"Reluctant Wilderness" – Mark 1 9-15

Mark 1:9-15

In those days Jesus came from Nazareth in Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan.  And just as he was coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending like a dove on him.  And a voice came from heaven, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased."

Now the Spirit immediately drove Jesus out into the wilderness.  He was in the wilderness forty days, tempted by Satan; and he was with the wild beasts; and the angels waited on him.  Now after John was arrested, Jesus came to Galilee proclaiming the good news of God, and saying, “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news.”

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For those of you who know the temptation story of Jesus, you might have noticed that some things are missing from Mark’s version of the story. Mark leaves out some of the juicy details we get in the other Gospels, like when the devil tempts Jesus to turn stones into bread or to leap from the top of the temple to see if God’s angels would save him.

But, even though he doesn’t go into all the details – maybe especially because he neglects the details, but still bothers to mention Jesus’ time in the wilderness – we know something about it matters to Mark’s story.  This struggle with sin.  This dealing with the devil.  This wrestling in the wilderness.  All of it sets the stage, at the beginning of the story as something we’re supposed to notice. And I remember reading once that beginnings and endings matter in Mark’s Gospel.

But before we get into all of that, I want to cut to the chase about the notion of this “wilderness” stuff and what it might mean for you and me. I’d like to connect the experience of Jesus’ proverbial wilderness to whatever it is that finds us lost or lonely or scared or suffering. Let’s let Jesus’ wilderness represent our moments of temptation and trial, too. Let’s liken Jesus struggle in the desert to our own struggles with doubt and despair; our “dark nights of the soul,” if you will, or any of those moments or seasons of our life that make us wonder how or where or if God is everything God is cracked up to be.

That’s why it’s especially meaningful for us to begin our journey to the Cross – to begin this season of Lent – out there in the desert wilderness with Jesus. That’s why this struggle with sin, this dealing with the devil, this wrestling in the wilderness shows up like it does as we begin this Lenten walk to Calvary. And what strikes me as powerful, this time around, is that little bit of this already short version of the story that says the Spirit “immediately drove Jesus out into the wilderness.” Just after Jesus’ baptism, “The Spirit immediately drove him out into the wilderness.”

It reminds me that this was no walk in the park for Jesus, his time in the wilderness. It reminds me of just how human Jesus was. The fact that the Spirit had to drive Jesus into the wilderness, to endure all of that hunger and suffering and struggle and temptation, makes me wonder if Jesus entered into that wilderness with the same sort of reluctance, or hesitation, or fear with which we find ourselves entering into the many, various times or seasons of our faith’s journey that aren’t so easy.

And I love that about Jesus. Maybe it’s odd, but I love to think that maybe he wanted out. I mentioned a couple of weeks ago – when Jesus healed that paralyzed man and sent him off walking – that I like to see Jesus’ super powers. And that’s true. But I like to imagine, too, that Jesus wasn’t striding through life, striding into and through the wilderness of his struggle and temptation, like some super hero; like a boss; like a pompous, over-confident, sure-of-himself sort of Son of God. I’m okay with the notion that Jesus had to be pushed, that he might have passed off the torch of his temptation to the first willing taker, had there been one. And I like this picture of Jesus, because I feel more like that, more often than I’d like to admit.

I like to see that Jesus had to be driven into the wilderness; pushed out into the desert; goaded, against his better judgment, even, into those hard, holy moments of life as he knew it, because isn’t that what it feels like, for us, whenever the hard stuff comes?

When we, or someone we care about is sick, doesn’t it feel like we’re forced into that wilderness of worry against our will? Wouldn’t each of us choose otherwise, if we had the choice? None of us walks willingly into the fear and unknown of serious illness – for ourselves or for those we love – without hesitation, without frustration, and without lots of questions, do we?

And aren’t we driven into the wilderness of grief against our will, just the same? No matter how well-prepared we think we are; no matter how long in coming the death of a loved-one is, for instance, the sadness that comes with such a loss always feels foisted upon us; like a surprise; like a burden we can’t possibly bear; like an unfair, undeserved, indescribable loss.

And the same goes for most, if not all, of life’s struggles. They are forced upon us…we are driven into the difficulty they bring into our lives. Whether it’s sickness or death, relationship struggles, the trials and temptations of addiction, the quest for security with our work, the desert wilderness of those difficult times isn’t somewhere in which we’d choose to spend our time, if we were given the choice, most days.

