So, Mark 1:21-18. I like to paint a picture for people of what
ancient Capernaum was like.
Artists have
depicted scholarly visions of the place – including one spectacular discovery
in 1968. Archaeologists have dug up a
neighborhood of connecting homes from the time of Jesus in Capernaum. One particular house was like any other in
most ways: stone walls, pottery and fish
hooks lying around on the floor. But
just a couple of decades after the death of Jesus, somebody put half a dozen
layers of plaster on the stones. As time
passed, religious graffiti were scrawled on the walls: the names Jesus and Peter, and phrases like Kyrie eleison and Amen. This house must be the
actual house where Jesus stayed and healed.
Surely someone would have remembered the right house, and Christians
would have set it aside for worship. In
the fourth and fifth centuries, using this same house as its foundation, an
octagonal church was constructed.
The image is riveting: a church built on the foundation of a
home. Church ought to be like a home, in
the best sense of the word: a place of
comfort, a zone of acceptance, an atmosphere of unconditional love, a sense of
belonging. Robert Frost called home “the
place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.” We feel in our hearts some nagging
homesickness, a longing for home, a yearning finally answered only by God, but
for now hinted at most profoundly in the life of God’s people.
Mark tells us that “immediately” (so
frequent in Mark!) Jesus entered the synagogue.
Mark has his theological urgency in mind – but in the ancient town, it
would have been literally immediately, as Peter’s house is about 25 steps from
the synagogue! Pilgrims take photos of
the white limestone synagogue – which was built in the 4th
century. But just under northwest
corner, we can see clearly a gray basalt foundation – which would have been the
stone floor of the synagogue where Jesus taught and healed! I feel helping people to see the reality of
Bible places help them anchor the story in their minds and feel its tangibility…
Jesus walks in, and is immediately
confronted by a demon. I love Joel
Marcus’s wry comment: “It would probably have been smarter for the demon to
keep a low profile… but Markan demons seem to experience a fatal attraction to
Jesus.” At least they recognize Jesus
and his fullness more than the people who know him best! I love that the demon speaks in 1st
person plural – reminding me of the silly scene in Ghostbusters when Peter Venkman (Bill
Murray) is seduced by Dana (possessed by Zul, played by Sigourney Weaver), and
he says “Sounds like there are at least two people in you already.” In Mark 5, the possessors are “legion.” The loss of singular identity, the confusion
of voices are at the heart of what goes awry in people.
So, the plural question: “What have we to
do with you?” The Greek is literally
“What is there to us and to you?” which connotes both “What cause of enmity is
there between us?” and also “What do we have in common?” Marcus refers to Ernst Lohmeyer who notices
the demon’s use of biblical language, which “may be an attempt to employ holy
words and thus control Jesus – as if to exorcise him!”
Jesus doesn’t strike of pulverize or
electrocute the demon(s). Instead he
simply says “Be silent.” That’s way too
polite a translation… phimotheti verges on slang, and would
have struck listeners as rude. To the
demon Jesus says “Shut up!” “Muzzle it!” “Hush!”
Fascinating: healing involves the silencing of voices. This is how it goes in the head of the one
battling mental illness, or anxiety, or all sorts of maladies. Even sleeplessness: dark thoughts pop up, and you try to squash
each one, but it’s like playing whack-a-mole.
Get one down, others pop up.
Jesus brings, not loud religious chatter, but silence, the welcome calm
of stillness.
Much sensitivity is required to speak of
the healing of the demon-possessed. How
do we address the reality of inward torment without implying demonic possession
in its more freakish impressions?
Kathryn Greene-McCreight addresses this well (and from the viewpoint of
someone who’s experienced it) in her thoughtful Darkness
is My Only Companion: A Christian Response to Mental Illness. My church, right now, is engaged in a series
on mental illness/mental health, addictions, etc. – so crucial to end the shame
and stigma, so challenging to the Body to embrace people and not expect sunny,
simple fixes.
The whole business of Jesus’ healings in
general: how do we speak of his healings
when we don’t see them so often – or ever?
When Jesus healed, was it so the person could get better, or to make
some larger point? Who wasn’t healed
back then? I’d commend this brief video I did
to you as one way to process the healing stories.
Jesus’ teaching astonished everyone – and
why? “He taught as one who had
authority.” I can’t preach on this
without observing how, in postmodern culture, authority isn’t permitted to
anybody, unless we listen to the loudest, most shrill, most ideologically
extreme voices. How do we preach with
authority? Or better, how do we lift up the authority of the Scriptural
story? My best guess is this thought,
via an early sermon by Martin Luther King, Jr., featuring an illustration from
mythology, which I related in my book on preaching, The
Beauty of the Word):
The
sirens sang seductive songs that lured sailors into shipwreck. Two, though, managed to navigate those
treacherous waters successfully, and King contrasted their techniques. Ulysses stuffed wax into the ears of his
rowers and strapped himself to the mast of the ship, and by dint of will
managed to steer clear of the shoals.
But Orpheus, as his ship drew near, simply pulled out his lyre and
played a song more beautiful than that of the sirens, so his sailors listened
to him instead of to them. Every preacher knows how to declare resolutely that
the Bible is inspired, that truth is revealed only in Scripture, and so we strap
ourselves to that mast, and try to cram that Word into their ears. But think
about Orpheus. Calmly, deploying some
simple artistry, Orpheus trusts the beauty of the song, and he plays. Frankly, if the preacher wants to be
“effective,” we have to reckon with the harrowing truth that most Church people
nowadays won’t let you stuff anything in their ears. They could care less if you are tied to the
mast of all those slogans we fall back on, like “The Bible is the Word of God,”
or “The Church is of God,” or whatever we say Baptism or Scriptural
Christianity requires. If we are to
persuade, if we are to give voice to the mysteries of God, then we must take
quite seriously the task of picking up the lyre and playing the song in ways
that are lovely, although perhaps in the way a young semi-talented guitar
player might woo his lover, the sincerity and courage of the attempt
compensating for lack of talent. St.
Augustine urged preachers to marshal their rhetoric, “to teach, to delight, and
to persuade… When he does this properly he can justly be called eloquent, even
though he fails to win the assent of his audience,” although Augustine clearly
believed all preachers could teach, delight and persuade. {end of excerpt}
We may ask, What demons need silencing
today? Beyond what we assess as mental
health/addiction issues, that is? What
about political ideology, which possesses any and everybody, eviscerating the
soul and crippling holiness and generosity?
A disordered ego? This Sunday’s
epistle, 1 Corinthians 8:1-13, might help.
Paul, while admitting knowledge is good (Faber College from Animal House, anyone?), pinpoints the
peril: the knowledge “puffs up.” Clergy,
along with the abundantly over-learned laity who make their lives miserable,
both risk this ungodly possibility of knowledge that is overweight and thus
unhealthy.
St. Francis of Assisi fretted over the dangers
of books and learning; how ironic is it that within a generation, Franciscans
occupied prestigious chairs in theology at leading universities!
Anthony of Padua, one of his most zealous
followers, lived a spartan life, but gained renown as a scholar and teacher. Francis wrote him a letter, reluctantly
granting Anthony’s wish to write and teach, but only “on the condition that you
do not extinguish the spirit of prayer and devotion.” To this day, Catholics sponsor collections of
food for the poor, called “St. Anthony’s Bread.” How lovely:
the most brilliant scholar of his day, one of the official “doctors of
the Church,” remembered not for his theological acumen so much as for being one
who fed the poor.
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My new book, Worshipful: Living Sunday Morning All Week, now has a study guide with videos, making it more useful for small groups!
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