Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church
1st March 2015 11.00am
You can listen to this sermon here:
Mark 8.31-38 Then he began to teach them that the Son of
Man must undergo great suffering, and be rejected by the elders, the chief
priests, and the scribes, and be killed, and after three days rise again. 32 He said all this quite openly.
And Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him. 33 But turning and looking at his
disciples, he rebuked Peter and said, "Get behind me, Satan! For you are
setting your mind not on divine things but on human things."
34 He
called the crowd with his disciples, and said to them, "If any want to
become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and
follow me. 35 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. 36 For what will it profit them to
gain the whole world and forfeit their life?
37 Indeed, what can they give in return for their life? 38 Those who are ashamed of me and
of my words in this adulterous and sinful generation, of them the Son of Man
will also be ashamed when he comes in the glory of his Father with the holy
angels."
The
News Media this week reported that
‘Isis militants have … ransacked
Mosul library,
burning over a hundred thousand rare
manuscripts and documents
spanning centuries of human
learning.’[1]
I
am well aware that in a world of internet-beheadings
and other less visible
atrocities,
this is just one more tragedy
amongst so many others,
but
for this book-lover at least, it is heart-breakingly symbolic of the depths
to which human beings can sink.
As
I read this news story this week,
I found a quote I’d thought I’d
forgotten coming to mind.
It’s
from a play written 1821, by the German writer Heinrich Heine,[2]
and it’s about the
burning of the Quran during the Spanish Inquisition.
Heine
said, ‘Where they burn books, so too will they in the end burn human beings.’[3]
Ironically,
his own works were themselves on the list of books
destined for the Nazi book burning
purges of the twenthieth century.
And,
again and again, through human history,
we have seen it to be true,
on every side of the political and
religious divide,
that where freedom of expression is
smothered,
and independence of
thought is extinguished,
so the destruction of persons
inexorably follows.
Words
become flesh,
and both are burned.
From
the Spanish Inquisition to IS militants,
from Farenheit 451 to Orwell’s 1984,
book
burning has functioned as a potent tool of suppression and control.
One
of the earliest examples is found in the Old Testament,
in the book of Jeremiah,
Where
the King Jehoiakim of Judah seeks to silence the words of the prophet:
Jeremiah 36:22-25 Now the king was sitting in his winter
apartment (it was the ninth month), and there was a fire burning in the brazier
before him. 23 As Jehudi read
three or four columns, the king would cut them off with a penknife and throw
them into the fire in the brazier, until the entire scroll was consumed in the
fire that was in the brazier. 24
Yet neither the king, nor any of his servants who heard all these words, was
alarmed, nor did they tear their garments.
25 Even when Elnathan and Delaiah and Gemariah urged the king
not to burn the scroll, he would not listen to them.
One
of my great treasures is a photograph of the front page of John’s Gospel,
taken from the first edition of
William Tyndale’s New Testament.
It
was given to me by my College Principal, a certain Brian Haymes,
when I left my time at Bristol
Baptist College.
Tyndale
was the first person to translate the Bible into English
from the original languages,
and
he is the person Melvyn Bragg once called,
‘The Most Dangerous Man in Tudor
England’
There
are only three copies of Tyndale’s first edition in existence,
because they were seized as they
entered the country,
and burned in bonfires
in London,
overseen by Cardinal Wolsey and
Cuthbert Tunstall, the Bishop of London.
In
scenes which could come straight from Wolf Hall,
six thousand of his New Testaments
were burned
on the steps of Old St
Paul’s Cathedral,
despite Anne Boelyn and Thomas
Cromwell’s efforts
to reconcile Tyndale to
the King.
One
of the three surviving copies ended up in the library at Bristol Baptist
College,
but is now in the possession of the
British Library,
who have it on permanent display
just up the road from here at St Pancras.
When
he heard that his Bibles has been burned,
Tyndale famously remarked ‘no doubt
they will burn me too, if it be God’s will.’
And
sure enough, a few years later,
he was caught, and burned at the
stake.
