Surprise!

Sometimes God surprises us.

Sometimes?

Well, maybe he surprises us more often than that. Or it could be too that things that should leave us surprised and even gasping in wonder instead become commonplace to the point of being mundane. Those of us who follow Jesus can, over time, come to take certain realities for granted. Good news becomes old hat. This is unfortunate, because there is hardly anything more surprising than salvation. But having been raised in church and in having gone to church essentially my whole life makes it more difficult sometimes to appreciate what in Christ I have been given. I think this is true of more people than just myself. And so we almost stop believing that God can surprise us.

I've been reading great book recently by Miroslav Volf called Free of Charge: Giving and Forgiving in a Culture Stripped of Grace. Once I am finished, I plan on posting a fuller book review. Right now I'm only about halfway through. But his description of God's nature as Giver and Forgiver is worth its weight in gold. It can occasionally take someone else to stir your heart and mind and remind you, and perhaps teach you anew, about the heart of the good news and the person and work of Jesus Christ. While my family attended a tea party on Sunday afternoon, I took some time for myself to relax and read more of this book. And in the process God surprised me, reminded me, and even brought me something of a fresh understanding of the reality of salvation.

Here's just one example: We often talk about Jesus' death for our sin as replacing ours. Jesus died for our sins, in other words, so we would not have to. And Christ is indeed our substitute. But, as Volf points out, this is not quite how scriptural logic and theology runs. In 2 Corinthians 5:14 Paul says, "One has died for all; therefore all have died." Then Volf says this: "Christ's death doesn't replace our death. It enacts it, he [Paul] suggested . . . Now we see that we were also in Christ. What happened to him, happened to us. When he was condemned, we were condemned. When he died, we died." Volf observes that this what our union with Christ entails. This is what it means to be in Christ. This example connects to Volf's discussion of forgiveness, God's justice, as well as a couple of false images of God that people sometimes gravitate toward.

Anyway, this may or may not genuinely convey my reason for surprise, but it reminded me of how some of our more common ways of speaking about salvation miss the mark or at least the depth of the biblical presentation. We can have very cliched and formulaic ways of talking about salvation in our churches that in their own way diminish the staggering reality of what God has done in Christ. A part of our being able to not only appreciate this reality ourselves but to proclaim this reality to others means recovering a deeper biblical understanding built on the very language Scripture uses. We can hardly expect other people to see salvation in Christ as good news, when for us it continues to be old hat! We, too, need to be surprised (again!) at who God is and what he has done.

Thinking About Prayer: Part 3

I think God expects us to worry. Or at least he's not surprised when we do. Certainly, there are always plenty of worries in life that can give rise to anxiety. It's amazing we don't spend more time wracked with anxiety than we do! Of course, for some worry and anxiety is incapacitating. And while, again, this doesn't surprise God, this is also not his will for our lives.

I've used Paul's words on prayer in Philippians 4:6 probably more times than I can count: "Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God." I have used these words frequently in my own prayers simply because I can struggle with anxiety, that awful in-the-pit-of-your-stomach feeling that serves to distract and disturb. I begin with the thought that God knows I worry. If people weren't prone to worry, why provide such admonition? Only the presence of anxiety in people's actual experience provides ample reason for Scripture to counsel us in such a way.

Because God is our heavenly Father, he can be trusted. This is what we believe. Or at least this is what we say we believe; what we live sometimes contradicts our verbal confessions. But each of us is a bundle of sinful contradictions anyhow. "I believe; help my unbelief" are words we can all relate to at one time or another. Praying these words gets us on the road to trusting God. This is what Paul is advising.

The Message translates Paul's words here as follows: "Don't fret or worry. Instead of worrying, pray. Let petitions and praises shape your worries into prayers, letting God know your concerns." Having worries is one thing; letting them dominate you is quite another. Prayer is an act of trust that what worries us needn't rule us, that even if God doesn't solve all of our problems in an instant, he can give us peace in the midst of them and help us through them. But for this to be true, we have to pray. We have to ask. To experience "the peace of God" we have to know him as our Father, one who will provide for our needs and grant us our daily bread.

Yet, it's still not always easy. I don't find it so. Some worries and cares are so immediate that the promise of peace from God through prayer seems an abstract and distant hope at best. We desire the peace offered, but find it impossible to believe. We do and we don't. "I believe; help my unbelief!" Sometimes it simply takes us longer to let go and give things into God's hands. And when we finally do it's begrudgingly so; and we offer no guaratee that we won't try to snatch our cares back.

But we also shouldn't berate ourselves in the midst of all this for our lack of faith. Sure, Jesus points out the disciples' lack of faith several times in the gospels; but I don't think we should follow suit here. Instead, I think we should approach God with whatever scraps of faith we have and ask him for more. Too many people get down on themselves when anxiety besets them. "If only I had more faith, I would not be so worried!" I should say that I am preaching to myself to some extent here!

Everything we think and feel is material for prayer. God already knows every thought and emotion we experience. So nothing we go through is a secret we can keep or a surprise we can suddenly reveal. If we lack faith, ask for faith. If we lack faith that God can help us with our worries, then ask for faith that God can help us with our worries. "Help" is the most honest prayer of all. More than anything, God wants us to trust him with our lives. Much in life teaches us to do precisely the opposite. Our world is not conducive to faith. We are surrounded by enemies that drain the energy we need to bring to our prayers. But even a whimpered prayer is better than resigned silence.

All this to say that if you ever struggle with prayer and with worries, you're not alone. And God understands even before you try to explain yourself. The best thing to do is be yourself, to be open and honest with him, "and the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus."

Thinking About Prayer: Part 2

Imagine that you've just upset or offended someone you know or love. You've made them mad. And now you feel guilty and sorry for what you've done. Maybe you've said something you shouldn't say to your wife. Or perhaps you mouthed off to a co-worker, a friend, or someone at church who really gets on your nerves. Both your common sense and good manners dissolved in an instant only to be replaced by a short temper and thoughtless words. Chances are, the very next conversation will at least begin awkwardly.

Or maybe think of it this way. You've neglected to keep in touch with a close friend, someone you intended to call or e-mail. It's been awhile since you've seen them or spoken to them, and you feel guilty for this. And the guilt you feel leads to further neglect of the relationship. You're afraid of what the next encounter will be like, so you do your best to avoid an encounter altogether. You really don't want to face that person. Fearing what they think of you and what they might say if you finally resume contact, you put it off. Procrastination becomes habit.

Often when this sort of thing happens, the next conversation or encounter isn't as bad as our anticipation of it. Whoever the other party is, they end up being much more accepting than you expected, than your fears led you to believe they'd be. Then you feel rather silly for having put off getting in touch or for procrastinating reconciliations and apologies.

I got thinking about all of this because sometimes I avoid prayer. Either I simply choose to jump into whatever work or chores lay in front of me or I neglect it because I've already been avoiding it for awhile. And why is that? I realized today that it's because, despite all my knowledge that tells me precisely the opposite, I fear that God is mad at me and won't hear my prayers, that my very avoidance of praying for a couple of days will mean God's not going to listen once I do finally get around to it and begin talking to him again.

I associate worries we all have with human relationships and superimpose them onto my relationship with God. That we all do this in one way or another at one time or another is no surprise. We can all fall prey to judging our relationship with God in the same way that we judge our relationship with other people. There are people, for instance, who question the title of "Father" for God since so many people have negative associations with their earthly fathers and, so the argument runs, will never be able to see God as a good and loving Father. The very idea of fatherhood is so abhorrent because of their poor and sometimes even tragic experiences that it forever taints a person's ability to see God as Father. In lesser ways this also happens. We generalize from our most common and closest relationships.

But God is not human. He is not subject to the whims of mood and appetite and doesn't relate to us haphazardly depending on the weather or any other temporary conditions. Even if I haven't prayed for a couple of days, God is not mad. He might very well be saddened. God wants us to pray. This is his will for us. But whatever he makes of our difficulties in prayer, our God is not the sort who will shut his ears to us because of them. This is because, despite the poor reflection of this in the world around us, he is a loving, heavenly Father.

