A Sermon for the Seventeenth Sunday after Pentecost

I didn’t expect having a story to tell when I pulled up at the Jiffy Lube to get my oil changed a couple of years ago. But I do. Here goes.

First, I love going to an old Jiffy Lube. It feels like not much has changed in those little waiting areas since I was a kid. Same bench seats that look like they were cast-offs from the airport. Same Formica coffee table in between the benches with People and Popular Mechanics magazines that are a minimum of seven years old. And always, always, the smell of burnt coffee.

I walked in one early spring morning to find all but one seat available in the waiting area. I sat down and looked to the lady on my right. She had it all together. Hair up in a perfect ponytail, cute tennis shoes and a Clemson sweatshirt.

Listen, Clemson is going to be a part of this story. I do not have angry feelings towards Clemson. I grew up in SEC country and there’s enough rivalry there to last a couple of lifetimes. Know that I do not hate Clemson as I keep going.

So, there I was next to this woman. I was in stark contrast to her cute. My hair was in a ponytail except my bless-your-heart hair ponytails resemble those of toddlers. My tennis shoes were the ones I wore to do yard work. I was wearing a fleece that swallowed me whole because it had once belonged to my father.

There was a young man working the desk. He seemed new and was struggling with the computer. Could not have been a day over 18. I was there for a good long while, flipping through a People magazine from 2012 and I had time to really notice him. Despite being overwhelmed he greeted each guest with a friendly smile and tried to engage in some bit of conversation as he kept fumbling with the computer.

Finally, it was Clemson sweatshirt’s turn to check out. It didn’t go well. She started out huffing at him because he was being slow. He just smiled back and tried to get her checked out. As she was signing her receipt, he looked at her and said, “Clemson, is that a college? I’ve never heard of it.” Clemson sweatshirt slammed down her pen and said, “Well, that’s funny, we are only THE NATIONAL CHAMPIONS!” and stormed out to her car.

My heart broke for him. He didn’t flinch and he just kept on trying to figure things out. When it was my turn to check out, I was determined to offer him some kindness. I asked him some friendly questions about himself. We talked as he again worked hard with the computer.

As he handed my receipt, he looked and me with a big grin and asked, “Are you a teacher?” I replied yes, because that was the easiest way to explain what I do.

Then I asked, “How did you know?”

And he said, “Because you look so tired. And I know teachers get tired.” I couldn’t have loved him more. Because I was tired, and I knew it showed. But instead of seeing my shame at my bless-your-heart hair and raggedy clothes and racoon eyes, this young man saw something redeeming about my exhaustion. He looked at me and knew something of who I was. And I hope that that he felt that I saw him struggling, not in judgement but in solidarity. Because this life is not easy. I hope he knew I saw grace in his kindness and perseverance. I’ll never forget him.

Today’s gospel might be very familiar to you. Jesus asking the disciples directly “Who do the people say that I am?” And they give a list of some of the ideas that folks had. Jesus then poses the question again right to the disciples, “But who do YOU say that I am?

Peter answers “correctly” naming him the Messiah. But when Jesus starts explaining what being the Messiah looks like, that he would suffer greatly and die as part of his messiahship, Peter flips out. There’s no way that could be!

Just like most of the stories about the disciples in Mark, it’s easy to look at them like dumb-dumbs. Because we KNOW the answer. But do we? Really? Are we that much smarter or more faithful than the disciples?

I’ll go first. I’m not. The way I understood Jesus at 25 is far different than I understand Jesus at 52. I’d be fooling myself to think that at 52 my understanding of just who Jesus is, is complete. So, I feel some camaraderie with these disciples.

After giving Peter a talking to, Jesus gathers the crowds and the disciples together. And delivers words that are so often repeated in Christian life, If any of us want to become followers of Jesus, we have to deny ourselves and take up our cross and follow him. We must lose our life in order to gain life with Jesus.

That’s what it is going to take to follow Jesus as a disciple.

Then Jesus says something that I know can be heard as a dividing line between those who are in and those who are out: Those who are ashamed of me and of my words, I’ll be ashamed of them when they come into the kingdom.

This stings for me. I would never want to be perceived as being ashamed of Jesus. Ever.

But am I ashamed? In my daily life, where do I forget the one I am to follow? Am I ashamed of a love that takes me to the cross rather than the victor’s podium?

Sadly, I think some of the time the answer for me is yes. I try to avoid the cost of sacrificial love, keeping this call of discipleship in my periphery. I know it’s there but instead of turning to see it, I can become more interested in controlling my life, so I feel I have enough whatever – power, money, acceptance – to keep MYSELF happy and safe. I fail to be ever mindful of the needs of others far more often than I’d like to own up to.

Jesus calls us all to take up the cross, follow him, give up our lives for him, not to WIN, not to EARN, not DESERVE the Kingdom of God, but so that we can stand unashamed of just what unconditional love really looks like.

Jesus came to show us that sacrificial love does lead us where there is grief and pain, uncertainty and fear. Not that this suffering is meant as a punishment, not to break us, but to help us lay down our pride, take up the cross that is ours and follow.

Nadia Bolz Weber wrote recently, “Grief is a monster. But is it a monster that gives us to one another.”

Following Jesus into the places of grief and sorrow, this is what allows us to give ourselves to one another.

I know that every time my heart is pulled out of my chest and laid bare, every time I’ve managed to give myself in genuine service to others; every time that I have seen the suffering of another and found compassion rather than judgement. In these times I have found a new understanding of the inexplicable expanse of the love of Jesus, the love that redeems. And in seeing that I’ve been drawn into a far deeper love for others.

I’ve seen this kind of selfless love in the world and how it truly does give us to one another.

I saw it 23 years ago in this country as regular people filled blood banks and collected anything that was needed to aid victims of terror, the families of victims and the responders in the rubble. People standing together in the streets in love.

I’ve seen it far too many times, as teachers selflessly stand over their students in the corners of classrooms.

I’ve seen it in hospitals and nursing homes as a spouse keeps watch, vigilantly tending to their beloved. And in the nurses and attendants who keep watch, vigilantly tending to those who are alone.

I’ve seen it here in this community as people gather to meet needs in the larger community and to care for those who are in need, grieving right here in the pews with us.

I’ve seen selfless love in so many people, so many who in large and small deeds give themselves to one another. Who with clumsy or eloquent words and deeds uplift and connect hearts.

I’ve even seen it at the Jiffy Lube.