Is This Sermon Too Long?

Acts 20:7-12
Holy Humor
May 1, 2022

William G. Carter  

On the first day of the week, when we met to break bread, Paul was holding a discussion with them; since he intended to leave the next day, he continued speaking until midnight. There were many lamps in the room upstairs where we were meeting. A young man named Eutychus, who was sitting in the window, began to sink off into a deep sleep while Paul talked still longer. Overcome by sleep, he fell to the ground three floors below and was picked up dead. But Paul went down, and bending over him took him in his arms, and said, “Do not be alarmed, for his life is in him.” Then Paul went upstairs, and after he had broken bread and eaten, he continued to converse with them until dawn; then he left. Meanwhile they had taken the boy away alive and were not a little comforted.


If we are going to endure another Holy Humor Sunday, sooner or later, we have to talk about the sermon. There aren’t a lot of jokes about sermons being too short, but there are quite a few about sermons that go on too long.

Like the young girl sitting next to her grandmother. The preacher is up there, waxing on, giving his eighty-five-point sermon. She sat quietly for a while, but then she said, “Grandma, if we give him the money now, will he let us go?”

Or the pastor, well known for his exhaustive sermons, noticed a man in the back got up and left in the middle of that week’s message. And then the man returned just before the final hymn. At the back door after the service, the preacher said, “Joe, where did you go?” Joe said, “I went to get a haircut.”

“Now, Joe,” said the preacher, “why didn’t you do that before the worship service.” Joe said, “I didn’t need one then.”

And then, there’s the church where two guys sit in the back – I’ll call them Don and John. They had a guest minister who was long winded. He was eloquent, but the sermon was long. Really long. About an hour and a half later, Don turned to John and said, “That was really a fine sermon, don’t you think?” John said, “It certainly was, although it was very long. It’s a good thing we have these pew cushions. But even then, I thought my backside was going to sleep.” And Don said, “I know, I heard it snore three times.”

So today, we have this story from the book of Acts. The apostle Paul is the preacher, and he’s been talking for a while. And talking and talking. The hour was late, they had to light the lamps, and Paul kept going. Over there by the window, a teenager was sitting by an open window. As Paul droned on, the kid’s eyelids began to bounce. His head began to nod. He took an enormous yawn, which had contagious effects in the rest of the room, but the apostle Paul didn’t take a hint. He kept talking.

Suddenly, the teenager gave in, nodded off – and fell out of the third story window. There was a collective gasp. It was enough for Paul to stop and take a breath. Where did he go? Is he all right? Some rushed downstairs. Others leaned out the window to look. Down on the ground, he wasn’t moving.

As someone once quipped, “This is the first recorded incident in the history of the Christian Church in which a young person is literally bored to death by preaching.”[1] For that reason alone, it was a favorite of the church youth group where I spent a lot of time as a teenager. It was right up there with that other story, the one that Wayne read, about the prophet who cursed out some kids for making fun of his bald head. 

There’s a lot of weird stuff in the Bible. That’s what makes it so interesting. Today’s text is the kind of bizarre story that led me, years later, to ask the Jehovah’s Witness missionary to explain to me. “Tell me,” I said, my tongue firmly in cheek, “why is this story in the Bible?” Why, indeed?

These days, I can think of several answers. For one thing, this is told in the Book of Acts, the Acts of the Apostles, and that’s a frontier book. The Gospel moved out beyond the walls of Jerusalem, off the security of a well-known map. And things happen on the frontier that don’t happen back home. The book of Acts is full of these accounts of fortune-telling slaves, wild visions in the sky, book burnings, weird magicians, and poisonous snakes. You name it. The coherence of the Gospel Word meets the contingencies of one new situation after another.

Here, Paul is on the go. A few months back, he escaped a riot in the city of Ephesus, where he had infuriated the artisans who made their money selling souvenirs around the Temple of Diana, one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. He went up to Macedonia, went down to Greece for a few months, was thinking about going to Syria – until he discovered his enemies had a plot against him. So here he is in Troas, northwestern Turkey for us, up around the city of Troy. And in every place he went, he had stories to tell. No wonder he talked so long! If you chart out his journey in the six verses before our text, he’s going all over the Aegean Sea.

But why is this story in the Bible? Quite possibly because, it’s not merely a preaching story – it’s an Easter story! A resurrection story! The young boy falls out the third story window, is “taken up as dead.” What does Paul do? He goes down the stairs, takes the lad into his arms, and then announces, “There is life in him. Don’t be afraid.”

For as the Gospel began to spread beyond Jerusalem, the city of Jesus’ death and resurrection, the church leaders begin to do what Jesus had done. They preach the Good News, and they heal. There is congruence between Jesus the Lord and the people who call him Lord. They continue his mission. Here in Troas, here is another tale of the Word of God advancing, creating miracles. Like raising that young man from where he fell. His name is Eutychus, translated from Greek, which means “lucky.”

But there’s something about this story which is - - ok, I’ll say it - - there’s something disturbing here. Sure, all’s well that ends well. We have our happy ending. Lucky Eutychus is breathing again. He will be all right. We want that to be the conclusion. Yet we must ask. Or at least, I have to ask: why is the apostle Paul so clueless?

