Coincidence, Coincidence (Esther 7:1-10; 9:20-22)

It all started when Ahasuerus, king of one hundred and twenty seven provinces of Persia, potentate of countless subjects, ruler of vast tracts of near-Eastern lands, got drunk.  He threw a huge party for all his ministers and officers at his winter palace, and it lasted for seven days.  And the wine flowed like water, and guests arrived in limos, and paparazzi lay in wait, and flashbulbs popped in everybody's faces, until on the very last night Ahasuerus staggered up off of his couch and called for his wife, Queen Vashti, so he could parade her in front of his guests and show off her beauty.  Now Vashti, who'd been partying with the women somewhere else, wouldn't come.  Maybe she was hung over herself, maybe she was busy, or maybe she just didn't want to be treated like a piece of prize pork.  Whatever it was, it irritated Ahasuerus, so he called up all his sages and wise men, all his legal advisors, the supreme court and the joint chiefs of staff, and he asked them “According to the law, what is to be done to Queen Vashti because she has not performed the command of King Ahasuerus?”

And all his advisors got together and cast lots and e-mailed their colleagues in Alexandria and after a couple of weeks came back and said “Queen Vashti has done a horrible disservice to the whole country.  All the women in Persia will look at her and say 'She was commanded by her husband, and yet didn't obey.' All the ministers of the land, and lo, even commoners, won't be able to do a thing with their women.”  And so the king called a press conference, covered by all the major networks, and declared a law forbidding Vashti from coming near the palace again.

But then Ahasuerus had no queen, and he got to thinking fondly about Vashti's . . . queenly qualities . . .  and he said “Bring me some virgins!” So a decree was sent across the land, by sea and by air, that beautiful young virgins be rounded up and kept in a special harem so they could receive makeup tips and mani-pedis, and then he would choose from among them his new Queen.

Now just by coincidence, there was a Jew named Mordecai on the king's payroll, who just by coincidence had a cousin named Esther.  She was fair and beautiful, and lo, she was a virgin.  So when her uncle heard about the kingly call, he sent Esther along to see what she could do.  The only thing he said was “Do not reveal that you are a Jew, for we are not universally admired within the kingdom, and it might affect your chances.”

Now, each woman was admitted to the king in the evening, and if her . . . queenly characteristics . . . were insufficient, she'd leave in the morning and never be asked back.  When it was finally Esther's turn, the king fell head over heels in love –  and crowned her Queen right on the spot.  And all the palace was abuzz at how this woman came out of nowhere and beat all the celebrities' daughters – all the regional pageant winners, all the local cattle-queens like Miss Hospitality of Haran or Miss Sheep-camp of Samaria.  How could this unknown cousin of a minor palace functionary – what was his name, anyway? – become the Queen of Persia, consort to the great Ahasuerus?

Not long after that, two of the king's eunuchs hatched a plot to kill him.  And by merest coincidence, Esther’s cousin Mordecai heard about the plot and sent word to the Queen, and she told Ahasuerus, and the plot was foiled.  And it was properly recorded in the annals of the king, and promptly forgotten.  After all, plots to kill Ahasuerus were a dime-a-dozen.

Meanwhile, an Amelekite named Haman became the king's chief of staff.  And he decreed that all of the king's other servants would bow before him, which wasn't any skin off of anybody's nose except Mordecai.  So he didn't bow before Haman, and this really ticked Haman off, and he hatched a plot against Mordecai's relatives – all the Jews in Persia.  He told the king “There's a certain people scattered around the kingdom, and they live by other laws and they make more money than anybody else.  They can't be tolerated, because they'll destabilize the international monetary system and undermine the work ethic of the people.  They already own all the banks and all the department stores, and they don't follow the laws of the king.”  And then the clincher – “I'll pay ten-thousand talents into the royal treasury to help, ah, recoup the costs of the pogrom.”  The king agreed to it, and the machinery of state was set in motion – decrees were decreed, and letters written and mailed to all the minor functionaries and regional governments.  On a certain day, in a certain month, all the Jews, would be slaughtered, annihilated, wiped off the face of the Persian empire.  After all this was decreed, after the kingly plans were set in motion, Haman and the king went out for a beer.

