The Power to be Born

The Power to Be Born
John 1:1-18
Christmas Eve 2021
William G. Carter

¹²But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God, ¹³who were born, not of blood or of the will of the flesh or of the will of man, but of God. 

Of all the occasions when I have read this text, I’ve never paid much attention to a phrase in the 12^th verse: He gave power to become children of God. As I read it tonight, the inference is clear: Christmas is for children. Not just the little ones, the chronologically advantaged. Not merely the ancient ones, either, who are now dependent on others for their meals and their care. Christmas is for anyone of any age who is becoming a child. 

It's a striking phrase, not only because it’s a metaphor. It’s striking because there aren’t a lot of kids in the Gospel of John. I could only find one, at the end of chapter four and he’s offstage. It’s a sick little boy in Capernaum healed by Jesus from a distance. He’s the only official child in John’s book.

By contrast, Jesus refers to his followers as children. In chapter 13, he says, “Little children, I’m going away (13:33).” In chapter 21, he returns to say, “Children, have you caught any fish?” (21:5). In the kingdom of God, there aren’t any adults. Only children.

Some say Christmas comes only for children. That depends on what you mean by Christmas. The holidays do become quieter as we age. Old folks like don’t miss the five AM wakeup shake, the shouts of excitement before a slug of coffee, the ripping of wrapping paper, the loud toys, and all of that. These days, my favorite Christmas memories come from sleeping in, having brunch before opening a single package, and sitting quietly by a well-lit tree before the shepherds show up.

The Gospel of John describes Christmas by declaring Jesus “gave power to become children of God.” Maybe he anticipates the words of G.K. Chesterton, the Catholic curmudgeon. Chesterton said, “The great majority… will keep Christmas with Christmas gifts and Christmas benedictions; they will continue to do it; and suddenly one day they will wake up and discover why. That’s what Christmas can do to us.

John calls it “becoming children.” He couldn’t announce it at a better time. The news organizations have written their annual Christmas article about how many fewer people believe in all of it. Self-affirmed Christians in our nation stand at about 63%. My professional opinion is that 37% have decided to be honest.

Becoming a child is challenging work, especially in a world that teaches us to claw your way to the top, hate our enemies, and consume everything we can get our hands on. It gets no easier when you discover the hypocrisy of those who wave their religiosity in our faces; but tonight is not the time to discuss that televangelist in Texas who pays no taxes on his $6 million mansion, or the salacious habits of the now-former president of a religious college, or those who spout pious platitudes but have otherwise lost their minds.

No, we’ll let that go… and explore what it means to become a child.

Admittedly it is a confusing notion, becoming a child. A couple of pages after John says it, he tells of a man who’s confused. He’s a lifelong religious expert, well respected, but something’s missing. Jesus says, “You have to be born from above.” Nicodemus says, “Can somebody like me climb into my mother’s womb a second time?” No, silly. Birth doesn’t happen through our climbing. Birth is a gift. A complete gift. A Christmas gift.

Nobody chooses to be born. Not one of us. Life is a gift. The life of eternity, which John describes, it’s a gift. You can’t strive for it. You can only open your hands. There is a seismic shift from perceiving life as an achievement to affirming life as a gift. It’s the move from something we do to something God does. Rather than achieve, we receive. When this shift is made, gratitude awakens. Trust is built. Love blooms. Life opens up. That’s the essence of how John understands faith: it’s trust, gratitude, love; an open hand, an open heart, an open mind – all of it open to what God is doing.

A good friend asked the Nicodemus question, “How can this be?” I smiled and said, “Yes.” He protested, “But what must I do?” My Gospel of John response: “Let God do the doing. Hang on. Trust that. Receive that.”

See, that’s the essence of Christmas. You and I weren’t waiting for a Messiah, and then God gave us one. And he came to his own folks, the ones who would know him best, and they decided they didn’t want him. But he came to them, they got rid of him, and he came back after they got rid of him, and he’s still around, patiently waiting for us to receive him as a gift. This is all God’s doing; we haven’t initiated any of it.

And it returns us to what it means to become a child. Trust – that’s the true meaning of “belief.” That Latin word “credo,” from which we get the word “creed,” it means “I give my heart.” I give my soul, my mind, my strength. It’s all that God asks of us. And if we listen, it’s all that God is working in us. This is the “power” to become a child of God.

So lean back and let Christmas happen to you. Let the music surround you. Let the joy lift you. Let the love reach you. And then, pass these gifts along. Tonight, the fullness of God’s life comes to this time and this place. It’s for you. It’s for all.

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

The Littlest Shepherd: A Christmas Eve story

Christmas Eve for Children of All Ages
December 24, 2021
William G. Carter


It was a cold night in the hills outside of Bethlehem. Ezekiel stirred the fire with his shepherd's staff. His brother Shemuel yawned and said, "It's getting late."

"Yes," Ezekiel agreed. "One of us will watch over the flock while the others take their rest."

"Oh let me stay up," said the youngest of the three. His name was Yitzak. He was the only son of Ezekiel. This was the first night that his mother allowed him to join his father and uncle for the night watch.

Ezekiel turned and smiled broadly. "Little one, you can barely keep your eyes open. I give you only a few minutes before you nod off to sleep."

"But Abba - Poppa - if I stay awake, maybe this is the night I will see an angel."

With that, Ezekiel and Shemuel looked at one another. They sat in silence. After a long pause, Shemuel said, "Child, that was a long time ago."

"Yes," said the boy, "but the way you describe it, it could happen at any time."

Ezekiel nodded. "We were startled. There was a burst of light, at first a fierce, frightful light, but . . ." His voice trailed off.

"But Abba, you were there."

"Both of us were," said Shemuel, "along with a few others. If one of us had been alone, the others would have dismissed it as a dream. Or a fantasy. But no, it wasn't a dream. It was an angel."

The fire crackled. Ezekiel stirred it again.

"Abba, something about the story is hard to understand. I thought God didn't like shepherds."

Ezekiel laughed. "Where did you ever hear that?"

"In Jerusalem, when I was young."

"You are still very young."

"When I was much younger. Our family delivered three lambs to the temple. For the sacrifices. They were spotless. And the man in the dark robe was angry. He was mean, and said, 'Get out of here, shepherd.' He wanted our lambs, but he didn't want us."

Shemuel growled. "That stupid man had a short memory. David, our greatest king, tended the sheep. So did Amos, one of the greatest of our prophets. And Ezekiel, the prophet for whom your father was named - he knew the true leader of God's people is a shepherd."

Ezekiel touched his brother's sleeve and motioned for him to be quiet. "Son," he said, "It's a recurring property dispute. We follow wherever our flocks will nibble. The sheep know the land belongs to God. The grass of the fields has been planted by God and given to our flocks as a gift. But the city people, who spend money trying to claim land as their own, they complained and complained. So, some years ago, the leaders of the Temple wrote our names on a list. The list said, 'You are not welcome in our Temple. Not unless you atone for all the sins of your sheep.'"

The boy replied, "Is that why we do not attend the festivals or offer the prayers?"

"No, we don't go to the festivals," said the father, “especially if we are not welcome. But we pray everywhere. We pray in the fields. We pray when the sun comes up, we pray at night when the moon replaces the sun. Our work is hard. We need help, so we pray."

Yitzak sat by the fire. It was warm. He was starting to grow very tired. But a new question was making its way to the surface. "Abba," he said, "did the angel go to the priests in the Temple?"

"I cannot say," said his father. "All I know is that the angel came to us, out here, far off in the fields. The angel knew where to find us. He knew because God the Almighty knew. He knows where we are and who we are."

"Yes, indeed," added Shemuel, nodding his head. Now he was smiling, too.

Yitzak said, "What was it like?"

"What was what like?"

"The angel!"

Shemuel said, "Terrifying. Confusing. Hard to take it all in. The angel spoke in a song. We didn't know all the words."

"Oh stop," said his brother, "we could understand. The angel sang that the Messiah is with us, out here, in the fields. It was so compelling. All our hopes, all our memories, all of the promises are in God's hands. That fierce song began to sound sweet. When we blinked, there were hundreds of angels - above us, around us, before us and behind us - all of them singing the same song. Then suddenly they were gone."

A log in the fire sparked. Then another. Yitzak asked, "Abba, is that when you left to see the baby?"

"Oh yes." Both men were nodding, smiling.

Yitzak said, "What did he look like?"

Shemuel said, "That's the point of it all. He looked just like us. And that was enough for me."

"Me too," said Ezekiel. "When I saw him, and the humble place where he was born, I knew that God had truly found us. The Temple may not want us, but God does. The angels may have vanished, but I can still hear their song. God has come among us. God is still here. So go to sleep, little shepherd."

Yitzak yawned deeply, then protested with a small voice, "But I want to stay up and see the angel."

His father pulled the blanket up around his son. Then he said, "We don't have to see everything in order to trust that it's true. It is enough to remember the song."

(c) William G. Carter. Share the story with those you love!

