We Are In This Together

Mark 9:38-41

Pentecost 18
September 26, 2021

John said to him, “Teacher, we saw someone casting out demons in your name, and we tried to stop him, because he was not following us.” But Jesus said, “Do not stop him; for no one who does a deed of power in my name will be able soon afterward to speak evil of me. Whoever is not against us is for us. For truly I tell you, whoever gives you a cup of water to drink because you bear the name of Christ will by no means lose the reward.

A lot of preachers begin the sermon with old, stupid jokes that aren’t funny. Why should I be different?

The story goes that a Presbyterian minister died and went to heaven. He met Saint Peter at the gate, who said, “After I let you in, let me take you on a tour.” Rev. Oswald agrees, and they hop on a golf cart and go for a ride. They travel along a beautiful golf course, pristine, well-managed, with an endless number of holes. And why not? Everybody has a lot of time.

Then they circle around and see beautiful mountains, and then stunning sandy beaches. There are landscapes for everybody. Then they head down a road paved with gold, go around the bend, and there is an enormous mansion. A really big house. Parking the gold cart, they go inside. There is a banquet room, the biggest Oswald has ever seen. It stretches miles in either direction, but still seems cozy and comfortable. “The food is really good here,” says St. Peter.

And in this house, there are many rooms. There is a Methodist room, and everybody is singing. There is a Russian Orthodox room, filled with gold paintings and smelling of incense. There is a Roman Catholic room, lined with marble statues and great works of art. The Lutheran room is holding a theology class. The Episcopalian room offers wine tasting class. The Pentecostals and Baptists are together, reading books on church history. All these rooms are open. People are enjoying themselves.

Oswald says, “Are there any Presbyterians here in heaven?” St. Peter looks at him for a second and says, “Come with me.” They go down the hall, around the bend, down some steps. They come to a room. The door is shut. Oswald tries the door and it’s locked. St. Peter says, “It’s locked from the inside.”

Oswald says, “These are the Presbyterians?” St. Peter says, “Oh yes. They think they are the only ones here.”

It’s an old joke. And the more you think about it, it’s not very funny. It is a reminder of all the divisions and separations that the church of Jesus Christ has torn itself into. It reinforces all the caricatures and stereotypes that reinforce those divisions. Worst of all, we are reminded of the recurring notion that we are the only ones here, the only ones who count, the only ones who are getting it right.

According to the Gospel of Mark, this is a presumption that goes all the way back to the apostles.

One day on the road to Jerusalem, John the disciple tells Jesus about something that happened when the Lord wasn’t looking. “We saw a healer out there, working for you,” he said, “but we told him to stop.” Once more, just like the story we heard last week, Jesus stops cold in his tracks, spins around, and says, “What?!?”

“He said he was working for you,” John said, “but he wasn’t following us.” He wasn’t one of the twelve of us who are following you. He wasn’t part of our inner circle. He wasn’t part of our private club. He wasn’t a card-carrying Presbyterian. Whatever. So John said, “We told him to knock it off.”

And before we listen to how Jesus responds, I think we need to imagine him standing there, speechless, incomprehensible at the cluelessness of his own followers.

Maybe John presumes he is part of something special. In a way, he is. He left his old man in the fishing boat to get in step behind the Lord. He stands among the first circle of humans who experience the power of Jesus. He just came down from a mountaintop where he saw Jesus glow like a thousand suns. Doesn’t that count for something? Can’t he decide who’s in and who’s out?

No. No, it doesn’t. Jesus stares at John, and says, “You need to knock it off. Don’t stop him. He’s doing a deed of power in my name. We are on the same team, not opposing teams.” And we never do learn if John gets the point.

This is a recurring issue, not just in bad jokes about locked rooms in heaven. It’s a recurring issue in the church that carries the weight of presumption. I remember the cranky clergyman in the first town where I served. A hungry neighbor knocked on the door of his house, looking for some help with food. The preacher said, “I don’t know you. Go away.”

The man said, “But I lost my job. My kids are hungry.” The preacher said, “You are not a member of my church. Go away.” And shut the door. I’m not making up that story. It’s true.

