Proper 24C: Job 38:1-7, 34-41; Psalm 104:1-9; Hebrews 5:1-10; Mark 10:35-45

We human beings have been telling ourselves how wonderful we are for a long, long time, but especially, I’d guess, over the last few centuries, the centuries we’ve thought of as the “modern” era, the shiny, new, up-to-date era. Well, the Modern Era has begun to look a little shopworn now, but the best we’ve come up with for naming our current era is to call it “post-modern.” Not exactly inspiring, is it? Or informative. Truth to tell, I think we’re still in the tail end of an era when people did exactly what they liked, with increasing power to transform the world around us, with murderously effective weapons, with a globalized economy that’s essentially indifferent toward the poor. Well, no need to offer a complete list.—even if I knew how to. I’m not saying that there’s been nothing good about this same era. That would be far from true. But it has certainly been a time in which humanity as a whole has felt free to­—quite literally—set the world on fire. And, unfortunately, we’ve developed the tools to do the job. 

It’s a classic case of a basic psychological malady commonly known as “big head.” Or more formally, “dangerous egotism.” Of course, that’s not really an invention of the Modern Era. It’s always been around, probably right back to our most distant hominid ancestors. And for just as long, we’ve been discovering and rediscovering that it’s not always a good thing. 

Our scripture readings this morning all address this propensity of ours for the big head. Let’s begin with Job. Job has plenty to complain about. No question about that. And he had plenty to be thankful for before it all fell apart. And no doubt he was thankful. He seems to have lived a decent, generous, devout life. And he just can’t understand how all of this could be happening to him—to somebody who’s done everything right! It must have seemed to him that he was more or less in control of his destiny. Do the right thing and God will have to reward you. And Satan, perhaps functioning here as the first psychoanalyst, could see where that was headed. 

It’s hard for me to do anything other than sympathize with Job. His misery is real. Everything he had pegged his life on has been taken away. His wife has even told him to give up: “Curse God and die!” There’s nothing left for him. He’s gone in the span of a day from having everything to having nothing—except a horrible disease gnawing on him. Doesn’t he have the right to an explanation? The friends who come to visit have one for him: “You know you must have done something wrong. Try to remember it. Or own up to something, whether you remember it or not.” Not Job. He wants a personal interview with reality. And he expects to win his point.

But reality, when Job does get his face-to-face encounter, turns out not to be interested in negotiating. Reality’s message to him is not necessarily unkind, but it is brutally realistic: “Who do you think you are?” “Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth? . . . Who laid its cornerstone when the morning stars sang together and all the heavenly beings shouted for joy?” God wants Job—wants us—to know that the big picture is always beyond our grasp. However much wealth and power humanity accumulates, we will always be just one fleeting expression of the wonders of creation. 

It’s not an experience limited to Job. Is there anybody here who has never run into some serious blockade in life? (Relax. I won’t ask for a show of hands.) Some barrier that you simply could not find a way around? Some unwelcome reality that was simply part of your life: you could mourn for what was missing, but you knew you would be living with what was left. Sometimes it even turns out to bestow a blessing, though it seldom feels like it at first. Even Job, however terrifying his interview with God, came out of it a newly humble and newly wise person—with a more appropriately sized head.

The story we heard from Mark’s Gospel this morning has a similar quality. James and John think they know their own worth. This is just one of several stories in the gospels that suggest there was quite a bit of jockeying for position among Jesus’ Twelve. After all, they thought they were about to form the cabinet for the king of a world empire. James and John looked around and saw that there was obviously no one better suited to lead the pack than they. That chump Peter would try! But, together, they could outdo him. 

And Jesus is astonishingly kind to them. He may have been inwardly shaking his head and asking himself if there was any hope at all that these guys would ever get what he was trying to teach them. But he deals kindly with them. He tells them that, yes, they will be true followers of his. But the seats at his right and left are not his to give. God alone knows who will sit in them. And what sort of people would they be? Maybe not self-confident folk willing to put themselves foward. Maybe some gentle folk—as Jesus is being here. Probably a couple of people who will be very surprised to find themselves sitting there, because they will never have thought themselves that important. I recall that Jesus said something once about the gate to the kingdom of heaven being narrow. And I suspect that the part of us that we’ll have the hardest time getting through may be our big heads.

We’ve learned from Job that humility means an apt appraisal of our own limits in the world. We’ve learned from Jesus (with the help of James and John) that overweening self-assurance is not the best of recommendations for high office in the kingdom of the heavens. What about our reading from Hebrews—this passage about priesthood? What is priesthood? It’s the gift of being able to facilitate the difficult meeting between our human big-headedness and the uncompromising reality of God. We have a sacramental priesthood in the church, not because the ordained have a monopoly on this true priesthood, but to remind all of us that this priesthood is our own calling in life. It’s not uncommon to have some lay people in a congregation who are better at this fundamental priesthood than the clergy may be. But the clergy, in our service at the altar, can and do serve as a reminder of what we all are invited to be. 

And the author of Hebrews—often spoken of as Paul, though we don’t really know who wrote it—talks about the kind of person God chooses for priesthood. It has to be a human being. Angels would never be able to figure us out. And it has to be human being with weaknesses. Anybody who might think they’re the exception to the rule of human weakness is out of the running. So, not the sleekest, shiniest candidate. Definitely not the candidate with a big head. And our author goes on to say that this human weakness is exactly what Christ brought to the task of priesthood—so that “he would be able to deal gently with the ignorant and wayward, since he himself is subject to weakness.” Able to deal gently with thick-headed disciples like ourselves, even!

And Jesus, we are told, is a very special kind of priest, a priest “according to the order of Melchizedek”—the highest of priesthoods, it seems. We hardly know who this Melchizedek was. He was a contemporary of the great Abraham. He was king of Salem, which may have been Jerusalem—or some podunk place never heard from before or after. He was priest of “God most high.” He met Abraham as Abraham returned from chasing off some international power figures who had come to plunder the land, and he blessed him. He comes out of the mists, you might almost say, and blesses that most blessed of all Biblical patriarchs. And he has no further claim to glory and honor. And that’s enough. In fact, it’s the ideal for priesthood. No big head, no attitude, no arrogance, no will to power, no claim to authority—just a blessing that he gave away freely. That’s the kind of priest Christ is. The kind of priests we are all asked to be. It may not amount to much in terms of human self-assertion. But, humble though it is, it’s the greatest gift any one can offer.

Preached at Good Shepherd Berkeley, October 17, 2021

21st Sunday after Pentecost