Didn’t he see the kid was nodding off? Didn’t he notice the drooping eyelids, the head bobs? Hear the snore? Did he keep blasting through the boredom – not just in Eutychus, but others around him? Was he that insensitive? Inquiring minds want to know.

I recall the Youth Ministry Workshop, where a couple of heavily bearded Jesus Freaks led us in song as they strummed their guitars. Here’s the number one lesson that they wanted to teach us: when it comes to talking about Jesus, it is a sin to bore a kid. There are many ways to teach the Gospel. It’s not just blah-blah-blah from the preacher up front. You can have a conversation. You can join together in an activity. You can wrap the lesson in a good deed for the benefit of others.

In fact, if you find yourself going on too long, maybe you need to stop. Pause. Catch your breath. So, if you would, let me invite you to stand and stretch for fifteen seconds. Come on, get up on your feet, if you’re able. Take a deep breath. Stretch. Bend a little bit. Wiggle your toes. OK, everybody still with me? Have a seat.

But I don’t think we’ve answered the question: why is this Eutychus story in the Bible? Because I think there’s one more answer. Like I said, Paul’s on the move. There’s a lot of content he wants to tell these people before he leaves in the morning. Who is Jesus? What did he do? How do we know he’s alive? How do the scriptures help us understand him? How does he call on us to follow him? What does that mean in a world like this?

You can’t get all that material in a single eighteen-minute sermon. So Paul’s been talking all day. He’s been talking all night. Eutychus nods off, falls off, Paul raises him – and then what does he do? They break bread (that is, they ate a meal and had communion). And then Paul keeps talking until dawn.

Of course, the church folks had hustled Eutychus out the door, fed him some chicken soup, and let him rest from his bruises. Paul kept preaching – all day, all evening, all through the night – because he wanted them to know all about Jesus.

Reminds me of the time I had a cup of lemonade with Tony Campolo, the famous Baptist preacher of my generation. Couldn’t get a word in edgewise, and frankly, I didn’t want to. He could have kept talking all night, and I would have let him – because he knows Jesus, and he wanted me to know Jesus, and he wants everybody to know Jesus – because the news, the Good News, is just that good.

Now, I let you off easy most weeks. My sermons average 2100 words. That’s four single-spaced pages at 14-point font, typically about 18 minutes. And I do that, because of the preaching instruction that I received from my father, who said, “The mind can only absorb what the seat can endure.”

Yet, like Paul, I have to agree there’s a lot to say. The Gospel has substance and significance. We are talking about the formation of Christian souls. That takes time, a lot of time. And nobody can grow in faith by rolling through the drive-through for an order of Sermon McNuggets. We need to have something to chew, something worthy of the God who raised Jesus – and Lucky Eutychus – back from the dead.

Meanwhile, I’ve just tallied it up and I’m close to nineteen hundred words. Add a little stretch time, and I should wrap this up – until I see you again next week. I think I will conclude with a poem, a poem that I found on the internet. It has been composed by that great internet poet Anonymous, and it goes like this:

    Poor, sleepy Eutychus,
    A-sittin' without a-squirmin'.
    Perching on a window ledge
    To hear an endless sermon.

    St. Paul keeps on a-preachin'
    To our hero snoozin' hard;
    Then Euty leans into the air
    And crashes in the yard.

 

    But Paul is an apostle,
    Quite unlike other men;
    Down he runs to Eutychus
    And gives him life again.

    So if you're gonna sleep in church,
    Don't from a window fall;
    Cause the one up front a-preachin'
    Sure ain't no apostle Paul.

Have a wonderful day, filled with joy and laughter!

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

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[1]Anna Carter Florence, “A Prodigal Preaching Story: Paul, Eutychus, and Bored-to-Death Youth.” Theology Today 64.2 (2007): 233-243.

Hope of the Earth

Revelation 22:1-5
Psalm 65
April 24, 2022
William G. Carter

Then the angel showed me the river of the water of life, bright as crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb through the middle of the street of the city. On either side of the river is the tree of life with its twelve kinds of fruit, producing its fruit each month; and the leaves of the tree are for the healing of the nations. Nothing accursed will be found there anymore. But the throne of God and of the Lamb will be in it, and his servants will worship him; they will see his face, and his name will be on their foreheads. And there will be no more night; they need no light of lamp or sun, for the Lord God will be their light, and they will reign forever and ever.

 

This is one of the most beautiful descriptions of the scriptures. It is a scene from the concluding chapter of the Bible. At the end of human life as we know it, God sends down a new form of the city of Jerusalem. This New Jerusalem is enormous, a walled city with all the gates open. It shines bright, glimmering like the sun. Every shadow has been illumined. Every painful memory has been redeemed.

And through the center of the city, there is river bright as crystal. It produces healing in abundance, irrigating the Tree of Life and producing an enormous quantity of fruit.

This is where our life is headed. This is how our planet will look. Fresh from last Sunday’s revelation, this is our Easter promise. It will be our Pentecost hope. After a long slog through centuries of pain and difficulty, this is a most fitting conclusion to the story of life. Everything is heading toward this glorious scene of redemption. Looks like heaven on earth, the final reality.

But I want to let you in on a little secret, especially when it comes to this end of the Bible. Ready? Always be suspicious when the preacher speaks only of the destination and not the journey.

