There is a story of a Vermont farmer who was sitting with his wife one evening on the porch, looking at the beautiful valley laid out before them. Everything about the moment was filled with peace. At last the farmer spoke quietly, as if reluctant to break the spell. “Sarah,” he said, “we’ve had a lot of ups and downs together during these forty years, and when I’ve thought of all you’ve meant to me, sometimes it’s been almost more than I could do to keep from telling you.”
Sometimes things just “leak” out of us, no matter how hard we try to plug them up.
Sometimes we spring a “leak” that should have sprung long ago. Other times leaks spring that never should have sprung.
You might call “leaks” one of the strangest political strategies of our day – the calculated flow of clandestine information that is “leaked” for public consumption.
In “real life” leaks are never a good thing. A leaky water line or toilet valve can pour money down the drain without ever giving away its presence. A leaky gas vent can put whole buildings in danger of blowing up. Leaky seals around doors and windows allow our climate-controlled inside air to escape out and outside air to seep in. Leaking brake lines, transmission fluids, or battery acid can all spell disaster for our safety while driving.
Yet when what is being “leaked” isn’t water or gas or air, but snippets of information. Such “leaks” are most often greeted as helpful and healthy, providing insider knowledge to those outside the loop.
Still, the definition of a “leak” is a small, localized escape of whatever is supposed to be contained. As the creators of such now infamous sites such as “Wikileaks” have learned, there really is such a thing as “TMK,” “too much knowledge” or “TMI,” “too much information.”
Small, controlled, contained leaks are often used by government agencies and private institutions to start a trickle of information that might soon become a river of revelations. It’s never difficult to find a source to provide such leaks. Most of us are pretty terrible at keeping secrets. After all what is the point of having “secret knowledge” if you cannot share the fact that you have it?
The lure of “secret knowledge” that is, conversely, known and controlled by a select few, is what has kept all sorts of organizations going — such as modern day fraternities and sororities, the mysterious Masons, the secretive Knight’s Templar, the ancient Gnostics. They all have wanted to keep their secrets. But also, selectively, to share them.
Biblical scholars have long noted the apparent theme of a “messianic secret” in Mark’s gospel. Of course, by the time Mark was actually written down, the “secret” was long out-of-the-bag. Yet even in the earliest chapters of Mark’s text this “secret” the true identity of Jesus as Messiah and Lord was contained in a very leaky pipeline of relationships and encounters.
The first time Jesus appears on the scene — at his baptism — the very heavens open up and spill the beans.
When Jesus makes his first public appearance to preach and teach, an unclean spirit pipes up in the synagogue crowd and identifies him as “the Holy One of God” (Mark 1:24).
While Jesus successfully shushes that spirit and squashes a host of other demons into quietness, his attempt to stay under the radar is lost when he responds to the needs of one man with leprosy.
When the demons Jesus cast out were ordered into silence, their inhuman spirits were quashed into obedient quietness. But when the human spirit of the man with leprosy is released from its hearse, from its prison of isolation and expulsion, through the power of Jesus’ touch and word, that human spirit soars. The same encounter that puts evil spirits in chains gives human spirits wings. It’s almost as if we can hear the leper singing the popular praise song “How Can I Keep From Singing.”
Despite Jesus’ command to keep quiet, the man healed of his leprosy cannot help but to proclaim his miraculous transformation, to “broadcast” far and wide the good news of his wholeness and to reveal who had made that wholeness possible.
Primed and juiced by joy, this man’s exuberant exclamations acted as a kind of controlled “leak” about the person and power of Jesus the Christ. Mark’s text declares that it was because of the proclamations of this cleansed leper that Jesus’ popularity grew so great, forcing him to stay outside the synagogues and cities, sending him ever further out into the countryside. There his work and words became even more widespread and well known. Instead of staying within the safe circle of the synagogue circuit, the joyous witness of this one man ushered Jesus into the next phase of his mission and journey.
While the healed leper in this week’s text may have been the first to act as a leaky source of the messianic secret, he was by no means the last. Again and again when Jesus cautions the crowds to be quiet, they respond by spreading the news of his healing powers, his authoritative words, his depth of knowledge, his good news of the kingdom. The volume of the crowds continues to increase throughout Jesus’ ministry.
