living to die, and dying to live

Shalom Mennonite Church

Sunday, March 4, 2012

Lent 2 – Living & Dying in the Covenant

Texts: Genesis 17:1-7,15-16 and Mark 8:31-38

Eric Massanari

“living to die, and dying to live”

One summer's afternoon,

a number of years ago,

I was fishing with a friend

on a small lake in northern Indiana.

As we slowly motored the jon boat

around the edges of the lake

in search of a spot where the fish were biting,

I noticed a great blue heron

standing still and silent

in the shallows under some

low-hanging branches.

For some reason I've always

felt a deep attraction to herons.

They're found in those special

places where earth, sky and water meet.

When they fly they have a characteristic

slow and steady wing-beat,

their long legs trailing behind them like rudders.

When they stand in the waters and fish

they have an elegant grace

and peaceful, patient spirit about them.

The one I saw that hot summer evening

was very slowly and silently

walking through the shallows,

taking care not to disturb the waters.

It was doing the same thing we were doing,

looking for an evening meal.

But as we got closer I could see something

was terribly wrong with this bird—

particularly with its bill.

The bottom half was hanging uselessly

as if the bill had somehow come unhinged.

Perhaps it had been shot.

Maybe it had in some way injured itself.

Whatever happened, the bird was no longer

able to eat and it would soon starve to death,

unless some predator claimed its life before then.

For some reason, in that moment,

the sight of that bird overwhelmed me.

Here was this stunningly beautiful creature

rendered so broken and so helpless.

And yet it was continuing to go about its

patient practice of fishing,

even though it would never be able to catch one.

I wanted to catch it and help it in some way,

or at least put it out of its misery.

But each time we steered the boat closer

the bird would walk beyond our reach.

That heron has stayed with me through the years.

I think in a way it has come to symbolize

the suffering and brokenness

that goes hand in hand with

the wonder and beauty of life.

That heron appears again and again

in those moments when the currents of

death and birth,

brokenness and beauty,

sorrow and joy,

seem to flow very close together in life.

We human beings can be very much

like that heron: so beautiful and wondrous,

and so broken and wounded at the same time.

We live knowing deep down that we will die—

though that is a fact we may be reluctant

to acknowledge until we are forced to.

It is relatively easy to look beyond ourselves

and see that death and life are interwoven.

We can easily accept the rising and falling of each day,

or the passages of birth and death that

come with the passing seasons.

It is much more difficult to accept

the rhythms of death and life

that resound in our own being,

the ones that can disturb our thoughts

and break our hearts.

In the gospel story this morning

we meet the disciple Peter

in what for him is a disturbing

and heart-breaking moment.

This story immediately follows the

scene where Jesus asked his friends,

“Who do people say that I am?”

And Peter, we presume, was the one

who gave the most correct answer:

“You are the Messiah.” (Mark 8:29)

You are the one we've waited for!

You are the one I have waited for!

I've given up everything to follow you.

You are amazing, and wise;

you are patient and understanding;

you are compassionate and kind;

you have the power of God's own Spirit.

You are divine!

Peter obviously attaches great significance

to the title of “Messiah,” and it seems

that for him the Messiah should not—

cannot—undergo the sufferings of this world.

The Messiah should be beyond and above that.

So how could Peter be prepared to hear

Jesus speak so plainly about how he

would undergo great suffering at the

hands of the leaders of their faith?

How could he accept that the Messiah would be killed?

Jesus didn't tell them that this suffering

was likely or probable; in Mark's telling

of the story Jesus tells his friends

that this must happen—he must suffer in this way.

The implication is that this is somehow part

of God's own intention and plan.

Peter cannot accept this version of a Messiah—

it simply does not fit what he has presumed.

So he pulls Jesus aside and rebukes him.

We are left to imagine what

Peter might have said in that moment.

Whatever Peter says, Jesus' reply is sharp.

And not only does he confirm that

his path will be one that includes suffering and death,

he goes even further to say that

those who wish to follow him

must accept this as their path, too.

If anyone wants to follow my way, that person must take up their own cross and follow. For if you want to save your life, and keep yourself safe and free of pain and grief, you will ultimately lose your life. But if you are willing to let go of your fear of suffering and dying, if you are willing to lose your life for the sake of love and accept the path of death, then you will know what it means to become fully alive.

It strikes me that with these words

Jesus is stating very clearly that

his path is a very human one,

it is the path that each person must face—

he will not be an exception to the rules of life.

He, too, will know pain and hurt,

rejection and loss and death.

Perhaps this is why he never uses

terms like “Messiah” or “Christ”

to describe himself.

Jesus refers to himself as the Son of Man,

or to state it more inclusively

with out losing its meaning:

the “Son of Humanity.”

As the Son of Humanity he will identify

himself with all the human beings

who know what it means to suffer.

With Jesus the disciples are confronted

with the necessity of suffering and death.

Earlier this week I watched the movie 50/50

which is about a young man in his 20s

who develops cancer.

The movie captures the struggle

of the main character, as well as his family

and close friends, to accept what is happening.

“You're going to be fine,”

becomes the mantra of his friends

and family members.

“It's all going to be fine,” you hear

them say and it is clear that they

are saying it as much to try and

chase away their own fears

as they are to give him any kind of comfort.

“You'll be just fine.”

His young and inexperienced therapist

has her own ways of saying the same thing

as she makes well-meaning attempts

to help him normalize his experience,

and gives him textbook explanations

for the feelings he is having or not having.

There's no religious figure in the storyline,

but it isn't too difficult to imagine

a priest, pastor, or rabbi offering

a spiritualized version of the same message:

"Everything is going to be fine."

Finally, he says to his therapist,

“I'm dying. I know now that I might soon die from this.

I just need someone else to acknowledge that with me.”

He must to come to this point of

honest recognition and acceptance

of his own death before he can

make the journey forward,

whatever it may bring.

And he needs someone to see this

and accept this with him.

I heard someone describe our culture once

as a “pain-killer culture,” which seems apt.

We also are a culture that carries

a deep-seated fear of death.

Suffering and death confront the notion

that we should always be happy, comfortable,

strong and youthful,

pretty, put-together and well-satisfied.

Having a “good life” in this culture means

being materially comfortable, successful,

and enjoying yourself.

To borrow Jesus' phrase,

we are a people intent on “gaining the world.”

And Jesus asks us the question:

What good is it to gain this so-called “good life,”

to gain the world, if in the process you forfeit

your capacity to live fully?

Jesus is preparing his disciples in this story

for what will be the pathway ahead,

the way that they must travel together

if they wish to follow him.

It will mean facing squarely into the reality

that the goodness and value of life is not

discovered solely through the experiences

that satisfy us, comfort us, and make us feel good.

It is revealed in the way we meet

and live into our moments of suffering

and our experiences of dying.

And, in truth, we are always dying.

We are all very much alive here in this moment,

and it is also true that with each

passing moment we move closer to our death.

Nothing exempts you or me from that certainty.

So what do we do with that reality?

Does it make us fearful?

Does it leave us feeling depressed?

Or, might it set us free?

Might it set us free from illusions like:

if we just get that one more thing done,

if we just reach that next milestone,

if we could only resolve that one last

dilemma or problem in our life,

we will be okay, and satisfied, and free?

Could it be that growing in our acceptance of the fact

that one day we will die,

and one day the people we care about will die,

and one day each person we meet will die,

has the power to set us free to live more gratefully

and love more fully?

Jesus reveals for us the path to

becoming fully free and alive—

it's just that it isn't an easy one.

It troubles our worldview,

and perhaps our view of God.

It means learning how to die

so that we are truly able to live. AMEN