Mark 9: 30–37,
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Lord, may we hear your voice in the words spoken in your Name. Amen
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It hardly makes sense. Last week, at least in our lectionary readings,
Jesus and his disciples were in the beautiful mountain retreat of
Caesarea Philippi, where Peter proclaimed Jesus Israel’s
long–waited Messiah. And Jesus confided to his disciples
the nearly incomprehensible news that once they reached Jerusalem, he
would undergo great suffering. Indeed, he said, once they
reached Jerusalem he would be killed by the elders and chief priests
and scribes. That much they had heard, though they could barely
take it in. So you would think, this morning, all of his
disciples would be gathered around Jesus in sympathy, in grief, in
deep commiseration. But that’s not what Mark reveals to
us this morning.
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No, this morning Mark shows us those same disciples lagging behind
Jesus on the road, bickering among themselves about which one of them
is the greatest. What is going on here? Have we missed
something?
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We have indeed missed something. Since the Church celebrates the
Transfiguration of Jesus on the mountaintop at the end of Epiphany
every year, we don’t usually get that story in its proper
chronological sequence. If we had gotten it – just before
our story today — we would quickly realize that only three of
those disciples had been invited to accompany Jesus up that
mountain. Only three of them glimpsed Jesus in his transcendent
glory. The other nine were left at base camp at the foot of
that mountain. And when Peter, James and John came with Jesus
down that mountain, the others must have realized they had been left
out. They’d been excluded. So now, finally, we can
understand their bickering about which of them was the greatest, the
most important. An all–too–human sense of competition
has entered into the picture.
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And you know what? Jesus understands that too. So this
morning, when he asks the disciples what they were arguing about on
the road he doesn’t rebuke them. He knows that being
overlooked, being excluded hurts. So he waits until they have
arrived at the house where they will spend the night. Then he
begins to teach them, to demonstrate to them how radically different
things are to be in the Kingdom of God. He begins by
saying, “Whoever wants to be first in the Kingdom must be last
of all and servant of all.” And lest they miss what he is
saying, he takes a child, a small child who happened to be wandering
through the room, and he embraces her, saying, “Whoever welcomes
one such child in my name welcomes me. And whoever welcomes me
welcomes not me but the One who sent me.”
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In that day and age this was an extraordinary teaching,
something none of the disciples had ever heard before. For in
that society children had very little status at all. Indeed,
they were perceived very differently from the way most of us see our
children. You see, when a baby is born to us today, by and
large, we expect that child to survive and thrive. So we welcome
each newborn wholeheartedly and focus on his or her gifts. Then
we try to develop those gifts – by reading to that child, by
encouraging her in sports programs, by finding good schools, good
music teachers – whatever it takes to develop that child’s
potential. But in Jesus’ day 30 percent of newborns did
not survive through infancy. Another thirty percent didn’t
live past the age of 16. And no parent wanted to get too attached
to a child who – most likely — would not survive to
adulthood. It simply wasn’t realistic. It wasn’t
practical. So for Jesus to encourage the disciples to welcome a
vulnerable little one like this – was to say that he and his
Father valued everyone – even those his society said were expendable.
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I can only compare that different point of view to the point of view
my own family had when my brother’s first son was born with
Down Syndrome. Greg was born with several holes in his heart,
and none of us were entirely sure he would survive the necessary
corrective surgeries. And then, when he did survive, we had to
adjust our hopes and expectations for him. Where we were prepared
to welcome a child who looked like us, who would most likely excel in
school, who would most likely go on to do well in some chosen
profession – we weren’t so sure what Greg’s future
might look like. In fact, it took us a couple of years to
appreciate instead his sunny disposition and extraordinary ability
to sense when someone needed a hug. Ours, you see, was an
earthly way of looking at things. And Greg, by contrast, was
a heavenly gift.
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Now, that’s an odd series of events to explore in one short
sermon on a cloudy Sunday morning: the realization that Jesus was
Israel’s long–awaited Messiah, lit up from within by
God’s glory; the realization that Jesus was on his way to
Jerusalem to suffer and die for people who couldn’t fathom what
he was about; the realization that Jesus didn’t shy away
from weak people, suffering people, people the world around him easily
overlooked.
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And yet for us this morning – in the midst of climate change,
political upheaval, racially–motivated violence and a
world–wide pandemic that just won’t quit – it’s
a perfect series of events. For in the midst of all these
crises, all this chaos and grief, we too need a Savior. We too
need wisdom and strength. We too need One who not only knows
us but loves us.
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What Jesus is saying to his disciples in the Gospel of Mark this
morning he is saying to us – that the answers are all around
us. For we too are surrounded with people who have been
overlooked – overlooked politically, overlooked by healthcare,
overlooked financially, and certainly overlooked emotionally. If
we can begin to notice the people around us who are feeling down and
begin to embrace them and serve them – then we will find the
wisdom and courage, the light and life we ourselves need. As we
enter the Kingdom of God.
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Amen.
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