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| Cleansing of Naaman |
I can
imagine that ancient Israel absolutely loved to tell and re-tell this story
about Naaman, the commander from the army in Aram. During those long years when
Israel was in exile in Babylon, far away from their homeland, far away from
their River Jordan, I can just imagine that this story, peculiar though it may
be, brought them great relief, made them proud.
I
remember that when I first lived in Pittsburgh and the Steelers were still
coming off of their long exile from the postseason any time the subject of
football was brought up (and it’s brought up a lot in Pittsburgh) I would
inevitably hear about the Immaculate Reception. I would hear every detail—every
stirring detail—about the crazy, accidental play that saved their divisional
title in December 1972 when they were trailing to the Raiders with 30 seconds
to go in the game. A pass from quarterback Terry Bradshaw was intended for one
receiver but it seemed to get tipped by the Raiders’ defensive player. The ball
ricocheted to the feet of Steelers fullback Franco Harris who scooped it
up—from his shoe or off the ground, no one really knows—and ran it in for the
game-winning touchdown.
If
you’ve never heard a Pittsburgh native who was alive in the 1970s tell you the
story of the Immaculate Reception, you’re missing out. Fathers tell it to their
daughters, mothers tell it to their sons. That crazy event brought—and still
brings—any Pittsburgh Steelers fan so much pride. The play was like this proof
that the Steelers had magic, had destiny, that they occupied some special
status in pro football.
I
imagine that’s kind of how the ancient Israelites told this story about Naaman coming
to Israel’s River Jordan to get healed. There are so many intricate details in
it, signs that oral tradition was really doing its duty as father passed down
the story to daughter and mother to son. They were not going to forget anything
about how it happened. It probably reminded them that they had a certain
destiny, special status in God’s grand plan.
In this
story you have Naaman, the distinguished commander in the army of the King of
Aram, a foreign military power. Naaman is a bigwig, has lots of power, but unfortunately
he has a skin disease, which at that time, was basically a kiss of death. Back
then all skin disorders were lumped under the term “leprosy,” and they were a
one-way ticket to outsider status. He had probably been searching for a cure
for this skin disease for a while. He ends up finding out that there may be a prophet
down in this small, inferior kingdom to the south who could do something about
it.
So
a letter is written to arrange some type of meeting but the king of that small,
inferior kingdom, known as Israel, immediately thinks he’s being set up. At
that point the prophet, named Elisha, decides to step in and follow through on
Naaman’s request. For whatever reason, Naaman rolls into town with all of his
war cabinet and his chariots and horses. It would be like if Vladimir Putin came
to get something from our HHOPE pantry here one day and he came up Monument
Avenue with some of his tanks and officers. Elisha gives the word that all he
needs to do is bathe in the River Jordan and he’ll be made clean.
After
some initial reluctance and a temper tantrum, Naaman eventually goes through
with it and, lo and behold, after dipping in the river seven times, he’s cured.
Then before he rolls his huge entourage back up to Aram in the north, Naaman,
overcome with thankfulness, journeys back to Elisha and proclaims praise to
God’s name. Then, in the next part of the story, Naaman orders two mule-loads
of Israel’s dirt to be brought back to Aram so that he could continue to
worship the God of Israel.
That’s
the story that ancient Israel probably loved to tell and re-tell. Here are some
of the things that story was supposed to teach them: First of all, it was a
reminder that the greatest faith is more often found in the lowliest faces. Notice
throughout the story how the rich and powerful are the ones who have the least
confidence in God’s ability to heal and save. Whether it is Naaman, who is
dissatisfied with the proposed cure and wants to go back home, or the king of
Israel, who freaks out at the chance to showcase God’s power, neither of those
in the story with strong relative power are initially examples of faithfulness.
By
contrast, it’s the unnamed folks at the edges that display
faith in the Lord. The whole story gets started, after all, by this servant
girl who merely mentions the abilities of the prophet living in Israel. And
when Naaman almost backs out and gets ready to take his chariots back to Aram, it’s
his servants who come through and convince him to trust the prophet’s words. It
was an important lesson for Israel to ponder, especially as they constantly
seemed to be seeking worldly status and power. Great faith so often resides in
those the world overlooks or ignores or enslaves or devalues. Notice Jesus’ own
shock when he sees the one thankful leper turns out to be a foreigner, not a
regular Israelite. God loves those people, draws near to them, desires to help
them. And it is those who have relative power and privilege who, somewhat
ironically, are the easiest to convince they have no need of a God to redeem
and heal them. Lesson one: great faith is found in the lowest faces.
