Which of them would be the greatest.  I don’t even know where to begin.  Maybe at your high school graduation, there wasn’t any category, Most Likely to Succeed, but everybody had their suspicions—the really smart ones, the really likeable ones or the best-looking, the strongest, fastest athletes.  How could they not succeed?  I mean, just look at them!  But what is success?  Money?  Popularity?  Influence?  Thousands of views, and likes?  What about peace, assurance, and faith?  We hear, several places in Scripture, promises of prosperity.  This may sound to our ears like promises of financial abundance.  But that’s not prosperity.  Prosperity is a flourishing, abundant life, a life attuned to blessedness, to holiness: “like trees, planted by streams of water; their leaves do not wither, and in all that they do, they prosper.”  The world is desperate for such a life and has no idea how to find it.  But we know, because God has shown it to us and caused us to understand and know that His way is the way, and the truth, and the life.  And we now apply ourselves to this walk, this journey, together.

And the disciples, Jesus standing right there, within earshot, were arguing—again?—about which of them would be greatest.  The future.  The French philosopher, mathematician, and Christian Blaise Pascal had this to say about the future: “The fact is that the present usually hurts [. . . .] We try to give it the support of the future, and we think how we are going to arrange things over which we have no control for a time we can never be sure of reaching.”[1]  Future hopes shape how we manage the present.  And there is an element of truth in that, because God does speak to us about the future.  We also envision our futures in order to get our minds off of the present.  The present often hurts, in one or more ways, more than we like to admit, or show.  We can have some big dreams, cherished hopes and, if we’re not careful, life has a way of demolishing each one.

Greatest—greater than all the rest.  Comparison, competition.  How many have I, personally brought into church?  So far as I know, not one.  Where, then, is my glory?  How many have I healed?  So far as I know, not one.  Have I fed the hungry, clothed the naked, given comfort to the poor?  So far as I know, I have not.  I can point you to those who have, or, at least to those who talk about it more than I do, who speak so much more zealously about compassion.  What is the standard, the measure, for greatness?  With whom shall we compare ourselves?  Why do that, anyway?

“Jesus, knowing their thoughts, took a little child and had him stand beside him” (9:47).  Luke doesn’t write, “Jesus, hearing their words.”  He writes, “Jesus, knowing their thoughts.”  Jesus hears what his disciples, his close friends and dear companions, are saying, how they are talking.  More than this, though, he is attentive for what their words are saying about what is going on in their interior lives, and he knows.  Jesus always knows all our heart.  Bragging and boasting are sometimes the result of stultifying arrogance, but sometimes these are also the expression of anxiety, fear, hurt, even sorrow.   The future will be big because the present is not.  The present, beloved—well, it’s not all it ought to be, is it?  And always slipping through our fingers: when we try to hold it close it slips fastest away.  The future is large, wide, and it seems as if we cannot fail to lay hold of it, but the future can’t take us anywhere.  Only this present we can never grasp.  What to do?  Turn your eyes upon Jesus.  What is he doing?  What is he doing now?  He will show us, in his time.  He delights in showing us.

Luke tells us, in that moment, as the disciples were watching, Jesus “took a little child and had him stand beside him.”  He just grabbed some random kid?  Wouldn’t the child cry, reach out for mommy?  It sounds as if the child is calm, at peace, knows he, she, is safe, secure—no fear, no worry.  The child isn’t living in the future, reaching out desperately for some future big enough to pull him up, pull her along into it.  The child, with Jesus, is safe and secure, happy, curious, interested, listening, willing to explore now, here.

What is Jesus doing?  Maybe he is inviting his disciples to be as his children, God’s children.  What makes God’s children different from other children?  Oh, but we’re all God’s children!  Where did you ever hear that?  Where does Scripture say this?  Where does Jesus say this?  No, God’s children, beloved, are different.  Haven’t you noticed?  God’s children are learning how to touch the present, not seize it or freeze it.  God’s children are learning they are safe and secure, though they also see quite clearly all the fearful things going on around them.  And they get hurt, too.  This is our common lot.  The hurt does not turn them inward or cause them to be bitter, angry.  The hurt does not drive them back in upon themselves.  In all that happens, God’s children, by God’s grace, turn themselves upward, lifting hands, hearts, hopes, and hurts to God.  Those who turn to God are God’s children.  God’s children are not focused on self: this life, this world, is not about them; they know it and are learning not only to accept this but to see the greatness of the blessing in this fact.  Thank God it’s not about me!

