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.

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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

Losing My Religion (Mark 9:38 - 50)

So.  Let's recap our last few outings from Mark, shall we?  The first—and perhaps most important—thing is that they are heading to Jerusalem, and we know what happened there, don't we?  And Marks’s congregation, for which this Gospel was written some forty years after Jesus’  death, knew as well.  But as they followed him South, his disciples didn’t, despite his having told them twice already.  Twice before he'd told them what as going to happen, that he would be be betrayed and killed, and then raised again on the third day.  And each time, they hadn't believed him, or hadn't understood, or both.  And these two things—that they're heading to Jerusalem and that his followers haven’t understood why—are important to how we understand this passage, and indeed all episodes in this part of the Gospel.

In particular, last week we looked at the 2^nd time Jesus predicts his death, and Mark tells us they don’t understand, and when they get to the house in Capernaum he asks them what they'd been arguing about, and they are sheepishly silent, because they'd been arguing about who was the greatest. And so he tells them that whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all, and as an illustration he takes a little child—certainly the worldly notion of one of the last of all—and says “whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes the one who sent me,” i.e., God.

And now we're ready to dive into today's passage which, note well, comes right after that line about welcoming one as this in his name.  And the disciples come to him all in a snit, because they’d seen someone other than them doing things in Jesus’ name. “Teacher,” says John, “we saw someone casting out demons in your name, and we tried to stop him, because he was not following us.”  And can you see what links this to the last passage?  It's the “in Jesus’ name,” of course.  The disciples complain that some outsider is casting out demons in Jesus’ name right after Jesus spoke about how welcoming someone in Jesus’  name is like welcoming Jesus himself.  And the question is: is this just a convenient transition, or are we supposed to link the two, to see that casting out demons in Jesus’ name is somehow related to welcoming that same name?

Well. Jesus is having none of their clannishness: “don't stop the guy,” he says “because whoever does a deed of power in my name will soon not be able to speak evil of me.  The doing of power in Jesus’ name changes a person, not only does it change something in the object of the power but it changes something in it’s subject as well, in the one doing the power.  And that would presumably include the disciples, who had been doing power in his name as well.  I think that in essence he’s saying that those doing power in his name are joined together no matter who they are or where they're from. And he affirms it when he says the now iconic “whoever is not against us is for us.”

Whoever is not against us is for us . . . A pretty inclusive thing to say . . . Buddhists, who are certainly not against us, are in fact for us.  Sikhs, who are not against us, are for us.  Ditto Jews.  Or Muslims . . . it certainly broadens things out, doesn't it?  It sure seems like it's at least one step beyond welcoming those who do things in Jesus’ name, doesn't it?

And I wonder if the disciples had any easier a time following that dictum than we do today?  Even within our own faith we seem to be always dividing the field, dividing our fellow Christians into who is for us and who is against us.  It was seen in the Reformation, where Christians divided along Protestant and Catholic lines, and it's seen in the proliferation of denominations across this nation today.  And it's been seen time and again in our own denomination around issues like the ordination and marriage of gays and the authorization of  the Iraq war.

One of the saddest stories I ever heard was told by the executive presbyter of St. Andrews Presbytery, where I was ordained.  It happened shortly after the reunification of the southern and northern streams of our church, which had split over the Civil War.  Congregations were given a five-year grace period to leave the denomination with their property, no questions asked, and a church in West Point, Mississippi decided to opt out.  The executive presbyter, following the advice of Paul to try to effect reconciliation, went down to talk it over with them, and they refused to even pray with him.

And that points to one of the saddest things of all: when Christians divide into opposing camps they tend to demonize one another.  They tend to brand the others as enemies of Christ, or the true religion, or something like that.  At the very least, that something is defective in their version of the faith.  Isn't that what congregations who leave the denomination are saying?  Aren’t they saying that there's something not right, not Christian about the group they're leaving?

But the saddest thing is that it's not even their fault, it's how human cognition works.  There's a saying in philosophical circles: “All determination is by negation.” All determination is by negation.  Whenever we determine something is true, it's by determining that something else is not true.  Think about it: a logical argument is a series of negations.  If this is true, then that can't be, on and on, until the final conclusion of what is true is reached.  It's the way our mind works: when a baby is born, . or some such ephitet or enrand the othetsesey  of Paul to try to effect reconciliationn within well.she doesn’t know differentiation.  All is one to her, there is no difference between her and mama or daddy or brother or sister.  Then, at seven or eight months, she begins to form a notion of self as different from others, beginning with the discovery that she is different from her parents, that she is not-the-mama and not-the-papa.

