Sinking In and Sticking Around

John 15:9-17

April 22, 2018
William G. Carter

"As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you; abide in my love. If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love, just as I have kept my Father’s commandments and abide in his love. I have said these things to you so that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be complete."

 ‘This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you. No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends. You are my friends if you do what I command you. I do not call you servants any longer, because the servant does not know what the master is doing; but I have called you friends, because I have made known to you everything that I have heard from my Father. You did not choose me but I chose you. And I appointed you to go and bear fruit, fruit that will last, so that the Father will give you whatever you ask him in my name. I am giving you these commands so that you may love one another.”

To live with scripture is to pay attention to the power of words. In our own time and place, that’s easier said than done. We are deluged with words. There are speedy words like “accelerate,” and slow words like “turtle.” There are rich words like “Cadillac,” and modest words like “Ford.” There are young words like “Instagram” and there are old words like “lavender.” There are even made-up words like “Dilly dilly” and “Bada boom bada boom.”

So what are we to make of a word like “abide”? It sounds like an old word, older than my grandmother who died at 102. She wore lavender, by the way. “Abide” is not a common word, not any more. No one says, “I rented a condo at the Jersey shore and I’m going down there for a week to abide.” No, it’s a verb that most people would store on a shelf in the attic, right up there with “sojourn” and “tarry.”

So it may strike us as unusual that this is one of Gospel of John's favorite words. He uses it again and again. The verb pops up as early as the first chapter. Some upcountry folks see Jesus and ask, "Rabbi, where are you abiding?" (1:38) Some translate that, "staying." Others translate it "remaining." That’s fascinating, given that John says, “He pitched his tent” (1:33) and presumably kept moving.

“Rabbi, where are you abiding?” they ask. And John writes, “So they came and saw where he was abiding, and they abided with him that day” (1:39). 33 times in the Fourth Gospel, 18 times in John’s first letter, it’s the same word. It is his favorite word.

Dale Bruner says this is a relationship word. Abiding signifies more than a visit for tea. It’s different from bunking on the couch. It signifies something deeper than a sleepover with friends. Bruner says to abide with Jesus is “make our home” with him. And specifically in this section of John’s Gospel, to make our home in Christ’s love. To stay there. To remain in that. To dwell there. .

In a restless world of distractions and enticements, what would it look like to stay in Christ's love? When there is another 5K to run, another chore to do, a family gathering to enjoy, anotheractivity to run to?

Sometimes I have the conversation with parents with young suburban children. They will say something like, "We love the church, we want to get out kids there, but there's so much going on elsewhere. We don’t know what to do." We can talk about priorities, about putting God first, about any number of things, and any advice lasts as far as the parking lot. In a hyperactive culture like this, what would it look like to abide anywhere, much less in a church pew?

And please notice, Jesus does not say, “Abide in my congregation,” but “abide in my love.” That’s easier said than done. It might be more difficult than 

A couple of weeks ago, I had a difficult exchange with a man in the community, a member of another congregation. I’m not going to get into details. Suffice it to say it was a clear difference of opinion. Each of us believed he was right, and this guy was convinced I was wrong. I received nasty, contentious emails. Finally, I had to just let it go. There are some battles that are simply not worth fighting.

As I reflected on the matter, it struck me that the whole thing was a distraction from the love of Christ, a love so deep that it covers even the people who are envious, boastful, arrogant, and rude, insisting on their own way. The more I fussed about that small conflict, the more I could sense it was blotting out any love I had - for him, for anybody. 

On human level, I could say "the matter is not worth it." On a clinical level, I could say "He hasa lot of issues." But on a Christian level, I had to let it go and hand it over to God, and wish this man well. He has his own journey to undertake; I have mine, you have yours.

What would it look like, to abide in the love of Christ?

First, it looks like staying. Staying there, not to scurry around, not to look for some other source of solace, but to remain. That's what the word "abide" really means.

I wonder how many human relationships blow apart simply because one person or the other does not stay. Somebody flits emotionally from branch to branch. Or daydream about other fish in the sea. Or for those disenchanted with their circumstance, to proclaim with manufactured righteousness, "The grass is greener on the other side of the fence." People who say that overlook the fundamental truth that it's still grass. It's only grass. It’s not carpet, it's grass. Even for those with big aspirations, it's only more grass.

