JAMES CAMPBELL
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AN OFF THE WALL KIND OF CROSS

2/25/2024

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Sunday, February 25, 2024 – Lent 2
First Congregational Church of Cheshire
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell
 
 
Mark 8:31-38
 
Then he began to teach them that the Son of Man must undergo great suffering, and be rejected by the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes, and be killed, and after three days rise again. He said all this quite openly. And Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him. But turning and looking at his disciples, he rebuked Peter and said, “Get behind me, Satan! For you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.”
 
He called the crowd with his disciples, and said to them, “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it. For what will it profit them to gain the whole world and forfeit their life? Indeed, what can they give in return for their life? Those who are ashamed of me and of my words in this adulterous and sinful generation, of them the Son of Man will also be ashamed when he comes in the glory of his Father with the holy angels.”
 
 
 
Mild dyslexia made it difficult for me to learn to read music as a child.  But my ear was good and I picked up melodies quickly.  And so, to encourage this, my grandmother bought me a toy grand piano.  I loved it and would spend hours sitting on the floor of my bedroom, pecking out melodies, and driving everyone else crazy. 
 
I clearly remember the first song I ever learned to play all the way to the end.  It was not “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” or “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”  It was a 19th century Gospel hymn entitled: “Nothing but the Blood of Jesus.” And the lyrics are like this: “What can wash away my sins?  Nothing but the blood of Jesus.  What can make me whole again?  Nothing but the blood of Jesus.  Oh, precious is that flow that makes me white as snow.  No other fount I know.  Nothing but the blood of Jesus.”[1]
 
I looked for that song in our hymnal this week, but it was not there.  Songs like that are out-of-fashion for folks like us.  “A Gospel of gore” some people call it.  Such quid-pro-quo theology no longer represents how most of us think about the atonement; that is, what the cross means and how what Jesus did on the cross saves us.  
 
The cross, in general, is a difficult subject to broach because of its blood and suffering and pain and death.  The whole thing frightens us.  And rightly so.  And maybe it frightened Peter too.  Maybe that’s why Peter pulled Jesus aside and tried to talk some sense into him.  “Stop being so gloomy, Jesus.  You’re bringing everybody down.  No one wants to talk about suffering and death.  Let’s be positive!  Let’s talk about kicking the Romans to the curb.  That will excite people.  That’s how we will build a movement!”  
 
The Gospel writer says that before Jesus responded to this public scolding by Peter, he turned and looked at his other disciples, who were watching all of this with rapt attention.  It was a perfect teaching moment.  Then Jesus, who loved Peter, replied with these rather shocking words: “Get behind me, Satan.  You have your mind set on human things and not divine things.”  And then Jesus further explained what those divine things were.  He said, “If you want to follow me and really change the world, you have to lose what you call life in order to find true life.  And in order to find true life - you have to pick up your cross and follow me.”  
 
Notice that in this passage, Jesus makes no reference to his own cross.  Instead he focuses on theircrosses; our crosses.  And that’s interesting to me since in the church, we so often focus exclusively on the cross of Christ and what it does for us?  But in this moment, at least, Jesus focused on our crosses and what they do for others.  
 
A cross for you and a cross for me - frankly, I’d rather talk about the cross of Jesus.  I’d rather gaze lovingly at the cross on the wall behind me.  I’d rather wear one around my neck.  I much prefer a passive interaction with the cross, one that doesn’t really cost me anything, but instead gives me everything.  
 
And isn’t that the kind of faith that most churches are selling?  It’s all about what you can get by coming to our church.  It’s all about the menu options of programs that we can provide to you and your family; a boutique experience of the religious life!  Lots of perks and no pain.
 
But is that what Jesus was talking about in this passage?  Is that the dream that Jesus had for the world, when he went about feeding the hungry and healing the sick and welcoming the marginalized and speaking for the voiceless and standing up to the powers that grind people down?  Is that the dream that Jesus had for the world when he taught us to pray: “Thy Kingdom come on earth as it is in heaven?”  
 
