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There is a famous hymn that is not found in our hymnal. I’ll spare you the agony of hearing me sing it, but it’s called “I have decided to follow Jesus.” I have decided to follow Jesus, and there’s no turning back. If you have spent time in churches below the Mason-Dixon line, this may be a tune with which you’re familiar.
It would be the perfect hymn for today’s Gospel, as we hear about the very first disciples making that crucial decision. “Follow me,” Jesus says, and away they go. Peter and Andrew, and James and John, are models of Christian discernment and obedience, properly sainted for their instant response to Jesus’ call. Without hesitation, without delay, they “have decided to follow Jesus.” About James and John, Matthew says, “they immediately left the ship and their father, and followed him.”
James and John’s father is named Zebedee, and he does not decide to follow Jesus, at least as far as we know. It’s believed that he was a rich man, successful in his trade as a fisherman, and a faithful member of the house of Israel. Faced with the call from Jesus, however, Zebedee lacks his sons’ conviction; he hesitates.[1] He is indecisive, perhaps more worried about the next day’s catch than following this proclaimed Messiah. Imagine that moment of vast importance occurring suddenly in an otherwise common workday: The three of them mending their nets; the stranger beckons; Zebedee hesitates, but James and John take off—immediately. So in the Church today we have Saint James and Saint John, but there’s no Saint Zebedee.
But the thing about Zebedee, though, is that, in a sense, he was right to delay. If Zebedee was worried about the risk involved, and afraid that something bad might happen to him, or to his family, or even to the beckoning stranger, he was right! If Zebedee was afraid that his two boys might come to a bad end—he was right! There were risks, and bad things did happen to them. His son James would be dead within ten years of this dramatic moment. He started down a path that day that would end with the flash of the blade of a sword and the death of this young man. So can you hear Zebedee calling out as his two sons walk off the ship, and away from him? “Boys, don’t go! James, I know you—you’re going to do something rash and get yourself killed.” And he did! James got himself killed. Have you ever seen parents’ terrible distress when they’re watching their child make awful choices that will put them in danger? Have you seen—or felt—the helplessness those parents feel? “Boys, don’t go!”
“Follow me,” the beckoning stranger says, and Zebedee replies, “Please, please don’t.” And the sons turn their backs and walk away. Jesus says, “I have come to set a man against his father, and a daughter against her mother” (Matt 10:35), and, sure enough, that’s just what he did. Just ask Zebedee—but don’t look for him in the catalog of saints.
So let’s not minimize what it means to be a disciple of Jesus Christ, to decide to follow Jesus, like the hymn says. It’s life-changing; it’s life-giving; but, in a very real way, for martyrs and non-martyrs, it’s life-ending. If we want to be safe, Jesus might not be the way to go. Those disciples’ decisions to follow Jesus was a decision to die, which had consequences both for themselves and for others. We didn’t sing “I have decided to follow Jesus” before the Gospel was read today; we sang “The peace of God, it is no peace.” Zebedee would agree.
This would make the good news pretty bad news, if it wasn’t for two things. For one, it wasn’t only the disciples who set off on this dangerous path. Jesus wasn’t one of those familiar religious charlatans; those false prophets who exploit their followers for personal gain. There were as many of them then as there are now. Instead, he was one who gave more—much more—than any of his followers even could. Decades later, John would write, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God; and the Word was God.” But the Word became flesh, and as soon as that happened, calamity followed him around like a dogged pursuer, constantly on his heels, until it finally caught up to him on Good Friday. The Son who shared an equal divine glory with the Father nonetheless emptied himself completely, obedient to the point of death. Like the disciples, he entered, voluntarily, into a situation that would be fatal.
But more than that. The disciples must have realized that, no matter what happened to them, what they would gain from following Jesus would make any costs seem minimal—even separation from their father; even, indeed, death. They must have realized that there was a kingdom that was not of this world, and that it was through this beckoning stranger, and only through him, that they could become citizens of that kingdom. They must have realized that they were being given the greatest gift that ever could be given.
For Jesus himself, of course, it was different. His actions were taken on behalf of others with nothing to gain for himself. He was the gift-giver, not its recipient. It was his body that could feed the whole world, but it would be consumed in the process.
So let’s not minimize what it means to be a savior, either. If Jesus wanted to be safe, then entering into this world might not be the way to go. But that’s what happened; and that is good news, because the result of it is that the people who have been sitting in darkness now get to see the radiant light that streams off the face of God in Christ. Those who have been beset by death: for them Christ has come. Even for the Gentiles, in Zebulon and Naphtali, those previously considered beyond the pale, too far gone, even for them: sins are forgiven; Easter morning is here.
And that’s the second thing. One of the great Christian hopes is for the possibility of reconciliation and of peace. This may be reconciliation in the course of a life, as enemies realize their common humanity and their dependence on Christ. Or it might not happen in this life for whatever reason, and thus we pray for reconciliation in God’s time, even in God’s kingdom. I have long thought that, in addition to the wonderful experiences in heaven of meeting people again that we have loved, perhaps we may also have the more unexpected experience of meeting those whom we left this world being at odds with. Encountering those from whom we are painfully separated, and finding that they are no longer rivals, being reconciled in whatever way God can make that possible. Those whose relationships have fractured, brought back together in Christ. And this is the hope we have, even for Zebedee and his children: for those who hesitated and those who did not, that they are brought back together in God’s own time, around the heavenly banquet table. Can you hear Zebedee speaking then? “Boys, I was so worried! But here you are! Here we are, together!” And communion is restored through the power of God to heal all that is broken.
And so we sang: “The peace of God, it is no peace, but strife closed in the sod. Yet let us pray for but one thing—the marvelous peace of God.”
In the Name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen.
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[1] The text reads that Jesus called “them”; it’s ambiguous whether the call was only to James and John, or if it extended to Zebedee as well. This sermon assumes the latter, but the former reading is perfectly defensible.