You’ve probably heard that radio commentator Paul Harvey died this past week. Over the years, one segment of his radio show has held a strange fascination for me. I didn’t always agree with his perspective on the news, but I have been known to sit in the driveway to listen to the final moments of the business known as “The Rest of the Story.” These were vignettes about little known, long-forgotten or well-hidden events in the lives of famous people. My all-time favorite involved a movie star and a country music singer. Seems that the movie star decided to take a bath after having a bit too much to drink. He passed out in the tub and began sliding down into the water. His lady friend the singer struggled to keep his head above the water, but she was a petite person whose strength wasn’t up to the task and it seemed almost certain that he would drown. In desperation, she called 911. Firefighters responded to the call, rushed into the bathroom, assessed the situation, reached into the water and pulled the plug out of the drain.
Sometimes it’s difficult to see our situation clearly. Sometimes we’re mistaken about the live-giving course of action.
Today’s gospel portion, as it stands, is only part of the story. To understand it, we need to be aware of the portion that just precedes it. In that bit of scripture, Mark has Jesus asking the disciples who people say that he is. They know the answer. They tell him, Some say that you are John the Baptist, some say you’re Elijah, some say you’re one of the prophets. And Jesus takes it one step further, asking: Who do you say I am? Peter answers: the Messiah. And Jesus acknowledges Peter’s answer by telling him and the other disciples not to tell anyone.
Immediately after acknowledging that he is the messiah, Jesus begins to tell the disciples that dark days are coming. He tells them that he will suffer, and that he’ll be rejected by all those in positions of authority. He tells them that he will be killed and that he will rise after three days. And Peter—Peter, who knows the truth, Peter, who has the right answer, realizes that Jesus, the man he’s been following, is confused about the whole concept of messiah. Jesus has clearly missed the whole point. I imagine that Peter doesn’t want to embarrass Jesus, so he takes him off to the side, away from the other people, to explain to Jesus that he has it all wrong.
Immediately after acknowledging that he is the messiah, Jesus begins to tell the disciples that dark days are coming. He tells them that he will suffer, and that he’ll be rejected by all those in positions of authority. He tells them that he will be killed and that he will rise after three days. And Peter—Peter, who knows the truth, Peter, who has the right answer, realizes that Jesus, the man he’s been following, is confused about the whole concept of messiah. Jesus has clearly missed the whole point. I imagine that Peter doesn’t want to embarrass Jesus, so he takes him off to the side, away from the other people, to explain to Jesus that he has it all wrong.
And Jesus turns his back on him, telling Peter that his understanding of messiahship is so far off the mark that it’s as though Satan himself were speaking. And then Jesus tells all the people the rest of the story about what it means to follow him. Now remember, these people know about Jesus. They have heard the stories of the healings. They may have been among those who were fed by bread that he has broken. They may have been healed in body or spirit by his hands or his words. And now he tells them that in order to save their lives, they must lose their lives. To save their lives, they must change their understanding of the world.
Up to this point, in the gospel according to Mark, things have been going well. The good news of God’s love and mercy has been apparent in Jesus’ words and actions. We can imagine that the disciples have visions of a long rosy future, filled with days of healing and teaching and preaching. But now Jesus is telling them that things are changing. This is his first prediction of his death. It’s also his first warning to the people that choosing to follow him is the first in a long series of choices—choices that may result in turning their backs on the lives they have lived—choices that may result in losing their lives.
Being a Christian has never been an easy prospect. Being a Christian has always meant making choices that we would perhaps rather avoid. Being a Christian means choosing a way of life that reflects the divine things Jesus tells his disciples—tells us—to set our minds on. Tom Ehrich, one of my favorite commentators, says that to his eyes, “the divine will generally look something like Jesus. Obedient, but not passive. Kind, but in engagement and not in distancing. Courageous, but not prideful. Oriented toward the other, but always with a sense of self. Loving, but also discerning. Embracing of all, especially the outcast and unloved, but always encouraging growth, change, repentance. Caught up in the zest of living, but not afraid to die for others. Compassionate, willing to be saddened, willing to lose, willing to let go, willing to suffer.”
Being a Christian means growing in willingness to make the choices to grow closer to this picture of the one who came to show us God’s love.
This is a sad and difficult day for our diocese. Father Ed McNeil, rector of St. Edward’s, has chosen to leave the Episcopal Church and to align with the Anglican Communion Network. Today is the farewell service for him. A large portion of the congregation is following Fr. Ed, and they will be establishing a new church. Those who have chosen to remain Episcopalian will be reorganizing the parish. Canon Reyes will be assisting them, and Father John Buenz will be serving with them as transitional pastor. Bishop Mary has been working with Father Ed and the congregation—both those who are leaving and those who are staying—and the parting is as amicable as it is painful for all concerned.
I am grieving for the people of St. Edward’s, and I am grieving for this diocese. My grief has two parts. First, I grieve that we have been unable to reconcile—that we have been unable to live together in the same tent. Secondly, I grieve for the voice of those who are leaving. While I do not agree with some of their theology, I am concerned that their withdrawal from this part of the Body of Christ leaves us without a strongly conservative voice and presence. On the face of it, you’d think that I, being of liberal heart and mind on just about every issue, might be just fine with that. But I’m not. One of the gifts of the Anglican tradition is the tension between theological poles that keeps us asking questions of ourselves and each other—that keeps us just a little off-balance—that keeps us aware that we do not yet know the rest of the story. When any of us—like Peter—believe that we hold the Truth with a capital T, we fall into the sin of making God in our image.
I hope that the people who are leaving will return. As Presiding Bishop has said, the door will always be open to them. Even as I hope, I wonder what the rest of us could have done over the years to reconcile—to help those who are leaving know that their voices were important to us—to help them feel the space that I believe our tent held for them. As I hope and wonder, I will be praying for them and for us, and I ask you to join me in that prayer. I ask you to join me in opening our hearts to the power of God’s love working in each of us—to open our hearts to transformation—to open our hearts to peace that begins in each of us—and as always—to open our hearts in gratitude for the God who holds all of us dear.
Thanks be to God.