Sitting in Darkness

Luke 1:68-79
Blue Christmas
December 21, 2021
William G. Carter

Then his father Zechariah was filled with the Holy Spirit and spoke this prophecy:

‘Blessed be the Lord God of Israel,
   for he has looked favorably on his people and redeemed them.
He has raised up a mighty savior for us
   in the house of his servant David,
as he spoke through the mouth of his holy prophets from of old,
   that we would be saved from our enemies and from the hand of all who hate us.
Thus he has shown the mercy promised to our ancestors,
   and has remembered his holy covenant,
the oath that he swore to our ancestor Abraham,
   to grant us that we, being rescued from the hands of our enemies,
might serve him without fear, in holiness and righteousness
   before him all our days.
And you, child, will be called the prophet of the Most High;
   for you will go before the Lord to prepare his ways,
to give knowledge of salvation to his people
   by the forgiveness of their sins.
By the tender mercy of our God,
   the dawn from on high will break upon us,
to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death,
   to guide our feet into the way of peace.’

 

One of my friends recently announced he has a perfect Christmas tree. Is it real or artificial? He didn't say. Is it perfectly shaped? He hasn't told us that either. "It's a perfect tree," he says, "as all of my trees are perfect?" What is his criteria? "It lights up when I plug it in."

"At this busy, frantic, demanding time of year," he says, "I like to conclude my day by sitting in my darkened living room and looking at the well-lit tree."

It's a wonderful image on this darkest night of the year, and one that many of us can immediately understand.

We know how it feels to sit in the darkness. If we lose a loved one and the sun goes out for a while. Lose a job and the stars disappear from the sky. If your marriage concludes, or your child does something destructive in an attention-getting way, or you get really sick, the "gloomy clouds of night" may descend. And it's multiplied by all the demands that this season puts on our souls - or the demands that we put on ourselves.

A blue Christmas is often a dark Christmas. Around us, there are amplified invitations to spend more or to decorate like the neighbors do. The most sinister invitation of all is to "get busy" or to stay busy. The well-meaning friends of Job circle around to tell us to "snap out of it." Some of them point fingers in blame or shame. Yet if we have any experience in grief, we know blame and shame are dead-ends, a forced smile is not helpful, and busyness is merely a postponement. We cannot outrun our sadness; it waits for us.

And it comes with life. This is why the venerable Charlie Brown Christmas is so poignant with so many of us. As Charlie Brown said famously in the opening lines of the show, "I think there must be something wrong with me, Linus. Christmas is coming, but I'm not happy. I don't feel the way I'm supposed to feel." A lot of TV producer-types were nervous about those words. They thought they were too honest.

Well, there's nothing wrong with honesty. Darkness is real. If you're feeling it, you are not alone, and that is the first gift of a Blue Christmas. We are in this together. And together, we are not abandoned. There's a striking text from the prophet Isaiah, written during a gloomy season in his nation's history. In the 45th chapter, he hears God say, "I am the Lord, and there is no other. I form light and create darkness." (45:6-7) God is in the darkness because God made it - just as God made the light.

Tonight we hear the Song of Zechariah, the father of John the Baptist. As he gets back his voice after a nine-month spell of muteness, he recalls the faithfulness of God that has gotten him - and his people - through a lot of bumpy days and nights. He looks forward to the coming Messiah, and praises God that his own little boy will point the way and prepare the way.

Then comes the concluding promise:

By the tender mercy of our God, the dawn from on high will break upon us,

to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death,

to guide our feet into the way of peace.

In the middle of the darkness, there is light. It comes, also, as a gift from God. We receive just enough light to keep from stumbling. It provides necessary illumination for the shadows of all the losses we have known. And one thing more: Zechariah uses a most unusual verb to speak of this illumination: he calls it an "epiphany." It's not merely a visual gift -- it's a gift of insight. An awakening - or better, a re-awakening. We are reminded that we will get through the darkness - because we have gotten through it before. The darkness must be respected. It must be honored.

But the epiphany is remembering that light and darkness coexist. They balance one another. That's why my buddy sits in front of the lit-up Christmas tree in a darkened room. As he puts it, "It's my reminder that there's more to my life than darkness. The light is there, too. When darkness falls, it feels inescapable. But the longer that I befriend it, the more I notice the light." He didn't use the word, but it sounds to me like an epiphany.

The late Ann Weems was the closest we ever had to a Presbyterian poet laureate. She wrote a lot of cheerful poems, about balloons on Pentecost and children with chocolate-covered fingers. One of her final books was her most personal. She wrote it as a way of working through the loss of her son Todd, who was killed on the evening of his 21st birthday.

With the encouragement of a Bible scholar, she started composing some psalms of lament. That's the biblical form of a complaint, naming the pain and trouble, and lifting it into the face of God. These were unfinished prayers, she admits, some of them yet unanswered. She endured long silences in her soul, and then perhaps in a burst of energy, she would scribble on down and then put it in a drawer.

It was hard work. Grief always is. As she described it, "Anger and alleluia careen around within me, sometimes colliding. Lamenting and laughter sit side by side in a heart that yearns for the peace that passes understanding. Those who believe in the midst of their weeping will know where I stand."[1]

In her darkness, the light that crept in came in the form of a promise from Jesus, "Blessed are those who weep, for they shall be comforted." And then one more prayer found its way onto her page. Goes like this:

 

In the godforsaken, obscene quicksand of life,

there is a deafening alleluia

rising from the souls

of those who weep,

and of those who weep with those who weep.

If you watch, you will see

the hand of God

putting the stars back in their skies

one by one.

The darkness is real. But so is the Light.

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

---

[1] Ann Weems, Psalms of Lament (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 1995) xvi

Insignificance, Redeemed

Luke 1:39-45
Advent 4
December 19, 2021

In those days Mary set out and went with haste to a Judean town in the hill country, where she entered the house of Zechariah and greeted Elizabeth. When Elizabeth heard Mary’s greeting, the child leaped in her womb. And Elizabeth was filled with the Holy Spirit and exclaimed with a loud cry, “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb. And why has this happened to me, that the mother of my Lord comes to me? For as soon as I heard the sound of your greeting, the child in my womb leaped for joy. And blessed is she who believed that there would be a fulfillment of what was spoken to her by the Lord.”


When I was younger, I tended to tune out whenever women talked about their pregnancies. I am the wrong gender and knew pregnancy could never happen to me. Or I regarded the entire process of childbirth as a mystery, particularly after it’s been initiated. Certainly, I grew up in a family where biological matters were never discussed in mixed company; we could learn a lot in high school health class, but never discuss these things at the family supper table.

So I’ve always marveled at this brief account of Mary and Elizabeth. It’s out there in the open. The angel Gabriel had announced to Mary that she would bear a child. After she gulps and nods acceptance, she rushes off to another town in the hills to visit Elizabeth, who’s related to her somehow. Even though Elizabeth is up in years, she’s six months pregnant. She and her husband kept it quiet. Now the pregnancy was far enough along that it couldn’t be hidden any longer. That’s when Mary knocks on the door.

The Bible story tells of two generations intersecting. The first was pregnant Elizabeth, wife of a Jerusalem priest. Not only was she old – she was old enough to step out of the Old Testament. The Jewish scriptures tell one story after another about barren women who were surprised by a pregnancy. When we hear Elizabeth is bearing a child, the Bible is waving a flag to say, “God is doing this again.”

Like Hannah, who also lived up in the hill country. One of the two wives of Elkanah, her rival taunted her because she was barren. This happened “year after year” – as the years started piling up. One day, the priest at the local chapel tried to shoo her out of there. Hannah protested, said she was praying, and Eli the priest said, “OK, may God grant your prayer. Now, go in peace.” In time, she conceived and bore a son (1 Samuel 1:1-20).

Before that, there was the unnamed wife of Manoah. An angel of God appeared to say, “Even though you have no child, you shall conceive and bear a son. Just one thing: don’t ever cut his hair.” She told her husband. He said, “I didn’t hear any angel. Maybe God will send the angel again.” And God sent he angel again – to the wife, not to the husband, so she had to introduce him to the angel. Manoah was impressed and said, “Let me cook you up a goat.” While he lit up the fire, the angel rode the smoke back up to heaven. Soon after that, Manoah and Mrs. Manoah had a child. His name was Samson, and they never did cut his hair. (Judges 13:4-24).

Before that, Rachel, the wife of Jacob was barren – until after years of stress, God opened her womb. (Genesis 30:22). 

Before that, Rebekah, the wife of Isaac, could not have a child. And then God granted the prayers of father and mother (Genesis 25:21)

The quintessential story was that of Sarah, unable to create a child with her husband Abraham (Genesis 11:30). God promised them more children than they could ever count – but now they were well up in years. And you remember what happened: Sarah conceived in her advanced age. She gave birth to Isaac and Medicare picked up the tab.