Another
thing the healing of Naaman was supposed to teach the Israelites was that
healing comes in the most unexpected places. The kingdom of Aram was on a roll.
They had an army that could conquer anyone; they had talented military
personnel. But to give Naaman the healing he needed, he was going to have to
visit lowly old kingdom of Israel, almost a vassal state. The Rivers of
Damascus, Abana and Pharpar, were beautiful, big and fresh compared to the
dinky, dirty Jordan. He travelled all the way down here for a simple bath in that water? Naaman was expecting some
big show of power and drama, some mystical secret weapon of healing (after all,
he is a weapons guy). But God’s word is not chained, as the apostle Paul would
say, and God often prefers the simple and unassuming to bring about wholeness, in
spite of our desire for the masterful.
Because
of where our church is located, every once in a while we have someone off the
street drop by looking for assistance. Ninety-nine times out of one hundred
they claim they need financial assistance, but one day several years ago a
woman showed up who said she wanted to talk with a pastor. Pastor Price must
have been out at the time, so I ended up setting down what I was doing and
speaking with her. The conversation lasted for quite a while, and my memory is
hazy now, but I remember that she was really agitated and worried about the
health of her husband, who had just finished a round of cancer treatment with
no results. I kept waiting for her to get to the point where she would tell me
she needed something—like a hotel room or money for food, but as the story went
on, it appeared she wanted me to tell her what she was supposed to do now. There
were some family conflict, too, and she felt overwhelmed. It was a bizarre
conversation and I remember feeling absolutely helpless. She never wanted to
tell me her name, even though I asked her for it so I could pray for her. Like
Naaman, I expected of myself some magical, dramatic words or gesture that would
reassure her, calm her down, give her hope. But nothing came. When she finally
left, I felt like it was fifty minutes down the drain. I wanted to do something
difficult, something impressive. She seemed every bit as disoriented and upset
as when she arrived.
Then,
about a week later, an unmarked envelope came to the church through the mail. All
that was in it was a $50 bill wrapped in a piece of paper that said, “Thanks
for listening to me. Signed, your stranger last week.” Why she felt compelled
to respond in that way, I don’t know, but I have a feeling I was being taught
Naaman’s again. Faith comes in the lowliest faces. Healing comes in the most
unexpected places.
We
cannot predict how God is going to work among us, and because we’re typically
infatuated with the showy and spectacular, the giant and the grandiose, we’re
apt to miss the profound healing that can come through the humble and humdrum. We
can often overlook Jesus, that is, and the places where Jesus walks among us, in
steady gentleness and kindness, calling out to us that we are clean. We can
often overlook the point of the cross—that face, that place where God’s grace
is poured out in a crucified man so that we may be cleansed of our sin and made
well.
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| Cleansing of the Ten lepers (Codex Aureus) |
God
is not going to require us to perform some magnificent ritual or deed of glory
to prove our worth. God is going to take us as we are, unclean and broken, and
love us back to life in the death and resurrection of Jesus. God is going to
meet us in the ordinary, in the Godforsaken path we’re taking, to give us his
healing. And like Israel and the disciples of Jesus learned, it often takes an
encounter with another person—a stranger, a foreigner healed of leprosy, a
nameless visitor in the office, a person who has experienced that new life for
us to see its power, ourselves.
That
brings me to the last thing the story of Naaman should have taught the
Israelites, and which still teaches us: We show thankfulness for God’s graces. A
clean Naaman could have gone straight home from the River Jordan. Ten clean
former lepers started running off to the priest that day. The visitor in my
office could have gone about her business, clean from her worry. But there is
something about expressing thankfulness that makes us well. There is something
about the thanksgiving that completes the relationship, which seals the deal. We
are created for God’s glory and joy, and as much delight as it must give God to
have us clean and whole, imagine how delighted God is to hear or see our
thanks. Imagine how much it does for us when we respond in that relationship
with our gratefulness.
Living
our faith in the world, living out the grace of our baptism is like carrying
back those two mule-loads of holy soil. That is, wherever we walk becomes holy
ground, an opportunity where we express our thankfulness for what God has done.
Each person with whom we talk becomes an opportunity to show our faith in God. And
as this happens, through God’s strange but humble power, we are face of faith
for someone who needs it. We are an unexpected place of healing. And, if I may be
so bold as to say, an immaculate inception—a moment where the crucified and
risen Lord may find an opening.
Thanks
be to God!
The Reverend Phillip W. Martin, Jr.
The Reverend Phillip W. Martin, Jr.
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