Sermon Text: Mark 7:31-37
Sign language consists of certain gestures of the hands and body, which picture or symbolize specific words or thoughts. For those who are unable to hear or speak, sign language is an indispensable means of communication.
But certain kinds of bodily gestures can be useful also to those who are able to hear and speak – not as substitutes for spoken words, but as a means of reinforcing and underscoring the meaning of those spoken words.
We’re not talking now about a full acted-out vocabulary of hundreds or thousands of words, as would be the case with the kind of sign language that deaf people use. But there are various gestures, or symbolic bodily actions, that can help even hearing people to focus their attention on the meaning of the words that someone may be simultaneously speaking to them.
In our culture there are lots of gestures like this. When you recite the Pledge of Allegiance or sing the National Anthem, you are expected to place your right hand over your heart, as a gesture of loyalty and love of country. When someone is introduced to you, you are expected to reach your hand out toward his, and shake his hand, as a symbol of friendship and goodwill – or at least that’s the way it was before COVID!
The Christian tradition offers us such meaningful physical gestures, too. For example, in the section on morning and evening prayers in Luther’s Small Catechism, we are given this encouragement:
“In the morning, when you rise,” or “in the evening, when you go to bed, you shall bless yourself with the holy cross and say: In the name of God the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.”
“Kneeling or standing” are then given as the recommended postures for the prayers that follow, which are to be spoken with humility and respect.
And in the section on prayers before and after meals, the Small Catechism indicates that these prayers are to be spoken at the table “reverently and with folded hands.”
In today’s Gospel from St. Mark, Jesus shows that he also has a keen understanding of the basic principles that undergird both an organized sign language, and the use of meaningful physical gestures in general, for the purpose of achieving a higher level of communication. Specifically we’re thinking of the Lord’s interaction with the man who was deaf, and who also had a speech impediment.
The healing that Jesus performed for this man was, of course, accomplished by the power of the word that he spoke: “Ephphatha!” – which means “Be opened!” But the man who received the healing, and who needed his ears to be “opened,” would not have been able to hear Jesus speak that word. He was deaf, after all!
And so Jesus, on this occasion, used a series of gestures and bodily actions, in conjunction with the speaking of the word, in order to communicate to the man the meaning of that word. We read:
“And He took him aside from the multitude, and put His fingers in his ears, and He spat and touched his tongue. Then, looking up to heaven, He sighed, and said to him, ‘Ephphatha,’ that is, ‘Be opened.’ Immediately his ears were opened, and the impediment of his tongue was loosed, and he spoke plainly.”
First, we notice that Jesus took the man aside, and dealt with him privately. This means that the gestures Jesus then used were intended for the personal comfort of that man.
They were a form of communication from Jesus specifically to this person, for his benefit. Jesus wanted the deaf man to know that he was not engaging in these actions to put on a display for others, but to teach something to him about the nature and source of the healing that he was about to receive.
And then we notice what Jesus did, once he had taken this man aside. He put his fingers into the man’s ears, to indicate to him that, by the power of his word, he was going to open his ears, and remove the affliction of deafness from which this person suffered.
And Jesus put his own fingers into the man’s ears – not a swab that had been dipped in some kind of medicine. He was thereby telling him – through this unique kind of sign language – that he himself was his healer. Jesus himself was the “medicine.”
After that, the Lord placed some of his own saliva on the man’s tongue. Remember that this person’s deafness was accompanied by an inability to speak intelligibly. Jesus showed the man, by this action, that he himself was going to solve that problem too.
And then Jesus, in a very obvious and demonstrative way, looked toward heaven – the dwelling place of God the Father – and sighed. The miraculous healing that was going to occur, was going to occur because of God’s love for the man.
Jesus was the Son of God, who was always in prayerful communion with his Father, and whose actions were governed by the will of his Father. As he was performing this healing, he thereby invited the deaf man – through this gesture of prayerfully looking up – to pray to the Lord himself, and to acknowledge that his healing was an act of divine grace.
And finally, after Jesus had helped the deaf man understand what was happening, and why it was happening – through the use of these bodily gestures – he then spoke the word of healing that actually accomplished the miracle this man needed. “Ephphatha!” “Be opened!”
And the ears of the man were opened, so that he could hear. His lips were also “opened,” as it were, so that he could now speak plainly, as the text tells us. The word spoken by Christ had accomplished this.
But the “sign language” that Jesus had used, in conjunction with the speaking of the word, had testified to the divine power of that word; and had served to illustrate – in an acted-out kind of way that the man could grasp – the meaning and purpose of the spoken word.
