There’s a legend from Texas A & M University called the Twelfth Man Legend.  In 1922, a young man is rooting for the A & M football team while they play Centre College, the then-number-one-ranked team.  As the game wears on and team members sustain injuries, the coach remembers the young man, a basketball player then but formerly a football player.  He’s in the press box helping the reporters identify players.  Suddenly called upon by the coach, he jogs down to the field for instructions, suits up, and stands ready to go into the game.  In this tough game, one by one, each suited player is called in until, finally, this young man is the only person left standing at the sidelines for his team.  He never goes in, but he’s ready.  Today, remembering the twelfth man, the entire A & M student body stands during the entirety of football games, waiting to be called upon should they be needed.
 
In today’s gospel, Jesus commands the disciples: Be on guard.  Be alert at all times.  Stand at the sidelines ready.  Your redemption is drawing near.  For Jesus’ advent, Jesus’ arrival is nigh. 
 
We may say, Jesus’ advent has come and gone, two thousand years ago.  Every year, we move through the pageantry of the holidays.  We light advent candles and flip open the boxes of our Advent calendars.  We sing carols all over Aitkin.  Our kids tell and re-tell the Christmas story at the Christmas program.  We read Luke 2:1-20, with its manger and its heavenly host singing Glory to God in the highest and its shepherds.  We know the drill, and we love it.  Yet it’s done.  Jesus has come and lived, died and been raised, ascended into heaven, and it’s done.  And we’re right: Jesus arrived in the flesh two thousand years ago.
 
But twelfth century theologian Bernard of Clairvaux wrote of 3 advents.  The first advent is the one of which we typically think: the incarnation, the one where Jesus arrives in the flesh, through Mary, to lay in a manger.  The third advent is the arrival of Jesus at the end of the age.  The second or “middle” advent is the one in between these two, the everyday arrival of Jesus.  It is this everyday arrival, the middle advent, for which we stand at the sidelines ready, for which we are alert and on guard.
 
For years, I served a church where a steady stream of people made their way through the church office.  People would often ask to use the restroom, and when my administrative assistant had gone home for the day, I would be the one to walk with the person from the office building to the fellowship hall building and wait while they used the facilities.  I walked wearily because I like being efficient and getting things done, and I had so many things to do all the time.  I would have to remind myself it wasn’t so easy for folks experiencing homelessness to find a restroom to use.  On my very last day there, after I had taken myself out of the security system, after I had packed the last box of books in my car, after I had tearfully walked through the buildings and the courtyard, I opened the church office door with the intention of heading to the parking lot where I would meet my administrative assistant, give her my keys, and drive away for the last time.  It was a poignant moment.  But when I opened the church office door, there stood Donita, a member of the community who lived in her car along with her sister.  “Could we use the bathroom, Pastor?” she asked.  Annoyed but doing my best not to show it, I walked with Donita and her sister to the fellowship hall and let them in.  My assistant found me there, waiting, kicking my heels.  “I can wait for them and lock up, Pastor,” she told me.  I gratefully handed her my keys, hugged her, and stepped out the back door of the hall into the parking lot.  I shook my head ruefully, laughing, thinking about how the very last thing I did in ministry there was to let someone use the bathroom.  And then, I realized, Jesus had come to meet me there, on my last day, in my last moments.  Jesus had arrived in Donita, someone needing grace, someone I got to serve. 
 
A year ago, I came to St. John’s for the first time.  Lorna and Phil picked up me and Richard from the hotel in Deerwood and drove us around the area, pointing out hospitals, parks, and other community amenities.  It was almost dark when we arrived at the church.  I knew we would meet the rest of the call committee in person along with the council.  I knew we would eat together and hear about the ministry of St. John’s of Cedarbrook and then finish with a last informal interview.  For the last several months, I had been interviewing at other congregations and had read countless Ministry Site Profiles.  When Susan Williams, the deacon heading up transitions for the synod, told me about St. John’s, this community immediately piqued my interest.  She described you—us—as “lively.”  And when I interviewed on zoom, I just liked how down to earth everyone seemed.  But I wasn’t sure—yet—if God had called me here.  This maybe won’t make any sense—what I’m about to say—but when I walked in the doors of the church, Theresa Larson said to me, “Welcome to St. John’s!”  And I knew, with that welcome, that it was not simply Theresa welcoming me but Jesus.  I meet him here among you. 
 
Today, Jesus commands his disciples to be on guard, to be alert, to stand at the sidelines ready.  Jesus came two thousand years ago, will come at the end of the age, and comes among us today.  In those needing grace whom we get to serve and in those who welcome the stranger. 
 
Where and when have you met Jesus?  There’s an old camp skit called Jesus Is Coming to Dinner where two people receive a call from Jesus, and he says he’s coming to dinner.  The hosts are ecstatic, pumped, over the moon that Jesus is on his way over to their house, and they rush around getting ready.  As they prepare to meet Jesus, three different people knock at their door.  Someone needing to pee.  Someone whose car broke down and cell phone is dead.  Someone who’s cold and hungry.  The hosts are annoyed by these interruptions but eventually help the person in front of them each time.  The last person leaves, and the phone rings again.  It’s Jesus.  Where are you, Jesus?  We are really looking forward to meeting you, the hosts say over the phone.  You already came?  What?  Oh, in the person needing to pee, in the person with car trouble, in the person hungry and cold. 
 
Of course, it’s December, and we will move through the annual pageantry in time-honored fashion.  We will light advent candles and sing carols.  We will don angel costumes and gather gifts for Baby Jesus.  We will read of the good news of great joy, the birth of a Savior who is Christ the Lord.  But we are also commanded by Jesus to be alert, to be on guard, to be ready at the sidelines for his arrival, not just in the manger, not just at the end of the age, but today.  Because Jesus comes to meet us.  And that is good news indeed!  Thanks be to God!  Amen.   

Each year on Christ the King Sunday, I struggle to articulate what the kingship of Jesus looks like.  It seems too mundane to simply say: For Jesus, it’s not about winning elections or nominating supreme court justices or signing or vetoing legislation.  Even though that’s true—God’s kingdom is not about any of those things.  It seems too grandiose to describe the scene of Jesus’ coronation, a coronation that involves a crown—but of thorns, Jesus hailed king while being struck on the face, a royal purple robe draping his broken body, an ironic inscription on the very cross that crucifies him: Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews.  It seems too simplistic to preach that Jesus’ kingdom is one of love and service and that as king of this kingdom, Jesus calls us to lives of loving service to our neighbor.  Though all this is true, it seems not enough.
 
