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 New Covenant—20 October 2024 (was 18 Oct 2009)

Mark 10

35 James and John, the sons of Zebedee, came forward to him and said to him, “Teacher, we want you to do for us whatever we ask of you.” 36 And he said to them, “What is it you want me to do for you?” 37 And they said to him, “Grant us to sit, one at your right hand and one at your left, in your glory.” 38 But Jesus said to them, “You do not know what you are asking. Are you able to drink the cup that I drink, or be baptized with the baptism that I am baptized with?” 39 They replied, “We are able.” Then Jesus said to them, “The cup that I drink you will drink; and with the baptism with which I am baptized, you will be baptized; 40 but to sit at my right hand or at my left is not mine to grant, but it is for those for whom it has been prepared.”

41 When the ten heard this, they began to be angry with James and John. 42 So Jesus called them and said to them, “You know that among the Gentiles those whom they recognize as their rulers lord it over them, and their great ones are tyrants over them. 43 But it is not so among you; but whoever wishes to become great among you must be your servant, 44 and whoever wishes to be first among you must be slave of all. 45 For the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life a ransom for many.”

In Oceans Eleven (1960), a group of army buddies (led by Frank Sinatra) reunite to rob the Sahara, Riviera, Desert Inn, Sands, and The Flamingo in one night.

In The Italian Job (1969), Michael Caine and his group of lads try to steal 4 million dollars of gold from Fiat in Turin.  The 2003 remake is an abomination, never see it. 

In Gone in 60 Seconds (2000), a group of car thieves reunite to save one of their own by stealing 60 high-end cars in a single evening.

In Oceans Eleven (2001), a group of career thieves led by George Clooney and Brad Pitt gather to rob the Bellagio, The Mirage and the MGM Grand. 

In The Perfect Score (2004), the thieves are teenagers, trying to steal the answers to the standardized college admission test (SAT) and get the perfect score. 

The genre “caper film” has a fairly standard plot, demonstrated by each of the films named.  The first act is the planning stage, where the crew is assembled based on expertise and the unique needs of the job.  Next, there is the heist stage, where the job happens with one or more glitches.  In the third and final act, things unravel completely and eventually the story is resolved: a bus full of gold teeters on the edge of the Alps or a Mustang named Eleanor foils our hero once more.* 

I think there is a story in the fact that in 1960 crime in film was not allowed to pay and now it can and does.  But that’s a whole other sermon.  For today, I want to look at Mark’s Gospel as a “caper film,” where a group of buddies assemble to pull an ancient near-eastern heist.  We’ll call it The Judean Job (2024).

The story begins with assembling an appropriate team.  Jesus starts with fishermen: "Come, follow me," Jesus said, "and I will make you fishers of men and women.”  From this simple beginning he starts the work of travelling about and driving out demons—while he continues to build his team.  When the last apostle is called and anointed, he begins to instruct them.  He uses parables such as The Sower Who Went Out to Sow and parable of The Mustard Seed to outline his plan, and the action begins. 

In the second act of Mark’s Gospel, the troubles begin.  The apostles argue amongst themselves regarding who is the greatest.  They try to stop others from healing and driving out demons in Jesus’ name.  And they try to stop the little children from seeking a blessing.  In the final glitch in an otherwise perfect caper, James and John go rogue.

Of course, this is a common element to the caper film.  Following the cliché, “no honour among thieves,” James and John decide that they want the seats of honour in the life to come. They approach Jesus in an almost childlike way and say, “please say yes to the thing we are about to ask.”  Not falling for it, Jesus demands to know what they want.  When they tell him that they want a greater share of the heavenly loot, Jesus says, “Do you know what you’re asking?  Are you able to drink the cup that I drink, or be baptized with the baptism that I am baptized with?”

James and John claim they can.  Jesus insists that the seats of honour are not his to give, and the whole group descends into conflict.  Jesus finally regains control of the group by telling them how other heists have failed.  Usually a strongman takes charge and “lords it over the others,” but Jesus won’t allow that to happen.  They have to work together, he insists, by serving each other and being willing to die for the rest.

