SERMON PREACHED AT St JOHN’S, EAST
BENTLEIGH
ORDINARY SUNDAY 24
(11th September) 1988
“And he charged them to tell no
one about him.”
(Mark
8:30)
As I cast my eye around the Church I am often saddened by
what I hear. All too often the Church’s teachings ooze a sense of triumphant
self-assurance, an overly satisfied sense that God is in heaven and that all is
well, or well at least for those who are within the walls of Christendom.
And I am saddened because I am aware, partly from my own
experience before I converted to Christianity, of how silly it all sounds, how
irrelevant it all seems to the average person in the street. And I am further
saddened because, quite honestly, I don’t believe that the gospel is a
triumphant or cosy message. For the victims of floods in Sudan or Bangladesh,
for example a cosy assurance of future reward is poor comfort indeed. For
victims of individual or societal violence the assurance of Christ’s love may
sound hollow indeed when coming from the lips of those who have never suffered,
never really been in need.
And that is most of us.
But what do I mean when I speak of a triumphalist gospel? It
is that version of the Christian message that confidently asserts, together
with the fourth century emperor Constantine, “in this sign I conquer.” It is
the version of the gospel that adopts the sign of the cross as a sign of
conquest, as a passport to victory. It is the version of the gospel that seeks
to build bigger and better churches, bigger and better structures to enhance
its own image in society. It is the version of the gospel that seeks to adopt
the marketing strategies of the successful mega corporations to emulate their
success.
But it is also, tragically, a version of the gospel that has
little to say to those who seemingly fail. To the unbeautiful people, to those
who start or finish life a long way behind the race. It is that version of the
gospel, for example, that triumphantly hands out New Testaments across the
country in a bicentennial crusade, without addressing the more critical needs
of our neighbours.
And of course it is biblically based.
For it cannot be denied that there is an element of triumph
that runs through many New Testament writings, not least the writings of Paul. But
it must be read in context: the hope and exhilaration of the New Testament is
precisely a hope born out of the experience of being misunderstood and rejected,
and later even persecuted and killed.
But the New Testament writers did not forget what we might
call “the dark side” of faith.
As testimony to that we find the early Christians beginning
to identify Jesus with the unidentifiable Old Testament figure that we know as
“the Suffering Servant.” It is this Old Testament figure that we read of in the
first reading this morning.
The Suffering Servant appears in four poems in the second half
of the book we know as Isaiah. He it is who in this morning’s reading reminds
us,
I gave
my back to the smiters,
And my cheek to those who pulled out the
beard;
I hid
not my face from shame and spitting.
(Isaiah
50:6)
It is he whose words are collapsed together in an aria from Handel’s
Messiah, an aria which captures exquisitely the essence of the Servant’s
poems;
He was
despised, rejected, a man of sorrows
and acquainted with grief.
He gave his
back to the smiters and his cheek to those who plucked off his hair.
He did not hide his face from shame and spitting.
The words are unforgettable, and the poetry in Isaiah some
of the most beautiful in religious literature.
And yet too rarely do I hear the church proclaiming this
spat-upon Christ to the world. For the early Church quickly identified Christ
as one who had been thus treated. What a remarkable claim for a Church, an embryonic
Church that was proclaiming a new messiah, ana new saviour to the world. What poor audience research. How
unlike the vast mega corporations of our own day.
And we want to imitate the mega corporations.
Sadly, I sense that all too often we do just that. We
package our Christ up in a plastic bag, and in the words of a ’70s song, “turn
it upside down.” We image for the world a feeble attempt at portraying an
all-purpose, extensively guaranteed saviour. And, because we are competing in a
better qualified world, we find we are unable to compete with Fosters lager or with
the latest brand of cigarette.
By this I do not merely mean that our media evangelism is awry,
but that our entire Christian lifestyle is awry. The image that we present is
one of self-assurance, yet statistics should remind us that we can be anything
but self-assured.