On Christ the King Sunday, I want to describe God’s kingdom, the one where Christ is king, yet words fail me.  I am in good company, turns out, because in some ways, words failed Jesus too.  Jesus spoke a lot about the kingdom of God, about its nearness, about its availability to children, about it belonging to the poor, about the difficulty the rich have in obtaining it.  But what is the kingdom of God?  Jesus opted not for adjectives but for parables, not for concrete explanations but for analogies.  Jesus said:
 
One by one, worshipers read these passages from scripture:
1 What is the kingdom of God like? And to what should I compare it?  It is like a mustard seed that someone took and sowed in the garden; it grew and became a tree, and the birds of the air made nests in its branches.  (Luke 13:18-19)

2 “The kingdom of heaven is like yeast that a woman took and mixed in with three measures of flour until all of it was leavened.”  (Matthew 13:33)

3 “The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field, which a man found and reburied; then in his joy he goes and sells all that he has and buys that field.  (Matthew 13:44)

4 “Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant in search of fine pearls; on finding one pearl of great value, he went and sold all that he had and bought it.  (Matthew 13:45)

5 “Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a net that was thrown into the sea and caught fish of every kind; when it was full, they drew it ashore, sat down, and put the good into baskets but threw out the bad.  (Matthew 13:47-48)

Jesus is king of this kingdom, this kingdom more poetic than mundane, more dynamic than static.  Every time I tried to summarize what these parables tell us about God’s kingdom, I got stuck.  Because these parables are not easily boiled down to a sentence or two.  But what I feel when I hear these parables is excitement; they are about a God who is active, changing, on the move—as in the way yeast makes bread rise.  What I feel when I hear these parables is joy; they are about a God whose call in our lives leads us to give up everything and follow, like the man willing to sell everything to buy the field with the buried treasure or to give up everything for the pearl.  What I feel when I hear these parables is loved; they are about God making space for me, for all of us in God’s kingdom, as a tree makes space for birds’ nests and a net hauls everything into its embrace. 

After a long struggle with scripture this week, I realized the reason for my struggle: God’s kingdom doesn’t make sense to us.  I was trying to make sense of it, trying to follow the train of logic.  Christ is king, and his coronation is his crucifixion.  How can we reason a God who reigns in suffering? Whose kingdom is the result of no conquest? Whose only aim is to love, to love wildly, to love extravagantly, to love so graciously it seems unfair? 

Wendell Berry, American poet, captures for me the kingdom of God in his poem “Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front.”  He begins by describing the kingdom of this world:

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready-made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.
When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.
So, friends, every day do something
that won’t compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world.

From there, Berry commands his readers to do things that don’t compute.

Work for nothing, he writes.
Love someone who does not deserve it.
Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias.
Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.

There are many more things that don’t compute.  And in the kingdom of this world measured by quick profit, the annual raise, and vacation with pay, doing something every day that doesn’t compute is the way into another world.
​ 
The kingdom of God does not compute.  So, love the Lord.  Love the world.  To do so is to enter the kingdom of God.  Amen.

First century Christians lived under Roman occupation and were forced to pay exorbitant taxes by exploitative tax collectors.  At a time with no middle class, only the wealthy and the poor, it was largely the poor who followed Jesus, basically living hand to mouth.  After Jesus’ death and resurrection, Jesus followers were also persecuted: imprisoned, stoned, crucified, thrown to the lions.  No wonder the apocalypse, the end of the world, brought hope.
 
In the 17th, 18th, and 19th centuries in the US, enslaved Africans labored on southern plantations and in northern cities.  Though slavery had long been practiced around the world, the slavery in the US was particularly cruel, beginning with the agony of the Transatlantic Passage on slave ships, inflicting harsh physical punishment, and separating children from their parents and spouses from one another.  The spirituality among those enslaved focused on the world to come, and no wonder: the apocalypse, the end of the world, brought hope like nothing else.
 
Folks experiencing homelessness, at least on the streets of Phoenix, grab cardboard from recycling dumpsters to shield their bodies from the cold, hard concrete of the sidewalks on which they sleep.  People’s nervous systems are constantly on alert in order to ensure their physical safety.  Every day, people walk miles to secure food, showers, medical care, and to go to their jobs.  Every time I asked groups of homeless folks what book of the Bible they wanted to study, every time, people said to me: Revelation which is a vision of the apocalypse.  The apocalypse, the end of the world, brought hope.
 
In today’s gospel, Jesus describes the apocalypse, the end of the world.  The destruction of the temple, leaders leading people astray, wars and rumors of wars, earthquakes and famines, nation against nation, kingdom against kingdom.  It’s scary stuff, this end of the world.  And yet, this is a description not just of what is to come but what has already happened, time and again, throughout history.  In 70 of the common era, the temple really was destroyed, and supposed messiahs have come in politicians and spiritual leaders and people of grandiose dreams ever since the time of Jesus.  Wars and violent threats, earthquakes and famines, nation against nation are headlines in today’s newspapers and news reports.  But, Jesus continues, this is just the beginning of the birth pangs.
 
Have you ever been present at a birth?  Perhaps the birth of your own child or grandchild or maybe the child of a close friend?  For me, just a few times.  One colleague texted me as she went into labor, and I sat outside her hospital room for just 30 minutes as she birthed Noah into the world.  From the hallway, I could hear cries and deep breathing, instructions and encouragement, but the birth was as simple and straightforward as a birth can be.  When my sister went into labor with my niece, I remember excitedly driving to the hospital just down the street from my apartment only to have my excitement stymied by the reality of my sister actually in labor.  She paced.  She hurt.  She couldn’t have conversation.  She breathed deeply and then couldn’t breathe.  Hours and hours later, long after I went home, Stella was born.  When a dear, close friend went into labor 6 hours away, I told her: I’m coming!  And she said: Don’t.  A private person who struggles with even minor pain, the messy, painful process of birth was not something she had the strength to share, even with her closest friend.  And the first birth I ever witnessed was as a hospital chaplain intern over 20 years ago.  I was the chaplain on call, and the nurse had asked me to be ready to baptize the baby as soon as it was born.  I waited in the corner of the delivery room through the final stage of labor.  The mother cried out in pain as she gave birth to a premature baby, small enough to fit in the palm of my hand.  The doctor quickly wrapped the baby in a cloth and handed her to me.  I baptized her in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit as she breathed her first and last breaths in this world.   
 