This was a recurring story in the history of Israel. It became the sign that God could do what we could not. After the Babylonian Exile, the prophet Isaiah surveyed his desolate country. Filled with the Holy Spirit, he lifted his head to cry out,

Sing, O barren one who did not bear.

burst into song and shout you who have not been in labor.

For the children of the desolate woman will be more

than the children of her that is married, thus says the Lord.

Enlarge the site of your tent…

for you will spread out to the right and to the left.” (Isaiah 54:1-3)

The point of these recurring stories is that God alone gives life. God can populate what seems like barrenness. God can fill what appears empty. And there is no expiration date on the grace of an eternal God.

And so, Elizabeth was old, incredibly old, and she conceived a son. She never gave him a haircut, either.

By contrast, Mary was young. Very young, barely old enough to produce a child. The angel Gabriel surprised her and the rest of the world by announcing her pregnancy. She didn’t know how that could be; no man had ever touched her. He mentioned the mystery of the Holy Spirit “overshadowing her” – she didn’t know what that meant either. Yet conceding all of it was possible, agreeing God is the source of life, she nodded a quiet “yes,” and then said, “Let it be.”

In the account for today, Old and Young coincide. Young Mary bursts into Old Elizabeth’s house. The baby in Elizabeth’s belly is startled. Filled with the Holy Spirit, she determines that means the mother of the Messiah has entered her home. Then she fills the air with three beatitudes – three blessings:

Blessed are you among women!

Blessed is the child that you are carrying!

Blessed is she that believes the promises of God!

Now, let’s pause here for a minute This is no longer a story merely about pregnancies. This is a story about blessing, about the unexpected but very real presence of God. It happens in a house, not a temple. And it happens in conversation, not during a speech. And it happens between two women. Blessed, blessed, blessed!

In a way, this will not surprise us. Luke is the gospel write who gives us this story. Of all the documents in the Bible, the one most affirming of women is the Gospel of Luke. Luke repeatedly sees women in the shadows and brings them into the spotlight.

When Matthew tells his version of the Christmas story, he never says much about Mary, and never mentions Elizabeth. The Gospel of Mark mentions her only once (6:3), and says her son was a carpenter. When John tells the story of Jesus, he never actually mentions Mary’s name; she’s merely called “the mother of Jesus,” as if his birth is what defines her.

But not so Luke. Mary is the first Christian believer, trusting what God promises through her son. When Elizabeth overflows with the Holy Spirit’s blessings, she is the first prophetess in the book. It is Luke’s book where we meet Martha and Mary, the sisters of Lazarus. It is Luke who says faithful women financed the work of Jesus out of their own purses. And it is Luke who says the male disciples tried to dismiss the women’s report that Jesus had been raised from the dead – yet the women still persisted.

In Luke’s second volume, the Book of Acts, he names Mary as a key figure in the resurrection community. And when he begins all of it by reporting how he had chased down accurate information to get the story straight, we have every reason to assume that he listened to Mary. Who else could have told him mangers, angels, and shepherds – but the mother who was there?

All of this fits the grand view of how Luke understands the Gospel: God’s work is about redemption. It’s about buying back what has been set aside. It’s about reclaiming what has been lost. It’s about bringing into the light of glory what was dismissed to the shadows. It’s about perceiving the saving work of God in household conversations, every-day routines, and the rhythms of pregnancy.

One of Luke’s most revealing stories gets overshadowed by the story that follows it. In chapter 15, we hear Jesus tell about a man with two sons, often titled the parable of the prodigal son. It’s a powerful story, large and explosive.

A much smaller story precedes it. Jesus said, “The kingdom of God is like a woman who lost a nickel.” Picture all those Pharisee men, rolling their eyes and poking one another with their elbows. “She lost a nickel? That’s it? A nickel?” And one of them bursts out, “Of course she did. She’s not one of us. Good thing she only had a nickel.”

Jesus winces and continues, “The kingdom of God is like a woman who lost a nickel. And she turned over all the furniture and swept the floor until she found it. Then she called out to her neighbors, ‘Come on over. I’m throwing a party. What was lost is found.’ And I tell you (said Jesus), there is more joy in heaven over one lost soul who turns around and is found by God.” (15:8-10)

The point is in the finding. God pays attention to what the world dismisses as insignificant. God magnifies what seemed so small that nobody was paying attention. God has been busy in our midst doing what others have overlooked.

And Elizabeth said, “Blessed are you, the young unwed mother, for you are the mother of our Lord.”

This is one of the scandals of the Gospel. God is working in a pregnancy, two pregnancies in fact. God speaks up to put blessings in the air when others would be quick to dismiss. God evokes a song from women silenced by their culture, their community, their religion. God declares the priorities of heaven are to remember those forgotten are now remembered and to cast off the proud and obnoxious from their thrones. This is the work of God, revealed in a conversation between two pregnant women, one old, one new.

We sing this truth every Christmas. In a minute, we will sing the words of the prophet Micah: “O you, little Bethlehem, little sleepy town where nothing significant happened for a thousand years: you are the hometown of our Savior.”

At our best, we translate our Christmas energy into gifts that reach those otherwise forgotten. Our Deacons delivered over forty poinsettias this week. Two teams of our church volunteers packed 656 boxes of food to distribute to our hungry neighbors. Pajamas were donated to children. Gifts were offered to strangers. These are just a few ways God offers light to the world through us.

That is the continuing work of Christmas – to shine light into the dark corners, to call out the obscure and the overlooked, and to announce through word and deed that God has found us. And blessed are you, if you believe and do.

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

That Water Burns!

Luke 3:7-18
Advent 3
December 12, 2021
William G. Carter

John said to the crowds that came out to be baptized by him, “You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come? Bear fruits worthy of repentance. Do not begin to say to yourselves, ‘We have Abraham as our ancestor’; for I tell you, God is able from these stones to raise up children to Abraham. Even now the ax is lying at the root of the trees; every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire.” And the crowds asked him, “What then should we do?” In reply he said to them, “Whoever has two coats must share with anyone who has none; and whoever has food must do likewise.” Even tax collectors came to be baptized, and they asked him, “Teacher, what should we do?” He said to them, “Collect no more than the amount prescribed for you.” Soldiers also asked him, “And we, what should we do?” He said to them, “Do not extort money from anyone by threats or false accusation, and be satisfied with your wages.”

As the people were filled with expectation, and all were questioning in their hearts concerning John, whether he might be the Messiah, John answered all of them by saying, “I baptize you with water; but one who is more powerful than I is coming; I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandals. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire. His winnowing fork is in his hand, to clear his threshing floor and to gather the wheat into his granary; but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire.” So, with many other exhortations, he proclaimed the good news to the people.


The southern end of the Sea of Galilee empties into the Jordan River. There is a place there, visited by pilgrims from around the world. The buses park outside. After an admission fee is paid, you enter the site through the gift shop. (That’s one of the realities of the Holy Land: there are thousands of gift shops.) After weaving through the aisles, passing up olive wood creche sets, Dead Sea bath salts, and forty kinds of incense, you pass through the glass doors – and there is the Jordan River.

It's an impressive location. Beautifully landscaped. Clean. Not a palm frond in the river. And the tour guide never bothers to tell you that you are seventy miles north of the spot where John the Baptist did his work. It’s way south, near Jericho, not far from the Dead Sea. But they don’t tell you this, and the tourists come, step into the river, take their photographs. And when the visit is done, they leave through the gift shop. Back and forth, past the olive wood crosses, the postcards, and the t-shirts that read, “I was baptized in the Jordan River.”

I saw this water bottle and decided to purchase it. There’s a picture of John the Baptist on the front. I asked the salesclerk, “Is this water from the Jordan River?” “Oh yes,” he replied, “from the Jordan River. It’s holy water.” So I packed it in my suitcase and brought it home. It remains on the top shelf of the bookcase, near the Bible dictionary, and the samples of frankincense and myrrh.

One day, I got to try out the spritzer nozzle. One of our outspoken church folks had paid me a visit. He was a man well known for his opinions, often shared generously. I won’t say anything more than his name was Ed. He stopped in to make a speech about something or other. Taking a breath, he looked up from his chair, saw the bottle, and asked what it was. So I went over, picked it up, and told him the story. “Does it work?” he said. What? “The spritzer with the holy water. Does it work?” So I aimed it at him and went psst, psst.

“Wow,” he said, “it’s going to burn.” We both broke out in laughter. I always thought I should make a sermon out of the story. Today’s the day. Holy Water, from the Jordan River, with John the Baptist – and that water burns.

It’s not the heat, of course, but the impact. All the accounts of John the Baptist tell us about the crowds who made their way to the Jordan River. It was a national event. Everybody was affected. They came in the expectation of the Messiah, the long-imagined deliverer who would lift them from oppression and turn around the fortunes of the nation. 

John dressed like one of the prophets who announced him. He lived simply in the desert, in austerity, not luxury. He embodied the closing words of the last book in our Old Testament, where the prophet Malachi declared, “Behold, I will send you the prophet Elijah before the great and terrible day of the Lord” (4:5).

And the people came. God was breaking in from the desert. God was present in the fire of the word that John preached. He called his listeners a bunch of snakes. He called them out for avoiding the fiery judgment of the Lord. He took them off at the knees if they thought they could stand on their prominence or good breeding. And he called them into the water to invite God to wash their sins away.

What sticks out in this account is that baptism is merely the beginning. It’s not the end. It’s not the goal. It’s the first sign – the wet sign – of everything that must follow. In the church, we practice a Jesus baptism – that is, a Trinity baptism, not a John the Baptist baptism. The difference is we believe the Messiah has come. In covenantal obedience we offer ourselves and our children to the new Dominion of God where John was pointing.

Yet there is an identity to be claimed. A life to be lived. A faithfulness congruent with the calling of God for all of us.

John Burgess wrote a book about this, which he titled After Baptism. John teaches at our Presbyterian seminary in Pittsburgh. He knows all too well our tendency to sentimentalize our baptisms. As he notes,

The pastor sprinkles a few drops of water on the baby’s head and parades her up and down the aisle. Those in the pews smile approvingly, as the organist finds the register with tinkling bells and plays, ‘Jesus Loves Me.’ But baptism is not simply a gentle anointing that makes everything about that baby innocent and clean. Baptism is also a drowning and dying. We have every reason to be terrified by it… (so) it is not inappropriate that a cute little baby dressed in a white linen dress should now holler and scream as she comes to new birth in God’s kingdom. None of us takes on a new identity without some kicking and screaming.[1]

You might say the water burns.

A couple of months ago, a pastor of a nearby church was awakened at four in the morning. Somebody was pounding at the door. That was strange, since he and his wife live out in the hills. Peeking through the window, he recognized the man. But he didn’t like the tone of his voice. And he didn’t know yet the man had just attacked his own father after waking him from sleep. All he knew is this man was pounding at the door, getting louder. Then it sounded like he was trying to break in.

With this, the pastor and his wife ran into the bedroom and locked the door. Just in time – the intruder smashed through the door, screaming and bellowing, calling out for the pastor. Well, he and his wife grabbed their phones, dialed the state police, and escaped to a neighbor’s house. The state police arrived quickly, and after some resistance from him, arrested the intruder.

Now, that’s a frightening event. It sounds totally random – except for this: the pastor’s wife told the newspaper that the man had been baptized by her husband that morning.[2] Baptized! Do you suppose it’s possible that some time passes before a baptism will take hold?

I’ve wondered about this. In the early church, one of the leaders advised those who were newly baptized. He said, “You were taught to put away your former way of life, your old self, corrupt and deluded. And you were taught to be renewed in the spirit of your minds, and to clothe yourselves with the new self, created according to the likeness of God in true righteousness and holiness” (Ephesians 4:22-24).

To put it another way, it’s not enough to simply get wet. True baptismal water has the power to burn, to singe away the bad habits, the selfish assumptions, and the destructive actions. There is a holy life to be lived after we climb out of the water. There is a righteousness that reveals the transformation that God is stirring in our lives. Yes, God loves us as we are – but never calls us to stay that way.

The Messiah is at hand. What does that mean? In the days of John the Baptist, it meant, “Turn away from your sin, change your heart, step into the water, and then keep moving toward God’s light.” The righteous life is not static. It’s far from finished. “The Holy One is coming,” John announced, going on to say, “Prepare yourselves for the Messiah to rule over all things.” Live a life that is congruent with your baptism.

Then, as now, it’s worth asking, “So what should we do?” And the Baptizer offered three specific examples:

•  To the affluent: share your coats and food with those who have none
•  To the tax collectors: don’t take more money that amount prescribed
•  To the soldiers: be content with your wages and don’t extort money through threats or intimidation

Did you notice? All three requirements have to do with money and possessions. Sounds like Jesus, the Coming Messiah. When he found his voice, he warned constantly against greed, selfishness, and deprivation of the neighbor. According to Jesus, according to the Gospel of Luke, the kingdom of God is a matter of economics. In God’s kingdom, there will be no hoarding of coats and food, no grabbing what isn’t yours, no cheating of those less powerful. Instead, if you are baptized, you are called to give generously, to share willingly, to love honestly. This is how God treats us; this is how those who are baptized shall treat others.

If you feel challenged by this, it’s because the baptismal water burns. John says, “The One who is coming will baptize all of you with Holy Spirit and fire.” Every selfish inclination will be burned away. Every evil intent will be incinerated. And the Gospel of Luke says, “This is Good News.”

So what should we do? I suppose we could share what we have in our closets, which is something that cuts both ways. On the one hand, there are many who need the very coats and sweaters that we moth-balling. On the other hand, it’s good training for the soul to learn how to live with less. The same goes for food.

And for the tax collectors among us? Well, we only have a few, and they’ve never struck me as particularly greedy. So the Word from John expands to confront all the waste that is manufactured for the holidays. It’s the same thing Lucy has been saying to Charlie Brown for the past 56 years: “We all know that Christmas is a big commercial racket. It’s run by an eastern syndicate, you know.” Conspiracy theories aside, abundant life is rooted in the joy of giving, not the greed of grabbing.

So let’s consider the invitation from our Mission and Justice committee this month, to share Christmas with a stranger, to show love to those whom we have not met yet. Our Narthex is filled with invitations to make abundant life abundant for all.

And then for all those Roman centurions who can hear John speak: be a good steward of your power. Use it to lift up others, rather than to keep them down. Learn contentment, as a kingdom alternative to the hunger for acquisition. God is the giver of every good and perfect gift; we do not have license to steal candy canes from children. Or rent money from those working two jobs. We are only given permission to help them.

And let me tell you one thing more, a bit of personal confession. Remember that day when I squirted old Ed with the holy water? Well, I don’t remember the specifics of the conversation that day, but I will tell you old Ed was one of the many people who called me to a life of integrity and generosity. I miss him, but I still hear his voice.

I hear him speak whenever one of you speaks up for those who are overlooked,
whenever one of you punctures the illusions of suburban well-being,
whenever one of you says, “Can’t we stop thinking so much about ourselves
and do something to empower the hungry, the lonely, and the left-out?

That’s when I hear Ed speak,
That’s when I hear John the Baptist speak,
That’s when I hear Jesus say, “Whatever you have done for the least of these, you have done it for me.”

And in those moments, if you’re listening,
you will hear that baptismal water sizzle and burn...to the glory of God.
And that’s good news.

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

------------------

[1] John P. Burgess, After Baptism: Shaping the Christian Life (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2005) p. 3

[2] “Newton Twp man charged in assault of father, break-in at neighbor’s house,” The Scranton Times-Tribune, 16 September 2021.

A Word in the Wilderness

Luke 3:1-6
December 5, 2021
Advent 2
William G. Carter

In the fifteenth year of the reign of Emperor Tiberius, when Pontius Pilate was governor of Judea, and Herod was ruler of Galilee, and his brother Philip ruler of the region of Ituraea and Trachonitis, and Lysanias ruler of Abilene, during the high priesthood of Annas and Caiaphas, the word of God came to John son of Zechariah in the wilderness. He went into all the region around the Jordan, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins, as it is written in the book of the words of the prophet Isaiah, “The voice of one crying out in the wilderness: ‘Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight. Every valley shall be filled, and every mountain and hill shall be made low, and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough ways made smooth; and all flesh shall see the salvation of God.’”


When we gather each week to open God’s Book,
Let’s confess that sometimes we scarcely don’t look
Beneath or beyond the white page to the Source
Of all that is Good as we run our course.
Perhaps rhythm helps to engage heart and mind,
And give us fresh ears to discover and find
That God can still speak a Good Word from above.
It originates in mercy, and goodness, and love.
So bear with me, please, for it has been some time
Since I offered a sermon entirely in rhyme.
Today, I’m inspired by Spirit and text
Even if you’re wondering what could possibly be next.
Well, I will tell you if you’re willing to linger
Today here’s a Man with a sharp Pointy Finger.
His name is John and his fierce voice is strong.
Now bear with me please, and I shan’t go too long.

Tiberias was Caesar, the Roman despot.
He thought he was God, but certainly was not.
Pilate was governing at his Judean post.
An incompetent fool, yet quite prone to boast.
King Herod ruled over all Galilee
When he wasn’t debauching and collecting fleas.
Philip, Lysanias – oh, no one remembers
who they were, what they did, that’s in history’s embers.
When the Lord chose to speak, he didn’t speak to them.
They weren’t listening any way. So not to condemn,
But to preclude them from pride, God spoke out to John,
That outsider prophet with camel skins on.
He was the Man with the Pointy Finger.

