Pentecost 22 B: Gospel Irony
Dear Partner in Preaching,
I don’t know about you, but I find the irony of this story as painful as it is abundant. Actually, make that plural: ironies.
First, and lest we forget the verses just before these, James and John make their secret request to Jesus for greatness just after his third – and most graphic – declaration that he will go to Jerusalem where, among other things, the religious authorities will “mock him, and spit upon him, and flog him, and kill him.” Just what kind of glory are you thinking he’ll be giving you, James and John?
Second, two will indeed be seated at Jesus’ right and left in just another week or two. Well, they won’t exactly be seated, but instead will hanged, crucified with Jesus, “one on his right and one on his left.” They are the two thieves, of course, hanging in the place James and John longed to be, except James and John never would have longed for that. Are you sure you want to be on Jesus’ right and left?
Third, Jesus doesn’t want the cup that he is to drink, but James and John do. Again, because they have no idea what they are asking. Jesus will share a meal, including a cup of blessing, with his disciples soon. And then will come the other cup, the one he doesn’t want, when he is not only hanged but offered wine while he hangs on the cross. Is this the cup you want to drink, fellas?
Fourth, the first time Jesus was baptized he was immersed in water and then driven by the Spirit into the wilderness. In the second baptism, he will be immersed fully into our human condition, even to death, and so be driven to the extreme of what it means to be human. Again, James and John have no idea what he is saying or they are requesting. Drowned in death, really guys, are you sure you want this?
Fifth, and really underscoring the manifold irony to this point, the confidence with which they declare their fidelity is as unbounded as it is unfounded: “We are able!” Seriously?
As the reader, we recognize all this as highly ironic because we have a better memory of what has already transpired. Peter rebuked for rejecting Jesus’ first pronouncement about his impending death. The disciples’ argument about who is the greatest after Jesus’ second pronouncement. John being rebuked for forbidding someone who didn’t follow them from performing an exorcism. Jesus’ rebuke of all of them for keeping children away from him. Not only that, but we also know what is coming. Peter’s denial, all the disciples’ abandonment of Jesus in his hour of greatest need. Which is why these ironies are as painful as they are manifold.
But before we get too indignant or self-righteous, or simply compare ourselves favorably to James, John, and the rest of this motley crew, it’s probably prudent to ask whether we really do all that much better. Are we not similarly confident that we can follow Jesus? Do we not even insist on that kind of confidence from parents and sponsors during a child’s baptism? “Do you renounce the devil and all his empty promises?” we ask, and then lead those in attendance to say, preferably with unfounded gusto, “I renounce them!”
Do we not also too often assume that fidelity to the gospel will lead to success? Oh, not the wealth that prosperity preachers offer, of course, we’re too theologically savvy for that, but surely a fuller congregation on Sundays, bigger churches, more thriving ministry.
Are we not also tempted to assume that there is not enough to go around and, like James and John coming to make their request to Jesus apart from their compatriots, view those God has given us to be our companions merely as our competitors?
Perhaps the greatest irony of this story – and indeed the whole Gospel (both Mark’s account and the larger gospel of Jesus!) – is that even though we know it, have heard it, preach it, even believe it, we still live the irony regularly, making explicit both the pain and poignancy of the disciples because to be human is to be insecure, to be tempted again and again not to trust but to fear, to put our confidence not in God but in our own abilities, to look out not for neighbor but for ourselves.
And so Jesus, saying pretty much the same thing he’s said several times already, points the disciples – then and now – back to servanthood and service: “Whoever wishes to become great among you must be your servant, and whoever wishes to be first among you must be slave of all.” Except he doesn’t just say it, he shows it, lives it, embodies it on the cross.
Which may just explain another of the great ironies of not just this Gospel but the way it’s been read through the centuries. Because Jesus does indeed point to his self-emptying, not merely pronouncing his impending death but also speaking to its significance: “For the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life a ransom for many.” And we have taken this singular use of the word “ransom” in Mark and fashioned coldly logical, but utterly graceless atonement theories about substitution and payment, arguing over centuries whether that ransom is paid to God or the devil (in the end, what is the difference – payment is payment?). But what if Jesus is saving us from ourselves? What if Jesus is ransoming us from the future we think we want, from the baptism and cup James and John believe they need, from the glory they/we misunderstand, from the life we’ve been urged to strive after but ultimately is not abundant life, from viewing companions and competitors and fellow children of God as threats?
The great irony of the human condition is that when God came to us fully and completely as we are, joining God’s abundant love to our mortal life, embodying God’s complete acceptance and grace in human flesh, we completely misunderstood it, fled from it, were threatened from it and, ultimately, put the Word of God and Son of Man to death.
And yet Jesus came anyway. And still does.
Three times Jesus tells the disciples what will happen in Jerusalem. Three times they misunderstand. And he goes there anyway. He keeps marching, keeps healing, keeps loving, keeps serving, keeps giving himself as a ransom to save us from ourselves. And he will continue to do just that. Until all of us are saved, overwhelmed, drowned, crucified, and raised again by God’s unending, all-encompassing love. Thanks be to God!
That’s our task, Dear Partner, nothing more, nothing less – to point to the God who keeps coming for us in love. Even when our hearers misunderstand it. Even when we misunderstand it. Even and especially when we have a hard time believing it. Thank you for your fidelity to this call, and blessings on you as you proclaim the irony and the glory of God’s immeasurable and indefatigable love.
Yours in Christ,
David
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