Or I think of the marketing strategy of a church I know. Marketing, it’s all about marketing. They put up billboards, they trained their people to say, “Your church hasn’t told you the truth about Jesus, but we will.” Again, I’m not making that up. It’s a true story. Some of you have heard it. The strategy is called, “Build your flock by stealing somebody else’s sheep.” And the presumption is, “We have something that nobody else has.” Not even our fellow Christians.

Certainly this is the apostle John’s presumption. He told the uncredentialed exorcist to stop. But Jesus says, “Leave him alone.” Let him do his work.

Now, why does he say it? Two reasons, I think. Mark the storyteller has already given the first clue. The man is an exorcist. Jesus is an exorcist, too. In fact, that’s the first think Mark says about Jesus. Fresh from his baptism, Jesus is pushed into the wilderness to confront the temptations of evil. It took him forty days. In the end, he was a little ragged, and hungry, yet he was stronger than the evil.

Immediately he stepped into the synagogue in Capernaum and starts to teach. Suddenly a possessed man starts shouting at him. Jesus shouts back. The possessed man screams and Jesus screams. It’s a shouting match, until the Christ says, “Come out of him, you evil spirit.” Suddenly the man is well, and the congregation says, “We never saw a sermon like that!”

With the authority of God, Jesus comes to confront evil. He comes to release people from the unseen grip of whatever is twisting them out of shape. Immediately here, immediately there, Jesus restores. He heals. He lifts people from their oppressions. This is his work. This is his mission. He is relentless, to the point that he agitates the powers of hell – that drives the plot of Mark - yet in the end, he is stronger than the destructive, dehumanizing powers, because he comes with the power of God. This is his mission. To make us well. To make all things well.

And these days, any careful observer is going to notice once again what Jesus is up against. Listen to people argue about wearing masks or getting medically approved vaccinations. Every day I hear a story about somebody who believes she is exempt from getting sick, but she’s not. Or somebody who thinks he knows better than those who study illnesses for a living, and he doesn’t. And there are people will make up lies and peddle them as alternative facts. Some days I wonder, “What kind of madness has gotten into them?”

And here comes Jesus, making people well. He casts out the unseen forces that can make any of us crazy. It’s called an exorcism. In the first century AD, the Gospel of Mark says, “This is what Jesus is all about.” He comes to make people well, inside and out, body, spirit, and soul.

So John reports that there is somebody up in the Galilean hills who is doing the same thing? No wonder Jesus says, “Leave him alone. Let him do his work.” It’s the same mission. It’s the same purpose. It is the work of God to make people well.

The second thing to notice is that the work is being done in Jesus’ name. In his name. For his sake. So it seems what Old John can’t quite swallow is that there might be Christ Followers out there, loose in the world, who are not part of his own exclusive bunch. That requires another kind of conversion – a conversion from exclusivity.

Jesus is teaching, “Think bigger, look wider. God’s mission is underway. There are more of us doing the work than you realize.” The psychologist who unlocks the learning disorder, the surgeon who fixes smiles, the social worker who connects, the resource center that provides a safe place for a frightened woman to sleep, the counselor who listens to the broken heart, the volunteer ladling out macaroni casserole, the deacon who prays – all of them are part of the mission, God’s mission. And we are in it together.

Jesus says the kingdom of God is like a farmer who throws seeds all over the place. The farmer is generous, effusive, even to the point of being wasteful. He is throwing seed everywhere, hoping some of it will take root.

Maybe it will, maybe it won’t, but he doesn’t stop. He throws the seed on receptive soil; he throws the seed on rocks – ever hopeful. This generosity is the essence of God’s dominion among us.

So maybe God doesn’t stay only in a church to do the holy work. Maybe God goes out into the world, too. Imagine that. Either we are part of the work or we’re not. Either the kingdom’s seed is taking root in us, and the evil is getting cast out of us – or we are living in the presumption that we are better than others and we really don’t want to get our hands dirty. If you catch my drift.

At the heart of it all, this holistic, integrated, all-inclusive healing is the work of Jesus. There’s a wonderful Hebrew phrase to describe it: tikkun olam, translated, “taking the world in for repairs.” That’s our work because it is his work. Whether we always name it or not, it is his work – And he is working among us, within us, and always beyond us.

One of my favorite stories is of a British missionary named Lesslie Newbigin. He was a proper Presbyterian minister, member of the Church of Scotland, and accepted a post in India. It was an exotic land. It pushed him beyond his comfort, but he labored long, loved the people, taught the Bible, helped whomever he could, and built up the church.

