Perfect Submission

James 3:13-4:3, 7-8    

Mark 9:30-37     

Sometimes, when I read certain gospel passages, I think about a young Chinese woman I knew several years ago. She was a student where I was serving as campus minister. She started coming to me because she was interested in Christianity. So we began getting together to read the gospels. One day as we were working our way through a passage, she stopped reading and looked at me with this perplexed expression on her face and asked, “Why did he say that?”

I felt kind of stupid then, because I didn’t know. In fact, I was surprised at her surprise, because I had never thought about why he said what he said. I am embarrassed to say that I didn’t have anything like a good answer for her. But she got me thinking about how profoundly strange the gospel is.

It is strange – and we have to realize that the disciples must have looked as perplexed as my Chinese friend did when Jesus said 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.” Yet, although they didn’t understand, they were afraid to ask.

Why were they afraid to ask?

I have been asking this question this past week. I have heard two likely reasons. One is that they were afraid because they didn’t want to admit their ignorance. They would be ashamed to admit they didn’t understand. Because then someone might call them stupid, and who wants to be called stupid? No one. We are more offended by being called stupid than if we were charged with any of the seven deadly sins, so it is quite likely that the disciples wished to avoid appearing dull or ignorant. But there might have been another reason, too.

Perhaps they were afraid that what he was saying was true. Perhaps they didn’t fully understand it but they understood enough to know that what he was saying didn’t sound good to them. or easy. Or fun. Perhaps they were afraid of knowing more.

Now, that is very human, isn’t it? They understood enough to know that this was not something they wanted to understand.

But as they continued on their walk, they lagged behind Jesus. Probably by intent. It wouldn’t be all that surprising if they wanted, at this moment, to put some distance between themselves and him. After all, he has just said something very off-putting.

And while they walked, they talked among themselves. About what? Were they talking about the things Jesus had been teaching them? Were they talking about these strange things he had said and what they could possibly mean? Nope. They were talking about their comparative greatness.

I could spend a lot of time marveling at how the disciples went, in a matter of minutes, from being afraid to ask him what he meant to arguing about which of them was the greatest. It’s laughable, isn’t it? How do you go from being an ignorant fool who is afraid to acknowledge his ignorance to asserting you are the greatest?

I’ll tell you what I think. It is fear that does it. Fear can make us grasping, selfish, avaricious people.

There is a character that captures this phenomenon well in Jane Smiley’s novel, The Greenlanders. This is a story about the men and women who lived in Greenland in the 14^th century.

This was a cold and inhospitable place, far away from the rest of the inhabited world. I have read that the early Viking settlers named the place Greenland in the hopes that it would attract many more settlers, settlers who would discover when they got there that, in reality, it was not very green.

The winters in Greenland were long and harsh, such that the primary concern for these settlers was having enough food to survive until spring. When the snow began to fall, they led the cows and sheep indoors. When the spring arrived, they carried the animals back outside, because they were too weak to walk.

There are stories of the stronger, healthier men making the rounds of the settlements in the late winter to check on the others. They sometimes found whole households had taken to their beds, even lying on top of one another to stay warm. These families had run out of food and fuel, and merely hoped to sleep until spring – and then, hopefully, awaken.

During one terrible winter, the priest was making the rounds. He came to the home of a woman named Vigdis. He opened her door without knocking and was stunned by what he saw. Vigdis was standing at a table cutting meat and stuffing food into her mouth. She was, in fact, surrounded by food – cheeses, hanging birds, sealmeat and blubber, vats of sourmilk. She was enormously fat, fatter than he had ever seen her before. Smiley wrote that the priest “saw at once that she had responded to the hunger of the settlement by consuming and consuming without cease.”

She had been hoarding food ­– probably for ten years. As the people around her were starving to death she was growing ever more gluttonous. As men and women were vanishing to skin and bones, as parents were burying their children who died of starvation, Vigdis was growing fatter and fatter. She was killing her neighbors with her greed. The men who worked for her were willing to turn a blind eye because she gave them enough food for their families to survive.

The title of this chapter of the book is “The Devil.”

Fear can make us grasp in some unbecoming ways. And it was very likely fear at work among the disciples – fear that the one who was leading them, Jesus, was walking into a deadly trap – which drew them into a boasting contest about who was the greatest. They had already heard him say that, to be his followers, they would need to deny themselves. They had heard him say that they would need to take up their cross and follow him.

They had also seen him in all his transfigured glory, earlier in this same chapter, when he ascended the mountain and was lit by a brightness that was almost blinding, when Moses and Elijah appeared at his side. They had seen the power and the glory, and they had been told about the suffering and submission. They did not care to see how these things would be reconciled with each other.

