A Meditation on the Reign of Christ

Then Pilate entered the headquarters again, summoned Jesus, and asked him, ‘Are you the King of the Jews?’ Jesus answered, ‘Do you ask this on your own, or did others tell you about me?’ Pilate replied, ‘I am not a Jew, am I? Your own nation and the chief priests have handed you over to me. What have you done?’ Jesus answered, ‘My kingdom is not from this world. If my kingdom were from this world, my followers would be fighting to keep me from being handed over to the Jews. But as it is, my kingdom is not from here.’ Pilate asked him, ‘So you are a king?’ Jesus answered, ‘You say that I am a king. For this I was born, and for this I came into the world, to testify to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.’ Pilate asked him, ‘What is truth?’ —John 18:33-38 (NRSV)

I’ve been in pastoral ministry for close to a quarter-century now, but before that …

Well, let’s just say I had a lot of jobs. And I lived in a lot of places. I’ve been a hospital orderly, a newspaper reporter, a photographic lab technician, a security officer, and a church office administrator, among other things. I was even a bouncer in a bar, once (for about a week).

I’ve lived in Lethbridge, Acadia Valley, and Golden, British Columbia. I worked for newspapers in Golden, and in Oyen, Alberta. Since I’ve been in ministry, I’ve served congregations in Medicine Hat and Kamloops, before coming to Renfrew United Church in Calgary some 16 years ago. I also spent some time in Montréal, when I attended seminary there.

However, if you ask me where I’m from … Well, that would be Winnipeg, Manitoba. It’s where I was born. It’s where I grew up. Actually, to be more specific, north Winnipeg is where I grew up.

Yeah. North End Winnipeg.  Probably, you have to be a Winnipegger to really grasp the significance of that. It was unlike any other place on earth.

I’ve often heard it said that, if you’re from North End Winnipeg … in order to be considered successful … all you have to do is stay out of jail!

It toughened me up, living there—which isn’t such a bad thing, really. I learned many important lessons in that place: acceptance of diverse cultures; the importance of being honourable; the immense value of friendship; the greatness of ordinary working people; and the fact that there are at least two dozen wonderful recipes for borscht! I also learned how to avoid getting into a fight … and how to defend myself if I couldn’t avoid it.

North Winnipeg has, unquestionably, left its imprint upon me. There are those who tell me that, even after all these years, I still speak with a “North End” accent … whatever that means. And I still recall what it’s like to have to count your pennies when you grow up poor. I have a friend—who grew up near where I did—who, whenever he realizes how cheap I still am … always laughs and says, “Grotz, you are a Winnipeg boy!”

It’s a funny thing—isn’t it?—how being from a certain place shapes a person; how it gets deep down inside of your bones, where it’s always a part of you. No matter where I go, I will always be a boy from Winnipeg. Where we are from says something about who we are.

Jesus knew all about that. From the beginning of the Gospel of John to its very end, people are concerned with where Jesus is from because they are concerned about who he is.

In the very first chapter of John’s gospel, we hear the incredulous voice of Nathanael. You may remember that, after Philip had met Jesus, he sought Nathanael out. Putting his hands on Nathanael’s shoulders and looking him straight in the eyes, Philip let him know that he had important news. The Messiah had come.

Philip said, “We have found him about whom Moses in the law and also the prophets wrote, Jesus son of Joseph from Nazareth” (John 1:45).

But Nathanael could not believe it. From Nazareth? Are you sure? “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” he asked (John 1:46).

This same question comes up again near the end of John’s gospel—this time when Jesus is standing before Pontius Pilate. Pilate asks, “Are you the King of the Jews?”

But this is not Pilate’s real question. His real question is deeper: “What is truth?”

Jesus had come to testify to the truth, so it begged the question. But throughout the entire conversation, there is only one real answer that Pilate receives: “My kingdom is not from here.”

The truth was difficult for Pilate to understand. Why? Because Jesus is not from here. His truth is not from here.

Like I said before, to be from a place means that it is part of who we are. Jesus was from Nazareth, which was about 15 miles west of the Sea of Galilee; and it was about 20 miles east of the Mediterranean. It was west of Mount Tabor and about 1,300 feet above sea level.

But when Pilate asked Jesus about the truth, he was not seeking information he could get from an atlas of Palestine. It was not a question about Jesus’ hometown. It was a question about a new way of living.

As a good friend once told me, “It’s hard to be a small-town boy with a big-city haircut.”

Know what that means? You look the part—but you feel out of place. Like you don’t belong. Falling off of the turnip truck in the big city entails a learning curve—because the way of life is so different. The rhythm of each day seems foreign; the buildings are so tall, the crowds are so thick, the pace is so fast.

Basic questions are baffling. How do you hail a taxicab? Are there parts of town you should avoid? How does public transit work? Or even, where can I park my car and how much will it cost me? The way of life is different.

The disciples knew something about that. A diverse group, trying to adapt to a new way of life, they were following in Jesus’ footsteps, and struggling to keep up.

There was Simon Peter, who was always quick to speak. He proclaimed Jesus as the Christ, but he also denied Jesus three times. Then there was Thomas, who kept quiet until he was absolutely sure of what to say. He needed to see the scars on Jesus’ hands before he could say, “My Lord and my God!” (John 20:28).

There were Andrew and Philip, who—at Passover—brought some Greeks to meet Jesus … for the very best of reasons. Then there was Judas, who brought soldiers and police to Jesus … for the very worst of reasons. There was Matthew the tax collector. Jesus said, “Follow me,” and Matthew followed. Also, there was Matthias—about whom we know very little, except that he was chosen to replace Judas. Besides that, there was Nathanael (also known as Bartholomew); James and John, the sons of Zebedee; Thaddeus; Simon the Zealot; and James, the son of Alphaeus.

Quite the motley crew: a publican, a couple of revolutionaries, a whole bunch of fishermen—and possibly even one with royal blood.*

They were all learning how to follow and how to lead, how to wash people’s feet and how to dust off their sandals, how to feed large, hungry crowds and how to drink from one, common cup. All of them were trying to get used to a new way of life. All of them were different, but … they all knew what it meant to leave home.

They had left home to follow Jesus. And in doing so, they were not simply leaving a place. Whether or not they knew it at the time, they were leaving in order to find a new way of living. They were about to discover a new kind of life—true life; life in the Kingdom of God.

So it is with us. If we want to understand the truth about the Kingdom of God, we have to leave our familiar places. We have to leave home—and that means moving from what we know to what we do not know.

Leaving home requires a willingness to embrace what is unfamiliar. It means stepping into the unknown, trusting that something better awaits us—even if we’re not sure what that “something” is. And we can only do that by taking a leap of faith.

I know something about that. The first congregation I was ever part of—which I joined when I was 16 years old—was Kildonan United Church, back in Winnipeg. I can still remember the day I was baptized and made my profession of faith in that church.

Standing at the front of the sanctuary, I looked out at the congregation looking back at me. I stood there holding a new Bible with my name on it—a gift from the church. It was a place where I felt at home. People there called out my name in the hallway. I knew where folks sat in the sanctuary. I saw familiar faces every week.

But on that morning, the church did something very strange. It gave me a Bible and said, “Take this with you wherever you go.” Little did I know that, eventually, I would leave that place for good. Eventually, I would leave home.

Often, we discover that we don’t have to travel all that far in order to leave home. Sometimes it is a very short distance, to a place where we encounter something new—something that teaches us more about following Jesus. We come to learn that the Bible is not a dead-end street, where the journey ends. No. It is a busy intersection that sends us out in all directions—pointing us toward the living God, so that we see the world with fresh eyes. It sends us to places we are not from.

Jesus is not from here, but he came here bringing a new way of living that is all bound up with the lives of others—bound up with their needs and sorrows and joys.

Jesus came because of the brokenness of the world. Jesus comes to us because we are broken. He comes to us so that—through the needs and sorrows and joys of ourselves and others—we can begin to understand the good news he wants to share with us. He comes to call us to discipleship, urging us beyond the places we are from.

That’s not to say you should ever cease being thankful for your home. It will always be a part of who you are. I’m glad that I’m a boy from north Winnipeg. I’m grateful for the way my faith was shaped and nurtured at Kildonan United Church. But on that day so long ago, when I stood before the assembled congregation and received a Bible, my leaving was inevitable. I didn’t know that, then. But the church knew. These people understood that the Kingdom of God is not from here; and so, they knew I would one day leave home—whether or not I ever actually moved away.

They knew what I did not know. They knew that seeking the Kingdom of God means discovering a larger world of discipleship and grace. We leave home to discover the grace of discipleship—and the discipleship of grace.