Some of the Christian leaders in India decided to pull together and create a single Christian body, called the Church of South India. They loved Newbigin so much that they appointed him as a bishop. He was Presbyterian – we don’t do bishops – but he accepted their appointment to become a bishop. They didn’t understand that back in Edinburgh, but that’s what he did.

Late in life, he explained his decision indirectly. He was giving a lecture and remarked that every organization can be defined in one of two ways: by its boundaries or its center. If you define a church by its boundaries, you decide who’s in and who’s out. But if the church follows Jesus Christ into the world, it has no boundaries. Any attempt to define the boundaries “always ends in an unevangelical legalism.”

Then he says, 

But it is always possible and necessary to define the center. The church is its proper self, and is a sign of the kingdom, only insofar as it continually points (people) beyond itself to Jesus...[1]

It’s his work, intended for all. And we are in this work together.

 

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

  

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[1] Lesslie Newbigin, Sign of the Kingdom (Grand Rapids: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Co., 1980) 68.

Who's on First?

Mark 9:30-37
Pentecost 17
September 19, 2021

They went on from there and passed through Galilee. He did not want anyone to know it; for he was teaching his disciples, saying to them, “The Son of Man is to be betrayed into human hands, and they will kill him, and three days after being killed, he will rise again.” But they did not understand what he was saying and were afraid to ask him.

 

Then they came to Capernaum; and when he was in the house he asked them, “What were you arguing about on the way?” But they were silent, for on the way they had argued with one another who was the greatest. He sat down, called the twelve, and said to them, “Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all.” Then he took a little child and put it among them; and taking it in his arms, he said to them, “Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me.”

 

 

No doubt some of you are old enough to remember the gag from comedians Abbott and Costello. Listing the roster of a baseball team, they recite, “Who’s on first, What’s on second, and I Don’t Know is on third.” The catcher is Today, and Tomorrow’s pitching.

 

I thought about asking a local radio personality who is a baseball fan to help me to repeat the comedy bit but changed my mind. It would be a distraction from the actual question. Who’s on first?

 

Who's on first? Each one of the disciples of Jesus answers, "Me."

 

Mark tells us they were arguing about this. They were following Jesus, which means they were behind them. Jesus was up front, leading the way. The twelve of them had lined up behind. As they walked, they began to argue. Which one of us is best? Which one of us is greatest? Who’s on first?

Now you can imagine this is the sort of thing that disciples say behind Jesus’ back. They would never think to say it to his face. That would sound superficial, self-serving, and superior. So when he asks, “What were you arguing about along the way,” nobody speaks up or says it out loud. But you know he had to be listening. After all, they were “arguing,” says Mark. That usually doesn’t happen quietly. They were debating which one of them was the greatest.

 I wish we could have listened in for the criteria. Imagine each one, stating his case:

 Simon Peter goes first. He always blustered in where angels feared to tread. He says, “I'm the one up front, and I would be a good front man. And I was the first one to discover Jesus' secret identity. Not only that, someday they’re going to call me the first Pope and build a church over my tombstone.”

 Then James says, “Well, I have always been part of the inner circle. He trusts me. He invites me to the mountain top to see the mysteries that the rest of you never see. Besides, I don't have as many issues as Simon Peter does.”

 His brother John nudges him and says, “Wait just a minute. Our Lord is always talking about love and friendship, Everybody knows I am the disciple that Jesus loves. We have a special bond. He’s going to lean on me if anything special needs to get done.”

 “None of you are very practical,” Matthew pipes up. “I know how to run a business. And I know how to befriend some of the Roman soldiers. You might say I know how to grease the skids. That will come in handy when this movement of his starts a few franchises.”

 “Matthew, you don’t know what you’re talking about.” The speaker is Judas Iscariot. He continues, “All of you trust me with the books. I pay all your bills. I’m the treasurer of the group, and I know the difference between a business and a mission. This is a mission. And unlike you, Matthew, I would never sell out the Lord.”

 Andrew waits until it’s quiet, clears his throat, and says, “I hate to say the obvious, but I am a whole lot humbler than the rest of you.” Philip laughs.