***

Before I reveal the ending to this caper, there is one more element we need to address.  As the history of the church unfolds, we find rings of development.  First Jesus, then the twelve, then the others, then Paul and his fellow evangelists, then the early church and so on.  The rings expand, yet the centre remains.  Our task as believers is to look back and take our cue from the twelve and Paul and those that followed, but especially the twelve.  They stand in for us: we are them in the story, and they have much to tell us about ourselves.

Now, it makes sense that believers would look to the scriptures of their religion to learn how to behave.  It would seem logical to include the norms and standards required to live a life of faith.  This would explain the Sermon on the Mount and the Great Commandment, the Great Commission and all those parables. 

Where the logic fails is in the foolishness of the disciples.  Or the problems of David, Israel’s greatest king.  Or the scheming of Jacob.  Or Peter, the rock on which Jesus builds his church, who cannot admit he knows the Lord when the fateful moment comes. 

So you have great goals and great teaching and very flawed actors moving through the narrative, showing warts and all.  I can tell you that this puzzles non-believers and makes them crazy.  They want us to pass the “hypocrite test,” where words are matched by actions.  Sadly this does not happen.  How do I know?  The Bible tells me so.

From the first narrative (Hey Eve, aren’t you gonna share that delicious looking apple?) to the last (“Father, forgive them, they know not what they do”) human failure is at the centre of the story and serving God does not cure human failure, it only puts it into perspective.  Of course they wanted to sit at the right and left hand of Jesus in glory, because the human story has always been the best hope and the least result.  The best hope, the least result, and our God’s seemingly infinite capacity to forgive.  Thanks be to God.

Wait!  What about act three, and the ancient near-eastern heist?  How will the story end? You’re going to need to wait a bit longer, because I want to talk about Cicero.  

I can recall the first time I drove through western and upstate New York and passed through towns like Cato, Brutus, Cincinnatus, and (of course) Cicero.  In fact, Cicero gets two, since Tully, NY is named for Cicero’s middle name.  “Wow” I thought, “these people really love the Romans.”  Do they have Roman pretensions?  Oh yes, they do.  We’ll call it ‘the best pretensions,’ since the Founders were students of the classics, and in particular, Marcus Tullius Cicero.  Imagine the moment in 1789, when Supreme Court Justice James Wilson lectured on Cicero, and looking up from his notes saw George Washington, John Adams, and Thomas Jefferson looking back.  

Why is Cicero so important?  For one, much of his writings survived, and became central to a classical education.  Two, he was a politician and a philosopher, an unlikely combination then as now.  And three, he was a witness (and participant) in the transition from republic to empire, and ultimately gave his life for the cause.  The Founders wanted to reverse the clock: to leave the empire and restart the glory of the Roman republic on these shores.  The voice of one who wanted to safeguard the republic was speaking directly to them.

Now, I’m no scholar—I simply bask in the reflected light of one.  And since I’m no scholar I can share with you a summary of Cicero found in a work of historical fiction, Robert Harris’ Cicero trilogy, volume three.  Cicero gives us a snapshot of a book he’s writing, and in doing so provides proof that he belongs among Dante’s “righteous pagans,” those who predate Jesus but give voice to his Kingdom project.  It’s also helpful to recall that in the time of our lesson from Mark’s Gospel, the tyrants have (seemingly) won—the tyrants that Cicero fought and the tyrants that Jesus can dismiss.  Here’s a summary from our friend: 

In the fifth book, Cicero offered his practical prescriptions. A human being can only train for death by leading a life that is morally good; that is – to desire nothing too much; to be content with what one has; to be entirely self-sufficient within oneself, so that whatever one loses, one will still be able to carry on regardless; to do none harm; to realise that it is better to suffer an injury than to inflict one; to accept that life is a loan given by Nature without a due date and that repayment may be demanded at any time; that the most tragic character in the world is a tyrant who has broken all these precepts.**

As we ponder the end of our imaginary caper film, consider the tyrants who “lord it over others,” and in doing so, sow the seeds of their own end.  They fail the human decency test, which simply means don’t harm others, and think about the way you live and how it reflects your character.  It’s the tyrants our merry band must overcome if this story is going to come to a satisfying end.

