This was a very difficult sermon to prepare because this passage doesn’t really apply to you, at least not the way most preachers spin it.
I can just hear the disciples arguing over who’s the greatest, can’t you? like a bunch of little boys bragging in the playground at recess, or kids squabbling in the back seat of a car. “Jesus called me first!” “Jesus trusts me with the group’s money!” “Big deal, he likes me best - I always go with him on special trips!” “That just means you need more help- you’re always getting bawled out!” “Jesus never scolds me - I always listen!” “Is that so? Well, I healed more people than you did last trip!” “Well, if we’re keeping score...” and so on, and so on.
And, of course, Jesus knew them pretty well, or maybe he overheard them, because when they get to Capernaum he asks them what they were discussing on the way. Ouch! They can’t lie to him, they know that, he always sees right through them, and they don’t really want to anyway. And they know they’re not supposed to behave that way, he’s told them often enough. So they just don’t know what to say, probably shuffling their feet and looking embarrassed and wishing they were anywhere else.
And this all sounds really familiar, doesn’t it?
You all know what it looks like, all of you who have kids, or had kids, or taught kids, or were kids. Anybody here I haven’t covered? Anybody here not know what I’m talking about? Anybody here wondering why, if this is so universal a condition, I started out by saying it doesn’t apply to you?
I already knew, before I came here, that you all have a good reputation, a reputation for being warm, and supportive, and welcoming. I have seen that to be true. I rarely hear anyone say anything critical of another person, even if it might be helpful in giving me background to some situation. Even more amazing than that, though, I haven’t seen any signs of territorial jealousy here. And I’m not alone in noticing that. When Julie was here this spring for the Stewardship luncheon, she told me that one of the most unusual things about this congregation is that people don’t fight to defend their turf. I don’t even think that people here think of what they do for the church as “their” turf at all. Do you know what I mean by that? Does anyone here think that Beth would be offended if you offered to take over planning a covered dish supper or two, or wanted to share the responsibility for preparing treats for fellowship hour? Would Nancy take off in a snit complaining that no one appreciates her if someone else wanted to play piano for Sunday School? Would Jerry get his feelings hurt if you asked to take a turn helping Bill count the offering? Would Bill mind if you offered to help with the treasurer’s job - or even serve a term? Would the church secretary get upset if you wanted to help out in the office a couple of hours every week?
You’re not paying attention. There IS no church secretary.
My point is that I don’t think arguing over who is the greatest is a problem here in this congregation. So while I could easily preach a sermon on the emptiness of pursuing earthly power, or the impropriety of arguing over status in the family of God, with it wouldn’t mean much to you. You’d all nod, and one or two would say “Good sermon, Pastor,” and you’d all go home being and doing pretty much exactly what you were being and doing the day before. Which is, by and large, being warm, honest, responsible, generous men and women. I’m proud of you for that. I’m very glad to be here, very honored to be your pastor. Now, I don’t want you getting the idea you’re perfect, mind you - but you are pretty terrific.
But what do I preach about?
Shall I preach about the next part of the verse?
"[Jesus] took a child, and put him in the midst of them; and taking him in his arms, he said to them, 'Whoever receives one such child in my name receives me; and whoever receives me, receives not me but him who sent me.'” [v. 36-37]
Back in Jesus’ day, children were of absolutely no importance. In fact, the same word in Aramaic, the language Jesus spoke, means both child and servant. The only reason we know that it was a child Jesus was talking about, and not a servant, is that Jesus took him into his arms. Although I suppose you could make a case for the shock value of making such a gesture toward a servant, it’s really pretty unlikely, especially when you consider that Jesus had the habit of using children as an object lesson in other, similar passages. And besides, since they were in Capernaum, the disciples were probably at Peter’s house, and we haven’t any reason to think that Peter’s home life included servants.
At any rate, children in those days had no rights, no status, and no special claim to anyone’s concern. They were property, and as such usually valued by parents, but according to Roman law they could be killed or sold into slavery. Jewish law was much more restrictive. You couldn’t kill your children. You were allowed to sell them, though, although not for prostitution, or to foreigners. And it really didn’t happen very often.
But even when children were valued, even loved by their families, they were kept very strictly in their place. You would never have caught one of them disobeying - or even interrupting - their parents. And the father generally would not be involved in their children’s upbringing until they became old enough to learn the father’s trade or business. So it was really a stretch to ask the disciples to stop and take notice of a LITTLE child. It wasn’t even their own kid. Well, maybe Peter or Andrew’s, since it was Peter’s house and his in-laws might have come over.
But anyway, Jesus is trying to get two lessons across.
First, they are to stop arguing over who is or isn’t the most important.
Second, they are to start paying attention to people who are NOT important, people who have no claim on them, people who can’t help them get ahead, nobodies, nonentities. He wants the disciples to start seeing little people, people nobody cares about. Jesus tells them that if they want his approval, and God’s, they’re going to have to change their definition of “important.”
Well, I could preach this part of the passage, although I’d have to tweak it around some.
Our society has in many ways taken Jesus’ admonition to value children very seriously. Children have rights nowadays that no-one would have dreamed of even a generation or two ago. All you have to do, if you’re a politician with a cause, is to say it’s “for our children” and you’ve got it made. And right here in the church, ministry to children already takes a very high priority. When we called for Sunday School volunteers, more of you came forward than it turned out we needed. This is rare, folks. In the church I belonged to before I was ordained we usually were several teachers short until well into the fall season. Did I remember to say I’m really proud of you? And the support this congregation gives to the Summer Art Camp is really impressive. We do care for our children, and for other peoples’ children. And I think Jesus is just as pleased with you as I am.