The way that the Bible has been put together reveals a long journey from a garden to a city. From Eden to the New Jerusalem. From innocence to restoration. And anyone who has read on ahead knows the final word in the Bible is grace. Clearly the last chapter of the Bible is a happy ending. Everything will turn out well. Everything broken will be healed. Life shall abound. This is our sacred hope.

But we're not there yet. You know it as well as I. We are still on the journey.

John is the visionary who writes down the Book of Revelation. He sets the final scene, not in the clouds of heaven, but on the soil of earth. This earth. This planet is the place where God does all the holy work that we know. And the Psalm sings of a living, vital creation:

       God builds the mountains.

God silences the roaring seas.

God visits the earth by watering it.

God provides grain for bread and invites everything to grow.

The pastures of the wilderness overflow, the hills gird themselves with joy.

It’s possible to sing our way through Psalm 65: the hills are alive with the sound of music. This is a psalm that honors creation, that perceives the glory of God in a world that is completely alive. I watched a few fat honeybees buzz yesterday around a bush breaking into pink bloom. This is how the world was imagined. Everything is alive. The smallest creatures flourish. The psalm looks toward God and sings, “You are the hope of all the ends of the earth.” Everywhere there’s evidence of God’s generosity. Allergies and rainstorms aside, who doesn’t enjoy spring in this corner of the world?

And yet – and we know there’s a yet – the global temperatures are inching up. An enormous chunk of Antarctica is thawing and ready to fall into the sea. This is not a blip on the screen. Nor is it a long-term cyclical event. The scientific record is clear that the environment has been steadily changing since 1980. Can’t pretend any longer.

The Presbyterians are concerned, as are all people with hearts and minds open. This year, our national church will consider and act upon recommendations to address some of the root causes of a changing climate. If anyone has been paying attention, we have experienced an increase of severe weather, including tropical storms, weird temperatures, floods, hurricanes – and tornados in places that have never experienced them before. It’s not the freak blizzard that blows in every twenty years. The climate has become erratic.

Many of us instinctively know that we play a part of the problem. Remember the opening months of the pandemic? Everybody was staying home – and the smog over our cities disappeared. We know this. But we seem unable to make the necessary changes to improve the air quality. Or we reduce this global issue to a matter of political disagreement without ever addressing our human addiction to overconsumption.

As some of you know, my concern has moved far beyond being good stewards of the earth that we share with all other living creatures. It’s really a matter of repentance, of changing our ways, of learning how to care for the planet in ways that make it sustainable for all.

For instance, one of our dogs became anemic this winter. She lost a lot of weight, had no energy. At the lowest point in her health, I had to carry her down the stairs to help her go outside. We discovered the source was probably a tick bite. Medication and attentive care have brought her back to health. Yet in the last two weeks, we’ve found two more ticks.

So what do we do? I was ready to sign up a lawn service to spray the backyard. Blast those bugs into oblivion through chemicals. My very wise wife said, “Wait a minute. If that spray kills the ticks, will it kill anything else? Like the honeybees?” Don’t know.

Now the conversation has turned: what animals will eat the ticks? Well, opossums, for one. Does anybody have an extra pet opossum? Also, some evidence that squirrels might help – but last year, we wanted to chase the squirrels out of the bird feeders, so we bought bird seed with red pepper flakes – and it really works! But now, there may be ticks because there are no possums or squirrels. It’s all a delicate balance. Spraying more chemicals onto the lawn is not the best answer.

[ Just found out there’s a certain fungus (metarhizium anisopliae) that they are effective using in Maine to reduce the tick population. Stay tuned on that one.]

God has established the world to be interdependent. Our Genesis call to “be fruitful, multiply, fill the earth, and have dominion” was never intended to be destructive or domineering. Rather, we come alongside all the critters and seek ways to co-exist, to get along, to flourish together.

We give off a certain amount of carbon dioxide whenever we exhale a breath. The tree leaves will process that. But if we cut down our forests, or if we pump astronomical amounts of carbon dioxide exhaust into the air, it throws off the delicate balance. We learn this in seventh grade science class. The problem is that we’d like to pretend it’s not as big a problem as it has become.

I did some poking around the dark corners of the Bible. Did you know the prophets of Israel had to address the environmental tragedies of their own time? Like the prophet Isaiah. Seven hundred years before Jesus, he declared:

The earth dries up and withers, the world languishes and withers;

the heavens languish together with the earth. 

The earth lies polluted under its inhabitants;

for they have transgressed laws, violated the statutes, broken the everlasting covenant. 

Therefore a curse devours the earth, and its inhabitants suffer for their guilt;

therefore the inhabitants of the earth dwindled, and few people are left. (Isaiah 24:4-6)

It’s a frightening scenario. And the root of it all was this: the people stopped caring about the neighborhood. That was the transgression, the violation, the broken covenant. The delicate balance was broken due to human selfishness. The wine dried up. The mirth of dancing ceased. There was widespread chaos in the land.[1]

Similarly, the prophet Jeremiah wept over the repeated denial of his people, who kept insisting that nothing was wrong, no corrections needed to be made, no changes were necessary. Jeremiah knew the blindness of their hearts would bring about the demise of everything they used to treasure. As the prophet warned, “You are trusting in deceptive words that are worthless.” (Jeremiah 7:6-8)

A few years ago, an investigator for the BBC explored the root causes of denial, particularly when it comes to taking care of the earth. Why do people ignore what it right in front of their noses? There are a few factors, it seems. First, fear and guilt cause many to simply shut down. But there’s also the ways in which awareness is raised. Either it’s made to feel that it’s too big a problem to tackle, which fosters denial. Or that it’s too small a problem, so only minor lifestyle changes are needed; this leads to complacency;[2] push away that plastic straw the server gives you in the diner – sure, that will heal the earth.