And so, even though he was deaf, this man was able to know that God was healing him through Christ, so that he could place his trust in God – and in the Son of God.
There are at least two take-aways for us, as we hear this story. The first is the illustration that it presents to us of the deeper deafness and muteness that handicaps all of us, by nature.
We may not suffer from an inability to hear with our physical ears, but we all come into this world without an ability to hear the voice of God in our hearts. Regarding those among his listeners who did not believe in him, Jesus said on another occasion:
“I speak to them in parables, because seeing they do not see, and hearing they do not hear, nor do they understand.”
Also on another occasion, the Lord rebuked some of his opponents with these words: “He who is of God hears God’s words; therefore you do not hear, because you are not of God.”
By nature, all of us, as fallen human beings, are dead in trespasses and sins. Dead men do not hear. And dead men do not speak, either.
One who is spiritually dead cannot confess from the heart a faith that he does not have. But when the Holy Spirit has worked life and salvation in the heart of a penitent sinner who now turns to Christ for pardon and peace, the Spirit also draws out of this Christian precisely such a confession.
St. Paul writes in his Epistle to the Romans: “if you confess with your mouth the Lord Jesus, and believe in your heart that God has raised Him from the dead, you will be saved.”
And in his First Epistle to the Corinthians, he also writes: “No one can say that Jesus is Lord except by the Holy Spirit.”
When Jesus comes to you in the gospel, and through the gospel touches your heart through the personal comfort of his forgiveness, he thereby heals the spiritual deafness and spiritual muteness of your heart. He gives you a faith that is now willing and able to listen to his word, and to declare his word.
The second take-away for us, is to see in the physical actions of Jesus in today’s text, an example of the sort of thing that he still does today, through the means of grace. Jesus continues to employ a certain kind of “sign language” in his church, as he brings the gospel to his people, in a special way, in Holy Baptism and in Holy Communion.
Those who are physically deaf and mute are not the only people who can benefit from the kind of ceremonial gestures and symbolic actions that Jesus employed in today’s text.
We, who were spiritually deaf and mute – before God regenerated us, and opened our hearts to his salvation – benefit greatly from having the message of his gospel reinforced to us, and underscored for us, through the use of outward signs that accompany the spoken message.
According to the Lord’s institution, the sacraments are defined by the respective words that are to be spoken, and by the respective rites that are to be performed, as the sacraments are administered. The Apology of the Augsburg Confession reminds us that,
“as Paul says, ‘Faith comes from hearing’ (Romans 10:17). But just as the Word enters the ear in order to strike our heart, so the rite itself strikes the eye, in order to move the heart. The effect of the Word and of the rite is the same. It has been well said by Augustine that a Sacrament is a visible Word, because the rite is received by the eyes and is, as it were, a picture of the Word, illustrating the same thing as the Word. The result of both is the same.”
In his institution of Baptism and the Lord’s Supper, Jesus – for the benefit of those who receive these sacraments – commanded his church and its ministers to carry out certain outward actions and gestures as intrinsic components of these sacraments.
Baptism involves the physical application of water to the body of a person, in conjunction with the speaking of the Trinitarian words that Jesus commanded to be spoken.
Now, insofar as Baptism is, by the power of these words, a conferral of the gospel, it is not a symbol. Baptism is the reality of God the Father bestowing the Holy Spirit upon the baptized person, so that his Spirit can wash away the sins of that person through the blood of his Son.
When it was time for Saul of Tarsus to be baptized into Christ – in Damascus – Ananias said to him: “And now why are you waiting? Arise and be baptized, and wash away your sins, calling on the name of the Lord.”
But within the rite of Baptism, the act of applying water to the body does also serve as an outward, visible picture of the inner supernatural cleansing of the soul that is also taking place in the sacrament. That’s why the author of the Epistle to the Hebrews writes:
“Let us draw near with a true heart in full assurance of faith, having our hearts sprinkled from an evil conscience and our bodies washed with pure water.”
Those of you who were baptized in adulthood – and who can therefore remember what it felt like to have that “pure water” running down over you – can hopefully also remember the great joy that came to you then, as you believed the promises of God: that your sin and guilt, too, were at that same moment being washed away for the sake of Christ.
But even if you cannot remember your own baptism in this way, you can still be comforted to know that this is indeed what happened to you, because God’s Word tells you that this is what happened to you.
And you can be reminded of this each time you witness a baptism: when you see the outward washing of water, and when you believe in the inner washing of God’s Spirit. That’s the “picture” that the outward ceremony of Baptism paints for us, as the inner gift of Baptism is simultaneously bestowed upon the soul of the recipient.
