Today begins our new summer series: Shaped by Scripture.
And as we begin our summer series, I felt it was important
that I be honest with you about all the ways in which much
of my life has not been shaped by scripture. Probably an
unusual place for us to start. But let me tell you about how
the shaping nature of scripture has shown up later in my life.
I did not grow up consistently going to church every Sunday,
and our home was not an overly, explicitly religious one.
Aside from my mom’s deep love for art and images of Noah’s
Ark, I had very, very little contact with and connection to the
Bible. Sure, I had some basic awareness of those “major hits”
in the Bible, but beyond Eve and Adam, Noah’s Ark, and the
fact that I knew some Jesus guy pops up later in the Bible, I
had very little experience with scripture.
I’ve never really been super gifted at memorizing scripture.
And, as hard as I try to keep those books of the Bible in
order in my head, I always find myself sneaking a glance
at the table of contents, to make sure I’m going to the right
place. And so, in so many ways, the Bible feels very new to
me. And sometimes this lack of biblical literacy and all the
catching up I am trying to do, well, it’s a bit of a hang up for
me—it certainly has fueled a kind of imposter syndrome.
And nowhere did I feel this more acutely than in the early
stages of my ordination process.
For folks in our denomination who have felt the call to
pursue ordained ministry, an early part of the ordination
process is to take and pass what is called the Bible Content
Exam. The Bible Content Exam is a one-hundred-question
exam that assesses one’s general knowledge of the Bible
and its major themes. Spoiler alert: I failed. Twice.
I found out very quickly that I knew absolutely nothing about
the minor prophets or that there were even minor prophets
to begin with. And that simply knowing that Jesus pops up
once in a while is not quite enough information when being
asked about the nuances of the Sermon on the Mount and
the Sermon on the Plain.
And yet, as I’ve come to engage more deeply, thoughtfully,
critically, and intentionally with scripture, I have come to find
that because I am still very much a beginner, the Bible feels
fresh, and it feels invigorating. I find myself eager and excited
to read and hear what comes next. And, as our summer
series suggests, I do believe that there is a difference
between knowing scripture and being shaped by scripture.
So, now that I’ve told you all the ways that I’m very much a
novice in the life-shaping language of scripture, let us begin
our journey together this summer.
Our passage today is one of the first passages from
scriptures that I dissected deeply while in seminary,
using many of the tools and strategies of critical biblical
scholarship. I picked apart this story in just about every way
imaginable, and I found this experience exhilarating. I was
hooked. Scripture had taken hold of me. It was beginning to
shape me and mold me. And in my initial explorations of this
passage as a seminary student, I learned a new, fun, and
nerdy word. Intercalation.
This word—intercalation—is a literary technique used by
the gospel writer in which the author sandwiches a whole
new story in between another story that has already begun.
But here’s where it gets fun. The less technical term is a
Markan Sandwich. So, today, together, we get to consume a
scripture sandwich!
You see, in this moment in the Gospel of Mark, Jesus is
operating at peak Jesus. He’s preaching and teaching
through parables. He’s been calming storms. He’s healing
folks overtaken by unclean spirits. And just before we
readers have arrived on the scene, a religious leader has
fallen at the feet of Jesus, pleading with him to come and to
heal his daughter who is near death.
So, as you might imagine, word has traveled fast that this
Jesus guy is up to something different, something new. And
as tends to be the case in the life of Jesus, a crowd quickly
gathers. They want to see him. They want to hear from him.
They want to touch him.
Things are progressing along nicely. The plotline of the
story is on point. Jesus seems to be making his way to this
dying child, and then it happens. We are pulled out of the
drama of one exchange and encounter and plopped down
into a totally new exchange and encounter. The scene has
completely changed. This is the literary brilliance of this
sandwiching technique. It is abrupt, and it is startling. Mark
is trying to get our attention.
And so that’s where we arrive today. Jesus. An unnamed
woman. A flow of blood. The touch of a cloak. A transfer of
presence and power.
Touch. Tenderness. Healing. Faith.
There have been countless pastors, preachers, and
theologians who have commented on Mark’s favorite
word—immediately. You see Mark’s writing style is one that
often wants to move readers along in the drama. We know
how this story ends, so let’s just get there!
