If you asked a group of non-Christians, "Who do you think Jesus was?", you'd get different answers. In deference to us, folks might say he was a great teacher, or a charismatic religious leader. If you were to push and say, who do you say he was, they might say a man, or, getting specific, a Jewish man in ancient Palestine who was crucified by the Romans. Someone might point out that the accounts we have were all written by people who believed he was a man sent from God, if not God in the flesh, so they're hardly objective and reliable accounts, even if they have useful information. They might point out that the only other account from that time is a one-line reference by the Jewish historian Josephus. Apparently no one else though him important enough to write about, or none of those writings survive. If it weren't for the writings of early Christians he'd be lost to history. One of the thousands crucified by the Romans. Perhaps a good man and a gifted teacher but a forgotten victim. To the non-believing eye, Jesus was a "loser"—not in the derogatory way we use it—but a loser in the struggle against the Roman Empire. And there's nothing disrespectful about that view. If you don't believe Jesus rose from the dead, is the Son of God or Redeemer of the world, those are the facts.
If you asked a group of Christians, "Who do you think Jesus was?", they—we—would also give different answers. From the beginning followers of Jesus understood him differently: from Mark's abrupt exorcist and healer, to John's divine Word who was with God, and was God, from the beginning, to Luke's babe born in a manger who grew in stature and wisdom. Christians have argued, fought and died over the question, "Who was Jesus?". But through these different portraits are common threads, one of them being that Jesus was a winner. Not a loser, crushed under the boot of the Roman Empire, but a winner: a winner over death, a winner over sin and evil. Nearly all our Easter hymns speak of victory, triumph, and Christ as King:
"The Strife is o'er the battle done, the victory of life is won; the song of triumph has begun" (#119);
"Thine is the glory, risen, conquering Son, endless is the victory Thou o'er death hast won" (#122);
"Now through Christendom it rings, that the Lamb is King of kings."
We may have our questions about atonement theory, we may shy away from military language—most new hymns do—but Christians agree: Christ rose; Christ has triumphed over death and the powers of death. Things are not what they seem. All the death, evil and suffering we see has been overcome in the risen Christ, who will come again to judge the living and the dead.
Most of us, both Christians and non-Christians, have lost a sense of how outrageous, how fantastic, how utterly irrational, these claims are. Christians are so powerful, so establishment—even with the decline of the mainline protestant congregations—that we often say them without thinking and others give them a respectful hearing. Folks may disagree, the academy may look down on us a bit, but few people think we're crazy or at least they don't say so. The Christian movement may have begun with a small bunch of disreputable stragglers, but within a few hundred years it was the official religion of the Roman Empire. It spread through the faithful witness—and through the sword and the state. Churches and individual Christians have gained remarkable wealth, and for hundreds of years we've been the most powerful religious group in the world. That may be changing, but so far no American president has been anything but a professing Christian. It's true that not all Christians are powerful—many have been among the wretched of the earth, often oppressed by other Christians—but as a religious group, we've been winners. At least by the standards of this world.
When Jesus told the disciples about his impending suffering and death, they would not have envisioned the resurrection, let alone Christendom and the triumphant church. Even though Jesus said he would rise, they couldn't have imagined that Christ would come to them after the crucifixion. They couldn't know that paintings of his death would be commissioned by the wealthiest patrons and hang in the greatest museums of the world in the centuries to come. They would have heard Jesus say that he'd be rejected by people who mattered—priests and scribes—and killed. They would have pictured a shameful end, to his life and to their hope of a new order. When Peter rebuked Jesus, which would have taken guts, since students did not rebuke their teachers, he must have been frightened for himself as well as his teacher. He had left his family fishing nets to follow this man. Was he then going to die and not even receive a prophet's honor? Had Peter left everything for a loser?
Jesus then lays it out for the twelve and for the crowd: "If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me." With these words Jesus was warning they could literally lose their lives: condemned prisoners on their way to execution carried the crossbeam. They were not following a victorious leader who would reward them with political appointments or cushy jobs. The crowd may not have understood his words about losing life to gain it, but they would have understood the warning. That following Jesus was no easy road. They could lose life as they knew it: their family, their status, their place in the community. For those early Christians, following Jesus would have been a hard choice; relatively few were killed or even imprisoned, but it was not the socially approved, the default option. After the death of Jesus, these words would have spoken vividly and concretely to them.
Our situation is so different. Yes, some of our friends may think it's a little weird we're Christians, but for us, being a Christian carries privilege. It's not the case everywhere: in some parts of the world, confessing Christ puts you at the margins, even at risk of persecution. And for those who believe Christ calls them to certain political stands—peace in Colombia, or with the opposition in El Salvador—following Christ does mean risking their life and possibly losing it. But all can at least take comfort in belonging to a worldwide communion that's strong and numerous.
What if that wasn't the case? What if, in God's plan, Christians remained a small remnant, witnessing to the nations but never leading them? What if it had remained a small, isolated sect, numbering in 2006, say, a half million or a million people? Would we be Christians, even if we heard the gospel, even if we knew the scriptures and felt the Holy Spirit? Would we be believers, or would the apparent "failure" of the movement, the smallness of this sect, even keep us from even listening? Or would we assume that since his followers were such losers, mustn't Christ be one too?
These words in Mark are a challenge to the Christian establishment and all of us in it. We could dismiss them as applicable to the early church but not to us, but we know in our hearts that following Jesus is not meant to be a low-risk proposition. Jesus warns us, too, that following him means taking up a cross, and being willing to lose our lives. It's never been easy to discern what that means and lots of bad theology and advice has been drawn from these verses. It doesn't mean that abused women should stay with their husbands. It doesn't mean that slaves should stay with their masters, that the hungry should suffer quietly, or that Christians should seek martyrdom. Jesus spent his ministry healing the sick, exorcising demons and providing bread; he does not desire that we suffer or that anyone be in need. But surely, it's a warning against trying to be "winners": our mission cannot be to protect our power, our prestige, our church.
What could this mean for Rutgers? Even among privileged Christians, Rutgers is a winner. Due to a number of historical accidents, the church owns valuable, income-producing New York real estate. We live in one of the most influential cities in the world, and our congregation is blessed with talent and education and respectability. Rutgers has much to safeguard, and also much to lose. Do we worry too much about losing it? I'm not recommending we sell the buildings or deplete the endowment. They are resources to proclaim the gospel and serve our neighbors. But as a wealthy institution, Rutgers will always face the temptation to hold on to what it has. Even when there would be more life in letting go.
As you prepare to call a new minister in the coming months, you'll be thinking deeply about mission and identity. You'll be asking the question, "where is Christ calling us?" Mark reminds you—reminds us—that we may be called to lose life as we know it, that losing life also means saving it. May we have the courage to listen!