The greatest theologian America has produced pastor, scholar, shepherd of the First Great Awakening, Princeton president Jonathan Edwards should be remembered for more than a sermon about sinners dangling over the flames of hell (“Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God”). Edwards conceived a theological notion he called “remanations” — the human response to an encounter with a divine “emanation,” the presence of the divine in our midst.
According to Edwards, when a human encounters the emanation of the divine, the human spirit responds with its own reflection, its own kind of bounce-back echo, of that divinity. Of course, the emanation Edwards meant was the person and presence of Jesus Christ. Each human being who encounters the Christ, who is transformed in the presence of that divine emanation, becomes a “remanation” — a reflection of that glory.
When the leper in today’s gospel text encountered the emanation of the divine in Jesus, he could not help but “bounce back” that light, that love, that energy. The cleansed leper became a “remanation,” a reflection of Christ’s transforming, healing wholeness. He reflected God’s power and glory with his cleansed skin and his clear voice.
What does it mean for us to be a “remanation” of the divine emanation? What does it mean for us to be an echo, a reflection of Christ in this twenty-first century?
Like the first century leper, it means giving up some control, letting the personal experience of a Christ-encounter take hold and take you away. Once you add leavening to a mixture of flour, water, and sugar, things are going to happen. You cannot tell the infused dough not to rise. Once we experience the power and presence of Jesus, we cannot help but be fundamentally altered. We are changed. We are charged. We are challenged. [This might be developed here into a more traditional-type sermon on how in Christ we are 1) Changed, 2) Charged, 3) Challenged).
But the best explanation I can come up with of the relationship between a “remanation” and an “emanation” is this story from Robert Fulghum. Fulghum is most known for his first book, All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten (1988), which stayed on the New York Times best-seller list for two years. But his second book is my favorite: It was On Fire When I Lay Down On It (1989).
It’s a chapter called “Are There Any Questions?” which details Fulghum’s penchant for asking “What is the Meaning of Life?” at the end of lectures which end with “Are There Any Questions?” It’s a story about a lecture that was given by Alexander Papaderos on the Greek isle of Crete, where Fulghum today lives when he’s not at home in Seattle. Papaderos is a scholar, politician, gardener, and resident of Athens. He created an institute to heal the memories between the Greeks and the Germans, even after the Germans were guilty of some of the most heinous crimes imaginable against the Greek people.
“By the time I came to the institute for a summer session, Alexander Papaderos had become a living legend. One look at him and you saw his strength and intensity ‑‑ energy, physical power, courage, intelligence, passion, and vivacity radiated from this person. And to speak to him, to shake his hand, to be in a room with him when he spoke, was to experience his extraordinary electric humanity. Few men live up to their reputations when you get close. Alexander Papaderos was an exception.
At the last session on the last morning of a two‑week seminar on Greek culture, led by intellectuals and experts in their fields who were recruited by Papaderos from across Greece, Papaderos rose from his chair at the back of the room and walked to the front, where he stood in the bright Greek sunlight of an open window and looked out. We followed his gaze across the bay to the iron cross marking the German cemetery.
He turned. And made the ritual gesture: "Are there any questions?"
Quiet quilted the room. These two weeks had generated enough questions for a lifetime, but for now there was only silence.
"No questions?" Papaderos swept the room with his eyes.
So. I asked.
"Dr. Papaderos, what is the meaning of life?"
The usual laughter followed, and people stirred to go.
Papaderos held up his hand and stilled the room and looked at me for a long time, asking with his eyes if I was serious and seeing from my eyes that I was.
"I will answer your question."
Taking his wallet out of his hip pocket, he fished into a leather billfold and brought out a very small round mirror, about the size of a quarter.
And what he said went like this:
"When I was a small child, during the war, we were very poor and we lived in a remote village. One day, on the road, I found the broken pieces of a mirror. A German motorcycle had been wrecked in that place.
"I tried to find all the pieces and put them together, but it was not possible, so I kept only the largest piece. This one. And by scratching it on a stone I made it round. I began to play with it as a toy and became fascinated by the fact that I could reflect light into dark places where the sun would never shine ‑‑ in deep holes and crevices and dark closets. It became a game for me to get light into the most inaccessible places I could find.