And yet, in this moment of the gospel, Mark seems to go
into an uncharacteristic level of detail. He certainly has more
to say about this encounter than his gospel counterparts,
Matthew and Luke. Their versions of this encounter are
short and sweet. Mark’s version has depth. It has detail.
Mark’s version is raw, and it is real.
I think this should give us pause. For Mark, this is one of
those stories that is asking us to slow down and to really
digest the details—the image of a sandwich becomes quite
appropriate. We are being challenged, compelled even, to
consume this story (and perhaps scripture as a whole) in
small and digestible bites.
Every year, during our annual Footsteps of Faith pilgrimage
with our high school seniors, we spend a good chunk of
time at the Vatican. And every year, the Vatican is filled with
crowds. People are everywhere. It is a constant pulsating of
crowds filing in, crowds frenetically following along, crowds
anxiously pressing in. And every year, we always have a few
travelers who are not overly comfortable with crowds and
overly crowded spaces.
One year in particular stands out. Knowing we had a youth
who felt especially anxious in the presence of relentless
crowds, my colleague and co-conspirator in all things youth
ministries, Andrea Kamwendo, encouraged a few of our
more physically prominent youth to simply keep an eye on
their fellow traveler. She suggested that maybe they even
flank their friend, so as to keep the crowds from pressing in
too much.
And so, the maneuvering and manipulating of the crowds
began. And there they were, two big and burly bros, faithfully
flanking their friend. And then, in the thick of the crowd, the
presence of more and more people pressing in, it happened.
The flanking was failing a bit, so what did they do?
Admittedly, I thought they would abandon their post. The
assignment had failed, and they would bail. Instead, they
doubled down. They each extended a chicken wing and
invited their friend to slide an arm through to grab hold. They
were interlocked, sandwiched together within the crowd.
Touch. Tenderness. Healing. Faith.
I imagine she didn’t much prefer crowds either. In fact, I
must imagine that she tried to avoid crowds. She tried to
avoid people as best she could. This flow of blood would
have, in many circles, deemed her unclean and thus
unworthy of any sort of engagement and interaction, much
less physical touch.
And the physicians, the doctors, offered her no help. In
fact, under their watch, she only “grew worse.” In the face
of cold and insensitive care, her voice was diminished,
and her experience was ignored. Time and time again,
insurance denied her claim, and there was simply no
money left to spend.
And so, with no options left, she remembers that “she had
heard about Jesus.” So, despite her bewilderment, despite
her despair and desperation, she makes her way boldly
and bravely to the crowd, maneuvering and manipulating
through the seas of snickering and snarling people. She
endures the stares of disgust and indignation, and she
finally gets close enough to Jesus to touch his cloak.
In anticipation of writing this sermon, I went back, and
I listened to an interview between civil rights icon and
leader Ruby Sales and Krista Tippett.1 During this interview,
Sales recounts a defining (and perhaps divine) moment
in her life where she felt compelled to ask an acquittance
who was in the depths of despair a simple question.
“Where does it hurt?”
Sales goes on to explain, “And just that simple question
unleashed territory in her that she had never shared…She
talked about all of the things that had happened to her as a
child. And she literally shared the source of her pain.”
I cannot think of better question we could be asking
each other. I cannot think of a better question which
encapsulates our shaping encounter with scripture today.
She touches Jesus’s cloak and immediately they both
simultaneously feel power and presence flow through them.
In that moment, they take on and share in each other’s pain.
But it doesn’t end there. Jesus is aware someone has
touched his cloak, he’s aware that healing has occurred
and that wholeness has been restored. He wants to know
particulars. He wants to see the face of the one who has
been suffering, and he wants to know, “Daughter, my
beloved, where does it hurt?”
And so, she comes forward, tears rolling down her face
as she shares in a way she never has. The bleeding. The
ridicule. The shame. The endless doctor’s appointments.
The empty bank account. The lack of human contact and
touch for twelve years. The loneliness. The isolation. The
absolute desperation.
She shared the source of her pain, and Jesus tenderly enters
into that pain with her.
