The suffering creation is being brought to new birth in God’s grace in Christ: hold fast to this hope even while participating in that new birth.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
The Twenty-sixth Sunday after Pentecost, Lectionary 33 B
Texts: Mark 13:1-8; Hebrews 10:11-25; 1 Samuel 2:1-10 (psalm for the day)

Dear friends in Christ, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen

The disciples were a lot more optimistic than we are these days.

They’re rubes in the big city, gawking at the massive Temple and the beautiful buildings in Jerusalem. They’d be taking selfies with these buildings if they lived today.

Jesus throws cold water on their awe, saying that all these buildings will be thrown down, and hard as it is to believe, not one stone will be left on another. Forty years later, that’s exactly what Rome did to Jerusalem. All that seemed so permanent was wiped off the face of the earth.

But Jesus doesn’t need to throw cold water on us. We’re not looking in awe at our world, thinking it will last forever. In the daily chaos of our reality we wonder if our massive institutions of democracy, checks and balances, decency, and care for the common good, can survive the next two years, or more. We worry whether there is irrevocable damage to our democracy, to voter rights, to structures that keep people from starving, or that provide good medical care, to countless things we’ve valued as a nation. Abraham Lincoln’s hopeful words at Gettysburg, “that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from this earth,” seem more and more a tenuous hope.

But instead of cold water, Jesus says something beautifully mysterious to us about this falling apart of the world we face: “this is but the beginning of the birth pangs.”

This is a birth process, Jesus says!

There might be wars, earthquakes, famines, persecutions, cruelty, oppression. Times, Jesus says here and elsewhere, when people despair at this world’s falling apart. But something is being born in that chaos. God is creating a new reality.

Paul says the same in Romans 8: “We know that the whole creation has been groaning in labor pains until now,” he writes, and God is working through this painfulness to bring forth new life.

Birth pangs are a wondrous image for the pain of this world. Contractions and labor, indescribable pains to those of us who haven’t experienced them, have a purpose: they move the baby through the birth canal, bringing new life into existence. So, too, God is working within the suffering creation to bring about new life. It’s no less painful. But there is hope for what comes at the end of it.

And Hannah sings that hope, what that birth, will be.

She joins her sister Mary, Jesus’ mother, whose Magnificat echoes Hannah’s song, and declares that in this world of injustice and cruel hate, where those in power crush those beneath them, where those who have nothing to eat starve, her heart exults in The One Who Is, the God of Israel.

This God, Hannah sings, will break the weapons of the mighty, and the feeble will find new strength. Those who were full will sell themselves as slaves to buy bread, while those who were hungry grow fat. Those who are poor are lifted from the dust, the pile of ashes, and sit in places of honor.

Hannah, like Mary after her, envisions a Magnificat world of grace and mercy for all people, where no one is in need, all live in love, and all are safe and whole. It is an overturning, because those on top aren’t going to give up their seats easily. But even for them, even for us, this new reality of God could be a blessing and a hope, once all are equally cared for and blessed in God’s abundance.

Hannah sings after she gives birth to Samuel; she knows the joy of the outcome of painful labor. Mary sings while still pregnant with Jesus; she, like us, lives in hope of what will come through the pain and suffering ahead.

This is what God is doing. This world will be made new, even in this life. But right now, we’re in the midst of the birth pains.

So our writer to the Hebrews encourages what we can do while God’s birthing continues.

For ten chapters, some of which we’ve heard these past Sundays, this writer has encouraged a group of Jewish Christians in their journey of faith, their pilgrimage, by naming Jesus, the Son of God, as their pioneer and guide for that journey. Jesus has suffered all they have, so he’s a faithful and knowledgeable guide. Jesus is also their new high priest, and as God’s Son, offered the ultimate sacrifice to end all sacrifices: God’s own self, offered for the world. This is God’s new covenant, we heard, written on our hearts forever, a covenant of forgiveness, even of forgetting of sins, and of new life as God’s people.

Then our author writes a glorious word: “Therefore.” “Therefore,” since Jesus has opened the Holy of Holies with his body and blood, since Jesus is our great high priest giving us full access to God’s inner life and grace, “therefore,” let us live in these following ways.

Let us approach God with a bold, true heart, we heard.

