“Why do you raise such questions in your heart?” Jesus asks the scribes and Pharisees. Pharisees being rather strict observers of aspects of Jewish law and tradition, and scribes being the professional scholars who interpreted Holy Scripture. You might think of me, as a priest, as something of a latter-day scribe. And so I can hear that question loud and clear, as if it were directed right at me.
Except that the questions I’m raising in my heart are somewhat different than those of my first century brethren. For example, I am not as concerned with who has the authority to forgive sins. By Church Canon, I have that authority, being the Episcopal scribe that I am. But forgiveness is really never about what you or I have said or done or left undone; its about what God has done. So let me assure you of this, just in case you happen to have come here bearing a sin that is keeping you paralyzed in any way. You are already forgiven. The words that Paul wrote to the church in Rome in the first century are just as true today:
“Neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
Nevertheless, today’s little Gospel reading continues to raise big and important questions for people of faith. Embedded within these nine short verses is a story of persistent friendship, of healing, of religious authority, of leaders threatened, of crowds amazed, and of a roof compromised. Depending on with whom or what you identify, there’s something in this story to challenge and to comfort all of us.
As one who identifies with the scribes, I continue to have plenty of questions in my heart. The one that comes up for me today, as I listen to this Gospel, is this. Which is easier to say? Coming near to Jesus is worth wrecking the roof, or, a hole in the roof is a costly mess. Both are equally true statements, of course.
All over our country people are legitimately protesting the recent grand jury decisions in Ferguson and in Staten Island. And as close as Berkeley and Oakland, buildings re being vandalized in the process. Some of the violent protest hits close to home for me, because I’m from the East Bay and my young adult children live near ground zero for the Oakland riots. So while this kind of protest frightens me and I don’t defend property destruction, I wonder to what degree it’s a wake up call to those of us who would prefer that our roofs—or our grand jury system, or the impunity of our police—remain intact.
In the Gospel story we just heard, the paralytic was healed, but the house was hurt. However, we don’t hear anything more about the hole in the roof because, frankly, it was incidental to the central drama. Which was not just a miraculous healing but also a transformation in relationships. A person so disempowered that his friends had to lower him into the house on a bed was met by Jesus, whereupon he lifted up the bed and carried it out himself.
And this is what our faith promises to all who are disabled by illness or sin or racism. Which is all of us. Doing whatever it takes to come close to Jesus Christ—the embodiment of God’s justice—may well mess up the buildings. It will no doubt tick off the scribes. Structures and laws may need to be undone. But if we persist in faithfulness to the God who is able to transform us all, both we who are strong to carry, and we who need to be carried, will all have the joy of walking as equals.