 James the Just states his case, “I have the requisite moral character.” Thaddeus says, “Well, I am tall and good looking. I look like the leader.” Simon the Canaanite, “Thaddeus, at least I still have all my hair. Plus there's a dagger under my cloak.”

 Well, Thomas, have anything to say? He replies, “I am a realist, not as naive as the rest of you.”

 How about you, Bartholomew. With quiet sincerity, he says, “None of you know me very well. I stay behind the scenes. That’s where you need to be, leading from behind while pushing people forward.”

 Just then, Philip pipes up, “Pick me, pick me. Why? Just pick me.”

 What a choice. After listening in to these disciples, a single question emerges, and here it is: “Lord, can't you do better than these guys?” Which one of them is the greatest? Why not pick a woman? When women take charge, things get done. They don’t have the swagger of masculinity, the inanity of bravado, nor the empty bluster. Maybe that’s why the church has always been led by women, even when they were denied official power. They get the work done.

 But a woman told me a secret recently, which she said that I could tell you. Promise you won’t tell anybody? She said, “Women are every bit as competitive as the men.” Especially in the beautiful hills of Clarks Summit.

 Competition. It is inevitable in any human gathering. It can creep into every relationship. It can infiltrate every family.

 I don’t know how it is with those of you who are single children. I don’t know where you compete – perhaps the office, or the tennis court, or among your friends. As for those of us with sisters and brothers, competition breaks out at the dinner table (“She got a bigger piece of apple pie than I did.”). Or when the report cards come out (“I got an A in math, and you weren’t smart enough.”). Or even in the lawyer’s office (“Daddy always loved me more.”).

 Competition can be fierce in families, even when there is a good referee. As the first-born of four children, all of us rapidly aging, I’ve never opted to look over my shoulder. I guess I never wanted to see who was gaining on me, or what kind of rebellion they were planning. No, I prefer the subtle approach. Like that coffee mug that I bought for my mother. It says, “I love how we don’t even need how to say it out loud that I’m your favorite child.” She keeps it on top of the refrigerator, and I reach for it every time I go to visit. Mom says she plays along with my delusion.

Ask her sometime, “Which of your kids is the best one?” She will roll her eyes. She’s just like Jesus.

 Often, we hear the phrase, “healthy competition.” As if a worthy challenge calls forth our best effort. See the swimmer who sharpens his stroke or the scholar who strives to become valedictorian. If the competition is “healthy” (whatever that means), the contest can improve us.  

The problem is a good many competitions are not healthy. A competitive marriage is probably not a happy one. We’ve all seen it: jostling for airtime, getting the first bid in for a night out with friends, gaining the upper hand financial, always compelled to win the argument or get in the last work. Sometimes couples will try to outspend one another. Or one will try to make the other dependent. Superiority is the name of that game. That’s shorthand for “I’m the greatest.”

 Likewise, a competitive friendship will not last very long. Sharing the accolades, bragging of advancements, dominating the phone call, always comparing as a way of inching forward. As somebody said one day in frustration, “I am weary of always coming in second for a race I never decided to run.” He paused, and added, “Do you suppose he always has to come out on top because he feels a deficit in himself?”

 Could be. Why do you think those twelve disciples believed that one of them had to be “better” than all the rest of them? Who is keeping score, anyway? Does Jesus single out one of us, to the exclusion of all others? No, I don’t think so.

 So this raises the issue of what kind of Christians we are going to be. Or to broaden it, what kind of church we are going to be.

 Clearly the disciples were missing a lot of the cues. For the second time, Jesus had declared he was going to give his life. He was going to give everything away for the salvation of the world. And they aren’t paying attention. They are too busy arguing which one of them is best, which one of them is the greatest, which one of them is first.

 Every year in our community, one of the local newspapers does a survey called, “The Best of the Abingtons.” The community is polled: who bakes the best pizza? Which dentist does the best job cleaning your teeth? Who is the go-to mechanic for fixing that rattle in your car? Which real estate agent is most likely to sell your house? What’s your favorite diner? Or the diner that has the best dessert? The poll purports to offer a service to newcomers. It is often a good way to sell some advertising.

 I am profoundly grateful that they have never asked, “Which church is the best?” If they did, I can only imagine Jesus responding the same way my mother has said of her children, “They are all different, but I love them all.” Of course they are all different. And some of them are not beyond the temptation to compete. Yet there is something about the whole process of comparison and measuring one against another that runs counter with the lesson Jesus gives in the text.

 “Want to be first? Be last. Want to be at the top? Be the servant of all.” Then in a shocking move, he draws in a young child, embraces the kid, and says, “Whoever welcomes the little one, welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me, welcomes the One who sent me.” 

What makes this shocking is that children in that time and place were never used as sermon illustrations. According to several scholars, they were never that highly regarded in the Graeco-Roman world. So this is not a moment for inclusion (we’ll get to that in chapter ten), so much as a lesson about humility – about smallness – about stepping back from the temptation to be great and accepting the truth of being just like everybody else. 

It is a good lesson. It can be a hard lesson, especially if we should ever get knocked off a pedestal. But it is a lesson, all the same, an invitation to become a servant, not a master; a companion, not a challenger; a friend, not an overseer. Those who follow Jesus walk behind him – and they walk side by side. 

This was a lesson passed along by Henri Nouwen, the tenured professor at an Ivy League school, who took a sabbatical and spent time among the poor of Central America. The experience shook him deeply in the best possible way. He noted that we spend some much time and energy trying to get ahead of one another when we are truly walking the same road. And the great problem of competition is that it always stands in the way of compassion. We cannot love one another if we scramble to be better than one another. We cannot care from above; we can only care when we are side by side.

So which one of us is the greatest? Who’s the best? Who’s on first? Human questions, perhaps, but not heaven’s questions. Heaven wants to know is who is loving? Who is giving? Who is serving? Answer those questions, and you will see who’s following Jesus.

 

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

Cruciform Community

Mark 8:27-38
16th Sunday after Pentecost
September 12, 2021

Jesus went on with his disciples to the villages of Caesarea Philippi; and on the way he asked his disciples, “Who do people say that I am?” And they answered him, “John the Baptist; and others, Elijah; and still others, one of the prophets.” He asked them, “But who do you say that I am?” Peter answered him, “You are the Messiah.” And he sternly ordered them not to tell anyone about him.

Then he began to teach them that the Son of Man must undergo great suffering, and be rejected by the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes, and be killed, and after three days rise again. He said all this quite openly. And Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him. But turning and looking at his disciples, he rebuked Peter and said, “Get behind me, Satan! For you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.”

 

He called the crowd with his disciples, and said to them, “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it. For what will it profit them to gain the whole world and forfeit their life? Indeed, what can they give in return for their life? Those who are ashamed of me and of my words in this adulterous and sinful generation, of them the Son of Man will also be ashamed when he comes in the glory of his Father with the holy angels.”

I have been looking forward to this moment for some time. About three months, in fact. No sooner did I say goodbye on the first of June, and I began to anticipate my return. I had a wonderful summer, filled with rest, relaxation, and writing time. I hope you had a good summer, too, and I look forward to hearing if you enjoyed your break from me as much as I enjoyed my break from you.

It’s good to take a break. Unrelieved activity can exhaust us. Unrelieved connection can blow us apart. Constant motion can become commotion. And we begin to forget why we are here.

So I am here, and you are here, and together we will be the church again. As the fall begins, it is worth considering what kind of church we are going to be. Some people think there are lots of options.

We could be the busy church. The busy church has programs, classes, activities all the time. How is that working for you? I don’t know. Nancy asked me to take back the reins for the Wednesday weekly e-mail. I glued together what you sent me, what we know, what we plan to do – and hope to do. And it’s true, I return from a sabbatical with renewed energy. But when I pressed “send” on that 85-pound e-mail, I was already feeling tired. Being a busy church may not be all it’s cracked up to be, especially in a pandemic.

So maybe we could be the impressive church. Some think that sounds like a pretty good option, too. Especially when they look around this room. This is a congregation full of impressive people. Not only are you good looking; you’re smart, too. Lots of educated folks. More than that, a deep reservoir of wisdom. Every time I teach a class around here, I always learn something. Thank you for that. You are a most impressive bunch, and you make it easy to return. Our building may not have gargoyles nor stained glass Bible stories, but it houses of you.

But we are Christian people, so we take our cue from Christ. He never calls us to be a busy church or an impressive church. No, he has something else in mind. He invites us to be a church that follows him. That’s not easy, for he has gone invisible on us. We can hear his Voice, but we can’t always see his example.

