In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Let us reflect this morning, beloved in the Lord, on the gospel reading we’ve just heard. And I propose to do it under three headings. The first is the historical context that the Gospel of Mark addresses. Now it’s an odd thing that among the four gospels we know vastly more about the circumstances of the Gospel of Mark than any of the others. It just happens that way. We don’t have anything like as much information on Matthew, Luke, or John, with regard to the origins. But second-century Christian sources from all around the Mediterranean basin—Hierapolis in Asia Minor, Rome in Italy, Lyons in Gaul, and Alexandria in Egypt—uniformly testify that Mark wrote the gospel at Rome in the context of Nero’s persecution of the Church in that city. That is to say, Mark wrote this gospel for a specific group of Christians, the Christians in Rome starting in the autumn of the year 64 until the death of Nero in 68. We have far more testimony on that than we do even for the existence of Jesus. That is one of those things absolutely settled in history—although I’m not doubting the existence of Jesus.

If you want to know more about this, let me give you an easy way. After church, you go home, you go on Netflix or wherever you get your movies, and you bring up Quo Vadis. I’m tempted to ask for a show of hands for those who have seen the movie Quo Vadis—no, I won’t do that. As an aside, let me mention that Peter Ustinov steals that film in his portrayal of Nero. My picture of Nero from boyhood has been Peter Ustinov. A very interesting character, Peter Ustinov; Eastern Orthodox, by the way, Russian. Eastern Orthodox for religion. Anyway, he makes Nero in that film. I think that came out when I was a freshman in high school. Let’s get back to the text here. [Laughter] Anyway, go home and get Quo Vadis. Other than that, you can also, if you don’t want to watch Quo Vadis, then read Tacitus and Suetonius. [Laughter] In fact, read Petronius; the character Petronius is also in that film, the author of the Satyricon.

In fact, we know a great deal about that persecution from both Christian and pagan sources. We know, for instance, that St. Peter, who figures so prominently in the Gospel of Mark, was crucified on Vatican Hill as part of Nero’s treatment of Christians. This was common knowledge in the Church at that time. Various second-century writers speak of Peter’s death, describe it. Not only Gaius of Rome, but also Dionysios of Corinth and Tertullian in North Africa. There’s surely a reference to the last chapter of the Gospel of John about stretching forth his hands, by which death he was to glorify God.

A Roman senator, contemporary, who was a child at the time, named Publius Cornelius Tacitus, wrote a famous description of what Nero did to the Christians. I’ll just take a little tiny section of that fairly elaborate description. Remember that this is a pagan writer.

Every kind of mockery was added to their deaths. Covered in beasts’ skins, they were torn to pieces by dogs, and thus perished. Or they were crucified or burned in the flames to serve as torches during the night after daylight was gone. Nero offered his gardens for the show.

Sounds kind of contemporary. Sounds like ISIS, doesn’t it? In this vivid and moving account, a pagan historian is describing the very Church for whom Mark wrote his gospel. It was a congregation suffering severely for their adherence to Jesus. This explains why Mark, as we have been observing all through Lent, emphasizes above all the mystery of the Cross and the necessity of Christians suffering with their Lord. A full half of Mark’s gospel is taken up with the events of Holy Week, as though the first half of the gospel, up to halfway of chapter eight, is simply to get you ready for the second half. Those of you who have been coming to church regularly, all through Lent, especially those who have been able to come in the evenings, this will be sort of a review for you.

Anyway, this is the reason the Church of the East, from earliest times, has consistently read the Gospel of Mark during the season of Lent, as we have to this day. There is the context of this morning’s gospel.

Second, beloved, let us speak of the testing of loyalties. I spoke about this a few weeks ago, didn’t I, translating pistis? It’s not just faith, not just trust, but it’s also loyalty; it’s adherence, keeping the faith, loyalty. Now, seasons of persecution always involved the testing of loyalties. Why is it that 70% of the population of Albania is Muslim? Statistically, what that means is that when the Turk invaded that part of the world, seven out of ten Christians defected from the faith; that’s effectively what that means. You follow me there? Give or take a degree or two. But that’s why 70% of Albania is Muslim. At one time, it was 100% Christian. Seven out of ten Christians defected from the faith.

