Ransom | One For All (Mark 10:35-45)

We don’t have what it takes to get out of the mess we were in. We’re scared of the cost. We don’t want to pay it. We think we can, but we can’t. Only Jesus can. And Jesus did. Jesus paid the price we couldn’t, wouldn’t, and didn’t even want to pay for all people who walk on the face of the earth. One paid the ransom for all.

Transcript

What would you say is the deepest storyline of all time? Think of the movies and the literature that’s moved you profoundly. What made them so powerful? A few years back my brother-in-law shared an essay from J.R.R. Tolkien, Oxford professor and writer of The Lord of the Rings. The essay was entitled “On Fairy Stories.” And he made a connection I had never considered: “The Gospels contain…a story of a larger kind that embraces all the essence of fairy stories. They contain many marvels—peculiarly artistic, beautiful, and moving…This story has entered history and the primary world. This story begins and ends in joy.”  All the most impactful stories in history have an echo of THE story. And unlike all the fairy tales, this one is true. Jesus isn't just a myth, a symbol, or a moral lesson. He is the real Hero who entered our world, not just to inspire us, but to save us. His is the story of the ultimate ransom. You think of some of the most inspiring stories written: Hercules, Harry Potter, The Chronicles of Narnia, Superman, even John Wick, what is the theme? Self-sacrifice. We love stories of sacrifice, of a hero who lays down his life for the ones he loves.

History echoes this truth. Consider Maximilian Kolbe, the Polish priest who volunteered to die in place of a fellow prisoner at Auschwitz. Or Irena Sendler, who risked her life to smuggle hundreds of Jewish children out of the Warsaw Ghetto. Think of the firefighters who ran into the burning Twin Towers on 9/11, giving their lives to save strangers. Sacrifice moves us because it points to something greater than self-preservation. But Jesus' story is an entirely different category. It goes eternally further. He dies for his enemies. He made himself the ransom, the sacrifice, the substitute. That kind of love is beyond stunning. He chose to submit, to take our chains of sin off our wrists and place them on his, and to drink his cup to the very bitter bottom. And do you know who he calls us to be…slaves, a loaded cultural term if there ever was one.

How often have you said, “I want to be a slave?” Because that's exactly what Jesus calls us to be: servants of all. Not to lord over others, not to chase recognition, but to pour ourselves out. And that goes against everything we see in our society. We all live sacrificially. Every 'yes' is a 'no' to something else. Sacrifice is inescapable. Sacrifices of energy, time, career ambition to raise a family. Sacrifices of sleep to pursue your dream. Sacrifices of thoughts as you strive to show yourself worthy of love. Yet, this sacrificial living will never truly fill you up. It’s drinking from a cup that always leaves you wanting more, and feeling emptier and emptier. Don’t you see this in our society? In your very thoughts?

We are wired to run from pain, to avoid the messiness of people's lives. Find friends who don’t demand too much, who don’t require you to bandage their wounds. But Jesus flips that upside down. But here’s the difference: we make sacrifices hoping they’ll pay off. Jesus sacrificed knowing it would cost him everything—with no benefit to himself. He drank the cup not to gain, but to give. He shows us true friendship, true love, looks for people whose cup of suffering you can drink with them. That image—the cup—is vivid. It’s an Old Testament metaphor, the cup of God's wrath, the cup of suffering. Jesus asked his disciples then as he asks you and me his disciples now, “Can you drink the cup I drink or be baptized with the baptism I am baptized with?” Paul picks up on that in Romans 6: “We were therefore buried with him through baptism into death.” What kind of death? The death of the comfortable life. The death of your wants. The death of self.

But why? “In order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead through the glory of the Father, we too may live a new life.” A sacrificial life. To pour yourself out even when you know you will never be filled back up by those you serve. That doesn’t sound rewarding, does it?! That sounds like giving up control! That sounds like being a pushover! Being a pushover is not the Christian faith. But Christianity at its core is to look at yourself and say, “Not my will.” But the only way you can pour yourself out is if the Son of Man has first poured himself out for you. And he has.
So where does that leave us? It goes against every fiber of our sinful nature to pour into someone who cannot pour into us. We have no ability on our own to do this. And yet, it’s the most rewarding life. Because when you live knowing your Savior has filled you up, that he has bought you with his own blood, it changes everything. No longer are you seeking from people what only God can give. No longer are you controlled by fear. If Jesus gave his life for you, if he ransomed you, you are free. But what kind of freedom is this? The freedom of being God’s slave, Christ’s servant? Free to give. Free to drink that cup, knowing that one day, in heaven, you will drink a different cup—the cup of salvation. Free to be baptized into suffering, knowing Jesus is carrying the real weight. Free to bear another person’s burdens, even when your own cross is heavy. Jesus redefines greatness—not as status, but as servanthood. And he doesn’t soften the call. He doesn’t say, ‘Be a little less self-centered.’ He says, ‘Be a slave.’ That’s shocking, but it’s freedom.

