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.