Grace, Unplugged

She was a little girl when she was taken from her home.  The sounds of her parents screaming, offering themselves instead echo in her mind, as she was grabbed, barely awake, wide-eyed, by an Aramean soldier.  She was starting to forget the song her mother always sang to her as she went to bed.  She had to try to remember the language that her Mom and Dad spoke at home.  Baruch atah adonai eloheynu hamelek haolam… Blessed are you, Lord our God, King of the Universe.  She said the simple prayer over and over again, trying to remember.

She was a little kid.  All she knew was her mistress’s husband was sick and needed help.  She remembered her parents telling her stories of prophets who cured the sick, who made fire rain down from heaven, who raised the dead.  She figured that, if anyone could cure her mistress’s husband, it was the prophet in Israel. 

He was a man’s man, a warrior.  Everyone wanted to be him.  Except for this one little pesky problem that was pretty inconvenient.  He didn’t spend a lot of his time worrying about it… well, not really.  When one of his wives’ slave girls said she knew someone who could heal him, he figured it was worth a shot.  So, he loaded up all of his stuff, so that the man could see his greatness and how much this would do for him, silver, gold, and 10 sets of clothing (Why 10, his wife asked; he didn’t know, he just brought 10). 

He arrived at Elisha’s place, but it looked like there wasn’t anyone home.  A servant came out and told him that he would be cured if he dipped himself in the Jordan 7 times.  The Jordan?!?  You were more likely to contract something from that dirty river, in which everyone from Jericho to Jerusalem bathed, than to be made clean.  “That’s it?” He came all this way, and this was it?  He was angry.  Elisha didn’t even peek out of his window to see how impressive his conquests had been, that he, a warrior, would have such wealth.  His servants asked, “What did you expect - would you have believed him more if he asked you to do something hard?”  Matter of fact, yes.  This was too cheap to be a solution.  But it was worth a shot to see if this crazy man was right.

He went down to the Jordan and dipped himself in 7 times, cringing at the thought of all the nastiness in the water.  He could hear in his mind the prayer the slave girl whispered each night as she went to bed, “Baruch atah adonai, eloheynu, hamelek haolam.  Blessed are you, Lord, our God, King of the Universe.” 

There was a new healer in town.  He’d tried everything to get better.  The priests wouldn’t even look at him.  He hadn’t seen his family in years.  So, after all the years of being turned away, of being untouched, he went to see this man, Jesus, to see if maybe, just maybe, he could be healed.  He approached Jesus, nervously, “If it’s not too much trouble, I know that you have the power to heal me.”  Jesus healed him, but then snapped at him and threw him out, telling him to not speak to anyone and to show himself to the priests. 

Not speak to anyone?  How could he not speak to anyone?  This was a miracle.  It broke down the divisions in his life, allowed him to return to his family, to the temple, from where he had been ostracized for as long as he can remember.

Now, we might think the stories today are about Elisha and Naaman, and Jesus.  Sure, these are all actors in our stories, but of all the people that preach today, it’s not Naaman, who grudgingly dips himself in the Jordan.  It’s not Elisha, who didn’t even leave his house.  It is not even Jesus, who - though he heals the man - sternly throws him out.  The preachers today are the unnamed ones.  It is the unnamed leper.  It is the unnamed slave girl.  It is the unnamed slaves.  It’s the unnamed people, the ones who have every right to feel like they don’t belong, that get it. 

The slave girl proclaims the truth of God and God’s grace: it is free, and it doesn’t know the divisions that we would place.  We bring all of our accomplishments, all of our stuff, hoping they amount to something.  In the end, we are all laid bare before our Creator, who requires that we bring nothing but ourselves.  When we try to bring something other than our whole selves to God, without pretense, holding nothing in our hands, we are able to receive the promise.

The leper tells the truth about God’s word: disobeying even Jesus, he cannot help but proclaim this thing that has happened to him.

It is the people who are captive, the slave girl and Naaman’s slaves literally, and the man with leprosy physically, who proclaim the truth of God.  The slave girl, who was taken from her home, seemingly does not realize the divisons beween she and Naaman, between Arameans and Israelites, of Aramea and Samaria, she forgets that grace is only for the people on the inside, the people who get it right, the people who are righteous.  Naaman’s slaves recognize Naaman’s healing for what it is: a free gift. 

Naaman, who had left in a huff, found he had been healed after dipping in the Jordan.  He went back to Elisha, with all of his stuff, and said, “Let me pay you something for this.  Let me contribute something for this great thing you have done for me.”  Elisha refused payment, but sent Naaman on his way.  This doesn’t sense.  All of his power makes sense to him.  The grace he has received doesn’t.  All of his attempts to make sense out of grace frustrated, Naaman still fails to understand it: he remains concerned about forgiveness, even after he has received grace.  Naaman’s concern suggests a vending machine relationship with grace; Naaman seems frightened grace freely given will be just as easily taken back if he fails.  As he drives away for the last time, he finds himself sweating, asking, “What if this gift, this grace, freely given, could be withdrawn as easily?  If only he could earn it or pay for it, if only it came with a guarantee, perhaps grace would make sense to him. 

Grace would be much easier to understand if it were costly to the recipient.  If we deserved or could pay for grace, perhaps it would be easier to accept.  Likewise, perhaps it would be easier to accept grace if it made sense to whom grace was given.  God’s grace, however, frustrates these attempts.  Maybe this is the point: God’s grace, freely given, precludes our ability to make sense of it.  It is larger than our understanding, making it difficult to determine a hard-and-fast definition of grace.  It is freely given to us sinners, even though we cannot earn it, even though we cannot pay for it, even though we cannot understand it. 

Perhaps this is why Jesus responds so sternly to the man with leprosy.  Tired of people think it’s just about leprosy, tired of being misunderstood, tired of being a vending machine of healing, tired of people thinking that grace is something they can grasp, something they can control, something that is a band-aid rather than a cure, he sends the man away.

At first glance, we, too, think the texts are about leprosy.  Or, on a more positive spin, about healing.  What people can’t see is how costly and how free this grace is.  We want to make free grace cheap, either by earning it, by paying for it, or cheapen it by thinking it is a superficial healing or an answer to the prayer that we get an A on a test.  Where grace is costly is that it goes to the very core of who we are, laying us bare before God.  Where it is costly is that it is not a superficial healing or an answer to our selfish prayers; it changes our lives, restoring us to stand before God as new creations.  It’s too costly to be cheap.  And it’s freely given.

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They all walked away, shaking their heads, knowing life would never be the same since this God – this grace – had come into their lives.  This same grace comes into our lives, whispering the prayer of the slave girl from the land of Israel: “Baruch atah adonai eloheynu hamelek haolam, blessed are you, LORD my God, king of the universe.”  And we realize that grace is something we can’t earn, didn’t pay for, but can only receive as gift.