Now, all that running around and decreeing is hard to keep quiet, and in due time Mordecai heard about it.  You'll remember that – just coincidentally – his niece was Queen of all Persia.  Of course that meant she was also a Jew, although nobody in the palace knew it.  So Mordecai, who couldn't get in to see his cousin because nobody knew she was his cousin – are you following this? – put on sackcloth and ashes, and marched around outside the palace wailing and gnashing his teeth to get Esther's attention, which he finally did.  Esther sent a eunuch to find out what's going on, and Mordecai told him, and she sent the eunuch back with a message: “What can I do? If there's one iron-clad rule around here, it's this – no one, and I mean no one is to go into the presence of the king without being called.  It's death for anyone who breaks this rule, and I haven't been called for a month now.”  Mordecai sent a message back, saying, “You don't think your being in the palace will save you, do you? When he finds out you’re a Jew . . .”  Finally she agreed – she'd go to see the king, and if she's killed she's killed – so be it.

And that's what she did – she went into the great hall where Ahasuerus was sitting on his throne, and stood there, waiting.  And when the king saw her, somehow he was smitten all over again and she won his favor.  In spite of all the rules, he held out his scepter and said “What is your request? It shall be given to you, even to half my kingdom.”  And Esther knew she had him – his kingly pride would never let him back down off this promise.

But she decided to mess with him a little.  She said “If it pleases the King, bring Haman to a little banquet I've prepared today.”  So the king said “Quick – find Haman and get him over here so we may do what Esther desires.”  And they brought Haman, and they sat down, and they began to drink wine, and the King said “what is your petition?” And Esther said – “This is my petition and request – if I have won the king's favor, let the king and Haman come tomorrow to another feast, and then I will do as the king has said.”  And so they did.

Now, Haman, for one, was happy – even though he passed that blasted Mordecai in the gate as he went home, he bragged to his wife and friends about his status, and all his riches and splendor.  “Even Queen Esther let no one but me come with the king to the banquet.  Yet all this does me no good so long as I see the Jew Mordecai sitting in the king's gate.”  Then his wife, and all his friends said “Let a gallows fifty cubits high be made, and in the morning tell the king to have Mordecai hung on it.  Then go on to the banquet in good spirits.”  Well, this perked Haman right up, as the thought of a good hanging always did, so he had the gallows built and went to bed.

Meanwhile, in the palace, the king couldn't sleep.  So he had his servants bring him the annals of the king, in the hopes that would help.  So he propped himself up in bed and began to read, and along about morning,  he came to the part where Mordecai had foiled the plot to assassinate him.  And he said “What honor or distinction has been bestowed upon Mordecai for this?” His servants said “Nothing, my Lord.”  And this offended his kingly sense of honor, so he said “Who is in the court?” And by coincidence, Haman had just come in to see about Mordecai's hanging.  “Send him to me,” said the king.

Well, Haman came in, and right off the bat the king said “What is to be done for the man the king wishes to honor?” And Haman thought “Whom would the king wish to honor more than me?” So he said to the king, “Let royal robes be brought, which the king has worn, and a horse that the king has ridden, with a royal crown on its head.  Let the robes and the horse be given to one of your most noble officials; let him robe the man whom the king wishes to honor, and let him conduct the man on horseback through the streets of the city, proclaiming before him: 'Thus shall it be done for the man whom the king wishes to honor.'” And the king said “Quick, take the robes and the horse, and do so to the Jew Mordecai who sits at the king's gate.  Leave out nothing that you have mentioned.”

And so Haman went and robed Mordecai in the kings robes, put him on the king's horse and led him around the city saying “Thus shall it be done for the man whom the king wishes to honor.”  And Haman was mortified – he just knew he'd be the laughingstock of all of Persia, and be killed in the gossip columns, not to mention on the six o'clock news.  And all his advisors and lawyers and even his wife  took this as an omen of his untimely demise.

The next day he and the King went in to feast with Esther the Queen, and everything went OK for Haman on the first day, and so he began to think “Ha! this isn't so bad . . .  perhaps I’ll get out of it after all.”   But on the second day, while they were drinking wine, the king again asked Esther – “What is your petition? Even to half my kingdom, I will grant it.”  And Esther answered “If it pleases the king, let my life be given me, and the lives of my people.   That is my request.   For we have been sold to be destroyed, to be killed, and to be annihilated.”  Ahasuerus flared with anger and said to the Queen “Who is he, and where is he, who has presumed to do this?” And Esther pointed right at Haman, who was at that moment edging toward the door, and said “A foe and enemy, this wicked Haman!” And the king went into the garden to cool off, he was so angry, and Haman knew that the jig was up, so he threw himself onto the Queen's mercy.  Unfortunately, he also threw himself onto the Queen's lap. and when the king came back in he took one look and said “Will he even assault the queen in my presence, in my own house?” And his words completed Haman's humiliation, and covered him with shame.