"I kept the little mirror, and as I went about my growing up, I would take it out in idle moments and continue the challenge of the game. As I became a man, I grew to understand that this was not just a child's game but a metaphor for what I might do with my life. I came to understand that I am not the light or the source of light. But light ‑‑ truth, understanding, knowledge ‑‑ is there, and it will only shine in many dark places if I reflect it.
"I am a fragment of a mirror whose whole design and shape I do not know. Nevertheless, with what I have I can reflect light into the dark places of this world ‑‑ into the black places in the hearts of men ‑‑ and change some things in some people. Perhaps others may see and do likewise. This is what I am about. This is the meaning of my life."
And then he took his small mirror and, holding it carefully, caught the bright rays of daylight streaming through the window and reflected them onto my face and onto my hands folded on the desk.”
This week I charge you with the challenge of carrying around with you in the wallet of your mind a small round mirror as a reminder that you are a remanation of an emanation . . .
So don’t hide your light under a bushel.
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COMMENTARY
This week’s gospel text offers yet another healing story — a healing that is both dramatic for the cure it manifests and for the impact that cure had on Jesus’ public ministry.
The recipient of Jesus’ healing powers in this story is particularly problematic — he is identified as a “leper.” The diagnosis of “leprosy” was applied to many different skin disorders in the first century. But whether or not the “leper” in today’s text actually suffered from what we now call Hansen’s Disease, or some other skin malady, the results for the affected individual were the same — extreme social isolation, the label of “unclean,” a life lived separated from family and community, and the assumption by others that the lesions and sores on the skin were evidence of some divine punishment for personal sins.
In the first century, the label of “leprosy” was far more than a medical diagnosis. It was a continual state of spiritual crisis. For that reason it is hardly surprising that this particular miracle is presented more like an exorcism than a typical healing, and Jesus’ own actions seem more confrontational than comforting.
This scene between Jesus and the leper is not specifically tied by geography or timing to the other acts of healing and exorcism that are described in this section. Instead, the entire focus of this encounter is on the dramatic interaction of the characters. The leper’s initial approach to Jesus is astonishing in its boldness and in its humility. As one of the “unclean,” this leper breaks all the rules of ostracism that surround him. He walks directly up to Jesus and addresses him. Instead of keeping his distance (fifty paces) and loudly announcing himself as “unclean” (Leviticus 1:45-46), this man kneels before Jesus and speaks right to his face. Although some manuscripts do not specify the kneeling action of the man, it is an action that fits with both the plea of the leper and the man’s evident belief in Jesus’ ability to cleanse him of his sickness. Because leprosy was an ailment that required divine intervention, in order to effect a cure one had to be cleansed — not just healed. In kneeling this man is affirming his belief that Jesus had access to such divine power. While the NRSV translates this man’s assertion simply as “you can make me clean,” a more literal rendition would ready “you have the power [dynamai] to make me clean.”
Jesus’ response to this startling behavior and request is usually described as being deeply moved with “compassion” or “pity” (“splanchnisthesis”). Yet one of the oldest Markan manuscripts describes Jesus as “being angered” (“orgistheis”) at the man’s presence. This anger reaction seems so out of character with Jesus the compassionate healer that it lends authority to its genuineness. The argument is that later copyists would have been concerned more with presenting Jesus in the best possible light, being “compassionate,” not changing a favorable portrayal into something more problematic, “anger,” to explain.
If Jesus was originally described as “angered” at the presence of this leper before him, even that response can be given a compassionate reading. The sight of human misery and suffering moved God to anger in the Old Testament (see Judges 10:16). It even evokes such a response among people today. Interestingly, the term found in later manuscripts “splanchnistheis” is rooted in the noun “splanchron,” and describes the physical seat of deep emotions. While we today describe that emotional center as the “heart” (hence all the heart-shaped Valentine’s you will receive), in the ancient near eastern tradition these feelings were located in our “guts.” Thus even if Jesus’ response is described as being one of “compassion” (“splanchnistheis”) it is best understood as a “gut wrenching” reaction to the broken condition of the man who kneels before him.