There is a tendency to overinflate our relationships, to expect too much from them, to demand that the person, or the job, or the church should meet all of our unchecked, unwarranted needs, and then to blow it up with dynamite when it doesn't fit our requirements. That’s not staying. That's something else.

Like the woman who was talking about her marriage, not talking, really, but complaining. It turns out Mr. Right wasn't so perfect after all. Why did she think he would be? “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe if I had a firefighter to rescue me out of a burning building. Or someone to ride along on the roller coast. Or at least somebody who didn’t bore me.” So we had a conversation about it. Was it possible for her to live with a mere human being? 

And if we cultivate such discontent with our human relationships, is it any wonder that we have discontent in our primary spiritual relationship? The sassy kid said to his youth group advisor, "I think I will try Buddhism. Jesus just isn't doing it for me." It was the last straw in a long conversation, so the youth worker sassed him right back, “Tony, why do you think it's all about you?"

Tony said, “What do you mean? Of course it’s about me.” And this very gracious youth worker said, “In that case, let me tell you about you. You never come to worship two weeks in a row,much less one week out of four. We never see you at a Bible study, you never show up when the rest of the gang is engaged in a service project, never volunteer to help anybody out. What do you think Christ is, your own personal faucet that you can tap for living water whenever you're in need or in the mood?"  Pretty direct, but it was the appropriate word.

Then she got to the heart of it all. “Tony,” she said, “I’m going to tell you something out of love: Jesus is risen. He is present. He continues to wait for you to stay with him.”

The spiritual life, the Easter life, is one of staying with Christ. We won't see him, we can't know him, until we stay with him and abide in his love. So it’s more than merely remaining with Jesus, it’s sinking in. It’s putting down roots in his grace. And it’s praying through our dissatisfactions until we are consumed by his sufficiency.

To draw on John's language, abiding in Christ and his love is to sink into the two gifts of his incarnation: grace and truth. "The law came through Moses," says the Gospel, "but grace and truth come through Jesus Christ."

The law is good. God speaks. The words are a gift. They are Torah to teach us how to walk, how to work, even how to rest. God’s Words are a gift. 

But when the Light comes into the darkness, we see who we really are. In the face of holy brilliance, we discover our own shadows. When we are smug about all our activity, we avoid the truth that comes when we must receive and not produce.  People like me are especially so full of words that we are afraid of what might bubble up in the silences. To face all of this is to sink into the truth, to face the truth that no matter how competent and put-together we want others to think we are, there are fractures and shadows. 

We are incomplete without the Love that can heal, hold, and re-commission us, the love that binds us to both friend and stranger. And in that truth, Christ reveals the grace. The heart of the Gospel is that the cleansing power of love will stay with us as we are, promising to scrub away the dirt between our toes and the grime within our hearts, a Love that renews us again and again so that we might love others.

This is the end of it all: to sink into the love of Christ so that we find ourselves by loving others. What Jesus reveals about God is that love is expansive, not restrictive. Love abounds and doesn’t reduce. The more deeply we love, the more we are able to love. If we could abide in such love, it would be enough. Enough for us, enough for others.

Abide – the Greek word is “meno.” Someone told me that is the root word for “mansion” or “manse.” It’s a place to dwell, a place to be at home.

It reminds me of a little pamphlet somebody gave me in college. Maybe some of you have seen it somewhere in your journey. It was called, “My Heart, Christ’s Home.” When I was nineteen, it was a helpful tract, offering a guided tour of how Christ can come into all the rooms of the place where you dwell. 

These days, however, I have come to sense the title of the little pamphlet may be too small, too individualistic. So let’s flip it and see how big it is: “Christ’s Heart, My Home” – and your home, his heart is the true home for others. In fact, it can be the home, God willing, even for our enemies: Christ’s Heart. 

So the Spirit of God invites us today sink into that, to stay with that. And as we do, we discover all over again that “God is love, and those who abide in love abide in God, and God abides in them” (1 John 3:16).

