Sabbath Stillness and Solitude

Mark 6:30-34, 53-56

The apostles gathered around Jesus, and told him all that they had done and taught. He said to them, ‘Come away to a deserted place all by yourselves and rest a while.’ For many were coming and going, and they had no leisure even to eat. And they went away in the boat to a deserted place by themselves. Now many saw them going and recognized them, and they hurried there on foot from all the towns and arrived ahead of them. As he went ashore, he saw a great crowd; and he had compassion for them, because they were like sheep without a shepherd; and he began to teach them many things.

When they had crossed over, they came to land at Genessaret and moored the boat. When they got out of the boat, people at once recognized Jesus and rushed about that region and began to bring the sick on mats to wherever they heard that he was. And wherever he went, into villages or cities or farms, they laid the sick in the marketplaces and begged him that they might touch even the fringe of his cloak; and all who touched it were healed.

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It didn’t used to be this way, but when I read this bit of Scripture nowadays, I’m not so impressed by the crowds. I’m not drawn to the way they recognized Jesus or how they chased him around Galilee, like a rock star. I’m not even moved by his compassion for those crowds or for the sick people he healed or even for the great faith it takes to believe touching his cloak would work a miracle, let alone that those sorts of miracles apparently happened. For good or ill, we’ve come to expect that from Jesus, right?

So, what gets my attention these days is how it seems like, maybe, Jesus was trying to avoid all of that some of the time.

See, the disciples show up – sometime after he’s sent them out to share the good news and heal diseases and cast out demons and whatnot – and they start to tell Jesus all about their exploits. And I imagine they’re more than a little proud and excited about all they’ve been up to. I wouldn’t be surprised if these former fishermen had traded one sort of “big fish” story for another, if you know what I mean. Like, what used to be a competition about who caught and sold more or bigger fish out on the lake, now had likely become a chance to one-up each other about who’d converted the greatest number of new believers; or who had cast out the most demons; or who had forgiven the most sinful sinner; or who had healed the grossest case of leprosy, or whatever.

Now, I’m sure Jesus was proud of his protégés. I imagine he was pleased with their progress, if their reports were true. I suspect he was impressed with their enthusiasm and their faith and all of their hard work. But – again – what gets my attention these days is that Jesus tells the disciples to stop; to step away from all of that; to go to a deserted place, by themselves, and rest for awhile. And I think maybe Jesus does this because he has as much compassion for his closest friends and followers, as he does for all of those crowds, who were like sheep without a shepherd, looking to be healed.

And the truth is, Jesus’ disciples weren’t any different, or better, or worse, than the crowds who followed them around. They needed healing, too. And the same is true for you and me. We are no different, or better, or worse, than those with whom we live our lives of faith out there in the world.

And sometimes we need to step away from all we’re up to in order to remember and to recognize and to receive the rest we need and that God longs for us to experience. Sometimes we need to stop looking outside of ourselves at the needs surrounding us and start looking in the mirror for the needs that are ours. Sometimes we need to be quiet and still long enough to hear something other than our own voices or the noise of the world. Sometimes we need to listen for what God has to say about what we need most, rather than what the world out there is trying to convince us is so important.

And that’s hard, right – the stillness and the solitude and the listening, I mean? I was reminded about it at our last “Wild, Wacky, Wonderful Wednesday,” with the kids. I did my best to talk with them about prayer and meditation. And we talked about the difference between praying – where we do all the talking and ask God for all the things we’d like God’s help with – and meditation – where we sit still and be quiet and listen for what God might be trying to tell us. Some of the kids got it and played along – or at least pretended to. But several others hated it. I know because they told me so … out loud … in front of the group! They couldn’t do it. They couldn’t stand it. Wouldn’t do it. And it made them want to go home.

Which is as funny as it is frustrating. And it’s not unique to kids. I’ve had adults tell me the same thing – that it’s hard, frustrating, impossible, even, to be still and quiet in prayer and meditation for too long. And I struggle to make time for it, too, to be honest.

