No ... Your Other Right (Mark 10:35-45)

     I must confess that people who bust into line in front of me test the Christian charity in me to the limit.  One time, Pam and I were coming back from Europe, we’d spent 10 days in France and  not once had been the victims of the infamous French snottiness, until just as we were getting ready to land back in the States, and I went to get my coat out of the over-head bin, and I noticed another guy had it – I think it looked like his or something – and he said in a thick French accent – “Do not worry, I am not stealing your coat,” and he almost added “you stupid American,” but he didn’t have to, the animosity was radiating off him in waves, and his wife was glaring at me, and his kids were glaring at me, and I don’t handle conflict well, you know, so I was just glad to get away from them.  Well, we had a two-hour layover, so after getting through customs, we went in search of dinner and ended up at McDonalds at the end of a long line, resigned to wait for our greasy burgers – another thing I don’t do well – and who should come along but the French guy from the plane, wife and kiddies in tow, and they barged right to the front of the line.  And I was really mad, and filled with righteous indignation . . .

     And that’s exactly how the other disciples feel when, on the road to Jerusalem, the Zebedee brothers, James and John, take Jesus aside and ask him to let them go to the front of the line – “Grant us to sit,” they say “one at your right hand and one at your left, in your glory.”  Not that Jesus had ever said there was gonna be any glory, mind you . . . but he’d just got finished predicting his death and burial and resurrection, and maybe they figured that anyone who’s raised again’s gotta have some clout somewhere . . .

    But Jesus knows what they haven’t yet figured out – Jesus knows what following him will mean.  “Are you able to go all the way?”  he says, “Are you able to do what it takes?  to drink the cup I drink?  to be baptized with the baptism I am baptized with?”  And they say yes, of course they’re able, and Jesus says “OK, you will . . . you will drink the cup that I drink, and be baptized with the baptism with which I am baptized . . .” and we need to understand it’s not an accident Jesus is speaking about the sacraments . . . the Christian life is a life immersed in his, a life defined by him and by his mission . . .

     Following Christ is sacramental, it is sacred. sanctified . . . bounded on one end by baptism, the new birth in Christ, and on the other by the cup, the new covenant in his blood . . . at baptism, we are made new, decisively marked as God’s children, heirs – as Paul would say – to the promise.  And along the way, throughout our Christian journey, we partake of the life-giving cup of the covenant – our lives as Christians are defined by the cup, to which we return again and again, for food and encouragement and power.  And through our walk with Christ, God works to mold us and conform us to God, to draw us into a sweet, mystical communion with God . . .  in a sense, the Christian life is a sacrament, performed by God through us, by which we are gradually transformed into the likeness of Christ . . .

     But of course, there’s a darker side to Jesus’ words – you will drink the cup that I drink . . . because just as Christ was sacrificed for them, just as he gave his life for them, so are they expected to give theirs for him . . . and indeed, we are told in Acts that James, at least, was martyred by Herod Agrippa fourteen years after our passage takes place . . . and  Jesus knew it right there on the way to Jerusalem that they would drink the cup he drinks, be baptized with the baptism he is baptized with.

     Note that Jesus is saying his life is exemplary in the literal sense, as an example that the disciples are to follow . . . James and John ask him for a place of privilege, to sit at his right and left hand in his glory, and Jesus tells them instead what it means to be his disciples, to be his followers . . . it means to imitate him, to use his life as an example for theirs.  Jesus is about sacrifice his life for them, and he’s saying it will come to that for the disciples as well.  Here he was, heading to Jerusalem, heading for the cross, for his passion, and he's telling them that they must experience it in their own lives.

     Every night, before they go to bed, the monks at Benedictine monasteries around the world pray the office of Compline.  It's sometimes called the “dear office,” because it's the most personal, private prayer-time . . . it's the only one that's prayed alone, not in the chapel with the whole monastic community.  The prayer begins with “Into your hands, Lord, I commend my spirit . . .” and if it sounds familiar, it should . . . Jesus says it on the cross in Luke, just as he dies.  And so Compline helps those who celebrate it to remember Christ's death every night, as the darkness comes, and the light has long since faded . . . what's more, it helps them relate their own approaching “little death” of sleep to Christ’s.  Finally, at Compline's close, they pray the Song of Simeon: “Now you set your servant free to go in peace as you have promised . . . these eyes have seen the savior whom you prepared for all the world to see . . .” and simultaneously with identifying with Christ's death, they look forward to their own, and remember that during their waking hours, during that very day, they've seen Christ, they've experienced him in every place, in every face, and deep within their own hearts . . . and so Compline helps place those who pray it deep within the life of Christ, deep within his death . . . it helps them drink the cup that Christ drinks, and be baptized with the baptism of Christ . . .

