Mark 1:40-45 · A Man With Leprosy
When Nothing Can Be Done
Mark 1:40-45
Sermon
by Thomas Long
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"I’m sorry, nothing can be done." There are probably no more terrible words than these. They mark the end of labor, the end of possibility, the end of hope.

The family holds vigil in the surgical waiting room. The dated magazines on the table have been read and re-read. The wall clock moves in slow motion, and the family waits. A dark spot on an X-ray demanded attention. "We just don’t know," the surgeon had said. "We’ll have to go in and check." Now he appears, a loosened surgical mask around his neck, his face lined with concern. "I’m sorry," he begins, "there’s nothing we can do."

A woman sits before a desk in a glass cubicle in the corner of a large room full of similar desks. She has spent the day in front of these desks, passed from one clerk to the next. She has been ignored and condescended to, but she has been persistent, and now she is speaking earnestly to the department head in charge of county social services. Her husband is dead, she tells him. She lost her job some time ago in a lay-off at the plant, bills are long overdue, and now the sheriff’s deputy has delivered a foreclosure notice on her small house. The man thumbs through her file, picks up his phone and speaks softly to someone at the other end. He cradles the receiver, knits his fingers together and says, "I’m sorry. Nothing can be done."

There are probably no more terrible words than these. Until they are spoken, there may be pain, but there is always hope. Even when a struggle is mounted against overwhelming odds, there is at least the dignity of doing something, anything, about one’s circumstances. But "nothing can be done" ends the meaningfulness of the struggle and destroys what remains of dignity. "All hope abandon, ye who enter here," were the words Dante imagined over the final portals of Hell. "Nothing can be done."

To be a leper in New Testament times was to live constantly under the motto, "Nothing can be done." The disease transformed its victims into loathsome, disfigured creatures, shunned by all. It was hopelessly incurable, and even the person’s own body seemed to turn on itself. Journalist Philip Yancey reports that modern-day visitors to leper colonies in rural villages in Africa and Asia have seen the sufferers reach into pots of boiling water to recover the vegetables cooking there. They feel no pain at all, even though the scalding water raises blisters on the flesh and destroys tissue. Even the body’s pain system, which normally warns of danger, abandons this dreaded disease.1

Make no mistake about it. When Jesus encountered the leper that day in Galilee he was face-to-face with the most hopeless and untouchable of all people. Physically disgusting, unwelcome at worship, the leper was also beyond the care even of Holy Scripture. As New Testament scholar D. E. Nineham has stated it, "The Law could do nothing for the leper; it could only protect the rest of the community against him."2 Even the community of faith had to wring its hands and say, "I’m sorry. Nothing can be done."

All of which makes what the leper said to Jesus absolutely astonishing. "If you will," he said, "you can make me clean." Faith begins at the outer limits of human resources. Perhaps that is why we American Christians often find our faith weak and our religious expression trivial when contrasted with the vibrant discipleship of Christians around the world who live in places of persecution. Where there are still plots to be hatched, angles to be pursued, human stratagems to be tried, faith struggles to survive. The leper was cut out of all the plots. He had no angles, possessed no stratagems. All he had was leprosy ... and the damning verdict ringing in his ears, "I’m sorry. Nothing can be done." Here at the boundary of human hope, one’s choices are narrowed to two: Be resigned to fate or reach toward the mystery of grace beyond all hoping.

The leper refused to accept the verdict of fate. He reached - reached out toward the mystery of grace he discerned in this man Jesus. His was an amazing profession of faith: "If you will, you can make me clean."

At the cold and forlorn memorial which was once the Dachau death camp, there are signs all around of that time when hatred filled the world. There are the rough barracks where Jews and the other prisoners were cruelly housed. There are whips and other instruments of torture in the museum, and there are, of course, the gas chambers and the ovens. There is also something else. At one end of the camp, there stand three chapels, one Protestant, one Roman Catholic, and one Jewish. At the opposite end of the camp is a monument which reads, "Never again." Now there is nothing in human history which warrants that statement. Humanity has manifested uncontrolled evil before, and even now there are places where the savagery present at Dachau is yet at work. If the chapels and the monument point only to the potential for goodness in the human heart, then they are mocked by history. The monument should read, "We’re sorry. Nothing can be done." But, of course, these symbols point beyond the tragic circumstances of human evil. They express a hope beyond all normal human hoping, a hope that there is at work in the world a power which will finally topple evil from its invincible throne.