Now wait a minute, you might be thinking.  Isn’t First Church involved in a growth program and strategic thinking about our future?  Aren’t we always looking for more options that will enrich the lives of our parishioners?  Don’t we want a strong and thriving institution with lots of members and engaging programs and a strong financial base?
 
Well, I do!  And there isn’t anything wrong with that, as long as we remember why we do it all.  As long as the cross is in the center of it all – Jesus’s and ours.  
 
Dietrich Bonhoeffer was a German pastor and prominent theologian during the Third Reich.  While most of the German church capitulated to Hitler, trading the promises of Christian nationalism for their souls, Bonhoeffer and others resisted.  They continued to preach a life of sacrifice and humble service to the least of these.  And that resistance cost Dr. Bonhoeffer a great deal.  In the waning days of the war, the Nazi executed him.  
 
Bonhoeffer wrote a famous book about what it means to follow Jesus.  It is still in print and is entitled: The Cost of Discipleship. In it, he diagnosed what he saw as the great problem of the church, writing that what most Christians want is what we he called “cheap grace.”  And this is how he defined it: “Cheap grace is the grace we bestow on ourselves. Cheap grace is the preaching of forgiveness without requiring repentance, baptism without church discipline, Communion without confession.... Cheap grace is grace without discipleship, grace without the cross…” [2]
 
In San Francisco’s Tenderloin, there is a well-known church called Glide Memorial.  It was founded in 1930 and funded by a very rich Methodist lay woman named Lizzie Glide.  And it certainly enjoyed its heyday, with a large congregation and lots of programs.  But by the early 1960s, the neighborhood had changed.  And the needs of the neighbors had changed.  And the church was a shadow of its former glorious self.  
 
In 1963, a new minister, the Rev. Cecil Williams, was called to the pulpit.  And Rev. Williams was not your ordinary pastor.  He was fiery and unorthodox.  And more than anything, he believed that the Gospel of Jesus ought to actually change people’s everyday lives.  Under his leadership, the church instituted a great variety of innovative social programs to meet the needs of their neighbors.  The congregation poured their resources and their time and their energy into providing food and shelter and medical care and job training and drug and alcohol rehabilitation to the addicts and prostitutes and gay runaways who now populated the pews. 
 
Now, this was a lot for some of the more established members to take, and they left the church.  But it was what Williams did in 1967 that really shook the foundations.  He very controversially ordered that the cross in the sanctuary be removed, and justified this action by telling his congregation, “We must all be the cross.”
 
Well, that’s likely not something I would have done.  But I can’t argue with its theology.  Because if it is the cross that saves people, then that is exactly what happened at Glide Memorial Church.  The congregation literally saved lives because they decided that crosses don’t just belong on walls.  They belong on our shoulders, as we follow Jesus into the world that he died to save. 
 



[1] Lyrics and Music by Robert Lowry

[2] "Devotional Classics" edited by Richard J. Foster & James B. Smith; "The Cost of Discipleship" by Dietrich Bonhoeffer.

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WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE

2/18/2024

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February 18, 2024 – Lent 1
First Congregational Church of Cheshire
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell
 
 
Mark 1:9-15
 
In those days Jesus came from Nazareth of 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.” And the Spirit immediately drove him 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.”
 
 
Six years and one month ago, we pulled up stakes in New York and resettled here in New Cheshire.  It was the adventure of a lifetime because it was such a huge change.   There were times when we wondered if we could do it.  Some of you wondered if we could do it.  And not a few of our friends back in New York wondered, out loud, if we could do it.
 
A few months after the move, we were back in Manhattan for brunch with a group of old friends.  And they were very curious about how we were doing it.  And we were ready to tell them.  First, we told them all about our new house with its guest rooms and invited them to come for the weekend.  We told them about our spacious yard and how Ella our dog, who had never been territorial before, had happily claimed every inch of it for herself.  And we told them about you – your warmth and welcome and excitement about the future.  We waxed on about this beautiful historic building in the center of town that we all call home.  We regaled them with stories about our long walks on the Farmington Canal Trail, and exploring New Haven, and about the sublime delight of coffee ice cream at Sweet Claude’s. 
 
