The Greater Miracle

Scripture: Mark 6:1-6

A number of years ago, a prominent theologian from the United States traveled to Central America to meet a renowned bishop whose work he had long admired. When his plane landed at the airport, the theologian found a driver waiting to transport him to the church. During the long ride, the theologian stared out the window at the scenery, chatted informally with the driver, and meditated about the issues he wanted to discuss with the bishop during the brief time they would have together. When he finally arrived, the theologian leapt from the car and rushed toward the two smiling, bright-faced men who greeted him. One of the men took his hand and said “Welcome. I am the bishop’s assistant. And this,” he continued respectfully, turning toward the other man, “is the bishop’s secretary.” Then he gestured toward the driver and said, “Of course, you’ve already met the bishop himself.”

The first half-dozen chapters of the book of Mark include numerous instances in which people do not—or, perhaps, will not—recognize Jesus for who and what he is. In Chapter 3, members of his local community claim he has “lost his mind.” Mark 3:21. The Scribes accuse him of being in league with the devil. Mark 3:22. Even his own family appears to harbor doubts: they hear the mutterings of others and try to “restrain him” from continuing his work. Mark 3.21. In Chapter 4, his disciples cry out in despair over their imminent drowning because they fail to recognize him as one who has the power to calm the storm. Mark 4:38-41.

Even those who witness his miraculous works fail to see Jesus for who and what he is. Indeed, some of those individuals observe a miracle, acknowledge the wonder of it, and then try to distance themselves from Jesus—as far as possible. Consider, for example, the story in the fifth chapter of Mark about the man possessed by demons, “legions” of demons, as it were. Jesus sends the unclean spirits into a herd of swine, liberates the man from his curse, and restores his physical and mental health. Have you ever noticed what happens next? Mark says this: “Those who had seen what had happened to the demoniac and to the swine reported it. Then they began to beg Jesus to leave their neighborhood.” Mark 5:16-17.

That brings us to the familiar passage in the sixth chapter of Mark, where Jesus carries his ministry home to the people who knew him best—and yet apparently didn’t know him at all. In his hometown, Jesus finds ridicule and mockery the likes of which he will not know again until the Cross. The people—his people—take “offense” at his preaching. Mark 6:3. They express astonishment at his presumptuousness. Mark 6:2. They dismiss him as a local tradesman and homeboy: “Is this not the carpenter, the son of Mary and brother of James and Joses and Judas and Simon, and are not his sisters here with us?” Mark 6:3. All this prompts Jesus to declare that “Prophets are not without honor, except in their hometown, and among their own kin, and in their own house.” Mark 6:4.

Then the gospel tells us something remarkable—something so remarkable that I want to spend my time here trying to figure out what it can possibly mean. At this point, Mark declares that Jesus—“amazed at their unbelief”—“could do no deed of power there.” Mark 6:5-6. Now, this statement has to grab our attention. After all, we find many instances in the gospels where Jesus would not do something—for example, throw himself off the pinnacle of the Temple at the devil’s invitation. But we find very few instances in the gospels where Jesus could not do something. Indeed, in some ways the notion seems fundamentally inconsistent with our understanding of Jesus as one having authority—the sort of full authority that can calm the storms of life, literally, and that can finally overcome even death itself.

So, what are we to make of this passage? What is the gospel saying here? Well, I want to suggest that this passage conveys two messages, two very important messages. Indeed, I want to suggest that the two messages embedded in this passage do nothing less than tell us how we should live and why we should live that way.

The first of these messages is plain enough: our faith matters. It matters a great deal. Our faith plays an active role in the realization of God’s will on earth. Our faith brings something critical to the equation. Standing around without faith waiting for a miracle is like standing around in your basement waiting for a suntan. If faith is not present, then some things simply will not happen—“amazed at their unbelief, he could do no deed of power there.”

This holds true in an abstract and theological sense. But, perhaps more importantly, it also holds true in a concrete and practical sense. After all, faith inspires hope, and hope inspires commitment to action, and when faithful people start moving they unleash a formidable force. In this way, our faith helps all of us become agents of God, agents of goodness, agents of grace.

One evening a few months ago my wife Lisa looked up from a book she was reading and said: “Hey, listen to this.” I'll confess that I always experience a certain amount of unease at these invitations because, well, our taste in recreational reading runs in very different directions. Lisa likes novels with lots of compassion and contemplation and conversation. I like chronicles of military history with lots of action and adventure and ammunition. But we understand each other’s idiosyncrasies in this regard and so are selective in what we share. This time, as usual, Lisa had a gem.

She read me a quotation from a book called Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. In the book, the protagonist describes the contrasting ways in which she and her sister experience faith. Gilbert says this:

"Here’s another example of the difference in our worldviews. A family in my sister’s neighborhood was recently stricken with a double tragedy, when both the young mother and her three-year-old son were diagnosed with cancer. When Catherine told me about this, I could only say, shocked, 'Dear God, that family needs grace.' She replied firmly, 'That family needs casseroles,' and then proceeded to organize the entire neighborhood into bringing that family dinner, in shifts, every single night, for an entire year. I do not know if my sister fully recognizes that this is grace."

Of course, that is precisely why John Wesley urged us to do all the good we can, by all the means we can, in all the ways we can, in all the places we can, at all the times we can, to all the people we can, for as long as ever we can.

