In the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

“What were you arguing about on the way?” Jesus and his disciples had just arrived in Capernaum after walking through Galilee. The days they spent together had been remarkable. Together, they had healed the sick and fed 5,000 and heard Peter’s astonished declaration, “You are the Christ.” But now, no one would meet Jesus’ gaze, let alone answer his question.

On the road, in the moment, it had felt so good to bicker about who was the best, who was the favorite, who was the greatest. Each of the disciples, whether or not they would admit it, wanted to be the first. Think of the admiration, the inside information, the confidence that would surely come with being Jesus’ right-hand man. As the silence continued, though, the disciples began to realize that they had missed the point entirely.

Who is the greatest? 

Most of us recognize that question or at least recognize the impulse behind it. We’ve heard it enough and maybe even participated in arguments of that kind. At home or on the playground or in the staff break room, we’ve wondered and sometimes we’ve wagered on whether or not we were the best. 

Mom likes me most. I deserve the promotion. No one will forget my name. 

It’s there in so many of our histories, that desire to be sought out, to be assured of our worth, to feel certain of our being loved — a whisper in our hearts of a better present or a brighter future that could be ours . . . if only we were great. 

Maybe then she would love me. Maybe then I would be happy. Maybe then I’d get respect. 

That voice comes to us so often when we’re afraid, when we’ve been confronted with our own frailty or lack of control. It could have been because of the failings of a parent or the death of a friend that our un-invincibility came to the forefront of our minds and stayed there like an ominous shadow. It’s natural to want to get out, to establish ourselves in such a way that we become untouchable, unable to be harmed — but such a desire can harm just as much as it can help us.

There is a fine line between virtue and vice when it comes to greatness or ambition or pride. In our own way, each of us wants to excel, each of us wants to be appreciated — and for good reason: God gave us good gifts to use for his glory in communion with him and his creation. But when we forget him, when through fear or faithlessness we seek after the world’s ideal of “greatness,” we enter dangerous spiritual territory.  

Think of the disciples, who began arguing over who was the greatest right after they heard that Jesus would suffer and die. As St. Mark tells us, they couldn't talk about what Jesus had said. They were afraid. Afraid of losing their way, of losing their lives, of losing their friend. And so it was that the disciples retreated to the safety of their own egos and lost the sense of what God’s kingdom is all about. Like a kid at recess who declares himself king of the castle, the disciples argued about who was the greatest because they could not bear the threat of uncertainty or the need of the Other or the cost of discipleship — lest they be wounded by the love that awaits us all.

That’s what fear does: It changes our perception, tempting us to believe that life is short and sorrowful, with no remedy when it comes to its end. And if that’s the case, why not grab what we can and do what we want and ignore the still, small voice that says there is so much more for us in store.

Sitting down, Jesus called the twelve to him and said, “Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all.” Then, taking a child into his arms, Jesus said, “Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me — and whoever welcomes me welcomes the one who sent me.”

Our world is a complex and chaotic place, one that pushes us toward greed, toward selfishness. We all want to survive. We all want our due, and it’s so easy to make that our priority.

But to do so is to miss the point, to miss the freedom, of Christ’s rule.

In God’s kingdom, who is the greatest?

The disciples couldn’t seem to answer that question either. They struggled to comprehend the upside-down nature of God’s kingdom. Just as we do. We are so accustomed to the machinations of power, to the dog-eat-dog world that rewards those with influence and money and acclaim. It doesn’t seem to matter how long we’ve been a Christian, that ideal, that vision is still attractive to us. It still whispers to us on our lowest days that happiness is one paycheck or purchase or accolade away. 

And yet, if that’s what it means to be happy, then we can never truly attain it. The greatness of the kingdom of earth is fleeting — the stock market will crash, the promotion will pass us by, the relationship won’t live up to its potential. Nothing is certain here — except the one who sits down in our midst and reminds us of what is truly great.  

In the Kingdom of God, it is the one who humbles himself, who serves the least, who attends to the weak, who becomes like a child who has achieved the stature God desires for his people: which is nothing less than the greatness of God’s Son, who knew the suffering that lay before him and did not turn aside but gladly and willingly accepted death that we might be saved.