So given the God we believe in, one revealed in Jesus Christ, I need not fear his retribution or rejection. Even if I have failed to come to him in prayer, failed to open myself in heart and mind to his presence by inviting him more fully into my life, failed to lift up the needs of my loved ones and brothers and sisters, God is not, like some people when we fail them, going to respond to me out of spite. He is ever loving and faithfully kind, merciful and good. If anything, I can always run to him, no matter how long I may have been running in the other direction.

I find it astounding at how easy it is to fall prey to misconceptions of God after years of reading and studying the Scriptures, going to church and being in ministry, and even after having lots of positive examples of God's good and kind character surrounding me with love and support. How feeble-minded I can be at times to judge God--often unconsciously--by the worst and most feared aspects of our human relationships: rejection, judgement, and failure. If anything, such a tendency to bad lived-out theology throws into sharp relief my own desperate need for God and for communing with him in prayer. In other words, the very fears I have about approaching God, knowing their source are not from him, should propel me into his arms rather than drive me away. I can only pray that this would be so. I pray the same is true for you.

On Palm Sunday . . .

Yesterday was Palm Sunday. It’s the last Sunday before Easter and officially kicks off what many churches refer to as holy week—the last week of Jesus’ life before his death and eventual resurrection. And in previous years as a pastor I’ve never made the effort to recognize Palm Sunday. I’m not sure why. When I was growing up Catholic we celebrated Palm Sunday with the distributing and waving of palm branches. But throughout all of my years as a Baptist I can only recall one occasion when Palm Sunday was actually recognized and celebrated, even if not with palm branches. So I sought, this year, to rectify this.

Now the whole deal with Palm Sunday is that it commemorates the occasion of Jesus’ entrance into Jerusalem just prior to his Passion—his arrest, trial, beating, and crucifixion. In fact, his passion is his reason for entering Jerusalem. He knows what’s coming. And he still, as Scripture says, set his face toward Jerusalem. And the reason it’s called Palm Sunday is that the gospel accounts tell us that as Jesus was entering Jerusalem on a donkey, people broke off branches and laid them on the road as Jesus was proceeding in. And they sang, “Hosanna! Hosanna in the highest!” Though the crowd of disciples and other people was likely small, this unlikely contingent of followers were proclaiming Jesus as the promised Davidic king who would also be the Messiah. No doubt they were expecting not humiliation and death for their king but glory and victory as he triumphed over their Roman oppressors. But this was not to be.

So with all that in mind, I thought that this year we ought to celebrate Palm Sunday more explicitly. Much of our attention gets divided between Christmas and Easter and very little attention is usually given to the lesser Christian feasts or holidays. While I love celebrating these other occasions, I’m glad we took the time to put more effort into Palm Sunday this year. We had palm branches for everyone in the congregation and several of the kids in our church danced to the front of the church at the beginning of our service while we sang “Hail Jesus! You’re My King” to hand out the branches. We sang songs that focused on Jesus as our king and his entrance into Jerusalem. And then when we sang “Hosanna” we invited people, if comfortable in doing so, to wave their branches while we sang.

Sometimes I think joy needs to be more concretely expressed and lived. I know that Christian joy is deep and doesn’t always show up in effusive expressions of jubilation but I think it’s also true that we can benefit from the sheer physical gesture of waving branches while praising Jesus. The spiritual and physical are not separate. And even if we don’t naturally express our joy outwardly so that others can see, taking even a moment to practice such an expression of joy can teach us and help us to understand the deeper meaning of celebration and joy, something which the coming of our king and Messiah ought to evoke.