We have nothing to fear because Jesus, God’s Son, has opened the way to God. In the midst of the birth pangs, the struggles of this world, a door is opened into the heart of God. Let’s go boldly into the Holy of Holies, Hebrews says, fully assured in faith, with baptismally washed hearts and bodies, to be held by God.

And let us also “hold fast to the confession of our hope without wavering.” Let’s cling to this hope of God’s undying love as to a lifeline in a hurricane. God’s love will be with you now, giving you courage and strength to live in the birth pangs of the changing creation. And God’s love in Christ Jesus’ death and resurrection promises hope of a life to come in the world beyond death. Hold tightly to this, Hebrews says.

And last, let us “consider how to provoke one another to love and good deeds.”

Because, my dear friends, this is exactly how God is creating a new creation. Through the love and good deeds of God’s children. That’s why it’s taking so long. That’s why the forces of evil seem to run unchecked, why chaos seems to be in charge, why the labor pains are lasting for centuries. Because God’s not magically making a creation that appears and fixes everything. God’s painstakingly – literally taking pain to do this – painstakingly making a new creation such as Hannah and Mary proclaim, through the love and good deeds of all God’s children. Through yours. Through mine.

So let’s consider how to provoke each other to this, Hebrews says. Isn’t that lovely? “Provoke” means exactly what you think: irritate, annoy, even anger. Let’s be pests to each other, gnats who sting each other to love and good deeds. To do that, Hebrews says, we can’t neglect to meet together. But when we do meet together, let’s prod, poke, even annoy each other to be a part of the new creation with love and good deeds.

This is our good news: the world’s suffering is birth pangs, leading to a new creation birthed by God.

Since they’re birth pangs, that means God’s reign is certain. It will arrive. There will be a restored creation. And Christ Jesus, God’s Son, who made this birth process possible by all that he did, will be our midwife, the world’s midwife, guiding us through this process.

Therefore. Therefore, always remember what is coming, what God is birthing. That will give you hope in the darkest times.

Therefore, remember that you are safe in God’s arms now, and always, and that you can come right into God’s heart and find that love. That will give you strength in the most frightening times.

And therefore, remember because of what Jesus has done, in that confidence and hope, you know what to do: love and good deeds, the work of the birthing process that belongs to you and me. That will bring about God’s new birth more and more even in the times when it is most impossible to see.

Let us do all this, unwavering in trust and hope, until the birth happens and the universe rejoices.

In the name of Jesus.  Amen

 

Jesus calls us to let go of everything. Can we learn to trust this together, and watch God change the world in us?

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
The Twenty-fifth Sunday after Pentecost, Lectionary 32 B
Text: Mark 12:38-44 (also referring to several other texts)

Dear friends in Christ, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen

A month ago on October 14 we witnessed an encounter between Jesus and an earnest rich man.

The man asked how to inherit eternal life, and Jesus spoke of keeping the commandments. In fact, Jesus saw how well he kept the commandments and loved him. But then Jesus said, “you’re too weighed down by all that you have. You’re going to want to sell everything, give the money to someone who needs it, and then, come, follow me.” The man couldn’t imagine doing that, because he was so wealthy.

Today we witness another moment with Jesus. As he watches people put big sums in the Temple treasury, he notices a poor widow come forward and put in two nearly worthless coins, less than a penny. Everything she had, in fact. And Jesus looked at the disciples and said, “That seems about right.”

A hugely rich man and an impoverished widow both face the truth of their wealth. And for both, our Lord and Savior says letting go of everything is the way of God.

Here’s another moment, from the fourth chapter of Acts.

Did you know there was a second Pentecost event in Acts? After Peter and John were arrested and released, they returned to the community. Then all the believers prayed. Luke goes on:

³¹ When they had prayed, the place in which they were gathered together was shaken; and they were all filled with the Holy Spirit and spoke the word of God with boldness. ³² Now the whole group of those who believed were of one heart and soul, and no one claimed private ownership of any possessions, but everything they owned was held in common. ³³ With great power the apostles gave their testimony to the resurrection of the Lord Jesus, and great grace was upon them all. ³⁴ There was not a needy person among them, for as many as owned lands or houses sold them and brought the proceeds of what was sold.     Acts 4:31-34

This is astonishing. Because of the Spirit’s blowing and shaking their lives, they lived in love together, one heart, one soul, and shared everything, and no one was needy.