Think about this in your own life. Have you ever had someone look at you and ask, “Why do you care so much? Why do you bother?” It stuns people. Because deep down, they know they have nothing to offer in return. And maybe you’ve been there too. Maybe you’ve thought, “I don’t even want to be around myself right now. Why would anyone else?” That’s the world’s logic. Cut off the ones who drain you. Stay away from the burdened. But Christians move toward the burdened. Why? Because we know the deepest expression of love ever displayed. Every other religion says, “Prove yourself. Show me you're worthy.” But the Bible says, "God looked down and instead of saying 'show me,’ he said 'I’ll show you.’” Jesus came down. He left glory to take our place. And if that was his purpose, isn’t it ours too? To sacrifice. And maybe that doesn’t mean physically dying for someone. But what about the small sacrifices? The ones no one sees? Time. Energy. Emotion. Loving when it costs you something. We tend to think we’d sacrifice in the big moment, but what about the everyday moments? When you pour into someone and see no change. When you invest and feel like you're wasting your time. The temptation is to say, “Why do I bother?” But then you remember all the times Jesus has called to you, and you haven’t changed. And yet, he keeps coming.

He hasn’t just “bothered” with you. He has taken your place. He has given you his place. And that changes everything. So let’s get practical. The disciples’ issue wasn’t just that they wanted glory. It was that they were seeking it in the wrong places. Right after Jesus tells them about his suffering, their response is, “Who gets the best seat?” No listening. No empathy. Just self-interest. And Jesus redirects them: “Can you drink the cup? Can you be baptized in my suffering?” And their immediate response? “Sure, we can do that.” Because they assumed it meant a throne. It’s our culture’s understanding of sacrifice? “I’ll give things up as long as I have my day in the spotlight! It’ll all be worth it for that glory!”
Isn’t that the message of every self-help book? Hustle. Push. Achieve. One day, it’ll all pay off. But what happens when you finally get the spotlight and realize it wasn’t worth it? The pursuit of self-glory is exhausting. It will burn you out. The sacrifices you make for yourself never bring peace. Jesus offers something different. He swaps life for life. He gave his for you. So now, do you live for yourself? Or for him? “The life I now live, I live in the Son of Man who gave himself for me.” That’s real freedom. Free from chasing approval. Free from needing validation. Free from the exhausting cycle of trying to prove yourself. We sacrifice, not for recognition, but because we are already full. We serve, not to earn, but because we have been given everything.

And now, you can ask a different question: “How can I serve?” Not “What do I get out of this?” but “How do I love, even if it costs me?” Even if the person frustrates you, drains you, inconveniences you. Why? Because you’re doing it for the Son of Man who gave himself for you. He gave you a new life. And yes, this life means drinking the cup of suffering. But it also means one day clinking your glass with Jesus in celebration. Not a cup of wrath. A cup of joy. A cup of home. So what’s the takeaway? Every great story moves us because it echoes the greatest story. The hero who sacrifices everything out of love. But unlike the heroes of fiction, Jesus isn’t just an example. He’s your substitute. He lived the life you couldn’t, died the death you deserved, and rose to give you real life.

Now, what do you do with that life? Chase after your own comfort? Or live like the ransomed one you are? Live fearlessly. Live simply. Follow God. Trust his Word. Love people without needing anything in return. Serve without keeping score. Give without expecting a thank-you. Pour yourself out, knowing you will always be filled up by Jesus. And when you do, you’ll find something stunning. This is where true joy is. Because the deepest storyline of all time isn’t just a story. It’s your reality. A reality that we see so clearly in the Garden of Gethsemane, the final time Jesus speaks of his cup, the ransom price for you and for me.

That cup trembled in his hands. In the darkness of Gethsemane, Jesus staggered beneath the weight of something unseen, something heavier than Roman chains, heavier than the rough wood that will soon dig into his shoulders. The cup. He saw its contents. It is filled to the bitter brim—not just with pain, but with justice. It is the cup of God’s wrath, the full measure of holy anger against every whispered lie, every clenched fist, every careless betrayal, every shame-soaked secret. It is what we deserved. And he knew it. He begs. “Father, if it is possible…” His sweat, thick with blood, drips into the earth, and the night air holds its breath. But there is no other way. And so he lifts it to his lips. He drinks. Not in sips. Not in hesitation. He drains it dry. Every last drop of punishment, every last ounce of separation from the Father, every dark thing you have ever done or will do—he swallows it down so that you never have to. The cup meant for you is now overturned, empty. It cannot touch you.

And what does he give you in its place? A different cup. The cup of salvation. The cup lifted at the table in the upper room, filled with the blood he would spill, the blood that does not accuse but forgives, that does not condemn but redeems. The blood that cries out not for justice, but for mercy. Do you see it? This is what it means that he is your ransom. Not just an example. Not just a martyr. But your substitute. He stood where you should have stood. He suffered what you should have suffered. And now? You are free. Free from the weight of proving yourself. Free from the debt you could never pay. Free to lift your own cup—not in fear, but in gratitude. Because the next time he drinks with you, it won’t be in sorrow. It will be in joy. The wedding feast of the Lamb. The cup of eternity. And you, sitting at the table, redeemed. Whole. Home. Amen.