It was a pivotal moment in the American presidential debate.

Responding to a question about immigration—

an issue on which Kamala Harris is perceived to be vulnerable—

she made a reasonable response trying to throw the blame back onto Donald Trump…

for a measure that he’d had torpedoed by his followers in Congress…

but then she added the zinger…

suggesting that people leave his campaign rallies early “out of exhaustion and boredom”.

And that was it.

Trump was clearly rattled.

Ignoring the substantive issues…

he whined like a petulant schoolboy that “nobody” goes to Harris’ rallies…

that they have to pay people and bus them in to attend…

and protesting that “we have the biggest rallies…

the most incredible rallies in the history of politics”.

Just for the record…

the School of Governance at Harvard University independently tracks political crowd size…

relying on reports from local police and other authorities…

rather than the political parties themselves…

and they claim that Trump is averaging about five and a half thousand attendees so far…

while Harris is averaging about thirteen thousand.

But it’s probably fair to say that Trump never really recovered from that point in the debate.

Ironically, the Democrats had virtually flagged in advance that they were going to do something like that.

After all, Harris’ communications director noted—

earlier on the day of the debate—

that Trump “can’t seem to stop obsessing about himself and the size of his crowds”.

 

But an obsession with numbers and size isn’t something that’s just confined to petulant, narcissistic, wanna-be dictators.

James Conroy—

the Professor of Religious Education at the University of Glasgow—

argues that we live with a “modern obsession with numerical descriptions of who we are and what constitutes human purpose”.

Everything these days, seems to be quantified.

Whether it’s the performance of athletes at the Olympics…

educational standards in schools…

or even matters of personal health and well-being—

everything seems to be quantified.

As Conroy contends…

“Statistical profiles…have come to dominate our lives,

arrogating to themselves both explanatory and moral force”.

In terms of education, both teachers and students are caught in a mentality… 

“which measures educational attainment in terms of classical input-output ratios”.

Increasingly, in almost every area of our modern world…

it’s the numbers that matter.

 

And don’t we also see that in the church as well?

Let’s face it…

most of us would love to have our pews full—

especially full of younger people…

like what used to be the case back in the “good old days”.

It’s something that’s ingrained in our psyches.

We want bigger, younger congregations…

we want to be successful…

we want to thrive—

or, at the very least, we want to survive.

And that sort of attitude is found at all levels of the church…

and within every denomination.

For example, the Presbytery of which I was a part when I was in Melbourne—

that is, the regional body of the Uniting Church—

prepared a report analysing all of the congregations within its care.

The report was entitled “Strategic Congregations”.

And the first criterion that it used to determine whether a particular congregation was strategic or not—

and hence its ability to access funding and resources—was congregational size.

But it’s not just confined to that.

I don’t know if they still do it…

but the Baptist Churches of South Australia, or the Baptist Union, used to determine ministerial stipends—

at least in part—

according to the size of the congregation.

In the face of declining numbers and ageing congregations—

almost across the denominational divide—

churches are being encouraged to engage in mission:

to establish new congregations…

to offer something new or innovative…

to make more creative use of technology…

to change their music or worship style…

to make connections to their wider communities—

whether it’s staging “Back to Church” Sundays…

or offering programmes and services that might meet a local need…

but which are, ultimately, driven by the ulterior motive of getting more bums on pews…

and more dollars into collection plates.

Subtly, or not so subtly, so much of our life as church these days centres on numbers and survival…

on growth or success.

 

In this morning’s story from Mark’s Gospel…

Jesus, for the first time, predicts his impending death.

And Peter is horrified.

Quietly taking Jesus aside, he tries to put him straight.

In so doing, Peter is, of course, thinking quite reasonably, logically, and sensibly.

After all, were Jesus to die in the manner that he suggests, it would be a disaster.

It would discredit the whole movement.

And it would turn people away.

But Jesus famously replied… 

“Get behind me, Satan! 

For you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things”…

before adding…

“If any want to become my followers, 

let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.” 

In challenging his hearers to “take up their own cross”—

including Peter—

Jesus challenges them to embrace ridicule and rejection…

and the appearance of folly and failure. 

It’s a challenge that’s so hard for us to hear…

because it goes so completely against the grain.

It’s so contrary to everything that we’re taught—

about whom we should strive to be…

how we should live…

and how we should be “church”.

 

But have we missed something?

 

Have we been sucked in by our society’s definition of “success”…

and just adopted its values uncritically?

Have we failed to realise that Jesus, in fact, calls us to embrace a different set of values…

a different way of looking…

a different way of evaluating?

Have we missed the very important fact—

that the cross not only critiques our definition of success…

but it also critiques all of our striving for success? 

And yet, that is what the cross symbolises.

The cross is anything but a symbol of power, achievement, or success.

After all, the cross was a punishment that was reserved for slaves and foreigners—

for those without power—

and it was meant to utterly shame, degrade, and dehumanise.

And, on one level, Jesus’ crucifixion did result in everything that Peter feared—

it was an embarrassment…

and it did drive people away.

We don’t always appreciate that.

Symbolically, the cross is the very antithesis of worldly “success”.

The cross reveals a God who defies human logic…

a God who is to be found in weakness…

in helplessness…

in the insignificant…

and, apparently, in abject failure.

 

And here, in this story, we’re challenged to take up our crosses…

that is, to adopt different values… 

and a different way of seeing and being.

We’re called to rethink and redefine our sense of success and achievement…

and to risk even failure and death—

both personally and institutionally—

and, paradoxically, to find God and our future therein.

“For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it.”