So what about act three, and the ancient near-eastern heist?  How will the story end?  I will tell you.  And with all good caper films, it may delight you and have you leave the theatre shaking your head and wondering how they managed to pull it off.  Here we go:

In the final act of the story, Jesus makes a triumphant entry, clears the temple, shares a final meal and faces trial.  He is crucified, dies and is buried in a borrowed tomb.  On the third day the angel says to the women, “He is not here. He has risen!”

In the end, Jesus and his followers are successful in stealing two of the assumptions that made the Roman world work.  Imagine the world altering scope of defeating these two ideas.  Caesar sat secure on his throne, and didn’t even know that the caper worked and the thieves had carried off the two things that were more valuable than all his gold:  The assumption that things will never change and that this is all there is.

Sure Caesar had legions and roads and fortifications, but his most powerful weapon was the belief that his position was secure and that the power of Rome would never face defeat.  If things will never change, there is no point in trying, no point in working for change.  But on the cross everything changed, Jesus gained power by giving up his life and became greatest of all by being least of all—dying as a criminal on the cross.  When the people learned that in weakness there is strength, everything changed.

Same for the second assumption, that this is all there is.  If this is all there is, there is no point seeking more, or trying to remake yourself, because there would be no point.  Rome offered a pantheon of gods, including Caesar himself, and collectively they were supposed to provide for every eventuality.  Bad crop, we have a god for that.  Bad fertility, we have a god for that.  Bad party, we have a god for that.  But a God willing to lay down his life for you, to suffer and die—that the whole of human experience might be known in heaven as it is on earth?  No, only we have a God for that. 

Jesus and his band of hapless rogues stole and destroyed the two things that Rome needed most to rule: hopelessness and resignation.  Tyrants panic at the idea that without them, we become free to see a new world and a new future—we can set aside fear and truly live.  

Let me share one more story:  

For my father’s service last week I resisted the temptation to control everything, a bad habit that clergy have when they find themselves on the other side of the story.  To be fair to me, the minister did give me some latitude over the content of the service.  So after I looked over Carmen’s short list of hymns under the category of “for the love of all that’s holy don’t pick these,” I considered my options.  The first one was easy: "We Praise you, O God" by Julia Cory, a Dutch hymn that celebrates the faithfulness of our mothers and fathers.  (I only recently learned that it’s a rewrite of “We Gather Together,” traditionally sung at your version of Thanksgiving).  

The final hymn was “My life flows on,” a personal favourite, and a good hymn for those in the midst of loss:

My life flows on in endless song,

above earth's lamentation.

I hear the sweet, though far off hymn

that hails a new creation.

Composer Robert Lowry gave this hymn the title “Joy from God.”  It first appeared in his 1869 collection of hymns called “Bright Jewels for the Sunday School.”  The hymn describes the conversation between life’s trials and the new life found in Christ, and concludes each verse with the moving question “how can I keep from singing?”  

The reason I share all this is found in the third verse of the hymn, written by Doris Plenn around 1957.  She was a folk singer and friend of Pete Seegar and wrote the verse as a tribute to those imprisoned during the McCarthy era.  Seegar began to share it with his audiences, and it found its way into various hymnals some years later.  

When tyrants tremble, sick with fear,

and hear their death knells ringing:

when friends rejoice both far and near,

how can I keep from singing?

In prison cell and dungeon vile

our thoughts to them are winging:

when friends by shame are undefiled,

how can I keep from singing?

Again, Jesus and his band of hapless rogues stole and destroyed the two things that Rome needed most to rule: hopelessness and resignation.  Tyrants tremble at the idea that without them, we became free to see a new world and a new future.  Free to speak for the voiceless, free to find strength in weakness, and free to live for each other, now and always, Amen.  

*http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Heist_film

**Harris, Robert. The Cicero Trilogy (p. 1089). Random House. Kindle Edition. 

posted by michael jacob kooiman @ 5:29 AM 0 comments

 New Covenant—6 October 2024 (was 4 October 2015)

Mark 10

13 People were bringing little children to him in order that he might touch them; and the disciples spoke sternly to them. 14 But when Jesus saw this, he was indignant and said to them, “Let the little children come to me; do not stop them; for it is to such as these that the kingdom of God belongs. 15 Truly I tell you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it.” 16 And he took them up in his arms, laid his hands on them, and blessed them.

Apparently this sermon should write itself.