The Lord’s Supper, too, is not in itself a symbol. It is the reality of Christ – God and man – coming to us in his body and blood; and intimately uniting himself to us: to forgive our sins, and to strengthen within us the hope of eternal life.
But the physical act of eating the consecrated bread and drinking the blessed wine, which is a necessary component of this sacrament, does also illustrate – in a very vivid way – what it is that is happening, at a deeper level, in and through that eating and drinking. In St. John’s Gospel, Jesus speaks these words of comfort to his disciples:
“I am the bread of life; whoever comes to me shall not hunger, and whoever believes in me shall never thirst. … I am the living bread that came down from heaven. If anyone eats of this bread, he will live forever.”
In the ordinary course of life in this world, the eating of literal bread satisfies your bodily hunger; and the drinking of literal wine quenches your bodily thirst.
So, too, when you by faith receive Christ into your life – supernaturally “eating” him, as it were – your starving soul is filled with his grace and forgiveness, and your parched spirit is refreshed and rejuvenated with his peace and righteousness.
By the power of Jesus’ words – which he spoke on the night in which he was betrayed; and which his called servant speaks in his stead here and now – the body and blood of Jesus are truly present in the bread and wine of his Supper, and are orally received by each communicant. And thereby Jesus himself – the Bread of Life from heaven – is truly present.
In this sacrament he comes to you, and speaks to you, personally. He invites you to believe in him, and put your trust in him, once again.
And when you physically feel the bread and wine entering into your body, you can know that in this moment the divine-human Christ himself is also entering into you: to renew his claim on your body and soul, once again, as his own precious possession; and to make your heart, once again, to be his own special dwelling place.
For someone who has no access to the sacraments – like the thief on the cross – the spoken Word by itself is able to bring Christ and his gospel to a sin-stained and spiritually-hungry soul.
But isn’t it wonderful to consider that Jesus wishes to bring his gospel to us in all of its dimensions: also in these tangible sacramental ways that involve a special “sign language” that he addresses to us personally, as he comes to us personally in the washing of Holy Baptism, and in the eating and drinking of the Sacrament of his body and blood?
You should never underestimate your need for the sacraments that Christ has established for you – just as you should never underestimate your need for the proclaimed gospel. But in the sacraments, your appreciation of God’s love for you is deepened, and your grasp on the mercy of Christ is strengthened, by means of the multifaceted manner in which each sacrament impacts you and engages you.
As Jesus touched the man in today’s Gospel, while his words brought healing and restoration to his ears and tongue, so too does Jesus touch you, in and through the water, the bread, and the wine. And as he touches you, his sacramental words also heal and restore you: working for you, and bestowing upon you, his gifts of forgiveness, life, and salvation.
Jesus uses the sacraments, with their special kind of “sign language” – their ceremonial actions and physical gestures – to focus your attention more intently on the meaning of the words that he speaks; and to emphasize and underscore for you the true supernatural miracle that he is thereby performing.
He speaks, and, listening to His voice, New life the dead receive,
The mournful, broken hearts rejoice, The humble poor believe.
Hear Him, ye deaf; His praise, ye dumb, Your loosened tongues employ;
Ye blind, behold your Savior come, And leap, ye lame, for joy. Amen.
11 September 2022 – Trinity 13 – Luke 10:23-37
When you look at a photograph that was taken of a group of people that included yourself, who is the first person you try to find in the picture? Yourself! You always look for yourself in a picture if you were there when the picture was taken.
I’m going to ask you to do something similar right now, as we reflect together on today’s Gospel text from St. Luke.
“A certain man went down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell among thieves, who stripped him of his clothing, wounded him, and departed, leaving him half dead. Now by chance a certain priest came down that road. And when he saw him, he passed by on the other side. Likewise a Levite, when he arrived at the place, came and looked, and passed by on the other side.”
“But a certain Samaritan, as he journeyed, came where he was. And when he saw him, he had compassion. So he went to him and bandaged his wounds, pouring on oil and wine.”
If you can imagine the parable of the Good Samaritan to be a symbolic snapshot of a group of people that includes you, will you be able to find yourself in the picture? Where would you look in the story in order to find the character who matches you?
I suppose we would all like to think that we can perhaps find ourselves in the image of the Samaritan. The Samaritan was willing to help the man who had been severely injured by robbers, almost to the point of death.
Each of us would like to think of himself or herself as someone like that, wouldn’t we? We’d like to think that we would act in a similar way if confronted by similar circumstances.