And as the child grows, this is reinforced at every turn.  Anybody who has ever watched Sesame Street will remember Kermit singing “one of these things is not like the other” and there’s 3 dogs and a cat, and they all have fur and four legs and a tail, but three go “woof” and one goes “meow,” and the cat is defined by its difference from the dogs.  And the teaching continues with greater and greater refinement, And there is nothing at all wrong with this way of thinking.  Not a thing.  Without logical, rational, either-or thought, we wouldn't have cold medicines, or airplanes, or this iPad, for that matter. Logical thinking is the foundation of the sciences, of technology, of medicine.

The problem is that our sense of self, our sense of identity, of who we are becomes defined by how we are different from everyone else.  I've got black hair, you have blonde.  I’m fat, you're thin.  I’m white, you're black.  Our self-identity is determined by how we are not like every other, and conversely, how they are not like us.  And this would not be a problem if it weren't for the need to justify how I am at the expense of how people who are not-I are.  A funny thing happened when I was trying to come up with a set of physical characteristics to illustrate this that are neutral in effect: I couldn't.  Blondes have been slandered as dumb, fat people as lazy, with no will-power, and we all know how blacks have been treated.

And we aggregate in groups, in associations, in denominations with people who are like us, and our tendency is to defend the bounds of our own group by considering those in other groups to be inferior.  And that's what the disciples are doing in our passage: they ask Jesus to censure this guy doing the same work they are doing, in the same name, and for the same reason. They ask Jesus to exclude him, to ask him to stop, and all because he isn't in their group.  But Jesus says no: If anyone is not against us they’re for us.  If anyone is not actively working against us, they are for us.

And then he begins to indicate what he means by being against them, and it all revolves our old friend “stumbling,” which we've seen before, remember?  Jesus sitting in his home synagogue, speaking with authority, causes his home-town friends and relatives to stumble . . . And what I hate about this translation, is that it renders the Greek here in such a wimpy way.  The word they translate as “stumbling block” is scandalidzo, from whence we get the word scandalize, and in Greek it has just that intensity, it has the sense of causing someone to lose their faith.  And so Jesus chastises the disciples for trying to exclude—cut off, perhaps?—someone doing their work, and tells them what really is worthy of condemnation: causing a little one to lose their faith.

“You think that’s bad,” Jesus is saying, “you think other people doing good in my name is bad?  Here’s what's bad . . .”  And he proceeds to tell them in terms so exaggerated that they can't fail to get the point . . . You'd be better off with a millstone tied around your neck than to scandalize, to make a little one lose her faith . . . In fact, if there’s a group among you—and here he uses the common ancient likening of individual members and groups of the church as bodily organs—if there's some one or some group among you that causes the whole to lose their faith, cut ‘em off, sever relations with them for your own good.  But not some guy who is doing deeds of power in my name, for Pete’s sake . . . After all, whoever is not against us is for us.

In recent years, there's not been lot of that on display in the Christian world . . . It's almost as if, by our behavior, we are determined to scandalize, to put a stumbling block, in front of the entire world, to cause them to lose their faith, to lose their religion, as R.E.M. put it.  Then, on Friday I watched as Pope Francis led a memorial service at ground zero, in front of the weeping wall that is a remnant of the World Trade Center.  And I was astonished at its ecumenism, at how other faiths took part, not in a token way, as is sometimes the case, but fully, in a substantial way.  I watched as a rabbi stood with an imam to pray in their own languages, reading from their own sacred texts.  A Greek Orthodox patriarch and a Sikh, each with magnificent headgear and beards.  A Buddhist monk and a Hindu cleric, even a Jainist, for heaven’s sake.  And as I watched in awe, the Pope spoke of reconciliation there among the wreckage, and finally, a cantor’s gorgeous psalm sent chills up my spine.