This didn’t last very long. By Acts 6 there are cracks in the sharing, and some widows weren’t getting food, so six deacons were elected to help. Not too much later, by First Corinthians, it seems the believers had returned to the world’s way, with rich and poor members. But for a brief moment, the Church got Jesus.

Why do we consider this impossible today? Do we believe the Spirit still moves among us, still shakes us?

I believe the Spirit does still shake us. And I believe the Holy Spirit is calling Mount Olive to a completely new and ancient way of being Christ’s community together.

I have seen a vision over the past couple months that the Spirit compels me to share with you.

It’s a vision of this community of faith leaping deeper into community together than we’ve ever dared. Having one heart, one soul, and sharing everything with each other.

It’s a vision where we stop thinking of stewardship as “giving” but as letting go, as sharing together in Christ’s work. Where a 10% tithe is fine, but just the beginning of the path toward the 100% Jesus calls us to let go.

It’s a vision of this community recognizing its idolatry of commerce and the economy, admitting its addiction to possessions and security, and turning to each other in Christ to break that addiction. By understanding our general fund, our budget, not as a budget but as a community purse, into which each of us starts the path toward fully letting go, pooling it together, for the good of the community, for the good of the world.

I believe we are an ideal community to try to actually follow Jesus together.

We are deeply shaped by God’s grace and love and the inclusion of all people in God’s embrace. God’s love fills our hearts and lives every time we gather here, and these people here with whom we worship, with whom we walk on our faith journey, are family in Christ. We even disagree and argue, and still gather in joy at Christ’s table afterward.

We have a transparent structure, with leaders we elect from our midst. We meet twice a year as a community for business, and monthly as a Vestry, and we report to each other what we are doing. What other place could we even dare to risk letting go? What other people would we even trust to be the ones with whom we let go?

Listen to another vision your leadership has.

At our October Vestry retreat, President David Anderson asked each Vestry member to reflect on four questions ahead of time and bring them to the retreat. One question was: It’s ten years from now, and you’re looking north from Mount Olive’s door. What do you see? At least eight of the thirteen independently saw Mount Olive involved in some kind of housing initiative. Some saw a three-story apartment building of affordable housing. Others saw houses purchased and renovated and used for transitional housing. It was breathtaking.

There’s no shortage of imagination amongst your elected leaders. But we can’t begin to follow that dream, which I firmly believe was given our leaders by the Holy Spirit, if we view stewardship as giving to a budget, and nudge our yearly budget up a couple percentage points every year. What we do right now is good. We care for many people. We have a new loan program. Our care for the environment and our building makes this a safe place for our neighbors and the creation.

But if we caught the Spirit’s vision, and first a few of us, then a few more, then over the years more and more until we reached critical mass, if this happened and people seriously took wealth and possessions that we were keeping for ourselves and put them in a communal purse here together, God could change this city.

If we really sensed the Spirit shaking us and bringing us into one heart and one mind, and we strategically started sharing 10%, 20%, 30% together, God could do wonders here. We don’t have to let go of everything all at once, cold turkey, like Jesus asked the man. We can do it a day at a time, as addiction recovery people have taught us, and take steps down Jesus’ path together.

I expect some objections are rising in your hearts and minds.

There’s no time to list them now, but I’ve heard over ten specific kinds of objections in the past few weeks as I’ve tested some of this with people here and elsewhere, so you know them. I’ll just note a couple things.

First, the more you or I resist a teaching of Jesus, the more easily we have our answers why it’s not realistic or won’t work, the more we push back, the more it’s a sign we need to hear the teaching more deeply. Take your objections and sit with them. Ask yourself why they’re so easy to come to. Ask yourself what you’re afraid of, and why. Ask the Spirit to help you sort out if they are objections that must prevent you from following.

Second, this vision is not one-size-fits-all. Jesus encounters a wide spectrum of wealth in these stories, from someone with almost nothing to someone with great wealth. I don’t know where you are on that spectrum. Some of you are much closer to the widow’s end. I also believe that many of you join me closer to the rich man’s wealth. We do this vision together, as each senses the Spirit’s call. None of this can be forced, or guilted into reality, and each will do what each can, with the Spirit’s help.