So, I think this Gospel is a perfectly-timed message for us – not just because it’s still summer and those of us governed by the school calendar have a couple of weeks left before another school year – and all that that means. But this is good timing for all of us as we continue to wonder about what Fall will look like post-pandemic – out there in the world and in our lives together at Cross of Grace.

I thought of something I’ve seen Social Worker and Professor, Brene Brown, get credit for saying – that we shouldn’t long so much for a return to whatever “normal” was just for the sake of it. She says, “Normal never was. Our pre-corona existence was not normal other than [that] we normalized greed, inequality, exhaustion, depletion, extraction, disconnection, confusion, rage, hoarding, hate, and lack. We should not long to return, my friends. We are being given the opportunity to stitch a new garment. One that fits all of humanity and nature.”

Now all of that doesn’t apply to all of us. But it begs the question for me. “What will ‘normal’ be for us?”

Will we fill our schedules, calendars, and agendas with all of the things that were there before – just because? Have we already started to do that – and why? Or will we be thoughtful and deliberate and faithful about engaging what matters? Will we say “yes” to what does matter? And might we practice saying “no” to what doesn’t? Might we schedule more time away – to stop – in deserted places, by ourselves to pray and listen and plan to live more deliberately? And will we be kind and gracious, forgiving and compassionate toward those who have the courage and faith to say no – or to do differently – in the days to come?

I hope so. Because I think this is what Jesus is calling his disciples to this morning. And by extension, of course, this is our call as followers of Jesus, just the same.

What time apart and time away, in deserted places, means to do for us is to give us rest and refreshment, yes. It allows us to stop and relax. It replenishes our energy and restores our enthusiasm and builds our strength and increases our stamina. Personally, it has a knack for getting my creative juices flowing in new ways. All of this is called Sabbath, remember, and it’s one of God’s Top Ten commandments. And when we get it right, it forces us to stop relying on ourselves and on our own accomplishments, and reminds us to rely on God more often, instead.

And this takes faith, because we have to let God be God in those moments when we dare to stop doing, producing, accomplishing, proving and distracting ourselves with all we have on our respective agendas. And it takes humility because it reminds us that our value, as far as God is concerned, comes from simply being, merely existing – nothing more and nothing less – and that is a lesson in grace, for sure.

And when we practice that kind of Sabbath well… when we put away our busy schedules and our big fish stories (unless they actually involve some fishing, I suppose) and the pride that goes along with them… when we stop filling our calendars and our schedules and our lists of things to do… we will start to see that value and that worth and that kind of grace in the mirror, for ourselves, apart from our ability to “do” anything about it.

And when we learn to see it in the mirror, we’ll begin to see it in the world – in friends, family, neighbors and more. And then we might normalize – and prioritize – things like grace and patience, humility and each other, instead of what was “normal” before. And when that happens, our compassion will be stirred, like Jesus’ was way back when. And we will begin to live and move and breathe and serve in the world, with joy, more meaningfully, beside still waters, perhaps, and mindful of our place in the midst of what all belongs to God, and resting assured in God’s grace to care for every bit of it – and even for us, in the end.

Amen

Headless Hopefulness

Mark 6:14-29

King Herod heard of it, for Jesus’ name had become known. Some were saying, ‘John the baptizer has been raised from the dead; and for this reason these powers are at work in him.’ But others said, ‘It is Elijah.’ And others said, ‘It is a prophet, like one of the prophets of old.’ But when Herod heard of it, he said, ‘John, whom I beheaded, has been raised.’

For Herod himself had sent men who arrested John, bound him, and put him in prison on account of Herodias, his brother Philip’s wife, because Herod had married her. For John had been telling Herod, ‘It is not lawful for you to have your brother’s wife.’ And Herodias had a grudge against him, and wanted to kill him. But she could not, for Herod feared John, knowing that he was a righteous and holy man, and he protected him. When he heard him, he was greatly perplexed; and yet he liked to listen to him.

