Jesus
seems to be having a pretty good day.
Today’s reading picks up right where last week’s left off, and maybe we
should have preceded it by a “previously, on ‘the Gospel according to Mark.’” He showed up in Capernaum, preached in their
synagogue, freed someone from a demon and everything was amazed at him, and
marveled at his teaching. And the day
goes on. Now, he heals Simon Peter’s
mother-in-law, gets a good meal out of it, casts out more demon, cures many
more sick people. The whole town turns
up at his door, seeking his help. People
are responding to the call! It appears
he’s up half the night with these people.
And then he leaves, quietly, when no-one’s watching.
It’s
important to remember that Jesus had days like this, days when everything just
seemed to be going right. It’s important
to remember, because so often we read stories of him being rejected, of people
arguing with him, doubting him. In less
than two weeks, we’ll start Lent and read of the devil testing him. We’ll read of disputes in the Temple, of being
raised up on a cross, and buried like a seed, dying to be reborn. Then, we’ll read of that cross itself. And yes, that will all lead to resurrection,
but it will go there through some pretty dark stuff. So, it’s comforting for us who love Jesus to
be reminded that he had good days. It’s
comforting for us who are human and love humans to know that humans responded
to him positively sometimes. Positively,
even if without understanding.
And
then, he went and prayed. I wonder what
he prayed about. In a way, we’ll never
know, we’ll never know the details anyway.
Was he giving thanks? Was he
praying for the strength to continue with what must have been an exhausting,
even if exhilarating, ministry? I don’t
know if we often think of Jesus as tired, but such a good day must have worn
him out. Maybe he was praying for
humility. Those questions we can’t
answer, but there’s something we do know about that time of prayer: Jesus was
enjoying intimacy with his Father. That’s
what prayer is. And that’s something we
can know, because Jesus leads us into that.
And that desire of his, to lead us into that intimacy, giving as gift
what he had by nature, that undergirds all he does.
That’s
why just healing diseases and casting out demons isn’t enough. Just freeing us from what binds us isn’t
enough for him – he dares to dream even bigger; to dream of leading us into
love-based communion, living wholly and holily with God and with each other
forever. That’s why he won’t let the
demons speak. Because they only know
half the story. They ‘know him,’ the
text says. They know his power. They know him in relation to them, the one
who will cast them out. But they don’t
know him in the deeper sense, because to truly know him is to love him, is to
not fear him. And the demons tremble
before him, because they know his power and how utterly opposed that is to
their will to conquer, enslave and subjugate.
But they don’t know him, not as lovers, not how he wants to know and be
known by us.
So,
they can’t speak, because they’d release a half-truth, which is far more
dangerous than a lie. They’d speak of
his power, but not of his vulnerability, not of his love. They’d never speak of his cross. And he won’t yet either, that’ll come later
in Mark’s gospel, we’re still just in chapter one. But, maybe that’s what he went to pray about,
if not in every detail about this growing realization that he’d have to suffer,
he’d have to pass through some really dark stuff to bring his beloved people
into loving relationship with the God of love.
For love to conquer death and cast out fear, he’d have to taste both
fear and death. He’d have to show that
love is stronger by taking love to its breaking point, by being broken and by
coming back, showing that not even death, death at our hands, could keep him
from being with us. That that’s what
love is, and that’s stronger than death.
And to
give us that, to lead us into that love, to enflame our hearts that we might
love like that, takes more than casting out our demons. We can only learn to love by being radically,
utterly loved. And love opens double
gates on suffering. Because those we
love tug on our heart strings. And
humans tugged on Jesus’ until his heart stopped. But his heart, his fiery furnace of charity,
is stronger than the heartache we cause him, and he came back.
The
demons wouldn’t tell people that, no-one would.
No-one could dare dream of that, that the Son of God would do that for
us, until they had seen it. So, the
demons must be silenced. Because if the
crowds came to know him as a healer and no more, the half-truth would consume
him, and them. So, he goes to pray, to
reground himself in his identity as Son, as the one sent to suffer and redeem,
as beloved. He grounds himself in that
and now invites us to do the same. In
all times, but especially when things are going well, we need to be regrounded
in our adoption, as beloved sons and daughters, sent to carry on Christ’s work
of love.
The
demons are silenced, but there’s one form of witness he’ll accept: Peter’s
mother-in-law. Healed, she expresses her
love in service, in feeding the hungry. In
that, there is fullness of love and of truth.
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