     And now the other disciples have gotten wind of the Zebedee brothers' request, and they aren't happy, to say the least, and so Jesus – I imagine with a heavy sigh – gathers them around for a little chat.  It seems he's going to have to spell it out for them, after all.  “You know those Gentiles,” he begins, “their rulers, their top dogs lord it over them, their great ones are tyrants over them, for Pete's sake . . . they take credit for all their workers’ hard work  and pay themselves 300 times more than them.  They put their name first in the papers, take the twenty-seventh-floor corner office with a Central-Park view, and when everything goes South, do they take the blame?  When the bottom falls out of the dot-coms, do they take the hit?  Of course not!  They strap on their golden chariots, and ride away into the sunset, leaving the little guys out in the cold, laid off without work or health-care or retirement.  Well, it isn't like that among you, among my followers . . . it isn't like that in the Kingdom of God!  In the kingdom of God, whoever wishes to be great among you must be your servant.  That's right!  Your servant!  And further, whoever wishes to be first among you must be slave of all.”  And why?  Because of that imitation thing, because Jesus' life is an example, and that's in the end what he came to do – serve.  “For the Son of Man,” he says, “came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life a ransom for many.”  As the last, greatest example of his service, he would give his life.

     And I'll bet James and John were kicking themselves, I'll bet they were wishing they'd never even brought it up, because this wasn't exactly what they wanted to hear.  They wanted to hear that they were going to be rewarded for following Jesus, that they were going to get seats of honor in the great by-and-by, where they had the ear of the master for all eternity, where their names would be above all others – except God and Jesus, of course – in perpetuity. All this talk about being slaves and losing one's life wasn't what they wanted to hear at all.

     It's certainly not what a lot of us want to hear these days, either . . . we lionize those Gentile rulers, those captains of industry, those Pharaohs of the boardroom.  And for many of us – especially us male worker bees – we strive to get to the top, or at least to a little higher rung on the ladder . . . a bit more prestigious position, a few more people to supervise . . . in the case of pastors, it's often a little bigger church in a little better neighborhood.  In almost every occupation there's a hierarchy of workers, sometimes based on merit, but sometimes only on something as trivial as time spent on the job, that determines status, that determines who’s the top dog.  But the Kingdom’s standards aren’t the standards of the world.  In the kingdom, the last shall be first and the first shall be last.  And in case you didn’t get just how last, Jesus is telling us right here: to be first among us we must be slaves of all.  Bummer.

     But, you know it’s true . . . just look at Mother Theresa, beatified just seven short years after her death, on the fast track to sainthood, a status she’s liable to receive in record time, and all she had to do is to spend her life living down in the muck and mire of Calcutta, down on the streets with her charges, and she’ll reach a place none of those Cardinals gathered in the Vatican this week will likely get to, even with all their playing the game of power, the worldly game of climbing the old ladder, even if it is in the church.  Theresa wasn’t perfect, she could be severe with her nuns, she was criticized for taking money from the shady characters that perpetuate the grinding poverty on the streets . . . but Jesus didn’t say we have to be perfect, just that we have to serve, and be a slave to all.

     And he used his own life as an example, as an exemplar. After all, he became that ultimate slave, who willingly served us all by giving his life . . . and can we drink that cup, can we be baptized with that baptism?  That question is just as relevant to us, here today, as it was to the disciples.

     But you know what?  The life and death of Jesus isn’t the only thing in the equation, is it?  Think about the baptism image for a second . . . Jesus went into the water – that’s the death part, the going into the grave, into the ground – but he came back up out of it as well, in a glorious resurrected body . . . we go every night to the little death, to the sleep that renews us, and in the morning we awaken to a new day, a fresh chance, new hope that breaks in upon us from above . . . and in fact that’s the  good news, that life does come after death, daily in the cycle of our planet, and hourly, minute-by-minute, after all our little losses, our quiet mortalities, the failures and humiliations we suffer every day.  Through the presence of the risen Lord, we are afforded life after these deaths, and we are promised, and have in Christ a sure hope, that just as he rose out of the waters of death, just as he was raised from the dead, so shall we, for we are assured that if we participate in his life and death, we shall participate in his resurrection as well.  We shall not perish, but have everlasting life.  Amen.

Camels and Needles and Rich Men, Oh My! (Mark 10:17-31)

      I love movies . . . and the best way to see them at home is on DVD or Blu-Ray, those little disks the size and shape of a CD that a whole movie – and more! – can fit on.  I love to sit with my feet up, put a movie in the player, turn the stereo sound up – Pam says too loud – and get lost for a couple of hours in the story of Butch Cassidy or ET or Saving Private Ryan . . . and I’ve got quite a growing collection of DVDs, let me tell you . . . over a hundred of them, all lined up nice and pretty on a living room shelf, all alphabetized, protected, and on display, and woe betide anyone who leaves one of them sitting around OUT OF THEIR CASE or SCRATCHES ONE OF THEM or . . . well you get the picture, and so there they are, and I can look at them and count them and watch them over and over again . . .