Finally, one of them asked, “So, what’s the biggest challenge?”  I remember that I didn’t have to think long or hard before I answered.  “Well,” I said, ‘I suppose it’s how dark and quiet the nights are.  It’s too quiet.  And it’s disconcerting.  
 
You see, I had spent more than two decades in the city that never sleep, and is never completely quiet, and is certainly never completely dark.  And I had lived in large apartment buildings constantly surrounded by other people and the sounds of their lives.  
 
I told them about how our house made strange noises at night as it settled.  There were odd creaks and groans and sometimes pops and bangs that spooked me.  And there were wild animals, I told them, just outside the door.
 
Six years and one month later, I have long lost my fear of living “in the country.”  But I am still afraid.  I have just traded one fear for another.  Because there is always something to be afraid of; always something I cannot control; always something lurking out there… like a wild beast.  
 
Maybe you never considered that a minister, of all people, struggles with fear.  But we do – because we’re human.  And we know, from the experience of pastoral ministry, that our faith is not some kind of talisman that protects us from all those things that go bump in the night.  And we know that we can believe all the right things and do all the right things and love Jesus with our whole hearts… and still get sick.  We can still lose our jobs.  Relationships can still collapse.  Age is still unrelenting.  Death is still inevitable -– even though we pray and hope and believe.  
 
Which, of course, begs the question: why, exactly, do we pray?  And what can we hope for when we do?  
 
The Gospel of Mark is the oldest and the shortest of the four Gospels.  It is spare and sparse and to the point.  And Mark loves the word “immediately.”  He has Jesus rushing from one event to another with hardly a breath in between.  Take, for example, his telling of the Temptation of Jesus.  It takes all of two verses!  
 
This story is always heard on the first Sunday in Lent, because the symbolism is too rich to ignore.  Jesus was tempted for 40 days.  And our Lenten journey is 40 days long.  Jesus faced his mortality in the wilderness.  And in Lent, we face our own with the words: “Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return.”  Jesus was tempted to find ultimate comfort in the material world.  And in Lent, we seek to be more conscious of our treasures in heaven.  
 
Mark’s temptation account starts with the baptism of Jesus - a dramatic event during which the heavens are ripped in two and the Spirit descended like a dove.  Then the voice of God announced that Jesus was the Beloved Son, with whom God was well pleased.  This was a moment of pure joy and clarity and purpose.
 
But that moment of joy didn’t last long, because Mark reports that immediately afterwards, the Spirit drove Jesus into the wilderness.  This was not some gentle invitation by a gentle Holy Spirit.  The verb here implies that Jesus was thrown out into or cast out into the wilderness.  The implication was that it was all involuntary… which sounds oddly familiar of those times in our lives when we are thrust into an experience of suffering.  It is often sudden and against our wills.  
 
Because Mark’s account is only two verses long, his telling of the Temptation of Jesus lacks all the details we have come to know about what Satan said to Jesus and how Jesus responded to each temptation.  But Mark adds a unique detail, not found in any other Gospel.  All the gospel writers mention angels coming to minister to Jesus, but Mark alone adds this intriguing tidbit: “and he was with the wild beasts; and the angels waited on him.”
 
In the entire New Testament, the wild beasts are only mentioned two other times.  And each time they are, the implication is that they are deadly and dangerous.  So, imagine Jesus in the middle of the night, out in the country, hearing the panting in the darkness and rustling in the bushes and seeing the glowing eyes that watched him as he prayed.  
 
And here’s something else.  In the other Gospels, the angels only arrive at the end of Christ’s Temptation.  They are his reward for a job well done. But in Mark, there is no sense of a strict chronology.  Mark puts the angels and the wild beast together, in one place and at the same time: “… he was with the wild beasts; and the angels waited on him.”  
 
