In our first reading this morning, we hear one of the classic messianic prophecies from the Old Testament, from that most important messianic prophet Isaiah. The prophet declares to the people, “Here is your God...He will come and save you. Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf unstopped...” (Isaiah 35: 5-6). And sure enough in our gospel reading this morning from Mark, a man who is unable to hear or speak has his hearing and speech restored, just as Isaiah predicted.
And the people of the Decapolis, along the shores of the Sea of Galilee, know their Scripture, and they know that what is being done before them is what was long predicted, long expected, something that was long longed for by the people of Israel.
And notice how Jesus brings about this miracle. First he pulls the man aside from the crowd. He touches the man; he puts his fingers in his ears, and then touches the man’s tongue. This is an intimate moment, it’s very personal. And he speaks to him in Aramaic, the local dialect, the language of the plain folk of Galilee. And he says to him, “Ephphatha” which means ‘be opened.’
Be opened. It’s interesting that this is the command of Jesus to the man with the hearing and speech impediments, because, in a way, that’s exactly what the Syrophoenician woman demands of Jesus in the healing miracle that comes first in our gospel reading today.
Jesus has traveled to the coastline, to Tyre, not to preach or teach, not on mission, but rather to get away from the crowds, as Mark tells us. But that’s becoming less and less possible as word about Jesus spreads, as his reputation as a preacher, teacher, healer and miracle worker begins to become more and more widely known.
You get the sense that Jesus needs a vacation, don’t you? He needs a break. He’s starting to get a bit cranky. When the Syrophoenician woman, who has heard of Jesus’s healing power, begs his healing for her daughter, Jesus fusses at her a bit, doesn’t he? And he says, basically, “Look, I’m on vacation, leave me alone, will you? And besides, my job description doesn’t cover healings for Syrophoenicians. My sales territory is Israel and Judea, not the whole world!” I’m paraphrasing a bit there, you understand.
But the Syrophoenician woman’s not having it, and she says to Jesus, well, in essence, she says to Jesus, “Be opened.” She makes clear that though she and her family may not be children of Israel, they want what Israel’s messiah has to offer. Notice, this isn’t a result of the evangelistic outreach of Jesus, this isn’t Jesus seeking converts. But rather, it is the Syrophoenician woman seeking something of Jesus. This is attraction, not promotion. The woman is drawn to Jesus; she is compelled to seek his healing for her daughter. And, after a bit of verbal sparring, Jesus fulfills her request, he meets her demands.
And in so doing, Jesus extends the blessing, the healing grace that Isaiah prophesied, beyond Israel and Judea, to those who desire it, to those who ask it of him.
The gospel is opened up, and is offered to all the world.
And that message is one that we Anglicans have taken to heart right from our beginnings in the 16th century. Richard Hooker (1554-1600), the founding father of Anglican theology wrote, “Pray that none will be offended if I seek to make the Christian religion an inn where all are received joyously, rather than a cottage where some few friends of the family are to be received.”
And note how this opening
up of the gospel occurs. The Syrophoenician woman and Jesus engage in a
dialogue, in an interaction. It is, in fact, a debate, and a snarky one
at that. They argue the point. And as a result of that interaction, the
outcome of the argument is that the gospel of Jesus Christ becomes
something it wasn’t before. The salvation that Jesus offers, the healing
grace he brings, is made available to all; it is opened up to include
not just the children of Israel, not just the descendants of the twelve
tribes, but all who seek it.
The gospel of Jesus Christ isn’t just words on a page, it’s a living thing. It’s a gospel that is lived out by you and me. It’s something that is made manifest in the common life we share together. It doesn’t come out of a book; it comes out of our interaction with each other and with the word. It is brought to life in our loving kindness to one another, and in our disagreements and debates over how best to follow Jesus. It takes its shape from our interactions with each other and with God.