On Friday, Francis profoundly illustrated, even embodied, Jesus’ admonition that whoever is not against us is for us, and it gave me hope.  In these times in which faith and spirituality are under attack for causing so much pain, so much strife, it was a sign of a higher purpose, a greater good that is possible when the Spirit is present.  It was a sign that, as Jesus knew, we can transcend our thinking in dualisms, our automatic dividing of the people into those who are in and who are out, those who are good and those who are bad, those who are for us and those who are against us.  In the power of Jesus Christ, who dwells within us through the Holy Spirit, who was surely there at ground zero, and just as surely right here in this room, we can overcome.  Amen.not-the-papa. notfrom her pathermotheiffwrentister.  Then, at e not-the-papa. notfrom her pathermotheiffwrentister.  Then, at e

First and Last (Mark 9:30 - 37)

      Jesus and the twelve are on the road through Galilee . . . and in Mark – as in Luke and Matthew – Jesus uses this time to teach about discipleship, about what it means to follow him.  And last week, we saw that the disciples didn’t quite understand what it means to follow Christ, they thought – like many of their Israelite brothers and sisters – that the Messiah would come to be some kind of warrior-God/King, who’d lead a revolution against the Herods and their Roman masters, and restore the glorious kingdom of David, renowned in song and story and scripture.  But Jesus bursts their balloon, he spells out exactly what is going to happen to him – he’ll be captured and killed and rise again – and when Peter takes him aside for a good talking-to, Jesus calls him Satan, and then he explains just what following him entails:  If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.  Those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake – and for the sake of the gospel – will save it.

      And it seems to me, anyway, that it’s pretty clear.  One.  Jesus is not some glorious, revolutionary, War-Christ, no matter how many times he appears on the cover of Newsweek.   Two.  In point of fact, far from leading the glorious armies of the revolution, he’s gonna die a horrible death.  Three. To be a follower of Christ, you gotta give up your own life, just like he’s gonna give up his.  Get it?  Got it?  Good.

      Except that evidently his followers didn't, . . . and this time, Mark comes right out and bashes us over the head with it . . . after Jesus tells them a second time about his crucifixion, Mark says they still do not understand what he’s saying.  And further, that they were afraid to ask!  And I wonder why?  Why were they were afraid to ask?  My first grade teacher used to say “There are no dumb questions, children . . .”, so maybe that was the problem, maybe they were afraid of looking dumb . . . or maybe they remembered the last time, when Peter was verbally assaulted for not understanding . . . or just maybe they were afraid of the answer they might get, like this life they’re all living, this tramping around Palestine, this giving up of family and livelihood and themselves, might all come to nothing, nailed up on a cross with their dead leader . . . and was this what he meant by “take up your cross and follow me?”

      They don’t understand, and I’m not sure it’s much better today, either . . . the warrior-God/King Jesus seems alive and well in modern Christianity, the Jesus of success, the Jesus of getting ahead . . . and how about that Jesus of the apocalypse, the Jesus of the Left Behind series, read avidly by millions of our brothers and sisters who get some kind of vicarious rush when Jesus melts the faces off of sinners  in the last days . . . Call me a religious nut-case, will you . . . Take that, you Starbucks-sipping, tassel-loafered, effete-liberal snob!  There goes your face!  What’s that?  Don’t like the 700-club?  Don’t like it when Pat tells the God’s-honest truth about you Godless Muslims?  Off with your head, Jesus is gonna come again, and the kingdom will be established with his sword!  That’s what it says over in Revelation, isn’t it?  Tim and Jerry wouldn’t lie to us, would they?

      Of course, that’s just the extreme end of our modern fixation with Christ the King, emphasis on the king part . . . every time we think God’s will coincides with our getting ahead, every time we thank God for moving a little bit up the old corporate ladder, every time we agree with some politician who co-opts God for the National good, we probably oughta’ take a good look at our assumptions about what it means to be followers of the crucified God.  Do we really understand any more than did the twelve?

      Well.  When they get to Capernaum, they enter a house – they always stayed in homes of the faithful along the way – and when they get to the house, he asks them “What were you arguing about on the way?”  And you kind of get the idea that he knows the answer – over in John he would, as John would oh-so-carefully explain – because they’re silent, hanging their heads, scuffling in the dirt, they know they’re busted . . . and so Jesus sits down and calls them around.