Then a eunuch said helpfully “Look, the gallows Haman built for Mordecai stands at Haman's house, fifty cubits high.”  And the king said “Hang him on that.”  And so they did – they hanged Haman on the gallows he'd built for Mordecai, and you know what? That perked the king right up, like a good hanging always did.

That day the fortunes of Esther and Mordecai and all the Persian Jews changed for the good.  Ahasuerus gave Esther the house of Haman, the enemy of the Jews.  And to Mordecai he gave his signet ring, and thus great power in all the land, and Esther put Mordecai in charge of the house of Haman.  And the plot of Haman was foiled, and all the enemies of the Jews were defeated in the land of Persia, and a great feast – the feast of Purim – was declared to celebrate their deliverance from the hands of their enemies.

You may have noticed that not once did I mention God in this story . . . and there's a reason for that – nowhere in the book of Esther is God mentioned, even indirectly.  Not once.  And yet the story, as it was passed down through the years, first in oral then in written form, became beloved of the Jewish people.  So much so that when their Bible was finalized in about 100 AD, it was included in their holiest of books and thus, in our Old Testament.  And the question is – why? What can a story in which God is absent tell us about our God?

It tells the story of the Jewish people in exile, helpless before the might of the Persian empire and how a dire plot against them was foiled by the action of one courageous woman.  It is skillfully told, downright funny in places, and its plot is driven by a series of outrageous coincidences – by coincidence, a Jew named Mordecai worked for the king.  By coincidence, he had a beautiful cousin named Esther, who just by coincidence became Queen of all Persia.  Just by coincidence, Mordecai foiled a plot against the king, and just by coincidence, Haman was the first in the Palace when Ahasuerus was reading about it.

And sitting around the supper table, or around the campfire, or in the synagogue where the story was told, Jewish audiences had no trouble figuring out who it was behind all the coincidences, behind all the “acts of chance” in the story.  It was the same “who” who led them out of bondage again and again.

And when God seems to be nowhere present in our own lives, when we can't see God or feel God anywhere at all, remember the story of Esther and the king of Persia, and maybe laugh a little.  Maybe laugh a little, and then remember our own little “coincidences”, the little instances where God's hand poked into our lives, and tweaked them for the good. Amen.

What Child is This? (Mark 9:30-37)

Children figure prominently in several of the stories about Jesus.  They’re characters, of course, in his parables and teachings . . . like the one about brother versus brother, child versus parent, etc., etc., or the one where he asks “Is there anyone among you who, when your child asks for bread will give it a stone?  Or if the child asks for a fish will give it a snake?” (HINT: the answer is to both is “no.”  I hope.).  Then there are the ones—like today—where the child is an object lesson, something we are to  compare ourselves to.  Elsewhere in Mark, Jesus tells us that “whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it,” and leaves it up to us to decide what it is about a little child we are supposed to emulate.  In Matthew’s version of this story, Jesus spells it out: “Whoever becomes humble like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven.”  And we think:  Aha!  Humility . . . that’s the ticket.  But the problem is, Matthew’s version is the only one that includes this part . . . here in Mark, as we’ve seen, Jesus doesn’t say that, nor does he say it in Luke’s version . . . although humility certainly is a good thing, could Jesus mean something more?  Why would he go out of his way to specify that we welcome the humble in his name?  Was there a big problem in those days not welcoming the humble?  Why wouldn’t anyone welcome them?

Let’s see if we can figure it out . . . like last week, the disciples and Jesus are traveling through the countryside, their ultimate destination Jerusalem, and we know what will happen there, don’t we?  We know that when they get there, Jesus will be spiked to a tree and strung up to die.  And, again like last week, we’re in a section of Mark that seems to be about seeing and understanding . . . these episodes are bracketed by stories of Jesus healing the blind . . . the one about the man made to see in stages—I see trees, walking—and blind Bartimaeus.  And the message is clear:  like Jesus heals the physical blindness, Jesus will heal our  spiritual and intellectual blindness.  And the welcoming of one such as this child is an important part of that.