Third, there’s an overlooked truth in today’s Gospel. If this poor widow gives away everything, someone has to take care of her, make sure she has food and shelter and love. There’s a reason the Scriptures are full of God’s command to care for the widows and orphans: God expects the community of God’s beloved to do this.

So not only would this vision transform our neighborhood and city. It would also make us a community where no one who sojourns with us ever has to worry about having enough to live on when they get old, or worry about where they’ll sleep at night or whether they’ll eat. It would make us a community where we learned to be vulnerable with each other about our needs, not so fiercely private and independent, so that we can care for each other and no one falls through the cracks. That’s the most beautiful thing about the whole Acts 4 story. No one in the community was in need.

There is much to think about. Please do that. Pray. And be in this conversation.

If the Spirit moves you right now and you want to start letting go of more of your possessions and wealth, for your own spiritual health and well-being, and you’ve already filled out your pledge card, take it home and bring it back with what you’re feeling called to do.

If you aren’t sure what this means for you but feel you’re being pulled by the Spirit, talk to me. We need to get a group together that talks about this vision and helps each other live into it.

If this is all too much and you don’t know what to think, that’s OK, too. But do think about it. Pay attention to where you are pushing back and ask what that might say to you. Pray about what God might need you to see, or change, or do.

And whatever your reaction to this vision, if you never pledge but you give faithfully, I invite you to change and pledge this year. Not to me, not to something else, but as your family in Christ at Mount Olive. When we commit to each other as Christ’s community, we make a sacred bond together, something that can’t happen if I keep my own counsel between me and God about what I will do to join this vision.

We are baptized, anointed children of God, just like those early believers.

Here we have found grace and hope in God’s undying love that gives us life beyond anything we could have imagined, just like they did. And the Holy Spirit is just as committed to moving and working among us as back then.

So: what happens when you feel the room start to shake and you hear the sound of the Spirit?

In the name of Jesus.  Amen

In darkness, suffering, and grief, we are able to see that God is with us, and that’s all we need to know.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
All Saints Sunday, year B
Texts: John 11:32-44 (also read vv. 17, 20-31); Isaiah 25:6-9; Revelation 21:1-6

Dear friends in Christ, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen

If you had been here, this wouldn’t have happened.

It’s a damning indictment these sisters lay on Jesus. Our beloved brother, your beloved friend, died. And you weren’t here to stop it. You abandoned us to this terrible grief.

They had reason to believe Jesus could stop this. As some of their mourning friends said, “he’s healed blind people, surely he could have healed Lazarus.” They’d seen him heal others, and knew he could’ve prevented this heart-wrenching pain.

But they counted on more than Jesus’ ability. Jesus was their friend. He’d eaten at their home, they loved him and he loved them. They trusted that friendship, that love. So when Lazarus grew sick, of course they called on this relationship. If you’re friends with the Son of God, who heals even strangers, why wouldn’t you expect such a favor?

We understand Mary and Martha and their friends.

If God really loves you, you should be safe from suffering, shouldn’t you?

We’re dismissive of Christians who preach a prosperity Gospel, who claim that if you just believe in God, you’ll become wealthy, you’ll have all you want. That God wants you to be a success in all areas of your life. We find such theology distasteful, dishonest, and unscriptural.

But a friend of mine recently reminded me that we’re not so far from this when we expect God’s protection from harm, an escape from suffering. When we ask, where were you God, when this terrible thing happened? Whether it’s an enraged killing of unsuspecting people at worship whom we don’t know, or a cancerous blow on the one closest to us, or the pain of our loneliness: if you’d have shown up, God, we say, this wouldn’t have happened.

Martha and Mary still believe in Jesus. But they can’t understand why he lets them suffer such unnecessary pain.

Martha believes her brother will live in the resurrection on the last day. She believes the promise of Isaiah we heard today, that in those days on the mountain of God, death will be swallowed up and all tears wiped away. She believes in the promise of John’s Revelation we heard today, that there will be a new heaven and a new earth, and no more death, no more crying, no more pain.

But I’m in grief right now, Martha says. Mary doesn’t have to say it. She can barely speak for her weeping. If you’d been here, Jesus, we wouldn’t feel this way.

And Jesus says to Martha: I’m here now, and I am life. Is that enough for you? He says to Mary: I’m here now, and I share your tears. Is that enough for you?

We think we want, maybe even deserve, freedom from suffering in this life.

