Lectionary 25b - Conversation: Unbegun / Interrupted

The parish pastor knows what Jesus knew in his ministry, if in no other way, than in the experience of a sudden silence of an animated conversation as one appears in the room, as well as in the later discovery of a parishoner's unasked question or unexpressed concern.
"You'd better watch your language, Ralph, the minister's here," is a common kind of acknowledgement in a pastoral situation.

In Mark, ch. 9, the disciples do not ask the "why" question out of fear. As I see this account, I don't believe that the disciples were afraid of being read the riot act by Jesus, but I think that their fear might rather stem from the fear of the answer itself, an answer already known to them: the call of discipleship to walk the way of the cross.

This answer known in the heart hasn't stopped followers of Jesus from arguments about their greatness overagainst the other, both within the movement and outside of it. When we see an answer that we don't like or find convenient for our lives, we turn to something quite the opposite, especially when it comes to suffering and when it comes to good news.

This (admittedly odd) kind of coupling occurs in this day's gospel. Suffering is not acceptable to us and we look for a kind of religion that can give us an innoculation against it, even for an hour a week; or, we medicate ourselves (figuratively or literally) during the week with lives spent in self interest and comfort.

Secondly, we humans throw up barriers against any good news with fear and suspicion. In the face of the Gospel for example, we can't believe that God could forgive that greatest sin, that guilt that we allow into our lives to define us or control us. The disciples knew that their conversation about who was the greatest flew directly in the face of Jesus' leading and authority. Jesus' interruption brought them to silence, the silence of what life under the law (Lutheranly speaking) brings them: to embarrassment, shame, and even condemnation. I suspect that in that silence was a rebuke beyond any yelling that Jesus did to Peter. (see last week's Gospel.)

Jesus speaks the gracious Word of God to them in interrupting a child's life long enough to be an example in a story. "Welcome the child," says Jesus "and, just so, welcome the One Who Sent Me. The child that Jesus seeks is not the recipient of sentimental emotion and gratuitous charity. The child of which Jesus is speaking is the child who is without power or influence in the world's ways. The child of which Jesus speaks is not the innocent child of our cultural mythology, but the complicated kid of real life, capable of extraordinary compassion and persistent cruelty.
The child of which Jesus speaks is not a completed work, but one who is growing and changing; seeing possibility and hope, yet unsure if these will be fulfilled in the way ahead.

There is no doubt that to "welcome one such child" is to welcome the stranger, and in Jesus' terms, so to welcome His Father. At the same time, the child that we need to welcome to the arms of Jesus and the Good News he proclaims is ourselves. Incomplete and uncertain, yet exercising illusory control over our lives and the lives of those around us, we look to the Lord who gave Himself on the cross for the life of the world. From the cross and in the new life of His resurrection, we receive "the power to become children of God," (Jn. 1.14) and a vision of completeness and wholeness that is boundless and eternal through Christ's forgiveness of our sins. In Christ's promise, made known to us in proclamation by Word and Sacrament, our integrity is restored, dignity is bestowed, and courage is renewed. But above all, the promise opens our very selves to the things of God and the Holy Spirit restores communication lines. There is no further need for silence in shame. Instead, we rise in the primal language of the Christian, thanksgiving Eucharist, singing and chanting of God's wonderous deeds