Bitterness and Regret

Good Morning!  Pastor Keven is not here today.  My name is Yehudah.  Pastor Keven talked to me earlier in the week and he felt it best if I got up and spoke to you today.  You see, I am one of the lepers.  Now, Yehuda, I understand that name may be a little difficult for you to understand.  In English, I believe, you pronounce my name Judah and in the Greek of Jesus’ time, you might have called me Judas.  No, don’t look at me like that.  I’m not THAT Judas.  You see, the Jewish people often emulated the people in the Hebrew Scriptures.  Lots of people in my time were called Judas, Levi, Joseph, Miriam (or Mary), and even Joshua, whom you now pronounce as Jesus…or Josh in some cases.  Yes, in my time Jesus’ name was pronounced Yehoshua, his name means “God Saves”, and He did, many, many times.  Pastor Keven asked me to speak today, because this story is the story of my salvation, not once but twice.  My name, however, is my shame.  Yehudah in my language means “grateful to God”, and I wish to Heaven I had been named anything else.

What’s that?  What was it like being a Jew of my time?  A Palestinian Jew in the time of Jesus?  Well… like all of you we grew up with our stories.  We grew up with our religion, of course, the stories of Moses and King David just as you did.  But also like you, we just didn’t have our religious stories, we had our national ones.  Here in America you have The Boston Tea party, the Boston Massacre, the Battles of Yorktown and Valley Forge.  Our experience was a little different.  We had a man, his name was King Antiochus IV.  Antiochus Epiphanes the IV.  Literally, “God Manifest”.  You see my friends, fter Alexander the Great conquered his Empire, conquered Greece, Egypt, Israel, and all the way the Himalayas and India, he died… so apparently he wasn’t that great.  Pretty good maybe, but “Great”?  I don’t know.  But when he died his Empire was left to his top four generals, and Antiochus was their descendant.  I had a great grandfather who lived under Antiochus – and I will never forget the look in his eyes.  Antiochus, did not like Jews very much.  On the rumor of a revolt in Jerusalem, he came.  He came with his armies and his machines of war.  He broke into Jerusalem and he killed our people by the thousands.  He stole our women and our children.  His soldiers murdered our priests and stole all the artifacts of the temple.  But, worse than that, he would do something that would leave a scar in the minds of every Israelite for centuries to come.  He broke into the Holy of Holies, the most sacred place in the temple, in all of Israel, and erected an idol to Zeus and sacrificed a pig to it on our altar.  From that moment on, my religion was banned.  We were to worship the gods of Olympus.  He burned our scrolls and condemned anyone practicing the religion of our ancestors to death.

That was our national story.  Now, God was faithful to us.  Antiochus may have won that battle, but his actions erupted into an all out war.  Though his armies far outnumbered ours, the Jewish people were united under a man named Judas Maccabeus.  Under his leadership, we were victorious over the armies of Antiochus and we reclaimed our land and our temple.  We were free!  We rededicated the temple to Yahweh, and we called the celebration Hanukkah.  And Antiochus Epiphanes, he died pathetically of bodily inflammation and madness.  Hmmph, God Manifest (pretend spit).

But that was our story.  It was the narrative that explained who we were as Israelites, just as your Revolutionary War or your Constitutional Convention does for you.  But whereas you kept your freedoms, your ancestors kept watch to ensure their freedoms were passed on to their children, mine did not.  We did have independence for a time, but the Jewish kings proved only marginally better than the Gentile ones and when their greed and in-fighting reached its height, we were all but sold to Rome so one of our princes could depose his brother and gain the throne.  That is why shame was not new to my people.  We had independence, but our faithlessness and violent evil bought us exile.  First, came Persia, then Babylon, the Persia again, then Greece, and finally Rome.  We are a conquered people, and the only freedom we ever tasted we traded away. 

We longed for a good king.  A Jewish King from the line of David to protect our people.  We longed to return to the Golden Age of Israel, to the times of David and Solomon and we cried out to God day and night for a king that would set us free.  Free from the gentiles, free from our own corrupt leaders, and, though we did not know it, free from a backbreaking Judaism that hurt more than it healed, and most of all freedom from our sinful natures.  That king came, he came right when our desperation reached its peak, but there were many who did not recognize him.  That was to our shame, too.

I met him, you know.  I was a leper then as I said.  Now, leprosy then wasn’t what leprosy is today.  Leprosy today is called Hansen’s disease, but back in my day it was not just one but many different afflictions, and that is exactly how we thought of it – as an affliction.  Yes, we understand leprosy today as a disease but in my day leprosy was the worst of all possible curses.  For us, it was literally a living death.  Many of the writers of my time would talk about it, and it was widely known that neither priest nor magician, neither prayer nor sorcery could be rid of this terrible, terrible fate.  Because God alone had the power of life and death, only God could bestow leprosy on a person, and because only God could bestow it, only God Himself could remove it.