Of course, we also celebrated Palm Sunday because I have been preaching a sermon series that made it even more apropos. This was the third week in my series, “Who do you say I am?” This is the question Jesus asked his disciples just before he first told them that he had to suffer and die. And it’s a question he asks each of us. On our answer hangs our present lives and our eternal destiny. So we’ve been looking at different aspects of that question’s answer: Jesus is the Messiah, Jesus is the Suffering Servant and, yesterday, Jesus is the King. On Easter Sunday we’ll be looking at the resurrection and Jesus as the Son of God. And the following week I’ll be looking at Jesus’ ascension and Jesus as Lord. So making more of an occasion of Palm Sunday than usual made a great deal of liturgical sense.

But thinking of the importance of giving visible expression to our joy, as we did on Palm Sunday with our palm branches and praises, another example comes to mind also. Last evening (Palm Sunday evening) was our last session for our adult Bible study. It was a six week study called The Surprising Power of Jesus. The last session was on Jesus’ resurrection and his power over life. What made it special, and what gave it an extra note of joy, was that to really celebrate Jesus’ coming back to life and the victory we have over the grave as a result we counted down . . . 3-2-1 . . . Jesus is alive!!! And then we blew noisemakers and burst party-favours that sent a flurry of coloured pieces of paper raining down on us like snow flurries. And laugh! Boy, did we laugh! It was silly, but did it work! It reminded us of the kind of joy that we have in Christ and that it’s perfectly fine to give outward expression to inward joy. It also made me realize that sometimes we need a little extra incentive to express our joy and delight. We’re not all inclined to show our joy. But then sometimes showing our joy reminds us what joy really is.

So for the first time in years I had the chance to celebrate Palm Sunday. Yesterday was one of the best church services in awhile. It felt joyful. There was a melody of praise and gratitude that ran through our time of worship together. I realize that we can’t determine the worth of our worship by what we feel when we worship, but our worship shouldn’t be entirely exempt of feeling.

Our time in church yesterday—both during our morning worship and our Bible study—also helped me to appreciate once again what it means to be a part of a worshipping people. I was grateful for the sheer joy of having a community with which to celebrate my faith. The sort of joy that came alive in us yesterday wouldn’t have been possible without our coming together. This is because being with one another is a huge part of the joy we experience. We know joy because we know each other. And we know joy in Christ because we are in Christ together with brothers and sisters. And the only thing more joyful than the arrival of Jesus in Jerusalem as king, though scarcely recognized at the time, is Jesus' resurrection--but that's a different day!

A Good Mystery . . . Revisited

One of the CDs I've had on my wish list for almost two years now is Bruce Cockburn's most recent effort, Life Short Call Now. I nearly always have a short wish list of CDs that I eventually want to get my hands on. It would probably be a longer list if I had more time to experiment with music and if I was being exposed to a wider variety than I am right now. But, needless to say, as a busy husband, father, and pastor I don't have the luxury of time and money that I once did as a college student to funnel more financial resources toward entertainment and cultural enterprises. I probably procure two or three CDs a year on average so, yes, I am shamefully behind. So when I saw Cockburn's album for $9.99 yesterday, I couldn't resist.

Now Cockburn is an interesting character. While he likely wouldn't fit any remotely evangelical mold, he has described himself as a Christian or at least as someone who believes in Jesus Christ. Many of his songs are permeated with biblical allusions and imagery. There is a definite and specific spiritual bent to his music, one that forms a more hopeful counter-balance to his often caustic and angry political observations. On Life Short Call Now, as on his last studio effort, You've Never Seen Everything, America's involvement in Iraq and its war on terror provides much fuel for the fire. I don't know that I would necessarily agree with all of his politics, I do resonate with his more spiritual ruminations.

One of the songs on his latest, "Beautiful Creatures," is a meditation on the disappearance of anything resembling goodness in the human species, and sounds like a reflection on the fall of man, lamenting the loss it represents: "Like a dam on a river/My conscience is pressed/By the weight of hard feelings/Piled up in my breast/The callous and vicious things humans display/The beautiful creatures are going away." Despite our innate sinfulness that results in the evil that men do, there is still a flicker of transcendence and mystery for those of us with eyes to see and so it might be better to say that if we are monsters that we are good monsters.