      And then I read this morning’s passage and – Oy Vey! – I see a lot more of the rich man in me than I’d like . . . like him, I love things, I love my stuff much more sometimes than I ought to.  Is it the same with you?   Are there things that you love a lot?  Maybe a building, a house or a church, that you take great pride in, that you guard with your life, you make sure it stays in great shape . . . or a car, it’s gotta be polished and buffed, and shined and kept in tip-top shape . . . or maybe it’s money, a savings or retirement account . . . God help the wife who scratches or dents the mint-condition 1998 Dodge Ram Quad Cab, or the youth group who doesn’t vacuum the fellowship-hall floor, or the child who breaks a piece of treasured, heirloom dinnerware.  This kind of thing damages friendships and church functioning . . . it says to other people – our loved ones, our youth, our brothers and sisters in Christ – “Our stuff is more important to us than you are.”  Love of things gets in the way of relationships, in the way of mission, in the way of life . . .

      And Jesus is saying in our passage that possessions have a way of getting in the way of our relationship with him.  This man – over in Luke, he’s called a rich ruler – this man falls on his knees in front of Jesus, so we know that his problem isn’t that he’s proud – kneeling, after all, is the universal sign of submission, of humility . . . he looks upon Jesus as his superior, and he calls him “good teacher,” a formal address of student to rabbi, and he asks him what he must do to inherit eternal life.  And immediately, Jesus disabuses him of the notion that anyone but God is good – and of course, as Christians, we believe that he is God, and so there’s a double irony at play here – but Jesus says “You know the commandments . . .” and the man with many possessions says “Yes, and I’ve kept all of them since my youth” And we have no reason to disbelieve him, he’s a good man, reverent and faithful . . .

      Then Jesus, who sees into the heart, who knows what is inside of us all looks upon him and loves him, and I can imagine the intimate, compassionate, penetrating gaze  . . . and as he looks upon him with love, he tells him what he must do: give up everything, all he owns, sell it and give the money to the poor, and then come follow Jesus . . . and the young man’s face sags in realization, as he comes to understand what discipleship will entail . . . for he has many possessions, and he loves them well, and he grieves for his lost dream of the Kingdom of God . . .

      Saint Benedict, in his Rule for communal living, forbids his monks to own anything . . . he felt so strongly about the subject that he wrote an entire chapter on it.  He says “Those in monastic vows should not claim any property as their own . . . absolutely nothing at all, not even books and writing materials.”  He calls personal ownership of property a “wicked practice” and that “everything in the monastery should be held in common,” as in the early church described in Acts.   And although Benedict doesn’t say, I imagine this passage was one he had in mind  . . . that, and his own personal experience in community life, how it could be poisoned by possessions, tainted by personal stuff . . .

      After the rich man goes away, Jesus uses the episode as a teaching moment, an object lesson for his disciples . . . “How hard it will be for those who have wealth to enter the kingdom of God,” but the disciples are perplexed, they don’t get it, even after the rich guy’s refusal to give up all he owns costs him everything . . .it kinda reminds me of today, when we don’t get it either . . . so we spiritualize this passage, interpret it to mean give up spiritual baggage, or we say it’s an ideal, one to aspire to, but in Jesus’ context, he meant exactly what he said . . .  give up all you have and follow me.

      So Jesus gives them an analogy, a visualization: “It’s easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who’s rich to enter the kingdom of God.”  And now they get it, it becomes crystal clear, and they all have this mental image of somebody pushing on a camel’s behind, trying to shove it through a needle . . . and they ask in despair “Then who can be saved?”  And Jesus looks at them – the same way he looked at the rich man, and loved him – Jesus looks at them in love and says that “for humans, it’s impossible . . . but for God, all things are possible.”

      Humans cannot save themselves, but God can . . . God can make it possible, God can reach down and redeem anyone God pleases, just like that . . . this statement is rich with nuance, rich with the stuff of God’s kingdom . . . in a sense, all the Good News is wrapped up in it . . . our God is a God of the possible, a God of the infinite, a God who is doing something new, something powerful, day by day.  For us, it is impossible, but for the creator, all things are possible.  Do the disciples get the depth, the rich, nourishing stew of hope contained in that statement?  God can save whomever God wants, whether she lives in Palestine or not, whether she gives up all she has or not, even whether she follows Jesus or not, if God wants to . . . and case in point, the rich man couldn’t give up his stuff on his own, but God can.  And you can see the root of profound  tension here: the rich man is told to give up all he owns, but he can’t do it, only God can do it . . .

