Homily for the Sixth Sunday of Ordinary Time (B)
Five years ago, if we had read this passage from Leviticus, we might have looked rather harshly at the Old Testament rules for the treatment of lepers. Making a man shout “Unclean, unclean!” and dwell apart, outside the camp—quarantined—might have seemed unenlightened.
Four years ago, about this time of year, all those purity laws in Leviticus started to look a lot more familiar. We made each other dwell apart outside the camp, in quarantine, not because a scab or pustule or blotch had appeared, but because it might, you never know, you can never be too safe. Suddenly those purity laws were not so unreasonable after all.
When we read the Gospel, we usually imagine that of course we would take the side of Jesus instead of the Pharisees. But I wonder. Look at Jesus in today’s Gospel passage. No six feet of social distancing, no mask, no respect for the opinion of the experts, touching the infected without hand sanitizer before or after—would we really take the side of Jesus?
Now I have no wish to rehash our experience of pandemic and quarantine and modern purity regulations, but perhaps that experience complicates our reading of the Gospel. We don’t have any problem casting off Jewish purity laws because we never grew up with them; they seem foreign and irrational and, besides, we like to eat prosciutto and shell fish and so we’re happy living without kosher. But what if choosing Jesus meant dwelling among the unclean? Among people without respect for what is safe and sensible? What if being near Jesus meant risk? Risk of our lives? Risk of our health? Risk of our reputation? I recently read a sociologist whose study concluded: most people care more about being normal than about being good.
The leper in today’s Gospel passage does not have any reputation to worry about. He is already sick, already unclean. I’m reminded of Janis Joplin’s song, “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.” In fact, while most normal people would take a step back—at least six feet—when they heard the words “Unclean, unclean,” Jesus seems drawn to them, like a moth to light. When Jesus begins calling disciples, Simon tells him, “Depart from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man.” And Jesus makes Simon a fisher of men, Peter, the rock. In Luke’s parable, it is the tax collector beating his breast who goes away justified, and it’s the centurion who says “Lord, I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof,” whose servant is healed. Today Jesus reaches out his hand to touch a leper.
I don’t know how many times during the pandemic I heard someone, who had just tested positive, say, “I don’t understand! I followed all the rules!” And yet, they still got sick. Now, I take a multivitamin in the morning; I get my vaccines; I put in my time on the elliptical—it’s easier on the knees than the treadmill—but still, every winter, I get one cold or another. We are vulnerable. Our bodies carry within them the most profound fragility; eventually they will give out. We are, often enough, socially and emotionally fragile as well; I’d imagine there were many lepers who hid their disease because they were more afraid of dwelling apart than of the sickness. Spiritually we are more fragile than we think. It is not easy to fall on our knees like the leper in the Gospel and beg Jesus, “Make me clean.” Our defensiveness, our pride gets in the way. We try to hide or justify or minimize or deny our uncleanness—and when we do we prevent or delay our healing. Of all the places where I’ve worked, perhaps the place where the Gospel’s message of salvation—of sin and redemption—was most easily understood was on the Rosebud Indian Reservation in South Dakota working with recovering addicts, who understood what it was to reach rock bottom. And the hardest place is probably academia, where we are very good at using words to hide our leprosy.
The leper’s words in the Gospel—“If you wish, you can make me clean”—show two things: one, he recognizes himself as unclean and, two, he believes that healing is possible. One aspect of the Jewish purity laws that we might find difficult to understand is that they excluded those who were diseased, such as the leper, from participating in worship in the Temple. This wasn’t because of a lack of compassion, but because the Temple was supposed to be a place of perfection, a place without suffering or disease. If disease were allowed to enter the Temple, it would no longer be a sign of hope for a better life. So when Jesus tells the leper to go and offer the sacrifice that Moses prescribed, he is admitting him into the place of perfection.
Jesus himself brings perfection, brings healing and salvation. One little mystery in this passage, perhaps, is why Jesus tells the healed leper not to tell anyone, other than the priests, what has happened. I suspect the reason has to do with all the hoopla that arises when the news spreads. Jesus has a mission to face. The crucifixion, his self-sacrifice, is what will ultimately and finally allow us all to enter into the place of perfection. The crowds and the publicity that accompany his other healings, like the temptations in the desert, could easily have distracted from Jesus’ mission of self-giving on the cross. Jesus came to bring an even deeper healing than that experienced by the leper.
What does all of this tell us? Salvation is possible, but it passes through the cross. It passes through that place outside the camp, that place of the unclean. It passes through our own fragility; it comes when our knees hit the ground and we beg, “If you wish, you can make me clean.” Because Jesus does will it. And he is not afraid to stretch out his hand and touch what is diseased and broken and spoiled by sin and quarantined by fear.
On Wednesday, we will put ashes on our heads. Unclean, unclean. It is a gesture that acknowledges everything we do not want to say: that we are mortal; that we have sinned; that our bodies will decay; that there is within us what we cannot justify ourselves. But by acknowledging our need, we will begin a journey of discipleship, and over the course of forty days we will follow Jesus as he makes the journey that he must make. And at the end of it, he will accept his cross, stretching out his hands, as if into the darkest place imaginable to say, “I do will it.” And then, the water. Baptism. Life, salvation, light, heaven. “Be made clean.”
Lv 13:1-2, 44-46; 1 Cor 10:31-11:1; Mk 1:40-45
February 11, 2024
Oratorio San Francesco Saverio del Caravita
Tony Lusvardi, S.J. 