Mark 6:1-13; 2 Samuel 5:1-5, 9-10

All or nothing.

If there’s an overall principle by which the media is apparently guided, this appears to be it.  Either we’re drowning in a sea of facts and figures; or else were starving in a drought of silence.  Indeed, it mostly seems that while one or two stories grab all the headlines, other matters, equally or even more important, receive little attention.

We’ve had a good dose of that in recent times.  First, it was the tediously named “Utegate Affair”, with its allegations of political favouritism and forged emails; then it was the death of Michael Jackson, and a reportage that has ranged from the highs and lows of Jackson’s career to the frankly ghoulish details of the autopsy report.  It’s been a coverage that has been at times nauseating in its intensity; an intensity that has often had me wondering what else has been going on in the world, what else has happened that we haven’t heard about.

All – or nothing.

I know it’s a slightly artificial exercise, but imagine for a moment how the modern media would have approached today’s Scriptural readings.  I suspect the events depicted in today’s reading from Second Samuel would have received lots of attention; afterall, a royal coronation is a big deal.  There’d be in-depth coverage of the king-to-be’s background; reams of analysis by self-styled “royal watchers” and various other experts; endless speculation on the subject of the new king’s likely policies, and their implications for the nation and the world.  Long before the crowning itself, we’d be subject to hours of “royal specials” and “coronation exclusives” as the networks vied with each other for the biggest story or the most sensational angle.

I suspect, however, that the same could not be said about the events depicted in today’s reading from Mark’s Gospel.  What, afterall, could the possible headline be? Preacher Rejected By Congregation? Twelve Homeless Men Tell The World To Repent? Hardly anything scandalous or salacious in that! Not at all the sort of thing to sell newspapers or boost ratings.

And that’s the rub, isn’t it? For I suspect that were the media to be at all interested in the events recalled by Mark, it would be in the sneering, cynical fashion that has become the hallmark of a certain kind of journalism – a journalism which has pretensions to scepticism and moral righteousness, but whose real objective is to expose others to ridicule and denigration. You can picture the story – would-be village prophet and decipherer of Scriptures turns out to be working-class charlatan.  Group of preachers and miracle workers revealed as a band of scruffy beggars.  Hidden camera footage shows a trouble-making Jesus causing a fuss in the synagogue; similar footage exposes Jesus giving instructions to his followers about how to successfully welch off others. 

It would be so easy to do.  The text which we interpret as a metaphor for Jesus’ rejection by the world, a rejection that forms the very basis for the proclamation of the Good News, can be used to paint a very different picture altogether.

All – or nothing.

It seems like we’re always stuck at one of those extreme ends of the pendulum swing, doesn’t it? We’re either riding the dizzy heights of ridiculous good fortune, or we’re being cut down to size by unrelenting bad luck.  The spectacular wealth and privilege of industrialised nations is counterbalanced by the extreme poverty and suffering of the developing world.  The years of stunning growth and declarations by economists that we’ve at last found a way out of the boom-bust cycle are followed by extraordinary market collapses and heart-rending misery and hardship for millions.  The technology that has lifted untold numbers of people out of poverty, by also being the agent of climate change, has become the very thing that threatens our species with extinction. 

Earlier this week, perhaps as many as one in two Australians took a punt on winning the Oz Lotto jackpot, a punt given added poignancy by the fact that we are struggling through the worst economic downturn since the Great Depression of the 1930s.  Of the millions who had a flutter, only two entrants walked away with $53 million each – leaving everyone else to contemplate what might have been.

All – or nothing.  We’re desperately locked into the mindset that says unless we have it all, we have nothing.  Unless we’re a celebrity, we’re a nobody.  Unless we have publicity – any publicity, even bad publicity – we’re invisible.  I read recently that one of the celebrities who appears regularly on the covers of the so-called “gossip magazines” said that unless she saw herself in the media on a constant basis, she would feel as though she didn’t exist.  I recall a former work colleague telling me that she had spent $500 in text messages voting for her favourite in Australian Idol because she couldn’t bear the thought of that person not winning.  And even Michael Jackson, despite the pitiable circumstances of his death, and the sad and all-too-public dysfunction of his private life, even he was to be envied – afterall, he had made it.  He was rich, he was famous – he had it all.

King David came from humble stock.  A shepherd boy, his moment of glory came when he stepped from the battle line to engage the Philistine champion, Goliath, in single combat. Then he rode the roller-coaster of fame, until King Saul fell from grace and he and his sons died in battle.  After a short period of anarchy, David emerges as the popular choice as king – as we read in today’s passage from Second Samuel, the people come to David and literally beg him to be king.

