Springwood Presbyterian Church: Whitsett, NC

Proverbs 22:1-2

Mark 8:27-38                                                                                            3-8-09 What’s Your Name?

In some Native American tribes, I am told, it was the tradition for the elder of the tribe to take a newborn child out into the night, and there, under the stars, would whisper his or her special name—not the name everyone would call the child day in and day out--but rather, the name the child would grow into, through training and discipline—through learning how to be whatever the name implied.

A good name is better than money in the bank, the proverb teaches.  When I was growing up in New Bern, my parents often said to me as I went out the door, “Remember who you are.”  In that small town, it was impossible not to remember who I was, because anywhere I went—even if folks didn’t know my first name—I was known: “Aren’t you Mary Lib and Bin’s oldest?”, or, “I know you--Ray Henderson’s your granddaddy.”  I knew my name—my family identity—and what that meant about how I should act.  And I knew people were watching to see if I did act as I should!

Our family name is “Christian.”  It identifies us with Jesus the Christ and tells us how we should act and be.  But do we take to heart what Peter and the other disciples had to face--that being Christian implies carrying a cross?

Cross-bearing—suffering for the sake of the gospel (or suffering for any reason at all)—is the part about being Christian most of us would rather skip over.  We don’t like to think about Jesus’ agonizing death.  Give us instead the sweet cuddly babe in the manger.  Give us the tender, compassionate friend of the people.  Give us the Risen Christ—triumphant in glory, trampling the powers of evil and death.  Those are images we like to identify with.  But unless we also identify with the Jesus who was rejected and despised and hung on a cross to die, we don’t have the right to call ourselves Christians. 

Jesus asks his disciples, Who do people say that I am?  They offer the various speculations they had heard: John the Baptist.  Elijah.  One of the prophets.  Apparently, folks aren’t quite sure who he is.

What about them--the ones who had been with him for months—how would they identify him?  You are the Messiah, Peter blurts out.  The Messiah!  God’s anointed one.  The name that signaled for Israel freedom from foreign rule—freedom from paying taxes to oppressive governments—freedom from pagan gods being placed around their land.  The Messiah would come in force and might, and would sweep away everything that wasn’t Jewish.  The Messiah would make Israel a cleaner, finer, brighter place, and life would be good.

With Peter’s spontaneous declaration, the light dawned for the other disciples: Jesus’ ability to heal, his profound insight when he interpreted the scriptures, his power to forgive—of course, these could only come by God’s authority.  He must be the Messiah.  And suddenly they saw their future in relation to his Messiahship--they could ride his powerful coattails all the way to Easy Street.

Jesus quickly dispelled that notion.  It won’t be like that, he told them.  Instead of public acclaim, there will be rejection.  Instead of Easy Street, there will be suffering, for the Son of Man identifies with his earthly brothers and sisters.  Instead of wielding power to achieve his agenda, Jesus would accept death.  The power of love cannot prevail if the power of weapons is the tool for dominion. The picture for this kind of Messiah is bleak.  And all who bear his name must also bear a cross.

“Oh, no!”  Peter exclaimed.  “You don’t have to suffer—you can do miracles and change anything that’s bad.”  Doesn’t Peter speak for us?  Willing acceptance of suffering is hard to understand—harder to do.  Confronted with suffering, we often react like Peter: “No way!  A loving God wouldn’t make us suffer.  That can’t possibly be what God wants.”

And truly, God doesn’t want us to suffer.  Jesus’ healing miracles and his compassion for the poor show us that God doesn’t delight in human suffering.

Yet and still, much of what is truly worthwhile is accomplished only by those willing to trust Jesus enough to follow him, even when it’s not to our advantage—even when we have to suffer or to give up what’s rightfully ours in order to help others. 

Note that Jesus said, take up a cross—not “accept one.”  Our crosses are not life’s little annoyances: “My mousy hair is my cross to bear.”  “My co-worker is driving me crazy—that’s my cross to bear.”  Nor are they the unpleasantnesses forced upon us by others: the extra work foisted off by the boss—the degradation and deprivation of poverty—the emotional hurt of a bad relationship.

Rather, our crosses are those painful, redemptive acts we voluntarily undertake for others because our faith calls us to do them. 

First and foremost, our crosses, like Jesus’, are voluntary.  That doesn’t mean that we necessarily want to do them.  It just means, if you see you’re the one best suited to do something, you do it.  You do it because you are following Jesus, trying to treat people as he did, trying to make right the injustices you see, and remembering that loving our neighbors is a necessary corollary to loving God.

          Secondly, our crosses, like Jesus’, are redemptive: they help others, and, in a larger sense, they help heal the wounds of the world.

A cross is a sacrifice.  Sacrifice comes from two Latin words meaning “to make holy.”  When we willingly take on a cause that reflects God’s will—when we willingly take up the care of another person—when we willingly put ourselves at risk of losing money or reputation in order to pursue God’s will, our work is made holy, because we are offering it up for God’s blessing.

Crosses come is all sizes.  Some are big:

A young single woman with a busy job decided to foster a teenaged orphan whose adoptive parents abused him.

During the Vietnam War, a young man refused to be drafted, believing with all his heart that God does not condone killing.  He spent 2 years in prison—and was scorned by many of his friends.  It was a cross he bore gladly and doesn’t regret to this day.

There are those who graciously serve as caregivers for someone with a long-term illness, giving up jobs and income or move far from home to look after a loved one, believing that such personal, intimate, care should be done in love. 

Then there are small crosses--the little acts of faithfulness, such as telling the truth, when a little white lie would save embarrassment; giving up a luxury to buy school supplies for a needy child; visiting someone who is ill or in trouble; admitting, “I was wrong—I’m sorry.”

Those small crosses are just as important as big ones.  Fred Craddock writes, “We often think giving our all to the Lord is like taking a $1000 bill and laying it on the table: ‘Here’s my life, Lord.  I’m giving it all.’  But the reality for most of us is that God sends us to the bank and has us cash in the $1000 for quarters.  We go through life putting out 25c here and 50c there.  Usually, giving our life to Christ isn’t glorious.  It’s done in all those little acts of love, 25c at a time.”

Crosses—large and small--are redemptive.  As we shoulder a cross in order to lift up the burden of someone else, we discover ourselves redeemed.  When we join God in suffering for others, our own suffering becomes a true sacrifice—made holy by the holy God to whom it is offered.  And, strange as it seems, in such suffering is joy.  There’s no rational explanation for it—it’s one of those mysteries of faith.

And in the discipline and training of following Christ and bearing our crosses, we become the person God names us to be. 

What’s your name?