“[Jesus] 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.’  [The disciples] did not understand what [Jesus] was saying and they were afraid to ask him.”

             “They did not understand . . . they were afraid to ask.” 

             You have to wonder . . . What didn’t the disciples understand?  What part didn’t they get?  “Jesus will be betrayed? He will be killed? He will be raised?”  What’s not to get?  We get it, don’t we?  I mean, we say it every week and have for two-thousand years—“I believe in Jesus, crucified, dead, and buried . . . on the third day he rose again.”  What’s not to get? 

In one form or another, we affirm the center of Christian faith every Sunday—Jesus was crucified and rose from the dead.  What’s not to understand? It’s obvious to us that Jesus must die, that he must be handed over.  Wasn’t that all part of God’s plan?  “They did not understand  . . . and were afraid to ask.”

“There are no dumb questions.”  We tell students that. In the spirit of open enquiry, teachers tell their students: “Ask whatever you want, there are no dumb questions.”  We want classrooms to be open. I know I do. We want students to feel free to ask anything. “There are no dumb questions.”

At dinner last weekend, Rodger Nishioka begged to differ. Rodger was talking about his graduate students at Columbia Seminary. Graduate students are supposed to be smart.  Now Rodger believes in open enquiry.  I know he does.  He’s a wonderful teacher.  He believes in an open classroom. We experienced his gift for teaching last Sunday.  Rodger said his students ask dumb questions all of the time. Rodger of course was playing when he said that, but it’s true.  We ask dumb questions. 

I suspect the disciples were afraid to ask their dumb question not because they were dense or because Jesus had a rule about stupid questions but because they knew perfectly well what Jesus would answer and they didn’t want to hear it.  No one does. I sure don’t.  I like things the way they are.  Life needs, well, life needs social order. 

I don’t think it’s happenstance that the disciples get caught talking about greatness when Jesus is talking about a cross.  And the disciples weren’t just talking about greatness.  They were arguing about it.  They were bickering.  Jesus talks about a cross and the disciples bicker about social order. 

It’s an important question, is it not?  Somebody’s got to be in charge. Somebody’s got to be “great.”  Who’s going to be in charge?  Who’s going to be “great?”  We don’t want anarchy. And if we’re not organized, if we’re not ranked, we’re subject to all kinds of nastiness from rivals.  This is no matter of small importance.  Our airwaves are chock full of political discourse.  “Who’s the greatest?”  Politicians aren’t alone. Companies ask that question, universities, businesses, families even, marriage, friendship, “Who is the greatest?”

 

“What were you arguing about on the way?”

They had been caught, hadn’t they? It’s bad to get caught.  When you get caught, you don’t have anything to say for yourself.  And the disciples didn’t.  Their silence speaks volumes.  Some times when we’re wrong, we at least pretend and put up a fight.  But when you’re dead wrong, that’s another thing. “Uh, what were you guys arguing about back there on the road?”

“They were silent.” 

The disciples are not stupid.  They knew they shouldn’t have been arguing about greatness. They had been with Jesus long enough to know better, which is why they also “got” what he said about the cross—only they didn’t want to hear it.  The message of the cross is hard to hear.  Of course we’ve sanitized it.  We’ve made it into a doctrine, a “plan of salvation,” a form of worship even. We’ve crucified Jesus between candles on an altar and written sappy tunes about the one who died for me—you know the songs you hear on Christian radio—my boyfriend Jesus songs.  

Jesus wasn’t crucified between candles on an altar but between thieves on a cross.  And he didn’t die just so we feel all gooey when we sin. Jesus died to change us. Jesus died to change the world. 

 

Jesus sat down and called the twelve. 

I suppose Jesus could have scolded them: “How many times do I have to tell you guys? When will you ever learn?” But he doesn’t do that. Instead he tells them, “Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all.”  Then Jesus grabbed a sermon illustration—he took a child in his arms—“Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me.”

This morning we’re welcoming a child. Margaret Otts will be baptized. In just a few minutes, we’re going to welcome her in Jesus’ name.  No competition there, no ranking.  I’d say holding a baby is good medicine for anyone worried about greatness—particularly those worried enough to argue about it.  Hold a child. Take a child in your arms. Try it some time when you’re worried about greatness.

Maybe the National Security Council needs to hold children in their arms when they meet.  Do you think a child would help Ahmadinejad or Kim Jong-il?  How differently would foreign policy decisions be if we held children when we made them?  Or the next time you get into a fight at home—grab the nearest child and see how long your fight lasts.  You can’t hold onto a child and fight. It simply can’t be done. When you welcome children into your life, you’re welcoming Jesus and when you welcome Jesus, you welcome God. 

Here’s the thing: you can’t hold on to greatness while holding onto a child.  You must choose.  You’ve got to drop one or the other—your greatness or God’s welcome.  The cross is difficult.  We get it, but we don’t want to.  We’d rather have our cake and eat it too.

 

“Say there, Jesus, we saw this guy down the street.  He wasn’t a Presbyterian. In fact, I don’t even think he was a Christian. But he was using your name.  He was doing good; but he wasn’t in our group. He wasn’t following us, but he used your name.  What about him, Jesus? Don’t boundaries matter? Shouldn’t we be worried about social order, order in the court, order in the church?  Surely greatness demands that we observe boundaries.” 

Jesus doesn’t exactly say to John, “Mind your own business,” but he comes close.  “Don’t stop him,” said Jesus, “for no one who does a deed of power in my name will be able soon afterward to speak evil of me. Whoever is not against us is for us.” 

Greatness and exclusivity go hand in hand. If I’m great, I entertain no rivals.  Greatness does not countenance competition.  Jesus, meanwhile, is remarkably open to competition, not just from those who do acts of liberation in his name but also to those who welcome disciples in his name: “Truly I tell you, whoever gives you a cup of water because you bear the name of Christ will by no means lose the reward.” 

Followers of the Crucified need not concern themselves with who’s in and who’s out.  Questions about “those people who don’t believe in Jesus” are not our concern.  Our concern is this house: “If you put a stumbling block before one of these little ones who believe in me,” says Jesus, “it would be better for you if a great millstone were hung around your neck and you were thrown into the sea.”

 

“Little ones to him belong.”  We know who the “little ones” are . . . children to be sure.  Most likely anyone between the ages of birth and 19.  Little ones are children and youth, but also those young in faith, or new to faith.  In either case, little ones are impressionable. Little ones keep tabs. They’re watching, observing, taking us in. 

What do your little ones see when nobody’s watching you, when no one’s listening?  What do they hear?  What do they see you putting in your mouth? What do they hear coming out of your mouth?  Little ones learn what they live. We all know that. 

“Little ones to him belong.”  What are your little ones living?  What do they see you doing?  “If you cause one of these little ones to stumble—well, it would be better if you drown yourself in the sea.” 

Followers of the Crucified bear an awesome responsibility for little ones.  Richard and Lindsay are making vows this morning to set before Margaret an example of Christ and to raise her in the church. And church, we too are making vows—to support Richard and Lindsay and all parents as they seek to nurture their children.  It is no small thing we do.  We’re not just “doing a baptism.”  We’re making a pledge, a promise—“I’m not going to make this little one stumble. I’m going to do everything in my power to see that this little one is raised right.”

 

So, where does that begin?  It begins when we put our own lives in order.  “If your hand causes you to stumble, cut it off. . . If your foot causes you to stumble, cut it off. . . If your eye causes you to stumble, tear it out . . . better to enter the kingdom of God with one eye than to have two eyes and be thrown into hell, where the worm never dies, and the fire is never quenched.”

Presbyterians don’t believe in hell, do they?  I mean, really, isn’t that a Baptist thing?

 Gehenna, which is Mark’s word for hell (and this is the only place he uses the word in his gospel) was a transliteration of an Aramaic word.  Jesus spoke Aramaic.  Gehenna or the Valley of Hinnom was Jerusalem’s garbage dump. Long ago it had been associated with child sacrifice. The bodies of criminals were dumped there.  Fires burned there continually.  All in all it was a nasty, stinking place you didn’t want to go. So, Jesus says, better to cut off what causes you to stumble than to end up in the garbage dump.

I’d say that’s putting it down where the cows can get it, wouldn’t you?  “If you want to keep little ones from stumbling, first clean up your own act. Get rid of those habits that keep you from the life God wants for you.  If you’re in a toxic relationship, get out. If you’ve got a toxic habit, give it up. How can you lead little ones if you can’t lead yourself?”  There are consequences to our actions and inaction.

“Everyone,” says Jesus, “will be salted with fire.” 

God is in the refining business. God turns up the heat so we turn out right.  God refines us—sometimes, if necessary, with fire.  We learn from testing.  Sometimes we have to be “burned” before we grow up. So, it’s also the case that we can lose our distinctive character as followers of Jesus if we grow lax or, in the vernacular of Jesus, if we lose our saltiness.   

Salt today doesn’t do that.  Sodium chloride is sodium chloride. But salt in Jesus day came from the Dead Sea and it contained impurities—chalk mainly.  So, the sodium chloride could leach out and once that happens how are you going to make it “salty” again?  Well, you couldn’t.

We don’t live in a vacuum. When we don’t surround our lives with good things and good people and good practices, we run the risk of losing not only our character but ourselves.  Maintaining the character of the Crucified doesn’t come on the cheap.  It requires choices, some of them difficult. It requires discipline because we’re prone to wander. So “have salt in yourselves, and be at peace with one another.”  Amen.