In the middle of labor, birthing a child into this world is hard work.  In the middle of labor, some women are not sure they wish to bring a new life into the world at all.  In the middle of labor, birthing is very, very messy.  So it is as God births a new world among us: hard, uncertain, and very, very messy. 
 
Today, Jesus describes the apocalypse and then says: This is just the beginning of the birth pangs.  This is not the end.  Destruction and poor leadership, wars and rumors of wars, earthquakes and famines, nation against nation, this is not the end.  This is just the beginning of the birth pangs.  Something else is on the other side of sin and evil and brokenness.  Something new.  A new world healed of indifference and greed, intolerance and assumptions is on the other side.  A world of love.
 
And I think this is why the early Christians and the enslaved people of early US history and those experiencing homelessness find the apocalypse so hopeful: sin and evil and brokenness have been with us since the Garden of Eden, but that’s not all there is.
 
And today, what I find most hopeful is that, in a way I cannot fully understand, God’s sense of time is different than ours.  We are linear people who perhaps see history hurtling from the first century to the twenty-first and beyond.  Someday in the future, at a time we do not know, at a time even Jesus didn’t know, we expect the world to end.  And at that time, sin and evil and brokenness will all have been broken by the power of God’s love.  But it occurs to me that the new world on the other side of sin and evil and brokenness has already broken into our world.  In Jesus.  As he sits at the table with Zacchaeus and washes the disciples’ feet.  As he calls fishermen and plenty of other nobodies to follow him and as he feeds the multitudes with five loaves and two fish.  As he joins criminals on the cross and then, especially, as he breaks free from the tomb!  The new world of love has already broken through, then and there and here and now as we too follow Jesus wherever he leads us. 
 
The story of sin and evil and brokenness is a tired old tune we have sung since Eden, but that’s not all there is.  Something else is coming, has come, and comes among us now, when we love our neighbors, really and truly.  When we let go and use our God-given resources to serve God’s whole people.  When we respect and care for and forgive even those who have nothing good to say about us.  When we hold onto hope and expect to see God at work everywhere we go. 
 
Yes, yes, destruction and wars, earthquakes and famines, sin and evil and brokenness, they have been with us since Eden, but this is not the end.  This is just the beginning of the birth pangs, and a new world is coming, has come, and comes now.  Thanks be to God!  Amen.

When the congregation began worshiping in person again after a year-long break due to Covid, we decided we would no longer pass the offering plate—as a simple health precaution.  Instead, at one of the worship services, we set the offering plate on the altar, and at the time of the offering, people would come forward as they wished to place their offering in the plate.  In that small, informal worship setting, I sat in a chair along the center aisle just a few feet from the altar.  We sang a praise song as people shared their offering, and as the time of the offering went on, I was too busy reading and singing the words on the screen—positioned to my right—to really notice what was going on around me.  A few weeks into the new routine, I had the bodily sense that someone was standing right next to me, on my left.  I looked over and saw to my surprise that a line had formed down the center aisle.  Each person in the line was a member of the community who was experiencing homelessness.  As each person got to the front of the line and stood at the altar, I watched as people dug their hands into their pockets and pulled out quarters and nickels, dimes and pennies, sometimes a one-dollar bill and put them all into the offering plate.  I watched as people literally turned their pockets inside out to retrieve every last cent, the remnants of their social security disability checks or whatever they had managed to panhandle.  And then, the person would return to their seat, and the next person would do the same and then the next person, all down the line.  And it wasn’t just one Sunday; it was every Sunday, a line down the center aisle, people who carried everything they owned in a backpack and a couple of cloth bags putting their very last cent in the offering plate. 
 
People’s generosity, faith in God, and gratitude for all that God had provided them moved me…but it also angered me.  Each Sunday, sitting there humbled before the generosity of some of the most vulnerable in our society, I could not escape the bitter irony.  The bitter irony of folks who panhandle teaching middle class folks to be generous.  The bitter irony of folks bound to a cycle of incarceration, probation, and recidivism teaching the rest of us freedom from greed.  The bitter irony of homeless veterans teaching the rest of us how to care for others in need. 
​
In today’s gospel, the disciples stand in the shadow of Jerusalem’s Temple with Jesus.  Jesus points out to them the widow who puts into the Temple treasury her last two copper coins that are worth only a penny.  Jesus lifts up her gift, celebrates her generosity, honors her for her faith.  But Jesus does so only after he teaches the disciples to beware the Pharisees whose piety is not only shallow but hurtful, not only hypocritical but harmful.  They devour widows’ houses, Jesus says. 

Throughout both the Old and New Testaments, care for widows is the mark of a faithful life.  For widows were vulnerable women without any sort of safety net.  Upon the death of her husband, a widow was also no longer sheltered by her father’s household and was typically destitute with no method for feeding or sheltering herself or any young children.  In today’s reading from First Kings where God sends the prophet Elijah to the Widow of Zarephath, the widow tells Elijah she intends to use her remaining meal and oil to make cakes for her and her son so that, she says, “we may eat it and die.”  Her destitution is a vivid backdrop to Jesus’ teaching.  Jesus critiques the Pharisees who devour widows’ houses, who strip the most vulnerable of their society of the little they still possess.  The scriptures teach not only these wayward Pharisees but all of us not to exploit widows but to care for them—as the most basic practice of a faithful life. 

In both the Old and New Testaments today, God challenges us to consider: Do we care for the most vulnerable among us—or do we exploit or ignore them?  Here in the Aitkin-Deerwood-Crosby area, it’s not obvious who is most vulnerable among us.  In Phoenix, a person need only exit the freeway and idle at a stoplight to see people in great need.  Here, poverty and other types of need are largely hidden behind closed doors. 

Just last week, Aitkin High School opened a clothing closet for students to get the very basics of new clothing: socks and underwear, sweatshirts and sweatpants.  In talking with the person organizing the closet, I learned that some of the kids who have come to the closet have never had a new pair of socks, and many of the kids’ clothes are dirty, as if they are not regularly washed.  Buying new clothes for your kids, as they rapidly grow out of them, is an expense all parents understand, and washing your clothes at a laundromat is pricy these days.  