      And perhaps Peter senses all of this, for he says “We’ve done it . . . we’ve given up all we’ve got, and we’re following you . . .”  And that’s opening for one last lesson, the most astounding one of all: “there is no one who has left house or brothers or sisters or mother or father or children or fields” Jesus says “who will not receive a hundredfold now in this age – houses, brothers and sisters, mothers and children, and fields, with persecutions” and the disciples look around at each another, and wonder what he means.  Aside from the persecution – and they’d had plenty of that – where were all these things?  Where was even one house, one brother or sister, one field – much less a hundred-fold – to replace the ones they gave up?  What’s Jesus talking about?  And Mark doesn’t say if they get it or not, but we do: Jesus isn’t talking about personal possessions here.  Remember – they just get us in trouble.  He’s talking about the world-wide community of Christians . . . every Christian, world-wide, is the brother and sister of the disciples and the houses and fields of every Christian are theirs also . . . and the persecutions of every Christian on earth are theirs persecutions as well . . . what Jesus is talking about is the coming Kingdom of God, which is here right now in the persons of Christ’s body on Earth.

      The rich man couldn’t participate in the kingdom, he couldn’t partake of the radical sharing community of Christians unless he gave everything up, unless he quit making his things the center of his life, and focused on Jesus instead.

      And right after our passage – but interestingly, not in the lectionary – Jesus predicts his death once again – “the Son of Man will be handed over to the chief priests and the scribes . . . [who will] hand him over to the Gentiles; who will and kill him . . .”  And once again, the link is made between Jesus’ radical life, his radical economics and his death . . . is it any wonder they killed him?  Is it any wonder that a system where the accumulation of wealth is based on barter and trade and buying and selling would kill somebody who advocated that his disciples own nothing?

      And of course, the message is every bit as radical today as it was back then . . . our economic system is every bit as dependant on owning and buying and selling things as the one in Jesus’ day.  Even more so, actually . . . there was no middle class in those days, just the wealthy who fed off the lower classes . . . today, the vast majority of wealth is still accumulated by a small percentage of our population, and it’s still built on the backs of the poor, but now there’s the middle class as well, with enough money to feed themselves, and disposable income as well . . . and our insatiable desire for things is amplified by Madison avenue, which exists to create a craving for goods and services, and our love of possessions is cynically exploited and fed by the Powers that Be to increase their wealth.

      What Jesus is preaching here is not some denial for denial’s sake, not some half-baked, hair-shirted scheme of personal penance, but liberation . . . liberation from the rat-race, the tread-mill of work, work, work to acquire more and more stuff, so we can work and work and work some more to feed and maintain this stuff, so we can get more stuff to poison our relationships and our minds and our souls, to alienate ourselves from our families and friends and brothers and sisters in Christ.

      Chuck Campbell, one of my old preaching professors, has written that preaching this kind of thing is tough, because every middle-class preacher in America is caught right up in this stuff, we’re all right there with our congregations, right in the middle of it all.  And that’s perhaps as it should be . . . after all, Jesus surely experienced what he preached as well, he surely experienced the glittering call of things, of little idols we buy and sell to replace God . . . and the question is – and this is the hard part – the question is, does this passage call us to do it?  Does it call us to give up everything we own, to divest ourselves of all but our clothes, all but the shoes on our feet?  Remember that Jesus was talking to disciples, who were on the road with him, who were to be stripped-down, lean-and-mean evangelism machines, who had to travel light . . . does it apply to us?

      Well, God may not be calling us to give up our televisions or our cars or DVDs – after all, recreation is not a bad thing in and of itself, we are expected to rest the mind and body, it’s essential to our well-being – but the trick is to not let our stuff rule our lives, ruin our relationships, or be substituted for God . . . and one way is to take our minds off our stuff, and put them on Christ instead.  There’s an old hymn that says Turn your eyes upon Jesus, look full on his wonderful face, and the things of the Earth will go strangely dim, in the light of his glory and grace” and of course, prayer is the way to do this . . . prayer develops an ever-deepening, on-going relationship with God through Christ, and an ever-decreasing distance between ourselves and God . . . through regular prayer we learn to keep our eyes on the prize, our eyes on the kingdom of God, where they belong.

      Oh, it’s not particularly easy, disciplined prayer never is, it’s not a happy-magic pill, one day we’re ruled by our stuff and the next by God, and there’ll be times when we are absolutely in thrall to the world, and our lives will feel desolate and magnificently messed up.  But Jesus promised it in the great commission – lo, I am with you always, always, and when we’re discouraged and weak, when we think we can’t do it anymore, that we’ll always be slaves to our desires, Jesus will look upon us with compassion – like he did the rich young man – he’ll look on us with sympathy and empathy and commiseration, and we will know we are loved.  Amen.

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.