So, in conventional terms, David has made it.  He has power, he has wealth, he has renown.  His happiness seems based on his ascent from humble obscurity to royal prestige.  Except – if you read the Psalms that are attributed to David, you get a very different picture.  These texts express very human fears and anxieties, concerns that are in no way alleviated by the power of kingship.  For example, in Psalm 3: O Lord, how many are my foes! Many are rising against me; many are saying to me, “There is no help for you in God!”  And in Psalm 86: Incline your ear, O Lord, and answer me, for I am poor and needy.

That’s an astonishing thing, isn’t it – that a Psalm that says “I am poor and needy” should be attributed to a king.  But that’s because these texts reveal a profound truth: that “making it” – as Michael Jackson “made it”, and as our fame and wealth obsessed society dreams of “making it” – is just an illusion.  Not because being famous or wealthy are in themselves necessarily bad things – it’s simply that they will not affirm life.

It’s not a case of all or nothing – it’s a case of all and nothing.

The reception which Jesus receives in today’s reading from Mark’s Gospel is, by contrast, starkly different.  Here’s this bloke from a humble artisan background, whose mother and family are known to everyone in the district – here he is, going around performing miracles and presuming to teach in the synagogue!  And as the text says, the people took offence at him, because they could not reconcile the power of his words and deeds with the obscurity of his background.  Surely such things are the preserve of kings and prophets and priests?

It’s almost as if the people have forgotten that David came from as humble a background as Jesus.  The mystique, the aura of the long-awaited Messiah has replaced the substance of who the Messiah is and what the messianic project involves.    Because the Messiah is not a king projecting power and glory, as David projected the political and economic power of his kingdom.  The Messiah is not a celebrity prophet, revered for their sayings and righteousness, as Moses and Elijah and Isaiah were revered by later generations.  The Messiah is not a wealthy “pillar of society” surreptitiously letting it be known by their good works and philanthropic enterprises just how wealthy they are. 

No, the Messiah is this obscure man from a backwater district of Judea who can be amazed by the unbelief of his nearest and dearest, and who can only ruefully comment on the lack of appreciation for prophets in their own time and place.  But what sets Jesus apart – what makes him the Messiah – is his response: instead of rejecting the people because they have rejected him, he sees this as the very indictor of the urgency and necessity of his ministry.  Jesus understands that the longing for a Messiah, and the aura of majesty and power in which the Messiah has been clothed by popular imagination, is, in fact, emblematic of a deep malaise.

The people lack the very thing that affirms life.  They lack hope. 

The people desperately desire someone to bring hope to them – they want the Messiah to come and rid them of all their troubles and anxieties.  And because they want someone else to do these things for them, and because that someone else has yet to appear, they have succumbed to despair and cynicism.  Just as we, in our desire for wealth or fame or celebrity – or for churches that were full, or had large youth groups, or were once again the dominant voice in society – just as we are inclined to lapse into hopelessness and despair because our desire for these things remains unfulfilled.

And this is the radical importance of Jesus’ message as set out in Mark’s Gospel: the hope for which we long is already present among us in the Kingdom of God – if only we open our hearts and minds to that fact.  Jesus enables us to see that presence in the world; and the Holy Spirit helps us to remember the hope it represents. But the truth that Jesus proclaims is that the Kingdom of God has always been with us – because the Kingdom of God is not a remote, distant realm, it is part and parcel of creation, it springs from the same overflowing love that brought creation into being, and which continually invites us into relationship with God.

That’s why Jesus sends out the disciples on their mission calling the people to repent.  Because repentance is not grovelling guiltily before an angry God; repentance is rediscovering hope.  Repentance requires us to trust in the redeeming love of God; it requires us to surrender ourselves to God’s grace, to the uncomfortable knowledge that God loves us unconditionally, in spite of ourselves. 

And that’s why the image of the disciples shaking the dust of any place that rejects them from their sandals is so powerful; because it’s not an image of condemnation, it’s a symbol of how we have forgotten what affirms and sustains life.  The dust that falls from the disciples’ sandals is the very image of our futile search for life in the desires and expectations that are the source of our despair.  It’s a reminder that all or nothing does not and cannot provide life; it can only trap us in a cycle of fear.  It’s a reminder that life can only be affirmed by connecting ourselves to the Kingdom of God that is already present among us. 

It’s a message that we have to re-learn how to hope.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen.