Sparking a Revolution - Sunday Sermon, July 29, 2012

Chaplain Mel Baars

July 29, 2012

John 6:1-21

“Sparking a Revolution”

I remember the very first time I heard the story of the feeding of the five thousand. I was in the first grade. It was a glorious time in life when every classroom gathering from school to church still had organized snack time. My teacher had brought to our Sunday school class my absolute favorite food-- still to this day-- goldfish. I could, and still can, eat goldfish with the best of them. When I saw that this was our snack, I was elated. Since it was Sunday School, though, there had to be a “lesson” before we could eat. It was almost too much to bear. I sat there trying to pay attention to what my teacher was saying, all the while salivating over the box of goldfish, partially hidden away along the back counter. We read and acted out the story using the felt board, and then colored our own paper doll-like characters, including a before miracle basket of five loaves and two fish and after miracle baskets overflowing with many more loaves and fishes. My coloring was halfhearted. I didn’t care much about the barley loaves. All I could think about was eating those goldfish.

The feeding of the five thousand is probably the most well known of all of the stories of miracles which Jesus performed in his three years of public ministry. It is the only miracle that shows up in all four gospels. It follows the standard “miracle” formula. In the initial verses, we learn the setting of our story, which is a mountain on the other side of the Sea of Galilee. Then we get into the details of the problem at hand. There are thousands of people flocking toward Jesus, and it also happens to be lunchtime. Realizing that they are probably hungry after traveling far distances, Jesus says, “Where are we to buy bread for these people to eat?” Since there were no Costcos or Sam’s Clubs in the immediate vicinity, procuring this volume of food in a moment’s notice would not be a simple task. Philip also points out an obvious point. Even if there were superstores where large amounts of bread could be procured, neither Jesus nor his disciples have that kind of cash. Things are not looking good.

Perhaps on a whim, or maybe even due to some divine inspiration, Andrew, one of the other disciples with them, mentions that there is a boy who has five barley loaves and two fish in his traveling bag. Then, he adds, “What is this amount of food among so many people?” Clearly, it is not going to feed five thousand people. I think he wants to make sure the rest of them don’t think he has lost his mind. His qualifying statement aside, I think his recognition of this boy’s scant resources is a significant part of this story that is often overlooked. Andrew didn’t have to say anything. In the face of literally thousands of people, it was a bold move to even mention five loaves and two fish. There is no way that this small amount of food could feed more than a few. Yet, maybe Andrew saw a spark of possibility anyway. After spending so much time with Jesus all this time, watching him heal those who had been deemed too sick to save or restore sight to one who had been blind for years, maybe he was starting to see things differently. Maybe he realized that, with Jesus, even the impossible can come true.

Once Andrew announces that there is a boy with some loaves and fish and, we assume, the boy willingly agrees to share with the crowd, Jesus tells the disciples to make the people sit down on the grass. When they are settled, Jesus takes the bread and fish, and after giving thanks, distributes the food to everyone. They are able to eat as much as they want. And, after everyone had eaten their fill and some maybe even more than their fill, Jesus tells the disciples to gather the left over bits of food so that nothing will go to waste. From five loaves and two fish, twelve whole baskets are filled with leftovers. It’s much more than they started with. The people are amazed by what Jesus has done, so much so that they are ready to take him by force and make him their king.

So, how exactly did Jesus do it? How did he feed all of those people? All we have to go by is that Jesus gave thanks, and after giving thanks, began to share these meager resources. We don’t know what happened but that from a boy’s simple lunch, there was more than enough to go around.  Miracle stories like this one have undergone tremendous scrutiny, especially in a world changed by modernity, a world that thinks everything worth anything can be fully understood by science and reason. Around the time of the Enlightenment, one “best practice” of church intellectuals was to explain miracles away through some natural occurrence.^[1] In the case of our feeding story, they argued that this tale of mass feeding didn’t have to be some otherworldly moment of divine intervention. Instead, it could be explained in a more rational way. When the people sat down and saw that a boy was willing to share his lunch, risking going hungry himself, they, too, were inspired to share and began to pull from their cloaks and bags and pockets, food that they had stored away, just in case they didn’t make it back home in time for dinner. 

