A New Way to Measure

A NEW WAY TO MEASURE

SERMON PREACHED AT THE FIRST PRESBYTERIAN CHURCH, WOOSTER, OHIO

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 20, 2009

by Charles L. Cureton

Not long ago, the Associated Press carried a story that claimed the Dutch are the world’s tallest people.  With each generation, it seems, the Dutch are literally reaching new heights.  This is due, in part, to genetics, and in part to the nation’s health and wealth.

The genetic element was known as far back as 2,000 years ago – roughly during biblical times.  The people who lived in this part of the world – the nether land people . . . the low people – were taller than most and were therefore enlisted as guards in the Roman army.

Based on reports from the Leiden University Medical Center and the University of Munich, it appears that over the next 1,800 years, the average height declined as food supply failed to keep pace with the population growth and people moved to cities where new diseases were prevalent.  But from the mid-1800’s, with only a brief decline in the mid-1900’s during the Nazi occupation, the average height rose again, and it continues to rise.

Thanks to their genes, to healthier protein-rich diets, and to a national health care system that gives great attention to infants and young children, the average Dutchman today stands over 6 feet, and the average woman is 5’7”.  

Recently the government has had to adjust building codes to raise the height of door frames and ceilings.  Doors must now be the metric equivalent of 7’6 ½” high.

No one blames the Dutch for being quite proud of their situation.  It’s traditional!  Taller kids tend to have a popularity edge in school, and taller adults often enjoy an advantage in public life.  It’s even been suggested that taller people tend to win elections more often than their shorter counterparts.

Height, size and stature in general have been equated with status in most societies, as they were in biblical times.  The Bible is rich with stories that focus on height and size.  We read about the Nephilim who existed before the flood, and we run into them again in Hebron just as the children of Israel were about to enter the Promised Land.  They were giants, said the spies who were sent ahead to check out the territory, and in comparison to them, they said, “we seemed like grasshoppers.”  

Then there was Goliath, the champion of the Philistines, who struck fear into the hearts of the Israelites because of his size and strength.

Even Saul, the first king of Israel, commanded allegiance and respect, in part, because he seemed every inch a king – tall, manly, a true hero.  

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But notice how these biblical stories about size end.  In every case, God is seen as eventually standing in opposition.  

     One of the central stories of Israel was how God led the people in defeating the large, scary
     residents of the land they were about to claim.   
     
     And Goliath, whom no man of war would confront with spear or sword, was brought down    
     by a small stone thrown by a young shepherd boy.
    
     And Saul, who finally and tragically earned the enmity of the people and the wrath of God,
     was replaced by this same boy whose only military exploits were fighting off animals who
     threatened his sheep, plus one well-aimed sling-shot hit.  Far from looking the part of a king,
     he was a simple, ruddy-faced kid who played the lyre.    

Size, external dimensions, impressive demeanor, being on top of the heap – these don’t matter at all in these great stories that helped to frame the world in which Israel lived and out of which Jesus came.  

Indeed, Jesus’ mother, you remember, saw in her unborn son the presence of the God who

                  . . . has shown strength with his arm;
                             he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts.
                  He has brought down the powerful from their thrones,
                             and lifted up the lowly;
                  He has filled the hungry with good things,
                             and sent the rich away empty.

And Jesus himself, in the first recorded act of his ministry, stood up in his home-town synagogue and read from the Prophet Isaiah:

                  The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,
                            because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor.
                  He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives,
                            and recovery of sight to the blind,
                            to let the oppressed go free,
                            to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.

So it’s no surprise when we find Jesus picking up on this theme in our text from the Gospel According to Mark this morning.  Distressed by the continued blindness of the disciples – by their unwillingness to see him as the Messiah who must be put to death – Jesus tells them once again that they are following the One who was sent to turn the world upside down.  

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But to see just what’s happening here, we need to go back in Mark’s gospel to catch the context.  