We’re talking about receiving the kingdom of God like a little child, so we make lists: Kids are open, kids are fun, kids forgive their parents foolishness and so on.  ‘Be more like kids,” I’m supposed to say, then it’s off to lunch.  Even a child could write such a sermon.

But that would be too easy.  So we need someone to raise a counterpoint, to get a little debate going.  Not the kind of debate you saw this week, the no audience, no fact-checking, and too much agreement bordering on bromance kind of debate, but rather a look at passages that speak to our passage to find out what the Bible has to say to the Bible.

First, to recap: Jesus said “Let the little children come to me” (I actually prefer the King James Jesus who said “Suffer the little children to come unto me”) ‘and don’t stop them, for the kingdom of God belongs to them.‘  And just to underline the point, he goes a step further, saying “Truly I tell you, unless you receive the kingdom like a little child, you will not be able to enter it.”

The kingdom belongs to children, and unless you are child-like you cannot enter the kingdom. That’s Mark 10, and Matthew 19, and Luke 18.  So it’s all over the Gospels, though it doesn’t appear in John.  John’s prologue says that those who welcome the light of the world become children of God, but there’s no delightful story of Jesus embracing the children.

Beginning, then, with the rule that unless you are child-like you cannot enter the kingdom, we turn to St. Paul.  And if you’ve ever attended a wedding, you may already know Paul’s counterpoint to becoming like a child: “When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.”  Good word, spake.  That’s five letters and 11 points for you Scrabble players out there. 

So Paul is putting away childish things, to peer through a glass darkly—and ponder the mystery of God.  He seems to equate over-confidence in faith as somehow child-like, and worth discouraging.  Instead, we ought to wait for the mysteries of God to be revealed in eternity, and put aside foolish over-confidence. 

A chapter later, Paul picks up the topic once more, and seems to modify his stance: “Brothers and sisters,” he said, “stop thinking like children.  In regard to evil, be infants, but in your thinking, be adults” (1 Corinthians 14:20).  In other words, approach evil with child-like innocence, but in all other situations, think like adults.  This seems to fit with the “shrewd as serpents and innocent as doves” theme that Jesus develops in Matthew, but it doesn’t get us any closer to understanding his kingdom command. 

Finally, in 1 Peter 2, we may have the answer. The author picks up this discussion and adds this bit of advice: “Like newborn babies, crave pure spiritual milk, so that by it you may grow up in your salvation.”  Perhaps, then, we enter the kingdom like newborns, and only then do we grow into mature spiritual beings.  If we follow 1 Peter, being child-like is not the terminal destination, only the only starting point for entering the kingdom. 

In other words, this sermon won’t write itself.  You can’t simply point to a kid and say ‘everything we treasure about you is your ticket to the kingdom—here, let me make a list.’  Describing the pure, spiritual milk of human kindness might be a starting point, but the scriptural record suggests that we then mature into something more. And since our goal here is to understand Jesus before we disagree with Jesus, we need to explore further.

Maybe we should look at this idea of spiritual development, and then try to blend the need to be child-like and the need to grow in the faith.  I might begin with the work of the late Ram Dass, psychologist, writer, and spiritual teacher.  He shared a helpful metaphor to describe our spiritual development.  He argued that we all view the world through various levels of reality or “planes of consciousness.”  And to get at the idea of people seeing the world through levels of reality, he uses the simple metaphor of television.  He describes the channels we receive, and begins with the one or two that all of us get:

We all receive channel one. It is the view we begin with as babies, seeing the physical make-up of the people around us (young, old, light, dark, male, and female).  As adults we still possess this channel and still view it with comfort.

On channel two we view the social world around us.  We begin by placing our family of origin into the categories of father, mother, sibling and what these titles mean in terms of social interaction.  Later we see other categories like teacher or doctor, blue collar/white collar and so on.  Finally, this channel allows us to view psychological attributes like happy, sad, angry or afraid.  Add to the list affiliations such as conservative or liberal, and we begin to see why this is the most watched channel and why so many people are stuck on just two channels.

Channel three is little known and seldom watched.  It is about the myths and roles we place on ourselves and how we understand others.  If you are aware that someone is struggling because they are trying to live up to an ideal they have placed on themselves, then you are watching channel three.  This channel asks the "why" question and tries to understand behaviour as part of a larger pattern.