Our baptismal vows—our commitment to follow Jesus—these things broaden our view of the world. They bring our lives into sharp focus—but even more than that, they enlarge our lives and give them meaning.

As in the words of Ruth (Ruth 1:16)—”Where you go, I will go; where you lodge, I will lodge; your people shall be my people, and your God my God”—our vows of discipleship enlarge our lives. They make room in our lives for others.

Each day—hopefully—we learn to live with gratitude for the places we are from. But, each day—hopefully—we also learn how to widen the circles of our lives. We learn how to include both neighbours and strangers, the poor and the hurting. We learn how to include empathy and hope, forgiveness and grace, friends and enemies.

We live with a new innocence and integrity, humility and hope, grace and gratitude, faith and forgiveness. Our lives become larger, precisely because the One we follow is not from here.

We seek the Kingdom of God, where reigns the Christ—the One who came from another place in order to transform this one.

As we follow him, he certainly will lead us to new places—to places where we shall be made over. And we shall experience the truth of what the Bible tells us: “… if anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation: everything old has passed away; see, everything has become new!” (2 Cor. 5:17)

This is the Gospel we preach. Thanks be to God for it. Amen.

 

 

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* Nathanael Bartholomew lived in Cana of Galilee. A number of scholars believe that he was the only disciple who came from royal blood, or noble birth. The family name Bartholomew  (Greek: Βαρθολομαίος, transliterated “Bartholomaios”) comes from the Aramaic bar-Tôlmay (בר-תולמ), meaning “son of Talmai.” Talmai (2 Sam. 3:3) was king of Geshur, whose daughter—Maacah—was the wife of David, and mother of Absalom.

 

 

TEXT: Mark 13:1-8

“Do you see these great buildings?” [asked Jesus.] “Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down.” (Mark 13:2)

Today, the residents of Paradise, California, might think Jesus was speaking directly to them. As we all know by now, most of that community of some 27,000 people has been devastated by a raging—and still-burning—wildfire. With over 60 confirmed dead and over 600 still missing, this wildfire—ironically called the “Camp Fire”—is the deadliest blaze in California history (and much worse than anything we’ve seen recently in Canada).

Along with thousands of homes and other structures in Paradise, more than half of the city’s houses of worship have been destroyed. One of these was the Craig Memorial Congregational Church. At over a century old, it was one of the city’s most historic churches, having been built in 1909 to replace an earlier building that had been destroyed by fire.

Imagine losing your church in this way, after it had been in place for 109 years!

Or imagine the English city of Coventry on the night of November 14, 1940 …

When it was destroyed by a Luftwaffe bombing raid, Saint Michael’s Cathedral—Coventry Cathedral—had been on the same site since the 14th century.

The decision to rebuild the cathedral was made the morning after its destruction. The Provost of the Cathedral—Richard Howard—said that the process of rebuilding was not considered as an act of defiance, but rather a sign of faith, trust, and hope; hope for the future, and hope for reconciliation. Howard had the words “Father, Forgive” inscribed on the wall behind the altar of the ruined building.

The Provost’s vision led the people of Coventry away from bitterness and hatred and grew into the cathedral’s International Centre for Reconciliation (or ICR).

Instead of seeking revenge for the devastation caused, the Centre’s founders vowed to promote reconciliation in areas of conflict. This began in the former Communist bloc, but has since broadened to focus on the conflict between the three major monotheistic faiths.

In 2008, the ICR ceased to exist as an individual entity, and its work was taken on more closely by Coventry Cathedral under the auspices of the Coventry Cathedral Reconciliation Ministry.

Today, Cathedral visitors are greeted with these words: “To walk from the ruins of the old Cathedral into the splendour of the new is to walk from Good Friday to Easter, from the ravages of human self-destruction to the glorious hope of resurrection … Thanks to God’s mercy, reconciliation is possible.”

As chapter 13 of Mark’s gospel opens, the disciples are in awe of the large stones forming the wall of Jerusalem’s Temple. And that wall must surely have been impressive. Most of the stones which comprised it were 37-and-one-half feet long, 18 feet wide and 12 feet thick. The temple was truly an awe-inspiring sight—a powerful symbol of stability, Godliness, strength, and power.

However, Jesus’ response to his disciples was: “Do you see these great buildings? Not one stone will be left upon another; all will be thrown down.”

Scholars do not know precisely when the Gospel of Mark was written. It may have been before, during or after the destruction of the temple by Roman forces in 70 A.D. As the temple crumbled, so did much of the Jewish way of life. The temple, after all, was the centre of that life—not only for worship and sacrifice, but also for commerce, and for education, and as a place of social gathering.

With no temple building, the whole structure of the Jewish faith changed forever. For a time, the Jewish people were in chaos and utter despair as so much of their life was taken away from them. But God worked in their lives, preparing them for a new reality.

Now, whether Mark recorded Jesus’ prediction in the years leading up to the destruction of the temple … or afterward …

Well, that’s kind of beside the point. In this passage, we hear Jesus preparing his disciples—and in turn, preparing us—for inevitable times of chaos, collapse and turmoil. “Many will come in my name,” Jesus said. “They will say, ‘I am he!’ and they will lead many astray.” And so, Jesus focuses on the issue of deception.

I think it’s beyond debate that, in times of crisis, people are more readily deceived. Our fears and uncertainties can cause us to grab for anything that resembles stability and authority. When anxiety consumes us, we want to hold on tight to some kind of certainty—and we’re tempted to follow anybody who promises easy solutions or a quick fix.

However, Jesus tells his disciples (including us) that—even when horrific, tragic events occur—we are not to be alarmed, and we should not allow ourselves to be misled.

As of this writing, the liturgical year—the church year—is drawing to a close. Next Sunday is “Reign of Christ Sunday” and the Sunday after that is the First of Advent, when a new church year begins. The Bible passages served up by the Revised Common Lectionary at this time are mostly apocalyptic—they describe terrible destruction and disaster and upheaval.

Jesus says there will be wars and natural disasters, earthquakes and famines—heralding not only the end of the way things were, but also the beginning of something new. Herein lies the Good News. Jesus says, “This is but the beginning of the birth pangs.” Out of the ashes—out of the pain, and the loss, and the terror—God creates something brand new, something better than has ever been. This is the transformation for which Jesus seeks to prepare his disciples in every age.

Kathleen Norris is an American poet and essayist—and also a Benedictine oblate. In 1998, she wrote a book called Amazing Grace: A Vocabulary of Faith. Therein, Norris makes this observation:

We know that marriages, families, communities, nations often come together and discover their true strength when some apocalypse—some new revelation of the fault lines in our lives—has occurred. For some reason, we human beings seem to learn best how to love when we are a bit broken, when our plans fall apart, when our myths of our self-sufficiency and goodness and safety are shattered.*

In other words, apocalypse brings us to our senses, confronting us with a sobering—and often painful—glimpse of what is possible in the new life we build from the ashes of the old one. And the apocalyptic vision is a means to give us the hope that—despite considerable evidence to the contrary—in the end it is good that will prevail.

Many of us understand the feeling of life coming apart at the seams—when everything we know to be true and stable, secure and strong comes crashing down all around us. Perhaps our health deteriorates, and we can no longer do what we once did. Or perhaps we receive news that someone we love has been diagnosed with a terminal disease.

Some of us experience the pain of loss of a significant relationship, either through death or breakdown. Some of us lose our jobs, our homes, our life savings, our reputations. As we grow older, we may lose our hearing, our sight, our sanity, our independence. Or perhaps we outlive our family and our friends—and so we lose everyone we ever loved.

Life can bring gut-wrenching, frightful and very sad times. At such moments, Jesus reminds us that God never fails us. Even in the midst of suffering—even in the throes of great upheaval—rebirth and hope are the ways of God. That which lasts and endures will be God’s good purposes, accomplished according to God’s good time. In our individual seasons of cataclysm—and when communities or nations are thrust into crisis—we need to hold on to the promises of God.

Even when we can see nothing positive about our present situation—even when everything feels hopeless, and we are left in a slump of despair—God will work in the situation to bring good out of it. Perhaps we will be able to see it at the time … sometimes, only in hindsight.

Regardless, our job is to pray to God for direction, for hope and for faith, and to be open to God working out something new in our lives. Jesus assures us that God will give us the resources—both from within ourselves, and with the help of others—to surmount any obstacle and weather any storm. The living Christ—the one who dwells within each of us—will reveal to us creative new ways of being. Of this we may be assured. Thanks be to God.

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* Kathleen Norris, Amazing Grace: A Vocabulary of Faith (New York: Riverhead Books, 1998), p. 321.