But the song that really struck is the third track on the album, "Mystery." And having heard it makes me wish I had heard it in advance of my previous post (Hence the title of this post). In it Cockburn sings, "You can't tell me there is no mystery/mystery, mystery/You can't tell me there is no mystery/It's everywhere I turn/Infinity always gives me vertigo/vertigo, vertigo/Infinity always gives me vertigo/And fills me up with grace." One gets the definite impression that it's this sense of mystery that keeps him afloat whilst facing a world filled with despair, violence, and greed. Amidst all his sharply barbed political observations (diatribes?), one wonders if these observations are informed and shaped at least in part by the instinct that the world and the way that it is is a violation of this very mystery and the truths to which it points.

Sometimes poets and artists have way of expressing truth that is simply lost on the rest of us. A sharp turn of phrase, the clever use of words, and the power of an infectious melody can sometimes say more than volumes of philosophy. This is especially true of mystery, which tends to elude explanation and definition, and requires revelation and inspiration. Some of the most prophetic voices of Scripture are poetic voices and it needs to be said that a book of the Bible's literary genre is not accidental to the truths they express but is an intrinsic part of it. Admittedly, for those of us more interested and more comfortable with prose, this too is something of a mystery. But thankfully it's a good mystery and thankfully there continue to be artists and poets who give voice to this mystery. Otherwise we might never hear the truth as we are meant to hear it.

Something Extraordinary

I'm about to pack up and go to the office. My wife and daughter are away until later today so I could work at home, but sometimes work requires the feel of an office. It's going to be a busy week, one that involves some rush to get things done. Or so it seems at the moment. My wife is going to an overnight retreat on Friday night which means it'll be my little girl and I until sometime Saturday evening. That means I have to have my sermon done (or at least 90% done) before Friday night. That's not how it usually works. I sort of wish the retreat was last week when, quite unexpectedly, my sermon was done just before lunch on Friday. But I have to trust that the Lord who provided then will provide this time as well. Even for a pastor, or at least this pastor, that's not always easy.

How easily our faith becomes mundane and all too ordinary, especially when we can't even muster enough trust to believe that God will help us get through a week with all its priorities and responsibilities. At our adult Bible study we were looking at Jesus' power over sin and one of the questions was: when have we questioned Jesus' power and authority? Most of us as Christians probably don't question Jesus' power and authority directly, doubting in plain sight that God can do great things. We affirm his greatness. He applaud his power. We verbally attest to our conviction that God has the authority and the power to pull off miracles. We stare in awe, blankfaced at his actions as recorded in Scripture. And then we go on living as though he can do nothing about our everyday circumstances. Our actions, as the saying goes, are more powerful than words.

If I consider that God created all the universe, that in him I live and move and have my being, how can I doubt that he can also provide me with a sermon for Sunday? If I consider that all things are made in, through, and for Christ, how can I doubt that the Lord can enable me to get through this week? How is it that we can read Scripture, with its incredible portrayal of God in all his majesty and glory, and still end up believing only what our eyes will show us? How is it that we can allow our moods and the number of hours we've had for sleep so easily determine the earnestness and persistence of our prayers? When will the scales fall from our eyes? Lord, help us see.

While I completely understand and accept that much of life is ordinary, a shopping list of duties and responsibilities, of chores and errands, must it be the case that our faith is confined by the same boundaries? I know that since much of life is this way, our faith has to make sense of and be relevant to the everydayness of our routines and schedules; but where is the sense of mystery, of transcendence, of our faith, while addressing the ordinary, being about less--or rather more--than the ordinary? Shouldn't there be a levity to faith to match the gravity of life?

I do have those moments when, for some reason, all of life's problems, while still very much there, no longer have the weight I normally assign them. I can't quite describe it, but it's as though the reality of God--though very much unseen--seems more real and powerful than the reality of everything else that I can see. And it's not a forget-your-problems-happy-escapist-sort-of-feeling. Seems to me it's a gift. I can't summon it. I can't worship myself into it. I can't pray myself to it. This makes it even more odd because knowing that I did not and cannot manufacture such a perspective means that faith itself is a gift. I can't force my faith; but I can ask for it to grow.

