Mark 1: 21-38
Good morning, and grace and peace.
February already, Super Bowl Sunday, the 39th Day of
Christmas, tomorrow February 2nd traditionally known as Candlemas,
the Feast of the Presentation of our Lord in the Temple, the Purification of
St. Mary the Virgin--which is the dedication of our Chapel and the subject of
that lovely triptych altarpiece. And of
course, especially here in Western Pennsylvania, Groundhog Day! Susy, Daniel, and I last evening followed our annual ritual of watching the Harold Ramis film, with Bill Murray and Andie McDowell. Always fun, and always thought-provoking. And just a little more than two weeks before
pitchers and catchers are scheduled to report in Bradenton for the beginning of
spring training.
On the older church calendar, Septuagesima, the beginning of what are
sometimes called the three Sundays of “pre-Lent,” 9 Sundays, 70 days more or
less, until Easter. In any event, all of
that together to say, as a way of picturing the rhythm of the church year, that
we’re moving on down the road that stretches from Bethlehem to Jerusalem, the
music of the angels as they sing to the shepherds fading away, and the bustle
of the City and of Holy Week and the cheers of Palm Sunday and the jeers and
tears of Good Friday beginning to be heard up ahead in the far distance. One way or the other, whether or not
Punxatawney Phil sees his shadow, the
world keeps turning.
We are continuing in these weeks in "Year B" in our Sunday lectionary with our appointed sequence of readings from St.
Mark’s gospel in the first chapter--where we have been now for several
weeks. Mark is not a leisurely story
teller, for sure. Cut to the chase. Get right to
the point. We’ve hardly just opened
the book and already we’ve had the Baptism of Jesus at the Jordan, with the
visible acknowledgement of the Holy Spirit and the anointing word of the
Father: already the 40 days of Testing in the Wilderness. Already the recruitment and commissioning of
the first disciples, as we heard last week—“come with me, and I will have you
fishing for people.”
And now this morning the emphatic and dramatic account of the beginning
of the great “public ministry” of Jesus.
The five of them—Jesus with Andrew and Peter and James and John—leave
James and John’s father Zebedee in the boat cleaning the fishing tackle and
walk on a short distance into the nearby village of Capernaum. It’s a bustling town. Jesus’ hometown of Nazareth was really just a
hamlet, population fewer than 500 or so in
the first century, the archaeologists say, while Capernaum is four or five times as large, a real town, a
busy commercial center. It’s not Jericho
or Jerusalem, of course, but a bigger stage, a place to go to be noticed, to
move out of the shadows and into wider view.
It is the Sabbath, and Jesus and his companions come to the
synagogue. Perhaps home town boys Andrew
and Peter speak to the rabbi, because Jesus from down the road in Nazareth is
invited to read from the scriptures and to teach. Something of an honor, I would think. And he makes a strong impression, as we can
see this word in the response to those in attendance, that he taught as one
having authority. The Greek word exousia. A word that will be
associated with Jesus again and again.
An authority that makes his teaching and preaching different from the
teaching and preaching of the rabbis and elders and scribes and Pharisees. A compelling power, and a sense of
authorship, we might say, to make a connection with the English that I think
can also be found in the Greek. A
creative force. Something was really
happening when he spoke. The words came
alive.
I remember back almost 20 years ago being introduced to the work of
Pittsburgh poet Sam Hazo. Some of you
may be familiar with his work. I had read
some of his poems and thought that they were really good. But then I remember attending an evening program at the old Pittsburgh Poetry Forum, I
think with Pam Johnson and Anne Barnes, probably a few others, and to hear him read and perform
and bring his poetry to life. The words
leaping off the page! It’s one thing to
read the words on the printed page.
Another thing altogether to hear those words chanted and sung and
declaimed with authority, by the
author himself! We had him here in the church for a program not
too long after. An amazing experience.
So Jesus in the synagogue that Sabbath.
And perhaps echoing overhead in our thoughts, the words from the
beginning of St. John’s Gospel: “the
Word became flesh and dwelt among us.”
It must have been something like that.