The Best Way to Overcome Ignorance

Acts 3:12-26

Easter 3

April 15, 2018

William G. Carter

 “And now, friends, I know that you acted in ignorance, as did also your rulers. In this way God fulfilled what he had foretold through all the prophets, that his Messiah would suffer. Repent therefore, and turn to God so that your sins may be wiped out, so that times of refreshing may come from the presence of the Lord, and that he may send the Messiah appointed for you, that is, Jesus, who must remain in heaven until the time of universal restoration that God announced long ago through his holy prophets. 

A week after Holy Humor Sunday, the expectation lingers that there might be one more joke. So here’s one that I like:

A guy is sitting at home when he hears a knock at the door. He opens the door and sees a snail on the porch. He picks up the snail and throws it as far as he can. Three years later, there’s a knock on the door. He opens it and sees the same snail. The snail says, “What was that all about?”

That’s the point of Peter’s speech. In the days after the death and resurrection of Jesus, Peter addresses the question, “What was that all about?”

Peter and John are up on the steps of the Jerusalem temple. In the name of Jesus, they have just helped a man crippled from birth to stand up. Not only to stand, but the text says he started “leaping and praising God.” It’s an orthopedic miracle, performed free of charge. The man used to beg for handouts, and now he’s up and jumping around. Peter and John are instant celebrities. What’s that all about?

Peter says, “It’s about Jesus.” Don’t stare at Peter and John. Don’t scratch your head. Don’t ask them for an autograph. This is a sign that Jesus Christ is alive. Easter was not a single day; it is an ongoing reality. Every once in a while, the evidence bubbles up. A man who couldn’t walk for his entire life is now up and dancing. The Christ who spent a lot of his time among us healing other people is alive and still healing.

It’s an astonishing moment. The storyteller says the healing created a crowd. People rush in. They are curious. They are dazzled. How can this be?

Peter is never one to turn down an available microphone. He turns the question back on the crowd to say, yes, indeed, how can this be? Jesus was among us. He healed scores of people. His power changed a lot of lives. The were no longer weak, no longer ignored, no longer reduced to begging those going to pray in the Temple for a couple of bucks for bread. Jesus gave life to people. That’s what he did and everybody knows it.

“Yet you rejected him,” says Peter. “You rejected him and handed him over to be killed.” What was that all about?

It’s a good question. We don’t ask it very much once Easter is over. Why did they reject Jesus?

If the question comes up, it’s usually sometime between the hosannas on Palm Sunday and the triumph on Easter. One of the curious things about American Christianity is that we have shouts of joy on Palm Sunday, and then we have more shouts of joy on Easter. Some people never notice that, in between, somebody dies.

From time to time, I’ve done an informal survey during Holy Week. I wander up and down the aisles of the supermarket and wait until I see somebody I recognize.

• Then I ask, “Are we going to see you on Maundy Thursday?” “Oh, I don’t think so,” somebody will say. “It’s too dark and it’s kind of depressing.”

• Are you able to come to worship on Good Friday? “Well, no, we are going to hard-boil some eggs and color them. It’s a good day to take off.”
• So I change my approach. We chat for a bit, then I say, “One of my favorite worship services of the year is on Maundy Thursday. Do you think you can come?” “We have to pack for Disney World.”
• In quiet desperation, I try one more time: “Hey, we have a fresh approach to Good Friday. There’s a service at noon; it used to be three hours long, with six sermons (that was kind of grim), but we’ve shrunk it down to 58 minutes. It’s not so bad. I hope you can come.” He said, “Does anybody go to that anymore?”

Why do you suppose people in our own day celebrate the death and resurrection of Jesus by ignoring the death?

Maybe it’s because of our cultural obsession with success. Nobody likes a downer. Just think positive thoughts. Put together a little dance troupe and sing, “Look on the bright side of life.” Jesus is victorious over death? Right? Isn’t that the point? He is stronger, mightier, more powerful. I believe I’ve said some of those things myself.

If that’s the message that gets you through the bumps in life, I understand that. There is some hard-earned wisdom that comes from an upward-orientation. So much so, that I hate to bring up two small warnings. First, just because you expect everything to turn out well doesn’t mean that it will; we still have to deal with the truth that we are unfinished human beings, with flaws, failures, and feelings of inadequacy.

That reminds me of a psychological study somebody did about ten years ago. A team of researchers visited a number of those mega-churches that emphasize positive thinking and uplifting music. Know what they discovered? The rate of clinical depression is far greater in places like that. That might be why the people go there, to feel better… and it’s not working.