The disciples did not like the idea of suffering and obedience unto death any more than we like this idea. We prefer the easy path, although we admire Jesus for taking the harder path. In contrast to these first disciples, we have actually grown quite comfortable with the notion of Jesus’ suffering. But we are still no different from them when it comes to comprehending what it means to follow him.

“Who is wise and understanding among you?” This is the question James asks us in his epistle. Or, as the disciples might ask, “Who is the greatest?”

It is not the ones who are most boastful. Nor is it the ones who are grasping, selfish, greedy. This is, James says, earthly, unspiritual, even devilish wisdom.

When we are confronted with the invitation to submit our wills and our bodies to God’s will, we are more likely to display some of that devilish wisdom and grasp for whatever we can get our hands on – like Vigdis hoarding food, like the disciples jostling for the position on top. The more we feel threatened, the more we will grasp. Fear and insecurity never drive good leadership or lead to greatness.

On the contrary, James would say, submission to God is born of that pure wisdom from above, which yields gentleness, mercy, and peace. In this paradox of strength and submission, suffering and glory, we find salvation. Or, as Fanny Crosby put it in her beloved hymn,

Perfect submission, all is at rest,

I in my Savior am happy and blest,

Watching and waiting, looking above,

Filled with his goodness, lost in his love.[i]

May you be a follower of Jesus, wherever he leads you. May you seek not to be the first, but to submit to God’s wisdom, may you find your rest in him.

Photo: Gluttony knows no limits. Portrayal of the Seven Deadly Sins on the Palazzo Ducale in Venice. By Giovanni Dall'Orto - Own work, Attribution, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=4787886

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[i] Blessed Assurance, Jesus Is Mine!

How to Follow Jesus

Mark 8:27-38     

I have a small collection of crosses in my office, made of a variety of different kinds of material – wire, ceramic, clay, wood, glass. There is one that is a souvenir from Sacre Coeur Basilica in Paris; one is a souvenir from Mo-Ranch, the Presbyterian conference center in the Texas Hill Country. One was given to me by a man I met at a youth workcamp; he carved them out of purple heart wood and gave one to each of the chaperones. I have one that I made out of pieces of cut glass fused together. They are all beautiful.

To say the cross is beautiful – this is something no one would have said back in the first century. We have mostly forgotten that the cross was an instrument of torture, a gruesome form of capital punishment. The cross doesn’t have the same impact today as it used to. We wear crosses made of beautiful gold and silver, some with precious gems mounted on them. In our homes and in the church, we display crosses of smoothed, stained, and polished wood and shiny brass. They are beautiful; they are works of art.

The singer Madonna made the cross into a fashion craze back in the eighties. Every teenage girl of any faith, or no faith, wanted one. Someone told me, back then, about some girls shopping for crosses who asked the store clerk, “Do you have any of those kind with the little man on them?”

Well, we roll our eyes at these foolish girls who don’t know what a crucifix is, who don’t even know who that little man is or what he’s doing on the cross. How can they be so ignorant? In fact, we roll our eyes impatiently at Peter and the other disciples, too. What is the matter with them? How could they not understand what Jesus is saying to them? Take up your cross and follow me – don’t they know what he is all about?

About twenty years ago Ben Affleck and Matt Damon made a film called Dogma, a satire about the church. The Catholic League didn’t think it was funny; they declared it blasphemous. Affleck and Damon play two fallen angels who are trying to get back into heaven by exploiting a loophole in church law, or, dogma. 

George Carlin plays a cardinal in New Jersey who decides the crucifix – you know, the cross with the little man on it – is just too much of a downer. So he decides to rebrand his church to create a more uplifting, feel-good message: he takes Jesus down off the cross and creates this new icon, a brand new Jesus, for his church – a cartoony-looking guy with a big toothy grin giving a thumbs up and a wink. Really. It’s called Buddy Christ. 

The cardinal turns the entire message of the gospel upside down, because, you know, it’s depressing. Now it’s a message of good times, prosperity, living your best life now. 

No more “take up your cross and follow me.” Replace that with “God just wants you to be happy.” It’s tempting, is it not? 

I have to admit, it’s tempting. Because taking up my cross sounds like hard work, possibly quite painful.

I know it shouldn’t be such a problem, the idea of pain, because millions of people go to the gym every day to willingly inflict pain on themselves. But somehow it is a problem. Not too many people want to take up their crosses and follow him.

And I daresay that Peter and the other disciples felt that way too. None of them wanted to follow Jesus this way! Take up your cross? No one in their right mind would willingly submit to the cross of the Romans. It was ugly, it was brutal, it was the worst kind of death imaginable. 

Can we blame Peter for taking Jesus aside to speak with him privately, not wanting to be seen as disrespectful toward him, but sincerely worried that Jesus was sending the wrong message? The cross! This would be seriously discouraging to any potential followers.

The message of the cross is a tough message. I don’t need to tell you that.