All the same, if we were listening to the Bible text for today, we know what kind of church he wants us to be. He wants us to be a church that gives its life away for the benefit of others. As far as he is concerned, that’s the only kind of church there is.

He puts his invitation into the air: if anybody wants to follow me, let them give everything away. Let them deny themselves. Let them lose it all for my sake. This is what he means for us to “take up a cross.”

It is a most confusing invitation. The day he first said it, Simon Peter didn’t understand. Jesus and his band of merry followers had enjoyed one success after another. The kingdom movement had begun. Hope was spreading like wildflowers. Sick people were getting well. Those with invisible troubles were catching their breath and calming down. The hungry were getting fed. Thanks to Jesus, the world was getting better – at least in that little corner of Palestine. 

Simon Peter says, “Jesus, what are you talking about? Are you going to throw away all your success? After all, we’ve finally figured out who you are – you are the Christ, the Messiah of God.”

And Jesus stares him down and says, “Shh! Quiet down. Don’t tell anybody that.”

“But Jesus,” says Simon Peter, “look how busy you’ve been! Old Mark has been writing down the things you’re doing and can barely keep up. Throwing out the demons, restoring the lepers, shouting away the storms. Man, you are God’s Super Hero.”

Jesus spins around and says, “I told you to be quiet. Hush up. I must give my life away, and so must you.”

“But Jesus,” insists Simon Peter, “you must keep building, keep growing, keep increasing your influence. That’s the kind of Messiah we have been waiting for – somebody successful! We know who you are, and you’re never going to die!”

Jesus stops in his steps, spins around again, stares him down, and says, “Stop this, you devil. You are not thinking about God’s work. You are merely impressed with statistics, and numbers that grow, and being bigger and better and flashier and gaudier. And God doesn’t care about any of that. What God values is one thing and one thing alone: are you giving your life away for others.”

I confess to you how confusing all of this is. After all, thanks to the pandemic, I am now an Internet Evangelist. I have a TV show. I have even gone blonde during the pandemic. I’m thinking about hiring a make-up artist out of the church budget.

And yet, if you add up the average number of people who come here on a Sunday morning with those tuning in online, it’s a good bit less than the number of folks who were here a couple of years ago. So much for being a Show Biz church!

I’m messing with you a little bit, but I believe the point is relevant. The world may sell the notion that, if something is alive, it has to keep getting bigger – like a product that takes over the market, or a TV show that gains more viewers, or an advertisement that gets more sales, or an evangelist that grabs more souls. But according to Jesus, those are not the values of the Gospel. They are the values of the world, a world described by one preacher as the very same “world that pushed Jesus out of it and onto a cross.” (Bonhoeffer) 

The mystery of the Gospel is that Jesus knew what kind of world this is. So what did he do? He gave himself away to the cross in order to benefit the world. He was not interested in building his resume. He refused to play it safe. He would not stay in Galilee – but set his face toward Jerusalem. This is the mystery that makes us Christian.

If we are going to be the kind of people who follow Jesus, it’s good to consider just what that means.

He speaks of “losing yourself.” Did you ever lose yourself? I’m not asking if you ever got lost – that’s a different question. But losing yourself.

A lady I know who has plenty of resources, who has every reason to coast on her good reputation, has been slipping into the city when nobody is looking. She doesn’t tell her friends at the country club what she’s doing. But I’ll tell you: she is teaching at-risk teenagers how to read.

She sits with them, learns their names, learns their stories, listens to how they have no home of their own to return to, so they sleep on the couches of their friends. And she is teaching them how to read. Giving encouragement. Focusing on helping them learn and improve. Staying by their side when they have setbacks. Celebrating each good test grade. And she’s not keeping track of how many kids she’s helped, because it’s not about the numbers. She helps just one at a time.

And know what she says? “I lose all track of time when I’m doing this.” Hear that? Losing herself and gaining a soul.

Or how about Mick? Most of us knew him. We nearly filled the sanctuary yesterday for his memorial service. He had a good job, loved his wife, raised two outstanding children, made a lot of friends. He ascended in the Masonic Order, learned the rituals, made more friends. Made a lot of friends around here.

