This is a sermon I preached February 16, 2003 in Alice Millar Chapel at Northwestern University.
I consider myself very fortunate, even blessed, to have a number of mentors. These treasured folks are quite often dear friends who have taught me powerful lessons I would never have had the opportunity to learn had my education been confined to the classroom, or the library. With a masterful blend of patience (but not too much) and persistence (just enough), our mentors help us to grow into the people God would have us become. They model such a process of becoming with confidence and grace. Our mentors show, rather than tell, us how to do what we do. And, sometimes, they show us what not to do.
I am thinking this morning of one of my mentors from seminary. Sam. Sam has a gift for asking deeply penetrating questions, cutting through any number of defenses with great compassion. One of his most oft-repeated statements is, “Say more.” He is never satisfied with what resides on the surface. Gently but insistently, he encourages all those in his midst to dig deeper. Problem is, often digging deeper hurts. A lot. It can open up wounds we thought had healed, exposing vulnerabilities of which we hadn’t even been aware. In such raw moments, when words evade, elude, and escape, our emotions often find their release through tears. Sometimes just a trickle trailing down a cheek, easily enough written off, explained away. It’s our contacts -- they are bothering us. Or, maybe it’s allergy season. Sometimes, though, the trickles become torrents. Our bodies convulse with sobs that choke us, as we gasp for breath. We are overcome by our fears and anxieties, and even our hopes and dreams. We need, among many other things, a tissue. I remember one “say more” conversation with Sam that found me needing not only a tissue, but the whole blessed box. I looked hopefully around his office -- no tissues to be found. “How can you not have tissues?!?” I asked with disbelief. This somehow struck me as irresponsible -- for one who often found himself sitting with people in pain to be without easy access to something as basic as tissues? What was that about? To this day, every time I replenish my box of tissues in my office, I think warmly of Sam.
I also thought of Sam earlier last week. I was just outside of San Francisco for a gathering of younger clergy. We were brought together from across the country, from Virginia to Southern California, from Montana to Texas, from Chicago to Carbondale, to discuss issues of ecumenism -- the challenge and blessing of being one in the body of Christ, though divided across denominational lines. We discussed issues of interfaith dialogue -- what we bring to the conversation when we meet others with faith perspectives different from our own. We talked about everything under the sun, it seems. Early on, we were invited to help create what would become our worship space for the remainder of the conference -- a table upon which we were to place symbols of faith. I glanced around the room and noticed what else but a box of tissues. I decided that would be my contribution. I found myself quoting this morning’s Psalm: “Weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes with the morning.”
The bible studies we shared around that place of worship were particularly meaningful. We were encouraged to approach the texts with a playful spirit, more so than with analytical angst. We listened to the stories, and wondered. We put ourselves in the places of the protagonists, the supporting cast members, and imagined. We had fun.
And then I found myself back at home, with familiar faces all around, and familiar routines to occupy my time. I sat down, to put pen to paper to figure out what exactly I would say this morning. I surrounded myself with the usual trappings -- my bible, plenty of paper, a lined yellow legal pad, actually. (I know -- shocking, isn’t it? I’m still not one to compose at the keyboard!) So, plenty of paper, a pencil, several pens, a commentary or two, a couple of books of poetry, hopefully harboring the perfect quote, a cup of hot tea, and oh yes, a box of tissues -- my nose was a little stuffy. And I read. And nothing happened. And I thought. And nothing happened.
You may be wondering, perhaps rightfully so, why on earth I am sharing all of this with you. It is not my intention to draw you in to the sometimes-scary recesses of my mind and simply leave you there. Rather, I share all of this with you out of a strong conviction that the process is sometimes more important than the product, the journey more telling than the destination.
So, as I sat surrounded by all I thought I needed, all it generally takes to craft a sermon, it dawned on me -- as suddenly as a light bulb illuminating, as surely as a ton of bricks. Something was missing. The playful spark that had been kindled at the gathering in San Francisco. The creativity that assures us there is more than one way to approach any given situation. And so I rummaged around a bit and found my markers -- the scented kind you might remember coveting when you were in second grade. I thought I would try something slightly unconventional. Okay, maybe really unconventional. I decided to draw what I had read. To graphically represent the text. I’m not much of an artist, so it was mostly isolated words and a few stick figures. And arrows. Lots of arrows. I think arrows and asterisks are among the primary reasons I don’t use a computer for first drafts of just about anything. Perhaps I am stubborn, but “cutting and pasting,” unless scissors and actual paste are involved, is not nearly as satisfying as drawing an arrow to remind me were to go next, and to jog my memory as to where I have been. So too, the arrows in my drawings pointed something out to me. Something crucial, I think.
Both our reading from 2 Kings as well as our gospel text feature individuals in search of healing. Leprosy was cause for ridicule and isolation. Other generally feared lepers, lest they themselves become contaminated, infected. It was also commonly held that leprosy was punishment from God -- a dire consequence for an unspeakable sin. Naaman seems to have escaped some of the typical scorn, perhaps by virtue of his prowess as a warrior. In fact, the king of Aram appears to regard very favorably. We see this as Naaman is sent to Samaria at the suggestion of one of the servants -- she claims there is a prophet there who would cure him of his leprosy. It’s certainly worth a try! Bearing many gifts, as well as a letter from the king, to the king, Naaman sets forth.