But children aren’t the only people Jesus wants us to pay attention to. He wants us to open our eyes, to look around us, to notice who it is we’re not noticing. Is it immigrants? Is it people of different colors or cultures? Is it addicts, or prisoners, or the mentally ill? There are a lot of people that would benefit from our attention, and we could probably spend some time considering the question.
But I still think that if I were to preach a sermon on paying attention to the disadvantaged among us it wouldn’t mean all that much to you. You’d all nod, just like for the sermon I didn’t give about not arguing over status, and one or two (probably different ones) would say “Good sermon, Pastor,” and you’d all go home to your lives, and maybe it would make a difference, but more likely it wouldn’t, because you are already a pretty compassionate bunch of people.
So I’ll bet you’re wondering what I’m going to preach on, aren’t you.
I’m going to preach on the first part of the passage, the part the disciples didn’t want to hear. They didn’t like it, they didn’t understand it, and they were just as happy to leave it that way.
"They went on from there and passed through Galilee. And he would not have anyone know it; for he was teaching his disciples, saying to them, 'The Son of man will be delivered into the hands of men, and they will kill him; and when he is killed, after three days he will rise.'” [v. 30-31]
Seems like we just heard this, didn’t we. It was just last week, wasn’t it, that Jesus first brought the subject up. Right after Peter said, “You are the Messiah.”
That was a big moment, for them, for us, a big moment in Jesus’ mission, to have his disciples come right out and say, “You are the Messiah.” I wonder how the disciples felt - maybe kind of scared and excited and relieved all at once to get it out in the open? They’d probably been speculating among themselves for weeks, if not months. So, finally, Jesus pops the question and Peter, bless his heart, blurts out the answer - you can always count on Peter - and there it is, “You’re the Messiah, Jesus.” What do you think they thought would come next? Do you think they might have been expecting him to reward them - or at least praise them - for getting the right answer? Maybe they could all now quit beating around the bush and start planning campaign strategy. After all, what are they going to Jerusalem for, anyway? That’s where the power is - the Romans, the temple, everything.
But then Jesus said, “Don’t tell anyone.”
And then Jesus said he was going to be killed.
And then Jesus said they had to die, too.
And they didn’t understand.
And then the next thing that happened, Jesus took Peter and James and John up to the top of a mountain and Wow! His clothes turned bright white, and Moses and Elijah appeared, and God himself spoke, and James and John were stunned speechless, but not Peter of course -
But then Jesus said, “Don’t tell anyone.”
They’d been traveling around Galilee with Jesus for some time, listening to him teach, watching him heal, going out on short-term missions, doing all kinds of fun male-bonding stuff, and he’s pretty much admitted to being the Messiah, and they’re on the inside track of the climax of history and it’s party time and Jesus says "Don’t tell anyone, but I’m going to be killed."
They don’t want to hear it.
Mark says that “they didn’t understand, but were afraid to ask.”
Why were they afraid?
Were they afraid that Jesus would be angry with them? After all, he’d rebuked Peter pretty fiercely when Peter had objected to the idea the first time.
Why were they afraid?
Were they afraid it might be true? Were they afraid that Jesus was going to ask them to do something they didn’t want to do? I think that’s the answer.
They didn’t want to know, and so they closed their ears.
Some kids stick their fingers in their ears when they don’t want to hear. Some plug in their earphones, or turn the CD player up, or get really absorbed in their LEGO’s or their phone conversation or even, when pressed, in their homework.
We all have our own methods of escape, when there’s something out there we want to avoid, or deny, or delay. Some people lose themselves in their jobs, some in their hobbies. Some watch TV, some sleep, some drink, some shop. Some fantasize about what they’ll do if they win the lottery. I read murder mysteries. What do you do?
I think what the disciples did, when they heard Jesus start up again on a topic they didn’t want any part of, I think what they did was regress. Now, I don’t want to sound sexist here, but how many men do you know who are particularly good at dealing with overloaded feelings?
I mean, can you really seriously imagine John and James, the Sons of Thunder, Peter the Mouth, Simon and Levi and Judas and all the others gathering around a group interaction facilitator to talk about processing their emotions? Not a chance. They took evasive action. They picked a nice, comfortable, familiar quarrel to hide in. And I think Jesus knew. So he dealt with the old, by now familiar theme, reviewed an old lesson, and gave them a little more time before bringing up the subject of his forthcoming death again.
And I think the same sort of thing happens to us now. Jesus often calls us to hear and do things we’d rather not. Usually, we don’t know exactly what he’s calling us to; but - since he talked about picking up our cross, and dying to ourselves - we have somewhere managed to figure out that there might be some discomfort involved. There are many, many reasons why we might be reluctant to take the next step. What will it cost? What will I have to give up? Sometimes we’re just afraid of the unknown, sometimes we don’t think we’ll be up to the task. So we block out his voice in many, many ways.
We block out his voice by not listening in the first place, by neglecting prayer, by neglecting Bible study. We block him out by being so busy that we don’t have time to think about our lives, and Jesus’ call on them. We block him out by remaining focused on the past, or by fantasizing about the future.
But Jesus is patient, and gentle, and unstoppable. He’ll take you through the same lessons, over and over again, until life itself brings you to the point where you have to go on to the next lesson, like it or not. How long has it been since you’ve sat down with him and asked, “OK Lord, I’m ready. What next?”
Now is a good time, as we come up to the Prayer and Planning workshops, to spend some time paying attention to the Holy Spirit, seeking to hear what God has to say.
I challenge each of you to ask yourselves three questions, over the next few days:
First: Have you been ducking listening to Jesus? How?
Second: Are you afraid to ask what he wants of you? Why?
Third: Are you ready to listen?
