Twenty-fifth Sunday in Ordinary Time

 Lectionary: 134

But they did not understand the saying,
and they were afraid to question him.
They came to Capernaum and, once inside the house, he began to ask them,
“What were you arguing about on the way?”
But they remained silent.

If the Gospels had been written from the perspective of the apostles and disciples of Jesus we might call them Clueless. The Lord's followers really did not get it at any point during his ministry, and only began to understand after his Resurrection. But even that understanding did not come over them like a realization of "Oh my God, yes, of course! I should have seen it all along but couldn't figure it out!" 

They didn't know it all along, nor did his resurrection suddenly explain everything. All four gospels describe the Lord's disciples as slow to understand the mysteries of God; and even after his resurrection they could not believe what they were seeing. Our faith has mysteries on mysteries that are not solved like an old fashioned whodunit. 

And it's not because they were stupid. It's because they did not want to understand. Despite their best intentions, there were dark places in their hearts and minds, and within their habits, customs, cultures, systems, policies, laws, and institutions that did not want to see the light of truth. 

Why are the disciples silent about their conversation on the way to Capernaum? They were embarrassed. They could answer his question but they didn't want to. 

Jesus heard them quarreling about which of them is, or should be, the greatest. They knew he disapproved of that conversation; but they could not imagine why. Perhaps he didn’t like that kind of talk because it meant he would die, or go away; and someone would take his place. Perhaps the Master, like most people, didn’t want to think about surrendering power, or his own death. 

But the mystery of Jesus was far beyond their comprehension. Although Peter had spoken for them all when he said, “You are the Messiah,” they had never asked, "What price will the Messiah pay for his authority to heal, teach, and save his people. Nor had any of the disciples asked what “What price will I pay when his authority to heal, teach, and save is handed over to me?”

They had heard him say 

“The Son of Man is to be handed over to men

and they will kill him,

and three days after his death the Son of Man will rise.”

They didn't believe it. Regardless of the conviction and authority with which he spoke – an authority they'd seen tested and proven on many occasions – they didn't believe it. It seemed to make no sense. 

First of all, power does not relinquish power. Whoever heard of a powerful man in the prime of his vitality and youth, at the height of his power, mastery, and popularity, surrendering his authority and walking away from it? Quite the contrary, power plans, schemes manipulates, threatens, cajoles, promises, and works continually to get more power. It watches allies and enemies for any sign that they might threaten its power. Dictators routinely murder their own henchmen and surround themselves with sycophants to cement their position. If anyone is foolish enough to think or say he'll take the boss’s place some day, he dies, by accident, or firing squad, or suicide.

That's the way it's always been and the Lord's disciples knew that. They had seen their own fathers and grandfathers lord it over their families; rabbis lord it over their synagogues, and priests pontificating in the temple. They watched Roman governors disappear political enemies, and centurions punish their own soldiers. The disciples never doubted what everybody knew. Power does not surrender power. Why should Jesus be any different?

So when Jesus spoke of being arrested, tried, tortured, and crucified upon arriving in Jerusalem, he was either talking nonsense or metaphorically about something else that would happen. He could not mean he was going to Jerusalem to die.  

Patiently, Jesus explained it to them in the simplest possible terms. 

“If anyone wishes to be first,

he shall be the last of all and the servant of all.”

Taking a child, he placed it in their midst,

and putting his arms around it, he said to them,

“Whoever receives one child such as this in my name, receives me;

and whoever receives me,

receives not me but the One who sent me.”

If you would be powerful in the manner of Jesus Christ, you aspire to be the last of all and the servant of all. 

Several years ago, when I was in a retreat house in Prior Lake, MN, our guardian announced he was leaving and would be replaced. I wondered if I should ask for the position, and I spoke with my spiritual director about it. She had been the abbess of her small monastery – perhaps a dozen women – and she told me, “Ken, leadership is nothing but a cross.” 

Fortunately, I was passed over on that occasion, but I had to pay my dues later on – when I did become a pastor in Louisiana, and the director of retreats in Minnesota. It was nothing but a cross. No glory, no extra pay, no perks, not much gratitude, and even less satisfaction. 

Saint Francis taught his friars about leadership. He said a leader should be like a corpse. You can lift it out of its coffin, put a ring on his finger, a robe on his shoulders, and a crown on his head. You can place him on a throne, and have everyone sing praises about how wonderful he is; but he is no happier with all that nonsense than when you left him alone in this coffin. Francis knew that from personal experience. 

“If anyone wishes to be first,

he shall be the last of all and the servant of all.”

The price of leadership is everything you think you own, believe, or control; every right, privilege, perk, and presumption. It costs your soul, but it has its rewards; they're called good; not fun, pleasure, or privilege. It’s a good thing. 

Young parents reluctantly discover they cannot be children anymore; it’s their children’s turn to be children, and they must be adults. Parents of teenagers must guide, discipline, and sometimes oppose the sharpest, fastest, most savage device in the entire universe – a teenager’s brain – with nothing more than their limited experience and common sense; and they cannot renege on that responsibility. They must be more adult than young adults. That’s a good thing, and goodness is its own reward.

The disciples, when they died, were not clueless. They understood that the cross with its disappointment, suffering, and sadness is a good thing. Glory comes with the Lord’s resurrection, and we can wait for that. It will come after a crucifixion.