Well, the king of Israel, upon reading this letter, is shall we say less than cordial. He is overcome, as he tears his clothes, perhaps in frustration. “What do you want from me? Who do you think I am? What do you think I can do?” Quickly, this overwhelmed feeling transitions to one of fear, one of threat, one of suspicion. “What are you up to? Why are you here?” At this point, I find myself wondering the same thing. The king isn’t the prophet! The prophet is the one thought to have the power of healing.
Eventually, things sort themselves out, and Naaman is to have his audience with the prophet Elisha. Or, so he thinks. Naaman arrives, entourage in tow. A messenger appears at the gate with instructions as to what he is to do – simply bathe in the River Jordan seven times. Well, let’s just say that Naaman is more than a little put out. He storms away, furious. He doesn’t understand why the prophet refused to see him. He doesn’t understand why hands were not laid upon his body, covered in sores and pustules as it likely was. He doesn’t understand why the name of the Lord was not invoked, why his healing presence didn’t simply spill from the heavens. He doesn’t understand why he is being told to bathe in the Jordan River, of all places, when there are much more august waterways in his own neck of the woods. “I came all this way, for what?”
One might imagine Naaman’s servants mustering all the courage they perhaps never knew they had. Slowly they approach, lest he lash out more directly at them, as well. “What could it hurt to try? If the instructions were complicated, you’d have been all over that. All you are being asked to do is ‘Wash, and be clean.’ Why not at least try?” And so, Naaman opts to be reasonable, no matter how reluctantly. He trudges to the River Jordan, immerses himself seven times, and… what do you know? It worked!
Now, the lectionary would have us screech to a halt at this point – largely in the interest of time, no doubt. There are naps to be taken, sporting events to watch, even studying to be done. But, if we read just a bit further, we discover Naaman’s healing has led to a renewed sense of faith, of belief. He is grateful beyond all telling.
So, too, in the Gospel According to Mark – an anonymous leper approaches Jesus on bended knee, pleading. This leper opts to lead with his faith: “If you choose, you can make me clean.” He believes as much to be true, and clearly establishes his conviction. Jesus does choose – he touches the outcast and derided man, and he was healed, made clean. Instructions follow – let’s keep this between you and me – don’t tell anyone! Well, maybe you might mention it to the priest, when you go to make the appropriate offerings, but… Apparently, silence is clearly too much to ask. The recently healed, recently clean man simply can’t keep it to himself. He has to share the good news! What this means for Jesus – he has to beef up security. The lame, the downtrodden, the hopeless – they are all going to beat a path to his door. Jesus is going to be exhausted!
So… where are the arrows, and to what do they point? Back to the process. First, I wrote the word “HEALING” in the center of a page. Then I listed all of the things, tangible or otherwise, Naaman and the unidentified leper brought with them – money, clothing, a letter, impatience, frustration, anger, reluctance, faith, broken bodies and spirits, pain, vulnerability. Then I listed what they took away – cleansed bodies, healed bodies, belief, excitement, energy, relief, joy. Arrows point toward healing, and then away. Another sketch – a stick figure wearing a t-shirt bearing the word “SACKCLOTH,” a pronounced frown on a very round face. Another stick figure wearing a t-shirt bearing the word “JOY,” smiling to beat the band. The word “MOURNING” written plainly, in black. The word “DANCING” written in many colors, many different shades. In between both images? Two arrows, fat, substantial. A becomes B. “A” is all well and good, and perhaps “B” is somehow even better, but… what fascinates me is the arrow. The movement from one to another. The perhaps inexplicable moment in which the shift, the change occurs. Is it a moment, or a lifetime? Or, are the two one in the same? Who’s to say?
I am wondering whether my friend Sam might share this fascination with me. Maybe his reluctance to equip his office with tissues points to his profound respect and appreciation for the moment at hand. To wipe away the tear somehow rushed things, perhaps dismisses something prematurely. Instead, to sit with the sobbing, caring less about what it comes from than that it comes from something. Caring less about where it will lead, than that it will lead somewhere. “Wash and be clean.” “If you choose…” “I cried to you for help, and you have healed me.” It sounds so easy. It may be.
Within one of those books of poetry I mentioned earlier, Linda Hogan concludes a poem entitled “Sickness” with the following words:
I saw disease.
It closed doors, turned on light.
It owned water and land.
It believed in its country
and followed orders.
It went to work.
It tried to take my tongue.
But these words,
these words are proof
there is healing.
These words. (Bible) These words. (sermon) These drawings – yes they really do exist! The words you share with you, and you share with you. By our faith. By our belief. We are healed. We are made clean. We move from here to there, and everywhere in between. Tentatively. Confidently. “Weeping may linger for a night, but joy comes with the morning.” Good morning! Amen.
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