So we are called to step into the journey. To do something to bring balance back to God’s world. Today’s psalm sings of God’s creative care of the earth. The vision of the last chapter of Revelation points us to God’s vision for this beloved planet. Our calling is to take part in the earth’s care, not to cower in fear nor wither in complacency, but to pick up the trash and reduce the amount we produce. To lighten our footprint and live more simply. To get outside, open our eyes and ears, and savor the good earth.

To that end, here are two suggestions, both from notable Christian leaders. First, if we’re going to pray, we can pray like Pope Francis. One of his prayers goes:

God of love, show us our place in this world as channels of your love for all the creatures of this earth,
for not one of them is forgotten in your sight.
Enlighten those who possess power and money that we may avoid the sin of indifference,
that we may love the common good, advance the weak, and care for this world in which we live.

We pray as we act. We act as we pray. Prayer and action belong together. And your church wants to be a partner in this work. We are rebooting our Earth Care task force. We are providing opportunities to learn and serve, pray and act. In coming weeks, we are taking hikes together. One of our future Eagle Scouts is planting a pollination garden on the property. We want to act, not wring our hands.

The second suggestion comes from N.T. Wright, the noted Bible scholar. He reminds us how the text from Revelation takes place here, on this soil, on this earth. At the end of it all, we don’t float up to heaven. No, Revelation 22 says heaven comes down here. The river of life gives life. And the trees produce leaves that provide healing.

So do you know what he says? If you want to prepare for God’s grand and glorious renewed creation, if you want to prepare for that final day when the Risen Christ will return, plant a tree.[3]

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

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[1] See https://www.brethren.org/news/2020/reflection-on-isaiah-climate-justice/

[2] See https://0lem.wordpress.com/2015/11/23/jeremiah-climate-change/

[3] https://www.plough.com/en/topics/justice/environment/jesus-is-coming-plant-a-tree

 

God's Delight

Isaiah 65:17-25
Easter Sunday
April 17, 2022

For I am about to create new heavens and a new earth;
the former things shall not be remembered or come to mind.
But be glad and rejoice forever in what I am creating;
for I am about to create Jerusalem as a joy, and its people as a delight.
I will rejoice in Jerusalem, and delight in my people;
no more shall the sound of weeping be heard in it, or the cry of distress.
No more shall there be in it an infant that lives but a few days,
or an old person who does not live out a lifetime;
for one who dies at a hundred years will be considered a youth,
and one who falls short of a hundred will be considered accursed.
They shall build houses and inhabit them; they shall plant vineyards and eat their fruit.
They shall not build and another inhabit; they shall not plant and another eat;
for like the days of a tree shall the days of my people be,

and my chosen shall long enjoy the work of their hands.
They shall not labor in vain, or bear children for calamity;
for they shall be offspring blessed by the Lord— and their descendants as well.
Before they call I will answer, while they are yet speaking I will hear.
The wolf and the lamb shall feed together, the lion shall eat straw like the ox;
but the serpent—its food shall be dust!
They shall not hurt or destroy on all my holy mountain, says the Lord.

I knew a woman who grew up in central Pennsylvania. Her family belonged to a small church in the country. The sanctuary stood among the cornfields. The congregation didn’t stand on much ceremony. There was never a lock on the door. When it was time to sing, no organ, no piano, just the blending of human voices in rough four-part harmony.

And the most exciting moment came when it was time for the sermon. Not because of the content, but because nobody knew in advance who would be preaching it.

Since they had no paid preacher, the custom was to write down everybody’s name on a thin slip of paper. These names would be inserted in the pages of the pulpit Bible. At the proper time, the leader of the congregation led the flock in a long, silent prayer. After the amen, he drew one of the slips and announced who was preaching.

My friend said it could be hit and miss, a potluck pulpit, and you got only whatever somebody else had brought. There were a few clunkers, but most were surprisingly good. Everybody was capable of saying something. Everyone brought their A-Game because nobody knew if it would be their turn.

Now, I have not told you if I wrote down all your names today and inserted them in the Bible. But if I had, what would you say? On this day, of all days? If you were preaching on Easter, what would be your sermon?

First up, of course, would be a familiar call and response that has already been put into the air. A man told me how he kept in touch with his father, long after he had moved away. Often on Sunday mornings, wherever they were, one would call the other to announce, “This is the day the Lord has made,” and the other would respond, “Let us rejoice and be glad in it.” When Easter came, the call was made, and the words spoken, “Christ is risen,” and his father replied in a deep Welsh voice, “He is risen indeed!”

The year the father died, my friend could not dial that number. He could still say, “Jesus Christ is risen from the dead,” but he longed to hear his father say once again, “He is risen indeed.” And what is the sermon he would offer? “One day we will be reunited, and both of us shall say those words again.”  Wow, that’s a sermon. What kind of sermon would you give?

