A brief summary for the very few who might not know what I’m talking about.  It happened last Tuesday evening in a Phillies game. 

A 32-year-old father of two was watching the game with his wife and two young daughters – three years old and fifteen months –

when a foul ball began arching its way toward his section of the stadium.  At that moment his adrenalin kicks in.  A native of South

Jersey and a life-long Phillies fan, he has dreamed of the day he’d catch a foul ball.  He’s had that dream as long as he can

remember.  Now’s his chance.  A quick shot of anxiety: “I can’t blow this.  I can’t embarrass myself in front of all these people.”

And, indeed, as the ball comes right his way he leans forward to make a clean bare-handed catch.  Those around him cheer, and in

a moment of unguarded joy he hands the ball proudly to his three-year-old daughter.  She’s happy to have the ball, too, and with the exultant glee of a three year old throws the ball over the railing to unsuspecting and still unidentified hands a deck below.  In the

split second before the ball is released you can read the father’s lips: “Nooooo.”  Too late.  The ball’s gone.  A moment of

out-of-this-world joy turns to agonizing reality.  But instantly his disappointment seems muted by what he sees emerging in his

daughter’s eyes: a sense of having done something wrong.  She’s not sure what, but something feels vaguely wrong.

And here is where the parable makes its point.  The father does not rebuke or scold his daughter.  He does not even register disappointment.  He enfolds her in his arms and embraces her, reassuring her that their world is still intact.  It’s in that moment that

this family from South Jersey takes on instant fame.  In the hours and days to follow it would indeed be the foul ball seen round the

world.  But it’s so much more than a ball, fair or foul.  It’s a lovely human moment to savor.  Why?  Because it reassures us as it

reassures the little girl that our world is still intact.

I have to tell you that when I saw the replay I thought of two things: First, I hoped that I might have done the same thing; second, I

honestly began to think of the young fathers here in this congregation who I know would have done the same thing.  I’ve named them to myself, but I wouldn’t want to do it now for fear of leaving someone out.  I just know that what we saw on TV is not an isolated or

unique image.  And that’s reassuring, too.

When we see such love between a father and his daughter – and recognize its inexpressible importance – we are reminded that

even in the midst of incivility in the halls of Congress and town meetings from one end of this country to another, even in the midst of incendiary babbling on talk radio, even in the midst of the apparent rage that leads to the death of a young woman in a laboratory at

one of our most prestigious universities, even in the midst of nations brandishing swords against nations, the simple human love

between parent and child is still alive.  And in that recognition we can cling to hope for a better world.  And if that’s not what the

Bible tells us over and over again from Genesis to Revelation, then I’ve got things terribly wrong.

That’s in part what Jesus is getting at in this morning’s reading from Mark about the disciples’ continued lack of understanding of

his role as Messiah and of their clinging to old patterns of behavior that enforce his claim that they are thinking of human things, not

of divine things, as we noted last week.  This week’s reading recounts a part of Jesus’ journey in which he continues to tell his

disciples that as he pursues his mission to bring God’s truth to the world he will necessarily experience rejection, suffering, and

death at the hands of religious and political authorities who want to keep things just the way they are.  They cannot abide the threat

of God’s words spoken by Jesus condemning their sinful ways.  It’s always much easier in such cases to try to destroy the source

of truth than to change the way of sin.

So as Jesus and his disciples walk along, the disciples apparently put aside all those unpleasant thoughts about suffering and

death and continue to vie for positions of influence with Jesus.  They don’t realize that he knows exactly what they’re talking about

and are clearly ashamed when he calls them on it.  Then he does a curious thing.  He bolsters his words with an act not entirely

unlike the little baseball parable I began with a few minutes ago.

These are the lovely words we heard.  They’re worth hearing again, I think.  Mark tells us:  Then [Jesus] took a little child and put it

among them; and taking it in his arms, he said to them, “Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and

whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me.”

I call these words “lovely,” and they certainly are.  We use similar words in our Baptism liturgy, and I guarantee you that I never

speak those words without thinking that somehow in that moment I am about to do what Jesus asked us to do: to take the

vulnerable ones in our arms and cradle them.  I can hardly wait to take that infant in my arms and, by baptizing it, welcome it in

Jesus’ name into Jesus’ own family of faith.

But these words from Mark are more than lovely; they are also challenging and radical, for in the honor-driven society of Jesus’ day

– some things don’t change, do they? – one’s fame and greatness were often judged by whose company one kept.  People were

very careful to associate only with those who by their influence and proclaimed self-importance could boost one’s own status. 

Jesus wanted to turn such worldly vulgarity on its head.  How better than to show that he was not afraid to associate himself with

the lowest of the lowly.  That his selfhood did not ride on the coattails of the self-aggrandizing. 

