30 Jesus left the house and began to move through Galilee, but incognito, not wanting anyone to know. 31 In fact, he was telling his disciples of the fate that awaited him, where he would be handed over to the authorities who would kill him, but he was also telling them of his faith that he would thus pass on to another life. 32 But the disciples had no idea what Jesus meant when he spoke of another life, and they were afraid to ask him about it.

33 When everyone returned to the house in Capernaum, Jesus asked his disciples, "While we were on the road, what were you discussing among yourselves?" 34 They kept silent. For on the road they had been arguing about who was the greatest among them. 35 Then Jesus sits down to give a teaching. He called the Twelve to him, saying, "If anyone wants to be first, let him arrange to be last of all and at their service. 36 Then he takes a child and places him in the middle of the group, and having hugged him, he says to them, 37 "Whoever welcomes these children, identifying them with me, then he welcomes myself, and in welcoming me he welcomes more than myself, for he also welcomes the one who sent me, God himself."

Why is God so "absent" in our world?

The date of February 24, 2022 is still fresh in our minds, with the Russian invasion of Ukraine. And since then, scenes of horror have multiplied, including the recent bombing of a children's hospital. The same is true of October 7, 2023, with the Hamas massacre in southern Israel and the Israeli army's violent, indiscriminate response, to the point of starving an entire population; these events had worldwide repercussions.

But these dates overshadow another tragedy, that of Sudan, and Darfur in particular. Since April 15, 2023, a civil war has been raging between two factions of the Sudanese government's military for control of the country, the Sudanese Armed Forces (SAF) and the paramilitary Rapid Support Forces (RSF), the former controlling the east of the country, the latter the west. Since the start of the war, millions of people have been displaced and tens of thousands killed. By June, famine will be widespread; some estimate that it could kill more than 2 million people by the end of September. The situation is particularly tragic in Darfur. 440,000 people are already on the brink of starvation. The RSF, which controls Darfur, is preventing the United Nations from transporting huge quantities of food into the country via a vital border crossing, the town of Adré, on the pretext of preventing arms smuggling. Yet further north, the United Arab Emirates, a powerful patron of the RSF, continues to smuggle arms and money across the porous border. To circumvent the blockade at Adré, the UN Security Council has been asked to allow UN trucks to cross the border without military authorization. But as Russia is more supportive of the FAS, it will probably veto such a resolution.

For clear-sighted observers of what's going on in the world, there's reason to despair of our humanity. What can we do about it? The religious question that may be asked: "Can God help us?" On the one hand, for the unbeliever, the answer is simple: No. Because God doesn't exist. The very fact that there is no intervention in the face of evil is clear proof of this; and if He did exist, He would be perceived as a monster of insensitivity. On the other hand, the believer's position is uncomfortable: how can we continue to believe in the One we define as infinite love and compassion when so many people are suffering and dying? How can we understand the apparent absence of intervention on the part of the one we define as all-powerful? If one of us were all-powerful, wouldn't he have stopped all these wars long ago?

This seems to me the appropriate context for reading this passage from Mark's Gospel. Let's not forget that the evangelist is probably in a similar situation. For there's a broad consensus among biblical scholars that the recipients of his gospel are in Rome, while Nero's persecution rages on and, according to Suetonius, Christians are being tied to poles to make living torches. We can guess what's going on in the minds of the newly baptized: if Jesus has risen and the reign of God is at hand, why all this suffering and death? Is it all a sham?

Let's take a look at Mark's answer in this short passage from his gospel. It all begins with Jesus going incognito in Galilee and asking that his presence be hidden. Why did he do this? It's likely that Herod Archelaus, tetrarch of Galilee, who had already had his mentor John the Baptist imprisoned and killed, also wanted to get rid of this embarrassing preacher. It's at this point that Jesus, feeling the noose tightening around his neck, announces that he is foreseeing to be arrested and go through a period of suffering, before passing on to another life The words Mark puts into Jesus' mouth are those of the Christian faith many years after his death. On this subject, Luke probably reflects the oldest tradition of what Jesus probably said: "The Son of Man is about to be delivered into the hands of men"; Jesus would have simply announced his suffering.