But there is a second warning for those who wish to avoid the dark side and emphasize the positive. Here it is: the Risen Christ has scars. He comes back and says to those who love him: see the nail prints? Easter does not patch him up. Christ is alive, thoroughly alive, and he is scarred. His scars are a reminder of what kind of world this is, even though he is alive.

So that’s what Peter’s speech is trying to address. He will not let the crowds sweep him away after a miracle; Jesus did plenty of miracles and somebody nailed him to a tree. “This Jesus was the Holy One, the Righteous One,” he says. “He was the Author of life, the one whose very name made this man strong and gave him perfect health. And you killed him. God raised him from the dead – but God did that because you killed him.”

And dare I ask, one more time: “What was that all about?” What was that cross – and that resurrection - all about? Peter answers with a single word: “Ignorance.” “You and your leaders killed him out of ignorance.”

Now, that’s a harsh description, don’t you think? We are Presbyterians, most of us. We believe in the power of education. Wherever Presbyterians have gone, we have started schools and colleges. We expect our preachers to have a lot of schooling, and if there are lapses (and you know that there are), we expect the preachers to study and keep learning. We want to eradicate ignorance!

And yet, a handful of years ago, our denominational offices had a financial crisis. They had to make some cuts. So do you know the first thing they cut? The fundraising department – the stewardship department.

Do you get a sense, maybe, of what kind of ignorance Peter is talking about? It’s not a lack of knowledge; it’s a lack of something else.

When I was in seminary, I spent my summer vacations working for a highway road crew. It was probably the last honest work I ever did. Here’s the way it worked: I was working on a master's degree, so I was at the bottom of the employment ladder. That meant filling in the potholes and scooping up the woodchucks. And when word leaked out I was going to Princeton, they gave me a nickname: The Professor. It was not a compliment.

It was a good corrective to the rarified air of my Ivy League seminary. My co-workers were good people, hard-working people. Some of them had a high school diploma. Some didn't even have that. But they were full of hard-earned wisdom. And they also knew that you could have a lot of schooling and still be a fool.

One day, a guy in a suit and tie ran through a traffic stop on a work site. In his haste, he almost hit one of the workers. One of the other men on the crew stepped out into the lane, blocked his passage, and waved a shovel wildly at the transgressor’s windshield. The man in the suit rolled down the window. The crew boss yelled, “Hey, Mr. Einstein, didn’t you see the signs or the guy with a flag?”

The man in the suit said, “I’m late. Get out of my way.” He rolled up the window and sped away. I will spare you some of the language he never got to hear. Suffice it to say, the men on the road crew didn’t think of him very highly. They thought that very self-important man was a fool.

Can we see Peter’s point? The government officials of Rome were the most privileged people of the empire. The religious leaders of Jerusalem were the best educated people in their city. To accuse them of ignorance is not a critique of their education or intelligence. It is a description of the darkness in their hearts.

It is easy to identify when smart and powerful people are afraid. They lie, they misdirect, they create alternative controversies. They will stop at nothing to eliminate those who speak the truth. At the root of it all is the presumption that they can save their own skin by deception and cunning.

“God told us it was going to be like this,” said Peter to the crowd. “God sent the prophets, one after another, to speak the truth to power, and power did everything it could to silence the truth.” This is the age-old script, recurring in every age. And the diagnosis, according to Peter, is “ignorance.”

We have heard this diagnosis before. On the cross, Jesus looks upon a fearful, angry world and prays for this world’s redemption. Remember the prayer? “Father, forgive them, they know not what they do.” (Luke 23:34) They “know not,” agnostos – it’s the same word. “Father, forgive them, they are ignorant.”

The diagnosis will be given again. Another apostle, Paul of Tarsus, will make his way to Athens, home of the great thinkers and philosophers. He is no intellectual slouch, so he goes into the market place of ideas to talk about Jesus. On the way, he passes by one statue after another, each one dedicated to a different Greek god or goddess. Apollo, Athena, Aphrodite, Dionysus, Hermes, Poseidon, and Zeus are all there, plus one more – a statue to the “unknown god.” Just in case there was one that they were missing!