The fourth channel is the place where we view the people around us and we no longer see differences but only similarities.  We embrace our common humanity and the connection between all people through the Spirit.  We only get glimpses of this channel and some have never seen it. (Sharp, p.74)

So Ram Dass—on the surface at least—seems to be making the opposite argument to entering the kingdom as a little child.  He is arguing that we begin with an awareness of human physicality and nothing more, and only later we discover non-physical attributes (role and identity) and finally some context.  And having mastered all that, if we are really fortunate, we may enter the territory of mystics and seers and find the common humanity that can only be described as visiting the kingdom of God. 

And just because I love spiritual biographies, I will share one that fits our metaphor perfectly, the “conversion” of Thomas Merton. Merton was the Roman Catholic monk who almost single handedly reintroduced Christian mysticism to North America, and he did it from a small cabin in rural Kentucky.  And his conversion, like the best spiritual biographies, comes with a time and a place. 

On March 18, 1958, Thomas Merton went into the city from his monastic home to do a little shopping.  He wrote these words: “In Louisville, at the corner of Fourth and Walnut, in the centre of the shopping district, I was suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that I loved all these people, that they were mine and I theirs, that we could not be alien to one another even though we were total strangers.”

It was at this moment that he resolved to re-engage with the world beyond his monastery, and work for peace.  He confessed that he had come to regard himself as a different sort of being from others, almost a ‘pseudo-angel’ in his monastic life.  But through his Fourth and Walnut experience he discovered his common humanity with others, and some might argue moved from mystic to saint. 

So back to Ram Dass and his television metaphor for a moment, he’s not really talking about children or having the faith of a child, rather he’s trying to map out one route from birth to a form of enlightenment.  He doesn’t set out a timeline for the channels, nor does suggest that children are immature and that you need to be old to become a mystic or a saint.  So if we’re looking for some insight into what children are really like, he shared another metaphor that may help us.  

“When you go out into the woods, and you look at trees, you see all these different trees. And some of them are bent, and some of them are straight, and some of them are evergreens, and some of them are whatever.  And you look at the tree and you allow it. You see why it is the way it is.  You sort of understand that it didn’t get enough light, and so it turned that way.  And you don’t get all emotional about it.  You just allow it.  You appreciate the tree.

The minute you get near humans, you lose all that. And you are constantly saying ‘You are too this, or I’m too this.’ That judgement mind comes in.  And so I practise turning people into trees. Which means appreciating them just the way they are.”

In other words, the child-like wonder he describes in the woods is lost as we age, as we follow the human way of dividing and diminishing.  Children may struggle to understand context or the complexity of grown-up life, but they tend to be masterful at overlooking differences, particularly the kinds of differences that bring out the worst in big people.   

Here’s an experiment.  The next time you have a large meal with some kids at the table, and the conversation turns to some contentious issue like deficit spending or the difference between a tariff and tax, try to guess what the children think of the people and their dearly held views.  You won’t be able to guess, because like mystics and seers, little children see only people and their common humanity, not the things that divide us.  In effect, there is a great circle where we begin life literally unable to discriminate, we travel through a life of categories and bias, and hopefully to come to some context and maybe—just maybe—a child-like sense that all-are-one. 

When Mitchell was looking for preaching dates, I suggested that I would gladly preach the Sunday before the election, but I wouldn’t touch the Sunday after with the ten-foot barge pole.  “It’s not my place,” I might say, being a stranger in a strange land.  And I’m not even sure what I’ll say on that Sunday before, but I bet it might have something to do with common humanity.  Maybe I’ll just preach this sermon again and hope you don’t notice.  

Whatever I say—in a completely non-partisan way—it will likely include the observation that some may seek to divide us, and may encourage us to regard others with suspicion and fear, but we ought to look to the children instead.  We ought to imagine a time when distinctions didn’t matter—didn’t even occur to us—and claim our place in the kingdom of God.  Amen.

*https://www.jmarshalljenkins.com/2019/04/02/shining-like-the-sun-with-thomas-merton-on-4th-walnut-louisville/

posted by michael jacob kooiman @ 6:26 AM 0 comments