2 Kings 5:1-19
Fall 2017
Naaman is described as a mighty warrior, commander of the Syrian army. His body is flanked with breastplate, shield and sword, his status by chariots and servants. And while this success and power give him all kinds of confidence, he’s also haunted by deep insecurity. His flesh is covered in sores. The sight of his own skin drives him to over-compensate and feel paranoid about his worth.
The Hebrew grammar is unclear. Is Naaman’s weakness his leprosy or his self-importance? He is introduced as both of these things. Perhaps they are tangled up together.
A young girl had been taken captive from the land of Israel and now serves Naaman’s wife. She is either shrewd or merciful when she speaks out of turn and offers up a longshot solution. There is a prophet in Israel known to cure this disease. If he goes to see Elisha, he might be healed.
But healing does not always happen on our terms or leave the rest of our body and relationships unchanged. Healing can require trauma, humility, and recovery from the rest of who we are, too.
Healing is messy and complex.
It is the work of taking two steps forward and one step back…
and then losing our balance.
It is the custom of receiving unsolicited and irritating advice.
It is the labor of being trained and strained into something
more whole and different than before.
Plan A.
Naaman sets out with proof and bribes and a permission slip from his king, hoping for a miracle that will simply cure the spots on his skin and leave him stronger,
more invincible than before.
But earthly kings are in the business of transactions. And this is not a transaction. This is transformation. No sooner does their caravan of pomp and circumstance arrive before the King of Israel than they are sent away again, rerouted to the outskirts of town where Elisha the prophet lives.
Plan B.
When their horses and chariots pull up, they expect Elisha to come outside, ready to serve and looking impressed. But Elisha does not emerge. Instead, he sends a simple word with his servant:
You should go, wash in the Jordan River seven times.
Your flesh shall be restored and you shall be clean.
Plan C.
This is not what Naaman has in mind. He wants a magic trick, for Elisha to wave a hand over his sores with perfect results. This bend in the river smells like a stink ditch compared to the mighty waterways of Syria. A bath would be so humiliating, his tormented flesh laid bare for all to see.
Plan D.
His pride and fear twist up in the pit of his stomach. Naaman turns to go, angry and muttering all of the reasons this is beneath him. Until his servants stop him.
If it required muscle and conquest, you would have done it.
You never shy away from what is hard.
This sounds easy. What do you have to lose?
Have you noticed that the bravest characters in this story come to us without names? The girl who suggested a prophet of her God in Israel was a minor, a prisoner of war. Elisha’s servant came out to face the caravan’s insulted disappointment with laughable instructions. And here, it’s Naaman’s servants who pull him aside and urge him to reconsider.
They have nothing to lose, not even a name. And so they interrupt power and suggest courage and hold space for vulnerability because, from their vantage point, what’s the worst thing that could happen?
But Naaman can think of a few things. He’s got enough pride to avoid looking foolish and enough grief associated with these sores that he just might crumble if it doesn’t work.
Perhaps like Naaman, you get scared about losing more than you’ve bargained for. You know what it feels like to consider revealing your truest self, surrounded by a nosey crowd that might dislike who you are. You know what it’s like to wish away parts of yourself easily seen by the world while holding onto and hiding the deeper wounds that hurt just as much.
Naaman has all kinds of things to lose and so do we. But he is surrounded by prophetic wisdom and courage and truth: the nameless ones keep urging him to stand on the banks of the river to wonder what healing and wholeness could look like if he is willing to lose it all.
Plan E.
He undresses from his status as a commander and his strength as a soldier and his modesty as a husband. He can feel the breeze on his skin and the eyes of strangers on his sores. And then he wades slowly into the water. Mud squishes between his toes and the water smells foul in his beard.
Seven inhales.
Seven moments beneath the surface
with only the sound of his heart beating.
Seven exhales.
Naaman soaks in this awkward, uncomfortable routine until he loses count and then he becomes part of a different rhythm altogether. It takes all seven times for the deserts of his heart and the wounds of his soul to be washed clean. When he stumbles out of the tide, he feels lighter and less self-conscious. His skin looks new, free of the wear and tear of his secrets and shame.
But old habits die hard. As his body drips dry from the river’s miracle, he tries to settle up. “Take these gifts of money and clothes and payment,” he urges Elisha. He has already and easily forgotten that this is not a transaction. This is transformation.
And so Elisha refuses the gifts and gently encourages his newfound faith in the God of Israel, the God who will meet his prayers and postures, even in the house of Rimmon back in Syria, the God who will continue to disarm him with healing and wholeness no matter where he goes.
Friends in Christ, the world tells you
to carry your body in armor,
to fight hard so no one notices your wounds,
to show your papers as justification,
to do only what is hard-earned and impressive so that you know it’s yours.
But when Plan A fails, listen for the nameless ones who dare to speak like prophets,
who seek restoration against all odds
who invite your simple participation
who reroute you to the margins
who have nothing left to lose.
Go in peace, Elisha says. Not because it suddenly makes sense or life is smooth sailing. But go in peace because now you know. Now your flesh is marked by a God who will never stop showing up in the war and wounds of this world speaking truth that reroutes hope and transforms your value, washing away everything that needs to go until you are all breath and beats -
rejoicing because you have nothing left to lose. Amen.