Crosses and Candlesticks

A Meditation on Mark 8: Jesus looks ahead to his suffering and insists that disciples take up the cross to follow him.

The Story Goes...

The story goes that one night bandits came to the hermitage of an old monk and said: “We have come to take away everything in your cell.” And the old monk said: “Take whatever you see, my sons.” So the bandits gathered up everything they found – books and icons, pens and paper. And they hurried off into the night.

In their haste, they left behind a little bag with silver candlesticks. And the story goes that, when the old monk realized this and saw the bag sitting there, he grabbed it quickly. And he ran after the bandits.

He ran after them, shouting, “Take these, take these. You forgot them, and they are the most beautiful of all.”

And so it is that we arrive again in Caesarea Philippi – with Jesus and Peter and Mary and Susannah and all the other disciples. And Jesus calls a crowd – women and men, Gentiles and Jews, young children and old sages. Jesus calls a crowd and says to them: “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.” And, if that’s not puzzling enough, he presses even more deeply into the heart, into the paradox of Christian life. “For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it.”

We’ve all got one, two, many, these bags of silver candlesticks – somewhere. We’ve all got them. Every one of us. It’s the passion in your heart: the fire that comes to life when you pick up a paintbrush and stand before an open easel. It’s the muse in your fingertips: the song that dances forth when you sit at a piano and play. It’s the love you feel for your friends. It’s the ache in your belly: the anger that roars when children are denied healthcare, when immigrants are scapegoated, when young men die in an old man’s war. We’ve all got these bags of silver candlesticks – somewhere. And the questions is, Jesus’ question is: will you give them away? Will you turn your candlesticks over to the world, to the bandits, to the God of bandits and beauty and mystery and majesty? This one text is relentless. Like hound dogs after rabbits. It has so much to do with discipleship and love and Jesus. Your candlesticks – will you give them away? “For those who want to save their life will lose it,” Jesus says, “and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it.”

God-Given Gifts

Now I’d like to draw a hugely important distinction between giving our lives away and squandering them. Squandering has nothing to do with awe and gratitude, nothing to do with generosity and ecstasy. Squandering is like Esau giving up his birthright for a bowl of soup or the prodigal son spending his inheritance on trivial pursuits.

Giving our lives away has something to do with honoring the gifts, cherishing life’s opportunities: the love of painting, the joy in music, the care for others, the anger at injustice. Whatever your gifts are. Giving your life away has something to do, maybe everything to do, with honoring the gifts, rejoicing in the gifts, recognizing the value of the gifts. Then you release. Then you discover a way to share these God-given gifts with a God-given world. Every moment is a deep inward breath, followed by a grateful exhalation. Your painting brings joy and creativity to a world too tangled in technology and predictability. Your music brings rhythm and freedom to a community aching for both. Your love melts the icy, hardened crust of a careless culture. And your anger sees the world as it is – and says there has to be more.

“If anyone wants to become my followers,” Jesus says, “let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.” We’re talking about giving our lives away, not squandering them. And I want to suggest that we take up the cross together as we identify and call out and cherish one another’s gifts. Our brother Connell has a heart for homeless kids and gay and lesbian teenagers. And he has a gift for language and authenticity. We take up the cross with Connell as we call out these gifts and celebrate his passion and send him on his way with love. Our sister Lori has a fire within that burns with hope that people of faith might sing together and dance together and work together. She has a gift for setting fires to burning in our souls too. We take up the cross with Lori as we call out these gifts and celebrate them and do everything we can to see them multiply. We’re talking about giving our lives away, not squandering them. That’s discipleship. That’s the love of Jesus. That’s taking up the cross.

The Sizzle of the Holy Spirit

Now you don’t have to be a monk or a saint or a Connell O’Donovan or a Lori Rivera. Your gift is uniquely and undeniably yours. Your passion is the breath, the choreography, the sizzle of the Holy Spirit within you. Nothing is too ordinary for God. No gift is too simple for her blessing. And no passion, no hunger, no heartache escapes the notice of Brother Jesus. You have that bag of silver candlesticks – somewhere. And the questions is, Jesus’ question is: will you give them away?

You might remember the story of the German pastor Dietrich Bonhoeffer – who was arrested and eventually executed for his resistance to Hitler’s Nazis in the 1930s and 40s. Perhaps as much as any theologian in the last one hundred years, Bonhoeffer wrestled with the cross and Jesus’ call to take it up. In his “Letters from Prison,” he insisted on “the profound this-worldliness of Christianity.” The cross is not just for martyrs, not just for larger than life heroes, but for all of us.

By this-worldliness – he wrote – I mean living unreservedly in life’s duties, problems, successes and failures, experiences and perplexities. In so doing we throw ourselves completely into the arms of God, taking seriously, not our own sufferings, but those of God in the world – watching with Christ in Gethsemane…

Watching with Christ in Gethsemane. You take up the cross just as meaningfully when you visit your mother in a nursing home and bathe her feet. If that relationship calls to you, the holiness of the universe meets you there. And you take up the cross just as meaningfully when you sit patiently, night after night after night, teaching your 6-year-old to read. If you’ve been blessed with a child, gifted as a parent, the holiness of the universe meets you there. Living unreservedly in life’s duties, problems, successes and failures, experiences and perplexities! We throw ourselves completely into the arms of God. That’s discipleship. That’s love. And that’s taking up the cross.

Cherished and Loved

At this point in the story, the mid-point of Mark’s gospel, Peter’s not terribly interested in life’s duties, problems, successes and failures. He’s got Jesus pegged as an unbeatable superhero, a Messiah without peer and without vulnerability. He assumes that Jesus has come to right every wrong and he imagines that Jesus will soon inaugurate a very different and much more perfect world. Easy enough for us to laugh off Peter’s naïveté. But wouldn’t it be nice? A more perfect world? Jesus – as we know – is quick to correct. “If you want to be my followers, do this: deny yourselves, take up your cross, follow me.”

Easy enough to laugh off Peter’s naïveté. But let’s not lose sight of the arc of his remarkable story. As impulsive as he is, Peter’s eager for some action, some solutions, and he’s disappointed in Jesus’ suffering love. He’s impatient with Jesus’ vulnerability and frailty. And when it comes time for Jesus to bear his own cross, Peter scurries for safety. Lets Jesus down. Misses the point. You remember. The cock crows. Peter weeps.

But sometime after, sometime after Jesus is executed and buried in a tomb, he rises from the grave and waits for Peter on a beach. And Peter’s so shocked and so delighted to see him that he dives off his boat, dives into the lake, and swims excitedly to shore. And there, Jesus cooks breakfast and meets Peter face to face, heart to heart, soul to soul.

“Do you love me?” Jesus asks. “After all this, do you love me?” And Peter says, alive again, soaking wet, “Yes, Lord, you know that I love you.” And Jesus says, full of grace: “Feed my sheep.” Take up your cross. Feed my sheep.

Like Peter, most of us learn the hard way. Like Peter, we resist the humility of Jesus’ cross, the discipline of discipleship, the sacrifices of love. Sometimes we take ourselves much too seriously; and sometimes we don’t take ourselves seriously enough. But here’s the good news: like Peter, we are cherished and loved and forgiven. Like Peter, we are discovered by grace in the to and fro of our daily chores. Fishing on the lake. Washing mother’s feet. Teaching a child to read. Polishing up a pair of silver candlesticks. All we have to do, Jesus says, all we have to do is give them away.