 

A Meditation for All Saints’ Sunday

TEXT: John 11:32-44

Then Jesus … came to the tomb. It was a cave, and a stone was lying against it. Jesus said, “Take away the stone.” Martha, the sister of the dead man, said to him, “Lord, already there is a stench because he has been dead for four days.” Jesus said to her, “Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?” So they took away the stone. And Jesus looked upwards and said, “Father, I thank you for having heard me. I knew that you always hear me, but I have said this for the sake of the crowd standing here, so that they may believe that you sent me.” When he had said this, he cried with a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!” The dead man came out, his hands and feet bound with strips of cloth, and his face wrapped in a cloth. Jesus said to them, “Unbind him, and let him go.” (John 11:38-44, NRSV)

Picture the scene described in chapter 11 of John’s gospel:

• there is a crowd standing outside a grave;
• there are the sisters of the deceased, grieving their dead brother;
• there are neighbours and townspeople, huddled together to see what might happen next; and
• behind a huge boulder that seals the entrance to his tomb lies the corpse of Lazarus, now four days dead.

Then Jesus arrives—grieving and agitated himself, aware of the crowd, seeing his dear friends mourning the one they loved. Yet … he is confident in his prayer, and able to change this scene from one of sorrow to one of joy.

In artistic representations of this story, the resurrected Lazarus stands at the entrance to his tomb, still wrapped up in burial linen. He looks like someone wearing a Hallowe’en mummy costume. Barely able to move—bound up as he is by those bands of cloth—he cannot fully celebrate his renewed existence. He cannot rush to embrace his loved ones and neighbours, who stand and watch. And so, Jesus completes the miracle with a final command: “Unbind him, and let him go.”

“Unbind him!” Powerful words—spoken not just to Lazarus, but to the whole crowd that is so eager to see what will happen next. And spoken not just for them, but for all of us, as well. See, this gospel passage—this miracle story—is not just about a single event that happened long ago. No.

Today, as yesterday, Jesus’ entire ministry is focused on bringing life to individuals, and to all humankind.

I think that—if we look closer at this scene—we find that Lazarus is not the only one bound up in grave cloths. It seems to me that the grave cloths are draped around everybody watching this scene, as well. And perhaps, when we look in the mirror, we can see that we are wrapped up pretty tightly ourselves. We, too, are bound—not with linen burial wrappings, to be sure—but bound, just the same.

We are bound by those things that keep us from living the way we were meant to live. Perhaps we are bound by our fears. Maybe we’re afraid of looking foolish. Maybe we’re afraid of being found out—and discovered to be less accomplished, less noble, less competent, than our reputations would indicate. Maybe we’re afraid of letting go of something we cherish, or someone we love. Or maybe we have a secret sin, or a shady past … and we worry about what people would think of us … if only they knew.

Our fears bind us; they cripple us; they keep us from trying new things, from letting something new happen in our lives. Maybe we’re wrapped up in our bitterness, unable to let go of a hurt we’ve suffered. Maybe we remain bound by the pain that someone inflicted upon us long ago. Maybe we’re unwilling to forgive—and therefore unable to move on with our lives, and with our healing. Maybe we’re caught up in shame—so convinced we’re unworthy of life—unworthy of forgiveness, unworthy of wholeness—that we never allow others to see who we truly are. We never allow ourselves to fully live.

Or perhaps we are constrained by our prejudices. Perhaps we stereotype people by the kind of clothes they wear, or their hair style, or their age, or the colour of their skin.

Perhaps we look down on others because of the kind of job they have, or the sort of people they hang out with, or their political viewpoint.

Or is it, perhaps, our grief that enshrouds us? Are we so heartbroken about those whom we have lost … that we can no longer face life? Are we so tightly wrapped up in memories, and in “what could have been,” that we cannot acknowledge what’s good and hopeful about the here and now?

“Well, perhaps we are,” you may say. “Perhaps we are. But, preacher—are you going to tell us you have something better to offer? You come to us with a far-fetched tale about a dead man coming back to life, and you expect us to believe that makes some difference to what’s happening with us?

“C’mon, preacher, get a grip! Get real!”

Truth to tell, I couldn’t blame you for saying that. Truth to tell, I don’t know what your individual lives are like—what sorrows you bear, what crosses you carry, what memories and fears torment you. But if I were to say to you that I did not believe in resurrection, I would be lying to you.

The story of Lazarus rings true for me. I have no difficulty believing it. I believe in resurrection. And maybe you smile and say, “Well, of course he believes it; he’s a preacher—he has to believe it.”

But I want to tell you why I believe it. I don’t believe it just because it’s in the Bible. I don’t believe it just because I call myself an evangelical, and I think it’s the “party line.” No. I believe this gospel story—and I believe in resurrection—because I have experienced it as real in my own life.

Some of you know that my son—who’s all grown up now, and healthy, and a pastor himself … and the father of two children, with one more on the way …

Samuel was born with a serious heart defect. When he was a newborn, many people—including some of his doctors, and even me—did not expect him to live. And in fact, he almost did not survive. When he was 24 days old, he had his first open-heart surgery—what would be the first of many—and he came very close to death.

But, of course, he surprised us. He not only survived, but he thrived! Against all odds, my boy made it. And I believe—and my wife believes—that God gave us our son back; back from the brink of death, back from the grave.

Yeah. God gave us our son back … from the grave.

And when, today, I look into Samuel’s eyes—or into the eyes of his children—do you know what I see?

I see resurrection!

I see the promise of eternal life made real and tangible—standing before me, just as surely as Lazarus stood before Jesus on that long-ago day in Bethany. That is why I’m convinced this story is true. It has become true for me—and I cannot deny it … not ever.

And that’s why I urge you, today—look for resurrection!

Look for resurrection. Look for it in your own life, because it is real. Regardless of whatever binds us—whatever it is that constrains us—Jesus is coming to set us free!

Jesus is removing the grave cloths that we have wrapped around ourselves, so that we might live as we were meant to live. What Jesus did for Lazarus, he wants to do for all of us—to unbind us from whatever it is that holds us back.

Jesus wants to set us free!

The Christian festival of All Saints is about is remembering those who have died before us, and who now live in closer communion with God. Unlike Mary and Martha, we don’t actually get to see our loved ones rise from the dead. Not yet, anyway. Sometimes we wish that were the case. But listen …

It is not our departed loved ones who are called to wake up today. It’s us! We are the ones who are being called to wake up and claim our place with the rest of the saints. Jesus wants us to see ourselves as being alive, and unbound, and liberated. As we honour the saints, we see ourselves living amongst all of God’s people from every place and time. As we remember those who have gone ahead of us, we join them at the River of Life. We embrace them in the New Jerusalem.

It’s not just Lazarus who hears his name being shouted from outside the tomb this morning. Each one of us can hear Jesus’ voice, as well: “Child of God, lift up your head and live!”

Live! Not just someday—not just tomorrow in heaven—but right here, right now, today!

Why? Because God is here. Because Jesus is here, and his loud, clear voice is calling this morning, proclaiming to all of us: “See! The dwelling-place of God is now among mortals! You are set free—free to be alive and whole and well. You don’t have to be under the shroud of death anymore. Live, children of God! Live!”

Today, my friends, we are loved and embraced. Today, we are counted among the living. We no longer have to live as if death had dominion over us. We have been set free to go onward: to take the risks that faith demands of us; to let go of whatever has hurt us; to reach beyond ourselves in compassion for others.

Today we have been freed to join the communion of saints. No longer isolated, we are free to celebrate our connections—not only with those saints already in heaven, but also with all of those living here around us now. Today we have been freed to live in the truth of resurrection. No longer are we bound up in shame and grief and sadness. God has come among us:

• come to wipe away every tear from our eyes;
• come to unbind us from death’s icy grip;
• come to restore us to the land of the living.

On this day, God comes to us, with unbounded grace. On this day, we are unbound. Today, let us become the people God created us to be. Today, let’s start living like we believe in the promise of eternal life!

 

 

TEXT: Mark 10:32-45

James and John, the sons of Zebedee, came forward … and said to [Jesus], “Teacher, we want you to do for us whatever we ask of you.” And he said to them, “What is it you want me to do for you?” And they said to him, “Grant us to sit, one at your right hand and one at your left, in your glory.” (Mark 10:35-37)

Jesus and his party are on the road to Jerusalem. For Jesus, it is also the road to his destiny—and he knows it. Taking his disciples aside, he says to them:

“See, we are going up to Jerusalem, and the Son of Man will be handed over to the chief priests and the scribes, and they will condemn him to death; then they will hand him over to the Gentiles; they will mock him, and spit upon him, and flog him, and kill him; and after three days he will rise again.” (Mark 10:32-34)

For the third time in Mark’s Gospel, Jesus predicts his own death. And once again, the disciples give a wrong-headed response to Jesus’ words about his passion. It’s as if they heard only the beginning and ending of what he said. In their minds, they pasted together the terms “Jerusalem” and “Son of Man,” and pictured a risen, powerful, autocratic Messiah, resembling King David. They completely missed all the talk of condemnation, rejection, mocking, spitting, flogging and execution.