So the first message of this passage is that our faith matters. But, as I say, there is a second message here as well. For if you read this passage carefully, you’ll notice that the scripture says “And he could do no deed of power there, except that he laid his hands on a few sick people and cured them.” I think this statement drips with poignant irony: Jesus couldn’t do anything powerful—just heal the sick by touching them. Now, the last time I checked, healing by the laying on of hands qualified as pretty powerful stuff. But the scripture plainly suggests that there were greater events, greater deeds, greater miracles—that were just waiting to happen if only the people had believed.

This passage therefore does not just implore us to have faith; it tells us that if we have faith even greater things may happen than we could dare to imagine. It must be so. After all, we can’t know the mind of God. We can’t look over God’s shoulder and study the blueprints. We can’t even sneak a peek at God’s homework. So we can’t know the amazing places our faith will take us; we just have to believe, and act on our belief, and watch. Indeed, that is the very essence of faith.

I have some personal experience with this phenomenon of not being able to imagine what God has in store for you. A number of years ago I felt a strong, I would even say irresistible, call to preach some sermons. I came up with a plan: I would go back to school, to seminary, and prepare myself. I researched the issue and asked around and discovered that I could pursue part-time seminary work in Detroit, at a school named Ecumenical Theological Seminary, and in Chicago, at a school named Garrett Evangelical Theological Seminary. I signed up, I got started, I took some classes, and I said: “Thank you God, now I know what I’m supposed to do.”

Well, as we know, God always answers us—though not always right away—so a little time passed before I heard back. And, when God responded, what I heard was this: “Well, Len, you almost got it right. You are supposed to preach. And you are supposed to study theology to help you do so. But you’ll be studying at seminaries named Evan and Jordan. These are good boys who deserve a good home and I need you and Lisa to adopt them. And if you want to learn more about patience and innocence, truth and forgiveness, sacrifice and joy, strength and grace, responsibility and empathy, laughter and love, then that is where you need to study. If you want to know how weak you really are, and how much you really need God's presence in your life, then that is the school of choice. The curriculum will challenge you. And there are pop quizzes daily. But I’ll be there to help tutor you along the way.”

Oh, what an education it has already been; oh, the things I’ve already learned; oh, the theological class work that makes up our everyday life. One lesson I picked up in the last couple months relates directly to the subject I’ve been discussing and so I’ll mention it now. For present purposes, I’ll call it “the discipleship of flag football.”

Now, for those of you who don’t know, flag football is a non-tackle variation on the sport. I didn’t know much about it myself until Jordan (J.J. to his friends and family) took it up last month. It works like this: Kids wear belts with colorful flags hanging from them; the offense tries to advance the ball; the defense tries to pull the flag of the running back or receiver; general lunacy and havoc prevail. It’s enough to make you think that when God brought order out of chaos he missed a corner somewhere.

In a common local version of flag football each team must have eight players on the field at all times. So if only seven kids materialize on any given evening the coach has a problem. The coach needs that eighth kid. The coach needs that kid whether he or she is large or small, fast or slow. The coach needs that kid even if he or she can’t throw, catch or run. The coach needs that kid even if he or she couldn’t find something worth pulling in a flag factory. The coach needs that kid even if all he or she can do is stand on the field and get in the way of the other team—because, in flag football, that’s often what passes for defensive strategy. A flag football coach wants and needs many things. But, first and foremost, he wants and needs his kids to show up—each and every one of them.

God want us to show up, too. God wants us to show up even if we’re not the best or the brightest or the slickest or the strongest. God wants us to show up even in our weakness and imperfection and uncertainty. God wants us to show up even if we’re still trying to figure out which position we play—or, for that matter, which direction we need to move the ball. God wants us to show up with whatever we can muster so we can be put to work—with our compassion, our courage, and our casseroles. God wants us to show up because God has a use for us, all of us, every one of us. God wants us to show up so we can help God make that greater miracle happen.

A few months after Lisa read me the passage from Eat, Pray, Love I shared with her something from the book I was reading at the time. It’s called Chosen Soldier and it was written by a former Navy SEAL named Dick Couch. At one level, Chosen Solider is a book about how the Army selects, trains, and physically and mentally prepares Green Berets for the daunting work ahead of them. But, at another level, it is a book about sacrifice, about putting oneself on the line, and about showing up—big time. At one point midway through the book, an instructor tells his trainees what he calls the “four L’s” of showing up: don’t be late; don’t be light; don’t be lost; and don’t be last. Unfortunately, that’s how many of us show up for God when we finally get around to it. But, in an act of amazing grace, God takes us anyway. Just as the father took in the prodigal son—a young man who was about as late, light, lost, and last as you can get.

What really struck me about Chosen Soldier, though, is how it begins. That’s the part that made me turn to Lisa and say “Hey, listen to this.” The book begins by quoting the inscription on a dog tag that rested on the homeward-bound casket of an American special operations soldier killed in Afghanistan in July of 2005. The inscription perfectly describes the process of hearing the call, recognizing the voice, and answering without delay. The inscription perfectly describes the essence of faith and commitment and showing up. The inscription perfectly describes how many, perhaps most, of the greater miracles in life happen.

You may know the inscription. It comes from the sixth chapter of Isaiah. And it reads:

“Whom shall I send, and who will go for us? Then I said, here I am. Send me.”

Amen.