Now, if we know someone who has suffered greatly in ways that we haven’t, we know we don’t believe God loves us more. When we’re rational, we know suffering happens to all sorts of people and there’s never a rational explanation. But like Mary and Martha, we don’t always think clearly in our grief and pain. All we want is for it to go away.

But what we really need – since we know suffering happens to anyone and everyone – is to know we aren’t alone in it. To know that our struggles, and the struggles of so many, aren’t something we or they endure all alone, with no one to care. What we really need is God-with-us. Emmanuel.

And that’s what happens in Bethany. Jesus stands in the face of Martha’s anger and loves her. He kneels alongside Mary’s tears and weeps with her.

Don’t be distracted by the joyful ending of this story. We know that such things almost never happen in this life. And the critical moment for the sisters is what happens before.

When Jesus is with them. When the Son of God comes to be with them in the darkness of their tears and grief. That’s his answer. No defense of his delay, no explanation why Lazarus died when others were healed. He comes, and holds them in their pain. He is willing to roll back the stone of their grief and look into the worst of their darkness, smell the stench of death, and hold it with them.

Christian theologian James Finley has said that “the absolute love of God . . . protects us from nothing, even as it sustains us in all things.”[1] That’s what Jesus does at Bethany.

We actually meet God most clearly in our darkness, in our tears.

That’s the wonder we learn at the cross. The God of the universe bears all our pain and grief and suffering in the body and blood of God’s Son. Even within the Trinity, the Son feels abandoned by the Father, wondering “have you forsaken me?” That’s how far God goes to be with us: even sharing our confusion at God’s apparent absence.

This is the deep grace of the Incarnation: God comes to bear our lives with us. Our joys and happiness, yes. But also, and most importantly, our suffering and sorrow and pain.

It is this absolute love of God that never promises to protect us but always, always sustains and strengthens us, in which we live most deeply today. We bring George to the waters of baptism, unsure of his or the world’s future, wishing that he and all children would be protected from every possible harm. But we wash him in God’s healing waters and join him to Christ’s death and resurrection, claiming him as a child of God. Claiming that even though his life to come is mystery, we know this: God is with him. The crucified and risen Emmanuel embraces George.

We carry our brother Ken the last steps to his resting place, aware that even as people of faith we are filled with grief and pain in the face of death. But we place our brother next to his beloved Ellie trusting that their baptism is completed, and they are joined to Christ’s death and resurrection, claiming they are children of God. Claiming that even though death is mystery, we know this: God is with them. The crucified and risen Emmanuel embraces them.

“I am here with you. I will always, always, sustain you in my love.”

That’s Jesus’ answer when we cry out, “If you’d been here . . .” This is the absolute love of God on which we ground our lives. Not that we expect special treatment, avoiding suffering because we believe in God. Not that we claim any answers for why suffering happens or why God sometimes seems to prevent it, but not always.

You are grounded in the absolute love of the Triune God who enters the depth of darkness and fear and pain with you and holds you by the hand. Who weeps with you, sits with you in silence, holds your anger, grieves with you, even while breathing in and out in a rhythm of love that calms your heart.

God is with you. Always. And you never need to be afraid. But when you are, you will not be alone. And God’s love will speak to your fear, hold your sorrow, and sustain your life.

Until all things are made new, and the reign of God Isaiah and John promise is finally brought to fullness, and the whole creation sings for joy in God’s new world.

In the name of Jesus.  Amen

[1] James Finley, from an audio presentation, Intimacy: The Divine Ambush (Center for Action and Contemplation, 2013, audio CD)

Eleison, have mercy: it is our prayer and Christ’s command.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
Sunday of the Reformation, Lectionary 30 B
Text: Mark 10:46-52

Dear friends in Christ, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen

Eleison. Have mercy.

That’s what Bartimaeus asked. Actually, eleison me, have mercy on me.

Jesus, his disciples, and a large crowd are leaving Jericho. It’s like a parade or a march. And Bartimaeus, a blind beggar, hears the crowd, finds out it’s Jesus, and cries out, have mercy on me.

And Mark says “many” tried to shut him up. They rebuked him, told him to be quiet.

Who are these who won’t hear the cries of someone in need asking for mercy, who even would prevent Jesus, someone who could offer mercy, from hearing?

