Scripture Mark 2:1-12
When he returned to Capernaum after some days, it was reported that he was at home. So many gathered around that there was no longer room for them, not even in front of the door, and he was speaking the word to them. Then some people came, bringing to him a paralyzed man, carried by four of them. And when they could not bring him to Jesus because of the crowd, they removed the roof above him, and after having dug through it, they let down the mat on which the paralytic lay. When Jesus saw their faith, he said to the paralytic, “Child, your sins are forgiven.” Now some of the scribes were sitting there questioning in their hearts, “Why does this fellow speak in this way? It is blasphemy! Who can forgive sins but God alone?” At once Jesus perceived in his spirit that they were discussing these questions among themselves, and he said to them, “Why do you raise such questions in your hearts? Which is easier: to say to the paralytic, ‘Your sins are forgiven,’ or to say, ‘Stand up and take your mat and walk’? But so that you may know that the Son of Man has authority on earth to forgive sins”—he said to the paralytic—“I say to you, stand up, take your mat, and go to your home.” And he stood up and immediately took the mat and went out before all of them, so that they were all amazed and glorified God, saying, “We have never seen anything like this!”
Sermon Consider the Friends
Years ago I led a study of a terrific book from the Upper Room called Companions in Christ. During one of our sessions, we read this passage from the Gospel According to Mark. We were a small group—just four women and me—and, like most readers, we found ourselves deeply moved by the story—especially the faithfulness of these four friends of the unnamed, paralyzed man. Their commitment to getting him to Jesus—that it extended to their climbing up on the roof of the house—is amazing. That they got up on the roof and removed the mud and tiles that would have been attached to wooden beams, and then, let down their friend on the mat, so that Jesus could heal him. Which, he does. The chapter encouraged us to end this session by taking turns sitting on a chair, with the rest of the group gathered around the chair, mimicking the action of the story. Each of those standing around the chair took turns praying for the person in the chair.
By this time in our study, we really were a group of friends. We knew so much about one another. Each of us knew the prayers the others needed. The experience of being prayed for in that way was humbling, and it was beautiful. It was an unforgettable experience.
All of which is to say: I love this story, and I love the interpretation of this story that tells us these were friends of the paralyzed man. I love that Jesus saw and honored the faith of the friends. It is a moving story. And there’s another way to read it.
When I was on leave for my first hip replacement last year, the first book I read was, What Matters in Jane Austen? Twenty Crucial Puzzles Solved, by John Mullan. The author addressed things in the books that modern day readers might not know or fully understand. The chapter that most interested me was “Do We Ever See the Lower Classes?” There was a section about servants. The author’s main point was: Servants are there, in the room, silent watchers, unless someone engages them, like Mrs. Bennett when she was so thrilled that Lydia had married a scoundrel. The original readers, in Regency era England, would have understood this. They would have included servants in their mind’s eye as they read the book, populating each scene with them, unless for example, two people, such as Jane and Lizzie, were talking alone, in their room at night—a situation like that. After all, much that happens in the stories depends on servants. Everything from preparing for a ball to spreading necessary news/ gossip. The servants are essential, whether they’re mentioned or not.
Something similar is happening for us when we read scripture. My reading for my most recent leave included God’s Ghostwriters: Enslaved Christians and the Making of the Bible. Author Candida Moss makes a powerful case for the presence of enslaved people—their omnipresence, really—whether as scribes for our New Testament writers such as Paul, as characters in the stories (almost always unnamed), and as the hands and minds that quietly helped to shape the Biblical text as we have received it.
Only ten percent of the population of the Roman Empire in the first century could read and write, and 70% of those were enslaved people. This stunning figure gives us high likelihood that, at the very least, most of the New Testament was transcribed, put on the page, by enslaved people. One early tradition of this gospel’s origins is that Mark, also known as John Mark, was a companion and assistant to Peter—which makes him, very likely, an enslaved person. The earliest witnesses to Jesus’ ministry were mostly unlettered fishermen and subsistence farmers—apart from the tax collectors Matthew and Levi, who most likely could read and write. Their stories would have needed a scribe to write them down. We know that Paul had scribes, companions who wrote his letters, despite describing himself as a Pharisee, a learned man steeped in the Holy texts. In Romans 16, as Paul says his farewells, we find the sentence: “I Tertius, the writer of this letter, greet you in the Lord” (Rom. 16:22). Tertius, whose name simply means, “third,” was almost certainly an enslaved person. In Galatians 6, the farewells are interrupted by Paul, who writes, “See what large letters I make when I am writing in my own hand!” A scribe, probably an enslaved person, was writing the rest of the letter.
Enslaved scribes had the ability to shape the text. When the author was dictating, the scribes wrote in a kind of shorthand; later, they wrote out the full sentences, passages, letters to churches or accounts of Jesus’ ministry. With such a large role, they had an opportunity to speak to the presence of enslaved people such as themselves in the stories.