The wilderness of our lives – it is the natural habitat of wild beasts.  And it is the habitat of the angels of the Lord.  Wild beasts and angels, fear and grace, want and plenty: they all live side-by-side.  That is our experience of life.  And that is our experience of faith.  
 
The great preacher Otis Moss, Senior Minister of Trinity United Church of Christ in Chicago, a largely African American megachurch, tells a story that his father, another pastor, used to tell.   One day his father asked one of his elderly parishioners: “How are you doing today, Mother?  To which the woman replied: “Well, pastor, I’m living somewhere between ‘O Lord’ and ‘Thank you Jesus!’”  In other words, between the wild beasts and the angels.
 
Our lives are not neatly divided between good days and bad days.  They are simply the days of our lives – messy and precious; complicated and holy.  
 
And Lent is about embracing that dichotomy.  Lent is about facing the beasts so that we might know something of the angels.  Because the angels always come when we need them most.  They come with extraordinary kindness when we are sick.  They comfort us when we are confused.  They are a hand on our shoulders or a gentle hug or a shared tear.  And every now and again, the angelic presence is so strong that they leave in their wake that peace that surpasses all human understanding.  
 
I wish I could tell you that you will always be rescued from the wild beasts.  But I can’t.  What I can tell you, however; what I can promise you on the authority of Gospel, is that you will never go to that dark and foreboding place alone.  There will always be angels there to minister to you.  And there will always be Jesus, who traveled this road before us.  
 
Thanks be to God.  Amen.
 
 

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​BUT ONLY JESUS

2/11/2024

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Transfiguration Sunday, February 11, 2024
First Congregational Church of Cheshire
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell
 
 
Mark 9:2-9
 
Six days later, Jesus took with him Peter and James and John, and led them up a high mountain apart, by themselves. And he was transfigured before them, and his clothes became dazzling white, such as no one on earth could bleach them. And there appeared to them Elijah with Moses, who were talking with Jesus. Then Peter said to Jesus, “Rabbi, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.” He did not know what to say, for they were terrified. Then a cloud overshadowed them, and from the cloud there came a voice, “This is my Son, the Beloved; listen to him!” Suddenly when they looked around, they saw no one with them anymore, but only Jesus.
 
As they were coming down the mountain, he ordered them to tell no one about what they had seen, until after the Son of Man had risen from the dead.
 
 
Years ago, someone introduced me to a YouTube character named Betty Butterfield.  Poor Betty drinks too much, smokes too much, and can’t quite stay in the lines when she applies her lipstick.  - And Betty is on a quest for God.  In her search, she has gone to churches of every denomination, and various other houses of worship, only to discover that they are not for her.  Betty Butterfield, it seems, is looking for the Lord in all the wrong places.  
 
Betty makes me laugh as she talks about the great variety of religious experience.  But there is something in her quest that strangely reminiscent of my own spiritual journey, because in my own way, I too have been looking for the Lord for most of my life.  I guess you call me a bit of a religious thrill-seeker.  
 
I come by all of this quite naturally.  It’s a family trait.  We are very religious people, on both sides.   - One of my earliest memories is of my grandparents taking me, a little boy of four or so, to see the great evangelist and faith healer, Kathryn Kuhlman.  That name may not ring a bell for you, but in her day, Kathryn was a very big deal, with a weekly, nationally-televised program called “I Believe in Miracles.”  I can still remember standing between my grandparents, in the back of that large auditorium with its wrap-around balconies.  We were standing because every seat was full.  And every seat was full because people were looking for God and thought they could find him through that woman on the stage in her in her long, flowing gown and with her mesmerizing voice.  
 
Later in life, I got a little more ecumenical in my quest.  I started to look for God in places I had never looked before.  I visited the largest Marian shrine in the world, where I had a mystical experience.  I prayed in the world’s largest church dedicated to St. Joseph.  I have worshipped in the Vatican and stuffed a written prayer into a gap in the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem.  I have prayed with the Muslim call to prayer in Morocco.  I have lit Hanukkah candles at the home of friends in New York.  And wherever in the world we travel, if there is a church or a temple or a shrine, you’ll find me rattling the door, trying to get in.  Because I’m looking for the Lord.   
 