At the west edge of Aitkin, DAC Works enriches the lives of adults with developmental disabilities while the participants enrich the lives of the staff.  DAC provides vocational training as well as opportunities for the participants to earn a bit of their own money, build relationships with people in the community, and grow in a variety of skills.  The DAC life enrichment program, which operates in the building across the street from Dotzler’s, provides daytime programming and care for adults with even more profound disabilities.  In a society where we prize strength, intellect, and wealth, people with developmental disabilities largely go ignored.

Perhaps most familiar to us, seniors with significant medical conditions live at home, in nursing homes, in dementia units, and in assisted living complexes around our area.  Even when we take excellent care of ourselves, after decades of life, our bodies do eventually wear out.  We won’t always be able to do the things we do now.  We won’t always be as active as we are now.  And while monetary and material resources can shield us from destitution, loneliness can be a crushing weight.    

Today’s gospel can run the risk of being simply a feel-good story about the generosity of those who are poor, in a variety of ways, while Jesus decries the bitter irony of the widow—that as a faithful follower who gives everything she has to God, those supposedly faithful Pharisees with plenty to spare strip the widow of any remaining resource.  And in the fashion of all of scripture, Jesus invites the disciples and us into the most basic practice of a faithful life—care for the most vulnerable among us. 

On a day when scripture pinches and makes us squirm, you're probably wondering: what is the good news? 

I feel the good news in my bones every time I step inside Aitkin Health Services to lead people in worship or play a game of Connect Four.  I feel the good news rain down every month when Connie, Ryan, and I join the DAC community for worship.  I feel the good news reach from the tips of my toes to the top of my head every time we get to respond to a need we see, whether it’s the high school clothing closet or HOPE or the community meal.  Throughout the Old and New Testaments, God teaches the people to care for the most vulnerable as the basic practice of a faithful life.  And when we do, when we give monetarily or with our time or by building relationships, we discover not only the needs of our neighbors but our own needs.  And gloriously, in a way that only God can explain, by reaching out to those in deepest need, our own deepest needs are reached.  For that, we can say: Thanks be to God!  Amen.   

They all gather for the funeral.  Weeping, consoling, present.  Mary, Martha, and all who knew and loved Lazarus.  Jesus loved Lazarus too, and he weeps for him.  Or perhaps Jesus weeps because the community is sad and grieving, and he too is part of the community.  By the time Jesus arrives, Lazarus is good and dead.  Four days dead.  Long enough that, at least according to the custom of the time, the body had finally released the spirit on the third day.  At that point, there is no miracle, no magical cure, no mistaken assessment of Lazarus’ condition.  Lazarus is dead.  His body is in the tomb—and has been for four days.  He is wrapped up in cloth as was done, and the stench of his body fills the cave.  Lazarus is dead.  ​

Two thousand years later, we are more sure than ever when people we love have died.  Quite often at the time of death, the loved one’s blood pressure, heart rate, and oxygen level are all clinically measured.  Quite often, the person we love is surrounded by us, family and friends and community, listening for each breath as it comes, slower, even more slowly, yet more slowly still.  Sometimes, death comes suddenly, violently, with the full force of a gut punch, certain and devastating.  The one we love is dead.

Two thousand years ago and today, when someone we love dies, we are shocked, sad, angry, grateful for the beautiful life of the person we love.  Turning to God, we may echo the words of Mary: Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.  Lord, if you have been here, my father, my mother, my sister, my partner, my child would not have died.  We understand Mary’s words.  We get it.  We want miracles too.  But death comes to all who live.  We will all die, really and truly.  Death is not a mirage even for those claimed and loved by God.  Even when Jesus is crucified, he dies, really and truly, and is dead until the third day, long enough even to release his spirit as the ancient custom dictated. 

When Jesus comes to weep with the community at the death of Lazarus on day four, no one expects a miracle.  No one gets their hopes up.  No one pleads for Jesus to raise Lazarus from the dead.  Mary and Martha see only a dead end at this point, only an acceptance of what comes to all people.  ...but that’s not what Jesus sees.  Jesus comes to show people the glory of God, the power of God to bring life in the midst of death, the ridiculous hope we have in God.

I don’t know why God raised Lazarus but doesn’t raise others.  But what I take from this story is that what appear to be dead ends to us are not necessarily dead ends to God.  And there are so many dead ends we face.  Not just death but ends of marriages, friendships, family relationships.  Ends of jobs and educational programs.  Bankruptcy and desperate measures of all kinds.  So-called dead-end jobs and dead ends in solutions to our health problems.  We may feel unredeemable, lost, at our wit’s end.  We may have come not only to the end of our rope but to the end of our hope. 

When Jesus tells the community gathered with Mary and Martha to take away the stone from the entrance to Lazarus’ tomb, how ridiculous he must have sounded.  Martha tells him: He has been dead four days.  Or in other words: It’s over, Jesus.     

I wonder how often we say those words in prayer, in exasperation, in hopelessness.  It’s over, Jesus.  Not that this deters Jesus.  He goes on to cry with a loud voice: Lazarus, come out!  And Lazarus does. 

A few years ago, when discussing this story with a member of my congregation, Sheila summed it up best: “Nothing is the end until God says so.”  Nothing is the end until God says so.  In our relationships, in all manner of personal struggles, in the ways we contribute to the common good, in our community here at St. John’s of Cedarbrook, in a nation polarized, in life and death, nothing is the end until God says so.  Until that point, hope abounds for even when Lazarus was dead four days, he still came out when Jesus called.  Thanks be to God!  Amen.  

I remember being a confirmation student, in 7th grade, when I first heard about Martin Luther, reformer of the church.  Around Reformation Sunday, we watched the old black and white Martin Luther movie, and my dad, who was my pastor and confirmation teacher, explained how Luther back in the 1500s in Germany nailed 95 theses to the door of the Wittenberg Castle Church.  Luther’s written declaration in defiance of the Roman Catholic Church of the time was highly controversial, exposing the corruption of the church, to the point that Luther went into hiding at Wartburg Castle for his safety.  Pope Leo X and Emperor Charles V demanded at the Diet of Worms, basically a holy trial, that Luther recant his writings.  Luther refused saying that his conscience was bound by the will of God, that he could not and would not renounce any of his writings.  “Here I stand; I can do no other,” he famously stated.  Luther declared, simply, that the people of God were saved by God’s grace.
 
