As most of you know, I went to Haiti with Gale Mull a couple of weeks ago. That was an occasion to dig out my passport, which I hadn’t used in some time. Some of you have heard my story of how that simple task turned out to be quite disconcerting. First, I went to the safety-deposit box. No passport. I called Charlotte, who was out-of-town. "Look in the basket," she said. It was not in the basket. "Look on your dresser," she said. It was not on the dresser. Or behind it. Or under it. Or in the bedside tables. Or behind them. Or under them. Or in, behind, or under anything in our room. Or the guest room. Or any drawers anywhere in the house that could possibly have a passport in them.

I was panicking. "Don’t worry," Charlotte said, "I’ll come home tomorrow and find it." But of course I worried; I lost sleep. I was facing the humiliating possibility of having to call Gale and say, "I can’t go because I can’t find my passport." The next morning, I was lying in bed, unable to sleep, and an idea hit me. I searched Charlotte’s dresser. Not on it or under it, but in it. And there, under her undies, was a folder. And in it were our passports. I called her and said, "I’m so relieved that I’m not even going to kill you." (Of course, telling this story is my revenge.)

It was, of course, crucial that I find my passport. You can’t travel outside the country without a passport because if you’re going on a trip, you have to be prepared to demonstrate to the world where you belong, where your citizenship lies, and who your sovereign is.

Now, some of you may have passports, physical passports like this one, and some of you may not (you only need one if you’re traveling abroad). But all of us have spiritual passports. Passports that say, spiritually, where we belong, where our citizenship lies, who our sovereign is. Most of us have a number of spiritual passports, like some spy in the movies. I open my physical passport and it says that I’m a citizen of the United States of America. I belong to the United States; the United States commands my loyalty; the United States is my sovereign. We open our spiritual passports and see where our true loyalty lies. Some passports say, "Security." Your sovereign is Security. So you wouldn’t cross the company, or risk your job by crossing your boss, even if you thought it was the right thing to do, because you’re a citizen of Security. Priests who are citizens of the nation of Security don’t take any controversial stands, and they are a bishop’s dream — so quiet and obedient. And parishioners who are citizens of Security really like priests who hold that same passport.

Some folks flash a passport that informs the world that they are citizens of Wealth. That’s where they belong; that’s where their loyalty is. Sometimes the passport shows that we’re a citizen of the State of Ego. Our loyalty lies in building ourselves up. Sometimes we hold passports granted by the sovereign state of Control. Control over time (things must be done in my time, not God’s time, my time); control over other people, control over events. When we hold that passport, that’s where our loyalty lies. That’s home for us.

In our perilous, frightening times, we have to be very careful for a particular kind of spiritual passport. It looks exactly like this passport, the one in my hand. When I open it, I see that I am a citizen of the United States of America, a wonderful thing in the physical world, a happy accident of history that I rejoice in, to be born into this country. Physically, this is the greatest passport ever issued. But if it is not only your physical passport, but your spiritual passport as well, then it is very dangerous. When we were at the annual council of the Diocese a month or so ago, we were debating a resolution about possible war with Iraq. I expected that people would be on both sides of that issue, but what I didn’t expect was the folks who said, in effect, "We should be good Americans, good patriots, and not question our government’s decisions about war." It was clear to me that the speaker was a citizen of the United States, physically and spiritually.

Why all this talk about passports and citizenship? Because the opening line of Mark’s gospel, which is really the title to the book, rocks everything: "The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God." That one line changes everything. One commentator says that that one line sums up everything, everything, and the rest of the gospel of Mark is only a footnote. The entire remainder of the gospel is an effort to interpret that line: "The beginning of the good news, the good news, the good news, the gospel, of Jesus, who is the anointed one of God, the Christ, the Son of God, the Son of God, the Son of God."

In that first line, that title, Mark has told us all we need to know. This is the important part. "The Good News of Jesus who is the Christ, Jesus who is the Son of God." That’s what you have to know. That’s where your loyalty has to lie. That’s where home is for you. That’s where your citizenship is.

When you open your spiritual passport, what should you see? When you flash your passport to the border guard, what should it say? It should say, "My sovereign is Jesus, and before anything else, I am a citizen of the kingdom of God." Mark’s gospel starts off, in the very first line, by telling us that we have to change sovereigns, that we can have only one spiritual passport, and we belong to Jesus and are citizens of the kingdom of God. Period.

So why does the story of the "good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God" begin with a guy like John the Baptist, who seems like he’s all about bad news? You know, it seems strange that Jesus had such respect for a guy like John. In many ways, they were as different as night and day. John ate locusts and fasted and was about self-denial; Jesus feasted and partied and was accused of being a drunkard and glutton. John was all about approaching God through repentance; Jesus was about approaching God as a child. John withdrew from society and tried to remain pure; Jesus waded in and hung out with low-life sinners. The crux of it, I think, is that John was all about a God of unrelenting judgment, a God whom we have to appease. Jesus was all about a God of unrelenting love, a love we can never earn. John preached to sinners. Jesus identified with sinners.

So you have to wonder, why would Jesus have had such respect for John, and why would the story of the good news of God’s unrelenting love begin with this shrill voice crying, "Unrelenting judgment?" I think the story begins with John’s voice because that’s where we need to begin. John’s shrill cry is not the last word. Let’s face it; John was wrong about the kind of Messiah Jesus would be. But John was also right about repentance. Because before we can appreciate being enveloped in the warm bath of God’s love that Jesus preaches, we need to take the cold shower of repentance, and need, and humility that John preaches. We need to know how broken we are. We need to know how much hurt we cause. We need to know that there are, in fact, standards of conduct and character that are required of us. We need to know that it is, in fact, not all right to do anything, as long as it makes us happy; and it is not all right to believe anything, as long as that belief is sincerely held. What John is about is us opening our passports and having the vision and the courage to see all the things in there that we pledge allegiance to that are not God. What John is about is saying, and not gently either, "Rip those pages out." Rip them out. And then he says, "Someone will come after me who will command your ultimate loyalty, who will be your sovereign, who will give you a new spiritual passport."

I think Jesus respected John because Jesus knew that, even though John was wrong about what kind of Messiah Jesus would be, Jesus knew that John was right about ripping the pages out. And I think that Jesus respected John because, even though John was wrong, Jesus had seen John’s passport, and Jesus knew where his citizenship lay.

On Monday night, right here, you’re going to have a chance to hear Mark’s gospel performed live, from that profound beginning line (which says it all) to the end. I hope you’ll come. I hope you’ll come prepared for a journey. I hope you’ll bring your passport.