Tag Archives: healing

the smartest man

Church can be awkward.

One Easter Sunday a woman behind me started screaming, “It’s about forgiveness! It’s about new life! Today!” And then, as if that were normal, she sat back down.

I’ve never forgotten that, just like the folks in the Gospel never forgot the day a man with an unclean spirit burst into their worship service.

Jesus is teaching when the man cries out, “What have you to do with us, Jesus? Have you come to destroy us?”

Can you imagine? This isn’t awkward. It’s frightening.

Demon talk makes us squirm. Maybe the Gospel writers didn’t understand mental illness? Maybe when they said “possessed” they were describing something they didn’t understand?

Maybe.

No doubt there was confusion in the ancient world about mental health, just like there is today. We have a long way to go until we understand that anxiety and depression are just like diabetes and cancer. Some of us have it. Some of us don’t. And this has nothing to do with character.

If you’re dealing with any of that, I want you to know something. God is with you. And the church, while flawed, is behind you and for you.

The trouble with explaining demon scenes away is there are too many of them.

What’s interesting about this scene is that we don’t know what Jesus is saying, only that people are astonished, for he taught with authority and not as the scribes. The scribes were teachers who interpreted scripture. What Jesus is doing is different. He isn’t appealing to authority; he’s being authority.

“I know who you are,” says the demon. “Have you come to destroy us?”

“Be silent, and come out of him!” Jesus replies.

And it did. That’s authority.

I wore a uniform in high school, but there were special days when I was allowed to wear my own clothes, even hats. On one of those days I walked into the chapel with a hat on. A teacher  told me to take it off. Without missing a beat I said, “Jews wear hats to pray.”

(I would have slapped teenage me.)

I don’t love being told what to do. But the older I get the more I realize I need to be told, because I don’t always know what’s best.

In the ordination process you get asked lots of questions. Somebody asked me this one: What does it mean for Jesus to be Lord and Savior of your life?

“He’s my Savior,” I said, “because he saves me. Not just from sin and death but daily. He comes to me and rescues me. Every single day.”

That part came easy.

“He’s my Lord,” I continued, “because I do things for him I don’t want to do. But I trust He knows what’s best.”

And I felt like a fraud. Because for all my talk, I want to be my own Lord.

But I need a Lord. 

Here’s the deal. We’ll never make Jesus our Lord unless we believe he knows more than we do. Because, as Dallas Willard used to say, “it’s not possible to trust Jesus, or anyone else, in matters we don’t believe him to be competent.”

Would you fly with an incompetent pilot? Let an incompetent surgeon cut your chest open? Do you give authority to anyone you don’t believe is smart?

I doubt it. Do you believe Jesus is smart?

We talk a lot about Jesus’  love, but what about his competence? Does he know how to help us be good engineers or good parents? Does he know what it takes to run run a business or keep a marriage alive?

The earliest Christians believed He did. He was divine, which meant he couldn’t be dumb.

I think it’s tough to claim Jesus as Lord until we’re ready to claim he’s smart. And not just smart, but the smartest man who ever lived.

I was in a doctor’s office some time ago getting a physical. I was going through a rough time and really stressed. As the doctor examined me my blood pressure shot up.

“Do you smoke?” he said.

“No.”

“Drink?”

“Yeah.”

“How much?”

(I told him, but I’m not telling you.)

“Work out?”

“Duh.”

He took the reading again. Still high.

He took the cuff off my arm. “Your father tells me you like to read.”

“I do.”

“What?”

I told him and we talked about books and life for an hour. Then he took the reading again. “You don’t have a blood pressure problem,” he said. “You’re stressed.” He smiled. “Relax.”

And I did, not just then but in the days that followed. His words had power because I trusted his authority. I believed him to be competent.

We may not be demon possessed, but all of us — from time to time — get possessed by something.

Anxiety. Money. Regret.

When this happens, we need a Lord to cast it out.

Don’t be afraid to make Jesus your Lord. He won’t abuse the position; he’ll use it to set you free. From sin. From death. From yourself.

“I know who you are,” says the demon. “ Have you come to destroy us?”

“Oh no,” Jesus says. “Just the opposite.”

Homily on John 9:1-38

“For once you were darkness, but now in the Lord you are light. Live as children of the light.” Amen.