The jury was in. All had testified against the leper: family, respected members of the community, even his ministers. The verdict? "We’re sorry. Nothing can be done." Next case. But, in faith, the leper refused to accept the verdict, appealed to the court of last resort, reached toward the mystery of grace in Jesus. "If you will, you can make me clean."

In Tillie Olsen’s moving story "I Stand Here Ironing," she pictures an anxious and impoverished mother standing at the ironing board and thinking about her troubled nineteen-year-old daughter, Emily. A note has come from the school asking her to come in to discuss Emily’s problems, and this starts her mother remembering Emily’s childhood. Emily was a beautiful baby, a miracle, remembers her mother, but when she was eight months old her father abandoned the family, and Emily had to be left during the day with a woman downstairs "to whom she was no miracle at all." Then, as economic hardship increased, Emily was left in the kind of nursery school which is only a "parking place" for children. Her mother did not know then the pain that was in that place for Emily, but, as she irons and reflects, she admits that knowledge could not have made a difference. She had to hold a job, and the nursery school was the only place for Emily.

Emily was a thin girl, and she was dark and foreign-looking in a time when little girls were supposed to be blond and plump and cute. She was a "slow learner" in a world where quickness and glibness are valued. She was a child, not of proud love, but anxious love. And now, a note has come from school, but Emily’s mother knows that too much has happened to Emily for there to be any real help for her at the school. As she moves the iron back and forth across the ironing board, thinking of the isolation and poverty and rejection which have been Emily’s inheritance, she cries to herself, and to whatever power of mercy there may be beyond herself:

She has much to her and probably little will come of it. Let her be ... Only help her to know - help make it so there is cause to know - that she is more than this dress on the ironing board, helpless before the iron.3

Emily is a modern day leper, one about whom her culture has sadly shaken its head and said, "I’m sorry. The die has been cast. The scars are too deep. Nothing can be done." And yet, in her mother’s desperate cry there is a hope beyond all hoping, an appeal to the last resort of grace. "Help her to know," she prays, "that she is more than this dress on the ironing board, helpless ..."

"If you will," said the leper to Jesus, "you can heal me." And Jesus was moved with strong compassion. The One who was, and is, and ever will be the "help of the helpless" was deeply moved, and, stretching out his grace-filled hand, he touched the untouchable leper. "I will," he said. "Be clean." The sad and condemning "nothing can be done" was abolished by the merciful word, "I will." New Testament scholar R. H. Lightfoot has suggested that the best commentary on this event can be found in Romans 8:3: "God has done what the law ... could not do: sending his own Son ..."4

The essayist Loren Eiseley once spent some time on the coast of Costabel. In the dark hours before morning, the beaches there are littered with the barely-living debris of creatures thrown onto the sand by the passionless tides. Flashlights and lanterns bob along the beach as shell and starfish collectors greedily seize what the sea has given them. One night, Eiseley noticed a lone figure on the beach stooping to pick up some object and then flinging it far out into the sea. Eiseley went over to this man and discovered that what he had thrown was a starfish, still alive. "It may live," he said, "if the offshore pull is strong enough. The stars throw well. One can help them." As Eiseley left the man, he saw him toss another starfish back into the sea. Viewing this experience as a parable, Eiseley wrote:

Somewhere, my thought persisted, there is a hurler of stars, and he walks, because he chooses, always in desolation, but not in defeat.5

"If you will," said the desolate and hopeless leper, "you can make me clean."

"I will," said Jesus, and stretching out his hand, Jesus grasped the leper with tender mercy and flung him far into the deep and healing waters of the sea of grace.


1. Philip Yancey, Open Windows (Nashville: Thomas Nelson Publishers, 1985), p. 161.

2. D. E. Nineham, Saint Mark [The Pelican New Testament Commentaries] (New York: Penguin Books, 1963), p. 86.

3. Tillie Olsen, "I Stand Here Ironing" in Tell Me A Riddle (New York: Dell Books, 1971), pp. 20-21.

4. R. H. Lightfoot, The Gospel Message of Saint Mark (London: Oxford University Press, 1950), p. 26.

5. Loren Eiseley, The Unexpected Universe (New York: Harcourt, Brace and World, 1969), p. 91.

CSS Publishing Co., Inc., Shepherds And Bathrobes, by Thomas Long