And they struggled with it, as we struggle with it; because we know, and they knew, the beautiful things that Jesus preached and taught and did. He healed. He demonstrated compassion. It was beautiful. And he did it not just for his friends, not just for people who were in his group, people who were like him. He had compassion for even the outcasts, even the “sinners.” His inclusivity was beautiful. 

His disciples should have known this better than most, because among them were some of those “sinners.” Matthew, a tax collector, considered unclean and borderline acceptable by his own people due to the nature of his work. Yet Jesus called him, saying “follow me.” He was included; he was loved. It was great, wasn’t it?

Yes, they were bewildered; yes, they were continually surprised by the turns Jesus would take, the answers he would give to the Pharisees. They were surprised, no doubt, by the company he would keep. At every turn, they were surprised by him. But it was beautiful, wasn’t it? The things he did? So beautiful, in fact, they couldn’t see the inevitable path it would take toward the cross.

They chose to follow Jesus, I suppose, because they could do no other. Even now, at this moment when he draws a line in the sand saying, “On this side, the cross. If you want to follow me, come over here. Make up your minds.” And they still followed him.

I’m not sure they yet understood what he meant by that. Don’t we still struggle to understand what it means to take up our cross? What is your cross? What is my cross?

It isn’t just the sufferings of daily life, which we all have. We all know the sufferings of living in these mortal bodies with aches and pains and fatigue. And we know the emotional suffering that seems to be part and parcel of being in relationships with other people. These are just in the nature of human life on earth.

I think there is more meaning in the notion of taking up your cross and following Jesus. For his suffering, his sacrifice, was not without meaning or purpose.

Jesus drew a line in the sand that day when he told the disciples what it would be like to follow him. But there were, perhaps, other times when Jesus crossed over the lines that others had drawn, which tell us something more about what this means – to take up your cross. 

He broke rules. He crossed lines that religion had drawn and went over to stand beside the lepers, the tax collectors, the gentiles. He crossed lines that the world had drawn when he spoke of overturning the order of things – the last shall be first and the first shall be last. 

The world still draws these lines. And here is something that is as true today as it was then: the world does not smile on those who cross the lines.

To stand with the poor, the drug-addicted, the homeless, the refugees, the prisoners. To show compassion for the downtrodden, the least of these who are Jesus’ brothers and sisters. 

To stand where Jesus stands. Take up your cross and follow him.

“If any want to become my followers,” Jesus says. This is the way you will go. You might not be in the popular crowd. You won’t join the others in scoffing at the dirty guy who lives under the bridge. You won’t remain silent while the others are condemning whole races or ethnic groups as criminals or condemning anyone because of their skin color or gender or religion or sexual orientation. You won't , because you will recognize the humanity they share with you.

You, like Jesus, will be scorned for your actions, for doing the unpopular thing.

If any want to become my followers, Jesus says. You will separate yourself, stand apart, from those who are in it for self-gain – whether it be material profit or just being well-liked. You will push back against those who would put stumbling blocks before the least of God’s children – the weakest, the neediest, the most vulnerable. 

This is your cross: to do justice, love mercy, walk humbly with your God.

It is beautiful, isn’t it?

Photo: A cross at Faith Presbyterian Church, Huber Heights, OH. It's made out of our broken things. 

Learning Compassion

Mark 7:24-37     

So Jesus is on his way to Tyre, but he is coming from Galilee where he has been trolled, you might say, by Pharisees. They have been following him around, apparently looking for opportunities to criticize him. Of course, they found one: uncouth table habits. Apparently, they didn’t wash their hands before eating. No doubt, they ate with their hands, so it is a little bit gross. But it was not so much hygiene that the Pharisees are worried about, it’s protocol. Their chief complaint is that Jesus and his disciples don’t follow the tradition of the elders, a ritual hand washing.

I don’t know if Jesus had a beef with this particular tradition. But what bugs him is their hypocrisy. The way they abandon the commandment of God and hold on to human tradition. God did not say, “wash your hands.” That was your mother.

So, while washing your hands is a nice thing, Jesus feels that it is being used as a stand-in for the more important, more challenging things that God actually does command. It’s easy to wash your hands; it’s a lot harder, say, to love your enemies, forgive those who harm you, heal broken spirits, welcome the sinner. If all it took to be a Christian was to wash your hands, sermons would be a lot shorter.

I suspect that Jesus neglected to wash his hands on-purpose, just so he could have this conversation.

He takes the opportunity to tell the Pharisees, and everyone else listening in, nothing outside of you can defile you. It doesn’t matter how you eat or what you eat. It is what comes out of you that defiles you. Particularly, what comes from your heart.

So, just like that, he declares all foods kosher. No problem. Eat whatever you want. God doesn’t care what goes in your mouth; it is what is in your heart that really matters.

