More Than Us

Mark 9:38-41
September 29, 2024
William G. Carter

John said to him, ‘Teacher, we saw someone casting out demons in your name, and we tried to stop him, because he was not following us.’ But Jesus said, ‘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. Whoever is not against us is for us. For 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.

It was an interview, almost 75 years ago, back when television was young. They put a poet on CBS News and asked him to sit for an interview. The poet was no ordinary wordsmith. It was Carl Sandburg, three-time winner of the Pulitzer Prize. He was a man who loved words, who juggled words, and who adjudicated words. 

Edward R. Murrow was the interviewer, an ever-present Camel cigarette in his hand. After a bit of small talk about Sandburg’s work, Murrow gave him this question: what is the ugliest word in the English language? Sandburg looked him over, then started working over the question. “The ugliest word, what’s the ugliest word?” He rolled the question over his tongue. “Ugliest? Ugliest word? Hmm…the ugliest word.”

Then, rather abruptly, he gave his answer. “The ugliest word is exclusive.”

Edward R. Murrow blew a bit of cigarette smoke, then asked the question, “Why? What makes that the ugliest words?” The reply: “That word ‘exclusive’ shuts out a large portion of humanity from your mind and heart.”

It is a word that has often been used to make people feel special. We live in an exclusive community. We vacation in an exclusive resort. We are inducted in an exclusive society. We are offered an exclusive deal. We worship in an exclusive church. It’s not so ugly if you are one of the insiders, if you count yourself among the brightest and the best, the richest and the most privileged. You might be tempted to boast, “I am a member of an exclusive club.”

Yet, that, precisely that, is why the poet named it the ugliest word. Because it separates you from the rank and file. It presumes to lift you above everybody else.”

And the disciples announced to Jesus, “We saw an exorcist out there, healing in your name. We told him to stop because he was not following us.”

Last week, we overheard the twelve of them bickering over which one of them was the greatest. Which one was superior? Which one of them was most faithful, most loving, most generous, and most handsome – to say of most humble? Jesus took them off at the knees, declaring the greatest would be the one who serves everybody else. He punctured their view of competition. You cannot be a follower of Jesus if you are obsessed with superiority.

Today, it is their notion of exclusivity that Jesus takes on. John the disciple, one of the inner circle from Galilee, boasts with pride about what he has done. “Teacher,” he says, “we saw an exorcist who didn’t have a union card. He was casting out demons in your name, but he wasn’t following us. We told him to stop!” In other words, John thinks he himself belongs to the only show in town.

Now, we know Jesus is going to take him on. Redirect him. But Jesus is simply gracious. He chastises the opinion by speaking to the best capacity within his own misguided followers. The Lord says, “Don’t stop him. Anybody who does a deed of power in my name will be unable to speak evil of me.”

Then he cuts to the chase: “Who’s not against us is for us.” That unnamed exorcist wandering around out there by himself is really part of a bigger work. Imagine that: that there might be people out there who are doing the same work and pursuing the same purposes. In fact, we are already on the same team. Call it “Team Jesus.”

I like that word “team.” I am old enough to remember when churches worked together on matters of common concern. The two high rise apartments in our town began when religious leaders agreed that our senior citizens on limited incomes needed affordable housing in this community. The pastors worked together; the churches worked together. Can you imagine everybody working together?

These days, so many churches are struggling even to keep their doors open, so they find themselves obsessed with survival. Some are so anxious they steal sheep from other flocks and call it “evangelism.” Or they profess to be the only true believers, declaring in word and deed, “We are the only show in town.”

There is an alternative. Jesus hints at it. You know what it is. It’s called teamwork. What do we know about teamwork?

Somebody asked me the other day about teamwork. What was my experience of sports, and being on a team? Well, I played high school football for three seasons. Actually, I sat on the bench for two and a half seasons, while the superstars were out on the field. The coach put me in for a game in the third season. He was desperate. First play of the game, I was triple-teamed, and they carried me off the field with a ruptured knee. So much for my sports career.

But teamwork, what is it look like? At our best, we see it all the time. One of the best things our congregation does is to offer meals for those who have lost a loved one. We did it last Saturday. We did it yesterday. Whether we make the meal or serve the meal, we are engaged together. The work is collaborative. Collaboration always takes time, energy, and communication. There is something everybody can do. And in the end, everybody eats.

All this shared work is in service of the greater purpose. It’s in service to what we are here to do. If you are in choir, our purpose is to make music together. If we play a sport, we play the sport with others as well as you can. If we follow Jesus, we do the very things that he does, both for him, with him, and with all the others who are doing his work.

“Teacher, we saw somebody casting out demons in your name, and we told him to stop because he wasn’t following us.” Sounds kind of hollow, especially in the Gospel of Mark. In this Gospel, the predominant image for the work of Jesus is exorcism. The very first thing Jesus does after his baptism and a retreat in the wilderness is to cast out a demon.