One of the gifts of this story, I think, is that this woman gives
us all courage to talk about and to name those places and
spaces that so often get unnamed and overlooked. And, in
this way, this story gives us permission—and perhaps even
compels us—to ask one another about our wounds and,
then, to speak directly to that which ails us.
And so, in this way, this encounter with scripture shapes us
in two ways: It gives us a model for how we might openly
share our pain and how we might tenderly embrace and
engage with those in pain.
It gives us courage to ask each other “Friend, where does
it hurt?” And then, feeling the tug of this pain, we don’t turn
away. We move towards it. We move towards the hurt and
the one who is hurting.
Touch. Tenderness. Healing. Faith.
Or, as Father Greg Boyle says it: we meet one another with
“extravagant tenderness.” We receive the tender glance, and
then we become it. So, friends, I ask you this morning, where
does it hurt?
Where are those places and spaces in your life—and in our
collective lives—where we are tugging at the cloak? Where
do we feel someone tugging at our own cloaks? Where
are we desperately needing that tender glance, and where
might we share that tender glance?
Perhaps you or someone you love has just received a
devastating diagnosis or is being overcome by a relentless
disease or injury. Tell us, where does it hurt?
Perhaps you or someone you love has a memory that is
fading and all that once was familiar is now becoming
foreign. Friends, tell us, where does it hurt?
Perhaps you are an individual or a couple battling and
struggling through infertility, an endless routine of needles
and doctors, and bank account transactions, of grief and
lament and loss. Friends, tell us, where does it hurt?
Maybe, despite all the effort, all the conversations, all the
counseling, separation and divorce have become the
needed and necessary outcome. Tell us, where does it hurt?
Maybe you’re a teenager who desperately longs to be
known, named, and loved but is constantly told that those
affirmations can only come in the form of digital likes and
distant, unattached views. Tell us, friend, where does it hurt?
Maybe you’re a child desiring the affection, love, and
attention of caring adults begging them to please stop
working and to simply come and play. Tell us, where does
it hurt?
Maybe you’re a college student, or an emerging or young
adult, overcome and overwhelmed by all that life and
society is telling you that you must do and all that you must
accomplish. Tell us, where does it hurt?
Or what about those struggling in the throes of addiction,
who wake up each day and must tussle and tangle with the
relentless tugging to just take one more drink, to just feel
that high one more time. Tell us, where does it hurt?
What about those individuals in our lives who are overcome
with depression and despair, where simply getting out
of bed feels insurmountable, and to simply exist feels
impossible. Tell us, where does it hurt?
How about those among us who aren’t sure where their
next meal might come from or where they might sleep
tonight. Where does it hurt?
Or those voices and experiences of those who have long
been silenced, wounds intentionally healed and hidden from
the world. Where does it hurt?
What about those of us who have succumbed to the
seduction of production and consumption, only to find that
this endless pursuit of accumulation leaves us feeling empty,
and it leaves creation groaning. Where does it hurt?
What about those who are living and surviving in the terrors
of abuse and anger. Tell us, friend, where does it hurt?
Or how about those who have been left to linger alone,
craving contact and connection but who continually
encounter people who would rather cover their eyes with
their cloaks and keep moving forward, and thus the isolation
persists. Tell us, where does it hurt?
Or how about those sitting and watching among us who
are painfully aware that the seat next to them is now
empty. Loved ones who have died leaving a void that feels
impossible to fill. Tell us, where does it hurt?
Friends, this is the shaping nature of scripture. Reading
and encountering scripture is not an exercise in hemming
us in such that we all have our individual cloaks keeping
us contained and closed off. Reading and encountering
scripture is not an opportunity to avoid the hurt or to
condemn the hurt. Reading and encountering scripture is
not an excuse to turn away in disgust when we realize who
has touched us.
Scripture is an encounter. Scripture is embrace. Scripture is
an embodied engagement with life. Scripture shapes us—
compels us—to serve as a witness, a witness to each other’s
wounds. Scripture shapes us to serve as a collective balm
in the face of our collective brokenness. Scripture cloaks us
in tenderness, touches us with total and complete embrace,
and walks alongside us in our woundedness.
So, friends, please tell us, where does it hurt? Amen.