The Eighteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Mother Marisa)

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.