Well.  A funny thing about this passage is that we’re told right up front that Jesus doesn’t want anyone to know of their passage, because he’s teaching his disciples.  And so we should feel privileged, because we are privy to teaching that was reserved for his disciples, his followers.  Which is fitting, isn’t it?  That’s what we are, we are disciples ourselves, some two millennia removed . . . so Jesus’ teaching is meant for us, we are it’s intended audience, and it’s similar to what we heard last week: “The Son of Man is to be betrayed into human hands, and they will kill him, and three days after being killed, he will rise again.”  As if to rub it in, Jesus repeats the word killed, and emphasizes that it’s human beings that will be doing the killing. And once again, they don’t understand, but they don’t make the mistake they did last week, they don’t rebuke him for saying it, they don’t get on his case like Peter did, but it is clear that they’re troubled, cause they’re afraid to ask him about it.

And are they afraid about what they might hear?  Are they afraid that they might hear that they’re going to be implicated?  Are they afraid they might hear that they’re going to follow Jesus on more than just the Jerusalem road?  That they might be asked to follow him in death as well?  Hearing that would certainly ruin a nice day on the road . . . and now they come to Capernaum, and they’re staying at somebody’s house—whose isn’t important—and Jesus asks them “What was it you were arguing about along the way?”

And they don’t want to tell him, they’re silent, embarrassed at being caught out by the master.   Are they remembering that bit about Jesus going to be betrayed and killed and thinking “How could we argue about who is the greatest?”  How could we squabble and fight, saying “Jesus talked to me twice” or “I followed Jesus before you did” or “Jesus clearly loves me best.” Are they thinking how trivial it all is, how gauche, like arguing who would get the silver beside Aunt Tilly’s bedside?  I doubt it . . . they didn’t understand, remember?  They didn’t have a clue what Jesus’ true nature and mission was all about . . . else how could they argue about who is greatest in the first place?

Now, when I read this, I always take a moment to thank God that I know so much more than the disciples, that I understand so much more, that my faith is so much more advanced . . . stupid disciples . . . and then I think of all those TV preachers with their prosperity doctrines and chandeliers . . . they’re no better than those long ago disciples, really, thinking that God rewards those who believe and who are faithful with riches and opportunity.  In fact, I thank God that I’m not one of those fundamentalists any more, that I have the freedom to question, to believe . . .  we progressive Christians are above all of that, we’re just more . . . progressive . . . certainly more like God’s own self . . .  I thank God that I’m above all that, that indeed, the Presbyterian Church U.S.A. is above all that, and think with a little chuckle how I used to be, how I used to be one of those Southern Baptists with their quaint beliefs . . .

And I thank God I’m not a paper tiger, I serve on Presbytery committees, I do, and I argue my points smoothly and convincingly, convinced, indeed, that I am right, because unlike those long-ago disciples, and their spiritual descendants, those 1-800-number-toting, chandelier-swinging TV preachers . . . and a smugly complacent sense of superiority isn’t limited to arguing disciples, is it?  We modern, progressive Christians are perfectly capable of fighting arguing about who is the greatest, of toting up our supposedly superior qualities . . . and if other people in our church don’t agree with us, by golly, we’ll just form our own church . . . there are some 400, 000 tax exempt church organizations registered with the federal government, almost 4,000 kinds of Baptist alone.  Don’t agree with how your church views Communion?  Go somewhere else . . .  don’t like who your church has on its board, who it allows at its table, or the kind of music it does in worship?  Argue about it, try to change it to your liking, and if that fails, withhold your tithe or, finally, take your money somewhere else.

Let me tell you a little secret:  most—if not all—doctrinal fights in the church are at heart about power, about whose view of the gospel is correct, in other words whose is the greatest . . . but Jesus has an answer to that, doesn’t he?  He says it to our squabbling predecessors almost 2000 years ago: “Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all.”  Whoever wants their view of the gospel to be the “right” and the opposing view wrong, whoever wants their faith to be the greatest of all, whoever worries about their place in the pecking order must be last and servant of all.  Whoever thinks their committee the most important, or their ministry the most vital, whoever wants themselves or their ministry to get the respect they know they deserve, must be last and servant of all.  Oy.

