The books of Kings takes place in a
time that’s a bit depressing to look back on, to be honest. It was a time when
people assumed the worst of one another, when leaders led through threats of
violence, when poor nations were ravaged by the rich and their people were
turned into politic tools, when entire nations became refugees, and most of
all, this was a time when everybody in leadership assumed the worst of one
another. Good thing none of that happens today!
In the days when
Naaman was a commander of the army under Aram, the world was predicated on
violence. The law of the day was the law of the sword. It was very much a game
of thrones world out there. This is dream world for the military leaders, who
could freely judge one another with suspicion, and justify themselves based on
conquests alone. Leadership in that age was defined more or less exclusively by
how many battles you won and how many people you killed. It was a world of “us
versus them.” In a world like this, what room is there for a prophet? Well,
Naaman is going to have to find out, because Naaman is in need of healing, and
no amount of war is going to solve that.
The
world in which Naaman lives is the worst of the world that we live in today. It’s
a world that assumes violence is justified, politics means doing whatever it
takes to make your side “win,” and that the only thing that matters is power.
It’s a hard world to combat through persuasion, because it becomes a kind of
self-fulfilling prophecy. Suspicion breeds suspicion, and pretty soon we assume
that everybody is just like me—suspicious and cynical and out for themselves.
Then, nothing else matters, because—if we assume everybody is the devil-incarnate—we
can elect whatever leaders we want, even those who exemplify the very opposite
traits of what it means to be a Christian in the world. Meekness and humility
have no place in politics, we might believe, because we have made it so—because
we have hardened our hearts and assume the worst of everyone.
I don’t have any
advice on how to vote in such a world, but I do know this: The kingdom of God
is not like this. Not at all.
As I was thinking
about Naaman and the question of Elisha in this scripture, I tried to imagine
what it would look like for a prophet in our world today. I fully believe we
have prophets—perhaps many of them—but I can’t imagine many of us are listening
for them. For one, prophets come from the margins. They won’t be saying the
exact things we expect, and they certainly won’t be saying what we want them to
say. If a prophet comes forward, I’m certain that she will be mocked on Fox
News and CNN and everywhere in-between. If we’re relying on others to determine
what it means to live a life open to prophecy, then we are failing at doing our
duty as Christians. We must be listening to the margins—we have to have our ears
to those who have no power—because the world will not listen to them, so we
must.
Is there a prophet
in Israel? The reason we remember Naaman is not because of his military
conquests. The dude probably killed a lot of people, but history couldn’t care
less. The reason we remember Naaman is because he listened to a captive young
girl—not an immigrant, not even a refugee, but a prisoner of war—who told him
about a prophet back home. This is essentially a child in a cage telling an
army commander how to heal himself. Again, not like we have any images of
captive children these days…
Naaman is
remarkable because he listens to the voice from the margins, but even more
remarkable was this voice in the first place—this young girl. Now, we can get
cynical—it’s only natural—and we can assume the young girl was doing this out
of self-interest. This might be her one chance to get ahead. If nothing else,
we are really adept at getting cynical about powerless people. How dare they
game the system to try to lift themselves from poverty!
Her motivations
remain hidden to us, but we do know the resolution. Naaman goes in search of a
prophet in Israel. What he finds, though, is again not what he expected. First
of all, Naaman comes with his horses and chariots. He does the political thing
where he shows off how strong he is. That’s cute, but the kingdom of God doesn’t
show itself through military might. Instead, Elisha sends him a simple message:
Go, bathe in the river seven times, and you will be healed.
It’s so simple, in
fact, that Naaman can’t believe it. Naaman assumes, quite cynically, that
Elisha is telling them that their river is better than Naaman’s rivers back
home—that they have a magical river that can heal people. He is conditioned to
believe that every act is an act of political power. In his cynicism, he risks
missing out on a prophet, because you can’t be cynical and listen to a prophet.
In fact, you need
to make yourself vulnerable. This is the antithesis of being political, which
is so often about shielding ourselves. To be open to a prophet, you have to
become vulnerable and risk losing everything. Your walls have to come down
first. If you are building walls, you cannot listen to prophets. It’s not
possible.
If Naaman would
have been asked to do something hard, he would have believed it. He was
conditioned to a world where everything was hard. He earned his post through
the hardest work, no doubt politicking the whole way up the ladder. He earned it himself. This is the problem
with grace. It spits in the face of earning things based on effort, and
prophets tend to be preachers of grace. Naaman can’t believe it, because his
life has been dedicated to living in a different way.
Elisha tells him
to do something really easy. What will Naaman do if it doesn’t work? He’ll look
like a fool! How stupid—the commander of Aram thinking that bathing in a river
would heal him! He risks humiliation. I know many people who have resisted
getting help for themselves for less. We all fear humiliation, because the
endless politicking has taught us to keep us barriers between our true selves
and the world. Making a fool of ourselves becomes a fear greater than death.
Think of the most
foolish thing you’ve ever done. I can think of a few, and I’ll share one, which
isn’t the most foolish but it was, for me, one of the best lessons about making
a fool of myself. One year in college I was in charge of a Christmas service at
the college chapel. During the candle lighting I planned to sing John Rutter’s
Candlelight Carol in the background, while peoples’ candles were lit. The only
problem was that I couldn’t find an accompanist. Not deterred, I decided I
would do it a cappella, even though this was not a song meant to be sung
without accompaniment—it changed keys and everything. So, it went about as
expected. I lost the key; it sounded terrible; I made a giant fool of myself in
front of everybody who was there, many of whom had never heard me sing before,
period.
That night, the Lutheran
church across the street from campus was open for studying for finals. So I was
over there, hanging out with a bunch of friends, many of whom had been at the
service earlier, and I could just tell some of them honestly felt bad for me. I
mean, it was really bad, and in that
moment I had maybe the first wise thought in my life. I remember talking to one
of them and saying, “Yeah, that was terrible, but it was a great reminder that
it is not about me.”
Honestly, I think
that was the first moment I understood what it meant to be a pastor. This is
not about me. But, more than that, it’s about you knowing that it’s not about
you either. I have found, to really understand this, you have to make a fool of
yourself. That’s really hard. It certainly was for Naaman. Getting naked in the
river of an enemy, doing a stupid thing that would never ever work, he
discovers against all odds that he is healed. That’s what it takes. Fighting
through the shame to find that it’s not about you—then, realizing, that that
very realization will set you free.
The
truth is prophets aren’t usually asking us to do much—just risk making a fool
of yourself. In a world like ours, which does still resemble this Game of
Thrones world in Naaman’s time, making a fool of ourselves for the best reasons
is one of the surest antidotes to the world of politicking. This is how you
stop building walls—by discovering that you are just like everybody else—foolish.
Let go.
Usually,
this is where I say it won’t be easy, and in one way this is true, but in
another way, it is exceptionally easy. Just be foolish for the sake of those
who need to see you are foolish. This is how you break through a world of
cynicism. This is the in-breaking of the kingdom of God—trusting in something
foolish, trusting God enough to lose your dignity, and trusting that dignity is
not what we thought it was.
God
will meet you in your humility. It probably won’t get you elected to anything,
but, then again, that’s not the kind of election we’re after. God has already
chosen you—elected you—and you don’t need to be anything but you in all your
foolishness to earn it. That’s grace, and the world of politicking can’t begin
to touch it.
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