Sermons

Sun, May 29, 2016

How do we begin to comprehend?

Series:Sermons

Many of the stories that we know very well––

folklore and traditional tales that have been handed down from generation to generation––

have…

in the passing of the years…

taken on a life of their own.

How we understand them isn’t necessarily how they were understood in the past.

How we understand them may not even be how the writer intended them to be understood.

Take, for example, “Waltzing Matilda”.

For most, it’s probably seen as a story that reflects the early Australian larrikin spirit.

But Banjo Paterson’s original poem was written in the aftermath of a shearers’ strike on a property in Queensland––

a strike that turned violent…

resulting in the woolshed being burnt down.

One of the culprits––

pursued by the police and the homestead owner––

shot and killed himself at a waterhole…

rather than be captured.

Most scholars believe that Paterson wrote the poem—

loosely based on these events––

as a carefully worded political allegory.

The poem was intended to be anti-establishment…

even anti-authoritarian.

But that’s not necessarily how we hear it today.

In the telling and re-telling…

in the passing of the years…

and in the face of significant cultural shifts…

how we understand a story may not be how it was understood at the time…

or how its author intended for it to be understood.

We can miss subtle nuances.

But we can also fail to understand a story completely…

because the story presupposes knowledge…

or makes cultural assumptions…

that we no longer share.

 

All of that is true, of course…

and perhaps even more so…

with stories from the Bible.

And it’s especially true of our story this morning from Luke’s Gospel.

In this story a Centurion has a sick servant…

and he sends people to Jesus asking for his help;

Jesus commends the man for his faith and trust…

and the servant is healed.

On the surface, it’s a fairly simple, straightforward story.

Understood within its time and culture…

as the author intended…

and as the original audience would have heard it…

it’s anything but.

So let’s try to unpack it contextually.

The central protagonist is a Centurion––

a Roman military officer.

So, at once, he is identified as a foreign invader or occupier––

from a Hebrew perspective.

Their attitude or perception of him…

wouldn’t have been too different from those of us reared on old war films…

when we think about Nazi occupiers.

At the outset, then, he’s a hated, detestable figure.

But, even more than that, he’s a dirty pagan…

a worshipper of false and foreign gods.

Indeed, within the Roman army, Centurions served something of a priestly role.

So, this loathsome character enlisted the help of people indebted to him…

and sent them to Jesus––

whom he had heard about…

probably as some sort of prophet, cum-holy-man, cum-shaman––

to beg for his help in healing a sick slave.

Let’s just pause for a minute and wrap our heads around the concept of “slave”.

Slavery was an institution that defined and treated certain people as non-people…

as property…

as livestock…

to be bought and sold…

to be used and abused…

as they saw fit…

however they saw fit.

The institution and the lived experience was one of domination.

It was built entirely on the idea of complete social…

emotional…

psychological…

and physical dominance.

And that included sexuality.

It was common––

indeed, it was expected––

that masters would use their slaves sexually.

It was an effective means of social control…

and it was part of their privilege and prerogative as masters.

And that was equally true for male as well as female slaves.

Part of the value of a slave related to their sexual attractiveness and potential.

This particular slave is described here as “valued highly”

which we should understand, literally, as “valuable”––

that is, costly or expensive.

The Centurion also refers to this slave using a term, in the Greek, which describes his youthfulness.

Together, the implication is clear.

This slave was a young man who was regarded as very attractive…

which made him very valuable.

And yet, the Centurion’s concern at his slave’s illness isn’t just driven financially.

There is a genuine care and concern implied here.

Now, it was, in fact, quite common for young Roman men…

before their parents had arranged a marriage for them––

especially those of some social means––

to take a youthful male slave as a concubine.

And, it was also quite common for Roman soldiers…

who were unable to marry while serving.

That would seem to be the situation of this Centurion.

The attractive, youthful slave who is gravely ill would seem to be his concubine.

And he’s deeply concerned.

Indeed, he’s so concerned that he acts in a slightly surprising way.

In sending dependents and friends to intercede…

to secure the services of this powerful prophet, healer, and holy-man…

he publicly demonstrates his affection and love for a slave in way that was somewhat shocking––

culturally-speaking.

He’s so deeply concerned that…

despite being a powerful and honourable man…

he willingly places himself in a subservient position…

and enters into a personal indebtedness…

in order to secure the healing of this slave.

Even to Roman eyes, his behaviour would have been disgraceful and dishonourable.

But, to Hebrew eyes, it was so totally beyond the pale that it’s almost impossible to comprehend.

A detestable…

unclean…

idol-worshipping…

foreign…

brutal military occupier…

who keeps a young slave man in his bed…

comes begging for help.

He is someone so totally ‘other’…

so totally repugnant to the audience’s cultural and religious sensibilities…

that there’s no way that they could imagine him being a suppliant for help from Israel’s God.

And yet, it seems…

as the author constructs the story…

none of that matters.

Not only does Jesus heal the young concubine-slave…

but he praises the faith and trust of the Centurion…

who, seemingly without changing any aspect of his life or lifestyle…

simply comes motivated by a reckless compassion and care.

And, it seems, it’s that reckless compassion and care…

as much as his utter dependence on Israel’s God…

that is…

so to speak…

rewarded.

 

It’s an extraordinary story…

one to which, sadly, so many of us probably find it hard to relate…

because it’s so foreign.

We don’t live in an occupied land––

not as such.

We don’t live in a slave-owning culture––

thank goodness.

And we no longer live in a society that deems same-sex relationships as shameful or socially abhorrent––

at least for the most part.

So the scenario that the author constructs here isn’t one that we would find shocking…

let alone confronting or challenging.

So, maybe, we need to do some creative re-interpreting.

Imagine, for a minute, the sort of person whom you find most difficult to cope with––

the sort of person who offends your social sensibilities;

the sort of person whom your political persuasion or your newspaper proprietor says doesn’t deserve our compassion or help;

then put them in the place of this Centurion…

and read the story again.

When we do that––

whomever we imagine that person to be––

we’re confronted with the disturbing thought that no one…

and I mean no one

is beyond God’s compassion and care.

And, by implication, neither is anyone beyond the bounds of our compassion and care––

no matter who they are!

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