'Names Have Been Changed..."

2 Kings 5: 1-14

July 4, 2010

First United Church – Sermon by Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

We come from a long line of storytellers and storyhearers. Those of us who are from this country grew up with stories about the U.S. – stories about those who gathered in 1776 to declare their independence from Great Britain, stories about Paul Revere’s midnight ride, Betsy Ross’s flag, Washington’s cherry tree, and more.

Those of us who are Christian follow in the line of the Jews who came before us – we are, as they are, people who primarily come to understand the Holy through stories given and received.

Christians hear some of these stories and find in them Gospel – good news. It’s at the heart of what it means to be a Christian to seek the good news in any story that’s being told.

Some of you pay close attention to the scriptures as they are read in worship each Sunday. Those of you that fall in that category surely noticed that there was only one reading today – from the Hebrew Bible. At a first glance, you might assume there is no Gospel for us today since we aren’t reading from any of the four gospels. But I beg to differ.

A preacher’s job is to present the Gospel in the sermon – regardless of where her text begins. The job of the Church is to seek and share the Gospel – to find it where the preacher may have missed it, to share with each other the places it hovers and dances, and to live out the Gospel in daily life.

Today I’d like to share with you a story. Some of the names (well, and a few other details) have been changed….not to protect the innocent, but to help each of us lean in and listen more carefully for the voice of our stillspeaking God. Listen now for the Gospel….

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Once upon a time in a galaxy not at all far away there was a great man named Mr. Naaman.

He was a man of great power, wealth, and prestige. Mr. Naaman made his living talking at folks like you and me from his comfortable seat behind many a news desk on the cable networks. He was a political strategist – highly revered and feared by folks on both sides of the congressional aisle.

He worked for the GOP and was known in some circles as “slay-em-Naaman” because he was so brutal in the work he did. He understood politics and the climate of this country like few before or since. His keen mind, fiery words, and ability to be in the right place at the right time helped many Republicans win elections. In fact, he was one of the chief architects who made is possible for the GOP to take back Congress and the White House several times during his decades of work.

Mr. Naaman – though mighty, did have one small problem: he suffered from leprosy. A rare skin disease – often misunderstood. It grossed people out. They didn’t know how to act around him when he had his flare ups. He had been to the best doctors money could buy and no one could find a cure. It made it difficult to do his work – difficult to focus on the task at hand when he could hear the echoes of taunting schoolchildren in his head. If Naaman had ever found a genie in a bottle, clearing up his leprosy certainly would have been his one wish.

Now in his decades of political work, Naaman had surrounded himself with quite the array of people. Aides from all over the country, advisors, friends, enemies – he was the type of guy who’s Blackberry was never silent for long and had thousands of friends on Facebook.

His wife was no different – she had an entourage of people with her wherever she went. One of her aides was a young woman – just out of college. We don’t know her name – funny how that always seems to work with those aides, especially the female aids – but this particular young woman had first run into the Naamans at a Young Democrats event at the University of Chicago – of all places! She was so impressed by their power that she changed her registration to Republican and became a personal assistant to Mrs. Naaman.

Anyway, this aide knew that Mr. Naaman’s leprosy was the raincloud in his other-wise sunny life. One day she said to Mrs. Naaman, “If only Mr. Naaman would go to see Eli who works on the South Side of Chicago, I know she could heal him of his leprosy.”

Naaman’s interest was piqued. After decades, he was sick and tired of struggling with this disease. He had been everywhere and tried everything – nothing had worked. But instead of giving up hope, he found himself listening when his wife told him about this Eli woman one night before bed. I guess when you’ve tried everything, trying one more thing is just what you do.

So he went to see a man more powerful than he – the Senate Majority Leader. Mr. Aram, a Republican from one of those southern states that always elect Republicans, said, “Sure thing, my friend. I’ll set you up. I have some friends in Chicago. I’ll just draft a letter for you to take along when you head up there. I’m sure you’ll be able to get connected and get things taken care of.”

And so….off he went. One weekend, when his schedule was light, Naaman – a great man – took off on a pilgrimage to Chicago to try, once again, to rid himself of his leprosy. He packed carefully – taking along his finest suits. He took all his Platinum Visas, the number of his broker in case he needed to liquidate some assets, and a large amount of cash, locked up in a briefcase. He didn’t know how much this miracle cure would cost, but he wanted to make sure the doctors in Chicago understood he meant business.

He arrived and went straight to the medical school at the University of Chicago. He met with the Dean there – it’s not hard to get an appointment when you’re last name is Naaman. Plus, he had the letter from the powerful Senator, and that didn’t hurt either.

