From Fishers of Fish to Fishers of Folk

Sermon. 8 November 2015. All Saints, Forest Gate.

3^rd Sunday Before Advent/Remembrance

Mark 1.14-20

Picture the scene. I wonder if you can. Some forms of Christianity encourage us to imagine ourselves within a biblical scene, in all the detail we can. It's an approach associated especially with Ignatius Loyola and the Jesuits. So... can you picture the scene? Imagine the Sea of Galilee lapping by your feet... fishermen mending their nets... and the arrival of Jesus himself...

Even if you can, often, picture the scene, I suspect you may find it difficult today. Things move just a bit too fast; we don't have much to go on. Jesus appears, announces his mission or purpose, walks by the Galilee, says one sentence to Simon and Andrew, and immediately they drop everything and follow him. He sees James and John, immediately says another few words to them, and they, too, drop everything (including, as it were, their own father) and follow him. 'Immediately... immediately.' Commentators point out that 'immediately' is one of Mark's favourite words. His gospel is the 'action movie' among the gospels. He doesn't have any interest is helping us 'picture the scene'; he is all about the speed of the action, and the urgency of Jesus.

But this brings more force to the question: what is going on in today's gospel? What was it about Jesus that made these four men immediately give up their jobs, their livelihoods, their security, to live (as far as they knew or could predict) the lives of 'religious extremists', or beggars, or both. (Don't think for a moment that, as fishermen, Simon, Andrew, James and John were poor people with nothing to lose. They had nets, boats, and staff! They were small-business people.)

What was it about Jesus? We are not told. When people do try to portray Jesus (from Cecil B DeMille to Jesus Christ Superstar) they tend to portray him as, you know, head in the clouds, focusing on things heavenly and divine, staring into the middle distance. To use an admittedly unfair shorthand: he was either a guru or a hippy. But this is unlikely. Jesus was a Jew, and that's not just some 'ethnic' designation (whatever that might mean), but describes his religious culture. It's likely that, rather than relying on enigmatic silence and a glimmer in his eye, he thought that arguing about things face-to-face was pretty much a religious duty. Elsewhere he does argue. Yet here at least, he makes no argument.

And here's another thing. It cannot be that the fishermen were drawn to Jesus because they knew he was bringing miraculous change to people's lives. Jesus has at this point not performed any miracles. We are still at the beginning of Mark's gospel. All we've had is the appearance of John the Baptist, the baptism of Jesus himself, and his temptations in the wilderness. No wonder-working healings; no breaking-in of peace, justice and more. So when Jesus announces (as we have just heard): 'The time is fulfilled and the kingdom of God has come near' he is – let me say it – asking people to accept something on trust.

And we even have to say this: to take it on trust that in Jesus the very kingdom of Gd has come near is not easy. For rather than divine justice, Mark actually draws our attention to an all-too-human injustice – John the Baptist has been arrested (or handed over, or betrayed – the Greek can mean any of these). The world, it seems, is in just the same mess it was in before Jesus' arrival.

So what was it about Jesus that so moved the fishermen? I cannot say. Mark does not tell us, and I cannot imagine it, quite. There is a starkness to the message of Mark. His gospel begins not with Christmas and Jesus' birth. Rather we are straight into that most difficult character, the truth-teller and trouble-maker, John the Baptist. And most scholars think that the only original ending to the gospel we have describes the women fleeing from the empty tomb and saying nothing to anyone 'for they were afraid'. Today's extract, then, seems to be of a piece with this starkness. It's as if Mark is saying:

Jesus is here.

He is confronting you, and your complacency.

He is calling you to make a decision.

He is not here to negotiate with you.

He is simply calling you to follow, or walk away.

It is up to you.

Take it or leave it.

Take him or leave him.

Take Jesus or leave Jesus.

That is stark, isn't it? And I am not – really not – saying it's a good means of introducing people to Christian claims and the faith of the Church. No, we make Christianity attractive to people who know nothing substantial about it by loving them, and, when the time is right, inviting them – being open and warm. But for those of us who in one way or another already feel at home in Church - feel it's comforting like our favourite winter woolly recently pulled out from the bottom drawer for these days – we might need the bluntness of the challenge.

Take it or leave it. Take him or leave him.

As - or hopefully before - we get sucked into Christmas, and all of its excesses (shopping, eating, drinking, parties welcome and not really welcome...) before all of that, here and now, we can take a moment, to ask ourselves, calmly and in the perfect privacy of our own hearts: Am I going to take Jesus, or leave Jesus?

And it is good for us, before we properly answer that question, to be clear - crystal clear - that 'taking Jesus' won't give us charmed lives. It won't prevent bad things happening to us. It won't guarantee us success or comfort. Remember the betrayal of John the Baptist – and remember that it ends in his death – his beheading.

Remember, indeed, as we have just rightly been bidden to remember, all those who died in service in the World Wars, and, with them, all who die in whatever ways in wars before them and after them. Worse than that John the Baptist experienced, war is the ultimate betrayal of the human family. All the planning and ingenuity and industry of humankind, focused on destroying what is precious to other humans - and their very lives. Imagine if we can turn that energy - that urgency - into peace, and the ways of peace and harmony, fairness, forgiveness and fun.

Can we picture that scene? I wonder. How to get there?

That is another question I cannot answer. I cannot picture the scene. I cannot lay down the law on quite how we are to face the manifold challenges of resentments, hates, violence, terror, fear, manipulation and deception. But I can acknowledge that, here and now, I feel called to put the question to us:

This Jesus, who is called Prince of Peace – do you take him or do you leave him?

Amen.