Breaking the Boundaries

Mark 1:9-15

Lent 1, Year B

March 5, 2006

INTRO

If you look at a map of the United States, you get an unrealistic image of our coastline. It doesn’t matter if you’re looking at a globe, an atlas, or a fold-out map from AAA; the image you get of the coastline is the same. On a map you get the impression that on every coast the brown and green hues of land have a crisp, distinct boundary, neatly separated from the blue hues of oceans and gulfs. From a cartographer’s perspective, the ocean never actually touches the land and the boundaries are never in flux; you simply step from land, across a thin black line, into sea.

Maps give pictures of boundaries that are neat and orderly: land here, boundary, water there. Beaches reveal a much different reality. Instead of neat, thin lines of separation, you find broad, vast expanses of sand where the boundaries are constantly changing. A patch of ground that seems clearly on dry land at nightfall may be covered by sea when dawn approaches. The crisp, clean lines of a map get washed away by the ebb and flow of the tides down on the beach.

I. The Gospel of Mark begins looking very much like a map. As Mark starts his Gospel, he gives clear lines of demarcation: this is who Jesus is; this is what Jesus came to do. Mark knows we won’t get the full significance of the life of Jesus if he just tells us “what happened,” so Mark assumes the role of a narrator, giving us insider insights, marking the boundaries, giving us the “lay of the land.”

Jesus is the Son of God, Mark wants us to know, so he tells us in the very first verse. There’s no genealogy, no birth narrative, no easing into the story. Just the stark announcement: “The beginning of the gospel about Jesus Christ, the Son of God” [1:1]. Mark reinforces the message that Jesus is the Son of God by letting us overhear the voice from heaven at the moment of Jesus’ baptism, a voice presumably heard only by Jesus himself: “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased” [1:11]. What’s Mark doing? He’s drawing a map; he’s setting the boundaries. This is the gospel of Jesus Christ, who is the Son of God.

Mark wants us to know that Jesus was dramatically empowered by the Holy Spirit, so he tells us of a scene that only Jesus saw at His baptism: “As Jesus was coming up out of the water, he saw heaven being torn open and the Spirit descending on him like a dove” [1:10]. The Spirit, moving above the surface of the waters, demonstrating God’s presence, bringing life; it conjures images of Genesis 1. It sets the stage. It marks the boundaries. Mark tells us that Jesus is empowered by the Spirit of God.

Mark wants us to know that Jesus clearly proclaimed the coming of the kingdom of God, so he clearly delineates between John the Baptist and Jesus. John the Baptist prepared the way, but Jesus is the main character in this drama. John the Baptist got folks ready for Jesus so Jesus could boldly announce, “The time has come. The kingdom of God is near” [1:15]. John the Baptist is significant, but he’s not the main character. So in a few short verses John is introduced, then moved off the stage, and Mark has mapped out his Gospel for us: Jesus Christ, the Son of God, empowered by the Spirit of God, has come to proclaim the kingdom of God. The Gospel begins with crisp, distinct boundary lines. This is who Jesus is; this is what Jesus has come to do.

II. But as we’re drawn into the narrative Mark unfolds, the boundary lines don’t seem to be nearly as crisp or clear. Like moving from a map of the coast to the beach itself, we find ourselves drawn into an actual experience that blurs some of our pre-determined boundaries. Take the baptism of Jesus, for instance. Mark has made it clear that Jesus is the Son of God, with all we know that involves: blameless, pure, holy. He has also made it clear that John is baptizing humans, real people, with all we know that involves: sinful, broken, full of impurities.

So what in the world is Jesus doing? Why is the holy Son of God being baptized where sinners are baptized? If Jesus had hired a PR person, they would have been beside themselves: Jesus, what do you think you’re doing, being baptized with all those sinners? That’s not the image we want to project, Jesus! You have no sin; why risk your reputation being baptized just like they were baptized? Jesus, what are you doing? If a PR person had scripted the story, we’d have a picture of Jesus, standing on the riverbank, congratulating the people after they came up out of the water, giving them a pat on the back, maybe a big “thumbs up” sign from the dry land.

But that’s not the kind of Savior we have in Jesus Christ. He’s not a “stand at a distance and cheer us on” kind of Savior. No, we have a “wade right into the experiences of human existence” kind of Savior. He didn’t come partway from heaven to where we are. He came all the way—right into the middle of the lives we live. Experiencing what we experience, living where we live.

And as we watch the scene unfold before us, all our preconceived boundary lines seem artificial. It’s no longer “holy Son of God” over there, and “sinful humanity” over here. It’s “holy Son of God” in the midst of, surrounded by, identifying with sinful humanity. And that’s how it should be in our lives, too: God’s holy people in the midst of, surrounded by, identifying with sinful humanity. But the sad truth is, “we spend an awful lot of time in the Christian church talking about God’s love for sinners, but we sure do go to a lot of trouble not to be mistaken for one of them. Guilt by association and all of that. Only Jesus . . . did not seem too concerned about that.” There He stood, right in the middle of sinful humanity, being fully human. And when Jesus came, demonstrating that He was fully human, God broke through and declared He was fully divine.

And instead of clear boundaries (sinless Son of God over here, sinful humanity here), instead of clear boundaries, we get Jesus walking on the shoreline, where the tides ebb and flow endlessly between God’s holy Son and sinful humanity.

III. From the baptism of Jesus, Mark leads seamlessly into the 40 days in the wilderness. Jesus, still wringing the water out of His clothes, heads to the desert. Ah, the desert. We think we know the boundary you cross when you move from river to desert. Isn’t the river teeming with life, and the desert like “Death Valley?” Isn’t the river a place of fellowship, and the wilderness a deserted, desolate place? Isn’t the river like a maternity ward, full of the promise of new life? And isn’t the wilderness like a cancer ward, with the threat of death heavy in the air?

We expect this: that the flowing water and the abundance of the Spirit go hand in hand, and that the dryness of the desert matches the dryness of life separated from God. That’s what we expect, but again, the lived experience confounds our expectations. Oh, in the wilderness there is Satan, and in the wilderness there are wild animals. The desert does mean dryness. But the desert is also marked by the Spirit’s presence.

Do you know what it’s like to experience God’s presence in the most unexpected places? Vice Admiral James Stockdale survived 2,714 days as a P.O.W. in Vietnam. “On one occasion, the North Vietnamese handcuffed Stockdale’s hands behind his back, locked his legs in heavy irons, and dragged him from his dark prison cell to sit in an unshaded courtyard so other prisoners could see what happened to anybody who refused to cooperate. According to the Navy’s official report of the episode, Stockdale remained in that position for three days. Since he had not been in the sun for a long time, he soon felt weak, but the guards would not let him sleep. He was beaten repeatedly. After one beating, Stockdale heard a towel snapping out in prison code the letters GBUJS. It was a message he would never forget: ‘God Bless You Jim Stockdale.’” Experiencing the presence of God in the most unexpected places. Mark says that in the desert you can even hear the rustle of angels’ wings.

To move from river to desert is not to step across a neat boundary from abundance into scarcity. Nor is it to move from a zip code where only God is found to a zip code to where only Satan is found. No, in the desert we find instead, the Spirit and Satan in the same zip code, battling for the same turf, coming to bear on the same life. The Son of God himself felt the upward lift of angels and the downward pull of Satan. In the same place. At the same time. For 40 days Jesus experienced a tug-of-war. Satan tempting Him. Angels serving Him. Satan putting obstacles in His way; the Spirit—who sent him there—the Spirit steering Him clear of them. That’s the desert experience Mark narrates.

IV. Then, abruptly, Mark narrates another scene. Mark gives not just a change of venue, but also a change in how time is measured. From the specific, measured “40 days” of time to what sounds like a vague, lackadaisical accounting: after. “After” John was arrested, “after” John was put in prison, the next scene begins. Jesus starts to proclaim the kingdom of God. Jesus did it at that time because, “the time had come.” Which is not to say that it was the 41st day, or the 15th of the month, or half past three, or any other calendar or clock kinds of time. It was just time; kairos, God’s time.

On the face of it, it seems like a most unlikely time; a less than favorable place. The time: John has just been arrested by Herod. The place: Herod’s kingdom of Galilee. After John is arrested, Jesus comes back to Galilee, preaching. John had made it clear that someone would be following after him. But you’d think John’s arrest would encourage the one coming after him not to follow him so closely. Maybe a little more time in the isolation of the desert would be prudent. But no.

At the time and in the place when Herod exerted the force of his power in his kingdom of Galilee, Jesus came into Herod’s kingdom of Galilee proclaiming the kingdom of God. And Mark tells it in such a way that the message is unmistakable: the good news of God’s kingdom is not just proclaimed where it appears to have no rivals. And God’s kingdom is not just proclaimed when we might think the time is right. We get our demographic maps that show the best places, and watch the economic indicators to find the right time, and then we proclaim the kingdom of God. All across America we find the church chasing Wal-Mart and Starbucks. If the time and place is right for them to open a franchise, then the time and place must be right for us to open a franchise on the opposite corner.

But listen to Mark. If God’s kingdom was proclaimed in that time and in that place, then just maybe the time has come for God’s kingdom to be proclaimed in all times and in all places. In some places, it’s after the neighborhood has changed. In other places, it’s after the missionaries have been kicked out. Somewhere else it’s after the plant has been shut down. After, after, after. After the kingdoms of this world have thrown their worst at the church and tried their best to silence the message. After all that, it’s time to announce the Good News of the kingdom of God.

After John was put in prison, Jesus came preaching, because it was time. Kairos. God’s time.

CONCLUSION

So with the Gospel of Mark, we begin the season of Lent. These three brief scenes are something of a notice before the journey begins: God will not allow himself to be confined to the boundaries we have drawn, saying, “God works here and here, but not there.” This Christ whose steps we’ll trace will lead us on a journey that will defy our expectations.

God’s holy Son will not avoid associating with known sinners who submit themselves to a baptism of repentance. And we’ll be called to do the same.

God’s Holy Spirit will not allow the godforsaken places of this world to be completely godforsaken. And we may come to experience His presence in those places where we are most keenly aware of His absence.

God’s kingdom will not cower in fear when the kingdoms of this earth exert their most demonic powers. The message of that good news began when it was the right time. The time is still right.

“Look ahead,” Mark says. “See that spot on the map, marked by a cross? The one that seems to be the driest, most desolate, godforsaken place on all the earth? Wait and see. The barrenness of that hill may just prove to be a place where God’s Spirit is still at work—where angels dare to tread.”