And where are you in this story? Do you sometimes wish those in need would be quieter, quit bothering you and others? Do you stand next to such silencers in the crowd and let them shut out the cries for mercy? Do you reach out to Bartimaeus, help him up, saying, Take heart, Christ is calling for you?

Bartimaeus is real. He lives among us. And all he asks is eleison.

Our government not only tells Bartimaeus to be quiet, they insult him, try to throw him out of the city, even try to deny he exists.

The U. S. Department of Health and Human Services now proposes to define gender as strictly male and female, defined prior to and at birth. The 1.4 million Bartimaeuses in America who identify themselves in differing categories, fluid or changing genders, won’t exist for purposes of health and services. The administration claims this “protects” the health of Americans. We deny Bartimaeus his existence and say we all benefit.

A caravan of thousands comes north from Honduras and Guatemala seeking help, and our administration characterizes these impoverished Central American families with children as dangerous criminals, and says that ISIS – from the Middle East! – hides among them.

But it was U.S. policy and actions in the twentieth century that destroyed the economies of places like Honduras and Guatemala, destabilized their governments, and made U.S. businesses and their profit the priority. These thousands come from desperation created in part by us. We made Bartimaeus. But he isn’t welcome here.

But my friends, these are the easy ones for us to see and want mercy for. There are others who are your Bartimaeus.

She may live in a tent next to Hiawatha, and you’d like to have compassion for her. But then you see the needles and syringes lying around her tent, her children, and it’s not a feel-good story anymore. Maybe you just don’t think if Bartimaeus does drugs she deserves the mercy of her neighbors.

Maybe Bartimaeus has dark skin, and his cries of eleison include his claims that his life is radically different from yours. That he has to teach his children strategies to avoid police attention. That he has to worry about broken lights on his car lest they lead to his death. Maybe you’re just tired of hearing that Black Lives Matter. You wish they’d be quiet.

Sometimes you can’t even see Bartimaeus. She’s going to be waiting for you after church, though, holding a cardboard sign as you enter the freeway. She’ll be there again tomorrow, and if you’re careful you don’t even have to make eye contact, let alone hear her.

Maybe you’re thinking, I actually see all these, and I’m trying to find ways to help. That’s good. But there are so many Bartimaeuses in the crowds, there’s definitely one you don’t see or hear. Keep looking until you find that person who annoys you, whom you can’t bring yourself to care about. Whom you wish would be quiet about their needs.

Then look at Jesus.

It’s a crowd, a parade. And suddenly, Jesus stops, stands still.

He listens. He hears eleison me, have mercy on me. In the midst of the bustling crowd, the noise of the dogs and children, he hears the cry for mercy others would shut down. He commands: bring him here.

And then he asks, What do you want me to do for you?

Here is the glory of the Christ, the Son of God: there is no limit to mercy. There is enough mercy for the whole universe in God-with-us, this Jesus. His very next stop is Jerusalem, another parade with a crowd, this time waving palm branches, and he will leave that crowd and go alone to a cross. He will bear the mercy of the Triune God for the universe in his flesh and blood and offer his life. And there is enough mercy for all.

So, Jesus asks, What do you want me to do for you? What does mercy look like for you? And Bartimaeus astonishingly claims a relationship with Jesus in that moment. Rabbouni, my master, my teacher – the same trusting name Mary Magdalene calls the risen Jesus – my master, let me see again.

And mercy pours out from God-with-us. Bartimaeus the inconvenient, Bartimaeus the annoying, Bartimaeus the shouter of his needs, receives his sight. And he follows Jesus.

Today we once again celebrate the Church’s sixteenth century Reformation, and realize that the twenty-first century Church also needs to be reformed.

We need more than a reforming of doctrine, though. Our twenty-first century question of reform is simple: will the Church be Christ in the world or not?

Will we claim the mercy of God we see at the cross for all creatures? We don’t need to struggle over the doctrine of grace and mercy. The only issue is if we’ll be grace and mercy, if we as Church and as individuals will be Christ. If our lives from waking to sleeping will reveal that there is no limit to God’s mercy.

We start by forcing ourselves to see Bartimaeus, wherever they may be. We start by learning to name our inner protests and justifications as delaying tactics. We start by finally, as Church and as individuals, doing what Jesus does. Stopping in the middle of the crowd, opening our eyes and ears, listening, looking for Bartimaeus.