In a world of scarcity, where we are constantly reminded that we can never obtain enough or buy all that we need, in a culture where we are encouraged to stockpile, hoard, and secure not only enough for now but also enough for the possible zombie apocalypse or, this year in particular, the end of the Mayan calendar which very well may equal the end of the world as we know it, any gesture of human generosity may be its own kind of miracle. In a way, this miracle may be the greater. That God could and, furthermore, would make something out of nothing, and give generously to us is no real surprise. This is the way that God has been acting in our world from the very beginning, in God’s very act of creation. That Jesus could teach and inspire his mostly self-centered human followers to freely share what they have, instead of hide it away for fear of losing it, now this is truly miraculous.

But, this kind of foolish generosity is what following Jesus is all about. Being willing to lose our lives so that we may find them again, learning how to stop storing our treasures on earth where moth and dust will eventually destroy, and instead, storing up treasures in heaven, this is faithfulness. When we celebrate love and joy and full life, when we embrace the whole spectrum of friendship and laughter and even tears, we discover the treasures of heaven. Living generously and holding on to one another along the way, being willing to give ourselves away, sharing the little we have even when it feels like it isn’t enough or can never really make any difference, this is what a life of faith is all about.

Of course, it isn’t ever as easy as it sounds in a sermon. We are often overwhelmed by the world that is swirling around us and threatening to take us down with it. Between the population crisis, the AIDS epidemic, continual famine, diminishing natural resources, tsunamis, hurricanes, tornados, needless shooting sprees, rising unemployment and underemployment, economic downturn, and all the wars that don’t seem to have any end in sight, it’s easy to respond to this great need with a very logical answer. What can we really do about any of these issues, about the multitude of people and problems that plague our world? As Philip so logically said to Jesus, “What can we do, because even six months wages is barely going to give each one of these people a tiny bite to eat, certainly not enough to satiate their hunger.” There didn’t seem to be enough then when five thousand hungry people descended on the mountain, just like there doesn’t seem to be enough now.

Yet despite this, somehow God still made a way for the impossible to happen. Whether it was God creating something from nothing or a boy who simply offered what little he had which ignited a revolution of sharing, something extraordinary happened on that mountain. Though there was not enough to go around, somehow everyone was fed. From just five loaves and two fish, five thousand people walked away completely full.

When Mother Teresa first encountered the very poorest of Calcutta, she felt called by God to serve them. She herself was not wealthy. She did not have many resources to offer nor had she been trained to deal with this kind of suffering or these kinds of illnesses. Even though she was just one person with very little power to make a difference on a macrocosmic scale, she was moved to found a small group of just thirteen members called the Missionaries of Charity. From this tiny beginning, a spark of love, the Missionaries of Charity grew and grew until it was thousands of members, people who committed their lives to caring for the poor, sick, and orphaned around the world.^[2] It was the love of just one that started a revolution of charity which changed the landscape for some of the poorest people in the world. The love of one, just a few loaves and fish, yet God made a way to multiply these gifts so that there would be enough to fill, to feed, to care for, to touch, and to heal the multitudes.

We are reminded again and again that with Jesus, what seems like nothing, turns into something, what feels like very little can be transformed into much, what appears empty can be made full and whole, even death can turn into life. Paul encapsulates this idea well in his letter to the Ephesians which we read a few moments ago. He says this: “Now to him who by the power at work within us is able to accomplish abundantly far more than all we can ask or imagine, to him be the glory in the church and in Christ Jesus to all generations, forever and ever. Amen”^[3] and Amen.

---

^[1] Douglas John Hall. “John 6:1-21: Theological Perspective” Feasting on the Word

^[2] Cheryl Bridges Johns, “John 6:1-21: Homiletical Perspective.”  Feasting on the Word

^[3] Ephesians 3:20-21

Being Christian

“Is he a Christian?” my Campus Crusade women’s small group leader would ask us whenever we mentioned going out on a date or to a fraternity formal with one of our male classmates. I never liked the question. It always seemed jarring as well as a little presumptuous. As a lifelong churchgoer, faith has always played a prominent roll in my life. Nonetheless, I have never felt comfortable with asking this question so blatantly, as if matter of the spirit could be as easily identified and labeled as race, ethnicity, or sex. What does “being a Christian” mean anyway?