You try to be a good person. You are willing to help others, especially when their need is so obvious. Or, at least, you are usually willing to do so.
And, as each of us would hope to see ourselves in the person of the Samaritan, we at the same time would look disdainfully at the priest and the Levite in the story, who passed by the robbery victim on the other side of the road. “How could they have been so heartless?”, we ask.
Well, there might be a reason. We can easily imagine that the man lying by the side of the road, who had been left “half dead” by his attackers, would have looked like he was fully dead.
And a concern that the Jewish priest and Levite would have had, was that if they were to come into contact with a dead body, they would, according to the Mosaic Law, become ceremonially “unclean” for a significant amount of time. This would mean being segregated from the community, and being forbidden to perform their temple duties.
Now, for a typical Jew, this ceremonial isolation would certainly be an inconvenience. But for a priest or a Levite, it would have a direct impact on his livelihood, and on his ability to fulfill the necessary public functions of his office.
If one of these men had stopped to try to help the man, and if he had found out – upon a closer inspection – that the man was already dead, he might not get paid for a couple weeks. His wife and children might not eat.
Was it worth the risk – especially since the man was probably going to die anyway, if he was not in fact already dead? What could a lone priest or Levite really do for someone who was so far gone?
So, as these men weighed all the factors, they decided that it would not be worth the risk. They did not stop.
Another thing they may have considered was the possibility of an ambush. The perpetrators of this attack might still be lurking just off the road, waiting to pounce on someone else.
The injured man may have been left on the road as “bait,” to lure other travelers into making themselves vulnerable to be attacked and robbed themselves. If the priest or the Levite had stopped and gone over next to the injured man, he might have been the next victim.
Again, was such a thing worth the risk – especially on such a deserted stretch of road, where there would be no one to come to the rescue if the robbers were still around? The priest and the Levite decided that they would not chance it. They passed by, on the other side of the road.
So, are you still not able to see yourself in the person of the priest or Levite? Haven’t you justified your inaction in similar ways, in similar situations?
Don’t you also engage in the same kind of pragmatic calculations, when making a decision whether or not to take a chance for someone else, or to put yourself at some risk in order to help someone else?
Will you take chances that might effect your own livelihood, and your ability to provide for your family? Will you put yourself in danger when you’re not completely sure that you can even be of help to an injured or troubled person?
Where do we honestly see ourselves in this picture, after all?
At a very basic level, the parable of the Good Samaritan serves as moral instruction to us. It teaches us the importance of helping others in need, even when providing that help can be risky or inconvenient.
And as a story about godly morality and ethics, this parable also convicts us of our failure to love our neighbors as ourselves. It makes us face up to the selfishness and fear that actually govern our actions – or our inactions – more than we might otherwise want to admit.
But there is another way to read this story. And there is another place, and another character, where we can perhaps find ourselves in the picture.
When we see the parable of the Good Samaritan as a story about Jesus – and not just as a story about us and how we should treat others – then, at a deeper level, we are invited by the Lord to see ourselves as the robbery victim, lying by the side of the road.
You, and all human beings, have been left “half dead” by the assaults of the world, the flesh, and the devil. In the fall of Adam, the whole human race was robbed of the treasure that God had given to us when he made us in his own image.
Humanity lost its fellowship with God. Humanity lost its original righteousness. Humanity lost its immortality. Humanity lost its inner spiritual life. The spiritual “attack” that took place in the garden of Eden resulted in humanity’s spiritual death.
After this attack, our bodily life does, of course, remain. So, we are, in this sense, half dead. But in the natural condition in which we all come into the world, we are not alive to God.
The idea of a God remains in the conscience, and in the history of the world this idea has become the basis for a myriad of humanly-devised religions. But in our hearts we are distant from the true God who actually created us, and we are disconnected from him.
In thought, word, and deed, we are likewise disconnected from God’s law. And we are helpless – incapable of reconstituting our moral and spiritual character.
We are, by nature, lying along the side of a spiritual road on which we no longer have the strength to travel. We can go nowhere under our own power, because our power – in matters relating to God and the holiness of God – is gone.
But a Good Samaritan comes to us. By his own power he kneels beside us, treats our wounds, and saves us.
And this Good Samaritan loves us. He sees each of us as his neighbor, for whom he is willing to risk everything, and sacrifice even his own life, rather than to leave us in our desperate condition.
“But a certain Samaritan, as he journeyed, came where he was. And when he saw him, he had compassion. So he went to him and bandaged his wounds, pouring on oil and wine.”
