The Gospel according to 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 paralysed 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, ‘Son, 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!’

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Oh, thank God!” they thought.  At last, finally, they were there. 

The four of them  had been carrying that stretcher for hours.  At first, it wasn’t so bad.  They practiced having the two guys on one side walk out of step with the guys on the other side so the stretcher wouldn’t start to swing.  When they got the hang of that, they thought they were in the clear.  Now they could be sure that they wouldn’t realize their worst fear — dropping their friend. 

But as time and distance slowly wore on, they became less concerned about dropping him and more concerned about their hands, their forearms, their elbows, their shoulders.  At first they just burned.  The group would stop, carefully set the stretcher down, and change sides.  But it wasn’t long before the new side would start to burn as well.  And then it would burn and ache.  Then it would burn, and ache, and shoot stabbing pain up the arm.  And it seemed so much further than they had thought it would be. 

So when finally, finally, they are in sight of the house, they all think, “Oh, thank God!”  I couldn’t have taken much more of this.”  In fact, each of them had already taken more than he would have thought he could take.  If it hadn’t been for not wanting to let their friend down, they would have stopped long ago.  “Oh, thank God!”

And then they look carefully, and their spirits — drop.  Even from a distance they can see that the house is mobbed, packed inside and out.  They can see Jesus standing in the door speaking, but they can’t even get close enough to hear, much less bring their friend to him.  “Excuse us,” they say to the picket fence of backs that form the perimeter of the crowd.  No one moves.  “Let us through!” one of the boys shouts.  A few heads glance back, but no one moves. 

The sun is high now, and, sweating, they lower the stretcher.  Hands on their knees, panting, they look at each other in despair, disappointment, disgust.  Then they look down at their friend.  “It’s all right,” he says, “thank you for trying.”  That does it.

They survey the house.  It is the “Wattle and Daub” construction typical of the world’s poorest places.  A house built of sticks woven between posts, plastered with mud to make walls a foot thick, but soft.  Roofs were the same, but covered with tile.  Outside stairs lead to the roof, a cool place to go in the evening. 

Seeing that the crowd is thin near the stairs, the young men pick up their load and push their way through.  They ignore the protests of their hands, elbows, shoulders, backs — and carefully lift the stretcher to the roof.  They remove the poles, and, glancing at each other with a “We’re committed now” look, begin to pry up the tiles.  Then they dig through the dried mud and sticks.  Dust and debris rain down into the room below, and cries of indignation rise up through the hole.  They pay no attention. 

When the hole is big enough, they replace the poles and remove the ropes that serve as their belts.  Tying them to the poles, they carefully, slowly, lift the stretcher, stopping to get it balanced, then move it over the hole and lower it.  It is a precarious business, but by the time they are on their bellies with their arms through the hole, the stretcher is being held by the outstretched arms of the people inside, who now have little choice but to help. 

Jesus has stopped talking when dust and debris began raining down on the people in the room.  Fascinated, he just watches.  When the stretcher is finally safely down, he looks up and marvels at the faith of these young men whose arms and faces are framed by the hole.  He goes to the paralyzed man, covered with dust, and says, “Son, your sins have been forgiven.”

The good religious types, the scribes, don’t like it one bit.  “It is blasphemy to say you can forgive sins.  Only God can forgive sins,” they think.  Jesus turns to them, “So that you may know that the Son of Man does have authority on earth to forgive sins;” he turns to the paralytic, “Stand up, take your mat, and go home.”  And he does.  Yes, he does.  He walks home with his friends. 

Let’s take another look at some of the characters in this story and see what we have to learn from them.  First, let’s look at the four friends.  These are people who are willing to sacrifice and suffer to ask for healing for a friend.  They carry the load, and they overcome obstacles.  And they break the rules.  (In fact, one can imagine a story in which Jesus looks up at the faces framed by that hole and says, “Boys, you’re going to have to pay for that roof!”).  These young men may not think of themselves as having good prayer lives.  Maybe they keep falling asleep when they say their prayers.  But if our Prayer Book is right that we can pray “by thought and by deed, with our without words,”[1] then these guys are living out a powerful prayer. 

When you pray for someone, think of these young men.  Don’t make it a quick, “You got that, God?” prayer; carry the load; let your hands and arms and shoulders burn; and be willing to break up and dig through obstacles.  If you’re like me, those obstacles, those roofs, are within yourself.  Doubt, insecurity, a sense of unworthiness, thinking you don’t have the time — we come up with lots of roofs to keep us out.  Break through; dig through; make a mess, but don’t give up.  Get inside.  Remember that Jesus didn’t say a word about the paralytic’s faith.  He saw the faith of the friends peering through the hole.