Some people figure that self-labeling oneself Christian is really all it takes to be one. This has been the case, all the way back to the beginning of Christendom when Roman Emperor, Constantine mandated that his entire Army wear symbols of Christianity into battle. I am sure that some of them, perhaps even Constantine himself, were true followers of Jesus, but certainly, not all of them. Wearing a cross doesn’t change a person’s heart. A  label alone has no transformative power. One could probably survey any congregation asking for a definition of Christian and get a different answer from every person. Some may talk about belief in Jesus Christ or being saved while others may focus on acts of service and charity. When I consider the question, I can’t help but think of a song that I learned at church camp whose chorus repeats these words, “They’ll know we are Christians by our love, by our love, and they’ll know we are Christians by our love.” Jesus teaches that the greatest commandment is love of God and love of neighbor, so naturally the answer should have something to do with love, shouldn’t it? 

This is why I think there are better questions to ask than whether or not a person calls himself Christian. What about how following Jesus influences how we make choices or how discipleship increases our capacity to love our spouses or children better? There are many thoughtful questions to ask, but most of these require much deeper probing. As a Christian, more important than asking these questions of strangers, I think we need to ask them of ourselves. They aren’t easy to answer, especially on the days when we must confess that our following Jesus hasn’t really changed much at all in how we live our lives or how we love one another. Holding up a mirror and facing who we are truthfully takes significant courage. Sometimes seeing our own honest reflection is one of the hardest parts of our faithfulness to Christ. 

I was reminded of my wariness of this question when a fellow solider, and friend, brought the subject up over lunch this past week. She has a boyfriend who doesn’t like to call himself Christian. He regularly attends church and pursues deeper faith in God. He is kind and compassionate. He prays, at least according to his girlfriend. But, when her friends and family ask whether or not he is a Christian, he tells them that he is not. This is not the answer they want to hear. Subsequently, he is not considered a good choice. Mostly, they just ostracize him.

Exclusion is not a very effective tool of evangelism, yet it seems to be the way of the church and its people, past and present. This is not only the problem of one denomination or sect, but the way that we all seem to conduct our business, even in Jesus’ name. We get so wrapped up in defining what it means to be one of us, on the inside, that we forget all the ways of inclusion that Jesus showed us. We look past how he ate with sinners without spending the meal judging them or how he healed the sick and lame, no matter who they were or where they had come from. We worry that by loving “the sinful,” we may give the impression that we are condoning their fallen choices and all the while we neglect to remember that we are just as wayward. We notice every fleck and splinter lodged in other people’s eyes while remaining blind to the planks in our own. We fail to remember how much we need God to transform our hearts, to fill us with divine love because no other love is as generous. 

I read an article this week about a Christian school who was actively reaching out to non-traditional families in its local community. Instead of barring children from the school because their parents were gay or in jail or struggling with drug addiction, they decided to open their doors widely and allow all children, no matter their home circumstances, to be a part of their school family. Some of the parents worried that their children might be confused by these “other” children who came from backgrounds seemingly contrary to Christian values. Yet, the principal, also a priest, had a different approach. He recognized that these children and their families, warts and all, were a valuable addition to their school. Sure, hard questions may arise more often. Their presence may even be more of a challenge on some days. But, this is what being a Christian looks like, being willing to reach out in love, even when it is at a cost. Because in the end, that is exactly what Jesus did for us. This is what he did for the whole world.

It’s like my camp song. “And they’ll know we are Christians by our love, by our love, and they’ll know we are Christians by our love.” This is at the heart of being Christian. I hope I never forget it. 

Rest??!! - Sunday Sermon, July 22, 2012

Chaplain Mel Baars

July 22, 2012

Mark 6:30-34; 53-56

Rest??!!

It seems that Jesus and his disciples are being stalked—literally. And, not just by one or two people, but by hoards of people. No matter where they turn, there are people waiting for them. If they get in a boat heading to an undisclosed destination, a place typically desolate, when they arrive, the crowds are waiting for them. Even while attempting to strike a balance between work and family and friends and the need for rest and renewal, their efforts are continually thwarted by sick and hungry people, or, as Jesus calls them, “Sheep who have no shepherd.”