Luther’s declaration, one which threatened his life, one which drug him before the pope and the emperor, meant that we need not earn, work for, or in any other way labor for salvation.  Instead, Luther insisted, we are saved by God’s grace.  Not works.  Not repentance.  Not even by a declaration of faith.  Just the free, undeserved, unmerited favor of God. 

The free, undeserved, unmerited favor of God is what we receive in holy baptism, grace that frees us from the power of sin, death, and evil.  God’s grace is what we receive in holy communion each Sunday, grace that provides forgiveness of sin, life, and salvation.  God’s grace is what we receive in the word of God proclaimed, a word that powerfully guides our lives.  God’s grace is what we receive in community, in bonds of love, in relationships that transcend difference and slights and mistakes. 

There’s something funny about even knowing that we have been shown grace.  As a teenager, I remember my dad telling me that most people don’t believe they’re sinners.  Asked outright, no Lutheran could deny humans are sinful, but, my dad told me, we have a tendency to believe that we, personally, are blameless or at least not as bad as everyone else.  Sure, everyone else is wrong.  Everyone else errs.  But me?  To keep his own and others’ feet firmly planted on the ground, my dad hung a hand-carved wooden sign in his office which read “Sinners Only.” 

And then some of us sinners know only too well how we sin and get paralyzed.  Prior to discovering the grace of God, Martin Luther was convinced of his total depravity from the likes of which he could not be redeemed.  He could not see his own goodness.  Instead, he saw only his mistakes, his failures, his intentions to hurt others, his arrogance, his spiritual laziness.  Luther’s confessor, the man who regularly received Luther’s verbal confession of sin, told Luther that he had not once confessed anything remotely interesting, yet Luther beat himself up nonetheless. 

Whether we erroneously believe ourselves sinless or magnify our sin to the point that we cannot see our goodness, we might have a hard time recognizing we’ve received the grace of God. 

Years ago during my first call, I served alongside Pastor Victoria.  She had served in ordained ministry for about a decade when I began my first call and was a marvelous partner in ministry—open, collaborative, intelligent, compassionate, fun, and very different than me.  If you are familiar with the Meyers-Briggs personality theory, Pastor Victoria and I were complete opposites.  I am an INTJ; she’s an ESFP.  This led to lots of learning for us both.  One day at the start of worship, I watched as she led the confirmation students who were serving as acolytes to do something that they were not supposed to do, at least not according to my self-righteous-just-graduated-from-seminary-mind.  It was wrong from the perspective of my worship professor in seminary, wrong because it wasn’t in the bulletin, wrong because I had planned worship and had not given her license to do what she did.  My face showed, first, my surprise then my displeasure until I rearranged it into politeness.  Pastor Victoria saw my glare and, I’m sure, felt my fuming as she sat next to me in the worship leader chairs.  As worship progressed, especially as we confessed our sin, I realized the sin was not hers but mine.  The Spirit had led her to do something a bit differently, and I was probably the only one who had noticed the deviation from the bulletin.  Yet she never spoke to me about my glare and fuming.  She never passive aggressively responded to the incident in any way.  She forgave me and moved on.  A fact I only realized while writing this sermon.  It’s sometimes hard to see when we’ve received grace. 

The thing about grace in our daily lives is that we often don’t know that people are showing us grace.  Each of us from time to time say weird things, do weird things, and let our insecurities lead us into temptation.  And most of the time, people just show us grace.  And we’re not even getting started talking about how God shows us grace—time and time and time again.  But because we have been shown grace, we are growing into people of grace.  We get to be the ones who accept others with all their idiosyncrasies, who forgive people who don’t show a whiff of repentance, who go right on loving people just as they are.  We get to be our biggest, most heart-full, most joyous selves, instead of the narrowest, most self-righteous version of us.  We get to receive God’s grace and then extend that same grace to others, if only because we know how knuckle-headed we too can be.  The grace God extends to us is the grace God revealed to Martin Luther in the pages of scripture.  That free, undeserved, unmerited favor of God turned the church and the world upsidedown in the Reformation, and still today, God extends that grace to all people, everywhere.  And for that, we can say both: Blessed Reformation Sunday and Thanks be to God!  Amen.

In today’s gospel, James and John approach Jesus, making the most ridiculous request of Jesus in all the gospels: “Teacher, we want you to do for us whatever we ask of you.”  And what they want is to sit, one at Jesus’ right hand and the other at Jesus’ left in his glory.  Clearly, James and John are not paying attention.  Because Jesus has just gotten done—the verse before—predicting his own suffering, death, and resurrection.  James and John are not paying attention because this is the third time in the gospel of Mark that Jesus has done so.
 
The first time Jesus predicts his suffering and death, in chapter 8, Peter can’t bear to hear of Jesus’ suffering and rebukes Jesus.  But Jesus replies: Get behind me, Satan!  For you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.   

The second time Jesus predicts his suffering and death, in chapter 9, is directly before the disciples argue with one another about who among them is greatest.  And Jesus teaches them: Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all.

And now, this third time that Jesus predicts his suffering and death, in chapter 10, James and John have the audacity, the spiritual hubris to request eternal seats at Jesus’ side in his glory.  At least, that’s what they think they are requesting.  This time, Jesus teaches them: “Whoever wishes to be great among you must be your servant, and whoever wishes to be first among you must be slave of all.  For the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life a ransom for many.” 

James and John believe they understand what they are asking, believe they are able to drink the cup that Jesus drinks.  But they do not and cannot.  In the gospel of Mark, the moment of Jesus’ glory is not a military or political victory.  It is not the kingdom of God come in its fullness.  It is not even a glorious Easter resurrection—for though Jesus is risen, we never see him in the gospel of Mark.  In the gospel of Mark, the moment of Jesus’ glory is the moment of his suffering.  The moments of betrayal and denial.  The moment Jesus is satirically wrapped in a purple cloak and crowned with thorns and mocked: “Hail, King of the Jews!”  Jesus suffers and dies as a result of his commitment to love and healing, forgiveness and the proclamation of the good news, and this is his glory—a life of loving service, even onto death. 

Greatness is found in service.  The truly great come to serve, not to be served. 

