Mark 8:22-38
Tree People

Every time I bump into today’s passage from Saint Mark, I encounter a bit of spiritual discomfort.

It’s a familiar account of Jesus using spit and dirt as salve for a blind man’s eyes.

When checking in with the patient, Jesus hears that full healing has not occurred.

“I can see people, but they look like trees, walking, ” the blind man tells Jesus.

This is where discomfort enters.

What is this? An incomplete miracle, requiring further action?
Even though a second “treatment” from Jesus is at hand, I am confused by the need for it. Jesus doesn’t need do-overs. What gives?

But maybe it’s similar for all of us. Maybe it’s why some go to church every Sunday: A maintenance check.

Why some listen to old-time Gospel music in the quiet of their home late at night, and let the tears fall without apology: A much-needed catharthis.

One night years ago I was part of a parking lot service, attempting to offer God’s healing in that place, the site of a recent brutal murder. As we began to sing Amazing Grace, a man lurched from the crowd now gathered. Ragged and dirty from years on the street, his perfect baritone voice joined with ours: “I was blind but now I see.”

I guess that’s how it can be in our relationship with God: Some days, when we’re trying to forge our own way, alone, maybe all we can see are “tree people.”

We need a refueling of the sort that can only come from above, before we can see things as they are.

In defense of Mary Magdalene

An old proverb comes to mind for me today. It is often attributed to the Irish, but also has been credited to Mark Twain. Also, to the American humorist, Will Rogers. Also,  Winston Churchill.

So, while it may be of questioned origin, its abiding truth shouts to us from across the centuries:

Get a reputation as an early riser and you can sleep until noon.

It works in reverse, too. Once saddled with a fabricated story, it’s often the fabricated story that is remembered.

Today, the Church celebrates the monumental contribution of Saint Mary Magdalene. The Apostle to the Apostle. At Jesus’ side. At the cross. At the tomb. In the garden. First to see the risen Jesus. Chosen to break the news to others.

The Bible says Jesus rid her of seven demons, without detail.

What the Bible does not say is that she was a prostitute. That lie about Mary is attributed to Pope Gregory’s sermon in 591AD, as he conflated several women into one person. In doing so, he created an error, which it took years for the Church to correct 

In 2016, Pope Francis elevated her feast day to the same status as that of the male apostles.

Further, it was Francis who bequeathed upon her the honorific, Apostle to the Apostles.

Why is it important to clear up such an old and perpetuated falsehood about Mary Magdalene?

One, simply to set that history straight, that a woman was a principal member, leader even, of Jesus’ A-Team.

Two, the error perpetuated the myth about women, sin, and sexuality.

Three, it obscured the chance to see a female as a strong leader in early Christianity.

So, please. Pass it along: Mary Magdalene was NOT a prostitute.

I wish there was more clarity
Mark 2:1-12

I am not from Missouri, but maybe I should have been. Missouri, if you recall, is the “show me” state, a reference to its people being especially vigilant about the truth.

Perhaps needing more evidence.

Show me.
I, too, require some proof. Especially in this day and age of fake news and AI news and CGI movies and all the liberties taken with facts and factual occurrences.

In Mark‘s gospel today, Jesus tells a paralyzed man that his sins are forgiven.

Some scribes sitting nearby think it an outrageous claim. Anyone could say that, but where’s the proof?

So Jesus decides to offer something big and visible. Rather than just the invisible “forgiving” of sins.

To the paralyzed man he says, get up, take your mat and go.

Show me, the nearby scribes say. Jesus does.

So I wonder. From wherever I am in life’s journey, am I even capable of being grateful to God for the myriad gifts bestowed? Do I even see them all? Or do I overlook them because prayer answers come in some form I’m not expecting? Such as my sins being forgiven versus being able to walk again.

Am I looking for something bigger, better, more provable?

I have to be honest. Yes, at times I’d love the assurance of proof. But instead, I’ve been given the blessing of faith. And, as you may know, it doesn’t always line the path with lights and directional signs.

So every once in a while, in times in which I am more needy, I may falter and wish Jesus could just show me the way, the answer, the next step. Meanwhile, my faith and I will continue the journey, sometimes wishing I could see more clearly, but, in the absence of proof, we carry on.

Psalm 121 and Uncle August
I never met my mother’s uncle, but I heard many colorful stories.

August was my mother’s  mother’s brother, a man of adventure, or so it would seem. His legend endured down through the years, though surely embellished over time.