 

My mother has been a flight attendant for nearly 23 years.

 I remember the day she went for the interview. She wore a red dress and was afraid to fly. But she needed the job. So fly she did. Pretty cool woman.

A week ago a passenger approached her to report that another passenger had threatened him.

“He threatened you?” mom asked. “How?”

“He said if I leaned my seat back again, he was going to beat the something out of me.” That’s the PG version of what he said.

Mom raised an eyebrow. “Was he was joking?”

The man shook his head. “No, not joking.”

“OK,” mom said, “I’ll ring the cockpit and let the captain know. We can have law enforcement board the plane when we land.”

“No, no, I don’t want to cause a scene,” he said. “I just wanted you to know in case something happens to me.”

“Well, at the very least, let’s move you to another seat.”

“Great,” he said.

Later, mom was taking drink orders when she arrived at the row where the alleged villain sat. She checked him out and said he was well dressed and by all accounts appeared normal and content.

The passengers around him, however, looked stressed. The tension that had surfaced earlier was still very much alive. Mom said the man sitting next to the villain had his face pressed against the window, trying to put as much distance between them as possible. He also ordered a double scotch.

The villain ordered a ginger ale.

Mom left to get the drinks but when she returned she realized she had forgotten the villain’s ginger ale.

Uh-Oh.

 

She apologized and said she’d be right back with his drink.

The passengers winced. The man by the window threw back his scotch. Just kidding.

The villain said, “You know what? Make it a club soda. I forgot; I gave up ginger ale for Lent.”

Mom’s jaw hit the floor.

 

 Ginger ale? What about threatening people? That might have been a good one for Lent.

 

I’m not looking to throw stones but sometimes we Christians give Christianity a bad rap, don’t we? I know I do.

It was Gandhi who said, “I like Christ, just not Christians. They’re so unlike Christ.”

 Ouch.

I’ve tried to let that quote challenge me and not offend me. Because the reality is that when people want to know if what they read about Jesus is true, they often look to the lives of those who profess Him as Lord.

I think about that.

As a kid someone once told me I needed to behave because I might be the only Jesus someone ever sees. To which I thought, “That’s too bad.”

But seriously, when we—the religious—turn people off from Jesus, that’s a problem.

A popular mantra of my generation is that we’re spiritual but not religious. Which is another way to say we’re open to God, but suspect of his people.

A sentiment I imagine would ring true with the beggar from our gospel reading. Blind since birth, he encounters Jesus, who takes dirt, spits in it, and uses it to anoint the man’s face. And for the first time in his life, he moves from dark to light.

But then he runs into a bunch of religious folks and things run sideways.

Before he’s even healed, the disciples point at him and say, “Teacher, whose fault is that? Who sinned? He or his parents?”

It was a commonly held belief in the ancient world that illness and disability were the direct result of sin.  But Jesus will hear nothing of it.

“Nobody sinned,” He says. “Come on. This man is who he is as you are who you are. He’s a person, fully formed, in whom the work of God will be made manifest.”

On a recent evening I was running at the track when I saw a severely disabled teenager using a walker in the lane next to me. His father was a few paces ahead, keeping an eye on him. As I ran by, I became hyper aware of my able body, and I felt bad for running while he fought for every step. I felt pity for him.

But the next lap I got a better look at his face. It was painted in joy. He was smiling, radiant, happy to be walking in the cool of the evening with his father. And I thought, “How dare I marginalize that boy? How dare I presume to know anything about him?”

Two thousand years ago Jesus looked at the disabled and declared them full people, in every sense of the word.

The disciples’ question had to do with exclusion. They wanted to know who was responsible for keeping the blind beggar shut out from society.

Jesus said, “Wrong question. No one is excluded. I’m the light of the world, and my light shines on all people.” All people.

After the beggar’s encounter with Jesus, his neighbors drag him before the Pharisees to give an account for his healing.  And like our pal on the plane who gave up ginger ale for Lent, they make a mess of religion.

They simply don’t believe the story.

They badger him and question his integrity. They haul his parents in to testify whether or not he was actually even blind. They call Jesus a sinner and say the man is nothing more than a disciple of a sinner. But they are disciples of Moses, a true prophet.

The beggar fights back, saying, “Look, I don’t know who he is; haven’t a clue if he’s a sinner. But if he were not from God, how could he open my eyes? I was blind, but now I see.”

