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“[Jesus] rebuked Peter and said, ‘Get behind me, Satan! For you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.’”
What are divine things?
What are human things?
I will start with some human things, and hopefully a new understanding of divine things will emerge from them.
Here’s a human thing: I am setting my mind on candidates up and down the November ballot. So far, I feel good about my decisions. I’m supporting a growing slate of candidates not because they have all the right answers or do all the right things, but because I am persuaded that they are the candidates who will listen to friend and foe alike, and who will submit to accountability in moments of failure or wrongdoing. They are far from perfect and will always need loyal opposition, but I am confident that the world will be a healthier place if they’re in the city hall, the courts of law, the governor’s mansion, the halls of Congress, and the White House. If they lose, I will be deeply disappointed. In one case, I may feel utterly devastated.
But this is a human thing. Jesus did not endorse my candidates. Jesus endorses no candidates, no governments. Jesus rebuked his friends when they imagined him as a political savior. I may feel crushed if my candidates lose, but Jesus — Jesus is not about that. Jesus doesn’t speak to this concern of mine, at least not directly.
Now, “human things” are not necessarily bad things. They are not unimportant things. God made humans in God’s image and likeness: God surely understands that we humans will set our minds on human things. (And please, please vote! Voting is a powerful expression of our faith.) But God in Jesus directs our attention ever higher, eternally beyond the level of electoral politics. God in Jesus directs us to divine things, which are both more fundamental (meaning: closer to the bone), and more ultimate (meaning: of universal importance).
But this is a hard teaching. Consider these other human things, lovely things that I very much don’t want to disregard: I love my husband and our home and our dogs. I love friends, and I especially love a positive, conflict-free friendship. I love St. Paul’s and dream about our future here, every day — really: every day. I want to care for my family and my church. I want to repair relationships when they break. I want everything I know, everything I touch, to thrive, to be good, to be sound and whole, peaceful and joyful.
And yes, of course, these are human things, but surely you agree with me that they are good things! I wrote a book about the joy of repaired relationships! A religious, theological book! Jesus surely is not opposed to any of this. And God dwells humbly in and with all of these things. My marriage: God dwells there. My dog walks: God inspires every step of those walks, even the ones when I have a short temper about dogs being dogs, stopping constantly for who knows what, setting their minds on canine things. When I simply vacuum my house or pick up litter around the church, God’s creative energy flows through me. These are all good things. But … they are human things, and Jesus rebukes Peter for setting his mind on human things.
So: let’s ask the question and let’s get a good answer. It’s actually two questions: If the human things are often good and worthy of our attention, worthy of us “setting our minds” on them, then one, why does Jesus rebuke this; and two, what are divine things?
Here are my answers. First, Jesus discourages us from setting our minds on human things because they all too easily distract our attention from one ultimate concern, one divine thing that transcends everything, something beyond all of our strivings, our passions, our commitments, our vows, our friendships, our financial priorities, our possessions, our careers, our homes, this building (this beloved building! oh how I have set my mind on this lovely human thing, and fully intend to continue doing so!) — Jesus wants me, you, us to set our minds on something more fundamental, more ultimate.
And second, this is the fundamental, ultimate thing; this is the divine thing: Jesus wants us to set our minds on being torn open in costly love.
We are to set our minds on being torn open in costly love.
Consider again what Jesus says, calling the crowd to get close so that everyone can hear: “He called the crowd with his disciples, and said to them, ‘If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it.’”
So it works like this. If I set my mind on the human thing of electing a good political leader, that is a good and productive thing to do. It’s even something my Christian faith inspires me to do. But I am not really following Jesus until I allow the things that that good leader cares about — and the things I care about — to tear me open, to nail me to a cross. I’ve had arguments with people about the ideas and issues that drive my political involvement. The divine thing that fires those arguments is my willingness to enter that fray even if it tears me apart.
So: What do my candidates stand for? Lots of good things, but in my particular journey of faith, Jesus cares ultimately about what I stand for — what I stand for so strongly that I would be willing to die for the cause.
Jesus cares, in turn, for what we stand for, all of us together, here in this Christian community. What will we all, collectively, stand for, even if it nails us all to the cross? Remember, he called the whole crowd together for his teaching on this. He wants us all to set our minds on the divine things.