Now when I get to the office there will be the temptation, a temptation that forever is there, to rush ahead and dash into work. I'll want to make the phone calls I have to make. Plan. Wrack my brain for sermon ideas. Think over music for Sunday's worship. Such an attitude is, in some ways, endemic to our culture. And it's not necessarily unhealthy as far as it goes. But in ministry it can be a problem insofar as it makes it about what I do. And there is a sense in which the less I do the better. To think otherwise, that all of this pastoral work is the fruit of my labours, the result of my gifts and talents, and that if I can't pull it together out of thin air, then there is something wrong with me and I should look into another vocation or career or job, is to neglect the very reality at the heart of ministry, the reason and rationale for ministry in the first place: the reality of God. But that takes faith. And that's something only God can provide. So I have to ask for it. In other words, ministry should, though it doesn't always, begin and end and be immersed in prayer. In neglecting prayer, I allow my ministry, such as it is, to make that downward slide toward the ordinary, where mystery has been replaced by methods, transcendence by technique, and faith by sight. Only a prayerful life informed by the revelation of Scripture can find itself sure that in the midst of doctor's appointments, burnt suppers, coughs and runny noses, late night risings to calm an upset child, and feeble efforts at sermon preparation that the God who called the simplest and grandest elements of creation into being can also grant me life and faith. Only God can help me see and live in the ordinary with a faith that is more than the ordinary. That's something extraordinary.

In these earthly vessels

I just got a phone call letting me know that someone related to one of our church families has passed away. It was not wholly unexpected, but even so is still difficult and sad. And I had already received a phone call earlier today that a lady from our church who had been in hospital recovering from a stroke passed away late last night. Again, this was not a surprise, but that doesn't make it any easier. In addition to this, there are others in our church who have recently had surgery and others with serious health concerns. All serve as a reminder that our bodies are not always our friends. I'm only 35 and it's easy to think that I have a long life ahead of me. But when I see a young man 15 years younger than me going through chemotherapy and surgery, a long life is not something I can assume will be mine. We never know when our limbs, organs, bones, and flesh may betray us. We are frail creatures, living in earthen vessels.

So many people in this world live only for this life. They put all their eggs in the same earthly basket. Considering how unreliable most things in this life are, including our own bodies, that's a scary thought. I know that when I look at all the people around me who are sick, it can almost overwhelming. It can be discouraging. Sickness, disease, illness, injury, and, ultimately, death. None of it seems natural to me. It seems, instead, profoundly wrong.

I think of those Jesus healed, of the throngs of disease and demon ridden people who swarmed him: "When Jesus heard what had happened, he withdrew by boat privately to a solitary place. Hearing of this, the crowds followed him on foot from the towns. When Jesus landed and saw a large crowd, he had compassion on them and healed their sick (Matt. 14:13, 14)." Even Jesus couldn't get away from it. Yet he had compassion. Well, he was the Son of God; he is compassion in bodily form. Jesus, too, it seems, recognized the profound incongruity between God's intent for creation and creation as it was: fallen, broken, misshapen, and in need of redemption.

I don't usually go about my days with a profound sense of my own mortality. I'm not sick. I feel mostly well. I have no major health problems. My physical body faces few limitations beyond those common to most. But I never really know. I could find myself facing MRIs and frightening diagnoses at any time. The funny thing is, I'm not sure why it seems to take something life-threatening to make us realize how frail we actually are. With rare exception, we live as though we are immortal, as if nothing we do to our bodies will ultimately bring us harm. No wonder those occasions when death is staring us straight in the face, whether in the mirror or through the eyes of a loved one, we find ourselves so much more vulnerable. And open. Open to the fact that God has something better in mind for us. Between creation and new creation there is a great groaning, a waiting for God to renew and remake, remold and reshape, to bring his purposes to completion. Paul speaks of this: "We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time. Not only so, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption, the redemption of our bodies (Romans 8:23)." And so the only way that I can see to put up with all this groaning--the pain, trials, illnesses, frailty, physical sufferings, diseases--is to trust that God, through Christ, will indeed redeem these earthen vessels in which we live. It's also the only way to deal with the groanings of those around, those whom we love, who in reminding us of our mortality also point the way to our hope, and "if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently."