Paul says, “Let me tell you about that unknown god. That is the ‘agnostos’ god, the God you do not know, even though he is the source and destination of your life. That’s the God who raised Jesus from the dead. Smart people of Athens, this God has overlooked the seasons of human ignorance, but now commands all people everywhere to repent.” (Acts 17:30)

“This is a strange kind of ignorance,” Fred Craddock says. "Repent of your ignorance. Of all the things to do with ignorance - repent of it! It must lie somewhere deeper, like some unwillingness to open the eyes and heart to God, to always be knowing and therefore not knowing. Always be on my own and therefore not God's own. To work hard as a student, get a 4-point average, and miss the point. That's what Luke is talking about.”[1]

Indeed it is a strange kind of ignorance. I think of that moment right after God calls the prophet Isaiah. Isaiah listens, objects, pushes back, and then breaks into song, “Here I am, Lord! Is it I, Lord? I have heard your voice calling me in the night.” He’s excited, thrilled really; it is on the threshold of becoming a Broadway musical.

But then God gives him the commission: “Go to my people and say, “You keep listening, but do not comprehend; keep looking, but do not understand.” And God gets sarcastic: “Make the mind of this people dull, and stop their ears, and shut their eyes, so that they may not look with their eyes, and listen with their ears, and comprehend with their minds, and turn and be healed.” (Isaiah 6:9-10)

There is a kind of ignorance that has nothing to do with a person’s intelligence. It’s the kind of ignorance that declares, “I’m always right, it’s all about me, and I don’t need anybody but myself.” How tragic are the consequences of the kind of stupidity that lodges in the heart!

There is a way out. That’s the good news which Peter announces. And if you promise not to cheapen it, I’ll tell you what it is: humility. The best way we renounce it, the only way to renounce it, is to trust there is a God wiser than we are, a God who sees clearly even when we distort, a God who is committed to healing what we have broken, a God who ultimately will make all things right. Repentance is returning to that God, the real God, the God who would not let our great mistake of crucifying his Son cancel the great love he has for us and the world.

And that’s why we are here, and why we return to worship every week. It’s our way to turn from our sins and turn back to God. This is more than an empty ritual; it is the means by which we are cleansed and renewed. If the world could be saved by our own strength and wisdom, it would be have been saved by now. Even our best efforts, no matter how good they are, are flawed and temporary. Sometimes we do all the right things, but not for all the right reasons.  

But we can return. We can begin again. We can always begin again. And our humility is God’s opportunity.

(c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved.

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[1] Fred B. Craddock, sermon “The Universal Dilemma.”

I May Be Fooling Myself

1 John 1:1-2:2

Easter 2

April 8, 2018

William G. Carter

“If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us. If we confess our sins, he who is faithful and just will forgive us our sins and cleanse us from all unrighteousness.” 

On a day of Easter hilarity, we have a text about fooling ourselves. We have heard the line many times to introduce our Prayer of Confession: If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us. These words from a preacher in the early church remind us that we are capable of deceiving ourselves.

Sometimes we believe some things in order to ignore other things. Did you hear the one about the Irishman who walks into a pub? The barman asks him, "What are ye drinking?" He says, "Three pints o' Guinness, if ye please."

So, the barman brings him three pints and the man begins to alternately sip one, then the other, then the third until they're gone. Then he orders three more pints. The barman says, "Now, I know ye may be worried about running out, but ye don't have to order three at a time. I can keep an eye on your drink, and when ye get low, I'll bring ye a fresh one."

"No, 'tis not that," says the man. “Ye see, I have two brothers, one in France and one in the States. We made a vow to each other that every Friday night, wherever in the world we might be, we'd still drink a pint together. So, at this very moment, me brothers are havin' three pints too.  We're drinkin' together as a family."

The barman thought this was very touching.  Every Friday, as soon as he saw the man come into the pub, he started to draw three pints for him.

Then, one week the man came in and ordered only two pints.  He drank them down and ordered two more. The barman came up to him with a long face. "My friend, I'd just like to say I'm sorry that one of your brothers has died."

The man said, "No, 'tis not that. Me brothers are fine. I've gone on the wagon."

Look at that: he’s fooling himself. And he’s not the only one.

Ever see a fool? Especially a person who fools himself? They are easy to spot, and when we do see them, and identify them, what we see is an obvious lapse:

·         The wheel’s spinning, but the hamster is dead.