As we get close to mid-point in Mark, we find that what began early in the book as ominous background music seems more and more like the main, dominant theme.  Jesus is preparing the disciples for what he will be facing: torment and death.  At least he’s trying to prepare them.  But the disciples are having a difficult time hearing.  Earlier, Peter correctly announces that Jesus is the Messiah, but then he decides to lecture his Master on what that means.  “Jesus, you’ve got it wrong!  Messiahs don’t suffer!  Messiahs don’t die!”

Then Peter, James and John, on what came to be called the Mount of Transfiguration, fail to see what it’s all about.  Rather than seeing how Moses and Joshua are passing the mantel to Jesus, they want to build three tabernacles – to institutionalize the event – to settle down as members of the court.

And the other disciples, left below, are unable to heal the son of a man who is desperate for help; so Jesus has to rescue them and heal the boy himself.

But they just don’t get it.  And now, as they are on the way to Capernaum, Jesus explains once again that it is necessary for him to suffer and die.  

But how can this be?  Jesus is the Messiah.  He is the one who has come to redeem Israel.  And we are fortunate enough to be his followers.  And soon the conversation degenerates into a discussion of who is the greatest.  When the Messiah conquers . . .  When the Messiah rules . . .   How are we going to organize for this event?  Who will be in charge?

Now the group arrives at their destination, and Jesus turns to the disciples and asks what they were arguing about on the way?  Silence.

We all know how this works, right?  We learned it as children, just as all children today do.

     “So what were you guys talking about?’

     “Oh, nothing!”    

Well, the time has come for the direct approach.  The writer says that Jesus sat down.  He’s assuming the posture of a rabbi, sitting down and gathering his students around him.  

Jesus sits down and says words that are as pointed, as strong, as definite, as difficult, as threatening, as liberating, as unambiguous as any he every spoke:

    Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all.

     That’s the way it is in my kingdom.  

          Tall guys to the rear; little fellows up front.
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          Important people can wait; first come the insignificant ones.

     Everything is turned on its head in my kingdom.

          The millionaire is on the bottom of the pile; the pauper is on the top.
     
          The CEO lives in the basement apartment; the chauffeur occupies the penthouse.
     
     Whatever you see in the world, imagine the opposite.

     This isn’t the empire anymore – Roman or otherwise.  This is the gathering of Jesus’ followers,    
               and it’s different here!

But then Jesus does what any good teacher will try to do.  He adds a little video to his audio.  He illustrates what he means by acting it out.  

Jesus takes a little child – a paidion – and puts the child in the middle of the circle.

Notice what’s going on here.  Jesus chooses the very lowliest person available.  In biblical times, children were as close to non-persons as anyone could be.  Children simply lived along the edges of public life, spending most of their time out of sight, mostly with their mothers.  In some households, servants outranked children.  

But this is not all.  In a group of male disciples, you would expect that Jesus would take a little boy to illustrate his point.  But the writer deliberately uses the one Greek word – paidion – which designates a child of either gender – a word, in fact, that is very close to a word for servant.  Jesus takes a paidion and places it in the midst of the group.  Then he takes this little child in his arms and makes a gigantic statement:

     Whoever welcomes one such child in my name, welcomes me.  

And even one step further:

     Whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me.

So whoever welcomes – not invites, not receives, but welcomes – whoever welcomes the least, the most insignificant, the most vulnerable – in worldly terms, the most valueless – person  there is, welcomes me.  

And in so doing, says Jesus, you are welcoming God.  You are acting like God, whose world design is radically different from what you see around you.  Don’t forget that this God is the God

     who threw down the powerful from their seats, and lifted up the lowly;

     who filled the hungry with good things and sent the rich away empty.  


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This is the counter-cultural God who values each person with an overwhelming value, and who will tolerate no ranking, no preferential treatment among the followers of His Chosen One.

