Who is the greatest?

Audio version here

James 3.13-4.3, 7-8a, Mark 9.30-37

“What were you arguing about on the way?” asks Jesus of his disciples. An awkward silence follows… No one answers.

 

But it turns out that Jesus already knows, and maybe that’s no surprise, because, in a sense, every argument is really about who is the greatest, as theirs has been. It almost defines the difference between a discussion and an argument. In a discussion we may have different views, but we’re open to listen to and learn from each other. It becomes an argument when we feel we just want to win, whether we’re right or wrong.

 

There’s an old folktale told about two villages which stood on opposite sides of a long valley. One day a stranger appeared, going who knows where, who knows why, walking down the length of the valley. He was wearing a coat which was blue on the right side, and red on the left. Later on, one of the people from one village was talking to a villager from the other. “Did you see that chap in the fine blue coat walking down the valley earlier? “, “Blue coat? What do you mean, ‘blue coat’? His coat was red – I saw it with my own eyes.” Neither of them would back down. Each insisted they were right, and pretty soon the squabble had spread to the rest of the people in the villages. One village insisted the coat was blue, the other swore blind it was red, even though most of them hadn’t even seen the stranger. Eventually the argument turned to fighting, and the fighting turned to war, and within months the villages had destroyed each other. Nothing was left but smoking ruins.  Soon afterwards, wherever it was the stranger had been going, for whatever reason, he appeared again, going back the way he had come, along the length of the valley in the other direction, still wearing his coat of blue and red, but this time of course, the red side was facing the village that had insisted the coat was blue, and the blue side was facing the village that had sworn it was red. But no one was around to see it anymore.

 

I don’t know where that powerful, sad little tale originated, but I recognise the dynamics in it. The problem with arguments is that they’re rarely about what they say they’re about. What difference did it make whether the coat was red or blue? None. All that mattered was who won, who came out on top, who got the upper hand – who was the greatest in other words. .

 

It was the same with Jesus’ disciples. He’d been talking about the coming kingdom of God, and they assumed it would just be a bigger, better version of the kingdoms they were familiar with – King Jesus on the throne, with a charmed circle of courtiers around him, his right and left hand men, sharing in the power and privilege. The courts they knew about – of King Herod or the Roman Emperors – were places where people constantly had to jostle for favour and influence, manipulate and manoeuvre, to keep their place. Losing it could mean losing everything, even your life. They couldn’t imagine that the kingdom of God would be any different.

 

Jesus had tried to tell them that it wouldn’t be like that. He’d tried to tell them that very soon the only people on his right and left hand would be a pair of thieves and their thrones would be crosses. But his warnings of betrayal, arrest and death sound like failure and weakness and how can they be part of God’s plan? He tries to tell them that greatness in his kingdom will be defined by service not by power and glory, but they don’t want to hear it. How can a powerless servant be great?.

 

Jesus’ response to their confusion is simply to sit down, and summon a little child to his side, a child who happened to be wandering in or around his house in Capernaum – we don’t know whose child it was. And that’s the point. He chose an anonymous toddler, vulnerable, helpless, needy, with nothing to give.

 

“Whoever welcomes one such child in my name”, he says, “welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me.”

 

Welcome, welcome, welcome, welcome – four times Jesus uses that word in this one sentence. But what does welcome have to do with the disciples’ squabble about greatness? Why does Jesus think welcome is so crucial? If it doesn’t seem obvious to you, you’re not alone. I had to ponder long and hard too. I thought about what it felt like to welcome someone else, especially someone needy like a small child. And it occurred to me that if we’re going to welcome someone, into our homes, our hearts, our lives, we need to feel confident first that we have the space and the resources to do so. We don’t invite someone to lunch if we think we haven’t even got enough food for ourselves. We think twice about asking someone how they are if we feel we might not have the time or the emotional energy to listen to the answer. Welcoming people means opening ourselves up to the risk that they might demand something of us, that they might change or challenge us. We won’t want to do that if we’re feeling insecure about ourselves, unsure that there are enough resources to go around. Instead, we put up the barriers, pull up the drawbridge, or come out fighting to defend what we have. We can see this at work in our personal lives, in our families and communities, and on a national and international level.

 

James is spot on in the first reading today. “Where do conflicts and disputes come from?”  he asks. “Do they not come from cravings…within you?” In other words, from our fear that there isn’t enough to go around, that there’s a need for security and love in us which might not be met.

 

James doesn’t just analyse the problem, though. He also suggests the solution. It’s rooted in our attitude to God. “You do not have” he says, “because you do not ask….Draw near to God and he will draw near to you.” Most of us will only ask for things if we believe that the person we’re asking has what we need, and cares about us enough to give it to us. It’s the same with God. It’s only when we’ve understood that he really does love us, and that his welcome to us is unconditional and indestructible that we can feel secure in him, able to be ourselves, needs and all. It’s only when we realise that God has unlimited space in his heart to welcome us into, that we can welcome others. We don’t need to compete for his attention, putting others down or driving them away. There is no danger of the well running dry, if the  well is God.

 

Jesus tells many stories about the limitlessness of God’s resources. He’s like a sower who has so much seed that he can afford to scatter it everywhere, even if some of it falls on the path, or among the thorns or rocks. He’s like a shepherd who doesn’t need to think twice about searching for one lost sheep, or do a cost/benefit analysis to find out whether he can justify the risk and trouble. He’s like a father who welcomes back the son who’s wasted his inheritance, without stopping to think that he might do the same all over again with anything else he gives him. There’s no shortage or scarcity in God, so we don’t need to worry about whether we are the greatest in his eyes. We don’t need to compete for his favour. We don’t need to strive for worldly possessions or power or fame to make ourselves feel worthwhile, because we are infinitely worthwhile to him. There’s nothing we can do to earn his love, or to lose it. There is no less for us if he gives it to others too. We don’t need to push others out so there is room for us. Like that small child Jesus takes in his arms, we don’t have to prove our usefulness to him to ensure that we’re safe in his affection.

 

Living in the light of that knowledge transforms our relationship with God, giving us a security which nothing can shake, not even death, but that, in its turn, can also transform our relationship with one another, enabling us to lay down our weapons, make space to listen to each other and, perhaps, find the peace which the whole world needs.

Amen