·         He fell out of the stupid tree and hit every branch on the way down.

·         He is a few clowns short of a circus.

·         There’s too much yardage between the goal posts.

·         The cheese slid off his cracker.

·         His belt doesn’t go through all the loops.

·         He is living proof that evolution is not true.

Or in Robin William’s famous description, “One taco short of a combo platter.”

And this may be a bit controversial, but men are not the only fools. They may be the most obvious ones, but this is a time of inclusion. Consider the classic “blonde joke.” The old adage is that “blondes have more fun,” but the fun may be at their own expense:

·         Why do blondes tip-toe past medicine cabinets? So they don’t wake up the sleeping pills.

·         How do you keep a blonde busy? Write “flip” on both sides of a sheet of paper.

·         What did the blonde say after glimpsing a box of Cheerios? “Donut seeds!”

·         Why do blondes stare at orange juice containers for hours on end? Because they say “concentrate.”

·         What do you call a blonde with a brain? A golden retriever.

·         Why did the blonde put lipstick on her forehead? She was desperately trying to make up her mind.

Now, to be fair, my wife didn’t think any of those were funny, and she’s a brunette. In fact, she looks sideways whenever there’s a joke that could possibly demean another person in some way.

Like this one: “Your mama is so fat that when she sits on a quarter, a booger pops out of George Washington’s nose.” (We can thank comedian Paula Poundstone for that one.)

Foolishness, stupidity, human misery, and boogers – those are the raw materials of successful humor. We make fun of important things or other people, maybe to feel a little better about ourselves. But watch out: we need to be careful that the joke’s not on us.

As the text says today, “If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us. That, as they say, reminds me of a joke. A friend sent it along, just for today:

A husband is having dinner out with his wife. She keeps looking at this man at another table. Can’t keep her eyes off of him. The other man, of course, has noticed her. He keeps smiling, nodding, admiring her, sitting a little taller in his chair. Finally, it becomes so noticeable that the husband speaks up, and asks, “What’s he got that I haven’t got?”

She says, “Awareness.” Husband says, “What’s that?”

My friend says his wife gave him that joke. He’s not sure what it means. Not yet.

I think it means we are completely capable of deceiving ourselves, of going about the foolish work of making ourselves look better than we are. That is a very human inclination. All of us probably do this. Most of us don’t want to get caught.

In a book called Vital Lies, Simple Truths, Daniel Goleman tells about John Dean. Some may remember him as a character from the Watergate scandal of a generation ago. He was President Nixon’s legal counsel, which meant he was up to his nose in corruption, deception, and cover-up. When he gave testimony to the Senate Watergate Committee, he amazed the committee members with precise details about who said what, when they said it, and who else was in the room.

However, when the Watergate tapes were finally pried loose from President Nixon and played for the committee, Dean’s account was revealed to be a “wishful memory.” Like a lot of us, especially as my kids say about me, Dean remember some things that didn’t quite happen. And surprise, surprise, most of what he said he remembered put in a much more positive light than was the case. He remembered what he hoped was the truth.  

And Goleman, the psychologist, suggests this probably wasn’t even conscious.[1] The truth got twisted because Dean got scared, or because the situation was tense, or because there was a lot at stake. There’s a lesson here for all of us, namely, I may be fooling myself.

“If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us.”  This is what an early church leader declared as a general truth about the human race. We don’t know what prompted him to say it.  Maybe he discovered the church treasurer had her hand in the money bag and lied about it. Or perhaps he has listened to a preacher who did not believe a word of his own sermons. Or maybe he discovered that some hypocrites had infiltrated the church building.

Or maybe he was talking about people outside of the church as much as he may have been speaking to people in the church. There is some primal need in every person to lie, to hide, to avoid exposure – and then to cover up what they have done or refused to do.

When we hear the news about those who steal, or those who twist the truth, or those who go to elaborate lengths to deceive and hide, we should never be surprised. I am at the age that I frequently take pity on them, because I recognize them all too well. Ever since the Garden of Eden, we have been prone to reach for what is not ours and then to lie about it. Or we don’t reach for it and we still lie about it.

Did you hear about the ninety-two-year old priest who was venerated by everybody in town for his holiness? He was also a member of the Rotary Club. Every time the club met, he would be there, always on time, and always seated in his favorite spot in a corner of the room. When he stood to bless the meal, everybody listened.