Then calling her to us, and asking, what do you want me to do for you?

That’s a Reformation desperately needed across the Church. And it’s a Reformation that would cause rejoicing in heaven.

Eleison. Have mercy. That’s our prayer.

We are overwhelmed by God’s love that we know, that we’ve seen at the cross, that we receive in Christ’s meal of life. Eleison is our breath, in and out, because we know how much we need mercy, and we know Who it is who gives it.

But the One who answers your eleison commands with the same word: eleison. You have mercy. Be mercy. Live mercy. Find Bartimaeus and ask what you can do. Listen to the cries for mercy you want to silence and ask what you can do. Stop those in government or in your city who would shut out the cries, who would answer with cruelty, and stand alongside Bartimaeus.

As you struggle with this command, hear one more miracle: Christ asks you the same question. What do you want me to do for you?

Now you know: you are Bartimaeus, too. “My teacher, my master, let me see again. Open my eyes, my ears, my heart, my hands, my mind, my life, that I may follow you. That I may have mercy as you have mercy.”

And Jesus opens your eyes. And now you can follow wherever he will go.

In the name of Jesus.  Amen

There’s really only one question before us, before you: do you want to follow Jesus, as Jesus describes it, as Jesus calls you, or not? The rest is simple after that.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
The Twenty-second Sunday after Pentecost, Lectionary 29 B
Text: Mark 10:[32-34] 35-45

Dear friends in Christ, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen

Apparently the third time isn’t the charm.

The disciples hear Jesus predict his own suffering and death three times, all as he moves his ministry closer and closer to Jerusalem. Each time, the disciples miss the point.

So how many times do you need to hear it before you understand it? This whole fall we’ve heard challenging words from Jesus about what it is to follow him. We’ve heard these predictions three times ourselves. We even know the whole story, which they didn’t.

But we’re not much better at understanding, at following Jesus’ train of thought, much less Jesus’ path of life, than they seem to be. Mark today says that some of Jesus’ followers were amazed, some were afraid. That sounds about right for us.

Maybe it isn’t a problem of understanding, though.

Look at their responses. At the first prediction, Peter takes Jesus aside and says that facing suffering and death is not a good plan for a Messiah. Jesus rebukes him, and says following him will mean dying to everything, losing what you think matters, perhaps even literally dying.

The second prediction falls on silence. But after, on the road as they walked, the disciples argued about which one of them was most important. Jesus confronts them on this, and says that to be greatest is to be a servant to each other. To be the least.

With today’s third prediction, James and John are still stunningly tone-deaf. They hear Jesus speak of terrible suffering and death, and ask for the seats of honor when Jesus comes into his glory. Again, Jesus responds with talk of losing, of being least, pointing out that their society has power structures where those on top lord it over those on the bottom. Not with my followers, Jesus says. My followers who wish to be great – repeating himself from before – must be servants. But then he goes a step further. He says those who wish to be first must be slaves of all.

Maybe they understand just fine. Maybe they just don’t want this path. A path of losing, dying, willingly being a slave. This is the only question that really matters: do you even want to follow a Jesus like this?

The Church – at least in English speaking countries – is so reluctant to follow Jesus in this we’ve translated the worst of his language out.

Jesus explicitly uses the word “slave” here. It means exactly what you think it means. But this word is translated “servant” pretty much only by Bible translators. Everyone else who translates ancient Greek knows it means “slave”. Jesus knew it meant “slave”.

There are over 120 instances of the word in the New Testament. It’s a central point in the early Church’s understanding of the Christian life. But virtually every English translation translates the vast majority of those instances as “servant,” not “slave,” even though it’s perfectly clear what’s meant. Even our current NRSV, which does translate the majority as “slave,” very often renders “servant” when the reference is to how Christians might live or act.

It’s hard to avoid the conclusion that the first disciples weren’t the only ones who didn’t like Jesus’ plan for himself or the Church. When you can’t even translate honestly because you don’t want to hear what Jesus or the apostles are saying, that’s a pretty clear sign.

It’s a hard topic to discuss. people who look like me talking about slavery as a model for our life can be a really bad idea.

The horrible stain of racism that still exists in our society stems directly from the violent, wicked original sin of our nation, the sin of slavery. The torture, humiliation, starving, murder, oppression of millions of human beings to build our country cannot be erased from memory. These slave texts were often used by Christians in power to justify their evil.

