Imagine That
Pamela L. Werntz, Priest-in-Charge

O God of love, grant us the strength, the wisdom and the courage to seek always and everywhere after truth, come when it may, and cost what it will.

So the Gospel of Mark tells us that Jesus left the place where the hemorrhaging woman and Jairus’ daughter were healed and came to Nazareth, his hometown.  When he began to teach in the gathering, the synagogue, many who heard him were driven out of their minds – “astounded” our English version says, but the sense in Greek is astonishment with a good dose of panic.  The word literally translates “driven out” as in driven out of their minds.    They wanted to know who he thought he was, what on earth he thought he was doing.  They took offense – they were scandalized.  Jesus responded with the old adage (old even then) that “prophets are not without honor except in their homeland” and he added for emphasis “and among their own kin and in their own house.”  And he was unable to do any miracles except curing a few sick people, further argument from Mark that miracles are not the basis of faith, rather, faith is the basis of miracles.  And Jesus wondered at their lack of faith.  Notice the contrast.  Jesus, not offended or scandalized by their unbelief, just wondered at it – there’s a strong sense of compassion here.

Many of us can relate to the phenomenon of being a fully functioning adult, accomplished in our various ways, and going home and falling right back into childhood dramas and not being taken seriously enough by those who knew us when.  Home is where authority, accomplishments, standing in the community, often get knocked down a few notches.

It’s easy for me to identify with Jesus and assume that the “hometown” that is denounced here is composed of some other group of people.  It’s easy to imagine that the hometown group is somewhere else – another time, and certainly another place.  It’s harder to acknowledge that I might be part of the hometown; that I belong to the hometown church – a church much more mainstream than on the fringes.  Even in this parish I’m becoming not so much of an outsider anymore – I am starting to feel at home.

What if Nazareth is not them – not another place and time?  What if we are Nazareth?  What if we don’t take Jesus’ teaching seriously because this is his hometown, we are his kin, we are in his house?  We’re pretty comfortable with Jesus.  We’re satisfied when we hear his teaching to love God whole-heartedly and to treat neighbors with compassion and affection.  That’s a familiar and appealing teaching to many people -- at least most of the time.

William Countryman suggests that the hometown folks’ response in this story in Mark – the offense taken, at its root has to do with a failure to take themselves seriously. 1  And if this story is our story, it’s about our failure to take ourselves seriously.  It’s a failure to imagine that God loves us madly and God wants more from us.  It’s a failure to acknowledge how generous God has been to us and to understand that we are to respond in kind.  It’s a failure to believe that God is in each one of us, yearning to shine through.

Imagine Jesus wondering at our unbelief.  It makes me think of that famous  Marianne Williamson quote:  “Our greatest fear is not that we are inadequate, but that we are powerful beyond measure.  It is our light, not our darkness, that frightens us.  We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, handsome, talented and fabulous?  Actually, who are you not to be?  You are a child of God.  Your playing small does not serve the world.  There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you.  We were born to make manifest the glory of God within us.  It is not just in some; it is in everyone. And, as we let our own light shine, we consciously give other people permission to do the same.  As we are liberated from our fear, our presence automatically liberates others.” 2

It’s often the case that when scripture sounds prescriptive, it’s actually descriptive – describing something about the cultural context of the writer or the audience.  And then there are passages that sound descriptive that are actually prescriptive.  I think that this is one.   This is a prescription for spreading the word and work of Jesus.  Jesus, who had said and done some amazing things, was gone when this was getting written down, and it was time for his followers to get busy themselves.

The Greek word that we translate into disciple can also be translated “learner.”  Jesus’ followers in Mark’s telling were not professionals.  They were learners.  And Jesus sent them out without certification or equipment.    Now Jesus seems to have been a firm believer in the buddy system – he always sent his learners out two by two.  He gave them power over polluted spirits and some pretty specific travel instructions that didn’t even permit spending money, or a carry-on bag!  Forget about checking luggage!  Walking stick and sandals.  That’s it.  No bread, no bag, no money, no extra clothing.  (And here the Gospel of Mark’s version is extravagant  – Matthew and Luke say that even walking stick and sandals were prohibited!)  It seems the only thing Jesus prepared the learners for in this story was rejection.  But the learners had some success.  They cast out many demons, and anointed with oil many who were sick and provided healing therapy (the Greek verb here is therapeu-o).

