Sunday, May 29, 2016 | 8:00, 9:30, and 11:00 a.m.

Surprise?!

Shannon J. Kershner
Pastor, Fourth Presbyterian Church

Psalm 96
Luke 7:1–10

Believing that God is utterly faithful,
that God loves us no matter what, and
that there is nothing that can separate us from that love . . .
makes all the difference in the way we see the world.

Alan Brehm

Whenever I lead Bible studies, one of my favorite questions to ask is if anything in the passage surprised the group. I always like to know what stands out or catches us off guard. What do people hear in the text? For many commentators and preachers, what stands out in this text from Luke is the power of faith—specifically, the power of the centurion’s faith. One commentator states it this way.

“To the question, ‘What is faith?’ this story offers a clear answer. I mean, here’s a guy who so trusts Jesus’ ability to heal that he sends [friends] to tell Jesus to just say the word. That’s right, he tells Jesus not to even bother showing up, but simply to give a command. Why? Because based on his position as a centurion, he knows what authority is and he believes Jesus has it. Now that’s faith!” (David Lose, www.workingpreacher.org)

I understand why so many focus on the faith of the centurion. He did indeed show tremendous trust that Jesus was Ruler over all—even over sickness and trouble—and could therefore heal his servant. But for me, the even more compelling piece of this story is not so much the “what” as it is the “who.” I am drawn less to the power of the centurion’s faith and more to the fact that it was the centurion who had it.

The fact that it is a centurion who believes so deeply is what catches me off guard, what surprises me in the story. After all, the centurion was an unlikely person to demonstrate that kind of faith. He was an unexpected proclaimer of trust in the Galilean rabbi named Jesus.

During this time of Jesus’ ministry, a centurion was an officer of the Roman Empire, “a sharp edge of Rome’s power, a cruel force that dominated the people of Israel” (Eric Barreto, “An Unexpected Faith,” June 2, 2013, www.day1.org). Later, it would be that same Empire to which the centurion had pledged his loyalty who would order the execution of Jesus. Furthermore, this centurion, a Gentile, would have sworn religious oaths to the deities, the gods, of Rome. Given all of that, it would have been understandable if Jesus and all of his Jewish friends and followers saw that centurion as merely a part of the enemy forces who actively kept them from freedom. A cog in the machine of their oppression, and one not to be trusted.

But that understandable stereotyping is not what we find in this text. Rather, we see a group of Jewish leaders going to Jesus on the Roman centurion’s behalf. They want to both pass on the centurion’s request for the servant’s healing as well as vouch for the centurion’s character. This also ought to be surprising to us. I promise you, it was surprising for the disciples. Apparently this centurion was not so easily defined. Yes, he was a part of the occupation of Israel, but he also tried to help out in his community. Yes, he swore allegiance to the gods of Rome, but he also took it upon himself to build the synagogue for the Jewish people in his town.

As the Jewish leaders say themselves, “He is worthy of having you do this for him, for he loves our people.” Again, that testimony of the Jewish leaders is a surprising twist. It seems the centurion was not so easily pigeonholed into an “enemy” type. And that discovery is not just surprising, but also intriguing. It seemed to have intrigued Jesus. After he heard how the Jewish leaders spoke of him, Jesus decided to go with them to the centurion’s home.

But did you notice—Jesus never made it into the house. The centurion sent another group of friends to stop him along the way. Yet this time the message the centurion sent indicated he suddenly felt completely unworthy to merit Jesus’ visit. Perhaps the centurion had suddenly become struck by the reality of the difference between the authority he had, an authority bestowed upon him by the power of Rome; and the authority Jesus had, an authority bestowed upon him by the power of God.

And his sudden realization of the power of Jesus’ authority over all creation prompted the centurion to make a statement of faith—“You don’t need to come, but only speak the word and let my servant be healed.” Did you hear the connection with Genesis 1 in that statement? In the poetry of Genesis, God does all of God’s creative work through the invitational speaking of the Word: Let there be light; let the waters be gathered together into one place; let us make humankind in our own image. God gently speaks creation into being.

