-
Contact Info
- Office Hours
- M-Th 8:30 - 3
- Closed Friday
- Telephone
- (503)640-1775
- Address
- 168 NE 8th
- Hillsboro, OR 97124
- Directions
-
Email
- General Info
- Office
- Spire
- Webmaster
- Gwen Drake
- Pastor
- Christine Webb
- Family Ministries
- Coordinator
- Lefty Schultz
- Visitation Pastor
- Laura Lillegard
- Office Manager
- David Walters
- Music Minister
- Youth E-mail
- Youth Ministry
- Oregon-Idaho UMC
- Main UMC Website
Sermon - January 18th, 2009
The Servant Girl's Gift
Rev. Gwen Drake
Scripture: 2 Kings 5:1-16
Naaman’s story is found in the book of Kings, which is a history of the kings of Israel from King David to King Zedekiah. Naaman shows up about half way through, in the ninth century B.C.E. when Jehoam was king. Although Israel and her neighbor, Aram (which is now Syria) were frequently at war, they were in Naaman’s day, at peace. Aram had the better army and Israel knew it. Israel even knew the name of the commander of the Aram army, since he had beaten up on them more than once. His name was Naaman, which means “pleasant”—an unlikely name for a warrior, perhaps, but even his enemies admitted that he was a great man. They described him as one whom God favored in battle.
It’s all rather remarkable because Naaman had leprosy, which was not as big a problem for a Syrian as it might have been for a Jew. Still it was not a pleasant disease to deal with. Despite that, Naaman was a national hero. He had an office with a view in a Syrian palace. He hobnobbed with heads of state, but there was always that awkward moment when he met people for the first time. Some handled their surprise well enough, but others stared at him or looked quickly away. He did not touch anyone. That way he did not have to watch the other person decide whether or not to be brave when he reach out with his scabby hand. He was so tired of seeing the question register on their faces. Like, Good Lord, is that stuff contagious? Poor guy. It must be awful to have to deal with. Why doesn’t he just stay home and spare himself the grief? But their questions were nothing compared with his own. Such as: If the gods favored him, then why was he afflicted with leprosy? And why couldn’t anyone in Aram make him well?
Naaman’s help did come, but from a most unlikely, unexpected, uninvited, unacceptable source. A young Jewish girl had been taken captive during one of his military raids on Israel. She was the least of the least in Aram—a slave, a child, a girl. The book of Kings does not even give her a name, but she was the one who helped Naaman. She did not speak directly to him—for he was far too scary and powerful for that— she spoke to his wife, whom she served. “If only my Lord were with the prophet who is in Samaria,” she said to her mistress one day. “He would cure him for sure.”
It was a preposterous suggestion, totally out of the question. When the king’s own physicians had failed to do Naaman any good, he was supposed to go hunting for a faith healer in Israel on the advice of a pre-adolescent servant girl? It was crazy, but, you know what? Naaman jumped right on it. If you have ever been that sick that long yourself then you understand. Once you run out of respectable doctors, having done everything they said—once you have taken the pills, applied the special ointments, practiced the twenty minutes of positive thinking a day and nothing changed—well, if someone tells you about a clinic in Mexico where the doctor with a degree in veterinary science has discovered a substance that works wonders on humans, there is the temptation that you will get in your car, or book a flight and go. It may sound crazy, but when you really, really want to get well, then you cannot afford to leave any stone unturned—even if the stone turns out to be a holy man in Israel.
As soon as Naaman’s wife told him what the servant girl told her, he went to see the king of Aram, who was more than happy to oblige his five-star general. “Good, then,” the King said to him, “and I will send along a letter to the king of Israel.” Naaman took the letter and went home to pack. Since he had no idea what a cure for leprosy cost, he emptied his bank account, loading his chariots with 750 pounds of silver and 150 pounds of gold, plus ten sets of fine clothes. Then he blew a kiss to his wife goodbye and set off for Israel, where he presented his letter to the king.
The letter said, “When this letter reaches you, know that I have sent to you my servant Naaman, so you may cure him of his leprosy. It was a nice gesture, however, misguided. The problem was that Naaman’s boss, the king of Aram, did not understand about REAL power. He thought the king of Israel was the man to see—that if there was a cure available in Israel then the king would surely know about it. Well, the king was clueless. The only kind of power he knew about was political and military power. He did not know a thing about this particular healing power which was why he got so upset when he read the letter.
The first thing the king of Israel did was grab his royal robe and tear it right down the middle. Then he howled out loud. “Am I God? Do I have the power to give death or life that this man sends word to me to cure someone of leprosy?” The King of Israel thought it was some kind of political trap. The King of Aram had asked him to do something he could not do so that Aram would have an excuse to declare war on Israel. It was all politics to him—politics was all he knew. And he knew he was in trouble no matter what. He knew he had been set up.
