The End of the Road (Mark10:46 - 52)

It's important to recognize the context of this story—well, when is it not?—but here it's especially critical, because it's the last healing in Mark, the last mighty deed, if you except the cursing of the fig-tree, that is . . . The very next section has him arriving in Jerusalem for the last time, and so this is the end of the road both to Jerusalem—he’s been traveling there with his followers for some time—and the beginning of the end of the road for his life, because we know what happens in Jerusalem.  So does Mark’s community, his congregation, the people for whom this gospel was written.  So they would have been well aware of the echoes between this final story, the ending of his journey to Jerusalem, and the ending of his journey in life.

But wait . . . there’s more!  This is the second story of healing a guy of blindness, of enabling someone who can't see to regain his sight, and in fact, these two stories bracket a portion of Mark’s gospel that deals with the spiritual blindness of Jesus’ followers, especially to the true nature of his identity and of his ministry on earth.  It is between these two healings that Jesus tells them—three times!—that he’s going to be crucified, and each time, they fail—or is it refuse?—to get it, to understand, to see.

Of course, today we realize that it isn't the men’s physical blindness that is the wrong, nor does it imply that they are bad because they’re blind, as it did to the religious authorities of the day.  It was neither of their faults that they were blind, which is part of the point of both stories: the men were shunned, unclean because of their blindness.  By healing them he demonstrated that they were welcome in God’s kingdom, and that the last—in this case, penniless outcasts—were indeed first in that kingdom.

So, although we are to be sensitive and not make the mistakes the religious authorities did, confusing people with their diseases, it's important to understand how the idea of not being able to see plays out, both actually and metaphorically.  But let's back up a little:  Just who is this Bartimaeus, anyway?  Well, the very fact that he's named is of significance: in fact, he's the only one of the people Jesus heals—man or woman—that is named.  And we know him by his father’s name, because that’s what it means: Bar-timaeus, son of Timaeus.  And son of Timaeus has fallen on hard times.  In fact, he was outcast, unclean, a beggar sitting by the dusty road.  His condition ensured that he would be that way, and can you picture how it was for him?  His face, not at eye level, but of the level of the legs of the passers-by . . . Not that he would look them in the eye anyway, he’d learned long ago that if he did that, he'd get nothing, because people would think him uppity, trying to act above his station . . . The people along that Jericho road considered him beneath them . . . They had to, because he was unclean, unfit to worship with, and that meant he'd done something that God didn't like, and for which he was being punished.  It was unthinkable that it was a random thing, that his blindness was just a trick of fate, he must've done something wrong . . .

And so there son of Timaeus is, dependent upon the kindness of strangers, the dust clogging his nostrils and stinging his eyes, mixing with his sweat into a kind of paste, flies dividing their time between his face and the pile of donkey dung three feet away, and here comes Bar-Gary, son of Gary, with his wife Bat-Louise a respectful step behind, and she’s saying “oh, look at that poor man . . . Give him a coin, my husband” but Bar-Gary is having none of it, saying “he’ll just spend it on alcohol . . . Wouldn't want to enable him, my dear,” and so it goes, Bartimaeus is used to it, people thinking they know who he is just by his condition, thinking they know how he got there, and the afternoon is getting hotter, and the flies more persistent, and he swears that dung-pile is bigger, when he hears a commotion, almost a whispering at first, a susurration coming towards him along the road . . . A stirring on the breeze, as if the spirits of the air have pricked up their ears, and it seems a little more cool, a little more tolerable all of a sudden . . .

And now he hears a name on the wind, whispered by the spirits at first, then echoed by the crowds on that boiling day: “Jesus, JESUS . . .” and his heart leaps, not only because he has heard the name, but because something within him just falls into place with a sigh, as if a part of him—missing for all this time has finally come home.  And inside him there is an openness, a spaciousness that had always been there, but has been awakened anew . . . Perhaps it is his suffering that has awakened it, made him more open, more receptive to the new . . . that's how philosopher and theologian Raimon Panikkar described faith . . . as a receptiveness, an openness to revelation . . .

