A few weeks ago, I told a story about Alexander Whyte, the great Scot Presbyterian preacher.

Once an evangelist came to Edinburgh, and to enliven his preaching, he began criticizing the local ministers, among them Dr. Whyte. A man who heard the criticisms came the next day to Dr. Whyte. “The Evangelist said that Dr. Hood Wilson... was not a converted man,” he told Dr. Whyte. The great preacher rose from his chair in anger. “The rascal!” “The rascal! Dr. Wilson was not a converted man!” The visitor was amazed at the extent of Dr. Whyte’s response. He continued. “That wasn’t all he said, Dr. Whyte — he said that you were not a converted man either.”

Alexander Whyte stopped and sank into his chair. He put his face in his hands, and for a moment did not say a word. Then he looked up to his friend, and said with great earnestness, “Leave me, Friend, leave me! I must examine my heart.” (William Sangster, The Pure in Heart pp. 161 - 162)

There is another story out of Dr. Whyte’s life that shows the spiritual sensitivity of this remarkable man. An admiring worshipper was expressing her admiration and appreciation for Dr. Whyte’s message as she left the service one Sunday morning; She was extravagant in her praise, including, “O, Dr. Whyte, if I could just be like you - if I could be as holy as you are.”

With a quivering voice that reflected the earnestness of his soul, Dr. Whyte said, “Madam, if you could see into my soul, you would spit into my face.”

Overstated, maybe — but the picture is there — the picture of healthy self-distrust and self-examination at which we want to look today as we begin this Lenten season, and as we come to the Lord’s table for Holy Communion.

The setting for our scripture is the Last Supper of Jesus with his disciples. They had planned a kind of secret rendezvous. The disciples had gone into the town, and they found a little upper room, and they have prepared it for this gathering.

Mark is very brief in telling the story. He doesn’t talk about the audacious hypocrisy of Judas. He doesn’t record the story of servanthood that is central in John’s telling of the story – Jesus taking the basin and the towel and washing the disciples’ feet. Rather, Mark is sparse with his words. He gives a brief and vivid sketch of that occasion to fix our attention on the betrayal of Jesus, and the foreshadowing of the cross that makes this last night with his disciples such a night of throbbing intensity.

When they had settled down to the meal together, Mark says, Jesus hit them with that shocking word, “Truly, I say to you, one of you will betray me, one who is eating with me.”

And then Mark fixes our attention on the “unanimous of those faithful hearts at the thought that they could be guilty.” (Maclaren, The Gospel of St. Mark, Ex positions of Holy Scripture p. 178).

That’s what we want to center on this morning - that haunting question, “Lord, is it I?”

Those disciples thought it impossible, “as they felt the throbbing of their own hearts — and yet – and yet — might it be?” So they began to probe their hearts deeper to see what dark gulfs of unfaithfulness might be there. Looking at their faith that had not yet been thoroughly tested — could it stand the test — the test of the cross that was coming soon? They probed the inner recesses of their soul to see what lurking demons might be there that would lead them astray away from this One whom they had vowed to follow.

The asking of the question suggests the fact of sin in all of us. Do we need to argue that? We know it too well, don’t we? The fact of sin in our life.

But — what about the awful possibility of the expression of that darkest sin — the sin that claws at our tender sensitivities — that we may be the traitor — that we may betray Christ. We can’t even begin to think of that possibility, can we? It violates everything we feel, the thought of it tears at our hearts — that we would betray Christ.

But think the roots of sin are in all of us. The gravest sins have their beginnings in our yielding to very common motives. Don’t let that pass over your mind too quickly – the gravest sins have their beginning to very common motives. Think of how many people are killed in a domestic conflict because of anger – really the kind of anger that all of us know.

Studies show that violence occurs between family members more often than it occurs in any other setting except with armies in war and police during riots.

No wonder Paul cried out in despair: “For the good that I would I do not, and the evil that I would not, that I do, O wretched man that I am, who will deliver me?”

“Lord, is it I ?” — a probing question that won’t let us off the hook.

II

And as we probe, a second truth comes to light. There is progress in sin is a pervasive presence in our life. Sin doesn’t grab control of our lives all at once and take us captive in one ? We don’t arrive at the precipice of extreme depravity in one big step, or two, or three or four or five more often than not, it’s a slow process as sin progresses in its pervasive presence and control of our lives.

In his autobiography, To Catch an Angel, Robert Russell tells the story of his growing blindness:

At six, while the shadowy borders crept closer and closer, finally to engulf me, I slipped quietly into that land where there is no light, where the yellow sunshine no longer lies in pools of liquid gold on polished mahogany, where white lilacs no longer hang like ghostly lamps in a green night. Here the sunshine is warmth, the mahogany smoothness, and the lilac a deep well of fragrance into which one can plunge and drowse away one’s life.

But this change of the sun from light to warmth, of the mahogany from color to smoothness, and of the lilac tree next door from whiteness to fragrance, was not dramatic. It was slow, very slow; it took more than a year.

I was too young to be firmly committed to living in a world of light; and so, as I wandered through the land of evening and at last crossed its borders, my ears became accustomed to the darkness, and as my dependence upon them grew, so did their power. So gradually did they accept the function of my eyes that there was no specific time when I knew the change had been completed. There was no crisis. I did not know when I became a citizen of the night.

Is this not the way our lives are built? One decision after another, one experience after another — and our destiny is set. This is more often a subtle, slow process, hardly ever dramatic. Here a choice, there a choice, and the die is cast.

Our tests do not always come up in explicit fashion. They come, and we respond according to the “set” of our lives.

We need to remember that sin’s pervasive presence and power in our lives comes progressively as we fail to keep vigilance against it. We need to constantly ask, “Lord, is it I?”

III

That leads to the last truth our probing reveals. To be self-distrustful is a healthy spiritual stance.

“When the consciousness of possible falling is brought home to us, if we are wise, we shall carry out all our doubts to Jesus. There is safety in asking “Is it I?”

It may be painful to bare our inmost selves before him. More than we want to see about ourselves may be revealed, and that is never pleasant.

Daily living then, is serious business. We can’t amble carelessly along the road of life foolishly thinking that the way we walk today will have nothing to do with how we go tomorrow.

Life has a law that is immutable. We pay tomorrow for our foolishness today. Marital infidelity today means heartbreak tomorrow for our foolishness today. Calloused self-centeredness today means loneliness and desolation tomorrow. Cultivation and gratification of only the physical senses today means futility and emptiness tomorrow.

The opposite is true also. A life committed to Christ, invested in meaningful service, disciplined in moral responsibility and spiritual sensitivity, means growth and eventual maturity. It means strength and resources for whatever the future might hold.

It’s interesting to examine the way the different Gospel writers tell the story. John doesn’t record that each disciple asked “Lord, is it I?” In response to Jesus’ shocking declarative that one would betray him.

John alone records that he asked Jesus, “Who is it?” Now here is a suggestive question for our closing. Was John so bathed in a consciousness of Jesus’ love, and did he have such a deep commitment to Christ that betrayal of that love was impossible.

He alone put the question. Scripture describes him in a position at dinner “close to Jesus.” In fact, it says specifically, he “was lying close to the breast of Jesus.”

Let that be our closing picture. As John asked the question, “Who is it?” the Gospel repeats the fact that he was “lying close to Jesus’ breast.” Get the picture? If we stay close to the breast, the heart of Jesus, the likelihood of our betrayal is unthinkable — certainly very remote. The consciousness of Christ’s love, and our spiritual disciplines which enable us to stay close to him is our sure defense against faithlessness, betrayal and sin.

So draw near to him now as you come to His table of love, and make a fresh commitment to stay close to Him.

In T. S. Eliot’s play, The Cocktail Party, Edward, the discouraged husband, gropes in the darkness of his own soul. Unable to love his wife and caught in his own self-condemnation, he describes his despair in these graphic words:

There was a door
And I could not open it. I could not touch the handle.
Why could I not walk out of my prison?
It was only yesterday
That Damnation took place. And now I must live with it.
Day by day, hour by hour, forever and ever.

But I ask you, was it only yesterday that damnation took place? Every decision we make restricts the opportunity for every other decision and narrows the range of our choice.