Sermon

Mark 6:1-13

300 Miles Away from Home!

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Mark 6:1-13

300 Miles Away from Home!

Pastor Steven Molin

Dear friends in Christ, grace to you and peace, from God our Father, and His Son, our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.

Do you remember the stupid stuff you did when you were a kid? I’m not talking about wetting the bed or spilling your milk; I mean the things that you did in public, the things that were known in the community and, perhaps, even gave you a reputation. Maybe you were arrested for some prank, or you were kicked off the football team for drinking, or maybe, on a dare, you streaked the high school lunchroom. Whatever.

The point is, a reputation is a hard thing to shake. Even as a fully grown adult, when you go back home, the people still whisper: “There’s Bill Smith, he got busted for ‘dining and dashing’ back in ’72.” No wonder so many people move away from their hometown when they grow up! It’s less humbling that way.

In high school, I was known as “The Class Clown.” Now there’s a shock! I was forever cutting up in class, telling jokes, making smart comments. When I arrived in biology class on the first day, the teacher took role, and when she came to my name, she said “Steve, I’ve heard about you, and you’ve got one chance. If you smart off in my class, you’re out of here.” Well, I lasted about a week. When Mrs. McMartin asked if someone could define the word “dilute” I said that it was a city on the shore of Lake Superior. Hello, study hall!

But as my life began to change, some people wouldn’t let me change. I came to faith in Christ and got serious about ministry, but people still saw me as a clown. I decided to go to seminary and they whispered “That’s Steve Molin, he was tossed off the college hockey team in ’68.” When I got ordained, some supposed that I would show up as Guido Sarducci of the Saturday Night Live skit. Is it any wonder then that my first ministry job was in Rochester, some 70 miles from home? Or that my next call was to Sioux Falls, 250 miles from here. Or that next, I traveled 1600 miles away to serve in Salem, Oregon. In Salem, they loved me. In Sioux Falls, they took me seriously. But seven years ago, I came back home, and I can’t tell you how many times I have run into people from my high school who have said “Really? Steve Molin? A Lutheran pastor?” As I said, it’s hard to shake a reputation.

I doubt very much that Jesus was the class clown of Nazareth Senior High School. But growing up in Joseph’s carpenter shop, he became as commonly known as the town constable or the village paper boy. He was one of them.

In 1978, Richard Wilson and David Karr of Minneapolis wrote a musical entitled “He Lived the Good Life: The Story of Jesus.” In it was a song that speculated what Jesus’ childhood was like. “He must have run with his friends, he must have fished in the sea, he must have skinned his knee at the age of six, perhaps he even had a girlfriend at twenty-one.” Those are odd, perhaps even sacrilegious things for us to consider for the Jesus that we know. But long before he was the Savior of the world, he was Mary and Joseph’s son; a Nazarene, a local boy, destined for mediocrity.

In today’s gospel lesson, Jesus comes home. He begins teaching in the synagogue, and at first, everyone is impressed. Mark tells us that many who heard him were astounded! “Where did he get his wisdom? What is this gift that he has been given? What’s with these amazing things that are being done by his hands?” But isn’t that Mary and Joseph’s son? Isn’t he the kid that used to kick a ball around in our streets? Isn’t he the same kid who tipped over a cow in the field? And then they were offended by his teaching! “Who does he think he is, some big shot?”

In Samaria, they loved him! In Cana, he could turn water into wine. In Jerusalem, he taught the rabbis a thing or two. But in Nazareth, Jesus was just Jesus; the kid from the wood shop.

Jesus never traveled more than 180 miles from home, you know; but when he came home, the people dismissed him. He couldn’t even perform miracles; that’s how weak and cynical their faith was. So Jesus left town with these words: “Prophets are not honored in their own hometowns, and among their own families, and even in their own houses.” And he left. And scripture doesn’t ever record him as returning to Nazareth again.

If the adage is true, that “familiarity breeds contempt” then Jesus was too familiar with the people of Nazareth to be effective in sharing his knowledge about God and the Kingdom of Heaven. Somebody else would have to tell the Nazarenes about salvation, and forgiveness and grace. Two millennia later, we know something of what Jesus faced.

Tell me; have you ever tried to share your faith with people who know you well? The ones who have seen you drunk, or heard you gossip, or watched you lie to your boss, how are they ever going to listen to you when you talk about matters of faith? This is a great argument for living righteous lives. My best friend in high school was the most consistent example of a godly life that I’ve ever known. The worst thing I ever saw him do was eat a second Quarter Pounder! So as a young Christian, it was easy for me to go to Ben and talk to him about walking the Christian path. I am grateful for him yet today.

But if that’s what it takes for us to be witnesses to Christ, then very few will ever have the right to open their mouths. We are sinful people, and those who know us best have seen us at our worst. The fact is, we need Christ because we are sinners. We share our stories of God’s forgiveness because it is the very thing that has given us hope and joy. Our credibility comes not from our perfect living, but from God’s gift of grace, and that’s the story we tell.

And yet, we have a dilemma; sometimes the people can’t get past our past, just like the people in Nazareth. I recall the time I was going to share my faith with my dad. I was forty years old; he was 65, we were fishing at his cabin in Wisconsin, and I had decided that this was going to be the week I spoke to him about salvation. But every time I was going to open my mouth, I got a pit in my stomach. This went on for three days, until I finally prayed “God, I don’t feel right about this, and unless the opportunity hits me in the head, I’m not going to talk to my dad about you.”

Oddly enough, eight years later, my dad talked to me! He had called a woman he read about in the “personals” column of the paper and he was on his way to meet her for lunch. He called to tell me, and then he said “Oh, by the way, what’s a ‘charismatic?’” I told him those were Christians who probably spoke in tongues, and it scared him to death. Two years later, he was baptized in her church, and the next time we went fishing, he asked me about grace, and faith, and forgiveness.

So, maybe the problem was mine. Maybe I didn’t feel I had a right to be honest with my dad because he knew of my dishonest past. I came to realize that I hadn’t given my dad enough credit; he actually wanted to know how a scoundrel like me could become a pastor, and I got the chance to tell him.

And I suppose the message I have for you today is that you have the same opportunity. Not to be preachy. Not to plan a lecture that you’re going to deliver when you have some unsuspecting soul captive in a fishing boat. But to be honest about your life; about your flaws and your regrets and even your continued imperfections. And be honest about this God who loves you just the way you are, warts and all. A God who knows your past, in fact, a God who knows your story better than your biology teacher, or your probation officer, or your spouse. And he loves you anyway!

You see, that’s the beauty of the gospel; that we don’t have to be specially qualified to receive it, and we don’t have to be specially qualified to share it. We only have to be honest about who we are, and how much God loves us.

So, there’s somebody today who is waiting for you to share your story. Someone waiting for you to say “You’re probably wondering how a scoundrel like me can even go to church on Sunday’s; let me tell you my story….” Thanks be to God. Amen.

©2006 Steven Molin. Used by permission.