“We’ve heard those holy words all our lives, but now, suddenly, they are
fresh and new and powerful, leaping off the page and ringing through the world
and our hearts and our minds surging with excitement. We have never heard anything like this
before.”
And then immediately following, the encounter with the Unclean Spirit. The beginning of a ministry of exorcism,
spiritual healing, that would become a centerpiece of the life of Jesus from
this day forward, and the center of his commission to his disciples. In
just a few pages in chapter 6 Mark is going to tell us about the first time
Jesus sent his disciples on ahead, at the 7th verse, “and he called
unto him the twelve and began to send them forth two by two, and gave them
authority – exousia!—gave them
authority over unclean spirits.” That is
the specific kind of authority that was in Jesus and the first that he
delegated to his disciples. (Which makes
me wonder just how we’re doing in that department these days, any of us
individually, the church in general. A topic for further discussion.)
The power of Jesus’s words, reading and proclaiming with authority,
seems to be unbearable to this evil spirit, to the demonic presence that has
hidden secretly in the deep inner life of the man in the synagogue. That spirit can remain hidden no longer, but
seems to screech in a kind of torment of distress and even agony, “What are you
doing here, Jesus of Nazareth?” And the
cool words of Jesus in response. Simply,
“Be quiet, come out of him.” Again,
command, authority. Giving light to them
that live in darkness and in the shadow of death. Cast
out our sin and enter in. Thou art the
king of glory O Christ.
There is what we might call a soft
view of Jesus in the gospels which is genuine and important. His gentleness and compassion, a tenderness. Savior
like a shepherd lead us, much we need thy tender care. But we
would here see him from the very first as the one who is in his tenderness a
strong tower to all who put their trust in him, to whom all things both in
heaven, on earth, and under the earth bow and obey. Flexing his muscles. At the sound of his voice the forces of
darkness fall into a panic, scatter and run, and the hearts of his faithful
people fill with joy.
I read this story of the sermon and exorcism at Capernaum and I can’t
help hearing in my imagination the great roar of the lion Aslan across the wintry
landscape of Narnia in the C.S. Lewis story.
“Is he a tame lion?” The children ask.
“No, not tame. Not tame at
all. But good.” And there is healing and forgiveness and new
life. In the power of his presence, his
austere and muscular and irresistible holiness.
Not tame, but good.
That’s how the story begins, and the word begins to spread. Through the whole region. Village by village. God doing something new, something big,
something authoritative.
And I think Mark feels as though if we’ve just casually picked up his
book while strolling through the aisles of the Barnes and Noble and have taken
a moment to read these first few verses, the first couple of paragraphs—even if
now we set the book down, he’s told us what he needs to tell us. Planted the seed. What we need to know about Jesus. He’s held up a mirror, perhaps, for those of
us who have met Jesus, so that we can see beyond the superficial externalities
and understand what it is that is true for us in our lives as Christians. He’s offered a glimpse to those who haven’t
met Jesus yet, who are meeting him now for the first time in this moment, in
the synagogue at Capernaum, as the words of the gospel leap off the page and
into our eyes and ears and hearts and imagination. Beating back the ancient enemy, Satan.
Jesus triumphant, trampling down death by death and giving life to those
dwelling in the tomb. Jesus victorious. The strife over, the labor done. It’s all here. The empty cross, the stone rolled away. To see for ourselves what Mark means in the
first words of this gospel testimony and witness, chapter 1 verse 1: here it
begins: the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.
That would be a great way to start every day. Morning by morning, to renew ourselves by hearing
this good news again with the ear of our heart.
Really Mark’s hope, I think. To
say it each one of us as a kind of a prayer, an offering, the offering of an
intention as we walk out the door in the morning and off to work or school or
all the affairs of our lives. Jesus made
the words of scripture come to life in that small synagogue, and as we are his
Body that power and authority can happen right here with us too. Maybe we could have it printed on a new set
of St. Andrew’s tee-shirts as a reminder for us and a word to the world. What is announced now in us and through
us. Chapter 1, verse 1: “Here it begins, let it
begin here today, in me, in us, with him and for him: the good news of Jesus
Christ, the Son of God.”
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