But remember that Jesus, a brown, Palestinian man under Roman oppression in the first century, also knew slavery as a horrible, wicked reality. It was no ideal. The brutality of the slave trade in our world today, and in American history, also existed in Jesus’ day. He chose an image that his own people would shudder to hear.

But Jesus turns it upside down. He sees the Christian’s path as a chosen slavery. A willingness to put yourself at the service of everyone else. Jesus is saying, to follow me is to let yourselves be slaves to all. People who relinquish free choice to do what you want, and become obligated to serve the needs of everyone, without question. Not because you are forced. But because you choose this path.

And then Jesus reveals this astonishment: he will choose this path first.

The path to the cross, offering himself to the whole universe, his body, his blood, his pain, in order to reveal God’s love for the whole universe, this is Jesus’ willingness to be a slave, to all, for the sake of all.

Paul explicitly lays this out in his beautiful hymn in Philippians: “though Christ was in the form of God, he did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave.” (Philippians 2:6-7)

And Paul led the apostles in claiming this same status with their congregations. To his church in Corinth he wrote: “We don’t proclaim ourselves; we proclaim Jesus Christ as Lord and ourselves as your slaves for Jesus’ sake.” (2 Corinthians 4:5)

As Jesus entered into servitude for the sake of the world, now his followers choose the same path for the sake of the world.

Do you even want to follow such a Messiah? Are you willing to enter into that new reality?

We too often keep faith, and our relationship with God in Christ, fenced into its own place. Hear Jesus’ commands and teaching as options to consider. So, when he says feeding those who are hungry and clothing those who are naked is doing it to him, we agree wholeheartedly. Then we ponder when we might do that. Instead of seeing every person in need as someone we are obligated to serve.

Love your neighbor as yourself? Sure, Jesus, that’s good. Let me think about when that works for me.

We’re sitting on the edge of the pool of faith. We’ll dip our toes in if we feel a need for cooling. We’ll maybe splash around.

But Jesus says, Jump in the deep end. Let the water of my love, of the Spirit, hold you up and bring you life. But jumping in means not touching the sides or the bottom. Not being in control.

So Jesus, our relationship with God, and the walk of faith, stay at arm’s length.

We also avoid the question by distracting ourselves with the “how.”

It’s likely some of you are thinking, “tell us how we are to do this.” That’s good. There’s a lot of help. From the teachings and modeling of Jesus, to the preaching and writing of Paul through First John, the New Testament is full of wisdom, of models, of specific advice, of practical descriptions of what such a life where you are slave to all would be like.

But if you don’t want to do it, none of that matters. We’ve had the New Testament in our hands for years; this isn’t new information. But for it to help, you need to want it.

Do you remember this summer, when Jesus asked the remaining disciples if they also wanted to leave? They said, “where else can we go? You have the words of eternal life.”

That’s your dilemma. If you’ve heard God’s promise of love and forgiveness in Jesus, have found the joy and support of the community of faith Jesus established, if you’ve believed the promise of life in Christ with God after you die, if you’ve found wisdom for understanding your world, hope in Christ for a world where people live in love and peace and justice with each other, where else can you go for that?

So how many times do you need to hear Jesus before you follow?

Following is hard. Living your life as a slave to everyone else for the sake of the love of God in Jesus you know, changes everything. No options to love or not love: there’s only the command. No options to partially follow or do some of the plan: there’s only “follow me.”

But as you struggle, even as these disciples struggled, remember their experience. They ultimately followed. Many gave their lives. They embodied being a slave in love to others, because that’s what they knew in their Lord. They saw it in the suffering, the cross, the empty tomb. They saw it in their Master kneeling before them, lovingly washing their feet. They were filled by the Spirit at Pentecost who empowered their new lives of being slaves to all. Willing, choosing that life, not being forced.

You’ve known all this too, you’ve experienced the Spirit. These disciples can remind you in that knowledge and experience of the Spirit that following Jesus is, in fact, following Jesus. Following the pattern of love and service and grace that Christ has already given you and the world. Following the way that has already shown you the possibility of life. Letting God transform you into this new way.

So: what do you want to do about Jesus and his call to you?

In the name of Jesus.  Amen