Dear friends,
Today’s worship service, in its entirety, may be viewed here:
If you watch the entire thing, you’ll hear me reading my letter of resignation as pastor of Glenwood and Canoe Ridge Lutheran Churches. I will begin a new call as Interim Director of Contextual Education at Wartburg Theological Seminary on October 18. This is an incredibly bittersweet time. I’m not sure how much blogging I’ll be doing as I work through this transition. Thank you for your prayers for me, for Wartburg, and for the beloved people here at Glenwood and Canoe Ridge as God leads us all into a future with hope.
If you’d prefer to listen to only the gospel reading and sermon, you may do so here:
Today’s sermon is based on Mark 9:30-37.
30[Jesus and the disciples went on] and passed through Galilee. He did not want anyone to know it;31for he was teaching his disciples, saying to them, “The Son of Man is to be betrayed into human hands, and they will kill him, and three days after being killed, he will rise again.” 32But they did not understand what he was saying and were afraid to ask him.
33Then they came to Capernaum; and when he was in the house he asked them, “What were you arguing about on the way?” 34But they were silent, for on the way they had argued with one another who was the greatest. 35He sat down, called the twelve, and said to them, “Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all.” 36Then he took a little child and put it among them; and taking it in his arms, he said to them, 37“Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me.”
Beloved of God, grace and peace to you in the name of Jesus. Amen.
They did not understand what he was saying and were afraid to ask him.
What’s not to understand?
This is the second time Jesus has clearly spoken of his coming death and resurrection. The what is pretty straightforward. The Son of Man is to be betrayed into human hands, and they will kill him, and three days after being killed, he will rise again.
The first time Jesus talked about this, Peter actually took Jesus aside and began to rebuke him. The news was too painful, too impossible to imagine. Surely Jesus had gotten this part wrong. But, I imagine much to Peter’s chagrin, Jesus rebuked him and then went on to say some pretty difficult things to his disciples: 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.
Now, suddenly, this predicted suffering and death—and rising again—isn’t just about Jesus. Somehow, this is about all of them, this community of Jesus followers, called together at his invitation and held together by his love. If they, too, are called to take up their crosses…to lose their lives for the sake of the gospel…what will it mean for them when Jesus is betrayed and killed? What will it mean for them when he rises again?
Is this what they didn’t understand and what they were too scared to ask? What does this mean for me?
Or maybe they really just wanted to ask not what, but why? Why now? Why at all? Why not an easier way? Why not be the kind of messiah we had hoped for, one who would wield power and strength and make things right? One who would stand up to our enemies? One who would fight?
Afraid to ask Jesus what they most need to understand, they turn instead to arguing with one another about who is the greatest.
At first glance, it seems ridiculous that in the face of Jesus’ coming suffering and death, his disciples would be concerned about who among them was the best. But are we really so different?
When we’re faced with something we can’t understand, how often does our fear and frustration come out sideways instead of actually confronting the real issue?
When we’re feeling insecure, how often do we compete for power—shoring up our defenses—instead of facing our fears directly?
When we’re overwhelmed by loss, how often do we do anything we can to avoid that pain, to change the subject, to not feel our feelings, to search for a shortcut, an easier way that simply does not exist?
If the disciples turned to arguing about who among them was greatest, they didn’t have to think about the pain they were about to endure; they didn’t have to confront Jesus with their anger and frustration, but could attack one another instead; they didn’t have to trust something they couldn’t begin to imagine—that Jesus would somehow rise again—but could instead rely on what they knew: their own strength, their own power, their own capacity, their own greatness.
Though they won’t admit to Jesus what they were arguing about, Jesus knows…and he refuses to leave them where they are. He tells them, Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all. Then he takes a little child—powerless and vulnerable—and puts it among them. Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me.
Debie Thomas writes: A young child is the very picture of vulnerability. In some cultures, children are socially invisible. In others, they’re legally unprotected. Here in the United States, children routinely suffer the catastrophic effects of lax gun laws, cruel immigration policies, unaffordable healthcare, underfunded schools, and racist violence. In all cultures, children are at the mercy of those who are older, bigger, and stronger than they are.
And yet this — this shocking portrait of powerlessness— is the portrait Jesus offers of God. In the divine economy, power and prestige accrue as we consent to be little, to be vulnerable, to be invisible, to be low. We gain greatness not by muscling others out of our way, but by serving them, empathizing with them, and sacrificing ourselves for their well-being. Whatever human hierarchies and rankings we cling to, Jesus upends them all as he holds a tiny child in his arms…One of the most central and amazing truths about Christianity is that God became a helpless human infant. In this week’s Gospel story, Jesus underscores that stunning truth with another: all children represent God’s heart, God’s likeness, God’s power. To welcome a child is to welcome the divine. To cultivate childlikeness is to cultivate godliness. To choose vulnerability is to be great in the kingdom of God.
What would choosing vulnerability have looked like for the disciples that day?
1) Asking Jesus the questions that were on their hearts. Not being afraid to ask, even if asking revealed something about how truly devastated they were by the idea that Jesus was facing death. Not being afraid to ask, even if asking revealed how fearful they were for themselves.
2) Speaking openly of their fears, praying for God to provide for them, instead of relying on their own strength and power.
3) Staying with the pain and the hard feelings, going through the grief instead of looking for a shortcut around it.
Every time Jesus predicted his suffering and death, he never stopped there. The end was always his rising. That is the end that awaits us too. Joined with Christ, we rise. Fully relying on God, we rise. Not by our own power, we rise. Held securely by God, we rise. With gentleness born of wisdom, we rise. With the courage of Christ, we rise. Out of the depths of loss, we rise. Amen.
Read Debie Thomas’ entire article here: https://www.journeywithjesus.net/