Take note: God spoke not to the palaces of power,
And neither to priests for it wasn’t the hour.
No word went to Annas, or Caiphas, either,
Preoccupied with order in the ancient cathedral.
They obsessed over candlesticks, vestments, and gowns.
They might as well sit on high thrones wearing crowns.
So smugly in charge of their inherited religion,
They muted the Voice that created the pigeon.
When they opened God’s scrolls, they read with a drone,
As if the Almighty were sleeping and prone.
So God didn’t speak to the priests in the Temple.
The Message was aimed for the meek and the simple:
“Come home,” spoke the Lord, “turn around and come home!”
“Wake up and repent ‘til you sparkle like chrome,”
Said the Man with the Pointy Finger.

Where was he pointing? He pointed ahead:
For Someone is coming who raises the dead.
He will gather the harvest of all that is good
And burn chaff with fire like blazing deadwood.
“Don’t presume you have privilege to escape the Great Purge!”
John said, “Repent now! That is what I must urge.
Let mountains be lowered and valleys raised up,
And straighten that highway for God to walk up
And claim prime allegiance from you and your soul.
Or else you will perish and be cast in a hole.”
His message burned hearts and exposed what is phony.
God’s Word came with fire but without acrimony.
His intent was to cleanse. To set right. To restore.
To prepare us for One who knocks at the door.
“The Christ will come soon to set all things right,
To teach us to fear God without any fright.
He is coming with power, and fire, and might.”
So spoke the Man with the Pointy Finger.

They came from the cities. They came from the hills.
They traveled to the desert ‘cause they had the chills.
They went to the river with hope in the heart,
They stepped in the water so life could restart.
They hoped for Messiah whose righteousness could
Create them anew in the lives where they stood.
The accounts also tell us that leaders took notice
Caesar ignored – but Herod was curious.
And up from the river, the Pharisees listened,
Their hearts slightly warmed, their eyes almost glistened.
“Who dares to speak truth on behalf of our God?”
Their conventional religion found that a bit odd.
But John spoke the Word with passion and fire.
Even tax collectors, soldiers, and others were inspired.
“God is near,” he proclaimed in his most simple speech,
“Wake up and get ready! Scrub your souls with hot bleach!”
There was truth in the fire of John’s living Word.
To ignore it would be foolish and truly absurd!
He spoke with deep energy and everyone heard
the Man with the Pointy Finger.

Where else is he pointing? At me and at you.
Disturbing the peace by speaking what’s true:
“Don’t presume to believe that you’re tight with God,
If you go through the motions, you’re merely a fraud.”
Oh, I think of the times when I’ve just played the game,
As I diluted God’s Holiness and made it look tame.
John points down below the soul’s hardened crust
Illuminating the shadows and calling forth trust
That God sees us as we are, without any illusion
How sin damages life and creates contusions.
His voice cuts through all filters at night and at day,
He blows back our hair as he speaks up to say,
“You’re greedy like Scrooge! You’re mean like the Grinch!
You stumble through life with no more than an inch.
Of repentance and turning from darkness to light.
You avoid all exposure. Your soul is affright.”
When I hear him speak thus, I know he is right.
For sin can destroy the great grace of Shalom
“So I call you to turn back, to repent and come home,”
Says the Man with the Pointy Finger.

He names our homesickness, our primary thirst
For love and inclusion where we can be nursed
Back to wholeness of life with venerable grace
To untangle what’s twisted and discover the Face
Of neighbor and God whom we’re called to love.
This is Primary Commandment from heaven above.
John calls us to obedience as we live here on earth,
While pointing beyond us to Christ whose soon birth
Offers us life eternal in justice and mirth.
And confirms the deep dignity of our true worth.
God has no grandkids, just children who trust
That they are beloved, so they shall not rust
From baptisms grown lazy and negligent of
The works of compassion, and justice, and love.
In each generation, God’s family is formed
As each of us steps up with hearts that are warmed.
We all start from scratch with no assets to claim.
It is God who adopts us and gives us a name.
“You are my child,” God says when we’re wet,
“So come home and stay close. Don’t wander or fret.”
God has kept speaking to reprieve us from threat
After the Man with the Pointy Finger.

This is a remarkable Gospel to hear,
And all flesh shall see it. The truth shall be clear.
All illusions dispersed. All crooked made straight.
True mercy shall replace our tendency to hate.
John calls us to wake up and prepare the Way
For Christ to live with us. He goes on to say
That honesty prepares to live with the Lord.
Let’s give up on greed. Put away the sword.
And stand with our heads high, scrubbed by his grace.
The hour is nigh. We will soon see God’s Face.
So says the Man with the Pointy Finger.


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

When Heaven Was Shaken

Luke 21:25-36
Advent 1
November 28, 2021

“There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on the earth distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves. People will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world, for the powers of the heavens will be shaken. Then they will see ‘the Son of Man coming in a cloud’ with power and great glory. Now when these things begin to take place, stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near.”

Then he told them a parable: “Look at the fig tree and all the trees; as soon as they sprout leaves you can see for yourselves and know that summer is already near. So also, when you see these things taking place, you know that the kingdom of God is near. Truly I tell you, this generation will not pass away until all things have taken place. Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away.

“Be on guard so that your hearts are not weighed down with dissipation and drunkenness and the worries of this life, and that day catch you unexpectedly, like a trap. For it will come upon all who live on the face of the whole earth. Be alert at all times, praying that you may have the strength to escape all these things that will take place, and to stand before the Son of Man.”


The pumpkin pie is barely cold, and Jesus speaks of the end of the world. Once again, the calendars collide.

I hope you had a good Thanksgiving. On the cusp of winter, we pause and give thanks for all the blessings received from the hand of God. The past year had its challenges, but we have gotten through it. So we gathered at abundant tables, sliced up the feast, and celebrated all the goodness we have tasted. The main course for the meal is gratitude: gratitude for a generous God, a saving God, a most gracious God.

And yet, Jesus says, “Keep your eye on the sky. The end is near.”

It’s a hard Sunday to preach. If I had my druthers, we’d have another slice of pie and sing a few more verses of “Now Thank We All Our God.” Gratitude is a virtue, the well-spring of love and generosity. We love and give because God has loved and provided for us. One Thursday a year is a good beginning for counting our many blessings - family, friends, meaningful work, warm home, reliable resources, and so much more.

Gratitude looks backward. We survey what we’ve received. We give thanks for what we’ve experienced.

And yet, the Voice of Advent interrupts and points us to the sky ahead. “Signs in sun and moon and stars… the heavens will be shaken.” Friday night, heaven shook a bit when we returned my mother to her home. The snow dust came tumbling down. It’s a sign of things to come.

Beyond the return of snow, there are perpetual signs of trouble. Jesus assumes we will always endure “distress among the nations,” that the sea will roar, and people will be afraid. Distress is what drives the daily news. There’s always something to panic about. The Lord is not surprised by that. In his own day, there were earthquakes, famines, and the occasional deadly pestilence. Nations were always clashing their swords against one another.

And in his Advent Voice, Jesus declares the day is coming when all of that will be over. No more swords, no more danger, no more violence. He speaks with the Old Testament prophets, pointing ahead to an event they called “The Day of the Lord.” They were convinced that human history is going somewhere. The seasons may cycle around, the years may slumber on, but one day it will no longer be the same old thing. The hidden Dominion of peace and justice that Christ came to inaugurate will be revealed. All shall see it. It will be obvious and all-encompassing. In the words of the prophet Isaiah, “All flesh shall see the glory of God.” Or as the Lord himself quotes the prophet Daniel, “They shall see the Son of Man coming in power and great glory.” It’s going to be big.

The problem, which Jesus highlights so clearly in our text, is that too many of those covered with flesh have stopped hoping, or working, or preparing the way for the Son of Man to come.

I was telling a couple of my Bible study groups the same old joke that I’m fond of telling every time Advent rolls around. If you’ve heard it, just nod your heads and groan. It’s a joke drawn from the days when the Pope of Rome was Italian, not an Argentinian.

It seems one day in the Vatican, somebody looked out the window. He gasped, called out, and pointed. Everybody in the office gathered around to see Jesus was drawing near on the clouds. It was the big day, the Promised Day, the Day of the Lord. One of the archbishops said, “Get the Pope. Bring him here.”

The Pope arrived, looked outside. Indeed, it was a most glorious sight. He said, “It’s the Lord, coming just as he promised.” And one of them said, “Holy Father, what should we do?” And the Pope said, “Look-a busy!”

Martin Luther would have smiled at that. He famously exclaimed, “When the Lord returns, may he find me at my plow, working in the fields.” In other words, not standing around or twiddling the thumbs or wearing a white robe of celibacy – but at work, tending to the daily chores, anticipating his return by doing what normally needs to get done.

What’s curious in today’s text is neither the Pope’s advice, nor Luther’s retort, seems to have characterized the believers in Luke’s church. As Luke reports the words of Christ, they sting: “Be on guard so that your hearts are not weighed down with dissipation and drunkenness and the worries of this life…”

Now, we know what drunkenness is. What’s “dissipation”? In the Greek language, “dissipation” is another word for “hangover.” So, we wonder what was going on in Luke’s congregation: “Be on guard so that your hearts are nor weighed down with hangovers and drunkenness.” Oh my. Were they going back for refills on the communion wine? Passing around another kind of spirit? Hmm, I wonder.

