Twenty-ninth Sunday in Ordinary Time

 Lectionary: 146

Jesus said to them, "You do not know what you are asking. Can you drink the cup that I drink or be baptized with the baptism with which I am baptized?" 
They said to him, "We can." 
Jesus said to them, "The cup that I drink, you will drink, and with the baptism with which I am baptized, you will be baptized; but to sit at my right or at my left is not mine to give but is for those for whom it has been prepared." 

Which of us does not, in their own way, ask of the Lord a privileged place in his presence? That place would be secure, trouble free, comfortable, and commanding. If we don't ask others to "peel me a grape," we will expect a handful of grapes ready at hand. 

I imagine Jesus as amused at his disciples' request. He doesn't rebuke them; he simply says, "You don't know what you're asking for." He sees clearly where this road to Jerusalem is leading. The signs are in faces of those standing on the edge of every crowd; they are shadowed, unsmiling the faces of listening spies. The disciples, facing the Lord and rapt in his words don't see what he sees; they do not hear the whispers of note-takers behind them. They interpret his words in the manner of God's spirit; they do not intentionally misinterpret his remarks, or snatch at certain words and phrases to turn them against the Lord. 

Jesus's reply is inviting and enigmatic, "Can you drink the cup I will drink?" In their simple enthusiasm they can't imagine the Lord's cup as anything but wonderful and most pleasant. They do not think of the words of Psalm 80, "You have fed them the bread of tears, made them drink tears in great measure." or Psalm 102: "I eat ashes like bread, mingle my drink with tears."

I grew up repeating daily a prayer to Mary with its reference to "this vale of tears." And then I enjoyed the post-war prosperity when the phrase seemed completely inappropriate to America's present and future. Our ancestors might have traversed a vale of tears but those days are over, long past, and nearly forgotten. There's nothing to be learned from them. 

And now the post-war era is past; that golden age of American greatness is history; and we should learn from it how prosperity breeds ingratitude, a sense of entitlement, and an unwillingness to see encroaching shadows. We should recognize that during those halcyon days we remained stubbornly unwilling to share the wealth evenly. We supposed that a rising tide floats all boats; and everyone should be content even when some boats don't rise enough to sail. America was never great to the least among us. 

Jesus's invitation remains. In his Spirit we walk with him to Jerusalem and Calvary, preferring his companionship to whatever ephemeral comforts this present moment offers. Prosperity was good while it lasted, but better days lie ahead.