Mark 2:23-3:6
One sabbath Jesus and his disciples were going through the grainfields; and as they made their way his disciples began to pluck heads of grain. The Pharisees said to him, “Look, why are they doing what is not lawful on the sabbath?” And he said to them, “Have you never read what David did when he and his companions were hungry and in need of food? He entered the house of God, when Abiathar was high priest, and ate the bread of the Presence, which it is not lawful for any but the priests to eat, and he gave some to his companions.” Then he said to them, “The sabbath was made for humankind, and not humankind for the sabbath; so the Son of Man is lord even of the sabbath.”
Again he entered the synagogue, and a man was there who had a withered hand. They watched him to see whether he would cure him on the sabbath, so that they might accuse him. And he said to the man who had the withered hand, “Come forward.” Then he said to them, “Is it lawful to do good or to do harm on the sabbath, to save life or to kill?” But they were silent. He looked around at them with anger; he was grieved at their hardness of heart and said to the man, “Stretch out your hand.” He stretched it out, and his hand was restored. The Pharisees went out and immediately conspired with the Herodians against him, how to destroy him.
July 1975. Six of the first women to be Episcopal priests celebrate communion a year after they were ordained. Episcopalians often forget how shocking pictures like this were 50 years ago. This week, I’ve been thinking about breaking rules and the people who break them.
And if you are under the impression that this is a reflection about the news this week and Donald Trump, well, you’re wrong! I will mention this week’s events a bit below, but as an example, not as the point. The point is broader than the headlines.
Ruminating on rules started about two weeks ago when I screened a new documentary — The Philadelphia Eleven. The film tells the story of the first eleven women to become priests in the Episcopal Church. They were ordained in Philadelphia on July 29, 1974. Hence, “the Philadelphia Eleven.” This summer, the Episcopal Church will celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of their ordination.
It seems so easy now to write that line, to state it as an historical fact. But the truth is that it was a long and contentious battle within the church before and after 1974. And that ordination service in Philadelphia was anything but conventional. The service didn’t take place on Philadelphia’s tony mainline where one might expect such an event. Instead, it was hosted by a Black Episcopal church, in a packed building, and was covered by every major news network in the United States.
The ordination wasn’t approved by the church. According to canon law at that time, priests had to be men.
Fifty years ago, in the midst of decades of discussion and wrangling regarding the status of women in the church, three male bishops and eleven women (and more than a few deacons and witnessing priests) took matters into their own hands. They broke their clerical vows and church rules — in the process, they upended an entire denomination to carry out these “irregular” ordinations (that’s what opponents called them). The church nearly split, people and congregations left the denomination, local priests who supported their new female colleagues were brought up on ecclesiastical charges and lost their positions. The women themselves were shunned and threatened.
That’s what the documentary is about — a group of women and men who broke the rules. In doing so, they changed an entire church and its future.
Now, I will bring up this week’s news: Donald Trump broke some rules. And, as a result, a court and a jury of his peers found him guilty on thirty-four felony counts.
What’s the difference between eleven women breaking the rules and Donald Trump doing so? When do we celebrate rule-breakers and when are they rightly held accountable? And is there a difference between the two?
Today’s gospel lesson speaks directly to these questions — and points to rule-breaking of the right sort.
In this passage, Jesus broke rules about the sabbath twice. In the opening episode, he and his disciples harvested grain to eat (yes, green wheat can be eaten raw) on the sabbath. In the following one, Jesus healed a man at a synagogue. When some other rabbis — the Pharisees in these stories — questioned his actions, Jesus responded with a poetic remark and a theological question: “The sabbath was made for humankind, and not humankind for the sabbath” and “Is it lawful to do good or to do harm on the sabbath, to save life or to kill?”
The comment and question reveal Jesus’ intention in both incidents: Jesus helps others. He breaks the sabbath (that was pretty shocking in his context) for that great purpose.
In the first case, it doesn’t appear that he and his followers were being purposefully provocative. They were hungry. Perhaps they’d misjudged the length of their journey on that particular day (which, generally, shouldn’t have been too long on the sabbath) and hadn’t packed enough food in advance. When they reached a grain field, they picked some grain and ate. They got called out by some Pharisees for what appears to be an inadvertent infraction. Jesus responds by saying, “hey, King David did this and worse, so don’t judge us.” In effect, Jesus bent the rules — and appealed to Jewish tradition in doing so.
The second episode, however, seems more purposeful. Maybe Jesus went to the synagogue to heal this man. Maybe his critics set up at trap. Whatever the case, it seems staged. Jesus intentionally broke the rules to provoke those watching him. Even though he violated the sabbath to heal a man, clearly a good outcome, his actions aggravated the other religious leaders. People took sides and Jesus got theologically testy: “Is it lawful to do good or to do harm on the sabbath, to save life or to kill?”
