Scripture: Mark 8: 31-33
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. He said all this quite openly. And Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him. 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."
Reflection Questions:
What do you avoid for fear of pain? What relationships suffer as a result of your unwillingness to be vulnerable? What would it mean for you to focus your mind on divine things? What strength does God need to give you to do this?
Five-minute Story:
I couldn’t stop the tears as I knelt on the carpeted floor beside my son Noah’s crib. Holding onto the wooden rails, I sobbed uncontrollably in the silence of a sleeping baby. It had been a long and infamous day in my life and the life of this country.
Earlier that Tuesday morning, it seemed like the world stopped spinning. Terrorists crashed planes into towers, buildings, and a field. On the commuter rail to New York City, the church that I served in New Jersey, had many who worked in the World Trade Center. With cell phone coverage down, I spent most of the day with the anxiety of not knowing who would be coming home. By mid-morning, Pastor Mac and I were on our way to the home of someone who was on Flight 11. Dozens of people stopped by the church that day. Stunned. Disbelief. Confused.
That night, at impromptu worship, the sanctuary was packed. In the light of the Christ Candle, we prayed, sang songs of faith, and sought God’s strength. With trembling conviction and a bit of defiance, we spoke the words of Psalm 46: “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.”
That night, at Noah’s crib, I was emotionally and physically spent. Throughout the day, I shifted into crisis mode. My training and experience as a pastor had prepared me to be calm and present in the face of adversity. That day, I needed to put the grief, shock, and pain of others first. As a pastor, I listened, comforted, and proclaimed God’s love in what I did, said or didn’t say. Later, in the silence of a darkened baby’s room, I was finally able to grieve myself.
Uncertainty, chaos, and fear interrupted the facade of serenity in suburbia. Violence was no longer something that happened elsewhere. Evil was no longer an abstraction. The beast ravaged innocent life too close to home and torn at the fabric of our heart. Anger. Hatred. Vengeance. Enemy. These words all became uninvited feelings in me. Love did not seem somehow appropriate. My pacifist inclinations slipped away as I wanted justice. Let’s get those bastards! At that moment, the profane pushed away my piety.
As I look back, such thoughts bother me. I sob anew. How could I have let my heart close down at the very moment that it needed to beat? I cry to think that as a nation we moved in the direction away from our core values of freedom, equality, and welcome. Instead of clinging to the highest of our ideals we succumbed to base fears.
That night, crying at my son’s crib, knowing that at least one person from my church would never get the chance to do the same, there was so much confusion, chaos, and uncertainty. What would happen next? What shape would the violence that seemed all too likely take? Fear mixed with the darkest versions of these questions ran down my face. Grasping on the wooden rails of a crib, I was unable at that moment to move in the direction of love.