He settled in to the doctor’s cozy office and handed her the handwritten note. She read it…but he didn’t quite get the reaction he had hoped for. Her helpful attitude turned standoffish.

Rising, she brusquely said, “Well, Mr. Naaman, I think we have a misunderstanding. I don’t know what fight your Senator-friend is trying to pick with the University, but we certainly don’t appreciate being set up for failure. There is absolutely no one here who would be willing to attempt to even look at your skin disease. Can’t you see that, if we were to do so, we would look incredibly stupid? Don’t you know we need federal dollars for research? I’m quite sorry that you have this condition but there’s absolutely nothing we can do.”

With that, she ushered Naaman out, plopped down in her chair and began to fidget. After a few minutes of chewing at her nails, she grabbed her jacket and rushed out the door, telling her secretary she’d be back after lunch. She walked south of campus, found a park bench to sit on, and pulled out a cigarette.

She’d been there just a few minutes when a woman came up and sat beside her on the park bench. Thinking that a woman who looked like this was probably looking to bum a cigarette, the Dean offered her one. The other woman – dressed in mismatched clothes from Goodwill, stinking to high heaven – declined the cigarette, but asked the Dean what was wrong. For reasons she didn’t understand – maybe it was just the stress of the day, maybe it was the way this kind stranger’s eyes seemed to truly care – the Dean told her about the strange encounter in her office with Mr. Naaman.

The stinky woman had a name, of course, and we do happen to know it. It was Eli. She said to the Dean, “Don’t stress, lady. Why don’t you send him to my place down on South Cottage Grove? Let him come to me, so that he can see there really are miracle-workers in this world.”

With that, she hobbled off down the street, bobbing her head to the music blaring from her headphones.

The Dean figured, “Hey, why not?” So she quickly called her people and had them call Mr. Naaman’s people to tell him about this Eli woman and her offer. If he was crazy enough to give it a try, good for him. At least he was out of her hair.

Naaman was, of course, desperate enough to pay a visit to Eli. In fact, when he texted his wife to tell her about the strange message from the Dean, she reminded him that her aide had specifically told him to go see “Eli on the South Side of Chicago” – he had just gotten a little off course along the way.

So he ventured down South Cottage Grove, asking folks on the street where he could find a woman named Eli. Well, he didn’t ask, his aides did. Eventually, they were directed to Eli’s place. It was one of those bars-over-the-window, bright red and yellow, misspelled-sign-out front payday loan-slash-liquor store kinds of places.

Nervously, the great Naaman checked his pockets to make sure his credit cards were still there. He left an aide at the car to guard his stash of cash. And then he buzzed the doorbell to the storefront and waited for Eli to come out.

Instead, a young man came to the door. Speaking to Naaman from behind the bars he said, “Eli told me to expect you. She says to go take a dip in the Chicago River seven times. Then you’ll be all better.”

Naaman stood there, stunned for a minute, and then backed away. His confusion turned to frustration and his frustration, anger. “Just who does this lady think she is?” he yelled to his aides. “Doesn’t she know who I am? Doesn’t she know how embarrassing it is for me to even come here? Doesn’t she know I don’t believe in all this stupid God-stuff anyway? I thought she would at least come out here and tell me something that made sense – maybe lay her hands on me like I’ve seen the preachers do on TV and cure me!”

He got into the Town Car and slammed the door, raging on. “And the Chicago River?!? You’ve got to be kidding me! I mean, she could have at least given me a great river, like the Mississippi.”

One of his aides spoke up – we, of course, don’t know his name…we never seem to know the names of the aids. He said, “Mr. Naaman, I’ve been working for you a long time. I’ve seen you do some pretty incredible things. If she had told you to do something difficult, you would have done it, right? Why not do this easy thing?”

Naaman listened. That’s how you get to be great, you know – you listen to your advisors. And he snuck down to the Chicago River and gave it a try. He immersed himself seven times, just as the woman of God had told him to do.

When the great Mr. Naaman arose after that seventh dunking, his skin looked like the skin of a baby – soft, warm, clean, lovely.

He stood there – alone – a great and powerful man who had tried everything to be freed from his one shame. He thought that if he just tried hard enough, worked hard enough, shoved enough money at the right people….eventually he would find a cure.

He had no idea he would find it by listening to the words of a woman of God in a bars-over-the-windows storefront in a run-down neighborhood.

And he had no earthly clue it would be free.

Standing there, Mr. Naaman remembered something he learned in Sunday School – back when he still paid attention at church. His teacher had told the children that Gospel means Good News.

As he dried off his unblemished skin in the glow of the setting sun he finally understood what she had been trying to tell him.