And in a way that is not apparent in the crowd, son-of-Timaeus is there, he is at that place of openness, that place of receptiveness, and from that place he calls out to Jesus: “Son of David, have mercy on me!”  But the crowd is outraged, that this outcast beggar, this unclean . . . thing  would presume to call out, to try and rise above his station to get Jesus’ attention . . . But such is his faith that he cries out even louder: “Son of David, have mercy on me!”  And now we can see why Mark gives us a name, or at least tells us who his father is: Bartimaeus, son of Timaeus, is calling out for Bar-David, son of David . . . And this is the first mention of his royal heritage in Mark’s gospel, but it won't be the last . . . in the very next passage, Jesus enters Jerusalem on a colt, the foal of a donkey, and the crowd shouts it out: “Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!  Blessed is the coming kingdom of our ancestor David! Hosanna in the highest heaven!”  Bartimaeus, who was made to see, nevertheless saw the same thing the crowds did, the same thing as his disciples did, really: that Jesus would bring back the glorious reign of his ancestor David, the once and future King.

“Bar-David,” he says, “Son of David, have mercy on me!”  And Son of David stands stock still, he halts his progress for the outcast, and says “call him here,” but he doesn't rebuke the crowd for their callousness but invites them into his ministry, invited them to help him out, and when they do—saying courage! He is calling for you!—when they lead him up, Jesus asks him a simple question: “What do you want me to do for you?”  And we remember—because we talked about it just last week—we remember the last time he asked that question, in the episode just before this, to James and John, and we also remember what they asked for: to sit, one at his right hand and one at his left, in his glory.  His disciples, his followers, who you'd think would see, are nevertheless blind to the true nature of Jesus’ reign.

And what does the beggar who is blind, he of the openness, he of the faith, what does he ask?  “My teacher,” he says, “let me see again.”  And it's clear that Mark wants us to draw a contrast between James and John, who request to share in Jesus’ supposed upcoming power, and this wretched beggar, who simply asks for what he needs at that very moment, and in Jesus’ response to that we get a hint of what it may be: “Go: your faith has made you well!”  It's his faith, or some quality of it, that has made him well, that has rescued him, as the literal Greek would have it, distinguishes him from Jesus’ other followers.  Even though he still buys into the dominant, son of David narrative—which Jesus will put the lie to soon, in Jerusalem—his faith is nevertheless different, so much so that's Jesus commends him for it, so much so that It causes Bartimaeus to follow him, which we have never seen in Mark, though as we know, not for long.

A quick search in my Bible software revealed that although Jesus commends the faith of those he heals frequently, he never once—at least in Mark—commends the faith of his followers, even the twelve . . . When Peter makes a similar statement—calling Jesus Messiah, equivalent to Son of David—he just shuts him up . . . Then shortly afterward calls him Satan.  The so-called “faith” of the disciples rests in a willingness to follow Jesus, all right, but only if it is to power and might.  After all, they desert him at the cross, when the true nature of his ministry is finally revealed.  The faith—the openness, the receptivity—of Bartimaeus is open to the possibility of grace, and that's all he requests.

In a few minutes, we will recite the prayer we do every Sunday; we pray the prayer Jesus taught us—no, commanded us—to pray.  And in it there is one line that stands out for me today: give us today our daily bread, give us what we need, nothing more.  Bartimaeus is the embodiment of that prayer, he asks for only what he needs, nothing more.  And in doing so, he teaches us something about the nature of true faith, which son of Timaeus had before he even laid eyes upon son of David.  James’ and John’s so-called faith was grasping, greedy . . . We want you to do for us whatever we ask, they said.  And looking back on the other healings in Mark, it's clear that the person being healed’s faith was like that of Bartimaeus: humble, unassuming, and open to the possibility that Jesus’ mission was something different than the run of the mill, worldly desires of more and more and more.

And this morning, I want to ask you all: how's your faith?  Is it open to revelation, is it open to something new?  Is it open to the possibility that God will do a new thing, that God will give you what you need?  Is it open to the possibility that it will give us as a congregation what we need?  We are in a time of increasing age and declining membership, and anxiety sometimes runs high.  Is our faith like that of Bartimaeus, that God will provide what we need?  That, brothers and sisters, is what Transformation 2.0 is doing: asking God humbly and wth great faith for what we need, not necessarily for what we want.  As you are increasingly asked to participate in this bold process, keep old Son of Timaeus in mind.  Amen.   