It happened in a synagogue, in a holy space, on holy time. A man started yelling at Jesus. He hollers, “Jesus, I know who you are. Have you come out to destroy us?” The Lord stared down the evil spirit and said, “Get out of him!” In that confrontation, the tormented man is made well. That is the ministry of Jesus. It is the active force of God’s Spirit in him, repairing what is broken, healing what is ill.

One page after another, Mark wants us to know that this is why God sends his strong Son into our midst: to do an exorcism on the world, to make all things well. He confronts the evil that destroys, and he ushers in the healing power of God. The Jews have a phrase for that: “tikkun olam.” It means “to take the world in for repairs.” It is to restore all that is broken and to build shalom . . . peace, balance, integration, wholeness.

This is the work of the Christ. If you are not against it – and who would be against it? You would have to be out of your right mind to be against it, and that suggests Jesus will be coming to you, to make you well. – If you are not against it, you are for it.

And if we’re not entirely for it yet, I do believe the work of Christ is powerful enough and enticing enough to invite all of us into the deep gladness of his well-being. A world that was ill enough to crucify Jesus must contend with him returning in his resurrection, working persistently to heal and restore everything that belongs to God. If you are not against it, you will be for it.

“Do not stop him,” says Jesus.” The psychologist who unlocks the learning disorder, the dentist who fixes smiles, the social worker who connects, the resource center that provides a safe place for a frightened woman to sleep, the counselor who listens to the broken heart, the volunteer ladling out tuna casserole, the deacon who prays, the exercise instructor who calms the soul – all of them are part of the mission, God’s mission. And we are in it together. We are all part of God’s salvage operation.

Don’t stand in the way of any other person or group that welcomes people into the embrace of God. Do not deny the outcasts who can’t believe that anybody might love them. Don’t turn away the person whom you might lift higher. Put a muzzle on the ugly exclusivity and replace it with encouragement. And for God’s sake – for God’s sake – never insist you are the only one who does it right. Love requires us to put others first, to tend to their wounds before our own. This is how we drive out evil and welcome the Christ who comes to heal all.

Maybe that’s why Jesus says what he does: “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.” Imagine that – you are not only one of the healers, but you are also the recipient. Is there anybody in the dominion of God better than all the others? No, not one. All of us drink from the water of Christ’s mercy. All of us. That’s why we need to work together.

One of my teachers told the story of growing up in Appalachia. “We didn’t think we were poor,” he said, “because there was always somebody worse off than us.” It made him feel better, a little better. One day, his church group announced they would make up fruit baskets and deliver them to the poor families in town. Fred felt good about that. It would lift his spirits to do something kind for somebody else.

The fruit baskets, mostly apples, were put together. The group split up in a few different cars and headed out to the poor sections of town. Fred held his basket on his knee. He knew what he would do. He would sneak up to the front door, put down the basket, knock hard, and then run away. It was guerilla charity, he said. Unload the basket and split.

So, he approached a run-down clapboard house. Lawn was overgrown. One of the bedroom windows was broken. A single lightbulb on inside the home. He thought to himself, “Oh, these poor folks are really going to enjoy this bruit basket. I’ll bet nobody has done something nice for them in a long time. I’ll drop the basket on the porch, knock on the door, and run away. Good plan.

He leaned down to place the basket when the front door opened abruptly. He stood up, shocked. This was not the original plan. A grizzled sharecropper took the basket in his wrinkled knuckles. He brightened in a broken smile, then said, “How kind of you! Thank you ever so much.” Then he paused, held out the basket, and said, “Would you like one of these apples? They look delicious.”

The kid froze. This was definitely not in the plan. He was supposed to give away the apples, not take one. The old man stood there, waiting. So, Fred took one of the apples. Took a big bite. Indeed, it was delicious.

“Ever since that moment,” he said, years later, “I realized we all eat from the same basket. All of us, from the same basket.” Just as God intends for it to be.

(c) William G. Carter. All right reserved.

They Did Not Understand

Mark 9:30-37
September 22, 2024
William G. Carter

They went on from there and passed through Galilee. He did not want anyone to know it; for 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.” But they did not understand what he was saying and were afraid to ask him.

 

Then they came to Capernaum; and when he was in the house he asked them, “What were you arguing about on the way?” But they were silent, for on the way they had argued with one another who was the greatest. He sat down, called the twelve, and said to them, “Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all.” Then he took a little child and put it among them; and taking it in his arms, he said to them, “Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me.”

Well, there they go again. The disciples “did not understand” what Jesus was saying. We had three weeks with them in August. If you tuned in for any of those sermons, they did not understand Jesus. They could not comprehend him.

