“Called. . . .Transformed. . .Sent”
“Called . . Transformed. . Sent”
Mark 1.16-20
Mark 1.16-20
In the name of the Living God and the Christ who has appeared to us. Amen.
St. Mark this morning takes us to the opening scenes of Jesus’ ministry, where the first of the Twelve are called. Mark’s is a rapid-fire, action-packed gospel with the Lord’s core group assembled, an evil spirit silenced, a fever cooled, a leper cleansed, multitudes healed, and large crowds gathered—all before we even get to the end of chapter 1! The word “immediately” occurs forty-one times in this short gospel, twelve times in the first chapter alone. It’s like the whole gospel is one highlight reel. Don’t blink or you might miss it!
There’s an immediacy for us, this morning too. This morning we have before us not just an account of those first called, but woven within is the story of each of our own calling too. We’re not allowed to be merely spectators of the highlights. We’re bid to enter the field of play ourselves.
In this first calling of the first four of the Twelve, I’m struck by their reckless following of Christ. There’s almost a naivete about it. Jesus walks into their lives, he bids them to follow, and off they go. There’s no deliberation, no strategic plan, no focus group, no weighing the pros and cons. He calls, they go. Drop the nets, say goodbye to dear-ol’ dad, and off we go on an adventure—almost like the Hobbits following Gandalf, or something like that.
And since we know the end of the story for each of them, we feel like we want to intervene here and slow them down a little bit: “Maybe not be so rash, guys. Maybe give it some additional thought. Simon and Andrew, James, and John—do you really know what you’re getting yourself into?”
Here’s what they’re getting themselves into: Simon Peter will have A LOT of ups and downs. He’ll climb the highest but fall the farthest of all of them. He’ll curse God and swear he doesn’t know Jesus in Holy Week, but then will be forgiven, restored, and sent. Andrew, after the Resurrection, will travel as a missionary to far-off lands. Church tradition has him executed on an X-shaped cross—St. Andrew’s cross, which is on the flag of Scotland. James and John, the sons of thunder, get a bit full of themselves and want to take the highest positions, seated on the left and right hand of Christ. Jesus will have to reprimand and remind them what it’s all about: serving others. James would be the first to be martyred, in about 44 AD, cut down by the sword at the command of Herod Agrippa (Acts 12.2); while John is the only one that will witness the crucifixion firsthand. He’ll watch his beloved friend and teacher die a painful, shameful death; and later will be exiled on the Island of Patmos, because he was a follower of Christ.
But they know none of that now, here when they’re first called. They only know Jesus and the power of his voice. The path forward was unclear: where they would go, what they would do, how it would work out, what it all would mean. None of this they know, but they know Jesus and that would be enough.
They’re not ready for this—but he would prepare them.
They’re not good enough—but he would forgive them.
They’re not strong enough—but he would empower them.
They don’t know where it would lead—but wherever they would go, it would be with him and that would be enough.
In this way, our lives of discipleship—of walking after Jesus—are woven into their story. We think that being a Christian means that we’ve got it all together, know everything there is to know, have all our sins under control, never doubt, never waver, never wander. We think this, but let’s be honest, no one’s walk is like this. And no one really knows where it will lead. If you think yours is flawless, then you’ve got a long more going on than Andrew and Simon, James and John.
Being a Christian is not actually about being perfect or knowing the right doctrines or having a clear path of your life mapped out ahead of you. Striving for these these things are part of it, but being a Christian is simply this: Jesus walks into your life, calls you, and you get moving.
The miracle of discipleship, then, is not found in those who follow. It is found in the one who calls. Had Jesus not broke into their lives, overturned their understanding of what was important, redefined what they should be doing —had Jesus not called, they would never have followed. The true power and miracle in this account is the voice of Christ, his word, which breaks into, over-turns, and redefines us this morning too.
The voice of Jesus has no less power and urgency for us as it did for them along the Sea of Galilee. His voice calls us from sin: it convicts us of all the bent and busted ways in which we place ourselves at the center of the Universe, disregarding God and disregarding the needs of others, and it call us to repentance. His voice calls us to himself—to Jesus and no one else—who gives himself to us in forgiveness and restoration. His voice calls us to new life—immediately, today even, to leave our nets, follow him, hear his teaching, do his work, love his people.
The same miraculous and powerful voice of Christ would call from the cross on Good Friday. It would call all people, regardless of what they have done or who they are, to be drawn to him and transformed by him. The voice of Christ calls to us from the open tomb—proclaiming that Satan has no power, no voice which can accuse us, no lies to tell us anymore because of the Resurrection of Christ. His voice calls to us from our baptism for the old Adam to be drowned and the new creature daily to arise and go forth. And his voice calls again to us this morning in this Holy Sacrament, bidding us leave our old lives behind and follow him in repentance and faith.
So, get up and go with Simon and Andrew, James and John today. Keep your eyes on Jesus. “He leads the way, stay close to him.”[1] Wherever he leads, whatever might come, you’ll be with him, and that will be enough.
Come soon Lord Jesus. Amen.
[1] Deitrich Bonhoeffer, Cost of Discipleship, (Revised Edition: Macmillan, 1963), p. 97