On another occasion, recorded in St. John’s Gospel, the Lord’s opponents said to him: “Do we not say rightly that You are a Samaritan and have a demon?”
In response, Jesus denied that he had a demon, but he let the association with the Samaritans stand. And now, perhaps, we are seeing a follow-up to this symbolic identification.
Jesus – the Son of God in human flesh – is the Good Samaritan. When he finds us, he pours his own divine Oil – that is, his own life-giving and faith-creating Spirit – onto our wounded soul.
He washes away the contamination of our guilt with the crimson wine of his own blood, which he shed for us on the cross. He carries us away on his own animal – baptizing us into his baptism, and speaking his own righteousness upon us.
In his Epistle to the Ephesians, St. Paul describes – in different words – the state in which the Good Samaritan from heaven finds us. He writes:
“And you…were dead in trespasses and sins, in which you once walked according to the course of this world, according to the prince of the power of the air, the spirit who now works in the sons of disobedience, among whom also we all once conducted ourselves in the lusts of our flesh, fulfilling the desires of the flesh and of the mind, and were by nature children of wrath, just as the others.”
But then, St. Paul describes what the Good Samaritan from heaven has done for us:
“But God, who is rich in mercy, because of His great love with which He loved us, even when we were dead in trespasses, made us alive together with Christ (by grace you have been saved), and raised us up together, and made us sit together in the heavenly places in Christ Jesus, that in the ages to come He might show the exceeding riches of His grace in His kindness toward us in Christ Jesus.”
If you are tempted to think of yourself as a morally and spiritually self-sufficient person, and not as someone who is utterly and completely dependent on God for everything, Jesus wants you to see yourself – in the picture that his parable today paints in your mind’s eye – in the wounded man lying by the roadside.
You are not the Good Samaritan. You are the person who needs the Good Samaritan’s help.
And if you are tempted to think of yourself as a hopeless case, or as a spiritual “goner” – lost and unsalvageable – Jesus also wants you to see him in this picture, in the Samaritan who comes to where you are; who cares about you when others do not; and who lifts you up, and carries you to a place of safety and healing.
“And he set him on his own animal, brought him to an inn, and took care of him. On the next day, when he departed, he took out two denarii, gave them to the innkeeper, and said to him, ‘Take care of him; and whatever more you spend, when I come again, I will repay you.’”
The inn to which the Good Samaritan takes us is his holy church. In Christ, the church is a place of refuge in this world, where the people of God are entrusted to the care of the Lord’s pastoral inn-keepers until his return; and where they are fed with the Lord’s Holy Word, and sustained and strengthened with the special medicine of immortality that Jesus has left for us: the Holy Sacrament of his body and blood.
The church is not a place where good people come to show off, but where sick and wounded people come to be healed. It is not a place for excitement and agitation, but for rest and peace.
Every individual in the church – lay and clergy, men and women, adults and children – is “a work in progress.” But under the care of the ministers of the gospel, and in the strength of that gospel, God is bringing us along, and moving us forward, to where he wants us to be.
Elsewhere in his epistle to the Ephesians, St. Paul writes:
“I bow my knees to the Father…, that He would grant you, according to the riches of His glory, to be strengthened with might through His Spirit in the inner man, that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith; that you, being rooted and grounded in love, may be able to comprehend with all the saints what is the width and length and depth and height— to know the love of Christ which passes knowledge; that you may be filled with all the fullness of God.”
“Now to Him who is able to do exceedingly abundantly above all that we ask or think, according to the power that works in us, to Him be glory in the church by Christ Jesus to all generations, forever and ever.”
That’s what God is doing for you in the inn, as you wait for the return of the Good Samaritan – the bodily return of Christ on the Last Day. That’s what is happening to you as you are preserved among God’s people and are nurtured by the gospel; and as you abide in the Word of Christ as a disciple of Christ: putting on the mind of Christ, growing into the image of Christ, and becoming ever more like Christ in how you love your neighbors in need.
So, when you look for yourself in this picture – in this parable of the Good Samaritan – you can and should see yourself in the victimized man: not only in the first part of the parable, as he is lying helpless along the road; but also in the second part of the parable, as he is increasing in strength and health – in faith and in Christian virtues – under the care of the inn-keeper.
You can see yourself in this picture: not only as a person in desperate need of help from a Savior; but also as a person who is receiving that help, freely and without cost to you, in the fellowship of the church, through the ministry of Word and Sacrament.
And, you can see yourself as a person who is waiting with joyful expectation for the Good Samaritan to come back for you, to settle all your accounts, and to bring you to your eternal home. Amen.