So James and John approach Jesus with their foolish and self-serving question. First, they try to trick Jesus by saying, “Teacher, we want you to do for us whatever we ask of you.”

Sounds incredibly selfish, doesn’t it? Maybe even childish. But, look: let’s be honest, here. I can identify with James and John. Can’t you?

Jesus asks them: “What is it you want me to do for you?”

And they reply: “Grant us to sit, one at your right hand and one at your left, in your glory.”

As I think about that, I realize that, yes—I want to bask in glory one day, too. We’ll get to the next life and everyone will be using their heavenly binoculars to look at me from miles away, and they’ll say, “Wow! There’s Grottenberg! Look at that! That lay minister is sitting at the right hand of God!

“I had no idea. I should have sucked up to Gary when I had the chance. Now look at me. … even though I was a fully ordained minister … and wore all those priestly garments … and had everybody call me “Reverend” … NOW, I’m cleaning toilets in heaven … for the rest of eternity!”

That’s my dream.

If I’m being honest, I want Jesus to give me whatever I ask for. And why not? We’re talking about Jesus, after all! Why not ask?

So the brothers ask. James and John put their cards on the table, demanding preferred seating in the messianic kingdom. “Grant us to sit, one at your right hand and one at your left, in your glory.” 

They sound like children fighting over the “shotgun” position in the car, or yelling “dibs” to claim their favourite spot. Their question reveals their lack of understanding of true leadership. They are looking for positions of power and prestige. They think leadership comes from where you sit rather than how you serve. Jesus gives them a sharp rebuke when he says, “You do not know what you are asking. Are you able to drink the cup that I drink, or be baptized with the baptism that I am baptized with?”

Immediately they reply, saying: “We are able.” Eagerly they claim the cup and the baptism—but they have no understanding of the personal cost underpinning these two images.

Jesus then agrees that his disciples will become participants in the tragic events soon to come. But he refuses to discuss further any future heavenly seating arrangements. He reminds them that God alone holds the authority to make such assignments.

James and John’s request angers the other disciples. Perhaps they are upset that that the two have somehow beaten them to the punch and gained some advantage over them. So Jesus calls them all together to give them yet another lecture on real leadership in the Kingdom of God. He says:

“You know that among the Gentiles those whom they recognize as their rulers lord it over them, and their great ones are tyrants over them. But it is not so among you; but whoever wishes to become great among you must be your servant, and whoever wishes to be first among you must be slave of all. For the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life a ransom for many.” (Mark 10:42b-45)

The traditional image of leadership (which Jesus labeled the style of the Gentiles) is that of an autocratic person controlling and manipulating the actions of others.

This approach has been practiced throughout the world, in every culture. Sometimes both followers and leaders prefer this kind of leadership. It excuses followers from thinking for themselves, and relieves them of any responsibility for their own actions. It also gives leaders virtually unlimited power. However, Jesus declared that this type of leadership was not to be exercised within the church.

Sadly, for most of its existence, the church has failed to understand Jesus’ teaching about servant leadership.  Looking at Christian history, we see that the church has generally imitated the kind of abusive leadership common in the secular world. While despots ruled with terror, torture and slaughter, leaders in the church also demanded absolute authority, ruled with iron fists, and smashed any dissent. The church has had—and I’m afraid, still has—more than its share of power-hungry bullies who love to throw their weight around.

Yet Jesus declares that it is only through service that one may become great. By his example and by his direct teaching, Jesus showed the way to real leadership for us today. The authority of the Christian leader is not power, but love; not force, but example; not coercion, but reasoned persuasion.

This message of servant leadership is one that most Christians today have failed to hear. We are more like James and John than we are like Jesus. Our lack of understanding of servant leadership is a big problem, and I believe that—at least in part—it stems from a misunderstanding of the nature of leadership in the Body of Christ.

In the church, leaders are supposed to be servants—willing servants. We don’t need people who will put on airs of prestige and power, pretending to be better than they are. No. All of us have made our mistakes, and all of us have our weaknesses. As someone has said, the church is a hospital for sinners. But the church needs each of us sinners to be willing to serve in the name of our Lord.

Henri Nouwen had a wonderful image in his book The Wounded Healer. The healer in his story was not a person in perfect health, but one of the afflicted. The difference was that the healer would bind up his own wounds long enough to minister to others. That’s all any of us can do in the church—because we are all wounded healers.

Yes, some of us are old, and some of us are tired. None of us have enough money, or enough time, or enough energy. None of us are good enough, or smart enough. None of us are ready. It doesn’t matter. God calls us anyway. God calls each one of us—not to do everything, but to do something.

When we do work without complaint, when we do serve willingly, and when we do care about the needs of others, then we do not need to assume guilt for what we have not done. And we can know that God will take care of things, as he did in Jesus 2,000 years ago—and as he still does today, through the work of his Spirit.

Jesus calls us to be servants of one other, to care for each other and for the world God made, and he promises to us grace sufficient for the task—if we are but willing to follow where he has led the way.

Please—let’s be willing.

 

TEXTS: Hebrews 4:12-16 and Mark 10:17-31

Then Jesus looked around and said to his disciples, “How hard it will be for those who have wealth to enter the kingdom of God!” And the disciples were perplexed at these words. But Jesus said to them again, “Children, how hard it is to enter the kingdom of God! It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God.” (Mark 10:23-25)

The gospel lesson for Proper 23, Year B (Mark 10:17-31) is, surely, familiar to all of us as “the story of the Rich Young Ruler.” This may be due, in part, to the fact that it occurs in more than one gospel. In addition to Mark’s account, almost identical stories can be found in Matthew (19:16-30) and Luke (18:18-30).

It is familiarity with all three of these that makes us call it “the story of the Rich Young Ruler.” All the synoptics identify him as rich—or, at least, as “having many possessions.” But it is Matthew who describes him as young, and it is Luke who tells us he is a ruler. No matter what we call him, however, his story is compelling—and also unsettling. At least, it unsettles me.

This young man asks one of the best questions in the entire Bible. He also receives one of the most disturbing answers. The question is: “What must I do to inherit eternal life?” (Mark 10:17).

What must I do to inherit eternal life? After I depart this mortal coil—after my earthly life is over … if I should suddenly find myself in an elevator … when the doors open … will I see clouds … or a furnace room?

It’s a question most of us have asked, in some form or another. And here’s where the disturbing answer comes in, because Jesus says this: “Go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor … then come, follow me” (Mark 10:21).

Now, in a moment, I’ll return to that disturbing answer—and the question which prompted it. But first, let’s think about the one who asks the question—and about the One who answers it. And let’s ask ourselves a question: which one are we most like?

First, let’s look at the Rich Young Ruler. He’s a bright guy—even though he asks a rather dumb question. I mean, what does anybody ever do to inherit anything? When somebody dies—if you’re mentioned in the will—something is given to you. To receive the inheritance, you have to do absolutely nothing, in most cases. Maybe sign some papers, but that’s about it.

But, the Rich Young Ruler is a smart guy. He’s also perceptive; he recognizes that Jesus is a “Good Teacher.” He has lots of other admirable qualities, too: He’s law-abiding; he keeps the Ten Commandments. He’s enthusiastic; he runs up to Jesus and throws himself at his feet. He’s got a winning personality; Jesus “loves him” right off the bat.

He is intelligent, perceptive, law-abiding, enthusiastic, and lovable. The Rich Young Ruler seems to have it all. What a catch! He should be on a reality TV show, like The Bachelor.

Not only that, but he’s really, really wealthy!

In the time of Christ, wealth bought privilege … which, I guess … it still does. In Jesus’ day, wealth was seen as a reward for faithfully obeying God’s commands. Which … actually … sounds a lot like the “Prosperity Gospel” of our day.

The Rich Young Ruler must have been the envy of his community, regarded as someone who obviously enjoyed God’s favour. Most likely, he was respected by the religious elite. Certainly, he would be an honoured guest in the right circles—always seated at the head of the table instead of the foot. His riches would have placed him at the top of society.