And yesterday, a man came up and said, “I thought I knew Mick, but I had no idea. I didn’t know that Mick was personally responsible for taking children with spinal difficulties, severe burns, all kinds of illnesses to the Shriner Hospitals in Boston, Philadelphia, and Erie.” He transported over three hundred kids, but it wasn’t about the numbers. He took them one at a time. This was his volunteer work when he could have been cruising the Mediterranean.

Know what he said? “I’ve lost track of how many kids unless I look at the records. It’s just something I can do.” He lost track … and gained a soul.  

And yesterday, yesterday of all days, while speeches were made, and monuments were honored, and painful memories were recounted, I remembered what I could of 9-11. Not merely the planes crashing, the towers falling, the psychic numbing of a nation, nor the cries for retaliation. All of that was the nightmare.

No, what I remember is that Sunday afternoon when people of this church boarded a bus, went to New York, and delivered 75 homemade pies to the surviving members of the Hook and Ladder company in Hell’s Kitchen. The captain of the fire department told us how his company rushed into the South Tower to pull out as many people as they could. They did this willingly, sacrificially, because (as he said), “It was the right thing to do.”

Risking your life to save others – sounds like Jesus. Remember what he said? “For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the good news, will save it. For what will it profit them to gain the whole world and forfeit their life? 

To follow Jesus is to be inducted into the mystery of the cross. We learn of that transaction of evil that cancels evil, that death of his that leads to life, that horrific execution that opens all of us to the offer of forgiveness. This is the mystery of Christ that can shape and reshape our lives. Following Jesus is the journey of

giving up control,

            surrendering to the gift of grace,

            sacrificing our delusions of glory,

            joining in God’s ongoing operation to salvage a broken world.

This is what it means to “give our lives,” to “take up our crosses,” and to “deny ourselves.” It is the move to step off the throne and put Jesus there, where he rules with crucified hands and a heart overflowing with love. This is a continuing journey for all of us. We never master it. We never become experts. Over time, we realize that’s OK, because it’s not our job to rule the world, or increase our little corner of turf, or even to become impressive.  We are here to love and serve, to lift up and encourage, to look out for the interests of other, and to let each person know that they are eternally valuable in the sight of their God.

So here we are, together again, the cross-shaped community of Christ. As the fall unfolds, we will continue to be schooled by the Gospel of Mark. If we take the journey seriously, it will be a bumpy road, for we will be asking Jesus to shape us more and more like him. That will not happen easily. But it is the invitation of the Gospel. To follow him, to learn from him, to love like him.

See you next week.

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

Con Alma - With Soul

Con Alma – With Soul
Proverbs 12:25, 15:13, 15:15, 15:30, 17:22
September 5, 2021
2021 Jazz Communion

Anxiety weighs down the human heart, but a good word cheers it up. (12:25)
A glad heart makes a cheerful countenance, but by sorrow of heart the spirit is broken. (15:13)
All the days of the poor are hard, but a cheerful heart has a continual feast. (15:15)
The light of the eyes rejoices the heart, and good news refreshes the body. (15:30)
A cheerful heart is a good medicine, but a downcast spirit dries up the bones. (17:22)

 

Over the years, the jazz tradition has had its share of crazy characters (present company excluded, of course). Of all its characters, Dizzy Gillespie was the dizziest.

He got the nickname in Philadelphia, the story goes, and it was only a matter of time. He blew trumpet solos in Cab Calloway’s band, one of the great swing bands. One day, Calloway got hit by a spitball that originated somewhere in the trumpet section. He accused Dizzy, who denied it. He insisted, and Dizzy pulled a knife. The episode went downhill from there and Dizzy was summarily fired. Someone was heard to say, “That cat’s crazy.” Crazy like a fox, in fact.

Teaming up with saxophonist Charlie Parker, he sped up the tempos, added more angles to the harmony, and multiplied the eighth notes. They named that kind of jazz “bebop,” taking the name from the sound of the phrases (ya-dabba-dabba-bebop). The challenges of bebop weeded out the lesser musicians as the music went faster and higher. Mainstream America had its ears stretched by the notes – the “crazy” notes.

These crazy notes came with a fashion statement. Dizzy grew a thin goatee, wore horned-rimmed glasses, and put a beret on his head. In 1948, Life magazine did a photo spread for Dizzy to interpret bebop to all the civilians. There were hand motions: the five-finger greeting to model the flatted-fifth of the chord; the shout of greeting: eel-ya-dah, mimicking the trumpet triplet; and the jargon of jive: you’re either hip or you’re square, a daddy-o or a drag, the party is a blast, the music is a gas, and the musicians are cats.