And now, as a final sermon illustration, he takes a child, and he embraces it and says “Whoever welcomes one child like this in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me.”  And he uses the Greek word dekomai, which can mean welcome, but also can mean receive, which is how the New American Standard Bible translates . . . whoever welcomes, whoever receives one child such as this receives me . . . and does this sound vaguely familiar?  It should . . . over in Matthew, Jesus relates the parable of the King who said “just as you did to one of the least of these . . . you did to me.”  And in the first century, children pretty much fit that bill, they were pretty much the least of these . . . children were expendable, they were lower on the social totem pole than even women and slaves . . . so many children died young that they weren’t worth anything until they could contribute to the household, until they could help the women with their work, or work the fields with the men.  Ask yourself: just what does a little child contribute?  Noise, needs, questions, short attention spans. They have no real productive skills, they don’t contribute to the building fund, they don’t fill committee slots or do yard work, they don’t cook for the picnic, sing in the choir or clean up after the pot luck supper.  And we’re supposed to welcome people like that, the lowest of the low, the ones who contribute nothing to society or the church, the ones who are last of all.

It kind of puts the lie to all the manipulation, all the jockeying for position, all the fighting about theological correctness, doesn’t it?  It throws all the in-fighting, the worrying about who’s right and who’s wrong, who’s in and who’s out, who’s more important or deserves the most respect right out the old stained-glass window, doesn’t it?  The last shall be first, and the first last indeed.

And welcoming one such as a child is welcoming Jesus, which is welcoming the one who sent him, AKA God.  Because Jesus is that little child, Jesus is the least of these . . . Jesus is last of all and servant of all, which brings us right back up to the top of this passage . . . the part that the disciples didn’t understand, and didn’t have the courage to ask about . . . just what does being the servant of all entail?  Well, for Jesus, it meant that he would be betrayed into human hands, killed, and after being killed, raised up on the third day.  Far from being a powerful leader, far from being a user of violence, Jesus is last of all, servant of all.

I wonder:  what would our churches be like if we followed this one dictum?  What would they be like if we actually obeyed Jesus and took him at his word, if we strove to be last of all and servant of all?  If we welcomed the outcasts, the lowest of the low, those other middle-class churches sniff at, those they turn up their noses at?  What if we considered ourselves last of all, even lower on the totem pole than those we welcome, if we quit worrying about where we are in the pecking order, or who is dissing us or trying to top us, and just served?  What do you suppose the church would look like then?

Of course, human nature being what it is, it is easier said than done.  No matter how hard we try, as the apostle Paul put it, we do what we do not want to do, what we know is not good for us and not good for the community of faith.  In this, we are fallen.  But you know what?  We are also redeemed.  We are redeemed and we are forgiven, by the grace of God through the life saving life, death and resurrection of God’s son Jesus Christ.  Amen.

A Secret, A Rebuke, and the Messiah (Mark 8:27-38)

     So, Jesus and the disciples are on the Jerusalem road, on the highway that will culminate in his death.  And we have two stories about Jesus and his disciples.  In the first, he asks them who the people say that he is, then who they say that he is, whereupon Peter answers “the Messiah.”  In the second story, he tells them about the upcoming passion, his death and resurrection, and when Peter gets all up in his face about it, calls him Satan.  And though they seem unrelated, in fact, in fact they are intimately so, both to one another and to one of Mark’s overarching themes.

And to understand this, it helps to look at the two stories that  precede the passage.   In the first, Jesus and his disciples get into a boat to head to the other side of the Sea of Galilee but the disciples have forgotten to bring along any bread.  Oops! And they start whining about it, saying we have no bread, and Jesus says to them: “What are you nattering on about, having no bread.  Do you not perceive or understand? Do you have eyes and fail to see?  Ears and fail to hear?” And he proceeds to remind them of the feeding of the five thousand, and if that wasn’t proof enough that they didn’t have to worry about bead, the feeding of the four thousand. And after all that, Jesus says, you still don’t understand?

In the next episode, they comes to the village of Bethsaida, and folks bring him a blind guy, and of course, as unfair to the blind as it is, over the ages blindness been a metaphor for a lack of understanding.  And Jesus spits on his hands, and rubs them on the blind man’s eyes.  And the man says “I can see people, but they look like trees, walking,” so Jesus lays his hands on him again and after that, he can clearly see.

With two episodes about seeing and understanding—or lack of it—preceding today’s passage, what do you want to bet that our stories have something to do with this as well?  Jesus comes to yet another village and asks his followers: “who do folks say that I am?”  And they answer with people that we know—as did Mark’s readers in the middle of the first century—he is not:  John the Baptist, some say, and others say Elijah.  Still others say that you’re one of the prophets.