A professional gambler, let’s just say he did not fit into the rules of his Southern Baptist sister’s home. But he was just so likable, and her kids adored him. So, as long as he didn’t bring up his gambling, no one else did either.

My mother told the story about one early childhood morning when just she and August were at the small kitchen table. She watched as he filed the tips and pads of his fingers.
“I can feel the cards better,” he explained. They were special buddies, so he shared some “trade secrets” with her.

So what does any of this have to do with Psalm 121, one of the psalms offered today? Let’s consider another Uncle August story. It took place during the Great Depression.

A terrible storm had swelled the Rio Grande River in south Texas. Food supply was low at the house and, between having no money and the storm cutting off access routes, the family dinner seemed in jeopardy. His sister said, “August, you go find us some dinner.”

What? he thought.

As he walked along the banks of the Rio Grande, he saw that the river had started to recede. Ahead he noticed something flopping around, splashing water. Mystified, he walked at a greater pace, wanting to see what it was.

Lo and behold. A sixty-pound catfish was trapped in a hole, not making it out while the river was high. August reached in the hole, hooked his index finger into a gill, lifted the massive fish, and headed home.

Dinner plans that were doubtful that morning took a miraculous turn. It brings to mind these words from Psalm 121:

I lift up my eyes to the hills—from where will my help come?   My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth.

An age-old question

Pontius Pilate’s role in the crucifixion of Jesus of Nazareth is rich ground to till.

The passionately ambitious Roman Prefect of Judea, by historical accounts, was not a nice man. He was not “woke.” Ordering a crucifixion would not burden his conscience—all things being equal.

But all things were not equal in the case of Jesus. These “things” made Pilate nervous— nervous enough that he told the jeering crowd that he found nothing for which to condemn Jesus.

Summed up, it all had to do with “truth,” which Jesus said was his purpose on Earth. To bring the truth.

Pilate’s question is still pertinent today:  “Truth? What is truth?”

Remembering Francis

Reprinted with permission of author, Jim Thebarge, from Facebook:

A Letter to the World: On the Passing of Our Holy Father

Last night (April 21), as the Easter moon hung like a silver tear in the sky, the soul of our beloved Pope slipped gently from this world into the arms of eternity. The bells tolled softly in the Vatican, yet the sound echoed across the world like a collective heartbeat breaking. A shepherd has left his flock. A voice has gone silent in a world that needs it more than ever.

And yet, what a voice it was.

He spoke not only from the balcony of Saint Peter’s, but from the margins of our world, from refugee camps and prison chapels, from broken pews in bombed out sanctuaries, and through the whispered prayers of those who had been told they did not belong. His voice was a bridge across rivers of division. He spoke of a God who makes no distinctions, of a Christ who dined with outcasts, touched lepers, and made a tax collector a disciple.

He envisioned a Church without walls. A sanctuary that echoed with the songs of many tongues. A table where all had a place, regardless of race, class, gender, love, or creed. He called us not just to worship but to welcome. Not merely to pray, but to embrace.

And now, during this sacred season when we celebrate resurrection and new life, we are met with loss. The tomb is empty, but so is the chair. Easter morning rose with a quiet vacancy. The man who knelt to wash the feet of the forgotten has returned to the One whose feet were once pierced for us all.

He did not fear death. He had long made peace with its shadows. In his final homilies, he spoke of the afterlife as a reunion, a great homecoming. “Heaven,” he said, “is where no one asks why you are there, only Who you are there to love.”

But we, those left behind, must now wrestle with the silence. His absence is not just ecclesiastical, it is existential. A world fraying at the edges needed his stitching words. A polarized humanity needed his grace. And yet perhaps, like Christ, his true ministry begins now, in us.

He planted seeds in soil we did not know could grow. It is now our sacred charge to water them. To embody the gospel of gentleness, the gospel of courage, the gospel of all are welcome. His death at Easter is no coincidence, it is a divine echo. It is God reminding us that every ending is the threshold of a rising.

Let us rise in his memory.

Let us carry his light into the cathedrals and the streets, into the silent corners of loneliness, and into the loud debates of our time. Let our actions speak where his voice no longer can.

And as we whisper prayers into the night sky, may we find comfort in imagining him at last sitting at a heavenly table, shoulder to shoulder with saints and sinners, smiling gently, saying:

“Yes, all are welcome here.”

Amen.

With reverence, grief, and enduring hope, One of the many who still hears his voice.

John 12:20-26 (NRSV)

Pecking order

A few decades back you could go into a store where someone would greet you in a timely manner, and ask if you needed help. Even more miraculous, that same someone could take you all the way from question to sale.