Luke also reports the story of Pentecost, as told in his second volume, the Book of Acts. In that account, Simon Peter stands up to preach after the miracle of speech and understanding. He addresses the people who had gathered for the Pentecost holiday and says, “These people are not drunk as you suppose, rather they are intoxicated by the Holy Spirit.” But by all appearances, it looked otherwise.

I don't want to make too much of this. There are some churches who make a lot of noise about the consumption of alcohol. One of our choir members grew up in a Kansas City church where the pastor gave an annual temperance sermon. This was the expectation. He told me the story over a glass of wine in his home.

Other churches take a more modest approach, declaring “all things in moderation.” They point out there was wine at the last supper, and the apostle Paul advised, “A little wine is good for the stomach” (1 Tim. 5:23). But he does say, “A little wine.” In Luke’s day, it seems there were more than a few who were tipping a few too many glasses. “Dissipation” was the word he used. It was a distraction from the coming of Christ, a distraction that some had a tough time overcoming. “Be on guard,” he says. Watch out.

And then there’s that other phrase: “Be on guard that your hearts are not weighted down … with the worries of this life.” If you have worries, you might be seeking a distraction. However, if you lean back to get the full sweep of the Gospel of Luke, “worries of this life” are the distractions.

Like that day in the home of two sisters, Mary and Martha. Martha bustled around, preparing dinner, while Mary sat and listened to Jesus teach. Finally Martha built up enough steam to explode, “Teacher, don’t you care that Mary has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her to help me.”

What does he say to her? “Martha, Martha, you are distracted by the worries of this life” (10:42). Same words.

Or that other day, when he told the crowd a story: “A farmer went out to sow a field. He threw the seed all over the field … Some grew among thorns, and the thorns grew with it and choked it.” Afterward, the twelve disciples said, “Tell us what that one’s about.”

How did he explain it? “As for what fell among thorns, these are the ones who hear (my Word), but as they go on their way, they are choked by the worries and riches and pleasures of life.” (8:14). Same exact words.

I’m reminded of the blooper that somebody saw in a worship bulletin: “Don’t let worry kill you; let the church help.” Kind of a double entendre, don’t you think? It’s true – some churches will add to your worries. They pile on the fears.

But what does Jesus say? Stand tall. Lift your heads. Be on guard. Stay awake – and pray. This is his invitation to pray with our eyes open. To pay attention to the signs of the times and the distractions in our lives – and to look beyond them to the coming of the Lord. He is coming to help, to finish, and save. We will be gathered up, not left on our own.

How does he say it? “Your redemption is drawing near.” The Christ is coming. This is the hope at the heart of Advent. And it’s precious, good news.

In fact, that news is so good that, when I get home today, I’m going to have another piece of pie.

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

The Parentheses

Revelation 1:4-8
Christ the King
November 21, 2021

John to the seven churches that are in Asia: Grace to you and peace from him who is and who was and who is to come, and from the seven spirits who are before his throne, and from Jesus Christ, the faithful witness, the firstborn of the dead, and the ruler of the kings of the earth. To him who loves us and freed us from our sins by his blood, and made us to be a kingdom, priests serving his God and Father, to him be glory and dominion forever and ever. Amen. Look! He is coming with the clouds; every eye will see him, even those who pierced him; and on his account all the tribes of the earth will wail. So it is to be. Amen. “I am the Alpha and the Omega,” says the Lord God, who is and who was and who is to come, the Almighty.


I’m glad that Andy Kepler is the liturgist today. Thirteen years ago, I traveled with Andy and Donna to a Greek island named Patmos. When you get off the boat, you proceed up the mountain on a long, winding road. You will pass a few cafes, a series of whitewashed Orthodox churches, and a couple of monasteries. On the hill you find the Cave of the Apocalypse. A priest will meet you, hand you a brochure, and point you down a series of narrow steps.

You descend inside a small stone dome. The aroma of beeswax and incense mingle in the air. Icons lean against the wall. Then your eyes notice a large diagonal crack in the cave wall. According to tradition, this is where the prophet John heard the Voice of the Risen Christ. When the Lord spoke, tradition says it cracked the wall.

This was the spot where John had a series of visions that comprise the Book of Revelation. This final book of the Bible is stuffed full of fantastic visions. He can picture strange beasts and hear warnings of woe. He finds himself surrounded by the heavenly choir. They are singing Easter hymns at the top of their heavenly voices. This is a dazzling book, bewildering to many, intoxicating to others. The Book of Revelation tends to divide the Christian house – either you avoid it like one of its plagues or it’s the only thing you read.

Yet the singular message is clear: God rules over all. Jesus Christ is king.

The book was composed as a circular letter, sent to seven churches in uncertain and dangerous times. The original name of the document is the "Apocalypse," which means a disclosure. In the Bible, an apocalypse is a moment when God pulls back the curtain that hides heaven from earth. The Revelation offers glimpses of a holy reality which is normally hid from human eyes.

Today we hear a voice from heaven announcing, "I am the Alpha and the Omega." That unusual expression appears three times in the final book of the Bible. Each time the voice speaks, we learn something about God that is crucial to our faith and life.

The first insight is a simple observation about language. When God announces, "I am the Alpha and Omega," all the fraternity boys sit up straight in their pews. God connects to two letters from the Greek alphabet. In a Bible full of words, God says, “I am revealed in human alphabets.” Letters combine into words. Words are spoken. God's speech makes a world. That is how it was in the beginning, and how it shall be in God's new creation. The Creator’s primary tools are words. Whenever God speaks, something happens.

Reflecting on his life, the author Frederick Buechner affirms how the power of God creates each new day. It is a creative, holy force expressed through words. As Buechner writes,

Darkness was upon the face of the deep, and God said, "Let there be light." Darkness laps at my sleeping face like a tide, and God says, "Let there be Buechner." Why not? Out of the primeval chaos of sleep (God) calls me to be a life again . . . To wake up is to be given back your life again. To wake up is to be given back the world again and of all possible worlds this world . . . Waking into the new day, we are all of us Adam (and Eve) on the morning of creation, and the world is ours to name. Out of many fragments we are called to put back together a self again.[1]

Every morning, the word that puts us back together is the same word that spoke the world into being. If God has been around since the first day of creation, God has seen it all, heard it all, and spoken it all. God does not speak any new words.

As scholars point out, there is no new word spoken in the book of Revelation. In the 404 verses of this book, there are 518 allusions to earlier passages of scripture.[2] The prophet John points to the books of Exodus, Daniel, Zechariah, and the Psalms, among others. John does not simply string together words from other books. He points to the one Word that holds together all other words. Beginning on the first page of Genesis, God speaks a lot of words. By the time we get to the book of Revelation, only one Word captures all God has to say, and that is the Word made flesh, Jesus Christ. As one of our confessions declares, Jesus Christ is "the one Word of God which we have to hear and which we have to trust and obey in life and in death."[3]

Yet there’s something more. Alpha and Omega are more than mere letters in the alphabet; they are the first and last letters. No sooner does God say, "I am the Alpha and the Omega," then a voice in a vision goes on to say, "I am the first and the last" (Revelation 1:17, 22:13). It echoes a passage from the prophet Isaiah's poetry where God says, "I am the first and the last" (Isaiah 44:6). The point is simply this: God alone speaks the first and last words on human life. No other person, power, or principality can say what God alone can say.

We are created by the Word of God and re-created each day. And the Word claims us as well. I think of that every time we stand over there at the baptismal font. If baptism is merely water, it’s an excellent bath. That’s why somebody once told me to splash a lot of water – it is a symbol of the washing away of sin.

But words surround the washing. Remember some of them? Turn from the ways of sin, turn to God. Who is your Lord and Savior? Will you be his disciple? Will you hold these promises in covenantal trust until the little shaver can confirm them at his confirmation? At the heart of the paragraphs and promises, what does it all mean? That we belong to God. No matter what happens, no matter how far we wander, no matter who we discover ourselves to me – before everything else, after everything else, God is our Sovereign Lord.

His sovereignty rules over all tenses – past, present, future. Or rather, “who is, who was, who is to come” - present, past, and future. God will say it a second time, "I am the Alpha and the Omega, the first and the last" (Revelation 22:13). The faithful church lives in this promise. While Revelation is full of unsettling visions and disturbing pictures, the first word is identical to the last word. The beginning and the end are the same.

As the writer addresses this book to the church, he greets them by saying, "Grace to you, and peace from him who is, and who was, and who is to come" (Revelation 1:4). As the book ends, the last words are, "The grace of the Lord Jesus be with all the saints." In between there is much in this book that unsettles a sensitive stomach. But the first word and the last word are the same . . . and the word is grace. It is a word that God alone can say.

