"If you choose..."

I preached this sermon at Alice Millar Chapel February 19, 2009.

Perhaps he was unkempt – clothes tattered, torn, hair every which way, more than overdue for a bath. Perhaps his skin was covered with open sores, boils, lesions, unpleasant pus draining in the heat of the day, emitting a nauseating stench. Perhaps his teeth were decayed, his breath a bit foul. Bottom line, he was an outcast, an exile, barred from polite company, considered unclean.

He approached, begging, pleading. Perhaps to a certain extent brazen, perhaps quite simply desperate. He falls to his knees, imploring Jesus, just shy of accusing him – “If you choose, you can make me clean.” “If you choose…”

Is this a set up? A trick of some sort? A challenge posed, a gauntlet thrown? If you choose… How is Jesus to respond? Could he really say no? “Thanks for playing, but no?” No. Of course not. Is this a recognition? An accusation, an admission, a confession? “I’m on to you. It is within your power. If you choose…” Or, is it exactly what it sounds like – an act of desperation, a deeply held desire, a last, best hope. “Please. Choose. Make me clean. Make me well. Make me whole.”
Jesus, we are told, is moved with pity. Jesus, we are told, stretches out his hand, maybe just a bit gingerly, with the slightest hesitation. Jesus, we are told, touches this… this… leper… this… this… man, I guess we could say. “I do choose,” he exclaims, maybe just a little defensively. “Be made clean.” And this… this… leper is made clean. His skin clears, almost instantly, surely curiously.

I mentioned, I believe, that we are told Jesus was moved by pity. We are not told, however, that it is quite possible that Jesus was actually, are you ready for this, angry. That’s right. There are those biblical scholars who find anger far more likely, offering slight variations upon the translations. From a purely practical standpoint, Jesus generally doesn’t perform miracles because he feels sorry for someone. True enough, I think we have to believe, at least we want to believe, that Jesus doesn’t like to see anyone suffer. So, it is that much more plausible, at least palatable, that Jesus be moved by pity.

But maybe, just maybe, Jesus was angry. Angry at the injustices that made it so easy, that make it so easy to marginalize those who are ill, those who are too old, too young, those who don’t look, or act, as we would have them look, or act. Maybe Jesus was angry at the lack of compassion, the rigid rules in place to stratify rather than synthesize, to divide rather than develop, to ridicule rather than raise up.

Maybe, just maybe, Jesus was tired, a little cranky? Last week’s gospel lesson reported that he was kept quite busy in Capernaum, healing the sick, casting out demons… True, he stole away for a time of prayer, but… all of that is sure to take a lot out of a person, to leave them feeling at least a little depleted, even if you are Jesus. As we know all too well, humanity has some definite limitations.

Maybe, just maybe, this possible exhaustion prompted Jesus to beseech, to “sternly warn” the man whom he had healed, to “say nothing to anyone,” rather to go to the priest and offer appropriate thanksgiving as Moses had commanded in days of old. There were actual protocols for this sort of thing! Now, I get the importance of giving thanks, of entering into longstanding ritual pertaining to having been cleansed, to having been cured. But, to expect him to say nothing? To keep it all under wraps? Really?

First of all, I’m thinking people are going to notice – at least to the extent that they noticed lepers in the first place, which, I admit, might just be negligible. But beyond that, if you have spent your whole life in the shadows, skulking about because you are deemed unclean, impure, unfit for society at large, it stands to reason that the moment you are liberated, so to speak, you are going to want to shout it from the rooftops, to spread the word far and wide, however you can. Keep silent? Tell no one? Seriously?

So, as we might expect, the once and former leper tells the world, “proclaiming it freely,” as it were. He couldn’t contain himself, and really, can we blame him? Wouldn’t we do exactly the same thing? The perhaps unintended result, though – Jesus is absolutely inundated. Everyone and her brother in need of healing flocks to him, begging, pleading. It gets to the point that Jesus is unable to move about freely. Rather, he maintained a certain degree of seclusion. Those who were truly determined, of course, still found their way to him, but at least there was something of a buffer zone. This brings to mind our current crop of celebrities, forced to travel incognito, unable to avoid completely crazed fans or pushy paparazzi. And we think as much is a modern invention, when in fact, as Ecclesiastes reminds us, “there is nothing new under the sun.”
It should be noted, however, that there are those commentators who suggest this command to “say nothing” really isn’t about the need for silence, and, by proxy, secrecy. They counter that the real issue is the urgency in going to the priest, following the aforementioned established protocol, offering up thanksgiving, a profound sense of gratitude. In either event, the outcome remains the same. Although I do wonder… Do you suppose the healed leper did eventually make it to the priest? I’d like to think so, but then… the freedom he would have then known as one miraculously cured, might very well prove intoxicating. Something to consider, at any rate.
So, one “once upon a time” leper quite pleased with the result of his “cleansing,” his “healing.” Jesus did choose. The man was made clean.

Now, let’s shift our attention to Naaman, from our reading from the Hebrew bible. A war hero, a commander of the army of Aram, Naaman was well revered. Under his capable leadership, coupled of course with the favor of the Lord, Aram was proved victorious. Naaman had a good thing going. His wife was even given a servant girl – no doubt more than questionable in our day and age, but more or less in line with the times.