But those days are pretty much gone, with a few exceptions, like Ace Hardware.

Nowadays, it’s not uncommon to wander unsuspectingly into a pecking order problem. You get passed around until (maybe) you la nd on someone who knows the answer. Or at least, you hope you do.

In today’s reading from Saint John, “some Greeks” got a bit tangled in a pecking order.

The Greeks were among those headed to Jerusalem for the Festival of Passover. The Festival was an annual celebration for Jews, not Gentiles like the Greeks. And this would be Jesus’ last attendance.

The Greeks approached Philip with a request to see Jesus. He asked Andrew, and together they would ask Jesus. Seems a lot of rigamarole for such a simple request.

Jesus began to answer the question in a way no one there and then, or even most of us here and now, would call an answer.

Except. Except the presence of the Greeks signals a major plot shift. Everyone is welcome where Jesus is, down to this very day.

In time this would become known throughout the world.

But then, on the road to Jerusalem for Passover, we catch a first glint of that amazing truth.

It makes me wonder how often the radical nature of God’s intentions are right in front of us, but like those Greeks, we still want to check it out.

John 9:18-41

The only thing worse than being blind is to have sight but no vision.  -Helen Keller

Today’s scripture is familiar to many. The story of Jesus granting sight to a man born blind. Much ado is made over this by Jesus’ enemies. How? Why?

Blind since birth. Surely things had been tried. Things that did not work. Now, this Jesus, this interloper, fixes him immediately, No gimmicks. The bottom line? “I was blind and now I see,” the once-blind man said.

Some people resist seeing, a different sort of blindness. Where there could be joy and dancing in the streets, they back away, shun, question, worry, suspect wrongdoing.

If you ever quit smoking, drinking, drug use,  or lost some pounds. Maybe left a dangerous relationship. I can guarantee you had some naysayers. Oh, maybe you never heard them, but they’re always around. Doubting, offering to bet against your success.

Because? Because, unless you fail, some coming to terms with themselves might like some company as they sneak out the door.

They would be like those Helen Keller described as having sight but no vision. 

Pay them no mind. Instead, follow the light your newfound “sight” has brought you. You have much for which to thank God.

John 6:16-27

“Do not be afraid.”

Those words, or words to that effect, are attributed to Jesus some 365 times in the four Gospels.

Do not be afraid. Much easier to say than to accomplish.

In today’s selection from the Gospel of Saint John, Jesus speaks this message to his disciples when their boat is endangered by a fierce storm. Many of us may face death-dealing storms, and I am sure that most of us, if not all of us, know what it is like to be afraid.

We’re living in a world very different from the one of my childhood. I grew up in post-World War II U.S. America. Southern California, at that.

We lived in the suburban sprawl of Los Angeles. We were considered middle class. Home of our own. Stay-at-home Mom, Dad worked. As children, my brother and I were free to be the imaginative little beings that we were. Free of fear.

Except. No matter how sweet the life, there are always things to fear.

One night, tossing and turning while trying to fall asleep, I saw a monster. At the foot of my bed.

My shrieking awakened the household.

Mother entered the room to calm my fears. But I was in no mood for a “do not be afraid” while an agent of Satan was perched on my bed post.

Mother flipped the switch, bathing the room in light that showed the “monster” to be nothing more than a coat hung on the post.

It’s human to be afraid, but it is reassuring to know that once in a while someone can flip a switch and banish our fears.

Sometimes the switch-flipper is God.

John 1:9-14

Wonder, wonder, everywhere.

I love the first chapter of the Gospel of Saint John.

It is an evocative, poetic piece of story-telling that never fails to enlarge the spirit within me.

It is what I call “wonder writing.” With repetition for emphasis, it describes the coming to earth of the Son of Man.

With “wonder writing,” there is a sweet ache within me as I navigate its words: true light; the Word became flesh and lived among us, the world did not know him, we have seen his glory, as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth.

As awe-inspiring as the annunciation is in the other three Gospels, it does not compare to John’s explanation of Jesus’ arrival among the people. John implants mystery and wonder into this narrative, appropriate I believe for a story such as this. About a father and son uniting to save the world.

For reference, I’m including AI search results for which of the four Gospels include annunciation:

Summary:

Only Matthew and Luke contain accounts of the Annunciation and Nativity:

 Matthew: Angel appears to Joseph

Luke: Angel Gabriel appears to Mary

Mark and John: Neither contains the Annunciation or the Nativity.