As our epistle reading from James tells us, if we love God, if we believe in Jesus, God’s son, then that love and faith shapes our actions. We do some things and we don’t do others, because of what we have come to believe, because of the love of God awakened in our hearts, because the grace of the God so freely offered to us. And in so doing, the gospel is born anew again, and shared with the world; it is lived out in the world. It is shaped and molded anew by the world in which we live to fit the world in which we live. We bring the gospel to life in our own time, in our own world, for our own world, when we act in response to God’s call to us.
+++++++++++++++
When I came here to Christ & Saint Stephen’s more than 4 years ago, I had a message to preach, and a gospel to proclaim, or so I thought. That’s what my new minted seminary degree with the ink still wet on it was supposed to mean, right? And that ordination certificate hanging on my new office wall gave testament to my right to preach and proclaim the gospel to all of you. Or so I thought. But like the Syrophoenician woman, you asked more of me, you demanded that I open up to you, and to the gospel you had to share with me. And the gospel I had come to preach became something else. It became not something that I imparted to you, but rather something that we lived out together. The gospel became more that words in a defunct form of Greek on some dusty old scrolls that had been lovingly preserved and passed down. A precious and beloved and holy thing, no doubt. But I found here that the gospel was more than that. The gospel of Jesus Christ was something that we shared, something that we lived out together, something that we recreated in so many ways. In the meals we packed for our Brown Bag guests, and the lessons we taught our children, and the laughter we shared, and the tears we cried together.
The gospel of Jesus Christ isn’t just words on a page, it’s a living thing. It’s a gospel that is lived out by you and me. It’s something that is made manifest in the common life we share together. It doesn’t come out of a book; it comes out of our interaction with each other and with the word. It is brought to life in our loving kindness to one another, and in our disagreements and debates over how best to follow Jesus. It takes its shape from our interactions with each other and with God.
As our epistle reading from James tells us, if we love God, if we believe in Jesus, God’s son, then that love and faith shapes our actions. We do some things and we don’t do others, because of what we have come to believe, because of the love of God awakened in our hearts, because the grace of the God so freely offered to us. And in so doing, the gospel is born anew again, and shared with the world; it is lived out in the world. It is shaped and molded anew by the world in which we live to fit the world in which we live. We bring the gospel to life in our own time, in our own world, for our own world, when we act in response to God’s call to us.
+++++++++++++++
When I came here to Christ & Saint Stephen’s more than 4 years ago, I had a message to preach, and a gospel to proclaim, or so I thought. That’s what my new minted seminary degree with the ink still wet on it was supposed to mean, right? And that ordination certificate hanging on my new office wall gave testament to my right to preach and proclaim the gospel to all of you. Or so I thought. But like the Syrophoenician woman, you asked more of me, you demanded that I open up to you, and to the gospel you had to share with me. And the gospel I had come to preach became something else. It became not something that I imparted to you, but rather something that we lived out together. The gospel became more that words in a defunct form of Greek on some dusty old scrolls that had been lovingly preserved and passed down. A precious and beloved and holy thing, no doubt. But I found here that the gospel was more than that. The gospel of Jesus Christ was something that we shared, something that we lived out together, something that we recreated in so many ways. In the meals we packed for our Brown Bag guests, and the lessons we taught our children, and the laughter we shared, and the tears we cried together.
I’ve never been much of a ‘chapter and verse’ man – I don’t know Scripture as well as I would like, or probably as well as I should. But then again, I don’t have to. Because now I know, when I need to hear the word of God, I can listen to you. When I want to see God at work in the world, I can watch what you’re doing for others. When I want to know that the gospel is a living thing, when I need to believe that my redeemer lives, I need only look into your faces, for there I see the light of the risen Christ shining so brightly.
And I know that what I have found here, I will find elsewhere, even to the ends of the earth, even so far as the far reaches of the Upper East Side.
My prayer for you will always be that you continue to live together in unity, that you continue in the prayers and the teaching of the apostles, that you continue to share in the one bread and the one cup, and that you continue to care for and respect the dignity of every human being. And if you do so, I know that the living word of God will forever thrive in this blessed and holy place that has been a home to me, among such blessed and holy people who mean so, so much to me. Amen+
© The Rev. Mark R. Collins
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