There are so many whose service has been celebrated, whose contributions heralded—whether athlete, entrepreneur, spiritual leader, or philanthropist.  But as I reflect on Jesus’ words—that the great come to serve, not to be served—all I can think about is my mother—and the many parents like her.  She’s a social worker, the one on whom foster kids and foster parents depended, the one who helped women leave abusive relationships, the one who organized food pantries so that families could eat.  She’s a friend who stands by people in difficult situations—at the death of loved ones and at accidents and through divorce.  She’s a church member who sets up and serves Holy Communion, who babysits kids in the congregation, who volunteers with Vacation Bible School.  She’s a citizen and a neighbor who volunteers on the foster care review board for her county, who helped resettle refugees, who welcomes to her table anyone who needs a place to be on Thanksgiving or Christmas or Easter, including strangers.  She is a mom who came to all our concerts and meets, who made my favorite hotdish, a mom who is completely non-judgmental and supportive.  And she is grandmother who shows up in emergencies, knows the ins and outs of my niece and nephew, and never forgets birthdays.  I have never once heard my mother talk about how great she is, never once heard her brag about all the ways she contributes to this world.  She just goes about life, giving.  It seems that after decades of weekly worship, daily Bible reading and prayer, countless retreats and church activities, she knows in a way that goes beyond intellectual knowledge that she has been given life in order to serve, not to be served. 
 
Jesus gave his life a ransom for many, including my mom.  His life has freed her and all of us.  But freed us from what?  Self-absorption.  Arrogance.  Spiritual hubris.  Jesus’ life shows us what greatness looks like, and it looks less like a leader wielding power and influence and more like a mom who never forgets birthdays. 

Years ago, my parents were at synod assembly where my dad’s mission congregation was being recognized—after years of door-knocking and hustling.  It was a moment of triumph after a long slog through rejection and uncertainty.  At the very same time, my then-husband and I happened to be driving from Chicago to Arizona where we would spend the summer doing hospital chaplaincy internships.  Midway through New Mexico, our transmission went out while on the freeway.  Fortunately, an exit appeared, and we coasted smoothly off the freeway, through the stop sign, and into a gas station parking lot that was right next to a restaurant and a hotel.  When we learned that our old car was only good for its parts, what did we do?  We called my mom, of course.  She said, “Don’t worry, Sarah.  Stay put, and we’ll come and get you.”  Several hours later, my parents arrived from Phoenix in a van they had rented so we could fit all our stuff.  They had stayed at synod assembly long enough to receive their recognition and then lit out of there.  We apologized and thanked them again and again, but my mom wouldn’t have it.  “This is fun!” she exclaimed.  “It’s an adventure!”    

When we scroll through social media or watch the news or listen to the hype, greatness looks like the person with the most followers, the most likes, or the most votes.  Greatness looks like the person who sets new records or garners the best reviews.  But greatness according to Jesus?  Greatness is a life of loving service, a commitment to a life of loving service, regardless of the consequences.    

And while a life of loving service is not always easy, the good news is that Jesus whom we follow, Jesus who saves us is the one who leads a life of loving service for us and for all creation.  Thanks be to God!  Amen.
 

Today’s gospel makes us squirm.  Or at least makes me squirm.  Which means there is an opportunity for discussion and reflection more than pronouncement or answers.  In today’s gospel story, a rich man comes to Jesus asking what he must do to inherit eternal life.  Jesus implies he’s asking the wrong question—because, by the end of today’s story, Jesus says it’s impossible for humans to save themselves but that nothing is impossible for God. 

In response to the rich man’s question—what must I do to inherit eternal life—Jesus turns to the Ten Commandments.  The rich man says he has kept them since his youth.  “You lack one thing,” Jesus says.  “Go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me.”  Of all the multitudes Jesus has invited to follow him, of all the crowds having been healed who then leave everything and go with him, the rich man is the only one in all the gospels who declines.  He goes away shocked and grieving for he has many possessions.

Jesus then gathers his disciples around.  “How hard it will be for those who have wealth to enter the kingdom of God!...it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God,” Jesus says.  Marveling at the impossibility of entering the kingdom, the disciples ask, “Then who can be saved?”  The answer to which is: “For mortals it is impossible, but for God, all things are possible.”  

I invite you to reflect on this story with me and what it may mean for our own lives; if you prefer not to participate, that is totally fine.  I will share a statement.  If you agree with it, you will come to the front of the center aisle.  If you disagree with it, you will go to the back of the center aisle.  Or you may position yourself anywhere in between if you somewhat agree with, somewhat disagree with, or are undecided or neutral on the statement.  I will then invite just a couple people to share why they’re standing where they’re standing for each question.

Jesus is commanding the rich man to make himself poor.  (We had great conversation among those who participated about each of these statements.)

Jesus’ concern is about the man’s attachment to his wealth, his greed, his self-centeredness, not wealth itself.  

Jesus’ command is for this man alone, not for all Jesus-followers.  

Jesus’ command is about what it takes to follow him, not what it takes to be saved.  

One last statement: This story makes me squirm, and I know why.  

Thank you for reflecting on this story with me.  You may be seated.

As 21st century Christians in the US, I suspect it would be hard for most of us to imagine a different relationship than we currently have with money and possessions.  We are all familiar with the struggle of downsizing, of letting go of dearly loved possessions, even of getting rid of things we never use anymore.  We are all subject to inflation, the market, and taxes.  We all know the practical realities of life and want to be secure.  We all love our families and want to provide for them.  In our culture, generally speaking, we see the accumulation of wealth as both a practical necessity, such as planning for retirement, and an indication of success and prestige, that is, we feel proud of monetary wealth and what it can buy: a fancy truck, a boat, a snowmobile.  And so we are challenged, on many levels, by Jesus’ teaching about wealth.  We are perplexed by his view of it which is generally negative.  And we are not sure what to do in response, especially because Jesus speaks about wealth and poverty more than any other topic, more, even, than the kingdom of God.

A few years ago, the church I was serving hosted a workshop called the Generosity Project.  Workshop participants included people from my congregation, from a congregation called Native American Urban Ministry, and from Lutheran Campus Ministry at Arizona State University.  During small group discussion, I was in a group with two Native American women as well as another white woman.  One of the questions we discussed was something like: How do I know when I’ve given enough—in terms of monetary stewardship?  The other white woman and I jumped right in to share our thoughts, and we talked about how we tithed but wanted to grow beyond tithing and how hard that was, how much of a struggle it was to make that work practically.  When the two Native American women shared, they also said that determining an appropriate amount to give was challenging—but for different reasons.  “It’s hard to know when to stop giving,” one of the women said.  “I know I need to take care of myself, but it’s really important to care for my extended family and my community.  Sometimes, I don’t have much money left for myself.”  She went on to describe how she had nearly become homeless because she had given away so many of her resources. 
I learned that day that there are other ways to think about money and possessions.