But… There’s always a “but,” isn’t there? But, Naaman, as it turns out, suffered from leprosy. Evidently his prowess on the battlefield afforded him respectability generally unknown, unheard of, for a leper. Even so, when his wife’s servant mentions a Samarian prophet who would likely be able to cure him of his unfortunate condition, Naaman jumps at the chance. The King of Aram endorses his journey, sending him forth with a letter for the King of Israel. Naaman also brings with him ten changes of clothes and a substantial amount of money – ten talents of silver, six thousand shekels of gold. Now, I did the math. Given that one talent weighs 75 pounds, and a shekel weighs just about point four ounces… according to my calculations, that comes to some 900 pounds of money, to say nothing of the actual monetary value. Any way you look at it, that’s quite a chunk of change.

So, Naaman travels, eventually arriving to request an audience with the king of Israel. The King reads the letter – “When this letter reaches you, know that I have sent to you my servant Naaman, that you may cure him of his leprosy.” Now, what we have here is a failure to communicate, pure and simple. Where to begin? First of all, the King of Aram more or less misunderstands what the servant girl has said. It isn’t the King, it’s the prophet who possesses this gift of healing. Okay, but maybe the King assumed the king of Israel would know who he was talking about, who he meant. Surely such a powerful prophet would be in the employment of the King! Surely the King would have no problem enlisting his services.

The King of Israel, on the other hand, is frustrated, fearful even. Who does this King of Aram think he is, anyway? He isn’t God! He can’t cure someone of leprosy! From his prospective, this sounds like a trap. What if its all an excuse? Set him with an impossible task, and when he is unable to deliver… What if the King of Aram launches a no holds barred raid on his people? What then? Utterly despairing, he tears his clothing, signaling his extreme distress, perhaps a premonition of the seemingly inevitable mourning to come.

Well, Elisha gets wind of all that is afoot and suggests that Naaman be sent to him. Elisha was the prophet the leprous warrior sought all along. So – Naaman and his entourage are greeted at the entrance to Elisha’s home. He is greeted not by the prophet himself, as he expects, but rather a messenger, a mere emissary. His instructions are straight forward, direct, very much to the point. He is to bathe seven times in the river Jordan, then he shall be made clean. We might think this sounds rather simple. We might think Naaman is well on his way to a cure. We would be mistaken. On the contrary, Naaman has a bit of a temper tantrum. Who does he think he is? This Elisha fellow? Surely, the prophet owed him the courtesy of an appearance. Surely the prophet could have easily called upon his God, and Naaman would have been healed then and there. What is this ridiculous nonsense about washing in the Jordan? There are, after all, rivers in Damascus. Perfectly respectable rivers. Why couldn’t he have just washed in one of them, if that’s all it required? And, in quite the angry huff, he storms off.

What courage it must have taken his servants to follow after him, ever so gently, ever so cautiously, calling Naaman to task: “Ya know…” they might begin. “If Elisha had told you to do something else, something more complicated, something more difficult, you would have been all over that, right?” Perhaps a little massaging of the old ego – “That’s just who you are, a fearless warrior, up for any challenge, ready for any struggle. Why are you then so reluctant to do this simple thing? Really, you’ve nothing to lose, save your leprosy, and you’ve pretty much got just about everything else to gain.”

When all is said and done, Naaman somehow or other saves face. He bathes in the Jordan, though he still might feel it is beneath him. And of course, as we know, his wounds are healed, the leprosy but an unpleasant memory. “Wash and be clean.” Who knew? It really was as simple as all that.

Some two thousand odd years later, a good bit has changed, yet all too much has remained the same. In the broadest of terms, as a rule, we no longer sanction, or at the very least condone, behavior that would see the ill, the infirm, intentionally harmed, or otherwise neglected. We do not believe physical, or even mental, afflictions to be the result of demonic forces. For the most part, we are not afraid we will catch another’s disease through the most casual of contact. For the most part.

Even so, I dare say every one of us has something we would just as soon keep quiet, something for which we are ridiculed, of which we are ashamed. I dare say every one of us harbors a brokenness in need of repair, a hurt in need of healing. I dare say every one of us, on some level or another, shudders at all that is, or isn’t, asked of us, as the case may be.
Healing, wholeness, restoration – I think these are things to which we perhaps all aspire, if perhaps in different ways. When we are under the weather, we want to be returned to health. When we are broken and battered, we long for someone to collect the pieces parts that may have shattered, then scattered. We want someone to put us back together. When we are undone, we want to be remade, gathered together once again.

The curious thing about our text from Second Kings… Interestingly, it stops just short of Naaman’s conversion. Verses 15-19 record his realization, his eventual understanding that his miraculous cure had next to nothing to do with the prophet, and perhaps even less to do with the ritual, or lack there of. It has everything to do with God’s great power, made manifest among us – often in the most unlikely of places. A Samarian river bank. The town of Capernaum. A place of worship in Evanston, Illinois. It has everything to do with God’s great power, made manifest among us by way of the most unlikely faces – a leper or two, of all people, a faithful servant who is thinking clearly, maybe even the very person seated next to you. Amen.