Their perception of Jesus is constructed in terms of things they already know . . . they know John the Baptist, they know who Elijah was, what the prophets were.  It’s like in a science fiction flick—why do you think aliens always look suspiciously like . . . us?  Oh, they often have sharp teeth and bulgy eyes, protuberances where we don’t have protuberances, fins where we don’t have fins, etc., etc., but they are usually basically humanoid.  Think ewoks in the Star Wars movies, or the Klingons in Star Trek.  They all are recognizable, and there’s a reason: it is very difficult for us to “think outside the box,” outside the categories of what we already know.  Thus, the people think he’s Elijah, or John, or a prophet.

And now, seemingly determined to pin the disciples down, Jesus asks:  “But who do you say I am?”   And Peter, playing his usual part as stand-in for the other says. “You are the Messiah.”  And I can imagine the others congratulate Peter and themselves, saying that unlike the  unwashed masses, they know the truth, they understand what nobody else does.  Aren’t they special?

Well if they are, they certainly don’t hear it from Jesus—Jesus doesn’t tell Peter he’s right or wrong, he doesn’t tell him “well done, good and faithful servant,” or complement him on getting it right.  Instead, he sternly orders them not to tell anybody about it.  It’s the famous “messianic secret”—whenever Jesus does something messiah-like—healing somebody or running some demons off or something—or whenever anybody expresses a belief that he is the messiah, he tells them not to run around telling everyone about it.  And after two millennia, scholars are still unsure about why Jesus would do it, about what its function is.

Another thing to see about this verse is that the Greek word translated as “sternly ordered” is the same one Jesus used with the wind on the sea of Galilee . . . remember?  When he was sleeping in the boat and the storm started up, Jesus rebuked the elements, and it could have been translated “sternly ordered” them.  And though we could translate it as “he rebuked the disciples so that they not tell anyone about him,” “sternly ordered” is a contextually better fit.  But—and here’s the point—Mark’s congregation would know they are the same word and make the connection between the two episodes.

Now, in the second story, and after hearing what they think he is, Jesus tells them who he really is: “the Son of Man must undergo great suffering, and be rejected by the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes, and be killed, and after three days rise again.”  And the disciples—like Mark’s audience 40 years later—would know that he’s describing himself in terms of the suffering servant figure from Isaiah.  And he does so quite openly, in contrast to his warning to the disciples about that Messiah thing . . . unlike that warning—don’t tell anybody I’m the Messiah—he doesn’t care who knows he’s going to suffer and die and rise from the dead on the third day.

Hmm . . . why do you think that is?  Why would it be desirable to keep a Messianic identity secret but openly declare a “suffering servant” one?   Well, maybe Peter’s reaction is a clue.  Peter reacts violently to the news that Jesus is going to suffer, be rejected and killed and then rise on the third day.  He reacts so violently that he rebukes his master, and here Mark uses the same word that he used not three verses before,  as Jesus warned the disciples not to run around saying he was the Messiah.  Do you think it’s an accident?  I don’t.  Mark draws an implicit connection between Jesus’ warning not to tell anyone he’s the Messiah and Peter’s reprimand of Jesus, though again, our translation obscures the connection.

But why did Peter rebuke Jesus in the first place?  The obvious answer is that he doesn’t want to hear that Jesus is going to die . . . and who can blame him?  Nobody wants a beloved teacher to die . . . I remember how I felt when I heard my major professor had committed suicide . . . I felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach, even though I hadn’t seen him for years . . . so I don’t think we can’t blame Peter for being upset: nobody wants to hear that.

But the Greek word translated here as rebuke and earlier as “command” is not just a mild objection.  It’s not like Peter is saying “oh, now master, you mustn’t talk that way . . .” as if he were talking to an ailing aunt . . . the Greek word used expresses strong disapproval, strong admonishment, even a threat, like you better not talk that way or else . . . rebuke is how a parent reprimands a child or a master punishes a servant or—in the case of Jesus calming the seas—a creator admonishes his creation.

And so Peter is stepping way out of line here, he’s placing himself above the master, and Jesus doesn’t take it lying down.  He looks at the disciples—confirming that it’s about all of them—he looks at the disciples and rebukes Peter in front of them, and here again, Mark uses the same word to describe it as he used when Peter rebuked him, and that Jesus used to tell ‘em not to say he’s the Messiah.  It’s like dueling rebukes!

