Today is the Seventh Sunday after Pentecost.
We’re in the long season of Ordinary Time.
After two weeks of others being awed by Jesus, this week reverses the story. Jesus is awed by those following him.
And it should give us pause.
Mark 6:1-13
Jesus came to his hometown, and his disciples followed him. On the sabbath he began to teach in the synagogue, and many who heard him were astounded. They said, “Where did this man get all this? What is this wisdom that has been given to him? What deeds of power are being done by his hands! Is not this the carpenter, the son of Mary and brother of James and Joses and Judas and Simon, and are not his sisters here with us?”
And they took offense at him.
Then Jesus said to them, “Prophets are not without honor, except in their hometown, and among their own kin, and in their own house.” And he could do no deed of power there, except that he laid his hands on a few sick people and cured them. And he was amazed at their unbelief.
Then he went about among the villages teaching. He called the twelve and began to send them out two by two, and gave them authority over the unclean spirits. He ordered them to take nothing for their journey except a staff; no bread, no bag, no money in their belts; but to wear sandals and not to put on two tunics. He said to them, “Wherever you enter a house, stay there until you leave the place. If any place will not welcome you and they refuse to hear you, as you leave, shake off the dust that is on your feet as a testimony against them.” So they went out and proclaimed that all should repent. They cast out many demons, and anointed with oil many who were sick and cured them.
In today’s reading, Jesus goes home.
He’d performed several miracles and was being followed by astonished crowds seeking more. He probably wanted the comforts of home — his mother, his brothers and sisters, the familiarity of the local synagogue. A home cooked meal. Some quiet. His closest friends came with him.
Yet he couldn’t stop his work entirely. He was asked to teach on the sabbath.
It must have been a good sermon. Many were astounded. They said he was wise. Powerful.
Isn’t this the boy whose father taught him carpentry? Mary’s son? Wasn’t there some scandal decades ago before he was born? Whatever….all those brothers!
But some took offense.
And Jesus discovered how hard it can be to go home.
* * * * * *
I know that, too. From personal experience.
I once went home to a place I’d loved, a community that shaped me. But there were ten years between the time I left and the time I returned. In many ways, I felt the same and it felt the same. But then, I noticed things weren’t the same. And those who had known me thought I was a different person.
Some were astonished that I’d learned so much and had changed in good ways.
But others? They took offense. So much offense that I couldn’t remain among them.
That’s not the only time I’ve had such an experience. In 2006, I joined Facebook. Among my earliest followers were high school friends from Arizona.
At first, it was fun to reconnect. We swapped memories and old photographs. One woman even came to visit me when she was in Washington, DC. But then, those old friends read my posts. In those years, I worried about how Muslims were being treated. I protested the Iraq War. I wrote critical pieces about the dangers of religious right and evangelical religion. I began to share my enthusiasm about a young politician who was an African-American senator from Illinois. Occasionally, an old friend would argue with me online: What happened to you? You used to be a Republican! We went to Bible study together. We believed the same things…
Mostly, however, they didn’t argue. They were offended by my ideas. And they unfriended me.
It was strange, in those early days of social media, to be unfriended by someone who had been a friend.
Indeed, going home is hard. Whether the home is a real one or a virtual one. I suspect I’m not the only person who feels for Jesus in this story.
* * * * * *
I didn’t respond very well in either case. In the first episode, I was full of rage, and fantasizing of revenge, I prayed down imprecatory curses on their heads. When it came to Facebook, I felt an odd sting — resentment, maybe? — watching my follower count go down. I thought less of my new unfriends, gossiping about them to others. Petty, I know.
But rejection hurts. We humans don’t do well with it.
It isn’t surprising that Jesus responded very differently than did I — and differently than most people I know who have gone through similar things. He seemed to shrug it off: “Prophets are not without honor, except in their hometown, and among their own kin, and in their own house.”
Oh well, he said, and he kept at his ministry. But it didn’t seem his heart was still in it. And he could do no deed of power there, except that he laid his hands on a few sick people and cured them.
Jesus used this episode as an object lesson for his own followers in the second half of the story — don’t stick around where you’re not wanted. Move on. Find those ready to embrace the Kingdom of God. You’re going to need new friends.
But, before that, there’s that emotional punch in a single line: And he was amazed at their unbelief.
* * * * * *
Two Sundays ago, the disciples were amazed when Jesus calmed the storm at sea. Last week, a family — and presumably the crowd that they weren’t supposed to tell about the miracle — were amazed when Jesus raised a little girl from the dead.
In Mark’s gospel, Jesus amazes many people, friends and foes alike.
But here, criticized by some who had known and raised him, Jesus is amazed: he was amazed at their unbelief.
Jesus is amazed by unbelief.
What does that mean?
* * * * * *
When I was rejected by my community and by my old friends, I was rejected for things that I believed — ideas I held that were different than the ideas they expected me to hold. They remembered that I had been like them, shared their perspectives, and saw the world as they did. Those friendships and work relationships were forged by believing the same things — either in politics or religion. When they realized that I no longer believed, I was expelled. You might say, in social media lingo, I was unfriended for unbelief.
Our times are marked by unfriending for unbelief. When we discover that someone holds ideas we object to, has used a phrase that is off-putting, or supports a cause we can’t abide, we unfriend, cancel, or cast them out. We aren’t amazed by unbelief. We’re horrified by it — and we turn those we deem unbelievers into conversion targets or enemies.
And, since Jesus slipped away to the next village, it might seem that’s what he did, too.