So I want to do an imagination exercise with you because I think that this was an imagination exercise for Mark’s earliest audience.  Imagine that you are learning from Jesus.   Imagine that you are not a professional exorcist, not a professional faith healer, not a professional evangelizer.  This part should not be too much of a stretch for any of you.  Now imagine that you are needed by Jesus to cast out whatever spirits keep people from experiencing God’s love.  Imagine that you are needed by Jesus to make it clear to people that they are valuable in God’s economy.  Imagine that you are needed by Jesus to restore people to community – to right-relationship with one another.  Imagine that there is justice work for you to do in places you’ve never gone before.

Now imagine that not only do you not have to do it alone, but that God doesn’t even want you to do it alone.  Imagine that God invented the buddy system. Use it.  Take a witness.  Be a witness.  Don’t ever be the only one.  If you find yourself all alone  -- out there – doing justice work, go back and pray to find at least one  buddy.   Now, you might find yourself paired with someone you’d never have asked for or imagined – I know I often do – it’s a motley crew that Jesus collects – still, two is the essential minimum for justice work.

Imagine that you have all you need – that extra stuff, money, baggage, actually just gets in the way.  Imagine shedding what Robert Coles calls “decades of accumulated thoughts, involvements, and entanglements.”  Imagine leaving the baggage behind – the physical and the psychological.  The less stuff we have with us, the more vulnerable we are (that’s the scary part for those of us with a lot of stuff).  Imagine that Jesus knew that the more vulnerable we are, the more radically available we are – to others, to ourselves, to God.

Imagine that a measure of God’s realm is hospitality – extending hospitality to the last person in the world you thought you would or should have to – extending hospitality to those who are strange, some very strange, extending companionship to those who are alien or alienated or abandoned.  Imagine that you will need the hospitality of others.  Nevertheless, imagine that some will not extend that hospitality.  Imagine that if people don’t welcome you, you just move on – you don’t stay there, don’t get stuck, don’t argue your point to death, and don’t carry their dirt with you to the next place you go.   Imagine proclaiming a new and different vision of reality – that is deeply embedded in our sacred texts and tradition.  It’s about radical change – a radical re-hearing of scripture.

I imagine that by now many of you are listening with one ear at best and meanwhile coming up with reasons why this is unrealistic, unreasonable, impossible, or simply doesn’t apply because you feel that you are:  too young, too old, too busy, too harassed and helpless yourselves, too unprepared or unconvinced, or maybe you are too smart, or too skeptical, or too cynical, or maybe you feel that it’s too soon or too late.

So imagine this.  Imagine that Jesus looks at you with compassion.  Imagine Jesus knows you – really knows you – knows your burdens and your charms, your weakness and your strength, your bravery and your fear -- that Jesus knows you and loves you – that Jesus is crazy about you.    Imagine that your particular scars, your particular interests, your particular abilities make you just right to go out to be justice workers.  Imagine that Jesus cannot wait for you to experience the joy of receiving hospitality in surprising places.

Often when I am working on sermons, Joy tells me that the sermon needs a story – and she’s right – but this one doesn’t need a story from me about my experiences the power of never going alone, or of traveling light, and of shaking the dust off of my feet.  It needs a story from you.  It’s your story that this sermon needs.  Imagine that.

1. William Countryman, New Proclamation, vol. 2 (Minneapolis:  Fortress Press, 2003).

2. Marianne Williamson, A Return to Love: Reflections on the Principles of “A Course in Miracles,” 2nd edition (HarperCollins, 1996).

Updated July 27, 2009