At the heart of discipleship is service. Whether we like it or not. And usually, we don’t. Because serving others also requires welcoming them.
not greatness but welcome and service
May 7 | Mark 9:33–37
There’s a reason we aren’t perfect. People never are. So it doesn’t surprise us when the disciples, the people who knew Jesus better than anyone ever, mess up. Just like you and me.
And yet, it can still be jarring.
Sometimes we get fatalistic and go to the extreme. If they’re no better than what chance do I have? But usually, it goes the other way. We just don’t think about it. That was 2000 years ago. The disciples were THE DISCIPLES. It doesn’t matter how close to perfect they were. They rolled with Jesus. They are certified; official. They’ve got the ID card to prove it.
And that idea—that the disciples are somehow distant from us, or greater than us, or better by virtue of being a disciple—that’s…less than helpful.
Putting it in context
The thing about this reading that I love is that it says so much so quickly while being in the middle of my favorite part of Mark.
Jesus predicted his death and Peter tries to stop him from heading toward it. And Jesus calls him Satan. Then he takes that Satan up a mountain with two brothers to have a transcendent experience. People don’t mess up as bad as Peter does and then turn around and get invited to the spiritual pinnacle. That’s not how we see the world.
And while they’re up the mountain, the disciples suddenly can’t heal anybody and they’re freaking out. Kinda like the people freaked out when Moses went up the mountain, only nobody’s making a golden idol this time. And Jesus heals the boy.
The disciples ask why they weren’t able to exercise the demon, Jesus responds cryptically:
“This kind can come out only through prayer.”
I can’t really tell if that is shade or just truth.
Greatness
Then Jesus predicts his death a second time. And rather than have Peter get all protector bear on him, the disciples ignore it: they’re preoccupied with competing with one another: greatness. It has an MJGA vibe to it: who among them will Make Judah Great Again?
Jesus, on the other hand, says greatness comes from service. Not from boasting or conquering. But he doesn’t really have to say anything. They were silent because they know better.
And then, ever the visual storyteller, Jesus finds a child and holds her in the middle of them all. Welcome her, you welcome me. And you welcome God.
It is hard not to think of the way we welcome immigrants and children of all sorts and conditions today. Especially when the operating voice is treat them like guinea pigs and hope they don’t die. Or almost worse: survive their parents as an infant.
Harriet Starr Cannon
Harriet Cannon’s story isn’t confined to the tragedy of the death of most of her family. Or that she and her only surviving sibling would be raised by people who were not her parents.
It would be too easy to speak to the turn of the orphaned girl toward the cloistered life. For there is something almost mythical in our culture about the role of women religious. Or the certainty of the livelihood of young women in the 19th century necessitating such decisions.
But that’s not what drew her to it. In fact, it went the other way. She started with service and the need to give back. And from that she discovered a call to the monastic. A pull that many find after they explore their yearning for God in the world.
It seems this paints a more robust picture of discipleship than we like to think.
This is what Jesus always communicates about devotion, after all. That it comes through service and sacrifice.
Cannon isn’t the victim of a pandemic, but the seeker of love and support for the people effected by all the tragedies of this life. She made her life into an act of service so that she could welcome God in the form of all the children she met.
Because it doesn’t take perfect. It takes a willing spirit.