july 5, 2009

Anna Blaedel
First UMC, Osage
July 5, 2009
Psalm 130
Mark 6:1-11


Whenever this morning’s gospel story is read in a group of United Methodist pastors, there are knowing nods, sometimes sighs, the kind of laughter that comes when something is funny because it’s true, which makes it not that funny at all. It is an unwritten but understood rule in our denomination that clergy are never to be appointed to the church where they grew up. When I first decided to pursue a call to ordained ministry, when I set off for seminary, members of my home church shared with me their hope that I might one day return, and be their pastor. That is very unlikely.

Pastors, even when they are beloved in their hometowns, aren’t always good fits for their home churches. Members receive them with a back log of memories. And, pastors view them, with the glory and gore of shared history. Sometimes there are old grudges, or broken relationships, or unhealed wounds. Sometimes, ministry requires confrontation. And challenge. And prophetic witness. And prophetic witness, we learn from scripture and history, ruffles feathers and raises eyebrows. More often, however, there is a kind of settledness, a familiarity that can be stifling to authentic, transformative ministry.

I know a powerful, prophetic preacher, with a pastor’s heart and a scholar’s brain, who preached a sermon in her home church. She preached about homosexuality. She challenged her parishioners to rethink some of their judgments and fears about gay and lesbian people. A gentleman walked by her after worship, refusing to shake her hand. “Why should I listen to anything you have to say,” he muttered. “After all, I was there when your mother changed your diapers. And you skipped Sunday school every chance you could get. And don’t think I forgot how you used to sneak cookies into church, and leave crumbs all over the pew.”

Knowing each other, and being known, can open powerful possibilities for ministry and witness and transformation. But, and, when we get stuck in seeing what we want to see, when we limit what we know to what we have always known, we shut out the power of God to surprise us, to startle us, to unsettle us with good news. For isn’t that what the Good News of Jesus does? Does it not surprise, and startle, and unsettle, until we see and feel and live something new? A surprising, amazing, astounding, or improbable event. The very definition of ‘miracle.’

David Ewart offers a note of caution about this story. “This is not just an easy, ‘good news,’ story. This is not dramatic or miraculous. This is a sobering reminder of how our own familiarity—our own comfort zone—with Jesus may blind us to the full reality of Jesus; and of how being in settled ministry with all its possessions and property keeps us from traveling lightly with our sole focus on our purpose for ministry.” Our purpose for ministry…To offer good news to the poor. To welcome the stranger, the other, the outcast. To proclaim release to prisoners. To loosen the silence and shame around addiction, and violence, and despair. To proclaim God’s reign of justice and peace, and to call for the repentance that is necessary if we are to live in justice and peace. To go where God sends us, not where we choose or where we want.

So. Back to the story. At first glance, it seems this is the kind of story that is made for places like Osage. Good communities, where people know each other. Where people gather together to celebrate the return of a prominent leader, a young person destined to do great things, and make the town proud. Where the community gathers to hear the stories of distant people and places, when one of their own returns home. There is the very real possibility of wonderful things happening.

In fact, I was reminded of this gospel story on Thursday afternoon, when I met John Walker for the first time. Here was a man returning to one of his homes, to his hometown, from his other home in Santiago, Chile. Within mere minutes of meeting, we were talking about music. We quickly agreed that Sam Crosser gifts this community with his music beyond words, and I got to learn more about Sam’s family’s musical history in this community. Perhaps being a bit pushy, I asked him if he might play in worship, and share this gift of music. Moved by his connection to this place, to this community, to you, he agreed. We started thinking of who might play with him, and soon we were running genealogies. Yes, yes. Kelli Miller is the organist this Sunday. I bet she could play piano, too. She can play anything! Right, she’s the daughter of Rozanne and John Mehmen. He asked if anyone played the flute. Madeline, does. Madeline, you know, Kelli’s oldest daughter. Olivia’s sister. How about trumpet? Well, both Alicia and Jeff Weber play. Yeah, Brenda and Bill Weber’s kids. Right, Bill is the son of Fern and John. Guitar? Well, Jake Felper, Amy's son, he plays guitar...It went on and on. It was connection at its best. Small town at its best. Homecoming at its best.