I couldn’t help but empathize with Jesus and his disciples as I read Mark’s gospel this week, particularly hearing that so many people “were coming and going, and they had no leisure even to eat.” It’s hard to imagine that people wouldn’t leave these guys alone long enough for them to share a meal without interruption. Yet, around here, I know what this is like. There have been times, throughout these months, when it has felt like I can’t get through a meal or a work out without some emergency happening. Often, I would be sitting in the DFAC, trying to enjoy a moment of peace with a friend, or on the treadmill, nearing the end of a long run, when, in mid-bite or mid-stride, I see one of the chaplain assistants making a beeline for me. Dread quickly settled in the pit of my stomach. “What now?” I would wonder to myself. Can’t a girl eat dinner or work out without having to stop somewhere halfway through and deal with yet another person and their problems. Throughout these months, it has become harder and harder to remember my compassion.

I am willing to bet that leaders of every rank have at least one or two stories similar to mine. Perhaps you were on your way home, about to pull into the driveway, after a long training exercise, when your phone rings. One of your soldiers has had a crisis and suddenly you find your car turning back around, heading to work. Or, you get to the office early, excited to make a dent in the piles on your desk, and there is someone waiting for you, someone who really needs you to be there for them and listen to what they are going through. All your plans for productivity go flying out of the window. As leaders, or parents, spouses and even friends, as people who are entrusted to care for others, if it is just one person, we are continually faced with the challenge of balancing our needs with the needs of others. There is always more work to be done and many more needs to be met. In fact, I am convinced that in some of our jobs, working twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, we still wouldn’t finish it all.  In the midst of this incredible demand, we also need an occasional break, some space to breathe. We need to close the email and put the phone away and simply rest. Because, if we don’t make the time to rest, sooner or later, our bodies begin to shut down. We get run-down and sick, not only unable to work but also we become needy ourselves.

There is a lot of literature out there about the importance of keeping the practice of Sabbath and of maintaining balance in our lives so that we don’t neglect any aspect of ourselves, physical, mental, spiritual, and emotional. But, I have to admit, I am always a little suspicious of these authors. Many of them are contemplatives by trade, often being paid to live part-sequestered lives on a lama farm or somewhere alone in the New Mexican desert. They don’t seem to have some of the same demands that we have, of morning PT and soccer practice or worries of whether or not their kid has enough extra-curricular activities on their resume to be accepted into a good college, the right graduate school program, so that they might have a chance at finding a decent job in the midst of economic downturn. It’s easy to find space and time to rest when the demands of family, work, and, life, in general, are not banging down your door. But, for people like us, is balance even possible when we are expected to work twelve plus hours a day, when there are always crises to be managed, when we are expected to be available and at the ready, all the time, without exception?

I think this is what is so remarkable about our gospel. There doesn’t seem to be one, clear, definitive answer. Because, life is never that neat, no matter how well we plan for it. When the disciples reconnect with Jesus and tell them all about the ministry they have done, the healing and the casting out of demons, his initial response is for them to, “Come away to a deserted place all by yourselves and rest a while.” After all the work they have done, it’s time to switch gears. The disciples need some time to process all that they have seen and experienced. Jesus knows too well that there really isn’t any rest in the midst of the public. No matter how tired they are, the people and their needs keep multiplying. In order to get any rest at all, Jesus knows they must get away, separate themselves from the epicenter of their work so they can take stock and prepare for what may be coming next.

So, off they go to a deserted island, a place where no one can bother them, and they can renew themselves. But, as they get closer to this quiet place, something doesn’t seem right. Wait a minute… they begin to grumble to one another. Are those people gathered on the shore, anticipating our arrival? We thought this was supposed to be a silent retreat. Yet, Mark reports, “The people saw them going and recognized them. They hurried there on foot from all the surrounding towns and arrived ahead of them. When Jesus saw the crowd, he had compassion for them, for they were like sheep without a shepherd, and he began to teach them.” So much for rest and recuperation, or as we put it R&R. At least for that moment, the needs of the people took precedence over the disciples and their fatigue.

You may have noticed as we read our scripture for this morning that there is a huge section of the sixth chapter of Mark missing from our reading for today. Verses 35-52 are left out completely, at least for this Sunday. However, it is important to acknowledge just what we are skipping over: the feeding of the five thousand by a few loaves and fishes and then, directly following that story, Jesus walking on water and calming a raging storm. These are two of the most incredible miracles stories in the whole Bible, both only explainable through some divine intervention. But, I think it is significant that what bookends these miraculous stories are our verses for today. On this Sunday, in the verses that both precede and follow these two instances of otherworldliness, we are reminded of something extremely worldly, the simple challenges that we are faced with, day to day-- the struggle to find balance in our lives in the midst of life, the people who keep showing up, reaching out to us for help, or the fact that there is never enough time to do all that needs to be done. We are reminded in our gospel that finding any real balance is as difficult for Jesus and his disciples as it is for us.

