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The Eve of Saint Luke
The Twenty-First Sunday After Pentecost
Almighty and everlasting God, who in Christ hast revealed thy glory among the nations: Preserve the works of thy mercy, that thy Church throughout the world may persevere with steadfast faith in the confession of thy Name; through the same Jesus Christ our Lord, who liveth and reigneth with thee and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen. (Proper 24)
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The Eve of Saint Luke
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Scripture citation(s): Mark 10:35-45
A Sermon by
Christopher Seeley
on
Mark 10:35-45
✛
An Address to Saint Thomas Church
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Let the words of my mouth, and the meditation of all our hearts, be always acceptable in thy sight, O Lord, for you are our strength and our Redeemer. Amen.
Good morning. Let me begin with a word of thanks to the Rector, who, as you know is in the UK, visiting among many people and places, our peer school at Westminster Abbey, and preaching at the celebration of the founding of their Choir School. Father Turner suggested that his being away would be a perfect opportunity for me to speak here at Saint Thomas. And so, I thank all of you for your continuing to welcome the Seeleys to Saint Thomas Church and Choir School and for giving some attention to me this morning. Westminster Abbey gets the Rector, and you get me – it’s hardly an even exchange.
In recent weeks, both Staci and I have been given the charge of delivering a Sunday address. Just when the Rector asked me to speak here, the Chaplain at St. Andrew’s School asked Staci to offer a word in Chapel next week during Parents Weekend. Next weekend will be our last of eight Parents Weekends at St. Andrew’s, and our emotions run deep as we think about what that school has meant to Camille and Crawford during their formative high school years and to us as parents. I’m sure that whatever I offer this morning will pale in comparison to the power and impact of Staci’s address to the St. Andrew’s community, and I look forward to making my way down to Delaware to join Staci and Crawford on Saturday, after I wrap up some important business here and conclude our first meeting of the Choir School Board of Trustees.
I say all of this to assure you that while Staci and I are humbled by the opportunity to stand in the pulpit, neither one of us is all that eager to command the attention of these two congregations. Unlike, James and John, who in today’s Gospel were all too quick to raise their hands to ask Jesus to grant them seats of honor and authority, Staci and I tend to think of ourselves as being more with the people and not before the people. It takes a bit of boldness to assume oneself to be worthy of a special place, to be separate from the group, or, as in the case of James and John, to be worthy of being seated on either side of Jesus. It’s clear that these two didn’t really know what they were asking. In their eagerness to be the Teacher’s Pet, they found themselves on the receiving end of a sharp rebuke both from Jesus and from the other ten disciples. How could James and John dare to see themselves at the head of the class, to assume that somehow they were worthy of special consideration and positions greater then they deserved or even understood? How could they, as Jesus chastised them, be like the Gentile rulers who lord over their subjects and end up becoming tyrants? It’s important to remember the larger context of this particular moment in the Gospel of Mark: Jesus and the disciples are making their way from Galilee to Jerusalem – the ministry of Jesus is coming to its pinnacle moment, the tension of the narrative rising to a fever pitch. The Teacher and the Twelve make their way south to realize Jesus’ purpose and their own. We’ve heard the sequence of these stories in recent weeks – the Syrophoenician woman whose faith made possible her daughter’s healing and through whom it was known that the Kingdom of God is open to all; the healing of the deaf and mute man to whom Jesus commanded, “Ephphatha” – “Be opened”; the inability of the disciples to understand the fundamental healing power of faith and the desperate father who earnestly hoped that Jesus would heal his son. Remember his sincere plea to Jesus, “I believe; help my unbelief.” All the while Jesus foretold his Passion to the disciples three separate times to help them understand the urgency and imminence of all they would witness in the days ahead. And still, immediately after Jesus reminds the twelve of his suffering and death to come, James and John prove how little they understand about what they are called to do. Jesus tells the brothers – and all of us – that he is called to serve, not to be served. If we are to follow in the path of Jesus, we, too, must lead lives of service. “Whoever wishes to be great among you must be your servant, and whoever wishes to be first among you must be slave to all.”
And the reading from Isaiah makes clear the nature of that service. Jesus is the Suffering Servant, and the prophet tells us:
“He was oppressed, and he was afflicted, yet he did not open his mouth; like a lamb that is led to the slaughter, and like a sheep that before his shearers is silent; so he did not open his mouth. By a perversion of justice he was taken away.”