Whatever word best describes Jesus’ internal response, his external action is immediate and unprecedented. He stretches out his hand, breaking the last barrier between his own ritual purity and the uncleanness of the leper. Yet it is not this touch that changes the man’s condition. It is the declaration Jesus issues. He affirms both that he has the power to bring cleanness to the leper and he notes his choice to exert that power: “I do choose. Be made clean” (v.41). Unlike Elisha’s cure of Naaman (2 Kings 5:10-14), the results here are immediate. At Jesus’ word the leper is instantly made clean.
But also “immediately” Jesus’ attitude once again appears odd. Instead of celebrating with the cleansed man, Jesus “groans” (“embrimesamenos”, which is literally rendered as “snorts” or even “growled”) and then dismisses (“exebalen,” literally “cast out”) the man whose life he has just transformed. Both these actions are more typical of Jesus’ responses after exorcisms. While Jesus immediately sends the cleansed man away, he also is described as first giving the man some fairly detailed further instructions. These two seemingly contrary descriptions further suggest to textual scholars that at some point this interaction had been explained more as an exorcism than as a healing event.
As with the demons he cast out in Mark 1:25, 34 Jesus sternly commands the cleansed man to keep silent (literally “to no one, nothing”) about his miraculous cure. Yet Jesus also instructs the man to follow the established protocols (as detailed in Leviticus 13:47-14:54) that required him to report his miraculous transformation to a priest and to perform a number of associated rituals and sacrifices — hardly secretive behavior. By being examined and declared clean by a priest, this man would receive written affirmation of his new purified condition — a religious and social “get out of jail free” card that would assure his reentry into normal life and relationships with others. Jesus’ curt instructions are then also a sign of his “compassion,” making sure that this man’s transition back into accepted status in Israel went as smoothly as possible.
While the demons Jesus scolded into silence obeyed and kept quiet, the exuberance of this cleansed leper is not so successfully squelched. Instead of telling “to no one, nothing,” the cured man blabs “everything, everywhere” (diaphemizein ton logon — “broadcasting the word” of his miraculous healing.
As a direct result of this cleansed man’s enthusiasm, Jesus’ ministry changes. Whereas he had started out his public witness in the synagogues, preaching to established local congregations, the swell of crowds that now seek Jesus out make it impossible for him to “go into town openly.” The itinerant nature of Jesus’ future is revealed. He now stays “out in the country,” and yet the people continue to come to him. Jesus now headquarters outside the synagogue, outside the established centers of society and commerce. Yet the people seek him out in his lonely places on the perimeters.
A story is told about how Leonardo da Vinci created one of his great masterpieces, Last Supper. While living in Milan, da Vinci received the inspiration to paint a depiction of Jesus with his disciples on the night before he died. In order to paint the thirteen people, he needed to obtain models, each of whom was to have a face that expressed da Vinci's vision of the particular person he wanted depicted. Needless to say, this was a difficult task.
One Sunday, when da Vinci was at the local cathedral he saw a young man in the choir who looked exactly as the artist had conceived Jesus. He had the features of love, tenderness, caring, innocence, compassion, and kindness. Arrangements were made for the man, Pietri Bandinelli, to sit as the model for Christ. Years went by, and the painting was still not completed. Da Vinci simply could not find the right face for Judas. He was looking for one who was filled with despair, wickedness, greed, and sin. It took ten years, but da Vinci finally found a man in prison who he felt was perfect as the model for Judas. Again arrangements were made for the man to pose for the painting. Leonardo labored feverishly for ten days, but as the work progressed he noticed that changes were taking place in the prisoner. His face became even more strained with tension and his eyes seemed to be filled with horror as he observed the master artist painting his likeness on the wall. Thus, one day da Vinci stopped his work and asked the prisoner directly, "What is troubling you so much?" The man began to cry, but then controlling himself, he responded, "Don't you remember me? Years ago I posed for you as the model for the Lord Jesus." The man had turned his back on Christ and given his life over to sin and in the process the world brought him to his low state of degradation. Those things he once loved he now hated and the things he despised were now special to him. Where once there was love, now misery reigned. Where once there was hope, now despair. Where once light was abundant, darkness was now dominant.