On the Road Again with Jesus (Mark 10:32 - 45)

      The disciples and Jesus are on the road again, and Jesus tries a third time to explain things to them. “See,” he says, “We're going up to Jerusalem, and the Son of Man – that's me – is gonna be handed over to the chief priests and scribes and all the other religious hangers-on, and they're gonna condemn him, and then hand him over to the Gentiles.  They're gonna torture him, spit on him, and kill him.  But after three days, he will rise again.”

      There was silence for a few minutes, and then James and John come up and say “Teacher, we want you to do for us whatever we ask of you.”  Say what? Their beloved teacher, master and friend has just told them he’s going to die a horrible death, tortured, mocked and killed.  And by Gentiles, no less – Gentiles, who keep pigs for pity's sake, and eat anything they wanted, and worship God only knows what.

      And what do they say?  Do they commiserate with Jesus?  Do they weep and wail and gnash their teeth?  Do they get mad and vow to get the scribes and chief priests before they get Jesus?  No. They say “Teacher, we want you to do for us whatever we ask of you.”  It's kind of like a beloved grandmother, who tells us she has bad news.  She went to the doctor, and he told her she's only got six months to live, a year, tops, and we come back with “Grandma . . . can we have your bone-china tea set?”

      Jesus calmly replies with “What is it you want me to do for you?” And immediately, I'm struck by the unevenness of the exchange, the opposite responses of the disciples and Jesus.  They greet Jesus' announcement of his death with the height of insensitivity, and Jesus responds patiently and selflessly: “What is it you want me to do for you?”

      James and John sail obliviously on. They ask for the moon, the kingdom, the stars.  “Grant us to sit,” they say, “one at your right hand and one at your left, in your glory."  And immediately it becomes clear what their problem is, where they're coming from.  Jesus says he's gonna die, and be raised on the third day, and they want a piece of the action, a piece of heaven on earth. They hear resurrection, and think “glory,” think “triumphant Christ, reigning on earth.” They just don't get it.

      Mark’s gospel was written during troubled times in Palestine.  About 65 AD, rebellion broke out among the Jews against the Roman occupation. Five years of guerilla warfare ended in 70 AD, when Jerusalem was finally taken, and Solomon's temple destroyed, and with it Jewish dreams of independence. Now, every time the Israelites were threatened with extinction, every time they are defeated or exiled, Messianic expectations run wild. They were looking for a savior, a leader, a general who could crush the Roman army, and remove the Emperor's boot-heel from their necks.  The Jewish Messiah was expected to lead the Jews to a glorious victory for the Lord and the people of the Lord.

      So James and John accurately mirror the beliefs during Mark's times. They assume that he'll be resurrected on the third day and go on to kick a little Roman rear on the fourth.  They thought they understood perfectly well who he was . . . he was the Messiah, and he was there to lead them to victory. We want to be at your right and left hands, in your Glory.

      And when Jesus said  “Are you able to drink the cup that I drink, or be baptized with the baptism that I am baptized with?” They must have thought  “No sweat – we can lord it over the Romans with the best of 'em.  We can easily take what Jesus has to take.”  And so they answered  “We are able.”

      Now, Jesus knew perfectly well that they still didn't get it, they still had no idea what they were getting into.  And so it was with a certain amount of irony that he answered them “The cup that I drink you will drink; and with the baptism with which I am baptized, you will be baptized.”

      But the irony was mixed with sadness, because though James and John didn't realize it, Jesus was predicting their deaths.  James and John were looking for their reward here on earth, in the here and now. They told Jesus “Teacher, we want you to do for us whatever we ask of you.” And when he came back to them gently, asking what he could do for them, they went for the gold, asking to be Christ's lieutenants in his imminent reign. “Teacher, we want you to do for us whatever we ask of you.”