      Now we should pause here and note that it’s not an accident that Mark tells us that Jesus sits down . . . and in fact, in general, whenever a Gospel writer gives us a detail like this, it’s good to pay attention. In this case, sitting is the position a teacher in the synagogue takes, so Mark wants his readers to know that this is a formal teaching moment, with the disciples gathered around, sitting on the floor at the feet of the teacher . . . can you picture it?  The dim coolness of the house, suddenly silent, for all in the house know what’s going on, that a Teacher –with a capital T – is in the house, that he’s getting ready to impart something of major importance, and so it is: “Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all.”

      The disciples are arguing about who is greatest, and oh, snap!  He lets them have it right between the eyes.  This sort of behavior is unacceptable in the kingdom . . . this kind of rivalrous competition for place does not happen in the new reality . . . and to see why, all you have to do is look at any denomination, where squabbling over who will be first seems to be the order of the day . . . and of course, we should look no further than our own PCUSA . . . seems lately that the majority of our national energy is spent on squabbling about “who will be the greatest” – whose view of sanctification, of the Eucharist, of ordination, of the nature of Christ – the list goes on and on – who’s views should be reified and made normal for the church – and thus deemed most acceptable in the eyes of God – are at the basis of church battles far and wide.  And if your view of ordination standards or the Eucharist or the nature of Christ is the one that wins, why you win, you are the greatest, God smiles at you, you take home the prize . . .

      And as Jesus knows, these rivalries corrode the soul of communities, religious or otherwise. They cripple them, render them ineffective and laughable, and so he gives us the answer, he tells us how to do it.  The basis of stable, non-rivalrous, non-violent community is – if you think of yourselves as last of all, if you behave as if you are last of all, as in you are a servant of all, then destructive, rivalrous behavior will not happen . . . and of course, it makes sense, doesn’t it?  If you think of yourself as last of all, if you believe it, then there is no need for competition, for rivalry, for in-fighting.  Humility – from the Latin “humus” as in soil as in close to – humility prevents contention, it thwarts conflict precisely because if you are humble – if you know yourself to be low to the ground, as Jesus put it last of all, then you won’t feel the need to prove you’re better than everybody else all the time.

      This is such an important principle that Benedict of Nursia – Saint Benedict – made it the heart of his Rule for monastic life.  It’s the longest chapter of the rule, and it’s the seventh, and thus the “perfect” chapter.  He describes the path to humility as a ladder with 12 rungs; listen to this description on the seventh – and thus the perfect – rung: “The seventh degree of humility is that one considers oneself lower and of less account than anyone and this not only in verbal protestation but also with the most heartfelt inner conviction . . .”  Or as Jesus put it 600 years earlier, whoever would be first must be last of all, and servant to all . . . for who is lower than a servant, who is lower indeed?  And the model for all of this is the Son of Man himself, who will be betrayed into human hands and murdered on a tree, the ultimate servant of all . . . how much more “last of all” can you get?

      But his followers refuse to understand this, so he gives them another example—he's already given them one—taking a little child to give them an object lesson.  And it’s important to remember that they are still in the physical arrangement of teacher and disciples, and it’s important as well to understand that in ancient Judaism, women and children and gentiles and other outsiders – the ones Jesus calls “the least of these” – were not allowed to sit at a teachers feet, to be disciples of a master like Jesus.  And so what does he do?  He takes a child, one of the least of these, low on social-location totem pole, even lower than women and slaves were in those days, and he brings her into the circle, into the company of his disciples, admitting the child into their adult male, ritually-pure Jewish circle.

      And he amplifies the effect, he emphasizes it by drawing the child up and taking the child into his arms, in the attitude of a loving parent . . . and in being so close to him, the child becomes a part of him, is merged into his identity.  And this interpretation is confirmed by the very next words out of Jesus’ mouth:  Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me – the child is identified with Jesus!  Jesus is identified with the child . . . whoever welcomes this child, welcomes me . . .

      And of course over in Matthew, this identification is seen as well . . . the King, who represents Jesus, tells his followers whatever you do to the least of these, those at the bottom of the heap, the lowest rungs of the socio-economic ladder, whatever you do to the least of these, you do to me . . . and Jesus, the Lord and master of them all, the first of all, becomes the last of all, becomes the least of these, becomes a little child.