And this is where Jesus’ words and actions take on a radical – or revolutionary – tone.  Children were powerless in Jesus’ society

and had no worth.  Children didn’t produce anything so they were regarded as not contributing to village life.  They were voiceless. 

Even in medieval times Mediterranean cultures put a low value on children.  Thomas Aquinas taught that in a raging house fire a

man with a family would be obliged to save his father first, then his mother, next his wife, and last of all his young child.  Children

were the last and the least, the bottom of the pile.  Children were invisible.

So for Jesus to accord honor to what amounted to a piece of property was a radical idea.  For Jesus to hold up a child as an

emblem of life in God’s household was to offer a foundational challenge to social norms of the day.  This is not a story about the

delight and wonder of children, sweet as they can be.  Jesus suggests that through the “gift” of children we can be drawn into

resisting imperial powers of our time, that we can struggle for the invisible among us against all that opposes the ways of God in

the world.

You know, following Jesus can be a humbling experience.  And that’s not all bad.  In fact, it’s really good.  When Jesus says that

those who would be first must be last, that those who would find God’s grace will do so as they serve and bond with the lowly and

not the uppity, Jesus is offering us a liberating – a freeing – word, not an onerous demand. 

A story is told by a person who once was responsible for making the seating arrangements at the head table of a corporate banquet. 

At one end of the table she placed a person of note next to a newcomer in the organization in order to make the newcomer feel

welcome.  When the person of high position saw the placement of the card with his name on it, he promptly picked it up and moved

it to the center of the table, next to the person who would be presiding.  It takes a bit of chutzpah, as we might say – doesn’t it? –

to do such a thing, for such action reveals a pathetic need to be in a perceived position of high status. 

It shows that someone who would re-arrange place cards in that way is so consumed with what others think of him, so insecure in

who he is, that he must seek public recognition of his importance.  Jesus says we are truly significant in the eyes of God when we welcome him through the child who finds comfort and security in the arms in which we enfold and embrace her.  And in welcoming

him in the child, we welcome, in fact, the God of heaven and earth.

I began with a story, and I will end with one.  It’s an anonymous story retold by Margaret Silf in her book One Hundred Wisdom

Stories published by Pilgrim Press in 2003.  It’s the story of a wealthy man who owned a priceless art collection, including a number

of old masters that were the envy of many collectors.  Think Dr. Barnes if you live around here.

Anyway, this man also had a much-loved son, and the two often used to enjoy their art treasures together.  Then war broke out, and

the son was called up and went off to fight.  One day a telegram arrived informing the father that his son had been killed in action. 

The old man was devastated.  He grieved silently, alone, and unremittingly.

A few months went by, and one day he heard a knock at the door.  A young man stood there with a small package under his arm. 

“You don’t know me,” he said, “but I knew your son very well.  We were in the same unit, and I was with him when he died.  I am the soldier he gave his life for.  He saved many lives that day, and he was carrying me to safety when a bullet struck him.  We had

become close friends, and before he died I drew this little picture of him.  I’m not a great artist, but I want you to have this sketch

now.”

The father was silent for a long time, gazing into the eyes of his son that looked out from the soldier’s sketch, his own eyes filling

with tears.  Then he thanked the soldier and offered to pay for the picture.  “Oh, no, sir.  It’s a gift,” his son’s friend replied.  “I can

never repay what your son did for me; but I want you to have the sketch.  It’s all I have to give.”

The father hung the sketched portrait above the mantelpiece for everyone to see.  He treasured it far more than all his other paintings

together, and he showed visitors this rendering of his son first, before anything else in the house.  Some time passed, and the old

man died.  His art collection was put up for auction.  Art collectors came from all over the world, thrilled at the opportunity to buy at

least one of his many treasures. 

The auctioneer began his bidding.  The first picture to come up was the nameless soldier’s sketch of the father’s son.  “What am I

bid for this first picture in the collection?” he implored.  Utter silence drained the room of sound.  No one seemed interested in the amateurish sketch of the man’s son.  The auctioneer then explained that the deceased had insisted that the first item in the sale be

the picture of his son.  “Now who will make the first bid?” he asked again.

Tentatively a hand went up at the back of the room.  It was the hand of the gardener who had worked for years for the old man and

had also loved the son.  He made a modest bid as he was able.  No counter bids followed.  Everyone seemed bored, eager only for

the big works to go up for bid.

“Sold!” called the auctioneer.  “Sold to the man in the back.”  There was relief all around.  Now the buyers could get their hands on

the truly valuable pieces of the collection!  But to everyone’s surprise – and then consternation – the auctioneer laid down his gavel. 

“The auction is over,” he declared.  “My instructions from the deceased are that whoever takes the son receives the entire estate,

including the whole art collection.  The man at the back who took the son receives everything.”

The story has a familiar ring, doesn’t it?  A kind of parable in itself.  There are others lurking out there.  Listen for them, and follow. 

Amen.