You
see, books are more than words,
they are ideas made flesh,
they
create worlds,
and invite us to enter into the
worlds they create,
and to start living those worlds
into reality.
Books
are dangerous,
words are inflammatory,
and
ideas are incendiary.
And
supremely this is true in the stories of the word-made-flesh.
When
God speaks words of salvation and restoration,
he speaks them in the person of
Jesus,
and
the written records of those stories of Jesus
make these words real to us in our
world also.
This
was the insight of Tyndale,
that the words of Jesus might take
on fresh life
in new languages, in new
cultures, in new ways,
not restricted to Latin, or Greek,
or Hebrew,
but rendered in English,
so that everyone might hear them,
from the scholar to the
plough boy in the field.
And
this is why people burn books,
and it is why people burn people.
They
do it because world-shaping ideas must be suppressed,
if those who seek to hold power are
to be free
to shape the world in the way that they
want it to be.
And
nowhere in literature do we encounter a more inflammatory idea
than that which we meet today in our
reading from Mark 8.
This,
truly, is a text to turn the world upside down,
and it is as inflammatory now
as it was when Tyndale
first translated it into English
nearly five hundred
years ago.
Just
as Tyndale knew that his act of academic rebellion
against the religious control of the
scriptures
had put him on a course which would
end in his own death,
so
here in Mark’s gospel we meet Jesus facing the future with a similar certainty,
as he too takes his stand against
the religious and political powers-that-be,
and
sets his face towards the cross,
knowing that he is starting down a
path that can only end in his own execution.
‘Deny
yourself’, says Jesus to his disciples, and ‘take up your cross’
and in so doing he calls those who
would follow him
to similarly set their faces towards
the cross.[4]
The
link between words and death is made:
as words become actions,
and actions challenge power,
and power retaliates in defence of
its privilege.
Of
course, the cross was not a religious icon in first-century Palestine.
No-one wore the crucifix as an item
of jewellery,
or gazed upon it as an
item of devotion.
The
phrase Jesus uses here, so moving rendered for us into English by Tyndale as ‘whosesoever
will follow me let him forsake him life
and
take up his cross and follow me’
was no metaphor for personal anguish
or pious forbearance,
in the way it is sometimes used in
the contemporary world.
Crucifixion,
at the time of Jesus, had only one connotation:
it was the vicious form of capital
punishment reserved by imperial Rome
for those who were marked out as political
dissidents.
As
we all know, we still live in a world
where violent and visible execution
remains a potent tool of those who
would seek to intimidate others.
There
are those who still seek to silence voices and mute narratives
in the interests of asserting
dominance and control.
And
there are those who seek to do so through the burning and desecration
of anything that dares to speak an
alternative reality into being.
Whether
that be ancient Islamic texts in a library in Mosul
or aid workers seeking to negotiate
peace and protect the innocent,
or civilians wanting to quietly get
on with their lives,
farming their farms, taking their
tubes and buses to work…
Such
terrorism plays to our deepest fears
The
thing is, none of us wants to lose our lives:
we are afraid of the bomb on the
bus,
the outrage in the
shopping mall, the man in the street with the knife.
It
sometimes seems as if the terrorists’ greatest symbolic weapon
is the ability to persuade people to
sacrifice their lives for their cause,
taking others with them.
It
is here that we hear Jesus’ potent words as he set his own face to the cross,
inviting others to do the same:
35For
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.
36 For
what will it profit them to gain the whole world and forfeit their life?
37
Indeed, what can they give in return for their life?
Does
Jesus sound like a terrorist here?
Taken in isolation, he could
certainly start to sound like it.
But
of course, this is not a sound-bite of incitement to violence.
There
is a fundamental difference
between the faithful disciple who
carries their cross to its bitter conclusion
rather than compromise
their calling,
and the suicide bomber who carries
their cross strapped to their chest
intent on taking others
with them.
Crosses
were a common enough sight when Mark wrote his gospel,
since there was a Jewish
insurrection under way.
