Standing Outside
“Then Jesus’ mother and brothers arrived. Standing outside, they sent someone in to call him. A crowd was sitting around him, and they told him, “Your mother and brothers are outside looking for you.”
“Who are my mother and my brothers?” he asked.
Then he looked at those seated in a circle around him and said, “Here are my mother and my brothers! Whoever does God’s will is my brother and sister and mother.”
”
His brothers are upset. They hear the rumors circulating around town, the whispers in the alleyways. He’s been running his mouth again and now it’s starting to cause trouble. They are opening up investigations.
The synagogues where we kicked our legs and shifted in our seats have become courtrooms. He stands there now, arguing back with our old teachers and family friends. What’s he doing and why is he doing it now?
The things he’s saying are too much. We know he knows better. It’s just that he’s been out in the sun too long. Too little sleep, not enough to eat. It was fine at the beginning, but now it’s too much. It’s starting to bother mom. You can see it on her face, the way she starts to stare off into the distance. We keep telling her what we hear, and it’s like she’s locked up inside. Maybe if he saw what he’s doing to her, he’d ease up.
We convince mom to go with us, to set things straight. We know that he’ll at least listen to her, even if he won’t hear us. We know that he’s nearby, so we leave home to try and bring him back.
As I sit with this small scene, I imagine Jesus’ family and their vivid reactions. Jesus is defying precious, core beliefs his community holds. And when he speaks, people feel their moral logic melting.
Of course it’s good to heal on the Sabbath—that is obvious! But it’s also the Sabbath. Isn’t this labor forbidden? If we have to choose between what the law says and what this kid says, better to stick with what we’ve heard.
And sure, it’s wonderful for the unclean to be brought back home. Praise God! But what will happen if we embrace those who might make us unwell? What will become of me? What will others think? What will God do?
I, too, feel the vice-grip in my imagination. It’s sensible to believe sensible things. But what happens when God shows up and scrambles what makes sense? Am I willing to encounter a new way to understand what God has always said? What am I willing and unwilling to hear God say? And where does my unwillingness lock me up, keep me outside?
I suspect Mary and her other children feel this in their bones when they draw near to Jesus. By the time they arrive, the crowds have thinned out. Their numbers are few enough that they all fit in a house, sitting in a circle around Jesus. Jesus is relaxed, laughing, and teaching those who have come in to hear.
When his family arrives—to confront him? Cajole him? Chide him?—they stop at the threshold. For some reason, these people who have known this man his whole life are stuck. Their feet are nailed to the floor and the knot in their stomach stops them cold.
They want to tell Jesus to stop doing what he’s doing and maybe even for good reason. They love him and want to protect him. They don’t want him to be the subject of rumors or speculation.
Or maybe they feel a deeper shame they’re afraid to admit. Maybe Jesus has crossed a line in their hearts, and they want him back. Maybe he should just come home and be the boy we’ve always known and loved, the one who makes us laugh. He heals others and loves them—won’t he do the same for us?
Whatever the reason, Jesus’ family freezes in their anxiety. They know they need to act, but they cannot do it themselves. So they grab the nearest stranger and make them an angel: someone to deliver the message they can’t, or won’t, say themselves. This person glides inside and awkwardly interrupts the lesson. “Your family just grabbed me and told me to tell you they need to talk to you.”
Can you imagine the pain Jesus must have felt, this first crucifixion in his heart? This first betrayal of family? His own, the family that nurtured him, cannot come in to see him. They cannot look him in the eye and love him enough to tell him the truth. They have to use this other person, and Jesus feels that pain. He, too, knows what it’s like to be loved at a distance.
I imagine Jesus lets the pain of these words sink in, honoring what he feels. And after a few breaths, he looks around at the ones who are here, on the inside. The ones who are leaning in to what he says, trusting that his words will unfold the life they’ve longed to live. Jesus asks the messenger: “who are my mother and my brothers?”
The messenger stares back, blankly.
Jesus gestures to the circle of friends–”these ones.”
“The ones sitting here with me, who want to know and do the will of God with me are my family. They are my family because we share the same Father. And though others have told them what the Father is like, I am showing them. I am teaching them to trust the unending love that holds us together.”
“These are the ones who want to know our Father—what God is like— and I will show them. I will teach them. I will speak to them. I will give them everything that I have been given. Because God is a good parent. God will never stay on the outside, but will always come in.”
“God will run down the hill and leap over the fence to embrace you, to hold you, to look you in the eyes, and tell you the truth: that you are deeply loved. And no fear, no anxiety, no shame will ever stop me from speaking these life-giving words to you.”
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