But what about the paralyzed friend?  For me, he represents a part of myself that I really have trouble with — the part of me that needs to accept help.  When I think of him, I think, “What must it have been like to be paralyzed on a stretcher that is being lowered through a hole in a roof?” 

I’ve told you this story before, but about twenty (something) years ago, I went skiing for the first (and last) time since I had had a knee surgically reconstructed.  I knew it was risky and, sure enough, on the fifth day there I was, lying in the snow high atop a Colorado mountain, in pain and unable to stand. 

When the Ski Patrol came, they strapped me into a fiberglass sled, a stretcher really, and, to my alarm, they put my head on the downhill end and strapped my arms against my chest.  I was helpless.  And they had to ski that sled down a black diamond slope (for experts only — very steep and bumpy). 

When I think of how that paralyzed young man must have felt being lowered through that hole, I think of how I felt at the beginning of my trip down that mountain.  And I imagine that his heart was beating as fast as mine was.  But there’s a difference.  I had no choice, but he did.  He let them do it.  He accepted their help.  When they told him of their plan to carry him to the house, he didn’t say, “No, don’t worry about it; I’ll take care of this myself.”  When they ached along the way, he didn’t say, “I don’t want to put you out like this.  You can turn back now.”  When they hatched the plan to lower him through the hole, he didn’t say, “Are you crazy?  What if you drop me?” 

No.  He recognized that he needed help; he accepted the gift of help that was offered, and he trusted those who were helping him.  I think most of us have a lot to learn from that guy dangling helplessly from that hole in the ceiling.  And it’s important, because I don’t believe anyone can come into God’s presence without recognition, acceptance, and trust. 

Those are folks who did things right.  Let’s see what we can learn by the people who messed up.  Let’s look at the crowd and the Scribes.  The crowd is the community gathered to hear Jesus (this morning, we would call that “the Church”), and in the story the crowd keeps the faithful away from Jesus; it forms a picket fence of backs to those trying to get in.  The scribes see their job as being sure that “religion” means “nothing new — ever.” 

How do we, the Church, keep the faithful away?  How do we frustrate God’s action when it is, as Isaiah says this morning, “a new thing?”[2]  We need to keep the disturbing example of the crowd and the scribes in mind when we tell anyone that they can’t get in because they aren’t educated, or are the “wrong” race, or because they they don’t know how to follow the Prayer Book, or because they are gay, or because they are from Mexico, or because they don’t appreciate our music, or can’t read, or are disabled, or any of the other reasons that we might be, even inadvertently, crowding people out, not making a place, or not allowing God to do a new thing. 

The scribes do something else wrong, too.  They contest Jesus’ ability to forgive sins.  Now, on the one hand this isn’t an issue for us; we know Jesus can forgive sins.  We not new to this like they were; we’re the inheritors of 2000 years of Christianity proclaiming that Jesus can forgive your sins.  We’re the children of Voltaire, who said, “God will forgive me, that’s his business.”  Everybody knows that.

But I find that a lot of people know it, but don’t believe it.  Because they carry their sins, and their guilt, with them.  And sometimes it’s such a burden that it paralyzes them.  There are lots of people who can walk around but still have paralyzed, crippled souls because no matter what they know, they don’t believe that Jesus forgives them.

We’re such strange critters; our problem believing it is that it’s too easy.  If only Jesus had said we had to run laps or do push-ups or something, it would be so much easier for so many of us.  But noooo!  He has to go and just give it away.  Thanks a lot! 

Look, I wish I could make it harder; I know that would be easier, but I can’t.  So if you’re carrying guilt and shame and a paralyzing sense of unworthiness around with you, this is the best I’m allowed to do: the Savior of the World saying to you, “Your sins are forgiven; stand up, take your mat, and go home.”  Sorry that couldn’t be harder. 

Jesus is still in a house, this house, “speaking the word.”  And the good news is that you don’t have to dig through the roof (in fact, I’d rather you didn’t!).  But you may have to dig through the barrier in your heart.  And it is unlikely that you can do that alone.  Recognize your need to accept help, to trust, and to dangle helpless in God’s presence.

And prepare the paralyzed parts of your soul for a new thing: walking home.

The Rev. James H. Pritchett, Jr.  St. John’s Episcopal Church, College Park, GA

Home