And yet, before we feel too warm and fuzzy, we must remember—This is how this morning’s gospel reading starts. When Jesus begins to teach in his hometown synagogue, the people start asking questions. Where did this man get all these ideas? And, what is this wisdom that has been given to him? Is not this the carpenter, the son of Mary, and brother of James and Joses and Judas and Simon, and are not his sisters here with us?

At first glance, it seems this is the kind of story that is made for places like Osage. The kind of story that lifts up returning home, being surrounded again by “your people.” But. When we stick with the story, we face the difficult question: Would this happen here? Could this happen in our hometowns?

Jesus has just returned from a very successful road trip. Now he is back in his hometown, with the people who have heard about the spectacular things he’s been doing. Healing the hemorrhaging woman. Raising the little girl to restored life. His return home follows right after these stories we read and shared last week. So now, Jesus is back, reunited with the community that raised him, reunited with his mom, and with his brothers James and Joses and Judas and Simon, and his unnamed sisters (does this surprise you? we don’t often talk about Jesus having siblings, in the church. In fact, some accounts say Jesus isn’t the oldest of his siblings. Which opens up a colossal can of worms…) But anyway. Jesus is back. Ready to show his stuff. But it does not go well.

As one preacher, Kate Huey puts it, “Of course, everyone wants to see miracles, but does everyone want to hear about the life-changing but perhaps unsettling good news that those miracles announce?”

Jesus is taken aback by the people’s lack of faith, their closed minds and closed hearts, and they, in turn, are offended by his teachings. While we are told they were astounded by the power of his teachings and actions, they are too convinced of his ordinariness to really believe. Of course, we have the benefit of knowing how the story ends, knowing who Jesus was, and is, knowing of his power, and persecution, and promise. But try to put yourself in the shoes of those living in Jesus’ hometown.

Beverly Link-Sawyer asks this question: “What would we think about a neighbor whom we believed to be just an ordinary, hardworking man, turning into a miraculous teacher, let alone the reputed Son of God? Would that be something we could wrap our mind, and hearts, around?” Oh, you know Jesus, he always was a little bit wild. Remember when he ran away from his parents, and hid out in the synagogue? I mean, Mary and Joseph weren’t even married when he was born. And he hasn’t been running with a very good crowd. Lepers. Prostitutes. Tax collectors. All those unclean, sinful people. I’m not trying to judge him, or anything, but most of his friends, well, they’re an abomination. I’m not saying this, it’s scripture that calls them sinful. And what’s with this command to sell all we have, and give it to the poor. I worked hard for what I have. Who does he think he is?

We all know how Jesus was rejected by the religious authorities. But this story is about how Jesus was rejected by the people who should have known him, and loved him, best.

Barbara Brown Taylor calls this an un-miracle story. It’s not like Jesus lost his power, or lost who he was, when he went home. Jesus was still Jesus, Taylor says, and “still had power to share with them, only he could not do anything with it because they would not let him.” She compares it to the experience of trying to light a match to a pile of wet sticks: “It does not matter how strong your flame is: what you need is something that will catch fire. [In this story,] Jesus held the match until it burned out in his hand, while his family and friends sat shaking their heads a safe distance away. Instead of working great wonders, he dropped the match when it burned his fingers and absolutely nothing caught fire in the synagogue that day…he left them to go shine his light somewhere else.”

Would we recognize Jesus if he appeared with us, here, today? Would we listen? Would we open our hearts? Would we turn away? Would we scoff or dismiss or be offended? Or rather, I should say, Do we recognize Christ when Christ appears with us? Do we listen, and believe, even when the good news challenges and unsettles our lives? Do we open our hearts, when we have every excuse to keep them closed?

Taylor writes, “[Often,] we are Jesus’ hometown kin, who do not always honor him. God is all around us, speaking to us through the most unlikely people. Sometimes it is a mysterious stranger, but more often, I suspect, it is people so familiar to us that we simply overlook them. If we refuse to listen, then we should not be surprised if Jesus leaves us to go shine his light somewhere else.”

When we see people only as we have always seen them…When we do only what we have always done…When we expect only what we have always expected…When we get stuck in seeing what we want to see…When we limit what we know to what we have always known…We shut out the transforming, redeeming, saving, if unsettling, power of God.

Let us pray: God of grace and powerful weakness, at times your prophets were and are ignored, belittled, and unwelcome. Trusting that we, too, are called to be prophets, fill us with your Spirit, and support us by your gentle, challenging love, that we may persevere in speaking your word and living our faith. Amen, and amen.