy than Philip and therefore knew that the Messiah long expected would be neither the son of Joseph nor a native of Nazareth.
Peter Gomes, Expository Articles, Interpretation 1989, p. 283
I’d say, if you don’t expect anything good to come out of Nazareth, you don’t pay attention to what’s coming out of Nazareth, and you’re likely to miss the best thing ever to come out of Nazareth.
Philip’s response is marvelous. He doesn’t argue with Nathanael; he doesn’t call him prejudiced or “a silly old sheep;” he doesn’t pile up theological assertions loud enough to silence any doubt or dissent; instead he quotes Jesus in the most inviting way possible, saying, “Come and see.”
On Christmas Eve, when the heavens opened and shepherds heard the good news of great joy and angels singing, “Glory to God!” – what did they do? They said to one another, “Let us go now and see this thing that has taken place, which the Lord has made known to us (Luke 2:8‐15)."
And the wise men in the East, who saw a star announcing the birth of a king – what did they do? They set out and followed it until it stopped over the place where the child was (Matthew 2:1‐12).
The good news of Jesus Christ doesn’t begin with a set of doctrines about the Messiah, the Son of God, or the king of Israel, but with a word that sets people in motion.
In John’s gospel there are no angel choirs in the fields or bright shining stars that attract exotic people from far away. In John’s gospel there is Andrew who talks about what he has found in Jesus, and Philip who talks about Jesus who found him, and we can see them through the peephole in the door, and they say, “Come and see.”
The first thing Nathanael discovers in his encounter with Jesus, is that Jesus knows him, and that he saw him long before Philip called him.
The scene resonates with lines from Psalm 139,
O Lord, you have searched me and known me.
You know when I sit down and when I rise up;
you discern my thoughts from far away.
You search out my path and my lying down,
and are acquainted with all my ways.
Nathanael has his eyes opened when he realizes that Jesus has seen him and known him all along, that searching and finding is not just a one‐sided quest of people looking for answers, but God’s mission long before we begin to ask.
Nathanael has his vision adjusted and his outlook changed, and we overhear his confession, “Rabbi, you are the Son of God! You are the king of Israel!”
In John’s opening chapter, the cup of testimony overflows with names and titles, each adding new dimensions to the identity of Jesus the Savior: Word become flesh, true light, Lamb of God, Rabbi, Messiah, king of Israel, Jesus son of Joseph from Nazareth, Son of God ‐ but as long as we remain behind the door, peeping through the spy hole, we are just watching religious theater, spiritually uplifting theater perhaps, but theater nonetheless. The key line is, “Come and see.”
The promise to those who open the door and step out is the fulfillment of an ancient dream.
Jacob, son of Isaac, and ancestor of Israel, was on his way to Haran to find a wife for himself. He spent the night in the field, “and he dreamed that there was a ladder set up on the earth, the top of it reaching to heaven; and the angels of God were ascending and descending on it.”
The Lord renewed to him the promises made to his ancestor Abraham, and said, “Know that I am with you and will keep you wherever you go; I will not leave you until I have done what I have promised you.”
Then Jacob woke from his sleep and said, “Surely the Lord is in this place—and I did not know it. This is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven.” Genesis 28:10‐17
At the beginning of his ministry, Jesus promises to those who come that they will awake as from a sleep and they will see what God’s people had been looking for since the days of Abraham and Sarah. Come and see.
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