When Traditions are Worth Breaking [Proper 17B]

The Rev. Jeremiah Williamson

Mark 7:1-8, 14-15, 21-23 

When traditions are worth breaking

Hand washing?  Really?  Is this a Gospel about hand washing?  Don't get me wrong, hand washing is important.  I support the practice.  I have been known to wash my own hands multiple times each day.  I am even handing down the tradition to my children, and, perhaps one day, to my children's children. 

But after five intense weeks in the sixth chapter of John's Gospel, struggling with the deep theological implications of eating Jesus' flesh and blood, considering the strange beauty and priceless gift that is the Holy Eucharist, the topic of hand-washing feels underwhelming.  It lacks a certain gravitas. 

In fact, were I in the same situation as Jesus, I would likely have taken the easier route here, avoided the confrontation.  You pick your battles and the hand-washing thing just does not seem worth it.  It doesn't seem like a ditch worth dying in.  Were I Jesus, I would have just told my disciples to wash their hands.  It's not hard; it's not a big deal; I don't think Jesus was morally opposed to clean hands.  So, you know, wash your hands and move on.

Of course, this is Jesus; we know he's not gonna do that; also that would have been a pretty lame Gospel story: a few verses of the twelve just standing in line at the local washing spring.  Jesus never seems to choose the path of least resistance.  He picks this battle – the hand-washing thing. 

Which, it turns out, is not really about hand-washing.  Instead it seems to be about authority and priorities and the ability to see the bigger picture. 

There is a great scene in the film The Royal Tenenbaums. In the scene a terribly derelict taxi cab pulls into the shot to carry away one of the characters.  The car is absolutely covered in rust, the doors are mismatched, in place of one of the windows is taped a piece of cardboard.  It's just the definition of a clunker.  And a young man named Dudley, who we are told suffers from a rare combination of amnesia, dyslexia, and color blindness, sees the car, turns to his doctor and says, “That cab has a dent in it.”

It's funny, of course, because the dent is the least of the car's problems. 

Jesus is saying here, “Defiled hands are the least of our problems.” 

But the hand-washing ritual was a tradition.  And traditions are important.  We, of all Christians, should know that.  We are Episcopalians.  We have loads of traditions – some handed down, some we have created.  It's like the old joke: How many Episcopalians does it take to change a light bulb?  Change the light bulb?  How dare you?!  My grandmother donated that light bulb!

And so while we like to side with Jesus in these confrontations – because we know he always wins the argument; and because we are Christians; Jesus is our guy.  I think many of us can at least understand from where the Pharisees are coming.  They are the protectors of the old traditions, traditions handed down from their parents and their parents' parents.  The traditions give religious life order; the traditions preserve meaning; they don't need to think about them much: they are what they are.  What gives Jesus the right to challenge the tradition of the elders? 

That is the question: what gives him the right?  Jesus argues that the prophet Isaiah grants that authority; we see this in the text.  But there is a deeper justification here.  And it stems from Jesus' understanding of God's Law.  Jesus always places the priority on love – not as a replacement for the Law or for the traditions of elders but as the measure by which those things are judged as important or not.  For Jesus love is the heart of everything, the goal of all of God's commandments.  Jesus says, “This is the summary of the Law: Love God.  Love your neighbor.”

Now, it wasn't that the Pharisees didn't value love; I'm sure they did.  It's just that they often found themselves missing the car for the dent, focusing on the small details and missing the point.  Every time Jesus confronts the religious leaders of his day, though the details vary, the heart of the issue is the same: letter of the Law versus the heart of the Law.  The rules and regulations, the precepts and traditions should never come before the people God loves.  But often they do. 

In his first few weeks as Pope, Francis found himself in the midst of a controversy – a controversy of his own making.  The scandal had it all: prisoners and women and Muslims and feet.

Many outraged Roman Catholic bishops, priests, and bloggers were quick to point out that the Pope had violated the traditions of the elders.  The Maundy Thursday liturgy had, in the past, always been held in the Basilica of St. John or St. Peter's.  Only male feet were washed, because of course Jesus' twelve disciples were all men.  And because that was the Roman Church's liturgical law.   So it had to be in the church; no women; and of course, all Christians.  That is what Popes do.  That is what they had always done.   

For his very first Holy Thursday Mass, the Pope traveled to a youth prison in Rome.  And in that very un-churchy of settings, he washed and kissed the feet of young prisoners, including two women.  One of those women was also a Muslim.  It was a shocking violation of the traditions of the elders – the unwritten and written rules of the church.    

Pope Francis justified his actions in his homily.  He said to those young people – men and women, Christians and Muslims, “Jesus loves us, but without limits, always, until the end. The love of God for us doesn't have limits. There is always more, always more. [God] never tires of loving anyone.”[1]  And so of course he washed the feet of prisoners, and women, and Muslims.  Foot washing is an act of love – and God's love transgresses all boundaries, even those set by the elders, even those set by the Church.

That is not to say that we should observe no traditions or that we should ignore the wisdom handed down from forebears.  Jesus observes plenty of Jewish religious traditions.  The Gospels are very clear about that.  The early Church valued greatly the apostolic traditions.  Our liturgical traditions shape and form us into the people God wants us to be.  Without traditions there is likely no such thing as Christianity.

But the traditions are meaningless without love.  And that is what Jesus knew.  People have to matter more.  The Gospel has to matter more.  Love has to matter more.  And if our traditions become more important than the people, we're in trouble.  If we fall more in love with our worship or our routines or our Episcopal identity, than with Jesus and those people for which Jesus gave his life, we're in trouble. 

We tend to get so caught up in our stuff that we forget the point; we focus on the dent and forget about the car.  We are called to spread the good news of God's love.  That's our mission.  That is what God is calling us to do.  And the truth is: we need to be willing to let go of the traditions that hinder that mission.  That was Jesus' challenge for the religious people of his day.  It is his challenge for religious people still.  Are we ready for that?  Can we do that?  What are we holding on to?  What loss would hurt the most?  And if Jesus demanded it, for the sake of the Gospel, would we be willing take that loss?      

It is a hard question.  I love our traditions.  I love our liturgy.  I love the vestments, the hymns, the smells, and the bells.  I love our beautiful language.  I love our books.  I like things to be done well and proper.  And I have pretty clear ideas of what well done means.  I'm not that different from the Pharisees.  Let's be honest: we all have some Pharisee in us.

I was about half-way done with this sermon when I heard crying coming from the play room.  And I was not interested.  I was trying to work.  Trying to write.  And my work is important to me.  It was Oscar, my oldest.  He stepped on a wind-up toy monster and cut the bottom of his foot.  Of course, hysteria ensued.  There was screaming.  There was crying.  There was blood and tears – much more of the latter than the former.  And I was annoyed because the clock kept ticking.  I watched as my limited writing time steadily faded into the past. 

I stomped into the play room.  I saw my devastated son.  And then I thought about this Gospel passage; I thought about the words I was writing, the words I would to say to you this morning.  And I felt like a hypocrite.  Because people really are the point – not hypothetical people, the real people in our lives.  And love really is the most important thing.  And if I fail at that, in that moment, I have no right to talk about this Gospel.

And so I stopped.  And I held my son.  I wiped his tears.  I applied his bandage.  And for a brief moment, I got the point of this passage.  I understood why Jesus picked this battle.  Because there are a million things that get in the way of our love – and some of those things are even good things.  But none of them are worth it.     

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[1]   http://www.catholicnewsagency.com/news/pope-francis-to-inmates-i-too-need-to-be-washed-by-the-lord-97828/