And here in this story from Luke, the centurion asks Jesus to do something similar. Just speak the word, the centurion is quoted as saying, and let my servant be healed. Talk about surprising! This centurion is able to connect the work of God the Creator of Life with the work of Jesus the Creator of New Life. Other than Simeon, the prophet Anna, the tempter and the demons, no one else in Luke’s gospel had made that connection yet. No one else had put two and two together like that centurion did, not even the disciples, the ones who were with Jesus every single day. Talk about showing confidence in Jesus, believing that Jesus was who he said he was. Yet the centurion’s faith statement , his ability to make those connections, did not just amaze the crowd—it even amazed Jesus. We don’t see that much in this Gospel, either. Luke usually used the word “amazed” (thaumazo) in reference to the people’s reaction to Jesus. This time, though, Jesus is the one who shows thaumazo, amazement.

But perhaps even for Jesus it was also not as much about the “what” as it was about the “who.” I imagine Jesus was amazed not just at the power of the centurion’s faith, but also that it was a centurion who showed such faith, who made those kinds of connections, who trusted him without reservation. “I tell you,” Jesus said, “not even in Israel have I found such faith.” As David Lose has written, [this story reminds us that] “God regularly shows up where we don’t expect God to be and never, ever stops delighting in surprising us.” In this story, God showed up in the testimony of a centurion and surprised, then delighted, even Jesus himself.

And it is God’s surprise, even for Jesus, that challenges me, perhaps challenges you. It is yet one more reminder that God just absolutely refuses to work within our categories and play by our rules. Instead, God keeps showing up in the most unexpected people, in the most unexpected places, and at the most unexpected times. No one, maybe not even Jesus, would have thought that God would give the gift of faith and deep trust to the centurion. He did not fit the type. He was a “them,” not an “us.” Honestly, who among us would have ever imagined that an enemy soldier, an active part of an oppressive Empire, would end up being a model of faith for the people of God? It is scandalous, when we think about it.

But what if the scandal, the surprise of this story, is not that unlikely and unexpected people can demonstrate faith and do good works in the world, like the centurion did? Rather, what if the real scandal, the surprise of this story is that we had considered them unlikely and unexpected in the first place (Lose, www.workingpreacher.org)? Do you hear that difference? Perhaps we need to be more surprised at our surprise over just who God chooses to use for God’s work of mercy and justice. As if we could predict or know who God would use. Like that is somehow our responsibility and decision. Perhaps we need to be surprised by the fact that we are surprised.

A month or so ago, one of our ruling elders sent an email to me and Stacy Jackson, the Executive Director of our Chicago Lights outreach organization. He gave both of us permission to use it when it felt appropriate. In the email, he described an interaction that had both surprised him and humbled him. He had been having a good morning, catching the “L” just as it arrived at the station, and finding a good seat where he could relax. But just as he started to bury his head in his phone, he heard a voice. “Excuse me. I apologize for the interruption. I do not want to disrupt you. But I need your help.” Our elder admitted he felt a twinge of irritation and decided just to keep reading his phone, avoiding eye contact. But his and others’ unresponsiveness did not dissuade the man. He started telling his story to everyone. “I was incarcerated at 19. I got out in 2013 at 23. I am just looking for work or a way to make a living. My mother was the only one who supported me while I was in jail. She died before I got out.”

Our elder began to feel empathetic as he heard the man tell his story. He wished he carried small bills with him or at least had a card with information about the Elam Davies Social Service Center. Furthermore, our elder reflected, he served on the Board of Chicago Lights—so he should, as he wrote, have had the guts to say something about it, to speak up and engage in conversation with the man. Yet, on that morning, he did not have the courage, so he chose to tune out again. Surely the guy would be done with his pitch soon. But no, the man kept going, and our elder admitted he started to feel annoyed at the never-ending ask.“The clothes I am wearing are from Catholic Charities," the man continued. “This is how I network, and I need your support.”