A hungry crowd assembled to listen to the Lord. It got late, so he told the twelve, “Feed the crowd.” They looked around, had no idea what to do, so he said, “Bring me what you have.” Some bread, a little bread, He breaks what they have, tells them to share it, everybody is well fed – and there are leftovers. The classic church potluck supper! And they don’t get it. So, he sends them off in the boat and disappears to pray. In the middle of the night, he goes to them, walking on the water. They think it’s a ghost. Then he calms the water and climbs into their boat, and they are really shook up. They ask what they have asked before: who is this?

Then again, a crowd gathers, Jesus collects the little food they have, breaks it, blesses it, shares it, and everybody is fed a second time. The merry band moves on from there. Then there’s a crisis: the disciples are hungry because they forgot to bring any bread. I picture Jesus slapping his head, and saying, “You didn’t bring any bread?” No, we don’t have any bread. Imagin him saying, “Any idea who might have some bread for you?” And they look around, look at their sandals. Crickets. Mark doesn’t have a high regard for these disciples

Last week, our preacher reminded us that Jesus was not the Messiah that the twelve expected. Not sure what they expected. Maybe they wanted Jesus to have enough power to chase the Roman army back across the sea. Maybe they had enough awe and wonder to perceive that he, the Nazarene woodcutter, was a whole lot more than he appeared. Yet he started talking about getting betrayed, arrested, beaten, and then crucified – and all their glorious dreams of religion making them successful seemed to evaporate. Jesus crucified? How? Why?

Today, he says it again. He would be betrayed, then killed, then rise again? What was he talking about? Why was he saying this? And Mark says, “They did not understand. And they were afraid to ask.”

This theme of misunderstanding comes up so many times that we need to lean in and pay attention. How can it be that those who traveled day and night with Jesus the Christ did not comprehend who he was, what he was up to, and what was lying ahead of him? Apparently, their discipleship was malfunctioning. They were in the right place, following the right guy, going to the right places – but something “They did not understand.”

I looked it up in the Greek dictionary. The designation is more nuanced. “Not understand” is the Greek word, “agnostos.” Literally, a “not knowing.”

These days, that old Greek word has prompted an English word, “agnostic.” An agnostic is somebody who isn’t sure. Perhaps they are uncertain. Or they have doubts. Or they are waiting for more conclusive proof. Or they wish to keep their options open before giving a final answer. Frankly, that’s a lot of us. Even if we think we’ve got all the faith stuff figured out, even if we have published fifty-seven volumes of systematic theology, there are some matters beyond our comprehension.

It was true of the apostle Paul! He wrote that thick letter to the Christians in Rome. In one heavy page after another, he laid out an entire system of the faith in Christ. Yet at the end of his argument, when he reaches the end of chapter eleven, Paul pauses, leans back, looks up to the sky, and confesses, “Who has known the mind of God? Who really understands?” His conclusion is that everything comes from God, everything ends up with God. Then he says, “To God be the glory, Amen.” (Romans 11:36) He can’t contain it all. And that’s the apostle Paul. Most of us can understand his lack of understanding.

But it sounds different in the Gospel of Mark. That word “agnostos” does not mean the same thing as our word “agnostic.” Mark is not signaling a little bit of confusion. He’s not suggesting the disciples still had a lot to learn – who among us doesn’t have a lot to learn? No, he is declaring that they are ignorant. “Agnostos” means ignorance. And it’s not a lack of knowledge. They traveled with Jesus. They ate with Jesus. They saw what he did. They heard everything he said/ And yet, they were “ignorant.” “Agnostos,” that’s the word.

It wasn’t a matter of intelligence. Not matter how smart they were. As one college professor once declared, “You can take my class, ace every test, get a good grace, have a four-point average – and still miss the point.” It’s more than a blind spot or a missing sector on your mental hard drive. It’s a moral failure.

It was true of Judas Iscariot, the one who turned him in. He did it for the money. On the old sermon illustration websites, somebody once wrote, “Judas had the best pastor, the best leader, the best advisor, and the best counselor. Yet he failed. So, the problem may not be the leadership or the church you go to. If your attitude or character doesn’t change, if your heart is not transformed, you will always be the same.”

Well, it’s easy to kick old Judas Iscariot. Fact it, in the Gospel of Mark, none of the disciples smell particularly good. Peter, says, “Crucified? No, not you, Lord, never you!” And when Judas shows up with a mob to get Jesus arrested, Peter and the others run away. Mark tells us these things to remind us that a lack of understanding doesn’t occur in the head – it also happens in the heart.

We heard it in the account for today. On the road to Jerusalem, for a second time, Jesus says, “I’m going to die. I will be betrayed, arrested, and killed.” He notices they aren’t paying attention. Why? Because they are arguing among themselves which one of them is greatest? Now, isn’t that ridiculous?