But then Jesus goes a step further . . . a great big whopping step forward . . . he tells Peter to get behind him, and calls him Satan, for gosh sake.  And I don’t know about you, but that always seemed to me to be something of an overreaction . . . I might have said “Don’t you think you’re getting a little too big for your britches, there Pete?”  or “What do you mean rebuking me, Mr. Bigshot?  Who do you think you are?”  But Satan?  Why would he call him that?

  Well, Jesus tells us in the next line.  He says “you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things."  Ok, that makes sense . . . Satan was regarded as the ruler of the earth, of humanity . . . remember?  When Satan tested Jesus, he offered to give him the world, because he was its ruler.  So when Jesus calls Peter Satan it has something to do with setting his mind on, literally “thinking” on the things of the world.  Peter is in the mind-set of the world, of humanity rather than in God’s.

Then he calls the crowd over to hear what he says next—he doesn’t care if anyone hears that either.  If any want to become my followers, he says, let them take up their cross and follow me.  Not only will Jesus be on the cross, but his followers must be as well.  Further, those who want to save their life will lose it, but those who lose their lives for his sake will save it.

And again, he not only says this quite openly, he invites the neighbors over to hear it.  But why does he do it?  Why does he shut the disciples up about him being the Messiah but tells everybody and their brother about him—and his followers—giving up their lives for the Good News?  Could it be . . . that one is true and one . . . isn’t?  Could it be that the suffering servant part, about being rejected and killed and then rising on the third day, is true and the bit about him being the Messiah . . . is, well, less true?

After all, he never said he was the messiah, did he?  That was Peter all the way.  He called himself  the Son of Man, whatever that means.  And when Peter called him Messiah, Jesus shut the disciples up, using a word that was much less than polite, a word he would get on Peter’s case for using . . . what if he wouldn’t let them tell everyone that he is the Messiah is because it isn’t true?

Ok, ok . . . before you get out the pitchforks and start hollering “Heretic!  Heretic!”  let me clarifsy.  Like the suffering servant—and like that of the Son of Man as well—the Messiah was a figure in Jewish literature and thought.  The Messiah—the word messiah comes from the Hebrew for “anointed,” as in anointed king—the Messiah was thought to be a glorious ruler, who would rise up, taking the Israelites with him, and restore the Davidic throne, restore the power and might of Israel at the point of a sword.  He would lead a glorious army, kick the Romans in their armored behinds, and initiate a golden age of Israelite rule.  By the time of Jesus, this was a fervent hope amongst the people, and in fact, there was revolutionary fever running through the people in Jesus time.

And this explains a lot, doesn’t it?  It explains why Peter and the others were so upset when Jesus predicted he was gonna be captured and killed, so upset that Peter would use the extremely strong word with Jesus.  And it explains as well why Jesus was so upset as well: it was as if Peter and them had thrown out the gospel, as if they had discounted the whole thing.  They were thinking in human terms, all right, in terms of power instead of weakness, conquering instead of submitting, ruling instead of serving.  And that mindset was diametrically opposed to the gospel.

When Peter said he was the Messiah, he was only seeing half-way, like the blind guy who saw trees walking . . . Jesus was the Messiah, all right, the anointed one, but he wasn’t the Jewish one, the one they were all awaiting.   His reign would not be one of power and might, but of love and service.  He wouldn’t march on Jerusalem at the head of an army, he would arrive and be arrested, tortured and killed.  God’s idea of power—the things of the divine, as Jesus put it, was certainly not that of the disciples.

And it’s not ours today, is it?  Even though we give lip service to the concept, our ideas about how to deal with others are much closer to Peter’s than Jesus’ . . .  though we talk a good show, going on about violence being a last resort, etc., etc., we—and by we I mean our country, our society—use it disturbingly often.  It pervades our media, with cop shows being disturbingly popular, shows that give us vicarious satisfaction at seeing the perp killed, at seeing the murderer get her or his just rewards.  And the non-violent version of all of this, the scraping and scrounging to get ahead, the competitive spirit that sees us up the old ladder of success, that pushes us to be first in everything, causes heart-ache and pain, both literally and figuratively, shortening lives and breaking up families with abandon.

Friends, as Paul said, the scandal of the cross is that Jesus— the Son of Man, God’s son, God incarnate—died on it, which is foolishness to the world.  And as we proclaim that good news, let us remember what it means:  that God is here with us in our weakness, that he supports us in our pain, that he chose us—the foolish, the weak, the vulnerable—to shame the powerful, to teach the wise, and to proclaim the gospel of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.  Amen.