      They remind me of that uniquely American brand of religion that plays across the airwaves night and day, bouncing off satellites around the globe. Those big-haired, one-eight-hundred-number pushing Christians sell a little piece of the kingdom right here, right now, coming to you in your living rooms. Their sets are golden and their chandeliers sparkling, and they preach a prosperity doctrine – Can't pay the bills?  Trust in Jesus. Cancer got hold of you?  Trust in the Lord. Whatever you give will be returned to you ten-fold.  Like James and John, they want it right here, right now. “Grant us to sit, one at your right hand and one at your left, in your glory.”

      And Jesus comes to them as he comes to us: “Are you willing to be baptized as I am, to drink from the cup I drink?” And I wonder how many of us are willing to go where Jesus went, or do what Jesus did?

      Well.  When the others hear what James and John have done, that they'd tried to make a side-deal with the master, they get just a little ticked off. Why should those two get first shot at the goodies? And so they started jockeying for position on the glory train. And Jesus can see that things are beginning to get out of hand, so he calls them to him..  “Listen,”  he says. “You know that among the gentiles their great men lord it over the rest of them.” And I can imagine the disciples nodding their heads . . . yes, yes . . . they know the ways of the nations, all right.  “Well, among you we can't have any of that. Whoever wishes to become great among you shall be your servant; and whoever wishes to be first among you must be slave of all.” And I can imagine the disciples standing there, like poled oxen, because this was not at all what they had expected. Servants of each other?  Slaves of all? What kind of message is that?

      And then, finally, Jesus spells it out . . . “the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life a ransom for many.” And finally it becomes clear what Jesus had been saying all along, what it really means to go where Jesus goes, to walk where Jesus walks. They all want a piece of the Messianic pie, and they’re not going to get it. What's more, they’re being asked to be servant of one another, a far cry from sitting on the right hand of the Messiah in his glory. This was shaping up to be no fun whatsoever.

      They have a good idea of what it means to be servants – servants have little power and no business of their own, much less any share of the glory. They get little pay for their work, and are constantly, endlessly at the beck and call of their master. Did Jesus really mean that the disciples should be servants of everyone? Even of the hated Romans? What kind of way was that for a Messiah to behave?

      I suspect this notion of being servants is as shocking to us as it was to the disciples. Even though we’ve heard it all our Christian lives, that we are to serve one another, I wonder if we've ever really given thought to what Jesus meant? We have this image of household servants, Jeeves the butler saying “Madam, your hot toddy is ready . . . would madam like it in the sitting room or the drawing room?” Or . . . better . . . we go to a hotel, and overworked maids clean our rooms for us while we are gone, make our beds, and clean our toilets. But is this really all that Jesus means? Is this what he means by being servants of each other?

      As is often the case, the key is in the context. Remember what's happened: James and John have asked for positions of leadership, positions of power in the reign of Christ. The other ten get jealous of James and John, angry at them for jumping the gun, for trying to usurp the others in power and authority. But, instead of a rebuke, Jesus comes back with an illustration – “Among the Gentiles those whom they recognize as their rulers lord it over them, and their great ones are tyrants over them.” He gives the disciples – and us – a picture of worldly leadership.

      And it's a picture that pretty much holds today, isn't it? In our own country, with our own elected leaders, there's a lot of talk about “public service,” about serving the people. But when they get into office, it seems to be more about staying in office, about holding on to that power. But Jesus said that the ways of leadership of his followers was not to be that of the world. “Whoever wishes to become great among you must be your servant.” Jesus was talking about what leadership should look like for his followers. And you might call that “servant-leadership.”

      And so the question becomes “What is this servant leadership?” What does a servant-leader look like? Well . . . actually, a servant-leader should look like . . . Jesus. “Are you able to drink the cup that I drink, or be baptized as I am baptized?” Like other areas of our life, the model is to be Jesus. We are to be Christian, Christlike.  But like the shoe commercial – be like Mike –  preachers often say “Be like Jesus.” Then we say “Amen.” and sing the doxology and then we're outta here, off to beat the Baptists to the cafeteria. But how do we do that?  What were the characteristics of Jesus' servant leadership?

