In life there are things we’ll touch and things we won’t…and
sometimes things we must.
Several years ago, when Melinda and I were first married but
didn’t have any children, our close friends asked us if we’d babysit their two
kids—ages 4 and 20 months—while they went away for an interview at a
congregation. We were happy to help them, and I was glad to spend some time
getting to know the younger one, my godson. It didn’t occur to me until they
showed up to drop them off with a diaper bag, that saying “yes” to this request
was going to entail something I’d never done before: changing a diaper.
The total time they were with us was two days and two
nights, and I prayed fervently that if James, my godson, had a “movement,” it
would occur when Melinda was home on duty with me. But despite my fervent
pleas, it still happened. First, I smelt it. Then, he began to complain about
it. Melinda was still a good 6 hours from arriving home from work, so I figured
I had to be the man with the plan. And if that diaper was going to get off his
body, I was going to have to touch that diaper. So, I did, but I confess that once I
touched the filled diaper (it was…shall we say?...still warm), I gagged
immediately. I think I gagged about 4
times in rapid succession, actually. I walked into the other room and gave
myself a pep talk. Then I decided that it had to be done, and I needed to reach
down and find whatever courage I could and get that dirty thing off him. I was
the only option.
Jesus is confronted with a similar situation in this
morning’s gospel text, but in his case, there doesn’t seem to be any balking, any
gagging, and any reaching down into his soul for courage. He’s Jesus.
He simply reaches out and touches the man, who knows Jesus is his only
option. And the implications are much greater than touching a dirty diaper,
too. Leprosy (and other skin diseases which were often lumped together under the
same title) was considered the most debilitating and alienating of conditions. People with a skin disease in those days, regardless
of how transmissible it actually was, were themselves lumped together and forced
to eke out a meager existence at the outermost margins of towns and villages, unable
to approach anyone else without first yelling out, so that everyone could hear
them, “I’m a leper! Leper, here!”
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In the ancient hierarchical understanding of the way the
human body was ordered, skin disorders were considered the worst kind of
disorders to have. They affected one’s outward appearance, which was thought to
be a reflection of what was inside. Grotesque, contorted features were thought
to indicate a grotesque, contorted soul. On top of that, somewhat
contradictorily, those with leprosy were thought to be highly contagious. Those
determined unclean because of skin disorders had no hope of ever being
assimilated into society again because no one would come near them, look at
them, much less come into some kind of physical contact with them. They were one of those things that must not
be touched.
And that was precisely what I imagine sent this particular
man over the edge, causing him to blab as much as he could about what had
happened. It was one thing that he had been healed. It was another that Jesus
had done it by reaching out and touching him. It was one thing that Jesus had removed
a terrible affliction. It was another that Jesus had dignified the man by
making physical contact with him. Jesus had not just cured him of a painful and
incapacitating disease. He had somehow restored his humanity and restored him
to his community.
The image on the front of our bulletin today shows Jesus
almost embracing the man. Perhaps that’s what it was like—that particular posture
does suggest compassion or pity—but from what I’ve read about leprosy in the
ancient world, even a slight pat on the shoulder or a handshake with the
infected man would have broken all kinds of boundaries. In one simple yet
profound motion, Jesus demonstrates his willingness to “go the distance,” so to
speak, to save this man and restore him to life. So, can we blame him for
getting a little loud and excited about it? If a leper had been touched by
someone, you can expect he’d want to announce it.
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| Christ Healing a Leper, Rembrandt (1657-60) |
In fact, the man who is cured of his leprosy is just one
voice in the mob of people who are spreading news about Jesus. Things, as far
as that’s concerned, had gotten out of hand pretty quickly. Based on the kinds
of things Jesus was doing, there was a growing awareness that God’s own special
representative was on the scene. That is, the flurry of healing activity that
begins Jesus’ ministry in Mark’s gospel would have left no doubt among most about
Jesus’ power and authority. He teaches with conviction, he casts out demons, he
raises the sick, and here, in a case that would have put an exclamation point on
his special relationship to God—because only God was thought able to heal skin
diseases—he cures someone of leprosy and instructs that person to present
himself to the priests so that they may make full recognition of his healing. All
in all, it is a systematic undoing of the forces that isolate and alienate
humans from God and from one another. God’s kingdom has come near.
Yet these opening scenes are meant to establish more than
just his identity and authority. They also indicate how Jesus will use this authority and what that kingdom will look
like, and that is just as important. That’s why that touch, however slight it
might have been, is so crucial. Jesus comes not to lord over creation as some
sort of divine dictator. Nor will he somehow snap his holy fingers and magically
erase creation’s pain like some kind of traveling faith healer. Rather, Jesus
shows he is willing to “go the distance” in order to reach us where we are, to bridge
whatever oceans are there that strand humankind from the wholeness God intends.
Jesus will use his identity as the Son of God to show us how
human he is. He will use his authority as teacher and healer by humbling
himself and putting himself at great risk in order to save us. And God’s
kingdom will look like one where people are, one by one, rescued from the
segregating forces of sin and put back into true communion with each other, even
when that involves touching those we’ve determined “untouchable”—especially
when that involves touching those we’ve determined “untouchable.”