One day the priest disappeared. It was as if he had vanished into thin air. The townsfolk searched all over and could find no trace of him. A month later, he resurfaced at the Rotary Club meeting, sitting in his usual corner. “Father,” everyone cried, “were have you been?” “I just served a thirty-day sentence in prison,” he said.

“In prison?” they cried. “Father, you couldn’t hurt a fly. What happened?”

           

“It’s a long story,” said the priest, “but briefly, this is what happened. I bought myself a train ticket to go into the city. I was standing on the platform waiting for the train to arrive when this stunningly beautiful woman appears on the arm of a policeman. She was gorgeous. She looked at me, turned to the cop and said, ‘He did it. I’m certain he’s the one who did it.’ Well, to tell you the truth, I was so flattered I pleaded guilty.”[2]

Now, talk about fooling yourself!

Brennan Manning was one of my favorite spiritual writers. He was a wonderful writer and a total mess as a human being. In short, he was a recovering alcoholic who loved Jesus. Brennan says the best way to save our lives is through two different kinds of honesty. Did you know there are two different kinds? Honesty about ourselves, and an even deeper honesty about God. Here’s how he says it:

The Good News means we can stop lying to ourselves. The sweet sound of amazing grace saves us from the necessity of self-deception. It keeps us from denying that though Christ was victorious, the battle with lust, greed, and pride still rages within us. As a sinner who has been redeemed, I can acknowledge that I am often unloving, irritable, angry, and resentful with those closest to me. When I go to church I can leave my white hat at home and admit I have failed. God not only loves me as I am, but also knows me as I am. Because of this, I don’t need to apply spiritual cosmetics to make myself presentable to Him. I can accept ownership of my poverty and powerlessness and neediness . . . My deepest awareness of myself is that I am deeply loved by Jesus Christ and I have done nothing to earn it or deserve it.^[3]

So, the first word today is to simply get over ourselves. To laugh at ourselves. To give up all pretending and to knock off all superiority. To present ourselves to God, as we are, and not as we imagine ourselves to be. God must deal with us as we are – and the sooner that we can be honest about who we are, the sooner God can get to the hard work of rescuing us in Christ.

This can be difficult for some of us to do. We love to manufacture an image, as if the image of God is not enough. Why can’t we simply see who we are, and laugh? Our honesty is God’s opportunity. The great thing about a sense of humor is that it sets us free – free to be who we are, free to become what God is redeeming us to be. A healthy sense of humor is the best defense against arrogance, pride, and superiority. If we can laugh about something, particularly something in ourselves, there’s a much better chance that we will never be so holy that God wants nothing to do with us. And so, in the name of Christ, we laugh. We laugh at ourselves, and we laugh even more at what God is doing in us.

·         After all, you have heard it said: Jews don’t recognize Jesus as Messiah. Protestants don’t recognize the Pope as the head of the church. And Baptists don’t recognize each other in the liquor store.

·         A woman went to work at a lemon grove and the foreman thought she was much too qualified. The foreman said, “Do you even have any experience picking lemons?” She said, “Sure do. I’ve been divorced four times.”

·         Do you know how to keep a ditzy person in the shower? Give them a shampoo bottle that says, “Shampoo, rinse, repeat.”

·         What did God say after creating man? “I can do better than this.”

·         Some advice for anybody who wants to get married: look for an archaeologist. The older you are, the more interested your spouse becomes.

·         Did you hear about the preacher who stepped into the pulpit, preached the sermon, and the congregation started clapping and yelling, “Once more! Once more!” So, he preached the whole sermon again, and the congregation screamed even louder for him to preach it one more time. So, he did. And they yelled for him to preach it again. He thanked them and asked why – and somebody yelled, “It’s getting better!”

Don’t be fooled.

(c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved.

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^[1] Retold by Cornelius Plantinga Jr., Not the Way It’s Supposed to Be (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1995) p. 106

^[2] Anthony De Mello, Taking Flight: A Book of Story Meditations (New York: Doubleday, 1988) 113-114.

^[3] Brennan Manning, The Ragamuffin Gospel (Sisters, OR: Multnomah Publisher, 1990) 25, 27.