But an opportunity came when Herod on his birthday gave a banquet for his courtiers and officers and for the leaders of Galilee. When his daughter Herodias came in and danced, she pleased Herod and his guests; and the king said to the girl, ‘Ask me for whatever you wish, and I will give it.’ And he solemnly swore to her, ‘Whatever you ask me, I will give you, even half of my kingdom.’ She went out and said to her mother, ‘What should I ask for?’ She replied, ‘The head of John the baptizer.’ Immediately she rushed back to the king and requested, ‘I want you to give me at once the head of John the Baptist on a platter.’ The king was deeply grieved; yet out of regard for his oaths and for the guests, he did not want to refuse her. Immediately the king sent a soldier of the guard with orders to bring John’s head. He went and beheaded him in the prison, brought his head on a platter, and gave it to the girl. Then the girl gave it to her mother. When his disciples heard about it, they came and took his body, and laid it in a tomb.

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Many of you know of my penchant for crime dramas and documentaries. Not fictional horror stories, so much, but TRUE crime, the stuff that really happened –by and to real people. I’ll watch any of it. I’m not saying it’s normal. It may not even be natural or healthy. I don’t know where it comes from and maybe I don’t want to. When my kids were little I had to be careful about letting them see my Netflix history for fear of giving them nightmares.

So, oddly enough, I just finished a book called Last Call about a serial killer whose calling card was the dismemberment of his victims. And just the other night I started watching a new documentary on Netflix about a woman in Brazil who pulled a Herod or Herodias, depending on who you blame for John’s death in this morning’s Gospel. This woman killed and beheaded her husband, among other things, and they made a movie about it.

There’s no moral, as such, to either of these stories really. But it amused me that I happened upon them both alongside this crazy, creepy, horrible story about Herod and Herodias and John the Baptist, literally losing his head, all in the span of a week or two.

The story goes that Herod, the King, caught wind of this Jesus, from Nazareth, and about how he had started to gather disciples from out in the villages around Galilee. He gave those disciples authority over unclean spirits. He gave them some pretty detailed instructions, which we heard last week, about how to travel and where to go and what to do once they got there. And his followers hit the road and proclaimed the good news – they cast out demons and they healed people who were sick from all kinds of things.

And along with everything Herod was hearing about Jesus, came all kinds of rumor and questions about how something too good to be true really could be. So, there was suspicion that Jesus was some kind of prophet, like Elijah or Elisha, or Amos or Micah from way back when. But Herod had this crazy fear that Jesus wasn’t really Jesus at all … that he might be John the Baptist – whom Herod, himself, had had beheaded. Yeah. Herod thought Jesus was John the Baptist, come back from the grave.

And so – maybe to prove that Jesus really was Jesus, or maybe just to tell a really good, gory, gruesome kind of story – the writer of Mark’s Gospel goes into the details – he tells the backstory of just how Herod came to execute John the Baptist.

See, like Jesus, John the Baptist, was preaching and teaching and proclaiming the Good News. He was baptizing down by the river. He was paving the way for the Messiah, in Jesus. He was demanding repentance and promising forgiveness. He was announcing the Kingdom of God, which, if you were a king, like Herod, would really get your attention, and make you worry some, and threaten your power even, if you didn’t understand the difference between God’s Kingdom and your own.

And that’s why Herod didn’t like John the Baptist. He respected him, we’re told. He regarded him as a holy, righteous man. He feared him because of it, even, enough that he wouldn’t have him killed – as his wife had asked. But instead, Herod kept John imprisoned and under watch, like some kind of political prisoner who threatened the public order, or his power, or maybe his ego, if nothing else.

