Goodness gracious. That’s what I say when I’m exasperated.
And these days goodness gracious doesn’t begin to say it. What will it take for us to come to our senses? Demanding individual freedom but then adopting the strictest abortion laws in the land. Wanting a president—or the party in power—to fail so much that you’d rather die than get vaccinated or wear a mask. Believing whatever you hear on a trusted television network and turning to snake oil instead of lifesaving vaccines. Booing former President Trump when he told folks to get vaccinated. Being totally unprepared or even denying the change in climate bringing extreme weather conditions.
What has become of us? When will we come to our senses?
I guess the way we perceive reality gets so set that we remain closed to anything that might challenge what we believe is true. Think the election results, January 6, the aftermath. Goodness gracious.
Coming to Our Senses is the name of a new book I recently heard about. I assume anyone without sight would be exhilarated to finally see colors and shapes and faces. But take the example of an extroverted, cheerful fifty-two-year-old man who had a cornea operation and was able to see for the first time in his life. After his initial curiosity and delight he gradually grew disoriented. He couldn’t read print or drive. He grew increasingly depressed, his health deteriorated, and eventually died.
We think of perception as passive as if our eyes are cameras and our ears microphones. But the author, a neurobiologist, argues that our perception is shaped by many factors that affect our senses throughout our lives. The book tells the story of two adults—one born deaf, the other born blind—who following surgery later in life, learn entirely new ways of being. A reminder to us that before we can truly understand other people, we must recognize how totally different their worlds are than ours.
And that, I would add, is really hard work. Especially when you are exasperated by half of the people in the country! But of course, they are just as exasperated by me!
I imagine the lead female character in today’s gospel was exasperated. She has a lot of strikes against her. A Gentile outsider. A woman. An ill child. And she has spunk. Which reminds me that Ed Asner, “Lou Grant” of the Mary Tyler Moore show, died this week. One of the clips they showed was Grant telling Mary: “You’ve got spunk.” And then when Mary seems to take the complement, he adds: “I hate spunk!”
Well, this woman has enough spunk to approach Jesus and beg that he heal her daughter. Jesus then utters perhaps the most shocking words attributed to him. “Feed the children first. You don’t throw the children’s food to the dogs.” Really, Jesus? Gentiles as dogs. It’s not a problem of translation. It’s a slur!
Clearly the gospel of John would never have such a line from Jesus. In John Jesus is the divine Son of God who comes down from heaven, fully formed, knowing everything, and everything about everyone. But Mark’s Jesus is earthier, more human. And has a few things to learn from the woman with spunk.
For she is ready with her own one-liner. “Good sir, even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.” Did this woman expand Jesus’ thinking beyond the confines of his Jewish faith? Claiming grace for outsiders? Did this spunky woman help Jesus come to his senses?
If Jesus’ mind is opened in this scene, in the next one there is another kind of opening. The people bring to Jesus a deaf man with a speech impediment. What his life was like is hard for us to know. But the earthy Jesus of Mark does some primal handwork here. Puts his fingers in the man’s ears. Spits and touches the man’s tongue. The germ-conscious among us may be going ew right now.
And then Jesus sighs. Is he exasperated by all the pain and suffering in the world? He looks up to heaven and says, “Ephphatha.” Ephphatha, which means, be opened. Come to your senses! And the man comes to his senses. His ears opened. His tongue released.
In the church’s early centuries, this ephphatha scene become the stuff of a ritual. At the Easter Vigil the priest would perform the mystery of the Opening—touching the ears and mouth of the men getting baptized. And saying “ephphatha.” Be opened. But the priest touched the women’s nostrils to show, as Saint Ambrose wrote, that they receive the good odor of eternal charity and are filled with the fragrance of faith and devotion.
For a church that values multi-sensory liturgy, any mention of the nose is a good thing, for it reminds us of incense. But we are Lutherans after all, and like Jews, we tend to elevate ear above all. Hearing the word. That’s why we will sing in a few moments: open yours ears, O faithful people. A Roman Catholic priest wrote words that were wedded to a traditional Hasidic tune. And not a bad thing for us to sing since Jews begin celebrating Rosh Hashanah tomorrow evening.
We certainly don’t drop from heaven fully formed. But most of us get pretty set in our thinking. No wonder we come to church to be opened to the Spirit. Ephphatha. Be opened to those different from you. Be opened to the mystery of life and death. Be opened to a God of surprise and paradox. Be opened to a God outside the box you put God in, or the box you live in. Come to your senses. Ephphatha.
And then there is the reading from James. Faith without works is dead. James rails against the favoritism and partiality we show toward people with wealth, resources, or whatever else impresses us. I hate to say it, but God is not impartial. In the scriptures God is partial toward the poor, the weak, and the outcast. For they are the treasure of God’s heart.
Thankfully, there is mercy for us, too. Like streams breaking in the desert, the water of baptism opens your eyes, unstops your ears, and looses your tongues to see, hear, and tell of God’s grace.
Goodness gracious. What exasperating times! How strange that many people begin their extemporaneous prayers, “good and gracious God.” Hmmm. Maybe we could turn our exasperation into prayer as well.