Suddenly, a voice interrupted the man’s speech. “Hey, I’ve got a card for a place that can help you out. It’s at 126 E. Chestnut.” Our elder looked up, wondering if he would know the person who was giving out our Fourth Church’s address. He did not. So he put his head back down but started to more actively listen. “You gotta go to this place,” the new man said. “They helped me get straightened out. I can introduce you to some people.” In response, the man who had been asking for help replied, “Thanks for talking to me. Sometimes I go entire days without anyone talking to me.” “Yeah, man, look,” the helper responded, “I used to be a heroin addict, but now I’m excited I’m turning 60 this year and I have my life turned around. You gotta come talk to these people on Chestnut.”

Still with his head down, our elder found himself praying a prayer of gratitude, surprised and awed by who God was using to bring compassion and mercy into that man’s life. He had not expected to hear that kind of a conversation. He had not expected to be a witness of such grace, not in that way, perhaps not between them.

His email immediately reminded me of an experience of surprise I had during my last year of seminary. I had decided I needed to spend time during that last year with the Open Door community—an intentional community that works with homeless folk in Atlanta. I knew I was still apprehensive about being around people experiencing homelessness, and I wanted to figure out those feelings.

Plus, it was personal. A couple of years before, my family discovered that my father’s uncle Don had died from alcoholism and the stress and strain of living on the streets of Fort Worth, Texas. None of us had known where he disappeared to after walking out on his family. We did not know he had been on the streets for so long. So in light of that new information, I decided I also wanted to learn how to be a presence of compassion, the way I hoped someone had been for Uncle Don during those difficult days and nights.

So a couple of times a week, I would get up early to go and help serve grits and eggs, to swallow my nervousness and my sense of incompetence, and to use everything I had to see Uncle Don’s face in each face who came through the line. Over time, I grew more at ease and started to find my place. But then, one day, the leaders of the community decided that after breakfast we were going to go out to the front yard and have worship together. Furthermore, the leaders decided that I, the almost seminary graduate, was going to lead the prayers and preach a short sermon.

My anxiety levels shot sky-high. I felt completely out of my element. And my face must have radiated my stress and guilt and feelings of being an interloper who could choose whether or not to be there when so many others had no choice. The look on my face must have screamed all of that because right when the service began, as we passed the peace to one another, a woman who looked rather bedraggled turned to me, grasped my hands in hers, and said in a gravelly voice, “It’s going to be okay. You are going to be okay. I am glad you are here. The peace of Christ be with you.” I almost burst into tears. Here I was, this third-year seminary student who had arrogantly thought she would be the one used by God to spread compassion and mercy, but instead had been trapped by fear and guilt.

But in God’s great goodness, God decided to show up for me in the kindness of a tired woman who saw me, who really saw me, the way I had wanted to really see her but had been unable to do. And she acted as an agent of God’s compassion and mercy for me. And I was surprised by that. I found it unexpected. But why? Why did I consider her an unlikely or unexpected person to share God’s good news? Looking back, my surprise feels egotistical, really, as if I could have predicted or known who God was going to use for God’s work in the world. I should have been surprised by my surprise.

This story of the centurion proclaims that God is constantly showing up where we don’t expect God to be, perhaps hoping to delight us, or disrupt us in our discovery of God’s presence. This story also might lead us to become more honest and skeptical about all the assumptions we constantly make as to who God will use for God’s work in the world and how God will show up. This story has the potential to bring us to our knees in confession and prayer that we might come to see everyone as an expected vessel of God’s presence and healing. Everyone. That we might no longer be surprised, but only and always amazed, intrigued, delighted. O Lord, we could say, following the centurion’s example, just speak the word and let us all be healed. Amen.