That is what greatness is about. That is what greatness looks like. And it is ours now, no matter our professional success or our physical stature or our age. Every time we catch ourselves pursuing the kind of power and prestige the world offers; every time we stop ourselves and reckon with the root of our desires; every time we set aside our own priorities for the sake of our Neighbor, we grow in God’s greatness. We grow in the ability to live as Jesus lives, to love as Jesus loves. And when we do so, we not only bless the world but we ourselves are blessed. For the simple exercise of virtue cleans our hearts, restores our vision, makes us more aware of the love God bears for us: love that is never-ending and always faithful, full of mercy and loving-kindness.

That greatness is ours now as we follow the Crucified Messiah. Even now he is with us. As we pass through our own Galilee, as we face our own fears and wrestle with our own temptations, Christ is with us, covering us with his grace — grace the empowers us to feel the anxiety and angst life gives us and then let it go, drawing near to God like a child to her mother, eager for his mercy and comfort. And we will find it. We will always find that limitless love when we draw near to the One whose weakness is our strength, whose death is our life, whose resurrection is now our own. He will make us great, no matter what may come. AMEN.

In the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

“Be strong, do not fear! Here is your God. He will come with vengeance, with terrible recompense. He will come to save you.”

Israel needed to hear those words. Early in the 8th-century BC, all of Jerusalem watched as the Assyrian army approached the city gates. Everyone knew what followed that mighty force, and had been reminded by the mouthpiece of the emperor himself, who stood at the base of Jerusalem’s walls and yelled: “Do not let your God on whom you rely deceive you by promising that Jerusalem will not be given into the hand of the king of Assyria. See, you have heard what the kings of Assyria have done to all lands, destroying them utterly. Shall you be delivered?”

With the voice o their enemy ringing in their ears, Israel wavered. They were full of fear and did not know whom to trust: the sight of their own eyes? Or the Word of the LORD?

“Be strong, do not fear! [Your God] will come to save you.”

As the armies of Assyria gathered before Jerusalem, the entire nation of Israel fought a preemptive battle — a battle with which we’re all familiar. 

In whom or in what do we put our trust? That is not a question most 21st-century Americans ask. We live in a peculiar time and a peculiar place, historically speaking: Even as war has raged around us, all over the globe, for the majority of the last century, American soil has remained relatively untouched. At the same time, however, the failures of our presidents and the failures of our nation have fostered a pervasive sense of distrust and dissatisfaction that grips us. The average U.S. citizen, for example, is now less likely to believe our government or our schools or our churches are acting for our benefit — and that doesn’t even address one’s faith in God.

We may not be facing the terror of imminent invasion; but that doesn’t mean there aren’t forces arrayed against us. They're just more subtle. A well-crafted image. A tantalizing lead. A quick click of the mouse. We are tempted, and in a way, we are taught to rely on ourselves, to believe the sight of our own eyes and the sound in our own ears and the slant of our own newsfeed. We don’t tend to throw ourselves on God’s mercy because we simply don’t have to; and so it is that when fear or sorrow strikes, we struggle to trust that God’s word is true. Sometimes we struggle to remember it at all. So God speaks again.

“Be strong, do not fear! [Your God] will come to save you.”

In the end, Jerusalem was not conquered by the Assyrian empire. Against all odds, the Jewish people routed the Assyrian army and returned to their city victorious. They remembered that the LORD was on their side — and that made all the difference, for they were able truly to see and truly to hear. They were able in that moment and for that day to recognize God for who he is and what he does. 

As the Psalmist puts so beautifully: The LORD gives justice to the oppressed and food to those who hunger. He sets the prisoner free and lifts up those who are bowed down. God is who he is and will be who he will be. God reigns forever. 

He does not change. God remains the same. From before time began and on past its end, God is perfect holiness. Perfect righteousness. Perfect love. At once unfathomable and inscrutable and also nearer than our very breath. Quick to bind up our wounds, always ready to deliver the one who trusts in him, God saves those who approach in faith and ask him for aid. And we know that definitively, finally because God himself wrote that good news with nail-pierced hands.

“Be strong, do not fear! [Your God] will come to save you.” 

Every time we remember those words, every time we dare to trust, to exercise those spiritual muscles our society neglects, we actually encounter the LORD. We encounter the God who came to right every wrong and amend every injustice by taking the pain and the penalty, the vengeance and the violence on himself — so that we might be free.