Like all the words God speaks, grace is the word that describes how God is relentlessly inclined in our favor. According to our text, Jesus is the "faithful witness" who points to the truth of God's love. He is "the firstborn of the dead," who opens the way of resurrection. Jesus is ruler over the earth's royalty, exalted as King of kings and Lord of lords. He is "the One who loves us," and "the One who sets us free by his blood." He is coming so that every eye will see him.

And the work of grace is not finished yet. We live in a world enchanted by its own destruction. Yet for a few moments this morning the curtain is drawn back, and we catch a glimpse of how God pursues us through the love of Jesus Christ. Thanks to such grace, we belong to a God who has set us free and will never let us go.

Yet one thing more must be said. God speaks the first word, "I am the Alpha and the Omega," and promises to make all things new. God alone speaks the last word, which is a surprisingly gracious word. The third time God says, "I am the Alpha and the Omega," he affirms, "I am the beginning and the end" (Revelation 22:13, 21:6). This is our greatest hope: that God will be both our source and our destination. Through the grace of Christ our king, we trust the God who gave us birth will complete and finish our lives.

Daily crises can blur our vision. When caught up in illness or trouble, we may forget the One who made us. When a kid gets arrested for shooting a military-grade rifle, we wonder, "What's this world coming to?" Listen: every day is full of enough hassles and horrors to shake up the strongest soul. Each one of us needs a place to stand and a promise to hold.

Some days all we can do is hang on by our fingernails, and trust the One "who is, who was, who is to come." We hope for God and remember God. We remember God's saving history and hope for God's final victory. As one of the great hymns of the church sings the essence of faith,

Through many dangers, toils, and snares, I have already come;
'Tis grace has led me safe thus far, and grace will lead me home.

I remember the story of Joachim Jeremias, the German New Testament scholar of the last century. He was the son of a Lutheran missionary in Jerusalem. Hitler came to power, and the relationship between the German people and the Jewish people became hostile and painful. After the Holocaust, Jeremias wished to return to Israel. He wanted to see if anybody remembered him as a young person, and could say to him, "Joachim, we forgive you."

He said, "I knocked on door after door. I couldn't find anybody. Finally a man opened the door. I remembered him, he remembered me. The man said, "Please come in. It is good are here. We are celebrating the feast of tabernacles. Come into our back yard."

The family had erected a tabernacle of brush. The family tradition was to enter through a small door and recount the stories of Israel's life in the wilderness. Professor Jeremias noticed a little piece of paper clipped to one side of the doorway, and another piece of paper clipped to the other side. Jeremias asked his host, "What is written on the papers?"

The man sighed and said, "That is a summary of Psalm 139: 'Where can I go from your spirit? Or where can I flee from your presence? If I ascend to heaven, you are there; if I make my bed in Sheol, you are there. If I take the wings of the morning and settle at the farthest limits of the sea, even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me fast'" (139:7-10).

Jeremias said, "I’m not following you." The man said, "Well, that word on the left is 'from God.' This word on the right is 'to God.' In between, we live from God . . . to God."[4]

This is the parentheses around my life and your life. We live "from God to God." Our destination is to return to our Source. We will return to the God from whom all things were made. In between, we have a promise to claim. We belong to God, the Alpha and the Omega, the first and the last, the beginning and the end.

And before the beginning, after the ending, and all the time between, Jesus Christ rules over all.


(c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved.
//
[1] Frederick Buechner, The Alphabet of Grace (New York: The Seabury Press, 1970) 21-22.
[2] Eugene H. Peterson, Reversed Thunder: The Revelation of John and the Praying Imagination (San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1988) 22-23.
[3] Barmen Confession
[4] Thanks to Fred B. Craddock for the story.

Preaching After the Temple Falls Down

Mark 13:1-10
November 14, 2020
William G. Carter

As Jesus came out of the temple, one of his disciples said to him, “Look, Teacher, what large stones and what large buildings!” Then Jesus asked him, “Do you see these great buildings? Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down.”

When he was sitting on the Mount of Olives opposite the temple, Peter, James, John, and Andrew asked him privately, “Tell us, when will this be, and what will be the sign that all these things are about to be accomplished?” Then Jesus began to say to them, “Beware that no one leads you astray. Many will come in my name and say, ‘I am he!’ and they will lead many astray. When you hear of wars and rumors of wars, do not be alarmed; this must take place, but the end is still to come. For nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom; there will be earthquakes in various places; there will be famines. This is but the beginning of the birthpangs. As for yourselves, beware; for they will hand you over to councils; and you will be beaten in synagogues; and you will stand before governors and kings because of me, as a testimony to them. And the good news must first be proclaimed to all nations.”


Like most of the Bible, the Gospel of Mark was written after the events that it describes. We know this to be true. There was no first-hand account of God creating the world because there was nobody yet to write it down. Adam and Eve hadn’t invented pencils yet. They were too busy figuring out the names of the animals.

In the same way, no one wrote down the story of Christmas before that Easter resurrection thirty-some years later. The shepherds were illiterate. Mary and Joseph were busy. The angels had already gone back to heaven. And the birth of a peasant child didn’t mean anything special until that child grew up, made a name for himself, was crucified, and raised, and people said, “Wow! Where do you suppose he came from?” And his mother said, “Let me tell you what I remember.”

When we listen to the Bible, we listen to memories. They have been collected by people of faith. These are recollections, sifted and organized, sometimes years later. In the passing of time, some memories grow in importance. Disconnected pieces start to make sense. Hidden threads become visible. We discern the significance of some details we were anxious to speed by.

Sometime in April in the year 29 or 30 AD, Jesus stepped out of the Jerusalem Temple with his disciples. The writer of the Gospel of Mark remembers how one of those upcountry fishermen turned around, looked at the huge edifice, and exclaimed, “Shazam! Look how big it is! We don’t have blocks of limestone like this up in Galilee.” Of course not.

The second Jerusalem temple sat on a 36-acre lot. King Herod took this on as his personal rebuilding project. He loved to put his name on buildings; the bigger, the better. According to the accounts, a trench was dug around the mountain. Foundation stones were carved and rolled in, some of them weighing a hundred tons or more. The towers stretched 150 feet into the sky – and they didn’t have mechanical cranes back then.

This was an enormous building. The largest in the land! It offered a suitable location for God to touch down on the planet, which is how the Jewish people understood the temple. It’s the House of God. It’s where the Divine Transaction of Mercy is carried out on behalf of the entire world.

And Jesus said, “Do you see this big pile of stones? The whole thing will come tumbling down.” He said that sometime in April in 29 or 30 AD. Forty years later, Titus, eldest son of the Roman Emperor Vespasian, finished a four-year siege of Jerusalem by tearing down the Temple. Not one stone was left upon another, just like Jesus said.

Now, we can think of this a few different ways. One way is to assume Jesus was a fortune-teller, perhaps divinely inspired, and he knew what was going to happen. A slightly different slant is that he could foretell what was going to happen, an inevitable clash between Rome and Jerusalem and Rome would win. Or third, could it be that Mark wrote down the words of Jesus after they were fulfilled. This would make great sense to me, because when something important happens, something traumatic, we understand our memories in a more dramatic way.

“This temple is coming down…” That’s exactly what happened. It offered a hint there would be no central Temple for those who followed Jesus, no singular location to gather and pray. The faithful people of God would have to spread out, differentiate, find multiple places to worship. And that’s what happened.

Then he said, “Beware of the fakes and the fear-mongers. They will profess to have inside knowledge, and they won’t.” And that’s exactly what happened, too. It has never really ceased. Those people are still out there, pretending to follow Christ while they snarl beneath their smiles.

Ever notice how someone writes a book about the Bible and the End of the World, and the next week, somebody else writes another book – and another book – and another book. Fear is Big Business, especially in the so-called Christian World. Jesus calls them “imposters.”

Then he said, “For nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom; there will be earthquakes in various places; there will be famines.” These are inevitable, he says. We are a warlike species who can’t quite figure out how to find what works for the greatest number of souls. And this is an unstable planet, with San Andreas fault lines, erupting volcanoes, and enlarging deserts. Terrible things happen in our world. Nobody paying attention will be surprised by that.

The worst is what people do to one another. For Jesus said, “They will betray you and beat you up,” and that shouldn’t surprise us at all. It happened to Jesus – someone betrayed him, others beat him up. If we follow him, the road goes all the way to the cross. Just one more reminder that life is hard. It is hard for everybody – please remember that. Nobody is exempt from pain, difficulty, distress. Especially if they are following Jesus. Especially if their faithfulness is what sets off the powers of destruction.

This is where our memory can help us. Others have gone through trouble before us. Others have lost their temples – not to foreign invasions, but to floods, earthquakes, acts of violence, or even changes outside of their control. There are a lot of empty church buildings, once full, once thriving, once bustling with spiritual energy. But things can change.