Things Beside the Point . . .

One of the most conspicuous features of Mark's Gospel is its pace. Things happen quickly. Amongst the four evangelists, Mark's work is akin to an action movie. Not a moment is wasted. There is little actual teaching in Mark. We see more of Jesus doing and moving than Jesus saying. He's heading toward Jerusalem, and more specifically, the cross. We learn this as readers in Mark 8:31: "Then he began to teach them that the Son of Man must undergo great suffering . . ." This occurs roughly midway through the narrative. No wonder many scholars refer to Mark as a passion narrative with an extended introduction. Jesus has a destination and proceeds toward it--and please pardon the pun--with a relentless passion. It seems, then, that Jesus is very goal-minded. The whole point of his ministry is to reach Jerusalem, the cross, and the destiny that he came to fulfill for us all.

Some of his disciples, it would seem, were also very goal-minded. They too were looking to the future and to what they thought the point of Jesus' ministry ought to be. In Mark 10 James and John, Jesus' second pair of converts, approach Jesus with a request: "Grant us to sit, one at your right hand and one at your left, in your glory." Jesus' response, though oblique, proves that they had no idea who Jesus really is and what it will take for them to sit with him in his glory. They wanted power, influence, authority. A certain greed was rearing its ugly head. No surprise, then, that the rest of the apostles were angry with them once they found out. And as usual, the dull-headedness of the disciples provides Jesus with significant opportunity to teach them what service truly means. He ties his mission and identity directly to what he expects of them: "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 . . ."

What specific difference does this make? Look at Mark 10. In one story his disciples tried to prevent little children from approaching him. Jesus, they think, has more important things to do. "Don't disturb the Master," they say, "with such insignificant people!" Children had no status in Jesus' day. They were people beside the point. But precisely for this reason, Jesus admonished his disciples sternly and let them know that this children were precisely the point. A little later in the same chapter, a blind man cries out to Jesus for mercy. Many there try and shut him up. We don't know for sure if the disciples were among them. Whatever the case, the man just cries out louder. And Jesus stops. Jesus shows mercy. Jesus stops at the side of the road to heal a blind man crying out desperately for his touch. And then we are told that after he regained his sight he "followed him on his way."

People that many thought were incidental, distracting to the real work at hand, unimportant, and beside the point, Jesus treated as worthy of attention, time, and energy. Jesus often treated what people considered beside the point as the point. Yes, Jesus had an agenda. This agenda, this mission, meant proceeding towards the cross. But not at the expense of people; in fact, he proceeded toward the cross--a destination even his closest disciples did not yet understand--precisely for these very people. "The Son of Man came not to be served but to serve . . ."

What his disciples didn't get in their immature and hungry grab for power was that power was not on Jesus' "to do" list. They were only concerned for themselves. James and John, in vying for positions alongside Jesus, missed the point entirely. The little children were the point. The blind man crying out desperately for mercy and for his sight was the point. Jesus was giving up his life for "the least of these."

How often do I do the same thing? How often do I overlook and shove aside that which Christ wants front and center? How often do I do that because I am more interested in personal gain and self-interest than I am in the needs of those around me? We can make fun of those disciples (duh-ciples!) all we want, but we are more often like them than Jesus. Do I have an agenda that pushes away the least of these or do I allow my agenda to be shaped by the least of these? Jesus' passion and mission was restoring fellowship between God and anyone interested in that restoration, and this meant treating with respect, dignity, and a fierce love many that we normally see as beside the point when we're preoccupied with ourselves and our own self-important agendas. May we be more like Jesus, willing to stop at the road side to assist those crying out, knowing full well that doing so is a part of the journey along the road in the first place.