I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m old already. A seventy-five-year-old already. My body parts are wearing out. A spine awaiting surgery in October. A heart with a leaky valve in need of repair. I used to sprint up and down the stairs. But now I huff and puff up the stairs while using the handrail to pull myself up, and I gingerly lower myself one step at a time down the stairs.
When I was prescribed the use of a cane, I hated using it. I hid it in the car. “I don’t like it because it slows me down,” I complained to my son. He looked at me and said, “Mom, that’s the point.” I’m pretty good about using it when he’s around, but that’s because he lives in Tokyo and I live in Seattle! But lately, I have noticed that I take it out of the car when no one is looking, because there are days when I truly want to slow down.
Many of you here today know exactly what it feels like to inhabit this particular season in our lives. And for those who aren’t there yet, I imagine you can relate to my son—wishing that the older adults in your life would be a bit more…compliant? Good luck with that. I’m truly a northwest kind of mess!
So, this tension brings us right to the heart of today’s Gospel. As we journey with Jesus and his disciples in Matthew, we hear these heavy words: “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.” When you hear these words, didn’t your mind jump to grand, heroic sacrifices? For much of our lives, we’ve defined faith by what we do—how hard we work, how much we give, and how independently we can stand on our own two feet. So, when our bodies slow down, when mobility wanes, or when it’s time to surrender the car keys, Jesus’ words can feel crushing. We find ourselves wondering, “What does it mean to take up the cross when I am losing so much of my life these days?”
Peter panicked when he heard Jesus saying that he was going to Jerusalem and “undergo great suffering at the hands of the elders and chief priests and scribes, and be killed, and on the third day be raised.” Peter’s reaction — “God forbid it, Lord! This must never happen to you,” — was born of fear. It is the same fear we feel when control slips through our fingers. We fear becoming a burden. We fear needing help with simple tasks that used to be so easy to maneuver and manipulate. We fight to hold on to our self-reliance because independence has always felt like safety.
But notice that Peter stopped listening before Jesus finished what he was saying. He heard death and suffering, when what Jesus actually said was that he was going to Jerusalem in search of life. Did you miss it? Peter did, and at first, I did, too. Jesus said he was going to Jerusalem where he would suffer and be killed, and on the third day, he would be raised. Jesus was going to Jerusalem, not in search of death, but in search of new life. Fullness of life. Resurrected life.
Fear of pain and suffering closed Peter’s ears to the message, and it often closes ours, too. We saw this earlier this summer in Matthew 10, when Jesus spoke about bringing a sword rather than peace. In both moments, Jesus isn’t trying to terrify us. Rather, he is addressing our fears directly. He wants us to know that the God who holds ultimate power over our lives is a God who exercises that power with absolute mercy and love.
And this is where we find the Good News today. Taking up your cross in this season doesn’t mean enduring pain with a stiff upper lip. Taking up your cross can mean the courageous act of letting go. It means surrendering the fierce, protective need to do everything ourselves, and opening our hands to receive. You know, I think this isn’t just an old person’s problem. In our culture, receiving help feels like a defeat. But in God’s Kingdom, allowing someone else to help you, and show how much they care about you is a profound spiritual act. When you allow a friend to come and spend time with you, or a neighbor to drive you to an appointment, or a loved one to help you steady your balance, something sacred happens: You drop the armor of self-sufficiency. You allow others to be the hands and feet of Christ to you. You discover a new, deeper way of being human together.
Opening ourselves to others changes us: it expands our hearts and deepens our grace. I realized this happened to me the other day when I “temporarily” let down my armor of self-sufficiency. As I mentioned, my son lives in Tokyo, but his childhood friends still live here in Seattle. One of them moved to a house a few miles from me. When he heard about my health issues, he sent me a text. He and his wife have a new baby, and he wondered whether a visit might cheer me up. Of course, I said yes: Stop by anytime! (Note to future self: Remember you easily fold when a baby is involved.)
It was a fabulous visit. We laughed about the old days, but mostly, we also connected as adults. As they were leaving, they let me know they were here for anything I needed. In return, I offered to be the baby’s honorary Auntie, giving them a hand whenever they needed a break. Until I started writing this sermon, I did not realize the gift I received. I never imagined that the little boy that used to come and play with my son would grow up and become a lifeline and a friend.
When we let go of the life we think we must control, we discover resurrected life. And this message is for all of us, not just old folks. Dying to self means we are no longer isolated by our pride. It means we find ourselves transformed by vulnerability, love, and connection. Opening up to others changes who we are; it expands our hearts and deepens our grace. No matter what season of life you are in.
It’s easy to be distracted by the darkness in today’s text, but make no mistake, there is much Good News in today’s readings. The gospel is full of hope. Christian hope does not promise that our physical bodies will never ache. Christian hope promises that even as our outward circumstances change, God is fashioning a new and richer life for us. You see, we don’t have to carry everything alone anymore. It’s okay to let go, let yourself be loved, and watch how Christ raises something beautiful when we take up our cross and follow him.
Amen.