That is where we as a western world Church are falling
dreadfully astray. For the Christ we are called to proclaim is not one who
reveals himself to the world in staggering success stories, but in absolute
tragedy. In Mark’s account of the gospel it is not when the tomb is found to be
empty that the glorious work of God is done but when our Lord cries out in
utter despair and lets go of his final breath. It is then that the Roman
centurion, who for Mark represents the unbelieving world, cries out,
Truly this man was a son of God.
It is in a moment of utter despair that God pronounces his
victory to the world, in a moment of utter defeat that God chooses to make
himself known.
That is why Mark’s account of the gospel is so important for
the Church today. It is Mark who realizes with stark clarity that the gospel is
neither pretty nor comfortable. Throughout Mark’s gospel account we find what
scholars call the “messianic secret.” Whenever someone claims to have made the
discovery that Jesus is the awaited Messiah we find Jesus telling that person
to remain silent. Hence the text with which I have begun this morning, “And he
charged them to tell no one about him” (Mark 8:30)
This text provides the pivot upon which the whole of Mark’s gospel
account balances. At this moment the closest follower of Jesus, on whom the Church
was to be founded, makes the decisive claim, “You are the Christ.”
It is the claim that we are all called to make. It is the
decision for Christ that every evangelist hopes and prays his or her listeners
will make. But Jesus knows only too clearly the road to Jerusalem that lies
ahead. He knows only too clearly that Peter has grasped only a triumphalist
gospel that fails to acknowledge impending agony and failure. It is only when
Christ has revealed himself to be Messiah in the midst of absolute disaster that
the message of the gospel can truly be apprehended.
It is only because Christ revealed himself in tragedy that
he has a message of good news to offer to the world.
A Messiah who is revealed only in triumph has nothing to say
to the people of Bangladesh. A triumphalist Church has nothing to say to the
people of Bangladesh. A Messiah who dies as a glorious conqueror has nothing to
say to the smarting Aboriginal people of this country, stung as they are by the
inane remarks Brigadier Garland[1]
made this week. Only a Messiah who has himself been spat upon can transform
such pain into a revelation of God.
Only in and after such pain does Jesus reveal himself to be
the Son. Only in pain and the aftermath of pain does God reveal himself to be
the God of the Resurrection, the God who transforms pain and sorrow
unimaginable into joy unimaginable. That God instructs us to follow Jesus into
the dangerous places, where he treads before us, and where we will experience
something both of the cost and of the joy of our gospel.
Where are the dangerous places? They are the places where it
is not nice to be. They are the places where we will not find comfort, but
rather only pain and misunderstanding. They are the places of Desmond Tutu, the
places where we will be despised for our beliefs. They are not the pews of our
churches.
It is only when we as Christians are prepared to proclaim
the love of God from the dangerous places that we will achieve any tangible
results of our proclamation. Only when we turn our backs on the neat marketing
packages of the mega corporations will we begin to see gospel love active in
the western world. Only when we are allowing God to take us into the
uncomfortable places will we learn the meaning of the comfortable words of
Christ. Only when we have grasped the message of the Crucifixion will we be able
to taste the sweet fruit of the Resurrection
Christian faith then is not a ticket to find parking places
when we are in a hurry, nor an easy solution to a sprained ankle. Christian
faith will not make our problems go away, and may indeed create more for us.
But because Christian faith is born in tragedy it has something to offer the
victims of tragedy, with a global or personal. Christianity breathes hope not
only into my world but into the entire world. It will eventually turn all night
into day. That is why it is good news.
We await the time for that final revelation. In the mean
time we must find the dangerous places to which God is calling us, and find
means of proclaiming God from those places.
As watchmen
wait for the morning, Lord,
so we wait
eagerly for you.
Come with
the dawning of the day
and make
yourself known to us,
not in the
glories of success,
but in the
breaking of the bread. Amen.
[1]
Garland was National President of the Returned and Services League of
Australia (RSL) from 1988 to 1993. He was well known for pronouncements
against Asian immigration: “We want to retain Australia for Australians,"
and was a vehement opponent of Tutu’s anti-apartheid activism. See “New RSL
Chief Enters Migrant Row”, Financial Review, September 9th,
1988. Accessed April 28th 2025.
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