      And so, by taking up a little child, by taking into his circle one of the least of the least of these, he is revealing a stunningly radical view of community and indeed God – the outsider, the marginal not only comes inside, not only becomes equal to them, but when he is taken up into Christ’s arms, when he is merged with Christ, he becomes in a sense Christ himself . . . a child, the ultimate “last of all” in their society, does indeed become first of all.  And the final words of Jesus are icing on the cake, they confirm what has been shown in that silent scene – whoever welcomes one such as this child, welcomes me.

      And today in our middle-class world, children aren’t considered the least of these—although having no vote, their education and children’s services are always the first things cut—but no matter – the child in Jesus’ arms is a metaphor for the least of these, those on the lowest societal rung, in any society, ours no less than theirs . . . and so this passage – like its counterpart over in Matthew – should set us to thinking about the identity of “ones such as these” are around here, in Hamilton County . . . it should set us thinking and wondering, are they here in Greenhills, in Forest Park, in the Greater Cincinnati area?  Have we, like Christ, brought them here into the center of our life as a congregation?  Why are they not here in the circle at Jesus’ feet with us? The answer of course is complex, not at all conducive to a simple slogan or saying . . . and yet, welcoming the un-welcomed, absorbing the unabsorbed, taking into the center the marginal is at the center of the Christian life itself . . .

      You know, evangelical Christians have a phrase they often use for the conversion experience . . . they say that to experience salvation we must “invite Christ into our lives.”  Here in our passage, we see that at work, I think, but it’s on an anthropological level as well as a spiritual one.  What Jesus implies in this passage, what he demonstrates in that circle of discipleship, in the circle that is his congregation, is that whenever we welcome one such as this little child, whenever we go out of our way to gather of the least of these in our arms--whomever they are, whatever they look like--we not only invite them in, but we invite Christ in as well.  Amen.

Cross Cultural (Mark 8:27 - 39)

      Do you remember that guy who was hiking around the country toting a cross?  I do . . . he visited Tuscaloosa when Pam and I lived there, and there he was, walking down McFarland Avenue, one of the town’s main drags, a big white cross slung over his shoulders with what looked like training wheels bolted to the bottom.  He'd been doing it for seven years, reminding us of the need for God in our lives . . . apparently he thought Tuscaloosa needed a lot of reminding, because he’d been there several times . . . anyway, I wonder what was going through his mind?  Did he think that’s what Jesus meant in today’s passage, where he says that to follow him we must “take up our cross?”  Did he take him literally?  Or did he look upon it as a bit of holy theater, a symbolic act with evangelical overtones, like the man who traveled all over the South years ago, erecting crosses in groups of three?  Or was he just nuts?

      Whatever the case, the question of how literally to take Jesus in this passage has bothered Christians from the start . . . there were some, in the early centuries, who carried large wooden crosses around, to show their devotion, presumably without the training wheels, but early theologians took a more nuanced view . . . “Your cross” wrote Tertullian around 200 AD “means your own anxieties and your sufferings in your own body, which itself is shaped like a cross.”[1]  A couple of hundred yeas later, Augustine identified our cross as our “preoccupation with domestic cares,” and summed it up by saying   “what else does the cross mean than the mortality of the flesh?  This is our very own cross which the Lord commands us to carry . . .”[2]  Over the centuries, the cross we are commanded to bear has been identified as our frail humanity, our weak flesh, our condition of sin, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.  Of course, this saying has entered into the vernacular as a maxim, an aphorism, as in “That’s just a cross I have to bear,” accompanied by a heavy sigh, and meaning something that we suffer that we can’t get out of.  Perhaps this is the kind of thing Paul called “thorn in his side,” and that he asked Christ three times to remove, without discernible results . . .

      But what does all this have to do with Jesus’ famous command “Get thee behind me, Satan?”  And what does it have to do with “Who do people say that I am,” the question that begins this whole episode? . . . he’s on his way to Caesarea Philippi – Philip’s Caesarea – when he asks that question, and the disciples answer by telling them what they’d heard – John the Baptist . . . Elijah . . . one of the prophets . . . but then he asks them what they think, he says “Who do you say I am?” and good old Peter, who represents here all the disciples, answers “You are the Messiah!”  And you’d think he’d get a little praise for his confession, you’d think he’d get a little approbation, but instead, Jesus sternly orders them not to repeat it, not to tell anyone about him.