Now, let’s take a look at the “Good Teacher.” Jesus doesn’t own a lot of stuff. Just the clothes on his back and the sandals on his feet. And he isn’t really much of a ruler, either—at least, not by conventional standards. In fact, he describes himself not as a king, but as a servant: “I am among you as one who serves,” he says (Luke 22:27).

So, picture this scenario: Rich Young Ruler meets Poor Young Servant. With which one do we identify? Which of them is the most like me or you?

I have to confess, I recognize myself in the Rich Young Ruler—although, by our reckoning, I’m neither rich nor much of a “ruler.” Nor am I young anymore. Even so—with my comfortable home, my car, medical insurance, RRSP, pension plan and Canadian social safety net—I know that I’m much, much better off than most people on this planet. And like the Rich Young Ruler, I prefer fluffy clouds and a harp to a pitchfork and brimstone.

The Rich Young Ruler has a lot of the same values and same concerns that I have. And, truth to tell, I’m no more eager to let go of my privilege than he was. Thus, I recognize that Jesus’ answer to the Rich Young Ruler applies to me, also. I suspect it applies to most of you who are reading this, as well.

“Go, sell, give, come, follow,” Jesus says. Those are powerful verbs! And when I hear them, I squirm.

What was it the Letter to the Hebrews said about the Word of God?

It says: “… the word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing until it divides soul from spirit, joints from marrow; it is able to judge the thoughts and intentions of the [human] heart” (Hebrews 4:12).

What Jesus was saying to the Rich Young Ruler—and what he is now saying to you, and to me—is that conventional goodness and comfortable morality will not purchase a “ticket to heaven.” The Rich Young Ruler was a very nice guy—but he wasn’t that keen on personal sacrifice.

Jesus never watered down the cost of discipleship. To anyone who asked him, he explained that the way to peace and fulfillment—in this life and beyond—is not an easy, wide, comfortable highway.

No. The way of discipleship is a hard, narrow, rocky path. To travel upon it, you must be totally committed to the journey.

If you and I really want to get closer to God, we must be willing to give up the vain things we cling to. We have to re-prioritize our lives, and sort out what truly matters. In other words, we must learn to travel light.

The Rich Young Ruler was clinging to his money and his possessions. In fact, he was hanging on for dear life—or maybe even tighter! Ironically, his wealth may have become more important to him even than his own life.

The Rich Young Ruler reminds me of a woman I heard about once in a documentary film about Pompeii. Her remains were found preserved under the ashes of the city. When Mount Vesuvius erupted, she ran for the city gate. She actually might have escaped—except, she stopped short. She was found, centuries later, with her face looking back and her hand reaching for a bag of pearls that she had apparently dropped. Death caught her because she chose wealth over well-being.

Upon meeting the Rich Young Ruler, Jesus diagnosed his problem. And—concerned about his spiritual well-being—Jesus called for radical surgery: “Go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me.”

This was a call to the hard, narrow, rocky path of costly commitment. It was radical surgery, indeed. The Rich Young Ruler looked at the options, shook his head sadly, and walked away.

“Go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me.”

You may be wondering: is that same radical surgery being recommended to us? Does that same disturbing answer apply to us?

I think the answer is both “yes” and “no.” In one sense, that was a particular prescription for a particular person. It was the Great Physician’s remedy for a very specific illness. But a good doctor does not prescribe the same treatment for every patient. Your case—and mine—will not be exactly the same.

Even so, you and I are not completely off the hook. The Rich Young Ruler had a priority problem. Somewhere along the way, he had come to value the things of this world more than he valued God. I have to wonder whether the same thing could be said of us.

Discipleship is about loving God more than anything else. Part of the cost of discipleship is about getting rid of the things we cling to for a false sense of security. For some of us, that may include our money.

But, discipleship is about giving up anything that would keep us from following Jesus. It could be a grudge we’re nursing, or a wrong we will not forgive. Or a sin we are too proud to confess. Or a bad habit. Or some relationship that we know is wrong for us, but which we just can’t seem to leave. Or even, perhaps, a church building we can’t afford to keep up any longer … but also can’t bear to let go of.

Hearing the cost of discipleship, the Rich Young Ruler walked away sadly. He kept his money, but he lost much, much more. He lost the opportunity to have a close, personal relationship with the greatest person ever to walk upon this earth. He lost out on being part of the greatest adventure of all time. He lost not just getting the answer to his question, but seeing it, as well. He could have seen Jesus raised from the dead. Who knows? Maybe, he even lost the opportunity to write a Gospel that we would be reading today.

He chose his comfortable, conventional life over the hardship of being a disciple. He loved money—and all that money can buy—more than he loved Christ.

He would not travel light. Can we, I wonder?

Rich Young Ruler meets Poor Young Servant. Which one are we attempting to follow?

For me, it’s a profoundly challenging question—because I know that part of middle-class, senior-aged me is like the Rich Young Ruler: clinging to vain and perishable things. At the same time, I know that is not the best part of me.

Having been touched and saved by God’s amazing grace, the best part of me wants to answer Jesus’ call to costly discipleship. The best part of me longs to cast off those things that hold me back from following him. The best part of me wants to get close to Jesus. The best part of me aspires to walk with him forever.

I want to see that better part of me grow. I want to follow Jesus—in this life and the next. I want to pay the cost to gain the pearl of great price. I want the Rich Young Ruler to fade away, and the Poor Young Servant to grow within me. I mean, it’s about time, isn’t it?

Today, Rich Young Ruler and Poor Young Servant meet—in you, and in me. Their paths go in opposite directions. And now, a question is being asked of us: which one will we dare to follow?

 

Thanksgiving Sunday

TEXT:  Matthew 6:25-33

Some time ago, I saw a cartoon showing two businessmen sitting in a limousine. They were looking out the window and one of them said: “Johnson, consider the lilies of the field. They neither toil nor spin. Fire them!”

Remind you of anyone?

The message in Matthew 6:25-33 is countercultural. Even though it contains some of the most beautiful language in the entire Bible, its central message about work and wealth and worry presents us with a profound challenge.

You know, whenever Jesus challenges us, it almost always has to do with our priorities. And that is exactly what Jesus is doing here.

The Revised Common Lectionary begins today’s reading at verse 25. But I think it should begin a verse earlier, with verse 24, where Jesus says: “No one can serve two masters; for a slave will either hate the one and love the other, or be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve God and wealth.”

And then he says: “Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life …”

“You cannot serve God and wealth.”

Whom do we serve? Where is our allegiance? Where do we focus our energies? What is it, exactly, that our hearts are set upon?

Those are challenging questions, indeed. Because where we set our hearts determines—in large part—what choices we make, this is a good message for us to consider on this Thanksgiving Sunday. This is the day we’ve set aside to give thanks for our blessings. But it’s also the day we’ve set aside to give thanks for the church, to celebrate the power God has given to us as members of the church—including the power to visualize a future and the power to choose a path to take us there.

Imagine Jesus standing on that hillside, in front of the huge crowd that has come to sit on the grass and listen to him. There are clusters of families and friends, young and old, male and female, the devoted, the skeptical, the curious. In other gospel accounts, we see Jesus ministering to the poor and the outcast; in still others, with the rich and the powerful. But today he is with ordinary folks—the people who really did toil and spin and reap and sow.

Most of them likely had the “basics” of food and shelter. But Jesus knew what was in their hearts—the longing, perhaps, for luxuries they did not have; their worry for what one bad crop could do to them—or an illness, or even … the government.

They probably all knew someone who had lost everything in one disaster or another. And, truth to tell, we are not really so far away from that, ourselves. One look at the 24-hour news cycle—or even a trip to deliver sandwiches to the Drop-In Centre—reminds us just how tenuous our human existence still can be. Even in this affluent society, many of us are but one paycheque separated from ruin.

In the face of such uncertainty, it’s very tempting to put our trust in things we can see and touch—not just money, but also property and possessions. In other words, all the “stuff” that we acquire—newer, bigger, higher-tech stuff, with which we try to construct a buttress against our insecurities.

It’s also very tempting to put our energies into long-range plans in an attempt to control all the outcomes and contingencies. But investments can turn sour, pension plans can fail, our best-laid plans can come crashing down … as can our health, our marriages, our happily-ever-after. And in our heart of hearts, we know this. So our lives are fraught with anxiety, and—ultimately—disappointment when our illusion of control is shattered.

Money. Property. Prestige. Possessions. Careful plans. What will we do, when these things are not enough? Jesus points out that worry does not add a single day to our lives. In fact, worry probably shortens our lives. But the damage runs even deeper than that.

When fear and anxiety define our existence, our focus turns inward. Anxiety begins to crowd out our impulses for generosity or forgiveness or compassion. Self-preservation becomes our priority.