But most of all, Dizzy embodied that ancient proverb, “A cheerful heart is a good medicine, but a downcast spirit dries up the bones” (17:22).

You could see it when he did a guest spot on the Muppet Show. Dressed in a turban and tunic, he begins a rhythm on bongo drums. He sings, “Swing low, sweet Cadillac … I looked over the Jordan, what did I see? An Eldorado coming after me.” Then he picks up his angular trumpet and blows two minutes of crazy notes. When the bit is done, he demonstrates to Kermit the Frog how he could puff out his cheeks to an impossible width. He had a cheerful heart.

My first introduction to his music came when my mother, against all wisdom, allowed me to select a couple of records from the Columbia Record Club. Remember that? Ten records for $1.99? I picked “Dizzy’s Big Four,” an album that I still have. It was fast, it was furious. As a teenager, I couldn’t figure it out. Those notes were in the stratosphere.

When I learned he was playing at a jazz festival three hours away, I convinced my dad that we needed to go. The band came out, played a couple of tunes, and blew the hair off our heads. It was stunning. Then Dizzy stepped to the microphone, thank us for the applause, and said, “Ladies and gentleman, I would like to take a moment to introduce the band…”

“Al, this is Jeff. Tyler, say hello to Tony. Mike, my name is Bill.” I saw him do that bit a half-dozen times, and every time it got a laugh – because he had a cheerful heart.

The guy had an extraordinary sense of humor, often in spite of living as an African American in a divisive world. One day, he was walking down a street in Scotland with pianist Lalo Schifrin. Dizzy stops somebody he doesn’t know, and with a perfect British accent, says, “Pardon me, my name is Gillespie, and I’m looking for my relatives.”

Another time, he had a recording date and lined up Sonny Stitt and Sonny Rollins, two of the greatest tenor saxophonists of the time. The day before the session, he dialed up Sonny Stitt to say, “Hey man, I’m looking forward to playing with you tomorrow, but I hope you can keep up. That Sonny Rollins is playing a whole lot of saxophone.” Then he called Rollins to say, “Can’t wait ‘til tomorrow, but I have to tell you, Sonny Stitt is blowing off the roof these days. I hope he doesn’t out-play you.” Then he hung up with a broad smile, knowing the next day, those two titans would be at the top of their game. And they were.

The text to remember is the proverb: “A cheerful heart is a good medicine, but a downcast spirit dries up the bones.” It is not complicated. We don’t have to look up any obscure words. The wise sage knows the world is divided between those cheerful and those downcast. The cheerful ones don’t hoard their delight. They give it away as medicine for other souls.

We know this to be true. The past eighteen months have challenged us at every turn. We have been isolated from one another. We have lost work. We have been stuck in our homes. We have made significant changes in our lives and careers. Let me ask you to reflect: how have you gotten through this demanding time? Do a little inventory on your soul.

Some have discovered that binge-watching cable TV is ok for a while but offers little protein for the brain. Other have decided to lose weight, get in shape, and clean up a long slide of bad habits. It’s all a matter of stewardship – of paying attention to what makes us well. Of cultivating the things that give us life and lift our spirits.

We have a relative who pulled out a card table and put together a 1500-piece puzzle. That was 42 puzzles ago. Now he puts some of them in frames, decorates the walls, and gives some of them away. It has been good medicine, and he is doing well.

I know somebody else who has taken up reading. And if she put up a card table, it wouldn’t hold all the books that she has read in the past year and a half. Her soul is in fine shape.

Some of us need human contact. And we have discovered that the old George Jetson telephone (remember that? The video telephone of the space age?) is on our computers, iPads, and other devices. So they schedule regular conversations with friends and family. It continues to keep them intact. It has nourished their spirits.

And that’s why we play Dizzy’s music. Not to offer anything profound, but in the hope that we will lift somebody’s spirits. Maybe there will be a song or a solo or a single note that will release somebody’s burden. Perhaps trumpet, flute, or sax will chase away the dark clouds. If so, it will be a sign that there is more to human existence than dried-up bones. There is life, and breath, and joy.

And it is good medicine.

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