      The answer, of course, lies in his life. On the one hand, he gave the needs of others priority in his life . . . he healed the sick and fed the hungry. “What is it that you want me to do for you,” he asked. On the other hand, he wasn't bound to do whatever anyone asked of him. He wasn’t at the whims of everyone else. Jesus was just as much a servant driving the moneychangers out of the temple as he was feeding the five thousand.  So what we have here is a new model of leadership. Jesus' ministry and his self-giving death give both leadership and servant-hood a new definition.

      Now, you might be sitting out there thinking “Well that's just great. We've just been told one more time by some preacher how hard it is to be a Christian, what all we have to do to follow Christ.” And it seems nigh on to impossible or at least awfully hard. How discouraging is that? And you would be right – it is nigh on impossible to get it right, especially for imperfect human beings like us modern-day disciples. Many times, we don't get it any more than the original twelve.

      All of a sudden, we can see that the servants – that's us – are in need of a little service themselves, are in need of a little grace in their lives. And in the last line of our passage, we get it . . .  “The Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life a ransom for many.”  And so the final remark of Jesus points to the final act of his leadership, his ultimate act of service.  The proof of God's amazing love is this: While we were sinners Christ died for us. We don't have to be perfect in obedience, in our servant-hood, because Christ was perfect in himself perfect for us.

            And God's saving grace, through God's Son Jesus Christ, the Son of Man, acts to save us imperfect human beings. It acts to redeem us disciples who, like those original twelve so long ago, have a hard time being servants.  In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen.

Pain and Remembrance (Psalm 22:1 - 15)

The book of Psalms wasn’t ancient Israel’s prayer book for nothing.  Taken together, its songs seem to address any possible topic, any possible petition, from a bunch whose relationship with the divine was famously fraught with ups and downs and sideways and inside-outs, usually all at the same time.  As a collection the Psalms represent all of that, and more.  From the exuberant joy of Psalm 150, which seems like a child fixated on one thing—praising God—to the quiet assurance of Psalm 23, with its still waters and cup overflowing, to the abject misery of Psalm 88, called by Walter Brueggemann “the most dismal of laments.”  It's all there, all the pain and heartache, all the tumult and exaltation of the human condition, laid bare in a scant 150 Hebrew poems.

They are also a record of how Israel—an archetypal people of God—dealt with their god, whose name was Yahweh, which they were forbidden to say aloud, and from whom they were always straying, and to whom they were always returning.  Israel was always being lured away by the ways of the world, and it always coming crawling back, when the inescapable consequences of its behavior caught up with it . . . inescapably.  And it's all there in the Psalms.

Notice I used the term “Israel” as an entity, a personification;  because many of the Psalms are communal in nature, written about (and often by) the personified nation, the personified community.  Others were written about individuals or from an individual’s point of view.  I think one of the key aspects of the psalms is that even ones clearly written from a community’s point of view can easily be read as about an individual, and vice verse.  This has helped make them universally applicable, both in the lives of nations and those of individual human beings, who often keep the words of the Psalms buried deep in their hearts.

Our Psalm 22 is written from a very personal perspective; it begins with the famous line that Mark and Matthew tell us Jesus prayed on the cross . . . More on that in a bit . . . It is intensely personal, asking why, my God, why?  And it is remarkable because in the ancient world, calling someone or something “mine” implies a long-time, personal relationship my God, my God, it is an intimate address, an intimate greeting, and he is calling out in anguish, asking why his God has forsaken him.  He asks it from a position of belief, not disbelief, a position of faith . . . He has long experience with this God, whom he calls by the Hebrew name El, after the ancient Canaanite mountain deity.  And this paragon of Judaism, this pious Hebrew Saint, still cannot feel the presence of his god . . . Why have you forsaken me, why are you so far away from me?  I cry, O my God, I cry constantly, I am down on my knees, protracted before you by day, and you do not answer, and by night, but still I find no rest.