You don’t know what it was like, being a leper in those days.  The Jewish law declared us unclean, and so we were exiled - exiled from our families and villages, exiled from our people, exiled from life.  There was nowhere we were welcome, nowhere we could go.  That is why we hung together in groups, you see, for protection.  To be a leper was to be despised and feared, called a sinner and treated as an abomination.  We were told that God was angry with us, angry at our terrible sin, for what other reason would God afflict us so?  We couldn’t even go to the temple to atone for it!  We were lost, afraid, and hated.  Penniless and dying, even beggars could at least go into town and beg.  I cried out to God, “Why?!”  WHAT DID I DO!?  To deserve…this?  And for years, nothing.  God’s answer to me was always … nothing.

We were wandering the countryside in those days, near a village on the road to Jerusalem.  There were ten of us, and we heard of this new rabbi that was in Judea.  Oh, but he was more than rabbi.  Some claimed he was a prophet, some claimed he was a king, maybe even THE King, but all held he was a worker of miracles.  We had heard that he had even cleansed leprosy.  Leprosy!  Many Jews didn’t know how to feel about that.  God alone had the power to remove such terrible things and our stories were rife with warnings about people claiming to be “God Manifest”

I don’t know why we did it.  But we saw him enter the village and we raced after him.  We kept our distance, though; we shouldn’t have chased him into town as it stands.  We didn’t want to either make him unclean by touching him nor did we want to invite violence upon ourselves for coming in.  Not knowing what to do, we all cried out as one person, “Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!”  Heh.  We knew what we were asking, we knew that only God himself could remove our affliction and yet we used “epistates” the word for a human overseer. Epistates?  Kurios!  Adonai! Was what we should have called him!  LORD!  Maybe it was because we didn’t want to give the villagers further excuse to hurt us.  Maybe we really couldn’t handle the idea of a Human God, but we cried out just the same.  “Jesus, Master, heal us!”

And that look in his eyes, that look of kindness and compassion.  Here we were, pitiful pathetic wretches, asking Him to do something only God could do, believing that He could do it, and we insult him by referring to him as a mere employer.  But Jesus didn’t see that.  Jesus didn’t see my sin, my terrible affliction and condemnation, he saw only people who were scared, who were forced to bear this terrible weight alone.  In his mercy he spoke to us, knowing the damage it could do to tell us to go against our religion, to act like Naaman the Syrian, he told us to obey our Jewish law, to show ourselves to the priests as people cured of leprosy were supposed to do.  And we did.  We all did.  We had dreamed of this moment every single second of every single day of our lives, when we would finally present ourselves as CLEAN.  Welcomed back into community, to hold a job, to have a family.  To be greeted with words of joy rather than thrown rocks.  We went, just as he said … and we were clean! 

But I had a problem so much deeper than rotting skin, and it took a foreigner, a Samaritan, of all people, to show it to me.  I am not Yehudah.  I was not grateful to God.  I was so concerned with the state of my flesh I didn’t see the state of rotting heart.  I asked God to heal me, insulting the Doctor by calling him an orderly and then daring to ask a favor of him in the same sentence.  He sensed our fear, the damage it might do to our faith, and then in kindness he healed us through that faith, and … I didn’t care.  I was so focused on the rules, the stupid little nuances of my people’s ruthless, discompassionate interpretation of Torah that I failed to see what a thankless, ungrateful fool I had become.  Not the Samaritan.  We traveled with this man, a man who was not just a leper but a foreign leper, and he thanked God every single day for everything he had.  However badly we were treated, however terrible the day, he began and ended it with thanksgiving.  We mocked him for it, and however bad we were treated, he was treated far worse.  And yet, when I turned back, I saw him.  I saw him openly thanking God and in the sight of all the Jews he prostrated himself, kneeling before Jesus as we would before Yahweh at temple. 

But I didn’t care.  I kept walking.  In that moment all that pain, all those years of bitterness and anger, it made me into the most selfish person imaginable.  I walked and I walked, and while walking I heard Jesus off in the distance ask, “Were not all ten healed? Is the only one to come back and give praise to God this foreigner?”  and I still didn’t care.

Don’t be like me!  I understand better now.  When I asked God what I had done wrong to receive my leprosy, when “nothing” was the constant answer, I know that that was what I had done.  Nothing.  I had done nothing to earn my sickness, nothing to deserve the condemnation of my people - it was just a disease.  But I listened to them and not God, I listened to the very people who called me sinner, threw me out into the wilderness, and kicked me like a diseased dog.  I listened to them and followed after religion when I should have been chasing faith!  I let the words of those selfish, stupid fools turn my heart bitter and when the time came to either choose gratitude toward the God who loved me ceaselessly or to obey an interpretation of the religion that beat me endlessly, I chose my abuser.  

DON’T BE LIKE ME.  Be grateful for every little thing you have, sound it out in the morning, voice it at night when you go to bed.  Give THANKS.  How other people treat you, what they say when they try convince you what to believe, dismiss it for the selfish nonsense that it is!  You listen to God!  You be faithful to Him, not obedient to them.  Mere obedience, the blind discharge of duties and human expectations will turn you into something much worse than a leper, it will turn you into a heartless fool.  As a leper I was rotting from the outside in, but as a child of God I was rotting from the inside out.  Be rid of it, be free!  Anything that treats God’s children as garbage is itself garbage.  Don’t believe in it!  I failed at being Yehuda, but that doesn’t mean you have to.  Amen.