James 3:13-4:3, 7-8a; Mark 9:30-37
Ordinary 25B
Proper 20
They didn’t know what Jesus was saying, but they were afraid to ask him what he meant.
How many times have we been afraid to ask — even when we knew we didn’t understand? How often has our fear of revealing our ignorance prevented us from a revelation, from a new way of seeing, from a deepened relationship? We know the saying “There are no stupid questions,” and yet we do not ever want to appear stupid. It takes courage to raise our hand, stop the lecture, risk the annoyance of the teacher, face the eye rolls of our fellow students and say: “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
Most of us can recall being shamed for a lack of understanding or knowledge and that feeling is never far from the surface of our consciousness. Hence, we are afraid to ask. Subsequently, we act out of our unknowing and only deepen misunderstanding and mistakes. We coast and bluff through algebra only to be totally overwhelmed in calculus. (Or was that just me?) We fake it until we can no longer make it. All because we are afraid to ask, even to ask Jesus.
Does it surprise you that the disciples, at this point in the story, are afraid to ask Jesus what he means? At this point in story they have heard Jesus preach, seen Jesus heal, been exposed to parables and even experienced Jesus still the storm — and yet, they are still afraid. Why are they fearful and of what are they afraid? What would have been the harm in saying: “Jesus, we don’t understand what you are talking about? Why all this gloom and doom? How is it that you can be killed and then rise again?” These are legitimate questions. Would Jesus really fault them for not understanding?
But none among them voiced the questions all of them had. Not even Peter blurted out his confusion. Instead they bickered about who was the greatest. Obviously, they didn’t understand what Jesus was saying. He is talking about suffering and death. They are debating glory, power and status. They needed clarification, correction and further instruction. And so do we.
We get this Jesus-following all wrong, too. We see our relationship with Jesus as instrumental, a means to a glorious end. We want a ticket to legitimacy, deference or moral superiority. Even in our post-modern, post-Christian culture, we imagine that claiming closeness to Jesus offers an avenue to greatness, even if only in our own estimation. I cannot help but think of ministers who abuse children, pastors who relish closeness to secular powers, church leaders who make statements divorcing social justice from the gospel, Christians who condemn people of other faiths, disciples who tout saving souls even while subjugating bodies. We have no idea what Jesus is saying, and we are afraid to ask because asking requires hearing and heeding Jesus’ answers.
Jesus knows, even before asking, what his disciples are arguing about then and now. He knows we are vying for greatness. We like being great. We want to be great again and always, no matter who pays the price for our greatness measured in how much power and money we amass. James reminds us that wisdom and understanding are marked by gentleness, peace, mercy, a willingness to yield, no partiality or hypocrisy. It looks like a child: welcomed, loved, cared for, protected. Understanding Jesus – what he says, who he is – is evident in how we treat the least, not in being great. Any questions?
As I drive to my office I pass numerous people standing on street corners holding up cardboard signs that read: “Anything helps” and “Willing to work” or “Please help.” One gentleman waves at passing cars while holding up a poster board that says, “Smile, it’s not that bad.” One person I pass with regularity is elderly and slight; he looks defeated. When I see him, I think about the fact that he was once someone’s baby, utterly vulnerable and I so hope totally beloved. Now he appears utterly vulnerable and certainly totally beloved by God. But here he stands or sits on a blue plastic milk grate, pleading for help. I don’t understand why, but I do not ask questions that might require something of me.
There is a younger man whose corner is near a major university. He has no legs. He sits on the ground, his wheelchair behind him, his sign propped in his lap. School is back in session, the sidewalks teeming with twentysomethings. As I sit at the light waiting for it turn green, I see most students walking briskly around him. But then I notice a young man stop. The two are talking. Then the student moves behind the wheelchair, putting his hands on the handles. He stands patiently, bracing the wheelchair, as the man with no legs heaves himself into the chair and tucks his sign behind his back. The two of them head down the sidewalk, still talking. It seemed to be a work done with gentleness, a simple act of mercy that revealed an understanding of the kind of greatness Jesus taught. It struck me due to its rarity.
Sometimes I don’t ask questions — not because of what I don’t know, but because of what I do know but want to pretend I don’t. I understand all too well Jesus’ teaching that his followers are called to be servants. I understand all too well that disciples of Jesus Christ are to welcome children, care for the least, seek out the lost and cast their lot with the suffering. Too often, though, I drive by, doors locked, radio on, unwilling to stop and ask questions because the answers will require something of me, something counter to the worldly greatness I seek. I say I don’t know what to do when, really, I know I am to do something. Something gentle, merciful, peaceable. I understand what it means to welcome children. Unlike the 12, I know what Jesus meant when he said in three days he would rise again. But instead of asking pointed questions and demanding answers, I keep quiet and fain ignorance and strive to be great, lost in selfish ambition, allowing disorder and wickedness to run wild.
The light turns green at the top of the hour, the news comes on the radio, the reporter tells of record numbers of migrant children being kept in detention and “overwhelming the system.” Maybe I should speak up, ask questions, demand answers, do something born of gentleness and mercy until wisdom, understanding and welcome win. Wouldn’t that be great?
This week:
- Why were the disciples afraid to ask Jesus what he meant? Are there questions we really don’t want the answers to?
- James asks: Who is wise and understanding among you? Are there people you think are wise and understanding? What makes them so?
- How do we welcome children in Jesus’ name? In church? In our communities? In the world?
- Does Jesus really want us to be a “servant of all”? What does that look like?
- When has your fear of asking a question led to greater ignorance, mistakes or problems? When have you risked asking a question even when you were reluctant to do so? What happened?
- Why do we want to be the greatest? What does it mean to you to be the greatest?
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