Well, the word of the king’s distress got around town in no time at all. Elisha, the prophet whom the little Jewish servant girl knew, and the King did not know, heard about it. So he sent a message to the king. “Why have you torn your clothes?” he asked. “Let Naaman come to me, that he may learn that there is a prophet in Israel.”
Now, that statement may not have sounded strange back almost 3,000 years ago. But it definitely sounds strange today. Who would think of going to a prophet for a cure? For a prediction of the future maybe, or for a hair-raising sermon on the righteousness of God, but for help with a skin disease? Very strange.
But as you know, Naaman really, really wanted to get cured. He would try anything at least once. So he got directions to Elisha’s house and went there. He lined up all his horses and chariots in the front yard and waited for the prophet to come out. He wondered what the proper protocol was. Should he approach Elisha or let Elisha approach him? Was he suppose to kneel or something? He hoped not. Kneeling was definitely out of the question. He would offer a slight bow, with his hands clasped behind his back. “Good sir,” he would say. “I am General Naaman, commander of the army of the King of Aram.” That should set the proper tone. Then he could soften a little. “I have heard so much about you. I have come with high hopes, AND, quite a lot of money besides. I am prepared to pay anything you ask for your services.”
While Naaman was still rehearsing his speech, the door to Elisha’s house opened and a messenger came out. “Go, wash in the Jordan seven times,” the man said to Naaman, “and all your flesh will be restored and you shall be clean.” Naaman was so surprised that he hardly heard what the man said. What kind of shabby welcome was this? Where was Elisha, the man of God? At the very least, he owed his visitor a seat in the shade and a cup of cool water. Couldn’t he even come out of his house and say hello? Couldn’t this prophet tell how important this was?
Naaman was angry. He had fully expected Elisha to come out to him—there in the yard—to say some grand words, make some grand gesture, so that Naaman would be cured in a spectacular way fit for a king, so that any one who was watching would be impressed. Instead, he was being sent away by a messenger, to go splash in the shallow, muddy Jordan River like a five-year-old boy. Him, General Naaman, commander of the army of the King of Aram with 900 pounds of gold and silver in his luggage!
It was too much, too, too much! “Are not Aban and Pharpar, the rivers of Damascus, better than all the waters of Israel?” he blurted out. “Could I not wash in them, and be clean?” And he turned away in rage. His servants, however, knew him well—well enough to know that he was more hurt than mad—because they tiptoed up to him and convinced him to give it a try….after all, if Elisha had given Naaman something difficult to do, he would have done it. They reasoned. Instead, Elisha, gave the great and generous warrior something so simple. So?
That moment was the beginning of Naaman’s cure. Right there. He was completely emptied out. His royal connections had gotten him nowhere. His reputation had scared no one. His bags that were full of gold meant nothing. Elisha would not even come out and meet him. Now, he had been given this utterly humiliating thing to do—to take the world’s longest bath in a muddy river that barely came up to his knees!
Except, Naaman really, really wanted to get well. His servants convinced him to try it. He left his clothes and sandals on the bank of the river. He picked his way through the rocks to the deepest part of the river, where the current bumped against his diseased body like soft pillows. The water was greenish brown and smelled swampy. There was nothing remotely sacred about it at all. Or medicinal. Naaman found a place to kneel and sank down the first time. It was cold under the water but not on top of it. He didn’t dare look at his skin. Seven times he made the passage from the river to the sun. Each time he rose out of the river, he sucked air like a newborn baby. He went down again and again. He tried not to think of anything but the numbers. Four, five, six, by the seventh time he was out of breath. But that wasn’t all. He was very clean. When he looked down at his skin, there was the flesh of a five-year-old. It was smooth. It was fresh. He was cured!
Later on he tried to pay Elisha, but Elisha would not hear of it. “Your money is not good here,” he told Naaman. “God works for free.” All Naaman had to do was follow directions. All he had to do was empty himself out, abandon the pretense that who he was or what he was worth could get him what he needed. All he had to do was strip down until his wounds were exposed and go and play in the water like a little boy. Then God did for him what military victories and kings and bags and bags of money could never do. God restored his flesh. God created him all over again. He was made new.
I could explain the story further, but I think the message is clear. The next time you are saying your prayers for our nation, for our leaders, for other nations and their leaders, remember Naaman. His wealth and power turned out to be useless in his search for health and peace and life. He was read to trade it all in when God surprised him with a free gift, that made him truly free. It only cost him a little humility and he receive what he had been looking for all of his life. It all started from the voice of the least of the least. His freedom came from the simple faith of a lowly servant girl. Never under-estimate the creative power of God. When you pray, remember that. Amen.