This is what we are reminded here. On one hand, we must make a space for rest. We must find time to renew ourselves, spend time with those whom we love, refill our tanks through prayer, retreat, and even silence. At the same time, though, there are going to be moments, seasons even, when life doesn’t pan out the way we plan it. There will be times when we have to set aside our rest and our own needs in order to respond to the life that is unfolding all around us. But, it is always give and take. It can’t be all one without the other. No matter how well we plan, and how intentionally we act, life is still going to get in the way.

Jean-Pierre de Caussade, a spiritualist from the eighteenth century, embarked on a life mission to figure out what God wanted Christians to do and think in each and every moment. Essentially, he endeavored to answer this question: what does faithfulness look like in the midst of the chaos in which we live and work and breathe? The more he investigated this question, the more he realized how much faithfulness has to do with paying attention to God’s presence among us and the ways that God is calling us to respond to our lives. He also discovered how important it is to trust that, at the end of the day, no matter what happens, God continues to give us what we need. He said, “Everything turns to bread to nourish me, soap to wash me, fire to purify me, and a chisel to fashion me in the image of God. Grace supplies all my needs.”^[1] Whether it is a space for rest or the energy to continue with the work and service that we are called to do, God makes a way. God provides the sustenance that we need to get through, even the most difficult seasons.   

In a place like this, our sustenance turns out to be quite simple. It is friendship and real conversation. It’s showing up for promotion ceremonies or lingering a few extra minutes in the smoke pit when it is obvious that someone could use an ear and a little support. It’s paying attention to the needs of those alongside of us on this part of the journey and hopefully having compassion for them, even when we are tired ourselves. This is not about pity; it’s about being willing to get a little messy on some days. It’s about responding to whatever crosses our paths, even if this puts us in uncharted territory, and trusting that, no matter what happens, God will be there with us, shepherding us gently along the way. Amen

---

^[1] Jean-Pierre de Caussade, The Sacrament of the Present Moment (New York: Harper and Row, 1982), 71-72

Catholic Church

Sometime in May, a friend and I decided to attend the Catholic mass held on our camp. I have wanted to go for months but found it almost impossible to get my own sermon finished in time for a Saturday evening worship service. When I heard good things about the new priest from a reputable source, I decided it was now or never. 

Having spent most of my life in the Episcopal church, Catholic church has always felt strangely familiar, the one real difference experienced in communion, or lack thereof. When I was younger and markedly more mischievous, I typically followed my friend Lindsay to the altar for bread and wine. She never told, and I felt sure that God wouldn’t care too much. I also had a “plan” ready in case I ever got caught. Much to my relief, there were never any Eucharistic police standing guard. It was easy to blend into the crowd.

In our little corner of the world, I can no longer get away with such blatant church rebellion. Besides the fact that my uniform plainly announces that I am a chaplain by the simple cross that sits above my name-tag, I also know most of the congregation by name, part of the joy of attending church with them. There is no possible way that I could be Catholic because of the requirements which my job as a chaplain demands, most importantly an ordination by some recognized religious denomination. Even if I was a stranger, with no outward discernible marker of my clergy status, now, a little more grown up, I would remain prayerfully in my seat. 

My grandmother often repeated a story about the time she was invited to receive communion in a Catholic church. It was somewhere in Colorado, in the midst of a blizzard. She was young and alone, away from home. Precious few faithful congregants had made a somewhat harrowing journey to a little chapel where a priest celebrated over Sunday mass. My grandmother, a church organist and daughter of a Baptist minister, not a Catholic, planned to remain in her seat, too. Full participation in communion would have been her first choice that morning, but she went there, knowing and respecting church doctrine. More than anything she hoped, just hearing those familiar words, “Take, eat, this is my body broken for you. Whenever you eat this bread, you do this in remembrance of me.” would somehow be enough. Yet, something unexpected happened in that tiny chapel. Maybe it was the flickering lights, the raging snow storm, or that only a few had gathered. Maybe in the quiet of those moments, God moved inexplicably. When it was time to take communion, the priest invited all of them to the table to be a part of the holy meal. 

My grandmother told the story more times than I can remember, and when I was a teenager, lacking any real patience, often to my dismay. As I have gotten older though, I understand better just why the experience was so important to her. She spent her whole life folding her hands like a cross and receiving a bit of bread and a sip of wine. Yet, in that one space of worship, she could not be included, a sad reminder of the fractions and cracks in our wider church family. Perhaps, for her, that moment of inclusion was surprising hope, a foretaste of the unity which we are all longing for, a time when we will all sit at God’s table and break bread together. 

In the meantime, I don’t go to Catholic church secretly wishing that the priest will break the rules for me. Instead, I go because just listening to those words of remembrance that I have heard my entire life, and now, have even pronounced myself as a celebrant, bring me fuller life. I am reminded, even from my seat, that God has come into the world to give us all new life, to teach us how to love one another, even when it hurts so much that our cheeks are wet with our tears, and to bring us all, again and again, back into God’s one, holy fold. 

"Going On Anyway" - Sunday Sermon, July 15, 2012

Chaplain Mel Baars

July 15, 2012

Mark 6:14-29

“Going On Anyway”

Unlawful arrest. Adultery and incest by marriage. Flagrant misuse of government resources. A sexualized birthday party. A promise kept resulting in a murder. The head of a man served on a platter. This description sounds more like something we might find on HBO, rated “for adult viewing only” rather than a story plucked right out of our Bible. For as much as we worry about gratuitous violence or sex permeating the entertainment industry, this morning we don’t have to look very far to remember that gruesome stories which end in the loss of innocent life have been, and still are, a reality in our world.

The death of John the Baptist is not exactly a heartwarming or uplifting story. When I flipped through the potential texts for this Sunday, my first reaction was to avoid it altogether. I am in pretty good company. The gospel of Luke omits the story completely, barely giving John’s death a mention. Matthew’s gospel shrinks it down to just twelve verses, glossing over some of the more grotesque details. Can any of us really blame them? John’s death does not appear to be a good news story by any stretch of the means. There isn’t any apparent hope. The story ends with a beheading, and barely a gesture toward something more, something holy. Skipping right over it could be considered a form of self-preservation.

None of us would ever chose to deal with such a tale, at least not if we didn’t have to. We have enough difficulty in our lives to have to add any more into the mix. A few years ago when I was visiting my parents, I remember watching a very sad movie about a community ravaged by HIV and AIDS. The movie started off on a painful note and only seemed to grow worse. At one point, my mother decided she had enough. Leaving her place on the couch, she said to me, “I’m sorry. I just can’t take it anymore. Real life is sad enough.” With that, she left me in the living room.

And yet, there are times when I feel drawn to watching or reading stories such as this one—stories that are tragic, painful, and devastating but nonetheless, all too real. Because, I know that suffering happens all around me. I hear it in the quavering voice of young soldier recounting the ways she was abused by her step-father. I see it in the distant eyes of a patient who has traveled for days to get medical care at the Egyptian Hospital. We read about horrible suffering in our intelligence reports and watch it on the news, about girls schools being targeted by the Taliban or a young son of a village elder being blinded by extremists as punishment for the village for cooperating with coalition forces.

Though we may wish to avoid it, or even attempt to protect ourselves and our loved ones from it, sooner or later, suffering of some kind will knock on our own door. Because this is true, dealing with a text such as this one may actually help prepare us for the shadows which lurk precariously close. Please, don’t get me wrong. I am not predicting that any of us will face something as drastic as a beheading. Nonetheless, we are a part of a war characterized by carnage, trauma, and death. The truth is, some of us who wear this uniform will not escape it unscathed. 

Despite my better judgment, I chose to preach on our gospel reading for today. Unlike the other gospels, I think Mark gives the attention he does to John’s death precisely because of its horror, because Mark knows just how harsh the world can be, particularly to those who are weak and marginalized. Even in a book called “good news,” this reality rears its ugly head. If John, a prophet of God, the baptizer of Jesus, couldn’t avoid this darkness, what makes any of us think that we are immune? This is the reality that we are also faced with, a world that is often dark, filled with fallen people who, despite even good intentions, make choices which disappoint and cause pain.

It is no wonder, in the verses which precede this story, Jesus prepares his disciples to go into the world, sending them out two by two. John’s death is further evidence that they need each other desperately-- that we need each other, too. The world is not always receptive to God’s message of good news to the poor, sight to the blind, and justice and peace for all people. Speaking truth to power often results in backlash. We see this not only in John’s violent death at the hands of Herod, but also on the cross. Jesus came to restore the world and give new life, and yet because this freedom for all threatened the power and control of some, he was killed. We can never forget that at the very heart of the good news is God’s passion and death. As followers of Jesus, we hold this duality in both of our hands.

As I was reading and preparing for my sermon, I noticed that quite a few commentators mentioned that Jesus is mostly absent from this sordid tale of John’s death.  At the beginning of the story, we hear that Jesus’ name had become known throughout the region, but that is the only time he is mentioned. He isn’t even a part of the party who comes to bury John. In fact, this is the only scene in Mark’s gospel where Jesus doesn’t make a personal appearance at all.^[1] In a way though, Jesus’ absence seems somehow appropriate. It is almost as if Mark is mirroring the very depth of despair that we may feel on the days when it seems that even God has abandoned us. For just this moment, for these sixteen verses, Mark forces us to get honest about how bad things can be, about how darkness can skew our vision so much that we lose sight of God and God’s steadfast promises. When the powerless suffer from a variety of tyrannies, when leaders sacrifice those entrusted to them for personal gain, when innocent die avoidable deaths, we wonder just where God has gone. What about God’s promises? When will they come true?

I am reminded of this palpable dissonance just listening to our scripture for this morning. On one hand, we have Psalm 24 which begins with these beautiful words, “The earth is the Lord’s and all that is in it, the world, and those who live in it; for he has founded it on the seas, and established it on the rivers.” And yet, as much as we profess this to be the truth, as much as we try and believe it, we encounter situations which fly in the face of this good news. There are times when life events threaten the very promises that God has made to us.

But as jarring as Psalm 24 and Mark 6:14-29 may be to our ears, we can’t have one without the other. We can’t lose sight of either. I imagine this is why the lectionary committee, who decided what scripture should be put together, paired these two texts. Without Psalm 24, we may forget the hope which is ours to hold on to, even when it gets dark. Without Mark 6:14-29, we may neglect to face the harsh realities that we are sure to encounter, realities which may test our faith, realities which may cause us to suffer, realities which may land us, even, at the foot of the cross. But, each text, both the hopeful and the terrible, informs the other. Each text is a gift which allows us to negotiate our own peaks and valleys, no matter where our journey takes us.

The report of John’s death concludes with this single verse: “When his disciples heard about what happened, they came and took his body, and laid it in a tomb.” There is no call to arms, not galvanizing effort to get back at Herod for what he has done, the pain he has caused, no plan of vengeance. Just these simple acts-- they came and took his body, and laid it in a tomb. What else could they do? What else... What else can any of us do, when a marriage falls apart, when we hear those dreaded words, “I’m sorry, but it’s cancer,” when a son loses his way through drug or alcohol abuse, when we are betrayed, when life comes undone at the seams faster than we can hold on to the unraveling threads... What else can we do, but in the midst of our grief, find a way to go on, to do what has to be done. We go on, which sometimes feels impossible as it would have for the disciples when they retrieved what was left of John’s body. In the stark darkness of our lives, these simple acts are what faithfulness looks like. Picking up the pieces, having courage to continue living in the wake of unspeakable loss, keeping our hearts open to the possibility that something good may grow from the ashes, these are incredibly faithful acts.

I have heard it said that one of the greatest demonstrations of faith in all the Bible is found at the very end of the book of Job. Despite all of his losses and suffering and grief, despite the fact that he knows in the blink of an eye, he may face the darkness once again, he willingly agrees once more to become a husband and father. It sounds simple. People do this every day. But, considering all that Job went through, it would be much safer for him to close his heart permanently.

To say “Yes” to life and love, to go on, knowing just how fragile life is, just how much it may end up hurting but going on anyway, this is faithfulness. This is trust. May we so respond. Amen

---

^[1] “Tell the Truth Twice.” workingpreacher.org 8 JUL 12