This powerful tale illustrates very clearly the destructive power of sin in our world. Today our Gospel Reading shows how sin cripples our ability to be who we want to be, the one God calls us to be. Fortunately, however, Jesus is the antidote to sin, the one who defeats evil through reconciliation. As contemporary disciples of the Lord, we are both called to see the destructive capability of sin in our own lives and do what we can to effect reconciliation so as to destroy evil in our world.
The destructive power of sin and God's rescue of the world has been an integral part of salvation history. Sin first entered the world with a destructive force that forever changed the direction of human history and actually initiated God's plan to rescue us and bring us home. The sin of Adam and Eve removed them from paradise and for all time men and women would labor by the sweat of their brow, feel pain, and experience a physical death. Yet, even as hard and as far as humankind fell, still God provided the vehicle for reconciliation that would allow men and women to gain the paradise that had been God's plan for them at the outset. God provided a bridge, but it was necessary for each human to enter upon the journey. God pressures no one and forces the hand of none. Reconciliation is provided, but we must exercise our free will in order to take advantage of God's plan for us.
The pattern of human sin and God's reconciliation continued throughout the pages of the Hebrew Scriptures. God rescued his people from bondage in Egypt, but we recall that the path to the promised land was long and arduous. The physical distance from Egypt to the promised land was not great and even people in Moses' day could, with adequate supplies, have made the journey in a few weeks or less. But we know that the Jews wandered rather aimlessly for forty years in the desert. We also know why -- sin. The people were rebellious and disobeyed God's Law, as provided to Moses on Mount Sinai. The people's worship of the golden calf was only one of many similar incidents where the people broke faith with Yahweh. The destructive result of sin was obvious for the Israelites. God provided the way home, however, and the people eventually reached the land of their inheritance, but not without great delay and much pain. Few who left Egypt probably entered Israel. Sin has its consequences.
The wages of sin were also graphically demonstrated during the period of the kings in Israel. Amos and Hosea were sent by God to the northern kingdom of Israel to warn the religious elite that God was not pleased and that unless sin was rooted out and a return to the Law of Yahweh made evident there would be severe consequences. Amos (2:13-16) wrote: "I will press you down in your place, just as a cart presses down when it is full of sheaves. Flight shall perish from the swift, and the strong shall not retain their strength, nor shall the mighty save their lives; those who handle the bow shall not stand, and those who are swift of foot shall not save themselves, nor shall those who ride horses save their lives; and those who are stout of heart among the mighty shall flee away naked in that day." When Amos' warning was not heeded the nation was overrun by the Assyrians in 722 B.C.E. Sin in the forms of idolatry and social injustice led directly to the destruction of the nation.
In the southern kingdom of Judah a similar pattern was seen. Numerous prophets, including Isaiah and Jeremiah, prophesied exile for the people unless the rulers changed their method of leadership. Isaiah (5:26) wrote, "He will raise a signal for a nation far away, and whistle for a people at the ends of the earth; Here they come, swiftly, speedily!" Their refusal to listen and heed the warning of the prophets spelled doom for Judah through the infamous Babylonian exile. Sin had again raised its ugly head and brought death and destruction to God's people. Yet, God obviously never gave up on Israel and, thus, provided the way home, eventually sending Jesus, the premier reconciler, and the one who would initiate God's kingdom in our world.
Today's Gospel Reading on an individual level demonstrates how sin cripples our ability to be the person we want to be and the one God wants us to be. Yet, God also provides the antidote to our human frailty. We hear of an encounter between Jesus, a paralytic, and this man's faithful friends. The cures of the possessed man and the leper were obviously public knowledge and thus people from all around came to see Jesus, possibly seeking a physical healing. The paralytic and his friends have come too late and cannot gain access to the house where Jesus is staying. They are not deterred. On the contrary, they use an innovative and possibly dangerous method of opening the roof and lowering their friend before the Lord. We can imagine the scene and what others would have thought or said.
Jesus recognizes the faith of the paralytic's friends, but his response was not what other's expected. Instead of immediately curing the man he says, "Son, your sins are forgiven." Some of the scribes observing this event cry that Jesus is speaking blasphemy, leading to a discussion on the issue. Was Jesus equating sin with the man's paralytic condition? Did the man's sin or that of his family bring physical harm to his body? Scripture experts tell us the answer is assuredly no, but it is clear nonetheless that the Lord is communicating an important lesson. Jesus is saying that sin is destructive, that it cripples us in many ways. Through sin we cannot be all that we want to be. As the paralytic is restricted in his physical ability, so sin restricts us. Thus, Jesus wants to demonstrate if we can rid ourselves of sin we will be able to do all things as his physical cure of the paralytic will allow the man to move freely, without restrictions. The connection between the destructive power of sin and the superior power of Jesus to conquer evil is illustrated through the Lord's physical cure of the paralytic.