Friends, I am honestly not sure what we are to take from this story of the rich man who declined to follow Jesus.  I don’t think Jesus was advocating for personal poverty, per se; yet as much as I hate to say it because I too have a retirement account, I also don’t think Jesus was encouraging us to accumulate wealth.  I don’t think this is a story about salvation in the sense of afterlife but a story about this life.  This life where money and possessions can hold us back from following Jesus.  It’s hard to follow when we’re weighed down by so much stuff. 

And ultimately, no one has ever become poor by giving.  Not even the Native American woman who nearly became homeless for giving.  For giving, ironically, brings life.  Joy.  Gratitude.  And even, the kingdom of God.  Thanks be to God!  Amen.  

Jesus is up to something.  He feeds and heals, forgives sin and teaches, befriends and performs miracles because he’s up to something.  Something good.  In a world broken by Roman imperialism, corruption, and abuses of power, in a world broken by indifference, greed, and tribalism, Jesus is up to something.  And in this morning’s gospel, Jesus lets the disciples know who his collaborators are, his partners, his allies. 
 
Jesus’ disciple John approaches Jesus to report: “Teacher, we saw someone casting out demons in your name, and we tried to stop him because he was not following us.”  Oh, John, you’re a-tryin’ to get it right.  You’re trying to protect the integrity of Jesus’ ministry and Jesus’ reputation.  You’re trying to safeguard Jesus’ ministry but by reflecting the culture of then and now: that if someone isn’t for us, they must be against us.  Immediately, Jesus responds: “Do not stop him, [meaning the one casting out demons] for no one who does a deed of power in my name will be able soon afterward to speak evil of me.”  It’s not just those who do a deed in Jesus’ name who need not be stopped—for Jesus continues: “Whoever is not against us is for us.”  I’ll say that again.  Whoever is not against us is for us, Jesus says, meaning the absence of hostility to Jesus’ ministry suffices.  And not only that, Jesus concludes: “Whoever gives you a cup of water to drink because you bear the name of Christ will by no means lose the reward.”  A relatively slim number of people follow Jesus at this time, but that’s okay because even those who assist Jesus-followers in the simplest way—providing a cup of water—are partners in Jesus’ ministry per Jesus’ own teaching.
 
Many years ago now, I went to tour and learn about a behavioral health agency that held classes four days a week in the fellowship hall of the church I was serving.  Though I knew the staff because I had seen them around church, I was only vaguely familiar with their mission.  I learned they were focused on HIV education and prevention, offering free testing and counseling along with the classes for folks considered a high risk for HIV transmission.  As you likely know, by the grace of God and incredible medical research, HIV is now considered a chronic illness in the US as opposed to a death sentence.  Yet contraction at an older age is still quite painful and can of course lead to multiple other illnesses when gone undetected.  The director who was giving me the tour explained how stigma still led people to avoid testing and that that same stigma often led to isolation once people were diagnosed HIV positive.  Naturally, being a pastor and hearing of isolation, I asked: Well, the church can help with isolation.  If someone is HIV positive and they want to be part of a church, do you know which church they go to?  The director looked at me strangely for a few beats before he said: They go to your church. 
 
Jesus had been collaborating with this behavioral health agency on our behalf, and we didn’t even know it!
 
A few years later, with a wing of the church newly empty, we happened upon a non-profit group wanting to rent the space.  A group that produces concerts with amps and strobe lights for young, amateur musicians, like teenage and 20-something garage bands who have never had the chance to play in front of a live audience—all in an alcohol-free, positive, supportive environment.  After working out the details, the group took up residency in the empty wing of the church building with concerts offered most nights of the week.  While we were delighted to host the group and all who attended the concerts, to be honest, we saw the arrangement mostly as a business transaction, the group paying much-needed rent to the church.  But one evening, we learned God was up to something else.  The crowds attending these concerts tended to sport pink, blue, and green hair and wear every imaginable style of dress, a crowd of artsy, urban teenagers and young adults.  And like everywhere, the congregation I served was concerned about the declining numbers of teenagers and young adults in church and was conscious of our communal sins that contributed to this decline: namely, judgment, lack of compassion, and intolerance of certain people.  But as one council member made his way from his car through the concert space to the council meeting room for a council meeting one night, he reported overhearing one green-mohawked young adult say: “This is the raddest church ever!” 
 
Jesus had been collaborating with these musicians on our behalf, and we didn’t even know it!
 
Jesus is the ultimate collaborator, open to all those who assist God’s beloved children in even the simplest way.  This is a difficult topic for some Christians and for me as I stand before you—for I never wish to throw anyone under the bus.  But I must acknowledge that, among some Christians, there is a suspicion of anything not explicitly Christian.  And among some Christians, there is not an openness even to other Christians of different traditions.  Like John, Jesus’ disciple who tried to stop the one casting out demons in Jesus’ name, these sisters and brothers in Christ surely wish to preserve the integrity of Jesus’ ministry and Jesus’ reputation.  Which is understandable.  Still, Jesus needs no such defense from Methodists, Roman Catholics, and Baptists.  Jesus does not see the world through the lens of Republican and Democratic, sacred and secular, even Christian or non-Christian.  Instead, Jesus is looking for collaborators, partners, and allies in healing and love, in justice and peace, in whatever lifts up the lowly and comforts the afflicted.  It might be a behavioral health agency or green-mohawked musicians.  It might be Aitkin Health Services or HOPE or DAC Works. 
 
Today, in Aitkin and Crosby, in Deerwood and Ironton, across the nation and around the world, Jesus is up to something.  Something good.  And to get that something done, Jesus is collaborating with us, the people of St. John’s of Cedarbrook.  And Jesus is collaborating with the people of First Lutheran and Aitkin Assembly of God and St. James Roman Catholic parish and Immanuel Lutheran Church.  Jesus is collaborating with the hospital and its auxiliary, with the library and its Friends, with Rippleside and Aitkin High School.  Jesus is collaborating for healing and love, for justice and peace, that the lowly might be lifted up and the afflicted comforted.  Wherever this ministry of healing and love, justice and peace is done, whether congregation or non-profit, government entity or business, we can trust Jesus is at work there. 
 