All of the human things — our families and friendships and homes, our vocations and possessions and public elections — they matter deeply to us, but the divine thing for Jesus followers is our willingness to be torn open in costly love.
And at the very same time, we must recognize — with sober humility — that many of God’s people, a majority of God’s people, do not enjoy a choice in these matters. They are nailed to the cross whether they choose it or not. One of our siblings in Christ — their name is Phelps — reminded me this week of the book by theologian Howard Thurman called Jesus and the Disinherited, which focuses on the identity of Jesus as one whose “back is against the wall.” We can recognize our Savior most powerfully in the witness of persons of color, living in a racist world, with their backs against the wall. The anguish of coping with racism can all too easily tear them apart, inside and outside. Racism can exhaust their minds and bodies, and finally defeat them with fear, hatred, or the daily acts of strategic deception that they must employ to simply survive.
Thurman affirms that the disinherited in our world can only be saved by love, love that they choose to put into practice, even and especially for their oppressors. But this is not cozy love — this is costly love. It is an excruciating experience, this immense effort to love an enemy, particularly an enemy with substantially more power, more money, more health, more privilege. Like James Cone who recognizes the cross of Christ in every lynching tree, Thurman is not naïve about the difficulty of the Way of the Cross, particularly for the oppressed and the disinherited. Love leads the victim of racism to resurrection, but not before it breaks the person — breaks them open. This love is truly an awesome challenge.
But we do not lose heart, no matter who we are, no matter how many — or how few — privileges we have. Back to that human thing I mentioned: my thoughts and feelings as I prepare to vote this November. If all my candidates lose, and I am setting my mind on divine things, then however sad or discouraged I feel, I will still be here, my heart open — broken open — and my mind and body ready to lift the heavy cross. The Jesus Movement never endorsed the empire or the local political leaders; they just did the hard political work of building Christian community at great personal cost to themselves. They entered the arena — and for them, the “arena” was often a literal arena with animals who gored them in a martyr’s death. They stepped into danger to speak the hard truth.
Even something much smaller than the political sphere — a marriage, say, or a friendship; a vestry, or a ministry team — even in these smaller spheres, we are called to take up our cross and follow Jesus. We are called to lovingly speak the truth to one another, not counting the cost to ourselves. One couples therapist and writer calls this the “crucible” of a relationship. I recall a mother-daughter relationship in an old movie where the mother says, “Go ahead and say it. You think I’m an alcoholic.” The daughter pauses, then replies, “Okay. I think you’re an alcoholic.” In that moment of truth, the daughter goes through a crucible that destroys her smaller self in order to build a braver self, a better character.
We lose to gain; we die to live. Jesus goes to Jerusalem knowing full well what could — what will — happen to him in that dangerous political tinderbox. He is arrested, he is nailed to a cross, he dies. This death inspires a movement that sets its mind on divine things, on losing to gain, on dying to live. And so justice and righteousness rise up on the face of the earth. Christ is resurrected. When we pass through the crucible — crucible: a word related to crucifixion, excruciating, cross — we take a terrible risk, but love grows; we lose personal safety and easy serenity, but justice flourishes.
In a film that came out in 1972 — long ago: I was just two years old — Robert Redford plays Bill McKay, an idealistic young lawyer, the son of a cynical old politician. Bill disrespects his father, a former governor who played by the world’s rules at the cost of his own character, who set his mind on human things. Bill McKay, a hopeful activist, dreams of a better world. Then, a political operative approaches him and pitches the idea of running for the U.S. Senate against yet another cynical, morally compromised politician.
Our hero is torn. He is definitely intrigued by the possibility of a wider arena for activism, for principled leadership, for real change that benefits actual people. But how can he avoid becoming just like his corrupt old dad, just another political animal, just another cynic?
The political operative shows him how. He pulls out a matchbook and scribbles something on it, then hands it to Bill McKay. He tells Bill he can say anything he wants. He can say the right thing and the good thing, no matter how people respond. In every way that counts the most, he can achieve all that he longs for most deeply, as long as he remembers this one thing. And here is what the political consultant scribbled on the matchbook:
“You lose.”
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Preached on the Seventeenth Sunday after Pentecost (Year B), September 15, 2024, at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Seattle, Washington.
Proverbs 1:20-33
Psalm 19
James 3:1-12
Mark 8:27-38