This short text reveals an intensification of rule-breaking on Jesus’ part — the first is a bit of rule bending and the second is outright defiance. But, in both cases, the overall result is the same. Jesus isn’t breaking the rules to help himself. You may agree or disagree with his actions (his peers certainly did), but he broke the sabbath to help others, to enact justice (to feed and heal), and to make an important spiritual point about the sabbath (a point that he believed his critics had missed).
Ultimately, it wasn’t about him. It was about other people and served a greater purpose, justified and empowered by Jesus’ connection with God.
That’s the primary test of rule-breaking: For whom is the rule being broken? For yourself, your own purposes, your power or status? Or, is the rule being broken to serve those in need? To transform what has become rote and rigid in its application? To proclaim a greater truth about community and fairness?
And there will be consequences. That’s an important aspect of this text, but one less obvious to contemporary readers. Pay attention to the response of the critics, the Pharisees, whom Jesus angered as a result of his rule-breaking.
Christians have long misunderstood the Pharisees. Recent scholarship, often done by Jews and Christians in collaboration, has reevaluated who the Pharisees were and how Jesus was related to them. Some believe that Jesus himself was a Pharisee; others think he was influenced by them while maintaining his own theological distinctiveness. However, it is becoming clear from history and biblical scholarship that the Pharisees weren’t quite the villains that Christian have made them out to be — and that Jesus was closer to the Pharisee’s reform movement than we were taught in Sunday school.
That’s the unnoticed aspect of today’s gospel lesson — not that the Pharisees were bad guys. Rather, their reaction shows that if you break the rules, your colleagues, co-workers, and co-religionists will be madder with you than anyone else.
Just ask the Philadelphia Eleven.
The parallels between today’s reading and the events surrounding women’s ordination in the Episcopal church are obvious. Indeed, it might be that the original participants modeled their actions on biblical texts like this. At first, Episcopalians who thought women should be priests worked within the system. They followed proper procedures for debate and resolutions; they played by the rules. The system, however, failed to bring about meaningful change — and, not surprisingly, even lawful attempts at reform resulted in conflict and backlash. At that point, advocates began to bend the rules, annoy the rule keepers, and taunt the system. Eventually, they broke the rules, made the change without permission, and provoked the church to face the injustice of its own policies.
They did it because they loved the church and dreamed of a more just community. They sought what would be right and good for the whole church, for women called to the priesthood, and for generations of girls and women to come. Sure, there was a benefit to their own situation — they became priests. But that priesthood wasn’t really for themselves; ultimately, it was for others. And, in the midst of the conflict, they could have surely echoed Jesus’ point, “the priesthood was made for humankind, and not humankind for priesthood.”
Who got mad at them? Not the editors at the New York Times or the evening news anchors. Not Presbyterians or Jews or Buddhists. Not secular college students. Outsiders didn’t much care, except that it might be cool to see women do religious stuff or fun to watch a church fight. The people who threatened the new priests with punitive actions, violence, and even death were other Episcopalians. Their own tribe. Those closest to them.
As the documentary makes clear, the women knew there would be consequences. Years later, I got to know many of the people involved in the 1974 ordination. One of the women said to me, “The church has punished me ever since then. The institution never forgave us.” They chose to do the right thing even when their actions came at a cost.
It won’t be for a long time, like fifty years if you are lucky, that the institution you challenged decides to celebrate you. That’s how these things work. Jesus knew that. Jesus experienced that. Jesus bent and then broke rules in the same way. And the same people became infuriated with him — those in his own community. The Pharisees were his people.
And back to the news for a moment: The different nature of Donald Trump’s actions should, by now, be clear. He didn’t break the rules for others. He broke those rules to protect his campaign, his business, and his self-image.
For what it is worth, many people break rules for their own advantage (even sometimes when a rule is also a law). At one point in the trial, Trump’s lawyers argued that their client did all these things to protect his wife — because smart lawyers know that rule-breaking for the sake of others is, in some cases, considered acceptable. But the jury didn’t buy it. Because they didn’t believe that was the defendant’s purpose. And intention makes a genuine difference when breaking rules and laws.
The second test for Trump’s actions is also obvious in relation to today’s text: He lost no supporters. Those closest to him haven’t questioned or criticized him. They don’t admit that he broke the rules or the law. Instead, they complain and blame. They applaud the rule-breaker. They don’t interrogate his motives. In this situation, a rule-breaking leader bends the rules for his own benefit and his followers support him without question. He refuses to explain why or accept any consequences for his actions, because he doesn’t appear to think rules and laws apply to him.
The Bible isn’t as arcane as we might sometimes think. Occasionally, a gospel story is as current as the week’s top story. There’s a practical wisdom in these old tales that is too often overlooked.
It is possible to follow Jesus the rule-breaker, the one who challenged his friends to find the deeper justice expressed in the law. But rule-breaking should be a considered path, only pursued for the sake of others and mindful of the consequences. Occasionally, you change history. Sometimes you lose your job, your friends, and your reputation. But, if you bend or break the rules for a greater good, you can take comfort knowing that another person’s life was changed for the better — someone ate or someone was healed — because you took a risk on their behalf.
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