Then he takes off, leaving them with this new idea to chew on. And he goes to the region of Tyre. Tyre is in Syria. This is a non-Jewish area, so the people Jesus will encounter here are gentiles.

Right away, a gentile woman approaches him. She is Syrophoenician, meaning she is Greek culturally, of Syrian ethnicity. She is not at all Jewish.

And she approaches him because her daughter is suffering. She has an unclean spirit, a demon. This child is possessed by evil.

Now, we don’t usually talk about being possessed by spirits, or demons, or evil. But even though we don’t use these terms, we ought to be able to understand these problems. When you hear that she was possessed by an unclean spirit you may suppose she is suffering from a severe mental or physical illness. It doesn’t really matter what it is. A sickness that has no known cure or treatment, that causes nothing but unrelenting suffering, can certainly seem evil.

And the suffering is equally intense for Jews and gentiles alike.

But this is a gentile woman. In a gentile land. Jesus is out of his area code. Why he went there, I don’t know. Mark offers no explanation. But he does, and word about him and the amazing things he does has spread this far. And this mother doesn’t let tradition or custom stop her from approaching him because her daughter’s life is at stake. She bowed before him – stopping him in his tracks – and she begged him to heal her daughter.

She has cast off her dignity, she has put her body on the line, taking the chance that she will be brutally thrown aside. And she begs him for mercy.

And the Jesus we know and love – what do we think he would do? He would look at her with kindness. He would go down on one knee to get at eye level with her and tell her she matters, her daughter matters. And he would follow her back to her house, lay hands on this girl and bring peace to her body and soul. This is the Jesus we know and worship and love.

But that is not what he did.

He looked at her and said, “I’m not gonna throw the children’s food to the dogs.”

There is so much packed in that response. It says I am here for the children of Israel, God’s chosen ones. I am not here for you. It says they are special and you are the opposite of special. It says you are lower than a human being – you are a dog, and I don’t mean a pet chihuahua.  I mean a dirty dog.

And we just can’t believe he said it. We can’t believe he would be so cruel.

Everything about this exchange says that he just wants her to go away. You would expect her to skulk off quietly, begging forgiveness for the trouble.

Yet, she surprises us – about as much as Jesus surprised us with his words – when she says –

Yes, but even the dogs get to eat the children’s crumbs.

This woman knows what she needs. She musters up the courage to push for it. She bets that even though she won’t be first in line, she might be second. She takes a chance that there is more than enough mercy for even the dogs that sit under the table waiting for crumbs to fall.

She is amazing in her boldness, her persistence in asking for what she needs. And Jesus is amazing in his response.

When we say about Jesus that he was human in every way, we should believe that he was human in this way too – that he might make a mistake. And when we say that he was without sin, we might mean that he was willing and able to correct his mistakes. That alone is quite enough, and it is much more than you could say about many of us much of the time. Jesus, holding at the same time both human and divine natures, was on a learning curve.

Having just schooled the Pharisees about God’s law versus human tradition on the matter of food, he now gets schooled by a Syrophoenician woman about God’s law versus human tradition on the matter of people. Yes, Jesus was sent to the children of Israel, but God’s grace doesn’t end there. And confronted with this truth, Jesus says Yes.

After leaving Tyre, he journeys in the region of the Decapolis, another gentile area, and he is presented with a man who is deaf and unable to speak. Again, a gentile. This time, he says nothing about dogs, nothing about who is worth his time, but he simply takes this man in hand and heals him.

Later on, in the next chapter, Jesus is teaching great crowds of people, still in the gentile regions. And he turns to his disciples and says to them, I have compassion for them. All of them.

Compassion is something that we have to learn. Even Jesus learned it, and quite possibly he learned it from a Syrophoenician woman who wasn’t wiser than he was – she just needed her daughter to be made well.

We learn by experience, through our encounters with others, if we allow ourselves to learn, just as Jesus did.

We learn that our shared humanity makes us one family, even if our languages and customs and religious practices are different.

We learn that loving others in the manner God loves us involves giving much more than demanding. And in giving, we become the model of Christlike love. In giving, the way Jesus gave, we show the world the love God has for them.

Compassion is the good news. Compassion is the mission. And here is the message for you and me:

Be like the Syrophoenician woman and stand up courageously for what is good and right. Stand up for yourself and stand up for others who need you to.

Be like Jesus who changes course when he sees that his initial response was wrong. Believe me, if Jesus is not too proud to correct himself, neither should you and I be.

Be compassionate, as Jesus is compassionate. Putting yourself in someone else’s shoes. Asking yourself how you would want to be treated in that same situation. Pushing aside preconceptions about “these kind of people” for the sake of better understanding the flesh and blood person before you.

Learn compassion. Now is a good day to begin.