He perfectly captures the loneliness of the one who is beset by sickness, weighed down by pain . . . even the night is not his friend, for he cannot acquire the sleep he craves.  And then he remembers, he remembers the gracious might of his god, but it is not his own experience he draws upon, but it is the communal remembrance of Israel.  El is enthroned on Israel’s praise, nestled in the wisdom of the author’s ancestors . . . He doesn't have to have experience of God’s saving grace, he can call on the recollections of his faith-community.  In God his ancestors trusted, they trusted and God delivered.  They cried to their God—exactly as the author has done—and God came through.  In El  they trusted, and they were not disappointed.

But look how the author puts it: they trusted and were not put to shame . . . And again the author nails it: he captures how the disabled, the chronically ill, are shamed by their illness, as if any faith they have is fruitless . . . He feels useless, less than human, like a worm, as a matter of fact, scorned by others, despised by the people, the very people of Israel, upon whose communal remembrances he depends . . . And this seems a paradox, until you think about it a little . . . remembrances of God's might become entangled in a theology of worthiness that goes like this: God rewards the righteous, the believer, and punishes the wicked, and today it is seen little changed in the big-haired, small-hearted purveyors of the prosperity gospel, where if you give just a small  amount, just a pittance, really, God will reward you, ten-fold—at least!—in happiness, wealth and health, and our author is caught up in an ancient mid-eastern prosperity doctrine, made all he worse by their belief that God is the author, the source of everything good and bad, and what other reason would God visit ill on some folks and good on others?  What other reason than that some people deserve good and some have been naughty little girls and boys?  After all, the Lord knows if you’ve been bad or good, so be good or you'll end up like the author, who cries and cries and tosses all night long.  And the people deride him, they caustically urge him to go ahead, cast your lot with the Lord, let  him come to your rescue!

But the author appeals, undaunted, to his God, to El of the mountains, and he gives God some motivation, just in case he has forgotten: it was you, he cries, who took me from the womb, who caused me to be born, safe and sound, and ever since, you have been my god . . . And here is that long-standing faith, the faith that allows him to call him his God, and he is claiming something here, he is claiming his lineage, his birthright as a member of the people of God.

 

And now he makes his first request, and although he asks for more later in the poem, this one is breathtaking in its simplicity: here he is, praying to the mighty God of the mountains, the ancestral God of Moses and Abraham, who brought the Israelites up out of the land of the Pharaoh and across the Jordan River in their distress, and what he asks for is this: that God be near him in his distress, that God accompany him on his journey of pain and heartache, even though it is clear that he cannot feel God.  He asks God to be near him, because trouble is near and there is no one to help.  And it is a note of hope, of claiming as his what God has to offer

When I was in Seminary, learned about pastoral care, we learned that it is called a ministry of presence, and that just that, just accompanying our sisters and brothers on their journey, in sickness and in health, in poverty and abundance, that this is a powerful thing indeed, and here we see the author of this psalm—traditionally associated with King David—requesting just that from his almighty God.

It should come as no surprise that Jesus prayed a psalm on the cross . . . He was a faithful Jew, and the Psalms are the prayer book of faithful Jews even today. And it’s no surprise that he should pray this psalm . . . Like its author, his bones were torn out of joint, spiked to an olive shaft . . . like the author, he was reviled and ridiculed, spit upon by his fellow Jews.  And the thing of it is, as our model and head, his actions become normative for the rest of us.  Through his praying of this in his most extreme hour, it becomes our prayer, every bit as much as the Lord’s Prayer we recite every week.  Through his example, we are empowered to cry out in incredulous pain to our God, in anguished distress, my God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?

This is no meek, button-downed Presbyterian prayer, it's not your grandmother’s prayer, it is raw and real, filled with disbelieving agony.  Why, after years of faithful service, years of being your people just as you are our God, why have you abandoned us, why have you left us to the bulls of Bashan, that surround us, opening their ravening mouths to devour us?  Why do we cry out to you night after sleepless night, our sweat staining the bedclothes, and you do not respond?  Through Jesus, we are heirs according to the promise, empowered to pray boldly, and with chutzpah, laying our pain at the feet of Christ, at the foot of the cross, where he absorbed it with his own body, and where—beyond time and space—he absorbs it even today.  Amen.

faith . . . He th . . . He  of faith . . . guish

 

