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.