      And what’s remarkable about this is that in the Greek, it’s much stronger than our English translation . . . literally it’s “rebuke,” as in he rebuked them so that they would-not-tell anyone about him.  So poor ol’ Peter, he gives the right answer, and he gets slammed for it, he gets rebuked for it . . . and immediately, Jesus launches into the first of three predictions of his passion and crucifixion: “the Son of Man must undergo great suffering, and be rejected by the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes, and be killed, and after three days rise again.”  And the thing is, it’s not an accident that it follows directly after the rebuke, and in fact it, like the rebuke, is provoked by Peter’s declaration that he is the Messiah.

      And it all hinges around one little word . . . must.  Jesus teaches them that the Son of Man must undergo great suffering, and be rejected, and be killed, and after three days rise . . . and we usually interpret this as some kind of theological necessity, as in it’s necessary for the Son of Man to suffer to fulfill the prophecies, to carry out some divine plan, called by some “God’s plan for salvation.”  But that’s a theological reading, it attempts to answer why it was necessary in terms of the inscrutable mechanics of God . . . there’s another reading, equally valid, an anthropological reading, as in the suffering and rejection and killing and rising again must necessarily follow certain human actions, that they are logical consequences of what was happening and what will happen . . . the Son of Man must undergo great suffering why?  Because the Romans and the religious authorities got nervous, fearing that Jesus came to seize their power, that he came to usurp their authority . . . and we know that this did happen, just as did the readers of Mark.

      Now we’re in a position to answer the question of why Jesus rebukes the disciples, why he keeps them from spreading the news that he was in fact the Messiah . . . he knows that it will only inflame an already volatile situation, it will only bring his murder on more quickly, it will only bring on the inevitable.  Calling Jesus Messiah will inflame Messianic expectations, it will increase the agitation of the people, increase their revolutionary fervor . . . they expected the Messiah to be a warrior-king, who would restore the Davidic Kingdom to its former position of ascendancy.  Talk like this would make the rulers of Palestine – the Romans and their Israelite Herod toadies – very nervous, because no military dictatorship wants a popular revolution on its hands . . .

      And so the fact that Peter’s declaration of Jesus’ identity is followed immediately by the Savior’s rebuke is not really a mystery . . . Jesus is trying to put a lid on the violence, he’s trying to avoid a revolution – which would inevitably lead to thousands of Israelite dead, and indeed it did 40 years later, when Jerusalem was burned to the ground . . . Jesus is trying to live up to his title of Prince of Peace, and he explains it all by pointing out what inevitably follows that kind of Messiah talk, which was indeed what did follow it:  he became a scapegoat for all the contagious violence, all the unrest of the day, as peace in Jerusalem was momentarily bought – and the Romans momentarily appeased – by his blood.  As the high priest Caiaphas said to the San Hedrin, “better . . . to have one man die for the people than the whole nation destroyed.”[3]

      Jesus explains it all quite clearly, he says it all quite openly, for God and the world to hear, and it enrages Peter . . . he takes Jesus aside and rebukes him, and there’s that word again, rebuke . . . Mark tells us that Peter does the same thing that Jesus did to the demons, the same thing that he did to his disciples . . . Jesus rebukes his disciples so they won't tell, and then Peter does the same thing to him . . . maybe he thinks Jesus is possessed, maybe he thinks that he’s nuts, maybe he thinks that a good, stiff talking-to will bring him around . . . but to Peter’s mind, it's crazy-talk, it's gibberish.  The Messiah was going to take them all to glory, not die spiked to a tree . . . he was going to lead them in a glorious military re-taking of Palestine, not carry a cross up the via dolorosa . . .

      But Jesus calls him Satan – “Get thee behind me, Satan” – he identifies Peter with the demonic power that leads to bloodshed, the demonic power that creates mob violence, that threatened even then to plunge them all into a bloody, un-winnable war, that threatened – and eventually did – make of the Messiah a scapegoat, a sacrifice to appease the violent gods of oppression and foreign rule.  Jesus says Get thee behind me, Satan, and why?  Because Peter – ever the stand-in for the rest of the disciples, ever the stand-in for us – is setting his mind not on divine things, but on human things.  He’s setting his mind on the ways of the world – Satan is after all the ruler of the world – he’s setting his mind on things of the world, not on those of God.