Yet we must resist making this story into a lesson about the
virtues of human touch, however powerful it may be. Just this week our youngest
daughter came down with an illness that, thank God, can easily be healed with a
round of antibiotics. We knew once we got some of that medicine in her she’d
feel so much better. But we also knew if we held her and rubbed her head she’d
feel a lot better, too. It occurred to me someone would have to have a heart of
stone to see her languishing on her bed in misery and not want to hug her, not
to have compassion on her. However, it’s not entirely clear, at least in this
instance, that Jesus was moved by pity or compassion. Some of the earliest
sources of Mark’s gospel actually say, “Moved by anger, Jesus stretched out his hand and touched the leper.” That
may sound strange to us, even a little off-putting, but in a way, it makes
perfect sense. It’s not the leper or the leper’s request that Jesus is angry
with, but rather the condition that has afflicted him so, as well as the
misused laws of religion that have banished him so harshly to the edges. Jesus’
touch is a rebuke of that condition and that banishment—almost like a slap in
the devil’s face. Again, in this scenario, he shows he is willing to “go the
distance” to restore this man to dignity.
Whatever his motivation—be it pity or anger and frustration—we
are still left with the uncomfortable information at the end of this story that
Jesus doesn’t want him talking about it, that Jesus wants it kept a secret. We
are still left with the peculiar situation at the end of this account that
Jesus can’t walk around openly anymore. A man who has already traveled such
great distance in his opening hours of ministry is left somewhat isolated
himself, stranded out in the country. After such remarkable displays of power and
such daring examples of “going the distance,” why wouldn’t Jesus welcome this
man’s praise and adoration? Isn’t that the point of the gospel, to share it
with others?
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| Night at Golgotha, Vasily Vereshchagin |
It is strongly suspected that the reason Jesus wants his
disciples and others who have witnessed his love to remain silent about it is
because at this point they have no idea yet just how far he’s going to go to
save us and establish God’s kingdom. That is, when they see him, for example,
touch the man with leprosy, they’ve gotten a big and important part of the
picture of Jesus’ identity and mission.
But they still have no idea of the defining brushstroke, the one which
will demonstrate the true depth of his love and compassion and anger at the
powers of sin. Jesus bridges a great distance when he risks his own health and scorn
from breaking religious and social taboo when he touches the leper, but it
pales in comparison to the distance he’ll go on the cross. There he will die in
order to bestow ultimate life. There he will fully define his identity and
reveal his authority as one who suffers in
order that God may rescue all creation from sin and death. That is the picture
he wants us to have in regards to who he truly is. That is the message we are
to share with others and seek to embody as his people. Spreading the word before that picture is
fully composed risks finding a short cut to the great distance he means to
travel.
A couple of years ago, a member of our congregation shared a
story with me about her childhood in North Carolina during the Great
Depression. Her father owned a small store in Charlotte that was not too far
from the airport. Those were the days of segregation, when black Americans were
not permitted to eat in most restaurants or eat with whites, which meant that
most of the employees on the runway at the airport had nowhere to eat or even
buy a meal. Moved somewhat by the potential to increase his business but no doubt
also by compassion for them and maybe even a little anger at that system, this
man began driving his truck out to edge of the terminal where they worked to
sell them some food. In the winter, his wife would cook hot soup, and he’d load
that, too, in big pots in the back of the truck, drive out to the edge of the runway, and ladle
it out to them. The men were deeply appreciative of his efforts.
But then came plans to expand the airport’s service, which
meant a longer runway and more construction. Apparently not caring (or knowing)
about the plight of the black employees, the airport cut off his access to the
workers in order to achieve the airport expansion. When he protested, they
demanded that he drive an alternate route around the perimeter of the airport each
day to reach them. He told them his soup would be stone cold by the time he got
there. Persistent in arguing his case to the authorities and in presenting the
need of the segregated workers, they finally agreed to close down the runway for
a few minutes each day at lunchtime and halt all airplane traffic so his little
truck could serve soup. Unable to figure out how they’d achieve the necessary
communication to set that up, it was decided that his daughter, our member,
Martha Gladfelter, would run across the runway every day and up the air traffic
control tower to tell the controllers to stop the planes. When he was finished,
his truck safely off the runway, she’d scurry down and return.
Across the runway and up the tower so a segregated
population could be served: I think that’s symbolic of the kind of effort Jesus
would like from his church, followers who know and begin to understand the
risky efforts Jesus has gone to for us. Aware of the human pain that still
strands so many, outraged by injustice and all that cuts us off, and choosing,
like Jesus, to go the distance. That may mean reaching out to the sick infant on the sofa,
the refugee in the camp, the sixth-grader being bullied, the person feeling trapped
by mental illness--indeed, all those who must be touched, so that all will know
Jesus is on the scene.
Yes, the Lord of life is risen and on the scene. He has arrived, I tell you, and is out in the
country here, healing and working. We
know this because we, too, have been restored to life. We find ourselves compelled to tell
others.
And, considering that great
distance, can they really blame us when we do?
Thanks be to God!
The Reverend Phillip
W. Martin, Jr.
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