A Sermon by Sydney V. (Skip) Jackson — September 6, 2009
Indianola Presbyterian Church, Columbus, Ohio
Text:  Psalm 131;  Mark 9:2-41

…on the way [the disciples] had argued with one another

last of all and servant of all.” — Mark 9:34-35

If there is a dominant theme in our culture, it’s about competition and success… winning… striving to be number one.  It’s there with a religious fervor in O.S.U. football.  But people don’t have to be Buckeye fans to subscribe to Vince Lombardi’s maxim, “Winning isn’t everything; it’s the only thing.”  Competition seems to drive everything.  In school, there’s competition for grades and class rankings.  It was behind the cheating scandal at Centerburg High School this past spring.  In adulthood, there’s the rat race of jobs, raises, promotions.  Each year brings a new American Idol, Academy Award winners, Nobel prizes, World Champions in all kinds of sports, and a list of the 100 richest people in the world.  So who is the greatest?

The disciples, in their usual failure to grasp what’s going on, argued about this as they headed home to Capernaum.  Who is the greatest?  And Jesus called them together and turned all traditional values upside down.  The least become greatest.  Masters are to be servants.  Last and first trade places.  And little children become examples.  Do you want to become first?  You must be last… and servant of all—even of children.  Clearly the kingdom of God is chock full of surprises.

 

Of course, we could take this as a straightforward rule to be followed.  The competition then is for who can be the “most last.”  It’s a matter of holy humility.  But there is paradox here—as in an old, old story:

One day a rabbi, in a frenzy of religious devotion, rushed in before the ark, fell to his knees, and started beating his chest, crying, “I’m nobody!  I’m nobody!”  Really impressed, the cantor of the synagogue joined the rabbi, crying out, “I’m nobody!  I’m nobody!”  The custodian watching from the corner couldn’t restrain himself either.  He joined the other two on his knees, calling out, “I’m nobody!  I’m nobody!”  At which point the rabbi nudged the cantor with his elbow, pointed to the custodian, and said, “Look who thinks he’s nobody!"

There’s no way to compete to be last in order to be first.  This is another of those places that show the Bible is not a model for moral behavior.  Rather, it is a mirror for identity.  Listening to Jesus through the Bible is not about learning all the rules.  Rather Jesus and the Bible hold up a mirror to let us see who we are.  Just what kind of people are we that this peculiar God has chosen to covenant with us.  And I think we can see ourselves in those foolish disciples arguing about who’s greatest.

I suspect that their argument is not so much about “I’m better than you are!” as about fears of being left out—sort of like the shtick between the Smothers Brothers, where Dick is always whining to Tom, “Mom always liked you best.” Judy Blume explores some of the ins and outs of such concerns in one of my favorite children’s books, The Pain and the Great One [Scarsdale, NY: Bradbury Press, 1974].  In the first half of the book, an 8-year-old girl describes all the unfair advantages of her 6-year-old brother she calls The Pain.  Here’s a sampling of her complaints.

My brother’s a pain.  He won’t get out of bed in the morning.  Mom has to carry him into the kitchen.  He should get dressed himself.  He’s six.  He’s in first grade.  But he’s so pokey Daddy has to help him or he’d never be ready in time and he’d miss the bus.  He cries if I leave without him.  Then Mom gets mad and yells at me, which is another reason why my brother’s a pain.

He’s got to be first to show Mom his school work.  She says ooh and aah over all his pictures which aren’t great at all but just ordinary first grade stuff.  At dinner he picks at his food.  He’s not supposed to get dessert if he doesn’t eat his meat.  But he always gets it anyway.

My brother the pain is two years younger than me.  So how come he gets to stay up as late as I do?  Which isn’t really late enough for somebody in the third grade anyway.  I asked Mom and Daddy about that.  They said, “You’re right.  You are older.  You should stay up later.  So they tucked the Pain into bed.  I couldn’t wait for the fun to begin.  I waited and waited and waited.  But Daddy and Mom just sat there reading books.  Finally I shouted, “I’m going to bed!”

“We thought you wanted to stay up later,” they said.

“I did.  But without the Pain there’s nothing to do!

The next day my brother was a pain again.  When I got a phone call he danced all around me singing stupid songs at the top of his lungs.  Why does he have to act that way?  And I would really like to know why the cat sleeps on the Pain’s bed instead of mine, especially since I am the one who feeds her.  That is the meanest thing of all!

I don’t understand how Mom can say the Pain is lovable.  She’s always kissing him and hugging him and doing disgusting things like that.  And Daddy says the Pain is just what they always wanted.

YUCK!  I think they love him better than me.

In the second half of the book, the 6-year-old boy tells his side, complaining about his 8-year-old big sister, he calls—The Great One.

My sister thinks she’s so great just because she’s older which makes Daddy and Mom think she’s really smart.  But I know the truth.  My sister’s a jerk. 

My sister thinks she’s so great just because she gets to feed the cat.  Which means the cat likes her better than me just because she feeds her.

And when she has friends over they build whole cities out of blocks.  I like to be garbage man.  I zoom my trucks all around.  So what if I knock down some of their buildings?  “It’s not fair that she gets to use the blocks!”  I told Daddy and Mom.  They said, “You’re right.  Today you can use the blocks all by yourself.”

“I’m going to build a whole city without you!”  I told the Great One.

“Go ahead,” she said.  “Go build a whole state without me.  See if I care!”

