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Last week I talked a little bit about Jesus' words to anyone wishing to become one of his followers.
In my sermon I said when Jesus says, "Those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life will save it,"
it's actually a call to letting go of our false sense of self or our ego. It's only when we die to our ego – or "lose our life" –
and replace that ego with compassion that we will find a true and fulfilled life as followers of the Christ.
In today's text, Jesus continues with this theme of letting go of our ego. In our Gospel reading, Jesus and his disciples are apparently traveling down a road,
and along the way, the disciples begin to argue among themselves about who was the greatest disciple.
Was it Peter, the one whom Jesus nicknamed "the Rock?" Was it John, the one who tradition tells us was the "beloved disciple?"
Maybe Judas thought, as the treasurer of the group, he was the most important among them. Sounds like a typical church squabble to me.
But rather than call them down in the moment on their petty words and attitudes, Jesus waited until they arrived at their destination.
And once everyone was behind closed doors, he asked what all the chatter back there had been about.
But even though no one wanted to admit to their childish words, this wasn't something that could be overlooked. It was important.
After all, in just the previous chapter, Jesus had pointed out that letting go of one's ego was critical to becoming one of his followers.
And so Jesus took a seat, which meant he was getting ready to teach them a lesson. In our world, the teacher stands in front of a classroom of seated students.
But in the rabbinic world, the rabbi sits and the students stood out of a sense of respect, listening and learning –
grateful to have the privilege to hear the words of the master. But his words seem almost as cryptic as last week's words about losing one's life in order to save it.
In today's text he says, "Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all." Once again, he is telling us to let go of our ego –
this time, the ego that is connected with any desire for power. And as a sort of visual aid,
he reaches out to the nearest small child and pulls the child into his arms and says, "Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me,
and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me." And if you experience a sense of déjà vu with these words,
it may be because in Matthew's Gospel the disciples asked Jesus who was the greatest in the dominion of heaven. And by way of answer,
he put a child in front of them and said, "Unless you change and become like children, you will never enter the dominion of heaven."
And although I have heard sermons over the years take this passage and talk about the innocence of children,
and how we should all strive toward the sense of innocence that we find in young children, I don’t think that was the point Jesus was trying to make.
You see, 1st century children were about as powerless as any person on earth could be.
John Pilch sheds helpful light on the customs and culture reflected in Jesus' actions and words. A child in our culture is deeply valued and put first in our priorities
(at least, we insist this is so, in spite of the number of children in poverty). However, in the time of Jesus, a child was lowest on the priority list.
Even in medieval times, Pilch writes, Mediterranean cultures put a low value on children: "Thomas Aquinas taught that in a raging fire a husband was obliged to save his father first,
then his mother, next his wife, and last of all his young child." Our own Western culture would reverse that order,
so it's tempting for us to sentimentalize the action of Jesus in picking up a small child and exhorting his followers to welcome "one such child" in his name
as a way to welcome him. Isn't it a sweet scene, when Jesus tenderly cuddles a child and, we imagine, appeals to the soft hearts under the tough exterior of these big, rough men?
It is indeed a sweet scene that we imagine, but that's not what's going on here. Jesus is once again saying something not sweet,
not sentimental, but perplexing, even disconcerting, and certainly provocative.
In our text, Jesus is first telling the disciples to let go of any authority or power they may possess and become servants to others.
In Matthew's gospel he is saying the same thing, using a child as an example. And in the second part of this morning's reading, we are told not only to become powerless,
but to also welcome those who are powerless. But children in the culture that shaped the disciples' worldview weren't the only ones who were devalued;
they shared space on the margins with many others in their society who were both powerless and vulnerable.
Megan McKenna provides a long list of such people who didn't "count": people "who were old, handicapped, sick, illiterate, cast out as unclean.
This group included peasants, farmers, shepherds, widows, slaves, the unemployed, aliens, immigrants, prisoners, homeless."
And if we stop for a moment, we realize that many of these people still don't count in our own society. These are the ones we are called to welcome.
Rev. Elder Mona West points out that this morning's text brings to mind something known as the "Welcoming Prayer,"
which is a form of mindfulness and "letting go" that is practiced on a daily basis by contemplative followers of Father Thomas Keating. It goes like this:
Welcome, welcome, welcome. I welcome everything that comes to me today because I know it's for my healing. I welcome all thoughts, feelings, emotions, persons, situations, and conditions.
I let go of my desire for power and control. I let go of my desire for affection, esteem, approval and pleasure. I let go of my desire for survival and security.
I let go of my desire to change any situation, condition, person or myself. I open to the love and presence of God and God's action within. Amen.
We are invited not only to welcome those people who are powerless, but to welcome the opportunity to join with them in powerlessness.
But what are some ways to embrace this sense of powerlessness? To answer that question, all we need to do is return to Jesus' example of children.
For instance, how many of us grew up hearing the words, "Children are to be seen and not heard"?
Although this may no longer be an acceptable way to raise children for today's post-modern parents, it's the sort thing to which Jesus would have been referring in this morning's text.
The powerless do not respond when criticized or corrected. And as a disciple of Jesus, when someone speaks ill of me, I am called to turn the cheek and not respond in kind.
If I get wind that the word on the streets about me is negative, as much as lies within me, I let it go and trust that God will deal with it.
I also remember as a child being told to go give relatives a big hug and kiss, even if I didn't want to.
Jesus commands us to let go of our ego and to serve and be kind to those people we least want to serve, even people we consider to be our adversaries and enemies.
And as children, we are commanded by the parental and authority figures in our lives to refrain from violence – both physical and verbal violence.
Do no harm. Something all the great world religions advocate. Refrain from violence. Let go of your power to hurt others. Become like a child.
Our authority does not come from our position or title, but from our relationships – both with God and each other.
And the words which Jesus spoke in this morning's text are as countercultural today as they were for the people of his own day.
They challenge hierarchical leadership models which tend to see those who give up power as being weak and without vision.
And yet, this is what Jesus calls us to over and over within the Gospels. It's a goal toward which each of us need to strive.
Ironically, by taking on the role of the least among us, we find ourselves in the lead within the topsy-turvy world of God's dominion.
May we each take steps toward the powerlessness modeled by children. And in so doing, find peace within God's dominion. Amen.