And
in contrast to Judean nationalists
who were recruiting patriots to
‘take up the sword’ against Rome,
Mark’s
Jesus invites his disciples to ‘take up the cross.’
And
this action of taking up the cross
is to be understood as an action of
self-denial,
understood not in terms
of private asceticism,
but in the context of a political
trial.
Under
interrogation by Roman state security forces,
anyone who admitted allegiance to
God rather than the emperor
would
face in charges of subversion,
because this was a world where
Caesar alone claimed Lordship.
‘Self-denial’,
in this context, is therefore about costly political choices.,
And it is in this world that Jesus
speaks words
that restate the matter another way.
It
turns out that if one attempts to ‘save
one’s life’ by denying Jesus
then one is actually losing grip on
what it is to be truly alive (8.35)
And
conversely, to live - and die - ‘for the
sake of Jesus and the gospel’
is truly to experience ‘life’ in all
its fullness…
So,
what does, ‘deny yourself, take up the
cross, and follow me’ mean for us?
How do these ancient words reach
down the centuries to us?
How do they translate into our
language, our culture, our world?
In
many ways, our situation is not so dissimilar to that of the first century.
Like
the early followers of Jesus, we too live in an imperial society
that has stretched its political and
economic arms around the globe,
seizing the resources of
the many to the benefit of the privileged,
and overriding the self-determination
of other peoples along the way.
In
such a world, what does it mean for us to deny ourselves,
take up our cross,
and follow the executed and living
Jesus in our context?
To
avoid this question is to refuse to encounter
the powerful challenge of this text
in our contemporary world.
To
turn from its critique of our lives and our culture
is to burn the words of live that
call us to a new way of living,
and which challenge, once again, the
dominant power structures
of the world in which we live.
‘taking
up our cross’ has specific political and personal implications for us all,
and we cannot afford to ignore them,
lest we lose our grip on true life
along the way.
Taking
up the cross does not mean
shouldering the personal burdens put
before one in life
and carrying on in the hope of
heavenly rewards.
The
language of ‘it’s just a cross I have to bear’
is a misreading of what Jesus is
doing here…
The
call to self denial does not mean
the negation of experience,
selfhood, human rights, or physical integrity.
Rather,
denying ourselves, and taking up our cross,
is about challenging the self as the
centre of our universe.
In
this language, Jesus calls us out of life centred on individualism and
self-interest
and into life lived in the reality
of God’s love.
The
call to take up our cross and follow Jesus
is a call to walk in a path of
radical love,
that challenges all oppressive power
structures,
wherever they may be found
For
some of us at least, this can lead to danger and even the possibility of death,
because we live out this call in the
midst
of overwhelming forces of greed and
violence
which take no long-term prisoners
and which fight back viciously when
challenged.
Suffering,
in the form of persecution,
is not something any of us should
seek out.
But
we must recognise that for many who follow Jesus in our world,
suffering unto death is the
consequence of their discipleship.
For
those of us in the relatively safe and affluent West,
we must never turn our faces from
the suffering
of our sisters and
brothers elsewhere in the world,
because when we look away, leaving
them to the flames of persecution,
we turn our faces from
the burning of the words of life,
and become complicit in
the evil that would silence love.
To
‘take up the cross’, then, is to resist systems and structures
that cause or perpetuate injustice.
It
is to rebuild systems
grounded in justice, peace, and the
integrity of creation.
It
is to resist the rampant and seductive narratives of nationalism
which tell us the old Lie;
Dulce et Decorum est Pro patria mori
It
is never a beautiful thing to die for one’s country,
for one’s sect,
for one’s tribe.
It
is to make our voting choices in the forthcoming General Election
on the basis of values of justice,
equality, and care for the poor.
Did
you see the Bishop’s letter recently?[5]
I didn’t agree with all of it, but,
they said:
"The
privileges of living in a democracy
mean that we should use our votes
thoughtfully, prayerfully
and with the good of others in mind,
not just our own interests."
The
letter goes on to say that:
"In
Britain, we have become so used to believing
that self-interest drives every
decision,
that
it takes a leap of imagination to argue
that there should be stronger
institutions for those we disagree with
as well as for those 'on our side.'
Breaking
free of self-interest
and welcoming our opponents as well
as our supporters
into a messy, noisy, yet rich and
creative community of communities
is, perhaps, the only way we will
enrich our almost-moribund political culture."
Or,
as Jesus might have put it, ‘deny yourself, take up your cross, and follow me…’
And
the thing is, wholehearted commitment to this way
is the path to true life;
whilst
not choosing this path is to choose the path of death-in-life.
So
where now does Jesus call us to take up the cross and follow him?
Where
in our lives are we called to resist self-negation,
the culture of violence, the lure of
consumerism, the justification of injustice?
And
what are the possible consequences for us of following this path?
Another
way of putting this might be to ask,
what do we most fear?
It
may be in our deepest fears,
that the path to the cross through
self-denial may become apparent.
And
this will be different for each of us.
This
is no one-scheme-fits-all ideology
where we all behave the same, think
the same, and vote the same.
But
we do walk forwards towards the cross in community with one another.
Mark’s
Jesus did not call people to walk the path of discipleship alone
but to do so in loving community.
Bound
to one another through disagreement and difference
every bit as much as we are bound to
one another
through our shared commitment to the
path of Jesus Christ.
What
do you most fear in life?
Illness? Poverty? The mocking voices
of others? Uncertainty?
What
do you most fear?
What
does taking up your cross, and
denying yourself mean, for you?
I’m
going to close by quoting from a sermon by Sarah Dylan Breuer [6]
This was a sermon that she wrote to
her congregation,
so
I’m going to steal her words, and let her speak to us.
She says:
‘This
is a powerful congregation.
We have power by virtue of our
education,
our relative wealth in
the world,
our privilege in
society, our voice.
‘It
can be very tempting -- all too tempting –
to seek nothing more than charity.
‘Charity
is a start, but it can take us to a dangerous place
in which we release some portion of
our resources
in order to get more power.
‘We
maintain a death grip on the unjust privilege that makes us wealthy,
that gives us the illusion of
control,
and then we give away just enough to
feel generous
without seriously compromising our
privilege.
‘The
way of the Cross -- Jesus' way of life -- calls us to let go of that.
‘Jesus'
way calls us to be honest about the power we have
-- both the worldly power we've got
because of our skin
color, our gender, our social class,
our education, our birth
in one of the most powerful nations in the world,
and the spiritual power we have
as a community upon
which God has breathed the Spirit
-- and then to let all of that pour
out –
“let justice roll down
like waters,
and righteousness like
an ever-flowing stream” (Amos 5:24)
-- to empower the poor.
‘We
are called not only to make sure
that the most marginalized have a
place at the table,
but also to recognize whose table it
is.
‘The
table around which we gather belongs to Jesus the Christ,
who saw, as Peter in this Sunday's
gospel [reading ]did not,
that
true power is made perfect in self-giving love,
that the way of abundant life leads
to the Cross.
‘And
the symbol of humanity's brokenness,
of power corrupted to become
domination,
becomes a sign of peace, and
freedom, and life.
‘Thanks
be to God!’
Also
used in shortened form at Informal Church 7/10/2012
[1]
http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/middle-east/isis-burns-thousands-of-rare-books-and-manuscripts-from-mosuls-libraries-10068408.html
[2]
Almansor
[3]
Dort, wo man Bücher verbrennt, verbrennt
man auch am Ende Menschen
[4] Parts of what follow draw verbatim from ‘Say to this Mountain’ by Ched Myers et al.
[5]
https://churchofengland.org/media-centre/news/2015/02/house-of-bishops%27-pastoral-letter-on-the-2015-general-election.aspx
[6]
http://girardianlectionary.net/year_b/lent2b.htm
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