Now maybe I am strange that way.  Or maybe this is just my way of engaging and naming that universal and deeply human longing for meaning and purpose and something more.  
 
The quest for the Divine is front and center in today’s Gospel reading.  Jesus had been teaching the hard truth about his impending death and resurrection.  And partly because it was so much to take in, Jesus invited Peter, James, and John to climb a high mountain with him for some time apart.
 
Now, in the ancient world, mountaintops carried significant religious meaning.  Mountains were often thought of as the dwelling place of the gods.  You will remember that the Greek gods lived on the top of Mount Olympus.  Moses saw the burning bush and received the Law on top of Mount Sinai.  Elijah heard the “still, small voice of God” up on a mountain.  So, when Jesus invited his friends to climba mountain, there was in that invitation a strong undercurrent of the religious quest.   
 
When they finally reached the summit and were settling down to catch their breath and take in the view, suddenly the glory of God exploded and Jesus was transfigured right before their eyes.  The Greek word for transfigured is metamorphosis.  In other words, he was changed into something he had not been before.  And Mark says that this change was visible in Jesus’s clothing becoming dazzling white.  The other Gospel writers say that it in addition to Jesus’s clothes, it was his face that also glowed.  Whatever the details, this one point is clear: it was a luminous moment, full of drama, full of God.  
 
Through the blinding light of these divine pyrotechnics, the disciples saw Elijah the great prophet and Moses the divine lawgiver, speaking with Jesus.  What they said, the Gospel of Mark does not reveal.  
 
Now, we all react to the numinous and awe-inspiring in different ways.  Some of us are silent.  Others of us weep or laugh.  Some of us miss it altogether because we are looking for our phones!  And still others do what Peter did: they babble.  Peter was one of those people who when, all else fails, just keeps talking.  
 
“Rabbi, it is good for us to be here!” he blathered.  “Hey, I have an idea!  Let’s start a building program!  Let’s erect three dwelling places: one for you, one for Elijah, and one for Moses!”  About all this babbling, the writer of Mark’s Gospel makes this aside: “(Peter) said all of this because they were terrified.” 
 
Well, who wouldn’t be?  A glowing Jesus and the appearance of ghosts!  But it was about to get worse, because suddenly a dark and ominous cloud overshadowed them.  They felt its wetness against their skin and couldn’t see their hands in front of their faces.  And then a voice from the cloud spoke, with words strangely like the words spoken by that same voice at Jesus’s baptism: “This is my Son, the Beloved; listen to him!”
 
And then, like all exciting religious experience, it was over.  And like all religious experience, with each passing day, its memory grew dimmer.  – And while we often feel saddened that the thrill is gone so quickly, perhaps, that is exactly as it should be, because religious experience is not actually the point.
 
Mark writes that when the glowing had subsided, and the ghostly visitors had vanished, and the glory cloud had dissipated, the disciples looked around, and saw nothing and no one anymore… but only Jesus. 
 
“But only Jesus.”  Three little words - so easy to miss in this dramatic tale.  But three words that are so full of the truth.  
 
Religious experience is a wonderful thing.  The thrills and chills are exciting.  -- This room is a marvelous place, soaked, as it is, in history and in the glory of God.  Here we tell and live out the Gospel of Jesus.  Here, we welcome all kinds of people and make community.  Here we laugh and pray and listen and make glorious music – sometimes in fancy new choir robes!  And I love it all.  It’s thrilling.  In fact, of all of my religious adventures, this is one of my favorites.  - But none of these things, no matter how lovely, is really the point.  And all of these things, no matter how treasured, will fade.  In fact, there will come a day when none of this is even here anymore.  Our faith cannot be about this.
 
