Over the years, advertising has undergone a subtle but important shift. Originally, advertising attempted to convince people of the superiority of the product. In the 70s, for example, Pepsi began a longstanding ad campaign called the “Pepsi Challenge. In it, people were shown taking a blind taste test between Pepsi and Coke, to demonstrate that people liked the taste of Pepsi better than Coke. (I’d like to meet those people because I’m not sure they exist.)

Advertising, though it perhaps began as an argument for why you ought to buy something, has become a different kind of thing.

Neil Postman writes:

The television commercial is not at all about the character of products to be consumed. It is about the character of the consumers of products. Images of movie stars and famous athletes, of serene lakes and macho fishing trips, of elegant dinners and romantic interludes, of happy families packing their station wagons for a picnic in the country–these tell nothing about the product being sold. But they tell everything about the fears, fancies and dreams of those who might buy them. What the advertiser needs to know is not what is right about the product but what is wrong about the buyer (Neil Postman, Amusing Ourselves to Death, 128).

It’s called “Aspirational Advertising.” And somehow, we know that instinctively, don’t we?

Beautiful, intelligent, successful people buy everything from Old Spice body wash to De Beers diamonds. It’s not that these products are touted beside other products as superior. It’s that in order to use or own these products you have to be a certain kind of person.

We live in a culture that values money, power, and beauty. If you want to get ahead in this world, our culture is quick to let you know just who you need to be, what you need to do, how much money you should have in your bank account, and when you get the right amount of all of it, just how you should look to be able to keep it.

We know what it looks like to occupy the top rungs on the socio-economic ladder, don’t we?

We know what kinds of cars you’re supposed to drive, what kinds of watches you ought to wear, what your favorite tequila should be, where you’re supposed to vacation.

We know what you’re supposed to look like, how smooth your skin’s supposed to be, and how good your breath should smell.

Disney’s taught us how little girls are supposed to look. And Marvel has taught us how little boys are supposed to want to look.

We’ve gotten the message. We know what glory looks like.

Large and in charge. According to our culture, a meaningful life must include not just excellences, but you have to excel in something that everybody recognizes as worth possessing. Outside the State Fair, for example, being the best pickle canner isn’t going to bring you the kind of acclaim our culture believes is worth pursuing.

We know what true glory looks like.

Apparently, James and John have gotten the memo, too. They’ve bought the age old belief about what it means to get ahead in life. So, they come to Jesus and they ask if—when he comes into his glory—they can have seats on the 50 yard-line.

Of course, there’s a flaw in their plan, isn’t there?

Unfortunately for them, it’s not immediately apparent from where they sit. In fact, they might be forgiven for not understanding their error, cutting against the grain as it does.

I mean, they’re not entirely dim. They know enough to know that this Jesus is going places. They’re aware of the rumblings about Jesus being a “messiah.” They know the “Jesus train” is about to leave the station. The problem is … they believe it’s going in a completely different direction from where Jesus is actually headed.

They think they know, but they show by their wrangling for seats in first class that they don’t have a clue.

Our Gospel this morning comes right after what is regularly called the “third passion prediction”—that is, the third of those passages that discuss Jesus’ immanent betrayal into the hands of his enemies.