The model is clear, as is Jesus’ quiet willingness to accept the indignity of suffering in order to fulfill God’s redemption of a sinful world. Jesus did not lord over others; nor did he oppose the unjust treatment he received. If even Jesus could assume this lowly position, how could James and John demand more for themselves? Beyond that, how can we?
Also clear is the juxtaposition of the Suffering Servant in the prophecy of Isaiah with the familiar story of Job. Yes, poor Job who rants and protests through his affliction, even though he insists that his faith remains resolute. We remember that the cause of Job’s condition becomes a focal point for his wife and his “friends” whose words of consolation seem much more like condemnation and a case for Job’s abandoning his faith, and not true comfort or support. Bildad insists that God causes only the wicked to suffer, and that Job must be deserving of this condemnation and fate. He reminds Job that those who suffer affliction must be receiving from God and from people their just and final rewards:
“Their roots dry up beneath, and their branches wither above. Their memory perishes from the earth, and they have no name in the street.”
But Jesus turns these understandings of the social order and of justice on their head. Jesus’ suffering here is not a payment for his sin, but an illustration of his full belonging in the human condition. Jesus instructs that service is not true if it is pristine and protected; service can only be true if one dares to become proximate.
I’ll tread lightly here, because I am no scholar of his work, but James Baldwin offered a useful example of how we might live out the example of Jesus’s service in our own day. In 1972, Baldwin published No Name in the Street, his assessment of the tumult of the 1960s and 1970s in the United States. Baldwin had lived for some time in Europe in self-imposed exile, hoping not only to escape the racial and social injustices he had known all too well, but also to gain some distanced perspective on the effects of America’s political, social, and economic reckoning with white supremacy, which he pointedly called “the lie.” But distance proved not to offer the refuge, respite, or perspective Baldwin sought, and after watching the March on Washington, the assassinations of President Kennedy, Dr. King, and Malcom X, and the continued effort to realize freedom and equality in the United States, Baldwin returned home, venturing this time into the crucible of the American south, and engaging in the struggle he understood to be critical to the salvation of this country. Baldwin realized that it was not enough for him to assess or to critique from a protected perch; he had to position himself in the work, he had to be with – yes to suffer with and for – the people.
Suffering and service offer each of us and the world the possibility for transformation. To put it plainly, we have to be willing to stand shoulder to shoulder with others, and we have to be willing to bear the brunt of misery and injustice in order to bring about the goodness that God tells us is within our grasp and that the world deserves. In the Gospel of John we are told, “Greater love hath no man than this, that he should lay down his life for his friends.” Jesus demonstrates his unequivocal, radical, redemptive love for a sinful world through his own suffering – even, as St. Paul writes, to the point of death on a cross. I’ll divulge a personal secret here. I had part of that verse, “Greater love hath no man” inscribed in Staci’s wedding band. Though it wasn’t physically possible to fit more than part of the verse on that small circle, I am keenly aware of the words that follow and of the significant challenge I have to meet the full model of Jesus’ radical love.
How, then, do we live our lives in authentic and intentional service of others? Here at Saint Thomas, our church and choir school our bound together in a relationship of mutual service. We offer our students a transformational education, blending access to a unique pre-prep school program that includes a world-class choral experience in a residential setting. And our students, in turn, transform the lives of others, those who sit in the pews of this sanctuary, or who tune in via livestream, and all with whom they come into contact in the years that follow. Yes, in this community, even thirty or so boys at a time, our purpose is not to create a high social position for ourselves, but to have a lasting impact on our world and to make relevant and meaningful the lives we lead in this church and school. We are privileged in that our service is not often coupled with suffering, but we do intend to sacrifice something of what we have to make it of good use to others. And I don’t say this to offer any of us an easy way out of a fundamental call to difficult work. We must enter into this call to service earnestly and with conviction, even if we never find ourselves on the pointed end of a rebuke, realize that we will be forsaken or forgotten by others, or if we ourselves are never made to suffer the indignity of an unjust death.
That is the essence of our Christian duty. We are the body of Christ, and our individual and collective responsibility is to restore that body that was brutalized for us in order to make God’s creation whole again. That restorative possibility is in our love for one another; the transformation of our lives and of the lives of others is in our commitment to be close, to be in the struggle together, to live not for a chance at a seat of honor but for the willingness to accept the challenge to serve. At Saint Thomas, our witness to this call is inscribed on our seal. May we say with sincerity “O God, my heart is ready.” And each time we leave this place, having been inspired along our spiritual journey, may we commit to this, my favorite benediction: “The worship has ended; the service begins.”
Amen.