Or a nurse practitioner tells how weary she is after the past two years. When the pandemic hit, the medical practice folded. She lost her job. But it didn’t slow her down. She had been volunteering to serve a tough neighborhood in a nearby city. She dug in, set up online health classes, taught people how viruses work, why safety precautions are necessary, wear your masks, wash your hands, get your shots. And her public health work has been exhausting.

What keeps her going? Her Easter sermon. As she said to me, “They tried to get rid of Jesus because he was always doing the right thing. They thought they had done it when they put him on the cross. But God sent him back to us. If he can keep going, keep doing the right thing, so can I.”

I think that’s an amazing sermon, too. Makes me curious what you would say. Not merely the clichés, the Peeps and chocolate bunnies, or the bumper sticker stuff, but the real message at the heart of it all. What is Easter all about?

Today we could pull the slip of paper with the name of Luke, the Gospel writer. We have heard what he wants to say. He tells us the story: dawn, the women, the burial spices which would never be used. The tomb was cracked open. The stone was rolled to the side. What really confused them was the body of Jesus was not there. Their final act of devotion was interrupted. Suddenly, two men dazzled them inside that dark hole in the ground. They shined bright as the sun and said, “Don’t you remember? Don’t you remember what he told you?”

Told them what? “That it was inevitable that he would fall into the hands of sinners, who would kill him. And on the third day – today – he would rise and return. Don’t you remember?” And they remembered.

This is Luke’s Easter sermon. Easter is remembering the Word of Jesus and confirming that it’s true. It’s remembering that everything he did he’s going to keep doing. It’s remembering he was rejected then, and he will be rejected again, yet he has returned to call us back to God. With the power of the prophet, Jesus is calling us home, to return from the far country, to remember the Father’s generous love, to welcome the Samaritan who tends to our wounds, and to listen to the women that have too quickly been dismissed. It’s all there in his Easter sermon.

But the name that I’ve drawn today is Isaiah. His name is inscribed as our preacher. So you are off the hook, at least for today, especially since Isaiah is a most unusual choice. I can hear the objection during the Easter egg hunt: “He isn’t even Christian!” And that’s true; Isaiah is not a Christian, but neither is Jesus. What’s important is what they share, this remarkable Jewish hope that God is up to something. Something big!

It’s bigger than Mary Magdalene. If we had picked her name, she would tell us about discovering the empty tomb, hearing her name, and identifying the Gardener. Now, that’s a significant Easter message. It’s moving and personal. But what Isaiah says is much bigger.

His substance is more conclusive than Mark, the Gospel writer. If we pulled his name, he would report on the trauma of finding the tomb open. It was terrifying. Like the ground had been ripped apart, just as God ripped open the sky that day when Jesus was baptized. Mark says the Easter women ran away in frightened silence. It’s a shocking sermon, but not particularly helpful.

Oh, what Isaiah sees is a whole new world! A holy intervention in our tired, worn-out world! And to hear him on Easter, this moves Easter from a small, personal experience to something far more cosmic. God knows everything here is broken – so God is taking the world in for repairs. That’s what Isaiah says.

Yesterday, in a South Carolina shopping mall, parents took their kids for pictures with the Easter bunny – and gun shots rang out. This is not the way it’s supposed to be. Back in his own day, Isaiah knows it. In God’s Easter world, “no more shall there be in it an infant that lives but a few days.” Every child will thrive in safety. And in that new world, if you don’t make it to a hundred years old, something’s wrong. No more tears. No more distress. No more pain of any kind. This is Isaiah’s Word for us.

In this old world, too many precious things have been torn from us. Build your dream house – and now someone else lives there. Plant a vineyard – and somebody else is drinking the wine. Oh no, says Isaiah, this was never God’s intention. God will bring continuity. You’ll see your kids, and their kids, and their kids, and all of them will be flourishing.

This is what the prophet sees. Everybody will share in the abundance of God. No more will Christians keep all the bread and wine to themselves when there are folks outside who have nothing to eat. Communities will be rebuilt. Fear will be replaced by gladness. And no one will ever question how much the people of God are loved. All of them. All of them.

In the ancient words of the poem:

The wolf and the lamb shall feed together, the lion shall eat straw like the ox,

while the deceiving serpent shall eat nothing but dust.

Nobody will be hurt or destroyed on God’s holy mountain. 

Now, how is this an Easter message, especially from Isaiah the Jew, who wrote all this down five hundred years before Jesus? Very simply, it reminds us of the scope of God’s work and the grand purpose of Easter. God comes to repair everything broken and redeem everybody lost. God is about the work of healing, not breaking; truth-telling, not lying; sharing, not hoarding. And the work is enormous. Of course it is. We don’t worship a small, personal God. Our God is the creator of heaven and earth, the One who comes to repair what is torn and broken.

The word for this work is “salvation.” It is God’s rescue and salvage operation. This what Isaiah announced. This is what Jesus was doing, before he was so rudely interrupted by the cross. This is what Jesus has returned from the dead to keep doing. And it’s big, really big.

The way Isaiah sees it, salvation is not some small experience, between me and the Lord – but something communal, something held in a web of relationships, something embodied. For those who may feel tempted to reduce salvation to a small spiritual moment, I pause to remind them that when salvation comes, there are going to be other people there. Because we are in this together.

