St. John’s Lutheran Church
6 July 2025 + Fourth Sunday after Pentecost
Proper 9 / Lectionary 14c
2 Kings 5:1-14; Galatians 6:7-16
The Rev. Josh Evans
“Praise to you for your saving waters,”
we pray at the font:
“Noah and the animals survive the flood,
Hagar discovers your well.
The Israelites escape through the sea,
and they drink from your gushing rock.
Naaman washes his leprosy away,
and the Samaritan woman will never be thirsty again.”
Naaman:
a character whose story I never remember hearing about
in Sunday School or confirmation
gets named, right there,
along with such biblical epics as Noah’s Ark and the Exodus.
Naaman:
a foreigner whose story closes out our brief arc through 1 & 2 Kings,
recounting the stories of Elijah and Elisha,
the great prophets of Israel.
And despite Naaman’s notable absence from Sunday School classrooms,
here is a story that appears to be so embedded
in the collective memory of the ancient Israelites that,
even centuries later,
when Jesus alludes to it in the synagogue at Nazareth,
it’s enough to fill the crowd with rage,
drive him out of their town,
and try to hurl him off a cliff.
“No prophet is accepted in his hometown,” Jesus remarks,
just before provoking the crowd to murderous rage,
“But the truth is, there were many widows in Israel in the time of Elijah,
when the heaven was shut up three years and six months
and there was a severe famine over all the land,
yet Elijah was sent to none of them
except to a widow at Zarephath in Sidon [an outsider].
There were also many with a skin disease in Israel in the time of the prophet Elisha,
and none of them was cleansed except Naaman the Syrian [another outsider].”
(Luke 4:24-27)
Why the intense rage?
The answer might lie, in part, in the other stories
that our baptismal liturgy names alongside Naaman:
Hagar:
a slave to Sarai, Abram’s wife,
with whom Abram has a child when Sarai cannot,
a source of such intense jealousy and tension
that it drives Sarai, full of bitter resentment,
to force Hagar and her son Ishmael away,
into the wilderness, on their own.
The Samaritan woman:
forced to come draw water at high noon, by herself,
away from the scrutiny of her neighbors,
unable to bear the shame thrust upon her
because of her status in the community.
And then Naaman:
commander of the Aramean army,
“a great man,” “in high favor,” a military hero among his people,
“a mighty warrior” who is able to get on-demand audiences with kings
and has servants subject to his command.
This is clearly someone loaded with privilege –
and yet, for all that privilege,
this skin disease nearly negates all of that,
threatening to undermine his standing.
Hagar –
a foreigner, a slave, and an outsider –
discovers God’s well and mercy in the wilderness.
The Samaritan woman –
an outcast both among her own community and her Jewish kin –
is given living water and will never be thirsty again.
Naaman –
a foreigner, a political enemy of Israel, and a leper –
washes his disease away and his flesh is restored.
God seems to have a knack
for working with and through outsiders,
a truth which Naaman’s story underscores at every turn.
It is the unnamed Israelite girl, slave to Naaman’s wife,
who has absolutely no reason to help her oppressors,
who first speaks up about this prophet capable of curing Naaman of his leprosy.
So where does Naaman go?
Straight to the prophet she mentions, right?
Not quite.
The convoluted chain of communication is almost comical:
Naaman goes first to the King of Aram (his boss),
who sends him to the King of Israel (his enemy),
whose own ego and insecurity manage to somehow make this all about himself.
Only then, after all this, does Elisha the prophet,
an outsider of his own kind, chime in:
“What are you doing?
Why have you torn your clothes?
Just bring him to me.”
Just like the girl said.
But wait, there’s more:
When Naaman does finally get to Elisha,
he’s so turned off by the seemingly mundane solution to his ailment:
Just go wash yourself in the Jordan River.
Seriously? That’s it?
As if the means weren’t “good enough” –
so Naaman refuses to participate.
Think about that:
He would rather continue to suffer from his disease
than take the word of a foreign prophet
who tells him to wash in a dingy foreign river in order to be cured.
For no other reason than it’s not a grand enough solution.
It finally takes the proactiveness of Naaman’s servants
to talk him down from his rage and reason with him.
And when Naaman finally caves,
sure enough, he’s healed.
Just like Elisha said.
From a slave girl no one listens to,
to a prophet pitted against his own king,
to servants who risk speaking up:
This is a healing story that happens
because of the outsiders.
Naaman would’ve never found out about Elisha,
this man capable of healing him,
were it not for his wife’s slave.
And Naaman wouldn’t have given Elisha a second chance
were it not for the prodding of his own servants.
These outsiders get it.
They are the ones who drive the story forward
and become catalysts of grace.
Story after story in our scriptures,
Naaman’s included,
reminds us of God’s unending concern
for those with whom the world is not concerned.
Those whose voices are ignored are amplified.
Those who are lowly are lifted up.
Those who have been made to take the role of outsiders,
themselves become the locus of God’s grace.
Naaman’s story,
intertwining as it does with Elisha’s story,
and spilling over into the pages of the gospels,
reminds us of God’s care and concern
for those who have been cast aside,
no matter who they are.
It’s a truth that reverberates in Paul’s letter to the Galatians,
urging the community to “not grow weary in doing what is right,”
always working “for the good of all,”
not only the insiders,
but the outsiders too.
This is a call to us as church today,
and never has this call felt more pressing and more urgent
than it does today –
when millions of our fellow citizens
are in danger of losing access to healthcare, food stamps,
and other vital social services,
when already vulnerable immigrant and refugee families
live in daily fear of being abruptly separated from their loved ones.
“O God,” we pray [in the collect of the day],
“you have taught us to keep all your commandments
by loving you and our neighbor.”
And who is my neighbor?
(Luke 10:29)
One writer, posting on social media this week, puts it this way,
“‘I was hungry’ and you cut SNAP.
“‘I was thirsty’ and you cut funding to ensure clean drinking water.
“‘I was sick’ and you cut Medicaid.
“‘I was a stranger’ and you deported me.
“‘I was in prison’ and you just left me there to rot.
“Whatever you do to the least of these,
you do unto me.”
“As a church, we face this [and every] moment together with resolve,”
Presiding Bishop Elizabeth Eaton encourages us,
“rooted in our trust in God,
to work for the good of all.”
In the midst of grief,
God is our comfort.
In the face of uncertainty,
God is our rock.
In the grip of all that is fearful,
God is our hope.
And trusting in God who is faithful,
our call as church persists:
to love our neighbor –
our hungry neighbor,
our thirsty neighbor,
our sick neighbor,
our immigrant neighbor,
our outsider neighbor –
for that is where God is.