We all know the outcome, don’t we?  Gradually the disciples began to digest what Jesus was telling them.  But it was not until the end . . . when Jesus was tortured and killed . . . and when they were left in desolation . . . and when finally the truth of life began to dawn on them . . . that they began to understand what he had been saying.  And when that happened, power was released among them that literally changed the world.  

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A millennium and a half later, John Calvin tried to explain what it was in the disciples and what it is in all humans that prevents us from seeing what is obvious, from understanding what has been so fully explained.  He put it this way:

     So great is the influence of preconceived opinion, that it brings darkness over the mind in  
     the midst of the clearest light.

That preconceived opinion – that way of looking at things – is what we’ve learned in other parts of life.  The me-first attitude . . . the “we are all special, but I am more special than you” approach to human relationships . . . the subtle undercutting . . . the clever put-down . . . the reserving of friendship for people like myself . . . the quiet walling off of my group from your group:  these are the lessons we have all learned all too well.  And if we don’t return often to foundation principles of our life together, we can soon become little more than a shadow – a feeble copy – of the world outside.   

The question for us all is whether we have learned Jesus’ way in church – here, among his modern-day disciples . . . here, where so many true saints live . . . here, where everyone is striving for the same things.  This is where we learners – and we will always be learners – this is where we learners practice our Christian craft: welcoming all God’s children, and doing so warmly and genuinely.

     Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all.

     Whoever welcomes one such child – one such insignificant one – in my name, welcomes me.

     Whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me.

When we signed on as disciples-in-training – some of us recently, some quite a while ago, and some a full lifetime ago – we decided to take Jesus seriously, to follow where he led, to take His words and His example as our guide.

We know we can’t do it perfectly.  We have heard from those who see how we can mess up: people like Annie Dillard who used to say “What a pity, that so hard on the heels of Christ came the Christians.”  

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Occasionally, we will really do slip. Sometimes Christian congregations seem to be filled with people who all look alike, rather than with the tall and the short, the old and the young, the hurt and the healthy, the caring and the careless, the hopeful and the exhausted, the dying and the blossoming – every form and every condition and every background – all children of God who are deeply and everlastingly loved by God.

But when such times come – when we get it wrong – we moderns have a huge advantage over the original disciples.  We see them as they struggle to understand, as they lag behind their Master and need to be reminded about the simplest parts of life together.  And then we see them later as they radiate the infectious spirit of the One who claimed them in spite of themselves.  

And in the meantime, we return time and again to the radical lessons about how to live our lives, knowing that our teacher is close by.  

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A few years ago, a marvelous collection of musical manuscripts was unearthed and found its way to Yale University where each piece was catalogued and preserved.  A part of the collection was from the Bach family in Germany and included some pieces not seen by the public since the end of the Baroque period.   

But to my mind, the most interesting find turned out to be a sketchbook by one of Bach’s sons, who, as was traditional, had been taught by his father to write and play music.  The great master of counterpoint – the highest achievement of the baroque period – was the subject of the lesson, and the son – already a fine musician in his own right – was writing counterpoint on an original theme.  

A friend of mine, Glenn May, spent time studying the sketchbook and recounted to me his experience.  He said that as he read the music and enjoyed the interesting things the student was doing with his counterpoint, it became obvious to him that a problem loomed ahead.  Sure enough, the student got to a point where he became stuck and couldn’t go on any further.  

My friend said that at just that point in the score he saw a new musical handwriting taking over – a handwriting he instantly recognized.  Just where the student could go no further, the sure hand of J. S. Bach himself took over and unraveled the tangled threads and brought the composition to a successful conclusion.  The hand of the Master had taken the student’s best but unsuccessful effort and had translated it into something wonderful.

So it will be with us.  The same Master who once sat down and called his disciples to him and opened to them the secrets of the kingdom will guide us and correct us and continue to encourage us, and bring our work to successful conclusion!

Anyone who would be first must be last of all and servant of all!