      Anybody seen the movie Moulin Rouge?  In it, the charming bohemians orbiting around the night club are dedicated to “eternal principles,” eternal verities . . . Like the Greek idealists before them, they attempt to live their lives informed and guided by the ideals of "truth, beauty, freedom and love."   The courtesan Satine is torn between her love for the impoverished writer – named, I’m sure wholly coincidentally, Christian – and the evil Duke, who stands for the money-grabbing ways of the world, where love is just a commodity that can be bought and sold . . . the movie plays like a struggle for her soul, as she has to choose between setting her mind on the things of the world – money, comfort, security – or the divine attributes, the divine ideals of “truth, beauty, freedom and love."

      Like Satine, Peter can choose to set his mind on the ways of the world or the ways of the divine . . . and when he upbraids Jesus for predicting his own death, for acting not like a warrior-Messiah-king, but like a weakling, like a servant, he betrays that choice, he betrays the fact that he’s set his mind on, that he’s chosen to think in the categories of the world, that might makes right, that violence can end violence, that retribution is the way to justice.  And notice that it’s a posed as a choice . . . Peter can choose to think in worldly terms or he can set his mind on the divine.  It’s his call, his choice, his option.

      And of course, we have that choice as well . . . we can set our mind on the divine things, we can imitate God as revealed in Jesus Christ – non-violent, non-retributive, wholly forgiving – or the world – dedicated to the proposition that the ones with the most power – the most guns, or political power, or money – the ones with the most power are the ones who get their way.  It’s up to us, it really is . . . we can choose to set our minds on worldly things, or things of God . . . and we many times take this dichotomy to revolve around consumerism . . . put your mind on God, rather than all your stuff . . . and that’s a good thing, but it’s not what this passage is about . . . it’s about power and violence and hierarchy.  And like Peter, we have a choice: we can set our minds on worldly things or things of the divine.

      And now we are ready to see what carrying our cross has to do with Jesus’ identity as the Messiah . . . Jesus uses the metaphor to clarify what he means by setting our mind on divine things . . . if we carry our cross we suffer—like Jesus—what the world throws at us for preaching the gospel.  Of course, in the first few hundred years, especially before the faith was legalized by the empire, that could be a lot.  But even today—especially some non-Western countries—the cross can be heavy.  But Jesus has one more metaphor and that’s losing our lives for Christ’s sake and for the sake of the gospel . . . and like the carrying the cross, the meaning of this has been debated over the years . . . some have thought that our faith is not complete, that we’re not following Christ if we do not die a martyr’s death, others have seen it to be metaphorical, and that we are to give up our selves, our identities, our egos, for the sake of the Gospel . . . and that’s perhaps the scariest thing of all.

      Jesus puts the contrast sharply: we can either be Christ’s or the worlds, we can be shaped by a Christian world-view, a world-view that rejects hierarchy and violence and oppression, that substitutes the rule of love for the rule of violence, or we can be shaped by another world-view, one powered by our need for things, by the need for more, the need for power, the need for domination . . . it’s up to us.  We have the choice.

            And what’s the good news in all of this?  Well, of course, it’s that we do have a choice.  God sent God’s son so that we have a choice of how to live, and mo’ better, so that we have the power, the ability to choose . . . Christ said that when he is gone, he will send a Spirit, an advocate, to be with us, and through that Spirit Christ empowers us to follow the way, to set our minds on things of the divine.  When we make the choice for Christ, the choice to live the way Christ would have us live, it can seem like the whole of our world is arrayed against us.  Not necessarily violently – although that can happen – but all the hype, all the culture, all the dog-eat-dog, free-market competition that values getting ahead at any cost, even the cost of our neighbor.  But we have an advocate, we have the Holy Spirit with us to show us the way, who will be with us whatever the world throws at us.  God with us, Christ with us.  Ever and always.  Amen

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[1]   Tertullian, On Idolatry 12

[2]   Augustine, Letters, 243, To Laertus.

[3] John 11:49-50