When we make an idol out of our sense of control, we leave no room for moments of grace. And so we fail to notice the working of God in our lives. We pay no attention to the moments of beauty which reveal God’s presence in our world. We overlook the tiny miracles of healing which testify to God’s action in our lives.

No wonder Jesus draws our attention to nature. “Just look at those flowers!” he says. “Consider the lilies of the field.” The crowds listening to Jesus could look just beyond him and see lilies, for sure—but also red poppies, purple carmelite, pink cyclamen, crocuses, daffodils, and irises—all growing wild on that Galilean hillside.

God takes care of them, in all their transitory beauty, Jesus says—just as God takes care of the birds.

So why not us? God cares more for us than for a whole flock of birds!

But, listen … notice something about those birds: they may “neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns”—but they are hard at work, gathering up what God has provided for them. Jesus is not saying we should be idle, or that we should not make reasonable provision for ourselves and our families. It’s all a matter of perspective. The work that feeds us—literally and figuratively—is one thing. But Jesus reminds us that our lives are not defined by toiling or spinning. God’s care for us does not depend on our pay grade, our social status, or our level of education. God cares for us simply because we are his children.

Well, then, exactly how can we cut through the worry and acquisitiveness and frenzy of 21st-century life? How can we truly place all our trust in God?

Above all else, Jesus tells us, we should seek the kingdom of heaven—the kingdom of God. And, incidentally, that is something which Jesus never describes explicitly. However, by looking at the life he lived and the stories he told, we uncover some clues.

Know this, first of all: the kingdom of heaven is not some faraway place where God lives—or some faraway time. When Jesus healed the sick, he spoke of the kingdom of heaven being present with him—right then, right there.

Got that? Someone has described the kingdom of heaven as “God’s dream”—the dream of God for the whole of Creation. There is an “already-here” quality to God’s Kingdom, and also a “not-quite-yet” quality about it.

So, through the grace of God, let us place our trust in that kingdom where all of Creation is healed, where we are reconciled to God and to one another, where God’s justice and righteousness prevail, and all of this world’s misery is somehow made right. That’s what we’re praying for when we say: “thy kingdom come” and “thy will be done.”

“Thy kingdom come, thy will be done”—they go together.

Now, if we seek the kingdom first, then do we get what we really, really want, here and now?

Well, that’s not what Jesus said. Jesus did not promise us lives free of trouble or pain. No.

But consider this: if, above all else, we set our minds and hearts on that existence where God’s will is complete and perfect, then, perhaps—bit by bit—our minds and hearts will be shaped by God’s gracious love, until that which we desire aligns with what God desires for us.

Consider the lilies, then. Know that you are beautiful just as you are—that you are cherished as one of God’s own creations—and trust that the God who has inscribed your name on the palm of his hand holds you closely today. And trust that he always will.

Thanks be to God. Amen.

TEXT: Mark 9:38-50

“Whoever is not against us is for us … If any of you put a stumbling-block before one of these little ones who believe in me, it would be better for you if a great millstone were hung around your neck and you were thrown into the sea.” (Mark 9:40, 42)

Have you ever noticed how, in the gospels, Jesus often seems to be at odds with himself? The Revised Common Lectionary gospel reading for Proper 21, Year B (Mark 9:38-50) is a good example. One the one hand, Jesus sounds very open and tolerant (“whoever is not against us is for us”); and yet, on the other hand, he seems very severe and harsh (“if your eye causes you to stumble, tear it out …”). But if we take a deeper look, we find that these attitudes do not really conflict with one another. In fact, taken together, they illustrate the deep concern Jesus has for the salvation of all.

“Teacher, we saw someone casting out demons in your name, and we tried to stop him …” (v. 38). This is the only time the apostle John speaks on his own in Mark’s Gospel, and he uses his words to draw Jesus’ attention to a case of copyright infringement!

John and the other disciples had come across an unnamed exorcist, who was using Jesus’ name to remove evil spirits. But he wasn’t a member of their inner circle, so they told him to cease and desist. But what does the Lord say? “Do not stop him; for no one who does a deed of power in my name will be able soon afterwards to speak evil of me” (v. 39).

The disciples, apparently, have forgotten something important. Jesus’ first concern is for as many people as possible to hear his message and to experience the good news. Far from censuring this anonymous exorcist, Jesus welcomes his help—and he tells the disciples not to interfere with him. “Whoever is not against us is for us.”

In the strongest possible terms, Jesus warns the disciples against getting in the way of the salvation of others. Then he utters what can only be described as a series of curses on those who would cause a single soul to be lost.

For me, the whole passage is summed up in verse 41: “… truly I tell you, whoever gives you a cup of water to drink because you bear the name of Christ will by no means lose the reward.”

Jesus shows compassion for everyone. He wants to rescue each and every human being; after all, that is why he came into the world. He gives his life for all, and he does not want anyone to be lost—especially not through the actions of one of his own disciples.

You know, much of the time, when I meet people who’ve given up on organized religion, I discover it’s because of something another church member said or did. I know of whole families who no longer attend church because of an unkind or unconsidered word said by a fellow parishioner. Some Christians—among them quite a few pastors, I’m afraid—seem to leave behind them a trail of spiritual wreckage: hurting, bitter, resentful people. Lost souls.

Oh, I know; you can say that some people are just too sensitive, too thin-skinned. And to a certain degree, that’s true. Each of us is responsible for ourselves—and certainly, as grown-ups, we ought to be able to deal with the rough-and-tumble of everyday life. Leaving the church because of someone else’s attitude hardly seems mature.

Now, having said that, I’ll also say this: Jesus takes these matters very seriously—and so should we. He does not want his disciples to be obstacles—stumbling-blocks—to anyone’s faith. The job of a disciple is to bring people into the Kingdom, not drive them away.

Let’s face it: human beings are delicate creatures. We need nurturing and encouraging. The task of the disciple is therefore to be open and welcoming. In the church and in the world, we ought to be mindful of how we speak and how we act. We should pay attention to the way we come across to others. We are Christ’s ambassadors, and we ought to act the way he would act in the same circumstances.

OK … so that’s how it ought to be. But we are only too aware of our own limitations, aren’t we? And if you’re like me, maybe sometimes you feel like a hopeless case—like all these expectations are too much for you and that you aren’t really cut out to be a disciple of Jesus.

Ever feel like that? When I feel like that, well … those are the times I am most grateful for the people God sends into my life to encourage me. And somehow, they always seem to show up just when I need them most.

I hope it’s like that in your life, too. Christians need one another. We need to minister to each other. From time to time, every one of us needs that cup of refreshing water. From time to time, every one of us needs to hear a kind word, to receive encouragement—a bit of tender, loving care. We can’t be always giving; we have to receive as well.

It’s not that long ago that the Christian churches were in serious rivalry with one another. I recall my grandmother telling me that there was a time when the clergy of different denominations would pass each other in the street without even the vaguest greeting. Like the disciples in today’s gospel reading, they were highly intolerant of others who preached the gospel. This, of course, grew out of each denomination’s conviction that it—and only it—possessed the true faith in all its fullness.

Fortunately, that is much less true today. I’m not sure the various churches have changed their doctrines all that much, but we surely have changed our attitudes. Certainly, faith groups still have their differences and distinctives—and their disagreements—but, by and large, we get along much better than we used to. Increasingly, we all recognize that the other Christian denominations do preach the gospel of love; that other Christians do live moral lives; that they do pray as earnestly. The church is the Body of Christ, and all the Christian denominations are an authentic part of the church.

This has nothing to do with organizational unity in the sense of creating “one big church” or making everybody think exactly the same way about everything.

No. This is about unity in the Spirit. This is about working together. It’s about cooperation. It’s about growing in our understanding of what it means to be a true disciple of Jesus.

So often we hear it said that the churches are dying, that religion has become irrelevant, and that the whole idea of God is on its way out. And I tell you: pay no attention to those discouraging words! It may very well be true that some of our churchly institutions will cease to exist, and that some of our religious forms will pass away. But the church—the real church, which is the Body of Christ, made up of people like you and me, from all kinds of traditions and places—the church is going to be just fine!

I believe the church of our Lord Jesus Christ is not only going to survive, but that it is going to thrive in the years to come. And do you know why? It’s because, finally, the church—and, I have to say, in spite of the churches—the church in the 21st century is finally beginning to find the true unity that Jesus hoped for when he prayed that we might all be one (John 17:21).

Our true unity is in the Spirit—which is where it’s always been. And our true unity is expressed in humble service, which is what the Spirit moves us toward. It is the Spirit’s gift. All we have to do is accept it, and embrace it, and live it. May it be so for us, today—and in all our tomorrows.

