In the Gospel of Mark, chapter 10, verses 35-45, we hear a story that’s almost identical to the one Matthew tells us today about the ambitious sons of Zebedee. In Mark’s version of the story, James and John are pretty cheeky about their desire to sit at the left and right hands of Jesus. “Teacher,” they say to Jesus, “we want you to do for us whatever we ask” (Mk. 10:35). Jesus doesn’t fall for this setup, of course, but rather asks his disciples directly what it is that they want, before he agrees one way or the other. Who wouldn’t? Nobody but Herod would agree to write a blank check like that. So Jesus asks James and John to say specifically what it is that they want, and then they make that foolish request about wanting to sit on his right and left hand when he comes into his kingdom. It’s not a flattering story, but I’m actually surprised that the lectionary doesn’t use it today. Because Matthew’s version, the one we are reading this morning, is so embarrassed about the folly of this request that it avoids naming James and John altogether. We know who they are, but Matthew doesn’t want us to think too much about it. Strange choice for the Feast of Saint James the Apostle: a story too embarrassing to be given his name.
No, in Matthew’s version of this story the folly of the great Apostle James and his brother gets disguised a little. They don’t waylay Jesus and demand that he give them anything they want. They have their mother do the dirty work. Someone named “the mother of the sons of Zebedee” presents herself to Jesus and asks him outright to favor her sons with positions on the right and the left when he comes into his kingdom. Do you hear that? She is “the mother of the sons of Zebedee” rather than “the mother of James and John.” No need to name names. James and John are there, but they aren’t talking at first.
Having their mother do the asking is a really interesting strategy. On the one hand, it feels a bit juvenile. Imagine the conversation: “Mom, could you ask Jesus to make me a pivotal figure in salvation history?” It doesn’t look good. Worse yet, she could be one of those stage mothers who just pushes her way to the front of the crowd, dragging her two sons with her, and embarrasses them by putting into words what they had silently and inappropriately wanted. How awkward.
There is, on the other hand, a fine old scriptural tradition of women who are ambitious for their sons and who scheme and negotiate to advance them socially and politically. The most famous example may be Rebekah in the Book of Genesis (chapter 27), who maneuvers her son Jacob so that he can defraud his older brother Esau and can steal the blessing, and the inherited estate, of their father Isaac. You remember the story: Rebekah tells Jacob to cover his arms with goatskins so that when Isaac, who can no longer see in his old age, reaches out his hands to touch him, Jacob will feel hairy like his brother Esau. Rebekah is wily and they trick poor old Isaac, and the whole story is morally questionable, but Jacob is firmly established as the next patriarch of Israel.
So biblical mothers—Rebekah is not the only one—may be forgiven for scheming on behalf of their sons. Or perhaps it’s more accurate to say that the scriptures sometimes rely on women to be the bearers of the ambiguities of the story of God’s action in the world. If the mother of the sons of Zebedee had it in her mind that we might all revere the Apostle James one day, which of us can really judge her? After all, we do revere the apostles. Matthew may not want to name James and John as the bearers of this immodest desire for greatness, but he can’t quite leave it out of the story. It’s not true to say that there were no big-name figures in the early church. It’s not true that there was no hierarchy. Not only do we have the name of James the Apostle, and the story of his influence, we even have a “James the Less,” as if it were important to distinguish not only that the two men are different, but that one is younger or shorter or, well, “less” than the other. Now “James the Less” is a composite figure in our tradition, and the story of his various identities is too complicated to unravel here. But the name, a stand-in probably for James the Younger or James the Shorter, speaks volumes about how we rank our Christian heroes.
No, it’s not true that there were no tensions about preeminence during the earthly ministry of Jesus or after his resurrection. Had there not been tensions, this gospel passage would never have been written the way it was. There would be no need to bring in this nameless mother to bear the onus of asking a bad question. There would be no ten other disciples grumbling about how James and John had tried to push themselves to the front of the pack. And there would have been no need for Jesus’s teaching.
In response to this kerfuffle about which disciple will be the greatest, Jesus gives us a word about how the church will not be like the world. “You know that the rulers of the Gentiles lord it over them,” he says, “and their great ones are tyrants over them.” In the world of the Roman Empire, authority is dominance. Greatness implies tyranny. Wanting to win means making others lose. “It will not be so among you,” he tells them. “Whoever wishes to be great among you must be your servant, and whoever wishes to be first among you must be your slave.”
The church we inherit sometimes wants to model itself on empire. That has sometimes been our first instinct. We all, individually and collectively, will continue to have to let that dream of dominance rise and fall and slip away, as it gets replaced by something more like fidelity to Jesus. Jesus came not to be served, but to serve, to give his life for us.
James certainly learned that lesson. We know, among other parts of his story, that he was the first apostle to be killed for the sake of the gospel. He did drink from the cup of suffering and humility that Jesus held out to him.
And, surprisingly, his unnamed mother learned, too. She shows up again in the Gospel of Matthew, in chapter twenty-seven. She is present at the crucifixion, when the disciples have run away and Jesus is alone. Except for the women. When Jesus dies, when the sky grows dark and the earth quakes and rocks are split and the tombs yield up their dead, Matthew tells us “Many women were there, watching from a distance. They had followed Jesus from Galilee to care for his needs. Among them were Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James and Joseph, and the mother of Zebedee’s sons.” There she is, with the great Mary Magdalene. And there too is that woman named Mary who is the mother of the one we call James the Less. And there is the mother of James the Greater, the Apostle we celebrate today, that son of Zebedee. The Mother of the Sons of Zebedee is herself given an important place as Jesus comes into his kingdom. It is a place of pain and mourning and deep fidelity to our savior. She had followed Jesus in her motherly way, just to care for his needs. And now he gives his life for her.
In the shadow of the cross, the truth is revealed, just as Jesus had described it. While the dream of the empire rises and falls, while Jesus achieves his victory by dying at the empire’s hands, while mothers watch in agony and wonder and while the heroes of our faith run away, the true dimensions of a life of discipleship emerge.
It has always been complicated. The desire for dominance is written right into some of our founding stories. The cross of Jesus has always been a reversal of all our plans for coming out on top. And the joy of our lives together has always included the joy of watching one another let go and live for Jesus alone. And to learn that he lives entirely for us, so that we can forget ourselves. That’s the story of the greatest apostles and the lowliest, most mixed-up followers. Even moms.
*I am indebted to Emily Cheney, “The Mother of the Sons of Zebedee (Matthew 27:56)” for her discussion of these issues [Journal for the Study of the New Testament 68 (1997) 13-21].
Preached by Mother Nora Johnson
25 July 2021
Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia