February 19, 2006

Glynn Cardy

Epiphany 7     
Mark 2:1-12

I was asked to be a pallbearer this week. An old mate had died. Six of us, robed priests, carried him shoulder high out of St Mary's Parnell. A thought stayed with me afterwards: Occasionally we carry each other in death, but do we carry each other in life?

It is possible to read the Gospels and conclude that Jesus was never carried. That he was a complete, self-sufficient human being that wasn't dependent upon anyone. He was powered by heavenly tonic. He didn't need followers, they needed him. Yet, as Jesus movies portray time after time, he wasn't a loner. He needed the intimacy of Mary, the tenderness of John, the volatile strength of Peter, the critique of Judas. Those around him influenced him. This is the way love is. There is no such thing as independent love. I think we need to be bold in our interpreting of Scripture and re-envisage Jesus as one carried by his friends, who at times carried them, and together carried others.

Likewise St. Paul: Was he really a one-man missionary band bravely battling the odds? Or was he connected to, reliant upon, and sustained by a circle of friends? Acts 14 tells of Paul's efforts in Lystra coming to a rocky end. Verse 19: 'they stoned Paul and dragged him out of the city supposing that he was dead.' Verse 20: 'But when the disciples surrounded him, he got up… The next day he went on with Barnabas to Derbe.'

It was the disciples of Lystra, the ordinary extraordinary pew-sitting parishioners of Lystra, who healed and restored the great Paul. Yes Paul inspired them, but they also inspired him. Early Christianity was about giving and taking, taking and giving. It's no different today. The Gospel is about love. Period. And love is not a solo affair. It takes though some effort to carry one another. It takes time, patience, and sometimes strength. We also need to let others carry us. This can often be a harder thing to do. Asking for help doesn't come easily.

The friends who carried the paralysed man in Mark 2 ripped off the roof. As their wives would have said: 'Most houses have a door darling.' These guys though weren't listening – they were on a mission from God. Knocking on doors and politely asking to enter wasn't for them. No, they had the bright and novel idea of making a hole. They sound like some guys I know who enter each year in the Birdman competition. If there is a wacky way to fly they'll find it. 'Conventional' is a swear word. And I confess without the brilliant stupidity of these guys life would loose some of its shine and many of its laughs.

Now this 1st century hole in the roof was no small thing. They were able to fit a whole stretcher through it with their mate attached. Can you imagine the dust as the boys went to work with gusto ripping through the mud brick and wooden struts? The debris would have showered down upon Jesus and the crowd below. As the four patient wives would have said, 'Darling we think you overlooked something.' 

Jesus though kept his cool. Maybe he recognised the potency of that divine blend of male friendship, compassion, enthusiasm, and stupidity? Maybe his actual words to the paralytic were: 'If I had friends like that mate I'd learn to walk.' But before Jesus could say much O.S.H. -- Occupational Safety and Health -- materialised. That is the theological O.S.H., guardians of the rules and protectors of convention. These were the guys who reckoned Jesus needed a license to preach, absolve and heal. Just as the guys on the roof needed a license to be compassionate and make a hell of a mess. That was the whole problem they'd taken license, just as Jesus was now taking license. If this continued things would get out of control. And control was very important. 

Sin was, and still is, a game. It's a control game. Those in power define what's sin and set the rules about how it's dealt with. The sinners are absolved when they recognise their failings, feel guilt and genuine remorse, and make recompense. Most religions get in on this game and some make a feature of it. But it all seems to me to be largely about keeping people paralysed lest they do something we're afraid of.

I see life as like riding a bike. From an early age you teach a child the basics of riding, hold the back of their seat, and then let them go. From an early age you encourage them to venture forth, to explore what's around the corner or over the hill and far away. Sometimes that can be scary for you as well as them. Sometimes they return with scratches, and sometimes with wildfire in their eyes. Falling off is part of cycling. Believe me, as one who has taken part in a number of cycle races, falling off isn't just a kid thing. Sometimes it's a car thing, or a corner thing, or a I-can't-get-my-foot-out-of-the-ruddy-clip thing. Like in life people fall, hurting themselves and often others. If you want to call falling 'sin' then do so.

But the important thing is not the fall, the 'sin' so to speak. It's not blaming yourself or others, feeling guilty or saying sorry. No, the important thing is getting back on your bike, aches and all. The important thing is getting up and getting going again. There is still a huge wide world out there in which to go exploring and in which to find God.

'Is it easier to say your sins are forgiven or to say take up your bed and walk?' This is getting on your bike language. The boys have done their outrageous thing, ripping the roof off convention. Jesus has done his outrageous thing defying the sin-police. Now it's time to do your outrageous thing – get up and on your bike. Don't be stuck within the limits and vision of others. Head for the horizon and make your own.

I wonder what the guys up top thought as they saw their mate walking off with his stretcher over his shoulder. 'Crikey, it actually worked', said one. 'Gee I'd love to see his kids faces now,' said another. 'I think he owes us a beer,' said the third. The fourth asked as they walked away, ' Who's gunna fix the roof?'