TEXTS: Mark 9:30-37 and James 3:13-4:3, 7-8a

Those of you who are of Wesleyan heritage may be familiar with something called the “Covenant Prayer.” In Methodist congregations—or, at least, in many of them—it is recited every time the Sacrament of Communion is celebrated. It goes like this:

I am no longer my own, but thine.

Put me to what thou wilt, rank me with whom thou wilt.

Put me to doing, put me to suffering.

Let me be employed for thee or laid aside for thee,

exalted for thee or brought low for thee.

Let me be full, let me be empty.

Let me have all things, let me have nothing.

I freely and heartily yield all things to thy pleasure and disposal.

And now, O glorious and blessed God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit,

thou art mine, and I am thine.

So be it.

And the covenant which I have made on earth,

let it be ratified in heaven.

Amen.

(as used in the Book of Offices of the British Methodist Church, 1936)

The Covenant Prayer was adapted by John Wesley from a similar prayer of the English Puritans, and—like so much of what Wesley did and wrote—it exhibits his radical, no-holds-barred attitude towards Christian discipleship.

For Wesley, as for so many of our ancestors in the faith, there could be no compromise with anything that might compete with Christ for our allegiance. And in this prayer, he is seeking to bring under control the most insidious enemy of all—the enemy within:

“I am no longer my own, but thine. Put me to what thou wilt, rank me with whom thou wilt. Put me to doing, put me to suffering. Let me be employed for thee or laid aside for thee, exalted for thee or brought low for thee …” and so on.

It’s really pretty awesome, isn’t it? And like every truly powerful liturgical prayer, it not only cries out to God, but also resonates with our human spirits, calling us once again to turn to Christ and allow him to be Lord of our lives.

The earliest and simplest Christian confession of faith was simply this: “Jesus is Lord!”

Personally, I think that’s still the best one. If you can say, “Jesus is Lord”—and mean it … Well, it seems to me that very little else needs to be spelled out about your faith. Of course, “Jesus is Lord” remains the most challenging confession to live up to.

In the church’s first couple of centuries, the most radical implication of that confession—“Jesus is Lord’’—was that Caesar was not Lord. Now, the early Christians lived under an authoritarian regime that demanded absolute allegiance to the emperor; and so, declaring that Jesus was one’s Lord … well, that amounted to treason. It was an affront to the claims of the emperor.

For us, of course, the emphasis falls differently. We Canadians have one of the best governments on earth—one of the least corrupt, one of the most humane. It’s not perfect, but it’s better than most.

Even so, anyone who jumped up and down, shouting, “Justin Trudeau is Lord” would be considered a raving lunatic!

For us, the most radical implication of confessing “Jesus is Lord” is that we are giving him control of our lives. To confess Jesus as Lord is to relinquish your claims of autonomy.

You are no longer the one who determines how your life will be lived; Jesus is!

You are no longer the one who sets the standards by which your life will be measured; Jesus is!

Let’s face it: we live in a society where individualism and personal choice are the true gods of the vast majority of people.

However, if we confess Jesus as Lord, we will be naming individualism and personal choice as idols! We will refuse to bow down to them and worship them.

In the ninth chapter of Mark, Jesus’ disciples show themselves to be just as susceptible as we are to letting their desires and ambitions get the better of them.

Jesus has just told them how much he shall have to endure for the sake of his calling and identity: “The Son of Man is to be betrayed into human hands, and they will kill him …” (Mark 9:31).

But they don’t get it. Earlier in Mark—after Peter identified him as the Messiah—Jesus began teaching his disciples about what that meant. Just as in chapter nine, he told them he would undergo great suffering. He said the religious authorities would reject him. He said he was going to be killed. And then he said: “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me” (Mark 8:34).

Clearly, Jesus is not thinking that the path of Messiahship is a way of acclamation and triumph. He is clearly not thinking that he is about to be recognized as the greatest, as the number one Lord of the Universe.

No. He is facing betrayal and rejection and death—and he knows it.

The disciples, however, just can’t wrap their heads around that. And—as if to prove just how completely they have missed the point—on the way to Capernaum, they begin trying to one-up each other.

They all want to stake their claim as the greatest, the primary disciple. Each of them has his résumé out, ready to prove that he has stood out from the pack as an exemplary disciple.

I can imagine Jesus shaking his head in dismay when he realizes what they’re arguing about. Certainly, he knows that—if what they really want is to be the greatest—then they are not going to be marching alongside him when he is led to the cross.

So, Jesus takes them to task: “Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all (Mark 9:35).”

Whoever wants to be the greatest needs to forget about winning a gold medal … and instead, find satisfaction in cleaning up the stadium after everyone else has gone home.

Then he places a small child in front of them and says, “If you’d fawn over a gold-medalist and ignore this child, then you haven’t got a clue about greatness.

“But, if you welcome a little child like this one as though he were the greatest—and if you’d consider it an honour to be pictured in the paper hugging this unknown kid … well, then you’re on the right track. When that comes naturally to you, then you really will be welcoming me and the One who sent me.”

“Put me to what thou wilt, rank me with whom thou wilt … Let me be … exalted for thee or brought low for thee.”

The apostle James, in his letter, is even more forthright about this. He flatly states that selfish ambition is a hindrance to true greatness.

He says it is the cause of all the quarrels and wars that tear people apart and destroy their lives. He says that whenever we try to get “one up” on others—try to get to the front of the pack—we prove that our motives do not come from God, but from the devil himself.

As James put it, “Where there is envy and selfish ambition, there will also be disorder and wickedness of every kind” (James 3:16).

That’s not to say that ambition in itself is inherently evil. In First Corinthians 9:24, the apostle Paul invokes the image of the Olympic Games when he exhorts us to strive towards the goal.

He says: “Do you not know that in a race the runners all compete, but only one receives the prize?”

And then his advice is: “Run in such a way that you may win it.”

Don’t throw the race. Run to win. Directed properly, ambition can be a good thing. The problem is that ambition can become a destructive thing: “I will achieve my goals no matter what—no matter who I have to destroy in the process.”

Ambition easily becomes something that does not merely aspire to worthy goals. No. Ambition wants to define its own goals. And unbridled ambition refuses to submit to the wisdom of God—or of anyone else—in pursuit of those goals.

Now, I don’t begrudge the gold-medal winners anything. They’ve exercised extreme discipline and achieved extraordinary things. Good on them!

But if they typify the sort of greatness to which most of us aspire, then I think we’re in big trouble.

Standing on the podium—arms upraised, basking in the adulation of the crowd—is not supposed to be the measure of greatness for the Christian.

Perhaps a better model of greatness would be the late-night taxi driver, who—after being abused and spat on by six drunken customers in a row—is still able to treat the next one with respect and a welcoming smile.

No one will hang a medal on him for that, and you won’t see him standing next to the prime minister in a newspaper photograph. Even so, I think that such a person has far more to teach us about greatness than all the celebrities and record holders put together.

Whenever we come to the Communion table, we remember our greatest hero: the one who was betrayed and despised and rejected and dishonoured and killed for our sakes.

We remember that, in Jesus, we have encountered the love that sets us free. And—embraced by Christ’s brokenness—we remember ourselves as his body upon the earth: still being broken, still offering ourselves for the life of the world.

Embraced by Christ’s brokenness, we acknowledge once again that—if we stray too far from the Lord’s side—our pretensions to greatness will reassert themselves—along with our propensity for  walking over others. Forgetting who we belong to, we will imagine ourselves to be captains of our own destiny.

Friends, those tendencies are the greatest obstacles to our discipleship.

As the apostle James exhorts us, let us submit ourselves to God; let us allow God’s will to have its way with us. Let us draw near to God, and—once again—let us offer ourselves completely to Christ, who has offered himself completely to us.

“I am no longer my own, but thine. Put me to what thou wilt, rank me with whom thou wilt … I freely and heartily yield all things to thy pleasure and disposal.”

Amen.

TEXT: Mark 13:1-11

And Jesus said: “Do you see these huge buildings? They will certainly be torn down! Not one stone will be left in place.” (Mark 13:2)

I wonder who else overheard this reply of Jesus to his awe-struck disciple.

“Look, Teacher! What large stones and what large buildings!”

“Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down.”

Jesus is speaking about the Temple. The Jerusalem Temple—Israel’s pride. He says it will be desecrated and destroyed.

As we read the gospel accounts, we realize that—although the multitudes at first clamoured to see Jesus, to hear him speak—he lost his following rather quickly, especially near the end of his short career. Most of the people who fought for places near the front of the crowd when Jesus was teaching did so because they thought that he was the Messiah.