In any case, Jesus was very clear about the fate that awaited him. But then, why did he, who had total confidence in God whom he called "Daddy", who knew he was loved by him and considered himself his chosen one, expect a miserable death? Which God was he talking about? Mark, who was not a direct witness to Jesus' death, puts these words in his mouth just before he expires, words taken from Ps 22: "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?", a reflection of what his community was going through. What does this mean? Clearly, this God is not like an alien who intervenes from above to prevent human decisions from taking their course. Mark's only answer, with the mention of the resurrection that he puts in Jesus' mouth, is that the acceptance with true love of all that happens to us not only leads to new and unsuspected life for ourselves, but it also breathes a force of love and life into others around us; Jesus' fate is not reserved for him alone, but for us all.

But all this is not Mark's only response. Let's read on. The scene is set in the house in Capernaum where Jesus had made his headquarters. For Mark, this teaching in the house usually refers to discussions in the early Christian communities, and indeed he has grouped together in our section a set of reflections on various aspects of community life drawn from Jesus' thinking. And the first reflection concerns the precedence of roles: which role was the most important? Mark's answer is twofold. In the first part, Jesus says: the most important role is that of serving others. This answer is clear and unambiguous.

Surprisingly, however, Mark adds a second part to Jesus' answer that takes us in a completely different direction: Jesus takes a child and places him in the middle of the group, then hugs him. It's important to remember that, in ancient times, a child had no social value whatsoever. It's also hard to see the link with the first section on roles in the community: the child serves no one, being on the contrary a dependent being. Matthew and Luke, who up to now have generally copied Mark's text, saw the logical problem and omitted the first part altogether. What is the meaning of this second part in Mark? It's in Jesus' own words: "Whoever welcomes these children, identifying them with me, welcomes me, and in welcoming me, welcomes more than me, for he also welcomes the one who sent me, God himself". What an explosive sentence!

Indeed, Jesus finds himself identifying with a socially worthless, dependent and fragile being. And this is no mere play on words. The religious authorities will arrest him as an undesirable being, and do with him as they please, reserving him the fate of the bandits of the time. But what's even more astounding is that he includes God in the same lot. While Christians celebrate the almighty God, Jesus identifies him with a socially worthless, dependent and fragile child. Etty Hillesum, the Jewish woman who died in the German extermination camps and left us her diary, wrote in a moment of prayer on July 12, 1942:

It is not you who can help us, but we who can help you - and, in doing so, we help ourselves. That's all we can save in these times, and that's the only thing that counts: a little of you in us, my God. Perhaps we can also help bring you to light in the martyred hearts of others. Yes, my God, you don't seem capable of changing a situation that is ultimately inseparable from this life.

What did Etty Hillesum say? God has neither arms nor feet to change things. All He can do is enter the human heart, sow a force of love, commiserate with all suffering, and thus mobilize human arms and feet.

This Gospel finale, in which God is identified with the child, is similar to the beginning of our passage, in which Jesus announces the fate that awaits him: God was unable to prevent Jesus' death on a cross in the midst of bandits. This finale also ties in with the first response on precedence in the community: because God identifies with those who are dependent, serving them is a priority.

At the end of this reflection, are we disappointed in God? Only those who expect an all-powerful God who intervenes left and right to oppose human freedom, a God who would send down his heavenly helicopter to snatch people from their hell, will be disappointed. The God Jesus proposes to us is like a child, a being who depends on us. To put ourselves at the service of all those who depend on us is to put ourselves at the service of God himself. When we see the hell that humans can create, is this perspective totally insane? We have to believe that, despite all the horrors, this God has such a great and lofty perception of us, that in creating this world and giving us freedom, he proclaimed his unalterable faith in us and in our capacity to love in spite of everything, and to love with that difficult love that constantly seeks the good of others to the point of giving everything, including one's own life.

 

-André Gilbert, Gatineau, August 2024