So I did.  I build a whole country all by myself.  Only it’s not the funnest thing to play blocks alone.  Because when I zoomed my trucks and knocked down buildings nobody cared but me!

The next day we went swimming.  I can’t stand my sister when we go swimming.  She thinks she’s so great just because she can swim and dive and isn’t afraid to put her face in the water.  I’m scared to put mine in so she calls me baby.  Which is why I have to spit water at her and pull her hair and even pinch her sometimes.  And I don’t think it’s fair for Daddy and Mom to yell at me because none of it’s my fault.  But they yell anyway.
Then Mom hugs my sister and messes with her hair and does other disgusting things like that.  And Daddy says the Great One is just what they always wanted.

YUCK!  I think they love her better than me.

I’m the oldest of four boys, so my sympathies are probably different from those of you who grew up with older brothers and/or sisters.  Still, the two monologues show how both children need each other and how, despite each child’s fear that the parents love the other more, Mom and Dad clearly love both kids.  These are good things for each of us to recognize as children of God.  We do need each other, and God loves everyone of us.  When we affirm with the Apostle Paul that nothing—"neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation"—can separate us from the love of God, that list includes God’s great love for everyone else, be they friend, stranger, or even enemy.  God loves everyone best.

So given that God loves every single one totally, what’s wrong with competition and wanting to be first?  Robert Fulghum tells a story in his book Maybe (Maybe Not) [New York: Villard Books, 1993] that suggests an answer.

Fulghum was teaching philosophy to high school seniors, and he’d begin each course by announcing, “We are now going to play musical chairs.” 

You all know how to play musical chairs, don’t you?  So did all the students.  Put chairs in a line with the seats alternating directions, start some music, and everyone marches around the chairs.  The students hadn’t played in years, but this beat reading a philosophy book.

You all know how it works—music stops, get a chair.  No chair?  You’re out.  So soon!  How stupid is that?  Go stand by the wall with the losers.  The music resumes, the remaining students march around.  Take away a chair.  Stop the music!  A mad scramble ensues.  Things get more and more serious.

How many of you, when you played musical chairs, got pushed, shoved, feet stepped on, fell on the floor trying to sit in a chair, or otherwise suffered some minor injury or indignity?  The final two people always seemed to be jocks, strong and willing to win at any cost.  The music starts.   This is war!  It ends with one guy in the last chair, hands raised high, “I’m number one; I’m number one!”

The trouble is, this isn’t a game.  Games are supposed to be fun.  But here you have one lone “thrill of victory” and everyone else is “the agony of defeat.”  For much of the time, too many people don’t get to play at all.  They’re out.  Losers.  This is way too much like real life.  Fulghum usually found that very few people—usually only a few of the jocks—wanted to play again.  But he’d insist.  Play one more time… but with one rule change.  This time, if you don’t have a chair, sit down in someone’s lap.  Everyone stays in the game—it’s only a matter of where you sit.

The students hesitate—well… OK.  Chairs are reset.  The music starts, and they march.  Chairs are removed.  STOP!  There’s a pause.  The students really think it over now.  (Do I want a chair to myself?  Do I want to sit on someone’s lap or have someone sit on mine?  And who?)  The mood changes to laughter, giggling.  When the music starts again, the pace changes.  Who’s in a hurry?

When the game gets down to two to a chair, a dimension of grace comes in as the role of sittee and sitter is clarified—“Oh, no, please, after you.”  People begin to consider the opportunity to sit in the lap of a particular person.

As the game continues, a kind of gymnastic dance develops as groups get ever more on a chair with people branched out onto knees.  Students with organizational skills come to the fore—it’s a people puzzle to solve now—”Big people on the bottom—now put your arms around him—sit back—easy, easy.”

With a single chair left, the class laughs and shouts in delight as they all manage to use one chair for support now that they know the weight can be evenly distributed.  Almost always, if they tumble over, they get up and try again until everyone is sitting down.  A triumphant moment for all, including Fulghum.

The only person who had a hard time with the new game was the guy who won the first time under the old rules.  He’d lost his bearings.  He didn’t know what winning was any longer, when there are winners without any losers at all.

As a final step, Fulghum tells the class to push on for one more round.  “The last chair will be removed.  And when the music stops, you will sit down in a lap.”

“Impossible!  It can’t be done,” they’d all say.

“Yes, it can,” he’d say.  And when the music stopped he’d give instructions…

“Everyone stand in a perfect circle.

“Now turn sideways in place, as if you were going to walk together in a circle.

“Take a single side-step into the middle so as to have a tight circle now, with each person in the group belly-side to back-side with the person ahead of them.

“Place your hands on the hips of the person in front of you.

“On the count of three, very carefully guide the person onto your knees at the same time as you very carefully sit down on the knees of the person behind you.

“Ready.  One.  Two.  Three.  Sit.”

And they’d all sit down… with no chair.

Jesus sits down among his oh-so-competitive followers and says, “Whoever wants to be first must be last and servant of all.”  And then he takes a little child into his arms—a little one, the very least of all those present.  And he teaches that it’s not a competition.  We need each other.  We are all are welcomed and loved—all winners.  No one is to be left out—not the last, the least, the littlest, or the lost.   It does not matter who you are or what your life has been like, it does not matter how the world has judged you or how harshly you may have judged yourself, it does not matter if you have been made to feel like a loser—you have a place in the circle of God’s grace.  Everyone has a place in the circle of God’s grace.  Thanks be to God.  Amen.