Not long ago, I stood beside the bed of someone who was dying.  And I heard stories about her life and how that over the years, she had climbed mountains of success and created beauty and seen wonders.  But now all of that was coming to a close.  And her life had narrowed to that one room, with its humming machines and hushed voices.   Toward the end of the visit, I took her hand and leaned close to pray with her.  And I said the words that I always say at such a time: “Trust Jesus to do for you what you cannot do for yourself.”   
 
The Mount of Transfiguration is the last burst of Epiphany light before the shadows of Lent.  And this story is also a metaphor for our own spiritual lives.  Because we climb.  We see glory.  We feel hope.  We make plans.  We babble on about it all.  And then, like a cloud, it’s gone.  Except, of course, for Jesus, who has promised never to leave us, never to forsake us.  
 
“Suddenly when they looked around, they saw no one with them anymore, but only Jesus.”
 


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​ON BOTH SIDES OF THE DOOR

2/4/2024

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Sunday, February 4, 2024 – Epiphany 5
First Congregational Church of Cheshire
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell
 
 
Mark 1:29-39
 
As soon as they left the synagogue, they entered the house of Simon and Andrew, with James and John. Now Simon’s mother-in-law was in bed with a fever, and they told him about her at once. He came and took her by the hand and lifted her up. Then the fever left her, and she began to serve them.
 
That evening, at sundown, they brought to him all who were sick or possessed with demons. And the whole city was gathered around the door. And he cured many who were sick with various diseases, and cast out many demons; and he would not permit the demons to speak, because they knew him. In the morning, while it was still very dark, he got up and went out to a deserted place, and there he prayed. And Simon and his companions hunted for him. When they found him, they said to him, “Everyone is searching for you.” He answered, “Let us go on to the neighboring towns, so that I may proclaim the message there also; for that is what I came out to do.” And he went throughout Galilee, proclaiming the message in their synagogues and casting out demons.
 
 
My church in Manhattan was situated on a very busy corner of Broadway, with lots of foot traffic, by lots of people of every race, creed, and station in life.  In fact, the sidewalks around the church were often so busy that one had to be careful when pushing open the side exit door, or you might knock someone over!  
 
One day, as I was leaving the building, I pushed on the side door, but nothing happened.  Thinking that the door was likely swollen from summer humidity, I pushed harder only to be suddenly startled by someone yelling: “Knock it off!”  Well, I was having none of this.  Just who did they think they were talking to?   And so, I went out another door and by the time I rounded the corner to see what the trouble was, I ready to do battle.  But what I saw stopped me dead in my tracks. 
 
There, against the door of the church, was a large red velvet sofa, with a woman rather elegantly reclining upon it.  Despite the summer heat, she was dressed in layers of colorful clothes and had her head wrapped in a turban.  And the sight of it all left me momentarily speechless.  
 
I looked her over, trying to take it in.  She looked me over rather imperiously.  Finally, I found my voice and said: “Hello, my name is Reverend Campbell, and I am the pastor of this church.”  She looked me up and down in silence before finally extending her hand rather regally, and saying simply: “I am Mama Dew.”
 
Well, what does one say to that except, “It’s nice to meet you, Mama Dew”?  And what followed was a polite, if at first tense, conversation between this woman on the outside and this man from the inside; separated, or so it seemed, by so much more than a door.  
 
I finally convinced her, ever so diplomatically, that we needed to keep the doorway open so that people could come into the church.  That seemed to make sense to her and she agreed to move her sofa… later.  I decided not to push the issue anymore and hoped that she would do what she said by the time I came to work again.  
 
The next day, the sofa was gone.  And so was Mama Dew.  Later that summer, I heard that she had died by falling or jumping in front of a subway train.  
 
My ministry in New York was like that a lot: face-to-face interactions with people from very different worlds from mine; people who lived on one side or the other of a door called “privilege” or “money” or “status” or “identity.”  But over the years, I came to understand that the differences between us, while real, could not overshadow the commonality of our human longings, generously seasoned with desperation.  
 
