When my two sons were young and we’d travel anywhere by car, they’d race to the driver’s side door calling “shotgun” at the top of their lungs. Honestly, I’m not really sure what the value of sitting in that front seat was. Because actually when they got a little older—and especially when their friends were in the car—nobody wanted to sit next to the parent in the driver’s seat. It was as if I’d become an invisible chauffer, absent from everyone’s consciousness, while the real conversation happened in the back seat.
Which worked well for me because then I was able to listen in in on unedited adolescent conversations. I learned a lot about what was going on in their world. Sometimes I’d even call the other parents who were shuttling my kids and their friends to school or practice to find out what they’d learned from the back seat. I think of this as a kind of parenting version of reading the synoptic Gospels, Matthew, Mark and Luke. Same action, different narrators. We have to consult the other reports if we want to get a complete picture of what was happening.
The Gospel story we just heard is one that actually appears in all three synoptic Gospels—which—heads up—means that it’s probably pretty important. But why? On first glance, it appears that the Zebedee brothers are competing for the seat of honor; perhaps not the most Christlike thing to do. One commentary called this story “James & John call shotgun.” Which is especially humorous to me, because in Matthew’s version, it is actually their mom who asked Jesus for favored seating for her sons. Been there, done that.
But in all the Gospel versions, someone is asking Jesus for a big favor. Which is kind of like praying for the impossible or the unknowable. Something that I hope you have done recently. Frequently and fervently. One of the lessons we can take from this Gospel is that there really is no wrong way to pray. We just have to do it. Because Jesus never shamed or marginalized anyone for a request that might seem selfish, nor for misunderstanding him.
Which his Biblical disciples actually did all the time, as do we. Even after all that time together, the disciples still had no idea what sitting with Jesus or drinking his cup meant. But that’s OK, because asking Jesus for whatever we want—and then being willing to listen and learn and be course-corrected—is the way we grow in faith. We don’t have to clean ourselves up—understand or be wise or ask for the right things—in relationship with God. We just need to tell the truth and be willing to hear the truth. Pray as you can, not as you can’t, as the saying goes.
Today’s lessons, taken together, inspires your guest preacher to ponder anew the priestly calling. I recently finished up my ministry as dean of Trinity Cathedral in San Jose, California, but being a priest is vocation I can never really retire from. Remember that our lectionary—that’s the three readings and the psalm that are grouped together for us to hear every Sunday—is organized thematically. And today’s theme seems to be priestly sacrifice and prayer. We heard it in our Isaiah lesson “yet he bore the sin of many, and made intercession for the transgressors,” and again in the letter to the Hebrews “You are a priest forever, according to the order of Melchizedek… Jesus offered up prayers and supplications, with loud cries and tears, and he was heard because of his reverent submission.” A high calling indeed, this ministry of intercessory prayer we share with Jesus. It’s one that Mother Neli and I both know well. But it’s one that I hope you know well, too.
As much as your priests may pray for you—and we do—I trust that you are praying for your priests. And for each other, and for an end to wars in the Holy Land and Ukraine and elsewhere, for fair and peaceful elections, and for the health and wellbeing of those we most love. In the ministry of prayer, we are all called to be priests: “you yourselves are… to be a holy priesthood, to offer spiritual sacrifices acceptable to God through Jesus Christ,” as the First Letter of Peter teaches us.
But today’s Gospel teaches us something perhaps more ordinary and more profound about prayer. That is, we can’t get it wrong. Because if we do, God will fix it—or better yet—will fix us. The apparent competition among James and John was expressed as an intercession to Jesus, and on the surface, a rather selfish one. But because the two apostles were close to Jesus—already listening to him on his right and left hand, so to speak—they could learn when their Lord gently course corrected them. “You do not know what you are asking,” he responded. Well isn’t that the truth! I rarely—maybe never—really know what I am asking for when I pray. But I do trust that if I keep asking—and listening for God’s response—something will change. Quite likely—with God’s help—I will be changed.
The English word sacrifice comes from the Latin meaning “to make sacred.” So in our prayers, know that our most ordinary requests are made sacred to God. Meanwhile, the Hebrew word that is translated as sacrifice—korban—actually means “to draw close” at its root. So in the spirit of priestly sacrifice, let me invite you to boldly draw close to our Lord in prayer, and then trust the process. Even when we do not know what we are asking, even when our prayer may seem selfish or trivial, the priestly task that we all share calls us to be bold in prayer and open to possibility. As Trappist monk Thomas Merton was in this prayer, which he left to us—
My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please you does, in fact, please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this, you will lead me by the right road, though I may know nothing about it. Therefore, I will trust you always though, I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.