He speaks to them privately about his impending death. They are too busy singing that country music song from the 1980s, “Oh Lord, it’s hard to be humble when you’re perfect in every way. I can’t wait to look in the mirror ‘cause I get better looking each day.” Who’s the greatest? It’s not you, it’s not you, it’s certainly not you. It’s me.

Mark puts that story precisely because it’s so absurd, so ridiculous, so over the top, and so … ignorant. He’s holds up a mirror to anybody who lives on the slightest whisp of superiority. Think you’re better than those around you? Tempted to say there are acts of service that are beneath you? Perceive that you have the edge on everybody else? Well, disciple class is now in session.

Almost twenty years ago, I wandered out to the high desert of New Mexico to spend a week at Christ in the Desert, a remote monastery of Benedictine brothers. My heart was telling me it was time to pray. I would stay long enough to join the brothers for six worship services each day, with the first one beginning at 3:45 in the morning. The task was to pray all one-hundred-fifty psalms, a virtuous task. I said to myself, “Self, if you get through this week, you are going to be a spiritual rock star.” And who doesn’t want that?

Nice thought, but first thing in the morning, the prior of the monastery appeared with his clipboard to hand out the work assignments. Just like anywhere else, there are chores. Things to do, dishes to wash, gardens to pull weeds. I confess I was thinking, “Wait, I’m working at becoming a spiritual rock star.” The prior said, “Good for you; in the meantime, that enormous floor in the dining room needs to be mopped. It’s not going to mop itself.” So, I got a bucket, filled it with suds, and started to work.

Did I mention it was a really big floor? But hey, that was my morning job. The boss came back in an hour to review my work. “Missed a spot,” he said. “Keep going.” But I was hoping to read, meditate, and pray. It’s not easy being a spiritual rock star.

I finished the job at the end of the second hour, leaned on my mop to appreciate my work. The prior appeared again, sniffed a bit, and sneered, “That is a perfectly Presbyterian floor. Unacceptable. Do it again.” Then he was gone. So, back to it. Another hour. Careful mopping. Thorough mopping. And you know what I discovered? There’s no such thing as a spiritual rock star. If you advance, it’s not upward, but downward. You’ve got to set aside your heroic notions and become a servant. Mop the floor, that perfectly Presbyterian floor.

“What were you arguing about, you ignorant disciples?” Nobody would say, but he knew. Of course he knew. They were bickering over which of them was superior. Which of them was the greatest, the best, the most loving, the humblest, the one most worthy of praise? And it’s a spiritual dead end. It is hard to reach toward heaven when you are called to wash somebody else’s feet.

That’s why Jesus put a child in the middle of their circle. “Welcome one of these,” he said. “Welcome the little one that nobody notices, the child that everybody hushes. Welcome the one that the world won’t see, and you will be welcoming me.” It’s still a good lesson. It’s the only way to follow Jesus, much less to welcome it.

This is challenging work. And it is necessary work. We are so enticed by our aggressions, so enamored by our illusions. Like the person who says, “If I put thirty-seven political signs in my front yard, I will tell everybody else there’s only one way to vote, and it’s my way.” Wow, how’s that working? Wouldn’t it be better to talk with your neighbors rather than attempt to dominate them? Exerting your dominance is one more way to say, “I have the right answer, and you don’t.” And Jesus shows another way.

In my morning devotions, I’m reading a collection of letters written by Henri Nouwen. I have several of his books on my shelves, but his correspondence reveals his soul. He was a generous, gracious man. Sometimes, he was so Christ-like that he didn’t seem to keep pace with the place where he was. Like when he was hired by Notre Dame to teach in its brand-new psychology department. He started one fall, then wondered, “Why is everybody around here so obsessed with football? You know, we’re supposed to be Christians.”

It was because he saw clearly that the Christian life is not about competition, but compassion, and welcoming others, and serving others. As he writes in one of his books,

 

This all-pervasive competition, which reaches into the smallest corners of our relationships, prevents us from entering into full solidarity with each other and stands in the way of our being compassionate. We prefer to keep compassion on the periphery of our competitive lives. Being compassionate would require giving up dividing lines and relinquishing differences and distinctions. And that … is so frightening and evokes deep resistance... This fear, which is very real and influences much of our behavior, betrays our deepest illusions, that we are the trophies and distinctions we have won. This, indeed, is our greatest illusion. It makes us into competitive people who compulsively cling to our differences and defend them at all cost, even to the point of violence.

 

The compassion Jesus offers challenges us to give up our fearful clinging and to enter with him into the fearless love of God himself… He asks us to love one another with God’s own compassion.[1]

 

So, the lesson concludes. Who is the greatest? Who is first in line? Who stands the tallest in God’s dominion? It is the one who kneels the lowest to serve everybody else. Just like Jesus.

(c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved.

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[1] Henri J. M. Nouwen and others, Compassion: A Reflection on the Christian Life (Garden City, NY: Image Books, 1983) 19-20.