Seasons of persecution always involve the testing of loyalties. This was true of the Church at Rome in the 60s. It’s a point of irony here. Nero did not torture and murder all of the Christians. All you had to do was plead innocent. That’s all you had to do. Just plead innocent. “I’m not a Christian.” That settled it. You were not tortured; you were not murdered. All you had to do was publicly give up Christ. Nero tortured and murdered only those Christians who insisted on remaining vocally Christians. I think I’ve posed this question to you a number of times. Suppose there were to be a persecution of Christians in Chicago? In fact, there already is, but it’s a little subtle so far. So far. Suppose there were a persecution of Christians in Chicago? How many of us would be arrested? There wouldn’t be enough evidence to convict us! If any Christian in Nero’s time denied he was a Christian, he was perfectly safe in Nero’s hands. You see the irony of it?

Does this give you some idea of why Mark goes into such detail to describe how Peter denied three times that he even knew Jesus? That’s why that story gets so prominent in the Gospel of Mark; well, in the four gospels, really. Peter denied it, as soon as there was the slightest bit of danger. The danger is not an armed guard; the danger is a serving girl. He denies it three times. You see why that’s there? Peter was ashamed of Christ. He was ashamed of him, like many Christians now are ashamed of Christ.

The testing of loyalties is the stuff of high drama. Let me share with you. I am currently reading a biography of someone by the name of Robert Brasillach. Does anybody here know who that is? I didn’t either, until I was reading some things last year and ran across the name and decided to pursue it. Robert Brasillach was a major French literary and journalistic figure in the ‘20s, the ‘30s, and even when I was a child. After the liberation of France in 1944, an event I can remember, Robert Brasillach was tried for treason as a collaborator with the Nazis. Found guilty, he was executed by firing squad on February 6, 1945, for the things he had written during the Nazi occupation. They don’t really have freedom of press in France, and they never had had it. That’s a sort of an American invention, freedom of the press. It’s going to be coming under serious trial, but we’ll let that aside.

The new power in France was Charles de Gaulle, who refused to pardon Brasillach. So he was killed by firing squad on February 6, 1945. I don’t remember it, because I didn’t know about it, even though I was seven years old at the time. They didn’t make much about that in the Louisville newspapers.

Brasillach was one of scores of writers, editors, journalists, and publishers who continued to work in France during the Nazi occupation. Now this experience of the occupation tested the loyalties of all of them. No writer was overlooked. The Nazis read every word, every essay, every editorial, every article, every movie review, every poem that was published. Every syllable was analyzed, and no writer could safely carry on as before the war. Just think of that.

In the fascinating biography I am reading, called The Collaborator: The Trial and Execution of Robert Brasillach, the author, Alice Kaplan, describes in intriguing detail how the writers and journalists of France dealt, each in his own way, with the presence of the Nazis. Some of them gave up the pen altogether and grabbed a gun, such as the great Marc Bloch, a Jewish journalist and writer and playwright of my childhood, a great man. Wonderful writings; his treatise on history, which he wrote in the underground.

Alice Kaplan’s narrative of those times reminds me of nothing so much as the novel, The Plague, by Albert Camus. In the sundry characters of that novel, Camus analyzes the various and different responses of human beings to the outbreak of disaster. It takes place in Oran, in Africa. The rats come up from the sewers bearing the germs. The plague, it breaks out. Then he describes how various people deal with the plague. Notice it comes up from the sewers. A lot of stuff happens in the sewers. Remember Les Misérables. The sewers are very, very symbolic, symbolic of the id, the subconscious. It’s that chaos which abides just beneath the thin surface of civilization. Civilization, by the way, civilization, culture: this has to be maintained; it does not take care of itself. Left to his own devices, man is a barbarian. You’re seeing a lot of that in Chicago right now. The Chicago government has completely lost control of the city; that’s very obvious. So we have the highest murder rate in the world of any city. Well, maybe Guatemala City…

Anyway, Camus describes those who resist the plague and how they do it. Dr. Rieux, a man by the name of Tarrou; those who attempt to manage the plague such as the civic government. Then there’s a character like Fr. Paneloux, a Jesuit, and a very improbable Jesuit in my opinion, who tried to explain the plague. Theologians do that; they try to explain things. He can’t help with the plague, but he’s going to explain it. Those who write about the plague. Then those who try to profit from the plague, because there’s a quarantine, so they go on the black market; they make money from the plague. Then there’s even the anarchist, who responds to the plague by going up on the roof and starting to shoot everybody down on the street. They’re on the side of the anarchy.