That does it. The Pharisees eject him from the synagogue, saying, “You were born into utter sin. How dare you teach us?”

With those words we reach the heart of the story: blindness, but not of the eyes, of the spirit. Physical blindness, challenging as it may be, only has so much power. Our physical condition speaks not of our true identity.

As we heard in our reading from Samuel, God does not see as mortals do, who look on outward appearances, for God looks upon the heart.

Far more challenging is spiritual blindness. Because when our spirits are blind, we no longer see the works of God, not even when they’re brought before us.

The Pharisees are certain they know how God works and how He doesn’t. So when Jesus heals this man on the Sabbath, it can’t be from God, because God doesn’t work that way.

You know, the Pharisees take it on the chin a lot, but they were just trying to be faithful. But in this instance their religious beliefs, the conviction they could see, blinded them.

Which is kind of terrifying for us. How can we know if we see by the light?

Dan Clendenin says, “One of the most dangerous spiritual places we can live is in the deluded notion that we are a fully sighted person.”

There’s something to that. This past week the Westboro Baptist Church—which in no meaningful way is Baptist or a church— was again in the news because it founder, Rev. Fred Phelps, passed away. Phelps made the church famous for protesting the funerals of American soldiers, and making hateful statements about all kinds of people. I’ve often wondered what drives a person to such extremes? Probably a lot of factors, but at least one is a deep-rooted belief that you see the world rightly. You don’t treat people as worthless unless you believe they are.

It’s easy to get into trouble when we think we’ve got it all figured out. We may not spout hate speech but we have our plans, our ambition; why consult God in prayer? We know who to vote for; why listen to another perspective? We know what’s right and wrong; why bother reading scripture?

We know. We know. We know.

I wish I read this story and identified with the blind beggar, who knew he was blind and could thus recognize the light.

And maybe some days I do. But more often I’m the Pharisee, believing I can see, when in reality I cannot.

But, you know what I’ve found? The healthiest people don’t just admit their blindness; they embrace it. The wise readily admit, “I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.”

Long ago a newspaper posed the question, “What’s Wrong with the World?” The great writer, G.K. Chesterton wrote back, “Dear Sirs: I am.”

Pretty good.

If we hope to see by the light, we must acknowledge we’re in the dark. The first step in any recovery is admitting there’s a problem.

Jesus said he didn’t come for the healthy but the sick. A healthy person doesn’t need a doctor. A sick person does.

The righteous can keep on being righteous, but sinners? Well, we need a savior.

If we’re honest, I think that’s tougher to admit than we like to think. We like Jesus as teacher, and healer, and preacher… but savior?

Who needs that when we know, we know, we know?

During the past year the most visible Christian in the world has garnered unprecedented attention. Pope Francis has been called a rock-star pope; a title he said offended him. Which I thought was awesome.

This is a man who’s spent his entire career living with and serving the poor. A man who admitted he didn’t want to be pope. A man with tremendous wealth at his disposal and drives a Ford escort, which the guys from NPR’s Click and Clack say proves he is a man of prayer.

Pope Francis hasn’t changed any doctrine. Hasn’t overwhelmed anyone with electric preaching. He’s not youthful or particularly handsome.  He’s not even considered a great theologian.

And yet, he’s set the world on fire with talk of God. I have atheist friends who despise religion, but they like this pope.

What’s up with that?

Might be because he recently admitted that while burying the priest who had been his confessor years ago, he stole a rosary from his casket. Pope Francis said it took a little work to pry it from his cold fingers, but he got the job done, and then asked the priest to forgive him one last time.

 I think it has something to do with the answer he gave to a reporter when asked, “Who are you?”

The pope sat in silence and then said, “I am a sinner. A sinner whom the Lord has looked upon.”

Humility is a warm light that draws all people toward it. The Proverbs declare that fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge.

If we hope to see we must first know we are blind. This isn’t bad news. It’s good because in our blindness we are not left to stumble in the dark, for the light of Christ shines on all people—on popes and beggars, on saints and sinners, on your and on me.

 How do we know if we see by the light? “I don’t know,” the beggar said to the Pharisees. “I don’t have all the answers. But one thing I know: Jesus touched my eyes. And where once I was blind, now I see.”