Well, they weren’t wrong! But he wasn’t the sort of Messiah they were expecting. They looked for a king of David’s line who would be the kind of military leader David was. They looked for a Messiah who would solve all their problems—who would drive the Romans out of their country, who would improve their economy, who would bring back the “good times.” They expected someone who would “Make Israel Great Again.”

But what they got in Jesus was quite different. When he spoke of the “Kingdom of God” he referred to a kingdom of the heart—one which could be apprehended only by those who could see holiness in the world as it was. Only by those who could see the Christ in the face of a beggar. Only by those who could sense the holiness within each person—even within those whom the good religious people rejected and shunned.

Jesus spoke of a holy kingdom which was deeper than his astonishing deeds, more powerful than his miraculous healings; a kingdom of the heart which was revealed in acts of kindness—and not by jam-packed sanctuaries filled with Sabbath worshippers.

No. This kingdom was about sacrifice, not success.

And here in the 13th chapter of Mark, as Jesus describes in vivid terms the coming destruction which will surely overtake Israel, he even dares to say that the Temple—the Temple of God in holy Jerusalem—is going to be destroyed.

He must have lost some followers that day. Most likely even his closest disciples were shocked. The Temple? Destroyed? Not one stone left upon another? Surely God would never allow such a thing to happen! And if Jesus was truly the Messiah, how could he allow it to happen?

Just as an aside: his words did come true. In 70 A.D., in the course of crushing a rebellion, the Romans did overrun the Temple and destroy it. In fact, they burned the entire city, and the historian Josephus (who may have been an eye-witness) says: “There was left nothing to make those that came thither believe it had ever been inhabited.”

These people loved the Temple. We can imagine how perplexed they must have been. Consider how we might feel if some upstart preacher told us that our magnificent church building was about to be destroyed—and hinted that God would not lift a finger to prevent it.

“We built it as an act of devotion to God!” (Didn’t we?)

“We built it to be a centre for God’s work!” (Didn’t we?)

Yes, I think Jesus must have lost some followers that day. To those who looked for a Messiah who would “fix” everything, who would “save” them from the circumstances they were in, who would restore the “old-time religion” and the “good old days,” Jesus must have been a tremendous disappointment.

I wonder: is he still? Is Jesus still a disappointment to those who equate blessedness with worldly success? Or to those who confuse religious success with the gospel of grace?

And they aren’t the same thing, you know. Success—even the success of a packed church on a Sunday morning—is not the same thing as discipleship.

To those who cry out to Jesus, professing their own righteousness and asking him for personal and financial security, Jesus replies: “Go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come and follow me.” (Mark 10:21)

To those who call upon his name, asking for comfort and ease, and simple answers to all the questions of living, Jesus replies: “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For 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.” (Mark 8:34-35)

To those who come to him wanting him to “fix” their troublesome teenagers, to apply some “tough love” and kick these delinquent kids in the butt, Jesus tells a story about a father who loved his wayward son enough—and trusted God enough—to let the boy learn from his own mistakes.

To those who think a church isn’t successful unless it has a huge music program with a 90-voice choir, a pipe organ and an orchestra to entertain more than 800 worshippers who are present at each of two or even three services on a weekend, Jesus says: “Where two or three of you are gathered together in my name, I am there with you.” (Matthew 18:20)

And to those preoccupied with personal salvation and correct doctrine, who seek to nail down just exactly who is going to heaven and who is not, and who come to Jesus demanding a clear answer, he says: “Where the corpse is, there the vultures will gather.” (Luke 17:37)

I guess the next questions then are these:  “Where is the corpse?” and “Who are the vultures?”

I don’t pretend to know those answers, but I do know this: when vultures are feeding, they do it in a huge crowd—and with great enthusiasm!

Bigger isn’t always better.

Well, what is the message here that’s aimed at us? At we modern folk who gather to worship in Jesus’ name, and say we want to follow him? What does it matter to us if the Temple in Jerusalem was destroyed? Is it anything more than a history lesson?

And why was the Temple destroyed? Why did God allow it?

Jesus doesn’t tell us for sure. And maybe that points out how little he cared for buildings, for shrines, for monuments—even if they have been erected in his Father’s name.

But I wonder if we can draw some inferences from his behavior toward the Temple—or, more correctly, toward the people who frequented it.

In the 11th chapter of Mark (vv. 15-17), we read about how Jesus cleared the Temple of the sellers and the moneychangers. The sellers and the moneychangers, really, were professional fund-raisers for the Temple. Their business was to provide animals for sacrifice, and also the special Temple currency required to purchase them. Jesus objected to them because they had no regard for the poor, and charged exorbitant prices in order to make a bigger profit after the Temple got its cut. The trouble was, they had forgotten whose Temple it was. They’d forgotten that it was God’s Temple—not theirs!

Jesus also had nothing but scorn for the good, respectable religious people who treated with disdain the poor and the afflicted and the sinful. He told stories about a religious man who stood tall in the Temple and boasted of his own righteousness while looking down his nose at the crumpled figure of a penitent sinner kneeling before the altar; about a priest and a Levite who passed by a man who had fallen into the hands of robbers; and about a wealthy man whose large offering was as nothing in God’s eyes when compared to the penny given by a poor widow.

In other words, what Jesus objected to—what he passed harsh judgment upon—was the heartlessness and complacency of those who treated the Temple as if it were a social club for the prosperous. These people, he said, had made the Temple a place where God no longer felt welcome. They had transformed his Father’s house into a den of thieves. They had forgotten what the Temple was for.

I remember once hearing a story about a life-saving society that had been organized in a coastal village to rescue fishermen and others who got into trouble on the unpredictable and often dangerous ocean. In the beginning, the Life-Saving Society was a rag-tag group of poor, rough (perhaps even uncouth), but very brave men. All they had was a single longboat with a set of oars, but they would put all their hearts into the rowing if someone—anyone—was in peril on the sea. They saved many lives, and their heroism became legendary.

As time passed, and the original life-savers became too old for the work, their children took over—and many of them exhibited the same zeal their fathers had. And then a new generation took up the cause, and a new one, and a new one.

But an odd thing happened with the passage of time. As one generation of “life-savers” succeeded another, they gradually began to forget what life-saving meant. Instead of climbing into the longboats and rowing out to rescue at sea, they began to prefer to meet in the clubhouse once a week to discuss the significance of life-saving.

And once they began doing that, they discovered that many, many more people were interested in joining the Life-Saving Society. In fact, so many more people became part of their group that they soon found they had to build a bigger clubhouse.

And because the bigger clubhouse was newer and more attractive than the old boathouse their ancestors had used, they began to attract a much more upscale crowd. “Well-heeled,” you might say.

And that meant that they got so much more revenue from Society dues that very quickly they found they were able to purchase lovely, well-upholstered furniture to make the clubhouse more comfortable; and magnificent artwork to make it more attractive—marvellous paintings and beautiful stained-glass windows, the work of creative masters—which depicted their forefathers bravely venturing out to sea.

And soon they were even prosperous enough to be able to hire motivational speakers—professionals who could talk up a storm about life-saving and reflect upon the metaphor of rescue, and how the stories of those original, brave life-savers could be applied to their own lives (in order to make their own lives better).

It’s hard to say just at what point it was that they gave up actually going out to sea. Maybe it was when they grew fearful of getting their two-hundred-dollar shoes wet. Maybe it was when one of their number actually tried to save someone, and ended up drowning.

Or maybe it was when they got the new sound system and turned it up so loud that they could no longer hear the cries of those who were being tossed upon the waves of the turbulent ocean outside the clubhouse.

But they did give up life-saving. In fact, they forgot about it altogether.

God forbid that such a thing should ever happen to us!

Whenever believers turn themselves inward, they run the risk of turning their backs upon the gospel. Whenever we become preoccupied with a physical plant, with decorum, with our own comfort, we risk losing our enthusiasm for spreading the Good News into the world. Yet that is what Jesus calls us to do.

There are those who tell me that I don’t challenge people often enough—or forcefully enough—in my sermons. I am amazed that anyone can ever find anything challenging in a sermon. To me, it is not words, but actions, which challenge. Talk really is the cheapest thing.

And so, what I offer to the church today is a call to action. And the action I’m proposing takes place out there—out on that stormy ocean which is the world outside our comfortable clubhouse. Out there, people are being tossed about, and capsized, and drowned. There are still heroes out there, trying to do something about it. And they need your help—yours and mine.

So, here’s a challenge for all of us: will we be content to sit in the Temple, or will we go out … there … where Jesus is?

May God grant us courage and wisdom as we make the hard choices of faith.