You see, beloved, during hard times loyalties are tested. The Evangelist saw this phenomenon in Rome. That is why his gospel describes the sundry responses to the message of the Cross. In today’s story, for instance, right after the third prophecy of the Passion, right after that, there was the opening line for the gospel, wasn’t it? Jesus says what’s going to happen to him. The very next line, James and John come in: “How can we get in on the ground floor of this action?” They’re not looking for the Cross; they want to be first and second in the kingdom. We’ve already mentioned Peter’s denials. Remember, the Christians at Rome knew Peter, and they saw him die. In Mark’s account we behold the loyalty of Mary Magdalene and the treachery of Judas Iscariot—there’s the anarchist who’s on the side of the plague. He sort of aligns himself with the sewer, proves treacherous.

Mark’s narrative portrays these various figures because they represent the possible responses to the word of the Cross. Mark saw all of these responses within Rome. Not everybody adhered to Jesus. The Christians at Rome, facing the actual choice of life or death, could identify with the characters Mark portrayed in his gospel. The little Christian babies in Rome were tossed in the air and caught on spears. Think about that! Think about that next time you present a child for baptism.

Third point: Mark puts this entire matter in the context of the joining of the Church. The true brothers are here portrayed, like Peter in chapter eight, as resistant to the message of the Cross. Still worldly and without understanding, they covet the chief places at the Lord’s right and left hand when he comes into his kingdom. What does Jesus ask them? “Are you able to drink the cup that I drink and be baptized with the baptism with which I am baptized?” Baptism and the cup. They refer to the two sacraments of initiation, two of the sacraments of initiation by which believers join the Church. These two sacraments place their communicants in a special relationship to the Lord’s Passion.

With respect to the sacrament of baptism, one thinks of a text in Romans. “Do you not know that as many of us as are baptized into Christ were baptized into his death?” Everybody hear that? What does baptism mean? Listen again. “Do you not know that as many of us as are baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death? Therefore we were buried with him through baptism in death.” Or the epistle to the Colossians. “Buried with him in baptism.” See, baptism is not just a nice ritual for naming babies. Its sacramental relationship to the Lord’s Passion is no less clear with respect to the Eucharist. 1 Corinthians: “For as often as you eat this bread and drink this cup you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes,” which is what we’re doing here this morning. We’re proclaiming the Lord’s death until he comes.

Mark’s account of the Lord’s questions about baptism and the cup were especially poignant for the Christians at Rome who were thereby instructed about an important dimension of their own participation in the sacraments. Even to be a Christian at Rome was a risky business. Christians were regarded as enemies of the state, and actual martyrdom was a true possibility for anybody in the Church.

I’m told you’re supposed to keep politics out of the pulpit. I’m sorry, but martyrdom is a political act! Martyrdom is a political act—on whose side are you? That’s the question. Thus, to each catechumen presenting himself for sacramental immersion to the life of the Church, this question was implicitly addressed by Jesus himself. “Can you be baptized with the baptism with which I am baptized?” Consider its pertinence to our own situation, to that of our catechumens. You see, presenting a child for baptism is an enormous commitment on the part of those who do it, a risky commitment. Much better never to have been baptized than be baptized and fall away, must better! Just check through the epistle to the Hebrews.

And to each believer who comes forward, Sunday by Sunday, to share in the mystic cup of the Lord’s blood, this question is implicitly addressed by Jesus himself. When you take Communion this morning, think of this question. “Can you drink the cup of which I am about to drink?”

Want me to get down to brass tacks? Let me put these questions to each of us. Are you ashamed to make the sign of the cross in public when you eat in a restaurant? Are you ashamed to do that? Then please, for God’s sake, do not approach the chalice; don’t come. It’s a lie. Do you fear ridicule or disapproval from your friends, when you stand forward for the biblical faith and biblical morality? If so, don’t come up and kiss the cross afterwards; that’s the kiss of Judas. Do you soften or compromise your loyalty to the King who holds in his hand the record of your baptism? Are you putting your own immortal soul in peril?

A few weeks ago at a Wednesday night, I talked about the Latin word munus. Munus is a very interesting word. The word “municipal” comes from it, by the way. A munus is a gift, an English gift, not a German gift; a German gift is poison. In English, “gift” is a gift; the Latin word is munus. The Latin word for “responsibility” is munus—same word. Gift and responsibility are the same thing.

When we receive the gift of God, which is pure grace, by which we’re justified, it is likewise a task laid upon us, a loyalty to commitment. Pistis means “faith,” therefore the reception of God’s mercy. Pistis also means maintaining faith, the maintenance of faith; it means loyalty. It goes from two sides. There’s God and there’s ourselves. This is the substance of the question Jesus puts to the apostles this morning, puts to each of us. Amen.