A seminary professor of mine shared a moment that happened to him with his own child.  Like most seminary professors still working on getting the security and relief of tenure, he was fully absorbed in his research and writing.  He was at home.  His little girl came into the room, wanting to talk with him, and more.  She was talking to him about—well, something—and he was hearing, but not listening.  I know about that; maybe you do, too.  Well, she noticed: children do.  She said, “Daddy, you aren’t listening to me.”  Daddy, defensively, reflexively, automatically, responded, “I’m listening” (his eyes were still looking at the screen where his important work was taking shape).  She said, “But you’re not listening with your eyes.”

No child benefits when the adults are more focused upon themselves than upon the children.  To be a parent is to sacrifice self, as our Father in heaven reminds and shows us.  Another way to look at it might be this: to be a parent is to discover a better self by sacrificing oneself.  This is the call of Jesus.  In this life, there may be many standards of greatness; in the kingdom, there is one.  “[H]e said to them, ‘Whoever welcomes this little child in my name welcomes me; and whoever welcomes me welcomes the one who sent me” (9:48).  In this world, as we know, children are not always welcome, not always cherished, not always loved.  I don’t need to review the statistics or stories with you, and you know some stories, too.

What is Jesus telling these followers?  What does this child have to do with anything, with anything of greatness?  Perhaps greatness begins with welcoming, even welcoming what is small, one who is small, of little account.  To be welcoming is to make room for another.  Is there room at your table for one more, a new one?  Have you called out, called the new one over to your table?  Sadly, without really meaning for it to be so, and without really considering it, our hearts sometimes can be rather tight, narrow places.  We know the heart of Jesus is not this way.  How will we ever have the heart of Jesus?  We begin by welcoming one who is small, who may seem to us of little account.  We make it a point to notice; we remember to make room at our table.

Jesus isn’t speaking metaphorically only, but this child standing there, in his particularity and individuality, represents more.  The child needs care, concern, instruction, guidance, encouragement, affection, structure—all that is needed to build a healthy, resilient, fruitful self.  Several of you, because of your professional background, know far more about childhood development and psychology than I; I would love for you to teach me!  And we have been children and been around children.  When we welcome, we aren’t just committing ourselves to care and to meeting needs, we are also opening ourselves to blessing.  The affection, innocence, wonder, joy of children—we treasure these and love to see these, and remember.  Of all the great things you and I might do in this life, might yet do, it seems the greatest is to welcome in God’s children.

Jesus came for this purpose, to call the children to be welcomed in.  “Whoever welcomes this little child in my name welcomes me.”  I came for these, Jesus is saying.  When you welcome them in, you are welcoming my purpose, my life, in them and in yourselves.  “[W]hoever welcomes me welcomes the one who sent me.”  Jesus came to fulfill God’s purposes.  When we choose the way of nurturing self-sacrifice, we are opting for God’s way in this world.  This world has on offer many supposed paths to greatness.  Only one leads to the kingdom.

But where’s the reward, the profit, in self-sacrifice?  How is that not just the way to lonely, unappreciated misery?  “For it is the one who is least among you all who is the greatest” (9:48).  Is Jesus pointing to himself?  He came to serve them, to sacrifice himself for them.  He came from the highest and made himself lowest, lowest unto cursedness, for their blessing and ours.  What sacrifices are we willing to make, what sacrifices have we made, to bless others?  And did anyone notice?

No wonder the apostles are talking about, arguing about being the greatest—the great are always noticed, respected, honored, appreciated . . . seen.  But if you are most hungry for the notice and praise of others, well—expect your share of disappointment.  “For it is the one who is least among you all who is the greatest.”

Yes, Jesus may well have himself in mind, and he is also showing his followers the way, his way, the salvation way.  What sort of mentality, what sort of heart, shall we aim to cultivate and nurture?  To regard oneself as least does not mean always to be tearing yourself down: no confidence, everybody’s doormat.  To regard oneself as least means you do not think yourself too good for any task, no matter, in the moment, how beneath you it may feel.  To regard oneself as least means you do not regard anyone as beneath you, beneath your care, your concern, your compassion, your time.  And we say we know, but then, we need to make time for them.  If we claim to know Christ and to be known by him, let us also put Christ’s heart for others to active work, within this congregation, first and always, then also outside this circle of blessing.

Communion beautifully demonstrates this: Jesus calls us; he has made room for us all.  He prepares a place for us.  Christ serves us, I serve, the elders serve us; as we pass the trays, we serve one another.  Let this sacramental sign of Christ in us bear fruit in us, actively ministering to others, showing them Christ in action, sharing Christ with them, beckoning them also to know Christ, with us.

[1] Blaise Pascal.  Pensées.  A. J. Krailsheimer, trans.  New York: Penguin, 1995.  13.