Politicians are liars who can’t be trusted.

Young men on P-plates are dangerous hoons.

Audi-owners are bad drivers.

Poms are whingers.

Aborigines are drunks.

Gay men are promiscuous.

Vegans are smug and self-righteous.

People who live in Beaumont are snobs.

People who live in Elizabeth are illiterate no-hopers.

 

Stereotypes––

if we’re honest, we all use them, don’t we?

Even though we know that we shouldn’t.

But, in a way, we can’t help it––

it seems to be a part of our human nature.

We generalise.

We tend to clump things together into categories…

based on certain shared or common features…

while we ignore what’s different or unique about each.

And, on a certain level, doing that is actually useful…

and it does work.

It’s actually one of the ways in which we make sense of our complex world––

because our minds can only cope with so many divergent concepts.

Thus… 

apples, oranges, and bananas become fruit;

wheat, barley, and oats become cereals;

and the Chinese, Japanese, and Vietnamese become Asians.

Now, in the case of inanimate objects, that sort of stereotyping is fairly benign.

But, when we stereotype people, it’s quite problematic.

Often, the stereotypes that we apply have little, if any, basis in reality.

But, more than that…

stereotyping people is much more insidious…

because we tend to turn the stereotype into a given.

That’s how we relate to them.

That’s how we see them––

and, sadly, too often that’s all that we see.

How they look…

how they behave…

where they come from…

what they do––

becomes the basis for passing judgment.

It shapes our attitude and our behaviour towards them.

Consciously, or subconsciously, we use such stereotypes to reinforce distinctions.

We ignore their differences from each other…

so that we can focus on their difference from us…

thereby creating a sense of social solidarity––

an “us” versus “them” mentality.

It’s a way of convincing ourselves that we do know them––

and that we know what they’re like––

when, in fact, we don’t.

It’s a way of insulating ourselves from actually having to get to know them;

or to understand them;

or to care about them.

All of which makes it easier for us to ignore them; 

to dismiss them;

to disregard their wants, their needs, and their rights;

to treat them in a way that we wouldn’t want to be treated;

and to justify behaviour that we wouldn’t otherwise tolerate––

not if it was aimed at “one of us”.

And so it is that they become ‘Muslim’;

‘African’;

‘Illegal maritime arrival’;

‘Dole-bludger’;

‘Welfare-cheat’.

 

And yet, in a way…

that sort of thing also happens more subtly.

We form a mental picture of people based on certain characteristics… 

or certain experiences…

which, perhaps, may have been true at some point in the past…

but isn’t true now.

Instead, we operate with a fixed mental picture that’s impervious to change.

So, for example, we can struggle to deal with our children growing up…

still seeing them–– 

and treating them–– 

as the little kids that we remember, even though they’re mature adults.

We can struggle to deal with ageing parents…

not wanting to see––

or accept–– 

their increasing frailty…

or the ravages of dementia;

and trying to remember them just as they were.

We can struggle with growing old ourselves…

not wanting to recognise––

let alone admit––

that we can’t do what we once could;

and that the face that we see in the mirror… 

isn’t the one that we imagine in our dreams.

 

In our reading this morning from Mark’s Gospel… Jesus returns to his home town;

to the small village where he had grown up;

to the place where his mother, and brothers, and sisters still live;

a place where people would have remembered him as a small child…

growing into a young man.

And they couldn’t see beyond that.

In fact, they didn’t want to.

Rather, within their world––

and their particular worldview––

stereotypes were a cultural norm.

They were expected–– 

indeed, they were encouraged.

That was how you knew someone.

They believed that a person’s character was fixed and determined… 

based on their place of origin;

the family into which they were born;

the way that they looked;

and what they did.

If you knew those things about a person, then you knew the person.

But the flip side to that was… 

that anyone who didn’t behave as expected––

as their stereotype suggested––

was perceived to be a threat or a danger…

ill… 

or possessed.

So, when Jesus got up in the synagogue…

and started speaking like he did…

the people who knew him best simply couldn’t cope.

They were “astounded”––

which, within their culture, was not a positive thing.

And, we’re told, “they took offence at him”.

Although that doesn’t really capture the strength of the Greek.

It’s more like… 

they were threatened, scared, angry, even furious or enraged.

To them, he’s simply “the carpenter”.

Now, within their culture—

and especially within a small village setting like this—

that was not a positive description.

It meant a peasant who had defaulted on loans and lost their land…

so that they were forced to ply a trade.

It was the equivalent of saying, “a good-for-nothing”;

“a loser”;

or, “poor-white-trash”. 

Furthermore, they also see him and speak of him as “the son of Mary”.

Now, within their culture, that’s actually a slap in the face.

Because, in that world, children were always known in relation to their father;

and their grandfather;

and their great-grandfather.

To refer to him in relation to his mother is tantamount to calling him a “bastard”.

And yet, when they look at Jesus, that’s what they see:

the first-century equivalent…

of a kid born to a young single mother on welfare in Elizabeth or Christies Beach.

That was their stereotype.

That’s all they saw.

They wouldn’t––

they couldn’t–– 

see beyond it.

They couldn’t see what he had become.

And, in so doing, they failed to perceive that God was in their midst.

 

When we think in terms of stereotypes––

when we look at the externals…

when we presume that we know people because of the way that they look…

or what they do…

or even how we remember them––

we fail to grasp who they really are;

or who they might become.

We fail to see the real person.

We don’t learn about their hopes and dreams;

their fears and regrets;

the experiences that they have had;

the beliefs they that hold;

or the things to which they aspire––

the very things that actually shape them as a person.

But, more than that…

when we look at another person…

and we only see them in terms of some stereotype…

do we also fail to perceive God’s presence with us?

Do we fail to hear God’s voice?

When we can’t or don’t see past our stereotypes…

do we fail to recognise God––

when God speaks to us…

when God comes to us–– 

if it happens to be our mother or father;

our son or daughter;

our husband or wife;

the person whom we would rather avoid;

the person who rubs us up the wrong way;

the person behind us in the queue;

or the person sitting next to us… 

right now?