And in the midst of it all, in the throes of sadness or struggle or whatever, some knucklehead who loves us – some knucklehead we love – might have the nerve to say something like, “God never gives you more than you can handle.” Don’t you hate that? I mean it sounds great, lovely, nice, kind, hopeful, even, stuck to your refrigerator on a magnet, or stitched to a throw pillow, or posted in a Facebook feed … “God never gives you more than you can handle” …

…unless or until you’re driven into the Godforsaken wilderness against your will.

Because I don’t think it’s really true. Because if God actually gives us any of these struggles in the first place (which I don’t believe is the case), they are sometimes more than we can handle. If the Spirit drove Jesus into the wilderness, than the Spirit gave Jesus more than he could handle – out there in the desert duking it out with the devil. But Jesus’ story doesn’t end in the wilderness, and beginnings and endings matter.

See, all of this reluctance and hesitation at the beginning of Mark’s story, remind me of that moment near the end of it all, in the Garden of Gethsemane, just before his arrest and crucifixion. In the garden, Jesus prayed really hard for God to take the cup of his suffering away from him, if he could. He wasn’t striding his way toward the wilderness of the cross like some super hero; like a boss; like a pompous, over-confident, sure-of-himself sort of Savior, anymore than he was wading his way into the wilderness after his baptism. And I’m grateful or that, too.

Because the hope of our faith is that, even though we’re not equal to the task…even though there are times and trials and temptations that really are more than we can handle… we’re never faced with more than God can handle. Even the worst illness; the most difficult struggle; the deepest shame; the greatest sin; the heaviest grief or loss or sadness; is never bigger than God’s grace for our life.

So that’s what the wilderness – and Jesus’ time in the desert – remind me this time around. We’re meant to enter into these days, however reluctantly it may feel, with the hope that we’ll be reminded of and blessed by God’s kind of love and faith and redemption, in the end. So, these forty days of Lent may feel like practice if things are fine and well and good, at the moment. Or these days may feel like a real-time walk in the wilderness, because we’re in the midst of something hard and heavy and beyond our ability to cope right about now.

Either way, because beginnings and endings matter, we’re meant to see – through the story and experience of Jesus, himself – that what begins as fear ends in faith. What begins in despair ends with hope. What begins as sin ends in forgiveness. What begins as death ends in new life. And all of this is God’s doing, not our own. All of this is thanks to God’s amazing grace, not yours or mine. All of this is because, even when we’re up to our necks in more than we can handle; hung out to dry in the desert of our despair; left to wander aimlessly in a seemingly endless wilderness, God never asks us to go it alone.

Amen

Sentness – Shared Life

Mark 2:1-12

When Jesus returned to Capernaum after some days, it was reported that he was at his home. So many gathered around that there was no room for them, even in front of the door, and he was reading the word to them. Then some people came, bringing with them a paralyzed man, carried by four of them. When they could not get the man near to Jesus, because of the crowd, they removed the roof above him; and, after having dug through it, they lowered the mat on which the paralytic lay. When Jesus saw their faith he said to the man, “Son, your sins are forgiven.”

Now there were scribes there who were questioning in their hearts, “Why does this fellow speak in in this way? It is blasphemy! Who can forgive sins, but God alone?” Jesus perceived in his spirit that they were asking these questions among themselves, so he said to them, “Why do you raise these questions in your hearts? What is easier, for me to say to the paralyzed man, ‘Your sins are forgiven,’ or to say, ‘Stand, take up your mat, and walk?’

‘But, so that you know that the Son of God has power on earth to forgive sins – he said to the paralyzed man – stand, take up your mat and go to your home.’” And the man stood up and immediately went out before all of them. And they were all amazed and glorified God saying, “We have never seen anything like this!”

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Who doesn’t love a good miracle story like this one?  I think it’s great when Jesus shows off his super powers. It’s good news when someone gets healed. And I especially like it, here, when Jesus does it all with an added dose of snark and sarcasm. Did you catch that?

When the scribes are grumbling about whether Jesus, that carpenter’s kid from Nazareth, could possibly have the power to forgive sins? And Jesus says something like, “Really? That’s what you’re worried about here?” And he asks them, “What’s harder, do you suppose, to forgive sins or to make a paralyzed man stand up and walk?” It was a rhetorical question, of course. Jesus knows no one believed he had the power to cure paralysis any more than they thought his forgiveness was worth a lick. So when Jesus does one – sends that paralyzed guy packing…walking home, with his mat under his arm – everyone has to believe that he’s done the other, too; that his forgiveness is just as real, that it counts just as much as that miracle they all saw stand up and walk right out of the room.

And that’s all well and good. And most of the time, when we hear this story, we celebrate the miracle of Jesus’ healing and move on. But today in the context of our sermon series – as we keep wondering about what it looks like to be “SENT” in as many ways as God means to send us as believers into the world – I want to talk about this familiar story in a different way.

