Mark
6:30-34, 53-56
Quiet
Desperation
James
Sledge July
22, 2012
Jesus
and the disciples needed a little R and R.
They had scarcely had a moment’s rest for weeks. It had been a nonstop preaching, teaching,
and healing tour. The crowds were everywhere, pressing in on them, demanding
access to Jesus. Perhaps that is why
Jesus had sent the disciples out in pairs on a tour of their own. He needed surrogates to help in the face of
so much demand.
When
the disciples returned from their mission trips with tales of their own crowds
and of teaching and healing many, everyone was exhausted. But still people swarmed around. And so Jesus said, “Come away to a deserted place
all by yourselves and rest awhile.” And like celebrities escaping the
paparazzi, they got into a boat and slipped away.
But
the crowds were as persistent as paparazzi.
Jesus and his entourage had not made their getaway completely
undetected. They had been spotted, the
direction they were headed observed. Word quickly spread, and by the time Jesus
and his crew came ashore at their deserted hideaway, a huge, clamoring crowd
was waiting for them.
Time
to make another break for it. Time to give the crowds the slip. Send a couple disciples one way, a few more
the other, then slip out the back.
Except that Jesus looks into the faces of the crowd, and
he had compassion on them, because they were like sheep without a shepherd.
How
pathetic those folks must have been. They were so desperate that they chased
after Jesus like pre-teen girls chasing Justin Bieber. They were so desperate for help that they
begged just to touch his clothes. The disciples could have made a fortune if
they had known about mass marketing.
“Get you own piece of Jesus’ cloak for only $19.95, plus shipping and
handling.”
I’m
sure glad I’m not like those pitiful Galileans.
Sure, I’ve got my problems, but I’m not going to come unglued over
them. I don’t need to push and shove and
beg. I have things under control. I have
resources as my disposal. I’m not going
to let myself get in a situation where I need to act like those folks who
chased after Jesus, begging for him to help.
Feelings
this way may be why the images out of New Orleans shortly after Hurricane
Katrina were so disturbing.
We saw
people who were trapped, who were helpless, and who were begging for someone to
help them. Crowds congregated at the
Super Dome, a symbol of wealth and opulence, but there was no food and no
water, and they pleaded with anyone who would listen to help.[1] That’s not supposed to happen.
It
wasn’t nearly so bad a few weeks ago when many of us were without power. But some of us felt a hint of
desperation. We were hot and sweaty, our
food was spoiling, and there wasn’t much we could do about it. I imagine that more than a few utility repair
trucks were swarmed by crowds when they came into a neighborhood as people
rejoiced, begged, and pleaded.
When
I think about it, I’m not sure I’ve ever come to church with much sense of
desperation, with the longing I felt a few weeks ago for electricity and air
conditioning. Even as a pastor, faith is
just one of many things in my life, all those pursuits and activities that I
cobble together in the hope that they will add up to a full and abundant
life. And yet I often feel something is
missing. I often feel unsatisfied,
hungry.
Most
all pastors at times hear people complain about how worship left them unsatisfied,
how it didn’t “feed” them. I’ve often
dismissed such complaints as a misunderstanding of what worship is supposed to
be, something we give to God. But it
makes sense that if people are spiritually hungry, they would be disappointed if
they came to church and did not feel fed. Disappointed, but certainly not
desperate. We have too many other
things, too many other resources. We’re
too much in control to get desperate.
When
I do actually experience moments of desperation with regards to faith, they are
private, quiet moments of desperation.
I’m too good at being in control, or at least at seeming to be in
control, to act desperate.
I
wonder if this isn’t common in our age; quietly desperate people longing for
something but not sure what it is. We
don’t seem desperate, but we run ourselves ragged acquiring all those things
that are supposed to make us happy and fulfilled. We have more things, more experiences, more
activities, more entertainment, more TV channels, more knowledge, more
information… but all too often, we still feel empty. And the horrible shooting in Colorado this
weekend only adds to our sense of unease, our sense that things are simply not
right.
At
least we can be sure that when Jesus looks on our quiet desperation, he aches
for us, longs to help us, sees us as sheep in need of a shepherd. And he wants to teach us and guide us, though
I wonder if we have to admit our desperation before we can learn much.
On
those days I come to worship feeling spiritual empty, I’m inclined to agree
with John Calvin, the founder of our theological tradition, who said that
worship without the Lord’s Supper is deficient.
In moments of quiet desperation and deep hunger, it might be reassuring
to point to the table and say, “Here is bread; here is wine. Come to the
feast!”
Interestingly,
our gospel reading this morning leaves out the feast as well. It includes two stories about crowds but
skips over the feeding miracle in between, saving that as a separate reading
for next Sunday. But when Jesus began to
teach the crowds, those shepherdless sheep, he taught for a long time. And he
decided he’d better feed them before they went home, even though all he had was
a bit of bread and a couple of fish. He
looked up to heaven, and blessed and broke the loaves, and gave them to his
disciples to set before the people.” Here
is bread. Come to the feast!
Growing
up in the Presbyterian Church, I don’t recall thinking of Communion – that’s
all I ever heard it called – as much of a feast. It was a curiosity that we did a few times a
year, and the dried out little cubes and thimble full of juice that came down
the pew did little to point to a feast.
But if Jesus fed thousands with a little bread and a couple of fish…
I
wonder sometimes if those desperate Galileans don’t have an advantage over
me. In their desperation, they could see
Jesus as a Savior, as the one person, the one thing they desperately
needed. Me, with all my resources, all
my sense, or at least pretensions, of being in control, I have difficulty
really turning to Jesus, really giving myself to Jesus. He’s just one resource among many, one
strategy among dozens, one little piece of a giant pie that is supposed to add
up to happiness, fulfillment, security, meaning, and so on.
I’m
suspicious that we all got sold a bill of goods somewhere along the way when
the world convinced us that “more” was the answer. We just need a little more, and all will be
well; more income, more time, more possessions, more rooms in the house, more
investments, more interests, more enrichment activities for our children, more
education, more choices.
But
more can be a cruel task master,
keeping us running to and fro constantly.
We’re less sheep without a shepherd and more sheep with hundreds of
shepherds, all pushing us this way and that.
But Jesus looks at us with the same compassion he had for those
differently desperate Galileans, longing to be our true shepherd, longing to
feed us with food that really satisfies.
As
I was working on this sermon, I kept hearing a phrase over and over in my head.
It’s something Jesus said in a different gospel in a completely different
setting. It was originally addressed to
someone named Martha, but it now seemed addressed directly to me. “James, you
are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing.”
Take
compassion on us, Jesus, and give us the one thing we truly need.
[1]
Thanks to Cheryl Bridges Johns for pointing this out in her “Homiletical
Perspective” article in Feasting on the
Word: preaching the Revised Common Lectionary, Year B, Vol. 3 (Louisville:
Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 265.
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