Henry David Thoreau recognized this universal human condition when he wrote: “the mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.”  The mass… not just the Mama Dews of the world, but also the James Campbells of the world.  Not just the folks in New York City, but the ones in Cheshire, Connecticut.  Because desperation doesn’t respect zip codes or average household incomes or levels of education, even though we pretend these things are like doors that protect us.  
 
Desperation is the watchword of this week’s Gospel lesson.  Our story picks up immediately from last weeks, when Jesus had delivered a man from an unclean spirit in the synagogue in Capernaum.  Right after this dramatic event, Simon and Andrew invited Jesus to go to Simon’s house, which was literally right around the corner.  Archeologists believe that they have found the remains of this ancient house right next door to the remains of the synagogue.  In fact, the two buildings actually shared a common wall.  
 
Simon, whom we know better as Peter, had a mother-in-law who also lived in that house.  Perhaps she was a widow who had gone to live with her daughter and son-in-law.  Whatever her story, this unnamed woman had taken ill with a fever.   -- Now, in our world, we just take a couple of Advil and go to bed.  But in the ancient world a fever was often an indication of something far more serious.  And without antibiotics, simple things often killed people.  And so, the whole house was filled with a sense of desperation.  What if she died?  What if she was contagious?  What if we die?
 
Jesus had no sooner entered the house than he was informed of this urgent matter.  And despite the threat of contagion; despite the fact that a fever made her ritually unclean; despite the fact that Jesus was forbidden from touching any woman he was not married to; despite the fact that it was the Sabbath when no work, including healing, could be done, Jesus went into her room and sat down beside her bed.  If he said anything to her, it is not recorded here.  But we do know what he did.  He took her hand in his and gently lifted her to a seated position.  And as he did, the fever left her.  
 
Now what happens next raises concerns about the place of women in an ancient patriarchal society.  Mark reports that when this restored woman got out of bed, she immediately went to the kitchen and began to cook and serve them. 
 
There are all kinds of things that could be said about this; that perhaps should be said about this.  But this morning, I will say just this one thing.  When Peter’s mother-in-law served them, the Greek word used to describe her action is the same word used to describe the work of a deacon.  Deacons are, after all, people who serve.  And that means that whatever else might be said about her actions that day, the fact remains that she is the very first deacon of the Christian church, and someone Jesus would later imitate, when at the Last Supper he served his disciples. 
 
Well, the news about the exorcism in the synagogue and about this woman’s healing spread like wild fire.  And by sundown, a large and desperate crowd had gathered outside Simon Peter’s door.  In fact, the Gospel writer rather dramatically reports that “… the whole city was gathered around the door.”  A door that was closed.
 
Imagine, if you can, the great crowd of all of those on the outside, pressing to get inside to see Jesus.  Imagine the shouts and murmurs of desperation coming in from the street and wafting through the windows.  I wonder what it was like to be in the crowd that day.  I wonder what it was like to be in the house that day.  And what assumptions did these two groups make about one another - on either side of that door?  And how did all of that change once Jesus opened the door?  
 
Because it did change.  The separation was gone.  The people were now face-to-face.  And the mother-in-law’s story began to spread through the crowd.  And the crowd’s stories began to fill the house.  And suddenly, instead of two disparate groups of insiders and outsiders, they were a community, with the same needs and hurts and longings.  And it was in the midst of that new community that, as Mark reports, Jesus “cured many who were sick with various diseases, and cast out many demons.”  
 
When I stormed out onto the sidewalk all those summers ago, I was suddenly face-to-face with Mama Dew.  She was no longer just an obstacle to my exit, a bother to my day, a symptom of the city.  She was a person, with a name, and a story.  And all those desperate things we shared: a longing for acceptance; a sense of self-worth; maybe even the fact that we were both hanging out at church – became a tie that binds.  And for a few golden moments, we were community.  We were lifted up.  We were healed by the One who opens every door.  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

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"The glory of God is the human person fully alive."
Saint Irenaeus of Lyon, 2nd century