And the saints around us will ask how you’re doing. Are you keeping up? Are you part of God’s work? Is there evidence in your life that God is creating a new heaven and a new earth?

Three weeks ago, some of our church folks went down to a tough part of town. Ten of them went to serve meals that nineteen others had prepared. They had Irish stew, soda bread muffins, and butterscotch apple cake. They served one-hundred-seventeen meals, and for many of the recipients, it was the best meal they’ve had in a while. And after collecting food from all of you, our friends took along twenty-seven large bags of groceries to give away.

Why did our people do that? Because they believe in Easter. They want to be part of what the Risen Christ is doing.

And this is what gives God joy. God says, “My Easter people give me nothing but delight.”

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

Sharing with Jesus

Jesus 13:1-11
Maundy Thursday
April 14, 2022

Now before the festival of the Passover, Jesus knew that his hour had come to depart from this world and go to the Father. Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end. The devil had already put it into the heart of Judas son of Simon Iscariot to betray him. And during supper Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things into his hands, and that he had come from God and was going to God, got up from the table, took off his outer robe, and tied a towel around himself. Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples’ feet and to wipe them with the towel that was tied around him. He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, “Lord, are you going to wash my feet?” Jesus answered, “You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand.” Peter said to him, “You will never wash my feet.” Jesus answered, “Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.” Simon Peter said to him, “Lord, not my feet only but also my hands and my head!” Jesus said to him, “One who has bathed does not need to wash, except for the feet, but is entirely clean. And you are clean, though not all of you.” For he knew who was to betray him; for this reason he said, “Not all of you are clean.”


At a summer church conference some time back, a few of us on the worship team decided to have a foot washing. A few hundred Presbyterians had gathered on the campus of Wilson College, three hours down I-81. For one evening worship service, how about if we have a foot washing?

It's something Jesus told his followers to do, but none of us had ever done it. Most of us had never seen it. Anybody ever participate in a foot washing? So we needed to think through how it would happen.

There were other logistical issues. Worship was held in a large lecture hall with a concrete floor. Were we going to wash everybody's feet? There were three hundred Presbyterians and six hundred feet, give or take a few. the team said, "Let's set up six stations around the bottom, carefully spaced a safe distance apart, each with a single folding chair, pitcher, basin, and towel." Volunteers were secured and trained.

Early in the week, we ran over to Walmart to pick up the plastic pitchers and basins. We also purchased some fluffy cotton towels, not those polyester towels that don't dry anything. One helpful volunteer suggested picking up some perfume, saying, "Wouldn't that smell nice?" We nixed the idea and said, "Thanks, but wrong Bible story." Instead, there was a small bottle of soft scrub soap, just enough to make some bubbles, because, you know we had to have bubbles. So, plans were made, props were secured.

Then we needed to spread the word. Let the Presbyterians know what we were doing. Couldn't spring it on them, as Jesus did to his disciples. Presbyterians don't like surprises, especially if they are wearing panty hose. So we put out a front page notice on the daily conference newsletter.

When the evening came, my friend Bill offered a brief sermon, speaking of service in the company of the basin and towel. That framed the event nicely. Then he made the invitation: if you would like to take part in the foot washing, please stand, and one of the six team members will lead you to a chair and wash your feet. And when that concludes, in the spirit of Jesus, you are welcome to invite someone else to sit in the chair, and you wash their feet, and so on.

He insisted, "This is an invitation, not an obligation, and something we'd like to provide."

So you know what happened? Nothing. Silence. Nobody stood. Nobody moved. After an interminable silence, one person stood over here, so a team member went to lead her to a chair while 299 pairs of eyes followed. Another one stood, tentatively. My friend whispered, "Maybe you and I should show them how it's done." "OK," I said, "I'll follow you over and wash your feet." "Oh no," he replied, "I asked you first. Then we will both go out and invite a couple of others to come down."

It was the first time, only time, I've ever let someone do that to me. What a weird feeling! Suds between the toes, feeling a little claustrophobic, squirming on the cold, metal chair. Maybe this is just too personal, too close, too intimate, too much. All kinds of emotions swirled through my soul. It was a blessed relief when he reached for the towel and padded them dry. "Don't forget between the toes," I said quietly, and he smiled. Then we stood to seek out two more volunteers.

He approached a lady with long slacks. She shook her head, "No!" He looked at her quizzically, and she pulled up one pant leg to reveal panty hose. "Didn't you read the memo?" he asked. "Of course I did," she replied; "That's why I put them on."

Meanwhile, I approached a young woman with long red hair, a social worker as I was to find out. I reached out my hand in silent invitation. She took it, paused, pulled back, and then took my hand and followed me to an open chair. She slipped off her sandals. I cupped the water in my hands and dropped it on her feet. She flinched, settled back. And then she started to weep. Her shoulders started to shake and she started to sob.

I paused; "are you OK?" She nodded and kept crying. I don't know what was going on with her. Later, she told me that she was always the one caring for others, looking out for others, taking care of others - and here, in a simple act, she had to let someone care for her. "I have a hard time being that vulnerable," she confessed. "I'm an expert at tending to others and pushing my own caregivers away."

