Sermon for August 30, 2026
Pentecost 14 A
Matthew 16:21-28
Rev. Karl-John N. Stone
This is one of the hardest sayings of Jesus in the gospel: if you want to be his disciple, you must deny yourself, take up your cross, and follow him. He continues with an explanation that sounds pretty counter-intuitive: Those who want to save their life will lose it; those who lose their life for Jesus’ sake will find it.
Jesus is asking us to consider the basic orientation of who or what do you look to for meaning and purpose in life? Who is your God? Because he knows, ever since the Garden of Eden, that our greatest temptation as humans is to try to make gods of ourselves. And no matter how hard we try, we’re never able to accomplish that task. But if you follow that path of trying to make yourself into god, then your wants, desires, passions, obsessions, grievances, or the pursuit of wealth, power, or prestige become your measuring stick for meaning and purpose. These false gods are never satisfied, either, because they always demand more, and life becomes a race for who can get the most.
This orientation leads to a classic definition of sin: the self, curved in on itself. “Navel-gazing” is another way to put it. You can’t see the big picture, because all you are looking at is your belly button (so to speak). And if you feel like you’re not getting ahead enough, being curved in on yourself can also lead to recklessness, as you take unnecessary or even dangerous risks as you attempt to satisfy a hunger that can never be satisfied.
I learned about an example of this at a museum I visited in the town of Arendal, Norway, where two of my great-grandparents came from. Up until 1886, a couple years before they were born, Arendal was the wealthiest town in Norway. Because of the vast forests around there, and the excellent harbor, it became the shipbuilding and trading center of Norway. The prosperity was shared across the region, as shipbuilders, merchants, shopkeepers, bankers, sailors, farmers, laborers, and artisans all had a stake in the success of the economy. Shipbuilding, sailing, and trade were inherently risky projects, but one historian at the museum explained the situation in Arendal in context of the Lutheran faith of most people who lived there: Martin Luther believed that some risk was a good thing because it meant that people had to act responsibly and be accountable to each other. Each person had a part to play so that everyone could be successful, and they supported one another.
That was not enough, however, for one particular man in Arendal. He owned the largest shipbuilding company and was the richest man in town. But he wanted more. His risk-taking became recklessness. He over-extended himself in borrowing money to expand his business, and some of the leading bankers in town “cooked the books” to cover up the extent of his debts. When his creditors came calling to collect what he owed them, he couldn’t pay. The scandal was so large that it crashed the regional economy; and Arendal—with all of the people who had once worked to support one another—was never the same town again. The economy couldn’t recover. It’s like Jesus said, “what does it profit you to gain the whole world but forfeit your life?” One man in Arendal and his enablers became so focused on themselves, and on trying to gain more of what they thought was good for themselves, that they lost sight of the big picture, and brought lots of suffering not only to themselves but to thousands of people.
This was a dramatic example, which makes it easier to see the fault lines of where people were looking to find meaning and purpose in life. In our own lives it’s perhaps a little more difficult to realize the difference between setting our mind on human things, and setting our minds on divine things—when are we trying to make ourselves into gods, and when are we letting God be God of our lives? Which is why we need our prayer to be mixed with humility.
Just look at St. Peter. It was hard for him, too, even though he was personally selected by Jesus to be the leader of the disciples. He was a good person, and he wasn’t afraid to put himself out there. And so, after Jesus began to explain that “he must go to Jerusalem and undergo great suffering…and on the third day be raised”, Peter had good intentions and thought he was doing the right thing by taking Jesus aside and saying “God forbid it, Lord! This must never happen to you.” He didn’t want Jesus to suffer. He didn’t want Jesus to be killed. And how can you blame him? No one would want their friend to suffer and die, or to be betrayed and handed over to the Roman authorities and Jerusalem religious leaders, who were working on their own project of trying to fashion gods of their own making—by using any means necessary to hold onto their power, even if it meant sending an innocent man to be crucified.
But Jesus was willing to surrender to their demands. He knew that the only way out of humanity’s temptation to make ourselves into our own gods, was to allow the sinful ways of the world to do their worst to him, and then to offer God’s transformational power of new life, forgiveness, and salvation to come right from the middle of death itself.
I found an example of the life-giving transformational power of Christ in another experience in Norway. On the Day of Pentecost we wandered into the cathedral in Bergen, the second largest city over there, and found ourselves attending a special service of reconciliation with the Romani people of Norway. When I was a boy I heard them referred to as “Gypsies”, but they prefer to be called Romani. They are a minority ethnic group who are found all over Europe. They’ve lived in Norway for at least 500 years, and during that time have faced much prejudice, fear, and misunderstanding of their culture.
The Romani way of life was structured on mobility, trade, crafts, and extensive travel routes and social networks. They sailed through the inlets, going from town to town along the coast, living on their boats. This made them suspicious to many Norwegians who lived a more settled existence. After Norway achieved its independence in 1905, the church and the state combined for a decades-long campaign of “forced assimilation” of the Romani. They were taken to labor colonies, deprived of personal belongings, forbidden to use their own language, music, or crafts. At least 1,500 Romani children were taken from their parents and sent to orphanages. The irony is that those who implemented this campaign did so with good intentions. Those from the church believed they were following God’s will, even as their policies caused the Romani to suffer shame, grief, trauma, and abuse that has been passed down to new generations.
The good news is that the church in Norway is looking honestly at what happened, as they “deny themselves, take up their cross, and follow Jesus” by taking the risk of seeking reconciliation with the Romani, and allowing God to be God as they face the wounds of the past and hope for healing to begin. Bishop Ragnhild Jepsen described it beautifully. She wrote (in the bulletin for the reconciliation service, translated to English by Google Translate):
“On the cross of Calvary, God reconciled the world with himself. That is the basis for us to be reconciled with each other, and with ourselves. So reconciliation is layer upon layer. It is acknowledging the injustice one has inflicted on another. It is about coming to terms with the past and history that generations before us have experienced, and which has shaped who we are…It is to stretch out hands. First from the one who has committed injustice; that hand must always come first. So from the one who has been wronged; time and trust will tell if anything can grow: Only when hands meet can the hope of reconciliation come true.”
There in the reconciliation service in Bergen cathedral, I saw hands meet. This is what it looks like when we lay aside the gods of our own making, and let God be God. Amen.