Which brings us back to our passage. Jesus is in Capernaum. He’s probably at Simon Peter’s house, which seems to be Jesus’ home base there. But a recent preaching tour—which included healing—had so roused the population about him, people were gathered around the house, blocking those who wanted to leave and those who wanted to come in. The next sentence in our translation is this: Then some people came, bringing to him a paralyzed man, carried by four of them. But the original language actually says: And they came to him, bringing one sick with palsy, who was carried by four. This sentence doesn’t even really identify the carriers of the paralyzed man as people, though, of course they were. But their identities are shrouded by the text. There are no names, not even a statement that they are men (which they probably are). One role of enslaved people is to be present but invisible. The writer has managed to convey exactly this with the language. Still, some Bible translations and many commentaries identify the four as friends. And it’s possible they were, in fact, his friends, but there are other reasons to doubt that they were.
Many people in the first century—the wealthy, most especially—were carried around by their staff, who were usually enslaved people. The word for the “mat” on which the man was carried can be translated to mean anything from mat, to pallet, to litter, or even an ornate couch or bed. The fact that it was sturdy enough to be lowered from a roof, and that four people were needed to carry it, indicates it was probably large and possibly heavy. The man who needs healing is paralyzed. The term “mat” suggests a person who is poor; but this man may be rich. It is entirely possible—even likely—that the four who carried him were enslaved people, and he was their enslaver.
Now, notice how Jesus greets this small retinue. When the man is lowered down, Jesus ignores him for a moment, turning first to the four who carried him. He sees their faith. Only then does he turn to the man, and the story thus far leads us to believe he will heal his paralysis. But that’s not what happens. Instead, he says to the paralyzed man, “Child, your sins are forgiven.”
This is an astonishing moment. We fully expect Jesus to heal this man’s body. Instead, Jesus addresses what he sees as the man’s greater need: he heals the man’s heart, his soul. Jesus forgives him. For what? For having his carriers dig a hole in the roof? For being a slaveholder? We don’t know.
It’s only when the local authorities on scripture, start to question in their hearts and murmur among themselves, that Jesus addresses the elephant in the room with the brand-new skylight: the scripture authorities are wondering how Jesus dares to forgive sins, how he dares to say aloud that he believes he can forgive sins. This is blasphemy! Only God can forgive sins. Jesus addresses the murmurers: Why does this trouble you so much? It’s easy to say, “You are forgiven.” And that is true. Any charlatan can claim to possess the power of God. But what about, “Get up, take your mat, and walk?” How easy is it to say that? Jesus continues, “But so that you may know that the Son of Man has authority on earth to forgive sins”—and then he looks directly at the paralyzed man on his mat or his beautiful couch, whichever it is, and he says, “I say to you, stand up, take your mat, and go to your home.” Keep in mind, if this is a wealthy man who has been carried here by enslaved people, he is more used to giving orders than following them. Moss suggests that the spirit of Jesus’ command is, “Now, do your own work.”
And he does. And there is rejoicing and praising God and amazement and the crowd, presumably including those authorities on scripture, shaking their heads and saying, well, we’ve never seen anything like that before.
So. What difference does it make, whether the four who carried this man in need of healing were his friends, or people he owned and commanded to do his bidding? I’m of two minds about this. The story resonates with us, and we can find ourselves in the story more easily, if those who carried the man are friends. We all know what that feels like, to have friends who lift us up, emotionally speaking, when we are down. We may even have friends who rush to our sides when we are ill or recovering from surgery. That kind of love and support is a beautiful thing to experience.
The story is harder for us to relate to if it is a story about a slave owner and four enslaved men. But the story makes more sense if the man whose sins Jesus forgives is guilty of something that is right there, in front of everyone’s eyes: the man is holding human beings as property. And the hand of the scribe—whether it was John Mark himself or another scribe, as anonymous as the four strong and faithful ones—the hand of that scribe has given us a tiny glimpse of people who were there all along, who were omnipresent in the ancient world, but who are invisible to us because we don’t expect to see them there. The scribe has made himself (or herself) visible to us, in the most delicate, fleeting way. This information is not named. But the original audience would not be surprised in the least.
So perhaps this passage, in addition to showing us the love of God through Jesus’ forgiveness and healing, is meant to help us to remember those who are usually invisible to us. These can be people who are nearby or people who are far away—those who are trying to escape wildfires on the other side of this continent. Those who are seeking refuge from war and danger in their native lands, and searching for a place of greater promise. People who are living on our streets, or under our bridges. Those evacuated from their homes in Steuben County, or those who have lost their churches and been relocated from their homes in Rome, NY.
I can guess what you may be thinking. Can we have compassion for so many people in crisis all at once? Probably not—we shield ourselves when we are overwhelmed with stories of suffering, and with good reason. There is such a thing as compassion overload, and burnout. But can we have compassion for, and allow ourselves to see, those who are nearby? The people living under the Vestal Avenue Bridge? Those who ask whether we can spare a dollar? The people who strike up a conversation when we’re in line at the grocery store, and for whom we may be the only human contact they have that day?
This passage from Mark’s gospel can do both/ and. We can let this story strengthen our sense of connection to those we consider friends. It can help us to give thanks for the human connections that sustain us. And we can let it remind us of those who are on the margins of our lives and our recognition, and it can spur each of us to send up a little prayer that we might be able to connect with them, as well, child of God to child of God.
Thanks be to God. Amen.