I don't remember much about the rest of that foot washing night. We didn't get to all the other 590 feet. Got to some, some of them washed others. Many folks sat frozen like Presbyterian icicles, afraid to be washed, afraid to be touched, afraid to anyone to get too close - Jesus or otherwise.

What would you have done?

What I remember are the tears, and what she said: "I have a hard time being that vulnerable." I think that reveals a lot - about her, about me, perhaps about you. It certainly tells us a great deal about Simon Peter.

What are you doing, Jesus? He pushes back, he resists, he says, "You're never going to do this for me." We would like to be competent, in charge, capable, empowered, fully responsible for our own welfare. Yet we heard how Jesus responds: "Unless I wash you, you have no share with me."

"No share in me." It is the Gospel of John’s habit to use simple words, everyday words, and infuse them with mystery: bread, water, light…and “share.”

What's a "share"? Something magical? No. Like slicing up a pie: here's your share, your piece. Like going to the counter of the auto store: "I'm looking for a part." Part, piece, share - all the same word for John. Essentially Jesus tells him - and us - you cannot completely be a part of me, a part of my life, a part of my holiness - unless I wash you.

To which Peter blurts out, "Scrub me, head to toe. Hose me down!" No, no, no. The issue is holiness, not hygiene. And it comes by invitation from Jesus. He offers the cleansing grace, the wash and rinse of forgiveness, the fullness of love.

"But I have a hard time being that vulnerable," she said. If I've never said it out loud, I've certainly felt it.

Yet this is the continuing invitation of our Lord. To allow him to draw close. To welcome his restoring power. To accept his forgiveness of us. To take him in by faith as we eat the bread and drink the cup. This is how he becomes part of us, and how we have a share in his life - his holy, loving life. It has so little to do with our competence - and everything to do with our willingness to say yes to his grace.

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

A Face Like Flint

A Face Like Flint
Isaiah 50:4-9
Palm Sunday
April 10, 2022

The Lord God has given me the tongue of a teacher,
that I may know how to sustain the weary with a word.
Morning by morning he wakens— wakens my ear to listen as those who are taught.
The Lord God has opened my ear,
and I was not rebellious, I did not turn backward.
I gave my back to those who struck me, and my cheeks to those who pulled out the beard;
I did not hide my face from insult and spitting.
The Lord God helps me; therefore I have not been disgraced;
therefore I have set my face like flint, and I know that I shall not be put to shame;
he who vindicates me is near.
Who will contend with me? Let us stand up together.
Who are my adversaries? Let them confront me.
It is the Lord God who helps me; who will declare me guilty?


One of my first memories of the day was riding in the station wagon when I was a kid. We were on the way home from worship at the Presbyterian Church. We went around the corner, and as we passed the Methodist church on Main Street, I saw two classmates out front on the sidewalk. They were engaged in a sword fight with their palms. One of them lunged to poke the other’s eye. Such behavior had never occurred to me. I had to try it out when I got home. And then I was assured that violence is never the way of God, especially against your sister.

Palm Sunday is a paradox. Jesus comes down the hill into Jerusalem, and the people cheer. When they see him, they shout, and wave leafy branches. According to the accounts, they break into singing the Passover psalms, Beginning with Psalm 118, “Blessed is the One who comes in the name of the Lord.” Here he comes, whether they have been waiting forever, or are simply swept up in the enthusiasm of the moment. Jesus rides into the city and is acclaimed as a prophet. The crowd cheers!

Halfway down the hill, he turns aside, and we remember what he says about the prophets of Israel before him: “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones who are sent to it!” (13:34) By the end of the chapter, Luke reports that all the religious leaders wanted to kill him.

Cheers and violence: that’s the paradox. We know it from the Holy Weeks that we survived before.

There are some who believe the violence is necessary. We hear it in some of the language, in phrases like, “God sent his son to die.” That is a particularly Old Testament point of view. Take an unblemished goat, a scapegoat, and pin on him all the sins of the people. It’s written down in Leviticus, chapter 16. Kill the scapegoat on the Day of Atonement, and the sins will be taken away. That’s how I was taught. Nobody ever told me what you do when the scapegoat comes back from the dead.

And when I had children of my own, my attitude changed dramatically. I couldn’t imagine handing them up for the benefit of others. No, no way.

It helped to read the Gospel of Luke, the whole thing, all the way to the end. Jesus was met from resistance from the beginning, threatened as early as chapter 4, marked for elimination by the religious people by chapter 6. When you get to the end, what does the centurion say at the foot of the cross? Not “truly this was the Son of God.” No, that’s the Gospel of Matthew, Gospel of Mark, and John Wayne in one of those Jesus movies.

No, Luke’s centurion says, “Truly this man was innocent.” Innocent. Did nothing wrong. Suffered unjustly. Which is to say, in Luke’s Gospel, the cross of Jesus is a catastrophic mistake. God sends the Son, and everybody rejects him. Those who cheer as he enters the city will change their tune on Friday.

Now, we know this. The church calendar names today as “Palm Sunday.” It’s also named as “Passion Sunday.” So long before we plan it, there’s the inevitable question from the church staff: are we doing palms or passion? My answer is “yes.” Both. To be faithful to the story, we must hold both together. We sing “All Glory, Laud, and Honor,” and “Ride on, ride on in majesty, in lowly pomp, ride on to die.” Both of them.