Today society has put sin on the "back burner." For many reasons contemporary people are seemingly not concerned about the power of sin and its ramifications. Even more importantly, many today do not recognize that sin is ever present. People today simply do not think that the things they sometimes do or fail to do are sinful. All seems acceptable; all is relative. People promote the idea of inclusivity, which is clearly an important Christian virtue, but they extend it to personal and even societal behavior. We go so far as to claim that unless we are accepting of our own actions and those of others that we are not being good Christians or Americans. However, we must be wary that we are not deluding ourselves, seeing an always bright and rosy picture when darkness is clearly evident. We should remember Oscar Wilde's novelette, The Picture of Dorian Gray, written in the early part of the twentieth century, which describes the life of a tortured man who is unable to honestly look at his life. He refuses to look inside and accept who he truly is -- namely a sinner who needs reconciliation. Only when a portrait, painted when he was at his physical prime, shows his corrupt inner self, does he realize his mistake. Unfortunately it was too late for Dorian Gray, but we can and must recognize our less than perfect selves and seek the reconciliation of the Lord.
Once we admit our personal sin and the need for reconciliation for ourselves, then we must recognize our sin against others and our need to rebuild trust, confidence, and relationships, that is the destruction sin causes.
The challenge to be a reconciler in our world is significant. A story illustrates the invitation placed before us to bring healing to our world. Two brothers who lived on adjoining farms developed a bitter dispute. It was their first serious rift in forty years of farming side-by-side, sharing machinery, and trading labor and goods as necessary. They had never had a quarrel until now. It began with a small misunderstanding but eventually mushroomed into a major difference, and finally exploded into a war of words, followed by separation and silence. One morning there was a knock at the back door of the elder brother's door. He opened the door and found a man standing outside. He was stooped and was holding a carpenter's toolbox. "I am looking for a few days' work," said the itinerant carpenter. "Perhaps you have some small jobs that I can do." "Well, I believe I do," said the older brother. "Look across the creek at that other farm. That is my neighbor, in fact, my brother's property. Last week there was a meadow between our farms, but then he ran a bulldozer through the river levee and now there is a creek between us. I suspect he did that to spite me, but I will do him one better. You see that big pile of lumber. I want you to build a fence, an eight-foot-high fence, between us so that I never have to look at his place again. Can you handle such a job? The man replied, "I think I understand the situation. Please show me your tool shed and I will do a job that will please you."
The brother was going to town, so he got the carpenter all set up and then left for the day. The carpenter toiled all day, measuring, cutting, and pounding nails. At sunset the brother returned from town just as the carpenter was finishing. The brother was aghast; there was no fence but rather a bridge across the creek. It was a terrific piece of workmanship, even including handrails. And to the older brother's surprise, he saw his younger brother crossing the bridge with his arms outstretched. "You are quite a craftsman and brother to do this after all that was said between us." The two brothers warmly embraced at the center of the bridge. As they turned they saw the carpenter packing up his tools. "No wait," they said, "Don't leave. We have other projects for you to do." "No thanks," said the carpenter. "I must be moving along. I have other bridges that need to be built."
The moral of the story is obvious. Sin destroyed the relationship between the brothers, but reconciliation in the form of the bridge builder restored the trust and confidence that was shattered. This is our task as well on two levels. We must look into our hearts and recognize that we, as part of our human condition, are sinners and thus in need of God's reconciliation. Jesus has already started construction of the bridge that will rebuild our relationship with him, but we must get busy and finish our side. The Lord will not force us to finish the bridge, but the consequences of our failure will appear, as they have appeared over human history. Our bridge to the Lord is necessary in reconstructing our bridge to others. When both of these bridges are completed we will be able to continue our path to eternal life. Then we will hear the Lord's welcoming words, "Come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world" (Matthew 25:34b).