Free of the fear and the anger that can so easily control us. Free to see rightly the world around us, to respect our rulers as imperfect servants of the same master, to honor our neighbors as fellow bearers of the image of God, to offer ourselves and everything that we have and everything that we are to the the One who alone is trustworthy. The kingdom of heaven is not simply an otherworldly reality. For those whose eyes have been opened, whose lives have been touched, whose hearts have been moved: we have been given the grace to see God in his Son now. And he does not delay in pouring out his blessing, nor does he hold back his grace from those who ask. God hears the cries of his people — and acts. 

“Be strong, do not fear! [Your God] will come to save you.” AMEN.

In the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

“She wears her heart on her sleeve.” Not so long ago, that was a bit of a dubious compliment. People who fit that description — and this really could be men and women — were seen as wildcards, all sense and no sensibility. A good time, perhaps, but also quite likely to get themselves and their friends into trouble.

Within the last decade, though, wearing one’s heart on one’s sleeve has become a good thing. A badge of pride: He’s authentic. She’s genuine. He really does speak his mind. 

Such a development is in keeping with the natural progression of our particular brand of individualism, where, in the words of one philosopher, “Everyone has a right to develop their own form of life, grounded on their own sense of what is really important or of value. People are called upon to be true to themselves and to seek their own self-fulfillment” (Charles Taylor, The Ethics of Authenticity, 14).

Which doesn’t sound too bad, does it? But he was writing before the Internet. And before Facebook. And before smartphones. What he and many others identified as problematic has become what we all experience now at a much higher level. 

The individual reigns. We hear about it. We see it. We subscribe to it. On Twitter, on TikTok, on Taylor Swift’s every album, the individual stakes her claim, bares her soul, reveals her heart. And we hit “repeat.”  

One must wonder, though, what that kind of “authenticity” does — to the people we admire and to us. What happens when the thoughts of the heart are given total complete command? When anger and desire drive us, and we just go along for the ride? What happens is that we all discover, sometimes in 160 characters or less, just how conflicted and chaotic and capricious a place the human heart can be. As Jesus said in our Gospel reading today, “it is from within, from the human heart, that evil intentions come.” 

Evil does come from within, no matter how hard we try to ignore or explain away that fact. Some sickness, some malady grips us, and we are unable to break free; and in our society we don’t seem to want to break free. Even Christians, of every stripe, find plenty of justification for the vitriol we express toward our neighbors. “I’m sorry but I just have to speak my mind,” we say. “I just have to say what’s true,” or, really, “I just have to say what I think is true,” which may very well not be the case. We cannot see the heart. Only God can. 

And he knows what he’ll find there. God knows the terrain. He knows the shifting emotions, the racing thoughts. He’s familiar with the good and evil that lay side-by-side in each one of us. God is no stranger to the wilderness that is so often characteristic of the centre of our being. He’s been there before, and he will go there again — for God would make of our hearts a heaven, a Promised Land, where we might dwell together in peace.

Think of that old Evangelical prayer: “Would you like to ask Jesus into your heart?” It’s sweet and simple and means so much more than most people realize because our heart is exactly the place Jesus longs to be. 

Walking with his disciples, gazing at the crowds, speaking with the religious leaders, Jesus saw that they were all harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd, forever confusing the way of death with the way of life, forever trying to find a shortcut to happiness, a one-way ticket to rest, and forever failing to do so. 

We need help. We are lost on our own. We need someone who knows that evil comes from within and who will nevertheless not run away. We need someone who will stay with us past the bitter end, until the light of resurrection dawns in our lives, which is what the Word of God, what the Love of God, has done and will continue to do. 

He makes the blind to see. He sets the prisoner free. He raises the dead. 

Entering into our hearts, welcomed into the core of who we are, God begins his work: tending, keeping, healing the heart that ever so slowly begins to recognize him and his grace. Like a master craftsman, like a skilled surgeon, Jesus identifies what is sick within us. He reveals what is bruised and broken. He binds up our wounds and refines what is good. God transforms us from the inside out — and keeps on doing so until our heart looks like his heart and our voice sounds like his voice and our hands work like his hands. Until we become whole and holy, perfected in the splendor of our own unique personhood. 

We are that precious to him. God so loved the world that he sent his only Son to save it. To save us. To renew all of creation, one heartbeat at a time. And he will. He does. God is with us now, on our lips and in our hearts, speaking softly, knocking gently at the door, ready to transfigure the one who desires him. AMEN.