The cross is the counterweight to the hosannas. The hosannas remind us of the truth beyond the crucifixion. We hold the paradox of both. Otherwise, we can come for the cheers on Palm Sunday, return a week later for the alleluias on Easter, and never realize that, in between, somebody has died.

The scriptures give us a place to stand. Like that short poem we heard from the prophet Isaiah. It’s considered a song, one of four such songs in the middle of that anthology of Isaiah’s writings. These are the songs of the servant of God who is never named.

The romantic notion of many Christians is that these four songs predict Jesus, in both his mission as well as the response. We have no evidence that Isaiah himself saw it that way. He’s writing down these songs while Israel is in exile, reminding them of the call of God, their mission to be a light to all nations, and the inevitable suffering that comes from doing God’s work in the world. Over and over, God spoke through the prophets to the people. Over and over, they were pushed aside – or worse.

Yet there’s something new in the song for today. The servant persists. Like every prophet of God, he has been given the tongue of a teacher. Day by day, he listens for God to speak. He shares what he hears. He sustains the weary with a word, with a Word from God. And he will never, ever back away from that mission.

This servant does not turn away. He refuses to water down the Word. He is courageous enough to stay at his calling, no matter what happens.

This is a description of Israel at its best, even in the worst of times. Time and time again, God called servants to speak truth to power, to call for peace, to beckon everybody back to God and God’s ways. And this vocation both empowered the people and stirred up opposition to the status quo.

So it’s no wonder that when Jesus arrives on the scene six hundred years later, the faithful nod and say, “Here we go again.” The similarities are striking. The Servant sings,

    I gave my back to those who struck me, and my cheeks to those who pulled out the beard.
    I did not hide my face from insult and spitting.

He will not back down from his mission. He will not chicken out. He goes willingly because he knows that speaking the Word that God gives him is what he needs to do. God has called him; God stands close at hand. There will be no dis-grace when you work on behalf of the God of grace. There will be no shame in doing the right thing in a world that has stopped listening.

Stopped listening to what? The world stopped listening to the Word that violence is never the answer. Brutality is not the way to treat one another. Damage is never acceptable. There is an alternative, regardless of the opposition we may face. And it’s there, in the center of this Palm Sunday scene.

Someone tells about visiting a small ranch that had some horses. One day the owner said to my friend, “I have a new colt. Come and meet him.” His name is Maverick. Maverick was young, just a few months old, and he was full of fire. As they approached the paddock, he rolled his eyes and began to snort. The horse began to race around in circles, kicking and snorting. The owner said, “He’s never been ridden, so he’s never learned any manners.”

The rancher gently stepped into the paddock with a handful of oats, an apple, and a coil of rope. The colt began to charge him, but stopped abruptly, while John, the owner, held his ground. John spoke quietly and waited him out. After a while, Maverick cautiously stepped forward and nuzzled the owner’s arm. John offered a handful of oats and apple, which Maverick took gently. As he ate, John gently lay the rope on the back of the colt’s neck. Not to restrain him, but to let him feel it. Maverick was learning not to be afraid of the rope. My friend said it was one of the gentlest things he had ever seen.

Between the cheers of the crowd and the cries for crucifixion is a man who rides an unbroken colt into the middle of an emotional hurricane. The colt has never felt the weight of a rider, never felt spurs pierce his side, never known the sting of a whip. All the accounts say Jesus rode this unusual steed right into the city, the city that stones its prophets. And it’s this quiet spectacle that prompts the crowd to shout, “Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord.”

There are many times when a crowd will get it wrong, but I agree with my friend, this was not one of them.[1] They saw something that the world will usually miss. They perceived the kindness, the compassion, the gentleness, and said, “Look at this. Could this be the One? The king? The one who can save us from ourselves?”

Aren’t we tired of the hatred, the division, the senseless attacks? Aren’t we repelled by the mistreatment of a good man? Can’t we agree to reject the rejection of one who acts on our behalf? Aren’t we numb from the 24-7 revelations of senselessness of war? Aren’t we ready for it all to stop? Of course we are. And the crowd cheers when the humble man rides the unbroken colt into the city. For the moment, they understand. They see the alternative to anger, destruction, and oppression.

And then, a blink or two and it’s back to the usual ways. The haters will conspire. The courageous will chicken out. The confident ones will have their doubts. Even one of the disciples closest to Jesus will pull a sword when the temple police arrive to drag him away. Not a palm branch sword like one of the kids, but a weapon forged from steel. He will strike out in retaliation to create more damage – yet Jesus will shout, “No more of this!” (22:51). That was the Word that God opened his ear to hear. That is the Word he still speaks to us.

So we stand within the crowd, swept up by the excitement, amazed by the spectacle. It’s a snapshot before everything reverts to the way it always seems to go. And we really want it to go right this time. We truly want peace, and joy, and balance, and calm. Maybe this week will go differently from all the other weeks. Maybe this time we will look upon an innocent man and say, “Let him go!” Maybe. What do you think?

The good news is that whatever happens will not depend on us. It depends on him. On his commitment. On his compassion. And Jesus will ride that unbroken colt all the way down. Because his face is “set like flint.” And nothing will turn him away from saving us from ourselves.

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

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[1] Scott Black Johnston, “Unbroken,” Journal for Preachers, Easter 2020, p. 27.