. . . d on the on of faith . . . He th . . . He  of faith . . . guish

. . . d on

Mystic, Sweet Communion (Galatians 3:23-29, World Communion Sunday)

About every six years or so, the Feast of St. Francis comes on a Sunday, and when it does, it coincides with World Communion Sunday.  This year, it also coincided, near enough, with the visit of a Pope who has taken the name Francis, the very first one to do so.  And as I've said before, there's a reason for that, a reason why the head of the Roman Catholic Church, which has always been cozy with the powers that be, which has amassed a lot of property, a lot of stuff, might not feel it appropriate to name himself after the Saint that opposed all of that, who resolutely ministered from the margins, who took Jesus at his word when he bade them go into the world owning nothing but the shirts on their backs and the sandals on their feet.  And our Francis has tried to live up to that, within the confines of the modern, global church: rather than limos, he runs around in tiny cars, dines on very simple fare, and sleeps in the dorms with the other priests.

And on his visit, he showed he's also read Paul as well, as he presided over the World Meeting of Families, hearing face-to-face from families all over the world.  “There is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female; for all of you are one in Christ Jesus.”  Jew or Greek—code for homie or foreigner—slave or free—code for, well, slaves versus those who own them—male and female, using the wording from Genesis, and, well . . . two out of three ain't bad . . . after almost 2,000 years, the Church Francis heads still hasn't gotten that last part right.  Although he has talked about increasing the role of women in the church, he's made it clear that female priests are just not gonna happen, at least any time soon.

Why do you suppose that is?  Well, the proximate answer, the one I suspect comes most  quickly to women’s minds, is that men are in charge.  A more high-fallutin’, women's-study-y answer is to darkly mutter “the patriarchy,” which amounts to saying the same thing. And it's true: the male hegemony, the patriarchy, has had things firmly in hand since the rise of the Mesopotamian conquest states some 5000 years ago.  See, what happened was a couple of key advances that made conquest really lucrative.  The first was the domestication of the horse, which meant that the conquerors didn't have to do all the work, all the walking and hauling and all that.  The second advance was the wheeled vehicle, which made it profitable to carry off large loads of booty, which was hard to do on a fella’s back, or even in his saddlebags.  All of a sudden, their pillaging became immensely profitable, ‘cause the marauders could carry their plunder back to the house.

Like any raiders worth their conquest merit badges, they killed off the men-folk so they couldn't fight back, and all the children ‘cause they weren't worth much anyway, but women . . . Well.  They were worth something.  They could work the fields, press their breech-clouts and polish their spears, and of course, they could perform other . . . services for a war-weary hero.  Problem is, there were so dang many of them.  Soon, there was a major glut in the worldwide market, and like any good market economy, it drove down the value of women, so that soon, they began to be worth less than men.  In other words, they began to be seen as inferior.

Soon, societies became rigidly hierarchical.  Every caste, every rung in the ladder, had separate tracks, a higher one for men, and a lower one for women. As a consolation prize, women of higher castes could lord it over those of lower.  Religions developed with hierarchies of priests who were all male, natch, ‘cause their gods were male, and besides: females were inferior, remember?  And they’d faithfully interpret the words of these gods which—wouldn't you know it—reinforced the status quo, the societal hierarchy and the relative worth of women and men.

And lo!  Women were the root of all evil, everything was their fault—just ask Adam, if you don't believe me—but the  early Christian church was different, as is hinted at in our passage: women apparently took leadership roles in the house churches, and served alongside the menfolk as disciples and the like, but by the second century it was back to business as usual with the rise of the all-male priesthood—after all, Christ was a male, and don't forget that original sin was brought to us courtesy of that, that woman.

But there was that brief, shining moment right after Jesus’ life on earth, and it's exemplified by Paul's mid-century writings: “in Christ there is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female . . .” But even Paul didn't get it all right, as seen in letter to Philemon, where he advises him to be a good little slave.  As I said, two out of three ain’t bad.