Far from worrying that someone or some entity is out of Jesus’ bounds, today, Jesus’ teaching invites us to consider: Will we, do we partner with Jesus for the sake of healing and love, justice and peace, that the lowly might be lifted up and the afflicted comforted?  For Jesus is up to something.  Something good.  And we have the chance to be part of it.  Thanks be to God!  Amen.

​Today, the disciples walk along the road discussing who is greatest among them.  The disciples know, as followers of Jesus, how silly they are being—for when Jesus asks them what they had been arguing about, they stand silent.  Jesus goes on to counter their most basic notions of sense and social decency.  Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all, Jesus says.  Jesus takes a child in his arms to instruct them: Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me. 
 
Despite the importance of grown children in the structure of ancient society where grown children provided care for aging parents and became heirs, young children and in particular orphans were the weakest and most vulnerable members of first century society.  Their low status was akin to slaves, even within their own families, until their teen years at which time they were considered adults.  So when Jesus tells the disciples that to welcome children is to welcome him, it is shocking that Jesus shares the status of children.  When Jesus tells them that, to be first, they must be last of all and servant of all, it is confusing.  And when Jesus predicts his own suffering, death, and resurrection, it is scary. 
 
Marlene the Kitchen Queen, as I called her, was a member of the church, a slender, tiny but strong woman, no more than 5 feet tall, always in sneakers and laughing.  Marlene lived in a condo with her husband on the other side of the large city park right across the street from the church.  On Wednesday mornings, she would walk across the park to the church and spend all day in the church kitchen.  With the help of Devalyn, another member of the community, and whoever else happened to be around, she would scrub the pancake batter-splattered kitchen floor and walls and stove, clean out the church refrigerators and freezers, make soup, mash many pounds of potatoes, throw together salad, and bake brownies.  Come 4:30 in the afternoon, more volunteers would arrive who, under Marlene’s direction, would cover serving tables with tablecloths, set out plates and cups enough for a hundred people, stir together lemonade and make coffee.  After dinner was served by the volunteers, Marlene would go to each table handing around dessert on small plates.  While the rest of us moved on to Bible study and singing, prayer and post-Bible study blanket distribution, Marlene would, finally, mop the kitchen floor.  Each Wednesday evening, I would watch Marlene set off across the park in the dark, her condo probably a 15 minute walk from church.  Though the park had a long-held reputation as a place of violence and danger, as home to many folks experiencing homelessness, Marlene walked by herself through the park each Wednesday evening.  She told me friends and neighbors often asked her about it.  For they were shocked, confused, and scared for her and themselves, imagining walking through Hance Park at night.  But Marlene would tell them, “These are the same people who come to dinner.”
 
Marlene the Kitchen Queen is one of the greats. 
 
Reid was a member of the church community, immediately recognizable by his unique afro that stuck up wildly on both sides of his head with an empty strip right down the middle.  A college graduate and an engineer, Reid’s life took a turn when he was in his 50s.  When I met him, Reid had been homeless for about three years.  During that time, he had learned how to survive with grace, and given everything that he had learned, Reid told me, he was now committed to using his life to reduce the suffering of others.  Because he himself lived on the street, he knew the true needs of people in situations like his, knew how to keep himself and others safe and healthy, and knew where to find necessary resources.  With his intelligence and leadership skills, Reid organized volunteer groups to serve the homeless community in ways that he saw to be most effective.  When I went to visit another homeless member of our community who was sick in a cheap ramshackle motel a few blocks from the church, Reid went with me into the sketchy motel.  When we needed someone to sit on the board of a community group that was hostile to people experiencing homelessness, Reid agreed to represent the church.  And Reid would sit at the welcome table with me on Wednesday evenings, both to welcome people and to help them solve whatever problems they presented to us.  I’m not sure why Reid chose not to end his homelessness until just a couple years ago, but I imagine it had something to do with his decision to use his life to reduce the suffering of others.     
 
Reid is one of the greats.
 
When I ask people who they admire, who inspires them, who they would consider great, I expect to hear the names of the rich and powerful.  Elon Musk.  Steve Jobbs.  Singers and actors, politicians and athletes, entrepreneurs and innovators.  Or when I specifically ask Christians who they admire, who inspires them, who they would consider great, I expect to hear the names of people we might call saints: Mother Teresa, Archbishop Oscar Romero, Desmund Tutu, Dorothy Day, the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King.  But to my surprise, most often, people speak of their mothers and grandmothers, their fathers and grandfathers.  Those singers and politicians, archbishops and social leaders, they do meaningful things in the world, and the world is grateful.  But in our lives, we know, actually, that the greatest among us are the ones who love us, who forgive us, who do everything they can to support us.  We know that the greatest among us are the ones who use their time on this earth to care for others and the world God made.  We know that the greatest among us are the ones whose commitment to loving service is steadfast, whether that is service to family or friends, to a school or a workplace, to a community or a nation.  Loving service that needs no applause or acclamation.  Loving service that may even be risky.     
 
Jesus was a teacher, a storyteller, a miracle-worker, the messiah.  He healed people and forgave them.  He traveled with his friends from village to village to share the good news of God’s kingdom come and relied on the hospitality of strangers.  He befriended tax collectors and Pharisees, fishermen and women.  He raised the dead and fed the living.  Even when he knew his life was at risk, he kept right on doing the things God had called him to do, using his whole life to love.  Ultimately, Jesus was betrayed by his friend Judas, denied by his friend Peter, abandoned by nearly all his friends but the women who stayed near the cross.  Jesus is one of the greats, the greatest of all the greats, but the whole of his life was not marked by power, might, or success.  Why are we still talking about Jesus?  And why in God’s name do we follow him?
 
Jesus shows us what greatness looks like, in real time, and even though it doesn’t make any sense to us, we know it to be true: If we want to be great, we must be last of all and servant of all.  Serving so that others can eat and casting off fear in order to love, like Marlene the Kitchen Queen.  Using our knowledge to assist others in desperate situations, like Reid.  Seeking the wholeness of our families and friends, schools and workplaces, communities and nation with our whole lives, like our mothers and grandmothers, fathers and grandfathers.  Going where God has called us to serve, despite the costs, like Jesus.   
 
Today, the joke is on the disciples.  They argue about who is greatest among them, and of course, it’s Jesus, who, in his greatness, let go of his whole life—for them and us.  Thanks be to God!  Amen.