But then, this creepy King Herod, who likes to watch his daughter dance at dinner parties, gets himself into a pickle. (Yeah. Some people believe it was that kind of dancing and that kind of creepy. And coming from someone who would marry his brother’s wife, it’s a pretty plausible perspective.) Anyway, when his daughter dances for the king and his guests, Herod tells her he’ll give her whatever her little heart desires.

So, maybe he’d had too much to drink. Maybe he was trying to show off for his friends. Maybe he was just so enamored by daddy’s little girl, who knows? But when she runs out to ask mommy what she should take as her reward, her mother sees the opportunity to get what she’s wanted all along. And that was revenge against John the Baptist for suggesting that her marriage to the King was unlawful, immoral, unrighteous, unseemly, whatever.

So, Mrs. Herod gets her little girl to do her dirty work by asking daddy for John the Baptist’s head – On. A. Platter. And when she does, King Herod has to oblige, because he’d already struck that deal. An oath was an oath. A promise was a promise. The King’s word was the King’s word – even for a creep like Herod; even when offered to a child; especially when proclaimed in the presence of other people. So, John the Baptist was as good as dead. And his head was delivered, that evening …on a platter …to the child … for her mother. (If only there were surveillance footage or DNA evidence of it all, Netflix would turn it into a four-part limited series I’m sure.)

And like a titillating limited series on Netflix, there doesn’t seem to be a moral to this story. On the surface it reads like not much more than some good, gruesome, gory kind of gossip – if you like that sort of thing. So what does any of this have to do with life or faith? Why is it part of the Gospel narrative? And why are we talking about it on Sunday morning in worship, for crying out loud?

Well, smarter people than me have said it’s no mistake that Mark tells the story as he does; that he places it where he does, right after Jesus sends his first disciples out into the world to begin their ministry and right before they return to hear more, to learn more, to be fed some more at the feet of their teacher.

Among other things, this story reminds us that following Jesus isn’t easy – even if you’re as cool and as faithful as John the Baptist. Life as disciples can be hard. Proclaiming the Good News of the Kingdom – stuff about repentance and the forgiveness of sins, the grace, mercy, peace and justice of God – isn’t always what the world wants to hear, what people want to believe, what any one of us is always prepared – with faith or courage enough – to do. Kings and others in power might be fascinated and fearful of it so much, that it could cost you your head, after all.

But the good news in all of this for us, still today, is the same Good News that John the Baptist proclaimed and promised and believed for himself, in spite of so much ugliness: that someone better was coming; that something bigger was on the way; that God, in Jesus Christ, would arrive and overcome and undo all the ugly, the gruesome, and the gory. That God, in Jesus, would offer grace where there is judgment; love where there is hatred; light where there is darkness; life where there is death, even. Because, Mark’s Gospel really tells this story as a foreshadowing of what would happen to Jesus, himself, soon enough – at his crucifixion.

Even Jesus Christ, the Messiah – especially Jesus, because he was the Messiah – wasn’t removed from the dangers of the world around him. Jesus showed up to enter into all the ugly, fearful, ungracious ways of this world to let the rest of us know we could to – that we don’t have to just be scared of all the drama or sadness or struggle or sin or injustice or dying that surrounds us so much of the time. We have good news to proclaim in the face of it.

And when the struggle comes… when the sadness hits… when the loved one dies, when the marriage ends, when the friendship fails, when the you-know-what hits the fan we’re reminded, not just that life in the world hurts – and that it’s hard and unholy and unfair a lot of the time. We’re reminded, too, that this is God’s world.

And it’s into this world – where buildings collapse in the middle of the night; where presidents get assassinated in their own homes; where suicide wreaks havoc on a family; where too much tragedy seems to win too much of the time – it’s into all of this struggle and sadness and sin and despair that God’s love comes. And it’s into this same world – and all of its darkness – that we are sent, too, with Good News and great hope and the abiding promise, that God’s love for the whole of it wins every time, in the end – in Jesus Christ our Lord – crucified and risen for the sake of us all.

Amen