And what of the first clause, in Christ there is no longer Jew or Greek?  Today we might say in Christ there is no longer Canadian or Brazilian, no longer Israeli or Icelander, no longer  American or Syrian . . . we certainly have no problem with that, do we?  After all, that’s what this day is all about, a celebration of the worldwide communion in Christ?  Heck, the Pope even heard from a Syrian Christian family . . . But what if we end up bombing Syria?  Oh, wait a minute . . . We're already  doing that . . . Can we guarantee that none of those Christians who we proclaim that we’re one with aren't getting killed or maimed or at least frightened badly by our warplanes?  We can't even guarantee we don’t bomb Doctors Without Borders, for Pete's sake . . . so I don't know how Christians in this country can affirm the first clause of Paul’s statement . . .

But though I'm picking on the good ol’ U.S. of A., I’m not sure any Christian in a modern nation can do any better . . . Nationalism, the belief that your nation is better than any other and, therefore, is deserving of all the perks thereof, is pretty-much de rigeur . . . and it's seen in things as trivial as soccer rivalries and as dangerous as wars of acquisition.  The avowed goal of Vladimir Putin is the restoration of Russia to its place of power and dominance on the European continent, and he is beloved by his country-people . . . I was shocked to hear that the production of a British miniseries about the Raj, the colonial occupation of India, has sparked a debate between people ashamed of that history and those nostalgic for the good-old days, who covet a return to world power.

It’s all due to a belief—actively encouraged by what Paul called the powers-that-be—that their country is the best, with only the most spotless of motives, that they aren't like those other countries . . . And they demonize their supposed enemies, making them seem morally in the wrong, even sub-human, sometimes, and is it any wonder that the late, great Presbyterian pastor William Sloane Coffin put it, nationalism is every bit as evil an “ism” as racism.

Note that we’re not necessarily talking patriotism here, not a simple love of country . . . We're talking about a belief that one’s country, one’s state, one’s nation can do no wrong, that it's the greatest on earth.  And to the extent that Christians in these countries go along with the status quo, to the extent that they buy the nationalist narrative, I can't see how they are living into Paul’s statement that in Christ there is no longer Russian or Turk, Serb or Japanese, American or Brit, that we’re all one in Christ

It's easy to say this is because of “sin,” whatever that is, but I think the reason is a bit more concrete than that . . . Remember last week we talked about binary thinking, subject-object thinking?  Where we think of ourselves as “I” and everybody else “not-I?”  And how we are taught this from the very beginning, something is either right or wrong, and how it is reinforced in school and on science shows, and how it carries over into religious denominations and political parties, and territories and countries?  Nationalism is a natural outcome of the way we’ve been taught to think, how our rational mind operates, and how we’ve been inculturated to view anybody other than ourselves and our own as “other.”

But I want you to notice one little thing, one little verb: “to be.”  Paul uses it four times in this verse: three times in it’s present singular form of “is” and once in its present plural form of “are.”  He says “There is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female; for all of you are one in Christ Jesus.”  He doesn't say “there could be no longer Jew or Greek” or “all of you are supposed to be one in Christ” he says “there is no longer Jew and Greek” and “all are one in Christ.”  For Paul it is a present reality, there is no doubt about it, it's already true.

But how could that be?  Is he talking figuratively here, is our oneness in Christ only metaphor, an illustration of why we're supposed to be nice to each other in a way that transcends political, social and even biological boundaries?  I don't think so . . . I think he is asking about a spiritual reality (whether it is a physical one is beyond the scope of this sermon).  Remember Jesus drawing the little one into his arms?  His saying that whatever you do to one such as this you do to me, whenever you feed someone and give them drink you feed Christ and give Christ drink?  Remember when he said “I will be in you and you in me?”

As Christians, the divine Holy Spirit, the divine Christ dwells within every one of us, it infuses us, and is the Spirit more than one?  Is Christ?  I don't think so . . . We are one in Christ in a real way, and whatever we do to another one such as that we do to Christ.  Amen.hing, rries overer than su and our own tcome school and on science shows, and how it carries overthing, rries overer than su and our own tcome school and on science shows, and how it carries overthing, rries overer than su and our own tcome school and on science shows, and how it carries overthing, rries overer than su and our own tcome school and on science shows, and how it carries overthing, rries overer than su and our own tcome school and on science shows, and how it carries over