Like the congregation I knew that had been through so much. They lost their building in a fire, but they pulled together and rebuilt. But finances were tough, and they couldn’t afford a minister anymore. They tried fundraisers, but raffle tickets didn’t raise enough. Kind-hearted friends pointed out how the old neighborhood had changed. It was no longer a tight-knit community of Welsh souls. The new neighbors were speaking Spanish. Further down the block, they spoke Vietnamese.

One night, the small remainder of the Welsh decided to turn in the keys. They couldn’t do it anymore. No energy to look beyond themselves. No passion to serve a neighborhood full of strangers. There was no earthquake, no famine, no invading army – just a weary few who lost their Temple by walking away from it. One of the most tragic sights I’ve ever seen. They didn’t have sufficient energy to dial 1-800-Got-Junk. We had to dial it for them.

And then, the tragedy of opening the closets of a church that had imploded on itself: a broken mimeograph machine nobody had fixed, a stack of worship bulletins from 1978 that no one had ever thrown out, a rack full of choir robes covered with mildew. I couldn’t help but fear those dear people had gotten so stuck that they forgot what Christ has called them to do.

And what was that? Jesus says it in the text: keruxenthai euangelion. Preach the Gospel. When the Temple is tumbling down, what do you do? Preach the Gospel. When earthquakes shake and floodwaters roar, proclaim the Good News that Christ is stronger than the storm. When crisis creates human need, kneel before the needy and reveal the love of God in Jesus Christ. Keruxenthai euangelion: proclaim the Gospel.

That’s what we do because it doesn’t depend on our circumstances. It rests solely on the foundation of the grace of God. That’s why we are here. That’s what we do.

There’s nothing like a good, old twenty-month pandemic to expose what you’re made of. It reveals if you have any hope, and where you find it. It shakes away the crust and reveals the truth that life comes only from God.

So, the Temple tumbles down. That doesn’t mean God has been destroyed. Merely the building. And what this exposes it our all-too-human tendency to freeze in time what we love. We love this moment and wish it continues forever. We love this constellation of relationships and don’t want it to shift in any way. We love this sacred space, the way that we do things, the routines that we maintain. This is why good people can freak out at the possibility of change, much less the trauma of enormous change. Deep into the second year of a pandemic, I understand that.

Then I hear Jesus say, “Even when the Temple is falling, the Gospel must be proclaimed to all.” Or in his words, Keruxenthai euangelion

As I make my way around the region, I have heard a lot of belly aching. “The church isn't what it used to be. Our congregations are fading away. We don't have any hope. We don't how much longer we can go on.”

I have only one thing to say in reply: Is the gospel still true? Is Jesus still Lord, crucified and risen? Do old King Herod or Emperor Vespasian think they can hang on to power forever? Is anybody or anything eternal, beyond the Eternal One? I think you know what the Bible has to say about that.

Jesus came preaching the kingdom of God. This is the announcement announce that God rules over everything. The Good News reveals at least two truths. First, none of us are going to get what we want because we are not in charge; the planets don’t revolve around any of us. Second, because God rules over everything, God's ways will ultimately become the world’s ways, and, God willing, they will become our ways, too. It may take a while. We can expect a struggle. But resistance is futile. God will win.

What we hear today is a hopeful word. God is greater than the temple that worships him. God is greater than the people who worship him. God rules over all things, not just the small, undersized heart, not the puny despots who tear down physical temples, but all things. So we have nothing to fear.

And that’s good news.


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

Generous to a Fault?

Mark 12:38-44
November 7, 2021

William G. Carter  

As he taught, he said, “Beware of the scribes, who like to walk around in long robes, and to be greeted with respect in the marketplaces, and to have the best seats in the synagogues and places of honor at banquets! They devour widows’ houses and for the sake of appearance say long prayers. They will receive the greater condemnation.”

He sat down opposite the treasury and watched the crowd putting money into the treasury. Many rich people put in large sums. A poor widow came and put in two small copper coins, which are worth a penny. Then he called his disciples and said to them, “Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury. For all of them have contributed out of their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on.”


It's a story we can remember or imagine. Everyone gathers for the birthday party. As the family sings, the little boy leans forward. He blows out five candles on the cake. Everybody cheers. Then a mountain of gifts appears, and the little guy’s eyes open wide. As he rips into the wrapping paper, Grandma realizes most of the packages have come from a single source – from Aunt Kathy. “Kathy,” she whispers later, “you spent too much.”

Or it’s Christmas week, and the new fiancée has arrived at the future in laws. He cuddles by the fire with his beloved. Enjoys the conversation with her family. When it’s his turn, he opens a package to discover a sweater and tries it on. It’s a perfect fit. Then he says, “Here’s a little something for you,” as the rest of her family smiles. She opens a small package and pulls out a key ring. He points and says, “Look out there!” It’s a brand-new Mustang, candy apple red.

As everybody drops their jaws, she says to him, “You shouldn’t have.” He begins to reply, and she cuts him off. “No, really, you shouldn’t have. It’s too much.”

Sometimes generosity might seem to go too far. A gift can exceed the situation. If it’s a moment when we are trading gifts, there’s always someone who exceeds the limit. (I’m thinking of one of my family members; it’s not her.) But somebody does this. Maybe it’s you. And we need not diagnose this psychologically. True giving is not always a power trip, much less a competitive game. No, it’s an expression of the heart.

I found this. I thought of you. I made a sacrifice because I wanted to.

And if the gift is extraordinary, a person’s character is revealed in how they receive or reject the gift.

Of all the low points of my moral life, the lowest came on my 23rd birthday. My college girlfriend showed up at the graduate school I was attending. She extended her arms with a package, to which I said something stupid: “Oh, is that for me?” She rolled her eyes, waited for me to take it. Pulling off the paper, I was stunned to discover a sound system for my car. I listen to a lot of music in the car. She knew that, wanted me to have it.

And I confess to you, I was angry. “You spent too much. You can’t afford this. What are you thinking? Take it back. I can’t accept this.” She started to cry. I didn’t know she had been saving for it, that she took on an extra part-time job to pay for it. In my arrogance, in my inability to see the depth of her sacrifice, I demolished her heart. It was a frosty night. Bitterly cold.

All this bears on how I hear the story of the widow who donates her last two coins to the Jerusalem Temple. It is an astonishing gift. Quantitatively, not much money. Two lepta – two copper coins – barely enough to buy bread. But qualitatively, it’s a fortune. And it’s an act of faith. She will have to trust God to deliver the next meal. Or rely on the mercy of strangers. Yet she gives it. She gives it all.

And Jesus says, “Look at that!” That's all he says - "Look at that!"

Notice what he doesn’t do. He doesn’t go over there and scold her. No, he perceives that selfless generosity is her motivation. She opens herself to great vulnerability. She gives herself away. He understands that, especially a couple of days before his own crucifixion. He’s going to give himself away, too, in an enormously powerful act of vulnerability. He respects what she is doing. Her self-giving resonates with his divine heart.

Notice that he doesn’t go over there and reward her, either. These days, when people hit us up for donations, they often offer something in return. Then we get the little slip declaring the subtracted value of the gift. It misses the point – if you’re giving, you’re giving, not getting.

Like my friends who run an arts center up in the hills. They do a $10,000 raffle. Tickets are a hundred bucks, and they sell only five hundred of them. “You could win the top ten-thousand-dollar prize!” It appeals to our greed, which has a way of canceling any feelings of generosity. So I put a hundred dollars in an envelope and send it to them anonymously, because I want them to have the money. I don’t need to “get” anything in return. I believe in what they’re doing. I want them to succeed.

So this story of the woman who gives it all is handled with restraint. Jesus honors her, without ever getting her name and recording it for future generations of stewardship sermons. And the fact that he honors her is something his own disciples won’t understand.

According to Mark’s Gospel, in a matter of hours, Jesus and the twelve will eating at a house up the hill in Bethany. And another woman will appear, break open a jar of expensive perfumed oil, and pour it on his forehead. It’s expensive. It costs about ten months’ wages – just calculate that. And the twelve men explode! “Why is she wasting this? Why is she releasing it into the air? Why didn’t she sell it and feed the poor?”

Jesus says, “Leave her alone. Get off her case. She has done a beautiful thing.” They don’t get it. That’s because the men in the Gospel of Mark usually don’t understand – but the women do. The women give of themselves generously, without fear or calculation. They give because giving is one of the holiest things we can do.

Ever think about that? We open our hands and we let it go. We offer our very living without any desire to manipulate or control. We give because we were created to give, not to keep. We give because we love. We give because we hope. We give because we are free.

It is an extraordinary story. There is no moral to the story, but there is an example: this selfless woman. And in the example is the invitation: we can be like her. In our generosity, we can be like Jesus.

It’s the story that gathers us around this Table, where we learn through broken bread and blood-red wine that Jesus has given everything to ransom us from the powers of evil. That’s how this Gospel describes what he has done (10:45). He has given his life to set us free. He has totally set us free.

What an extraordinary gift! What are you going to do with it?

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