Today we’re talking about “Shared Life,” so what matters most about this story, this time around, has as much to do with the four friends who carried the mat bearing the paralyzed man to Jesus, as it does with the paralyzed man and his healing. That’s why this story – and the love, devotion, and faith of these four friends – paints a picture of what “Shared Life” might look like for the people of God.

See, while everyone else was gathered around listening to and learning from Jesus(not altogether wrong or bad or unfaithful ways to be, mind you), these four friends were living the word Jesus was talking about. They were raising the roof, quite literally. They were digging through the ceiling. They were on their hands and knees, getting down and dirty, doing whatever they could to help a brother out.

And no matter how you look at it, all of it is both the result of their Shared Life and it’s their Shared Life in action, too, right before the eyes of whoever was paying attention. These friends were on a mission, really. They had a sick friend who needed help. He had a need, so they had a need.

So, that’s how I want us to think about this idea of a “Shared Life,” too. In this Sentness book we’ve been talking about, they say you can identify “Shared Life” by the quality of the relationships between people, by the power of trust between people, by the wonder of generosity between people…all things those friends showed and shared when they got help for their friend in today’s Gospel. “Shared Life” means staying with… walking alongside… abiding… and it’s what we’re called to as believers in the world and as Partners in Mission in this place.

Shared Life means the way some of you responded to my announcement last week to help Ruth Jensen and Elna Keyt and Barth Gish with the same sort of compassion and presence as we’ve been able to so generously help Alta Ford these last few weeks. “Sharing Life” means bringing food, sharing conversations, running errands, spending time.

Shared Life means those of you who will join me Wednesday night to re-boot our Eucharistic Ministry program here by learning about sharing communion with people who can’t get to worship as often as they’d like. If sharing bread and wine and the promise of God’s grace and forgiveness isn’t “Shared Life,” I don’t know what is.

Shared Life means heading back to Haiti in June. There’s so much “Shared Life” on a trip like that, I can’t even tell you – with and among those who make the trip from our congregation and with and among our friends in Fondwa, who are always so obviously and pleasantly and genuinely glad to see us coming back year after year to work alongside them, to learn from them, and to share with them whatever faith and friendship we’re able to offer.

And Shared Life means our Mardi Gras party, too, believe it or not. You know I like a good party as much as the next guy, and that I don’t need much of an excuse to throw one. And I don’t mean to suck the fun and debauchery out of all that Mardi Gras can be. But the reason we host that party – and the reason we throw any of the other parties we host around here – is because we share life when we eat and drink and laugh and tell stories and love one another in those ways, too.

I saw some Shared Life last night, too, at the gym, when some of our 6th and 7th graders from Cross of Grace weren’t too cool to play and have fun with some of our elementary school kids on the basketball court. Sometimes it’s the little things that get your attention.

And Shared Life means baptizing Deena Anderson, like we’ll do tonight at 5 o’clock. Deena has been waiting for the right time to celebrate her baptism, even though she’s been around here for quite awhile. She’s been waiting for her friends and her neighbors, Tom and Bev Bancroft to be able to join her for the baptism, because they’ve been an important part of what brought her to Cross of Grace. They’ve “shared life” in some meaningful, holy, lovely ways and Deena’s baptism will be a sacred celebration of that for them all. (I wouldn’t say that Tom and Bev held her mat, or that Deena needed to be carried, necessarily. But they held her hand, maybe. And they’ve walked with and alongside her to this water, I think it’s fair to say.)

And that’s what Sharing Life looks like. It means loving one another, purely and simply, the way God has first loved us: by showing up, by loving well, by praying hard, by helping generously, by carrying someone and by letting ourselves be carried, too, if and when we need it.

What I think is most interesting about the guy who gets healed in the story is something that the authors of Sentness don’t address. What I think is interesting is what we’re told about the moment Jesus declares the paralyzed guy’s forgiveness. According to the Gospel, the four friends remove the roof, the four friends dig through the ceiling, and the four friends lower their friend down before Jesus. And we’re told that when Jesus saw their faith, he said to the paralyzed man, “Son, your sins are forgiven.” When he saw their faith, the paralyzed man gets his miracle.

I like that because it reminds us that they’re all in it together – that we’re all in this together. My life and faith stands to impact your life and faith. Your life and faith stands to impact my life and faith. Our life and faith together – when we share it, generously and with gratitude, for the blessing and benefit of one another – can change things, for the better; it can change things for the world around us; and it can change things, by God’s grace, for the people with whom we share life as we know it.

Amen