However, the word “belief” didn’t mean the same thing for Jesus as it does for us. While we modern people think of “belief” and “believing” as ideological and conceptual, the Greek word pistós means “faith” or “trust.” Its opposite used in today’s story — apistian — means “distrust” or “no-faith.”
This story isn’t about ideas about God.
Belief — and unbelief — is a disposition of the heart.
The late Marcus Borg once wrote,
The language of “believing” has been part of Christianity from the first century onward. But it didn’t refer primarily to believing the right theological beliefs.
It meant something like the English word “beloving.” To believe in God and Jesus was to belove God and Jesus. Namely, it meant to commit one’s self to a relationship of attentiveness and faithfulness. Commitment and fidelity are the ancient meanings of faith and believing.
And Jesus was amazed at their unbelief.
Maybe it would be better to say, “and Jesus was amazed at their lack of trust” or “he marveled at their inability to have faith.” He was amazed that there hearts were misdirected. Not about their ideas or doctrine.
He expected they would believe. He seemed to expect they would trust him.
Some of those hometown folks, however, didn’t “faith” the one they’d known since childhood. The boy from the village. They might have marveled at his wisdom or been astonished by his success, but they just didn’t trust him.
That’s why Jesus was amazed. Strangers followed him. The Romans were after him. People sought him out. But his old friends? The ties that had once bound them had frayed. Trust and fidelity had waned. Memories were not enough. Being neighbors with his relatives was not enough.
He was more alone than he suspected. Had they ever really cared for him? Loved him?
It amazed him. It may have broken his heart, at least just a little.
* * * * * *
When community weakens, when friends unfriend, when those who knew you best turn away — when they don’t trust you or hold you in the love you once trusted — confidence ebbs, energy fades. We just aren’t at our best. Being on the short end of unbelief is tough; it rattles even the most assured of humans.
The truth is that we need others to rise to our fullest abilities; there are certain things that can only be done with the love and trust of those committed to being there with and for us.
That is amazing. Faith and trust are necessary for wisdom, to heal what is wounded, to cast out injustice, and to care for all those in need.
Ideology will only divide us more deeply. Those idea-tribes are killing us, separating us.
And so, we journey on to the next place. We might rather be home. We might prefer the old friends. But, amazed by distrust and unfaith, we walk on. To discover faith. It isn’t about shunning.
It is a quest to seek believing — a beloving — community.
Where miracles can and will happen.
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INSPIRATION
In the second half of today’s reading, Jesus instructs his disciples to travel light. The poem this Sunday emphasizes that part of the story.
Because sometimes we
travel heavy
and those heady times we
can barely
imagine the freebody
movement of
dance.
Because sometimes we
travel dark
and from those hard paths we
can’t even
conjure an image of
sunrise
or moonrise
or starlight
or fire.
Because sometimes we
travel solo
and those lonely times we
forget all the others
we’ve travelled with
lovingly
travelled with
home.
Because sometimes we
need to be
travelling lightly
because sometimes we’re in need of
regular reminding
that light comes in circles
and waves
and small moments
and light
comes to find us
and light comes with hope.
— Pádraig Ó Tuama, “Travelling Light”
(Pádraig Ó Tuama is an excellent poet and important writer. I highly recommend his work.)
📣 UPCOMING EVENT!
On Wednesday July 17, we’re hosting Margo Guernsey, an award-winning documentary filmmaker, for an online conversation with paid subscribers.
Her new film, The Philadelphia Eleven, shares the moving story of the first eleven women to be ordained as priests in the Episcopal Church. That historic ordination happened fifty years ago this July.
The film is a powerful testament on justice and persistence and a timely reminder how things we now take for granted were costly and hard-won victories for visionary men and women before us. It isn’t just an “Episcopal” film. It is a deeply human story with profound implications for our own times.
Because Margo is coming to The Cottage, we’ve got a SURPRISE FOR YOU!
PAID SUBSCRIBERS WILL BE INVITED TO A SPECIAL ONLINE VIEWING OF THE PHILADELPHIA ELEVEN FROM JULY 16-19 FOR ONLY $5.00. THAT’S $6 OFF THE REGULAR VIEWING FEE OF $11.
Details about accessing the coupon and sign-up will be sent out to all paid subscribers on MONDAY, JULY 15. If you are a paid subscriber, you will receive a private email then with instructions about how to watch the film.
I hope you’ll join in! We’ve never had a movie at The Cottage before!
The whole world has now become a single family trying to live in a single monastery without walls. In the words of Prophet Muhammad, "The whole earth is a mosque." We are already within this monastery, this mosque, even if we do not like some of our companions. Our vocation is to hang in there together.
— Jay McDaniel
I am so blessed by the FOUND community of The Cottage and other online forums where I feel I can be-love most authentically. While I am able to love those who reject me, rejection does indeed hurt. When in seminary, the church where I worshiped until my teen years would not invite me into the pulpit as a student because I am a woman. I can relate and appreciate your vulnerability.
"ME TOO." Except for the cursing . . . . I still loved them and still do. But it's been real hard, near impossible, to connect with a beloving community. Sometimes, even here. We seem hard wired to react badly when someone takes a stand we don't like. My wife doesn't get how I can get along with Trump folks. Hey. Fellow Americans, fellow human beings, sometimes even fellow Christians. What's so hard. (OK, I don't have friendly feelings toward Putin or others like him. But short of people harming people, I gotta "live and let live.")