The Problem with Talking to Yourself

Luke 12:13-21
July 31, 2022

William G. Carter

Someone in the crowd said to him, “Teacher, tell my brother to divide the family inheritance with me.” But he said to him, “Friend, who set me to be a judge or arbitrator over you?” And he said to them, “Take care! Be on your guard against all kinds of greed; for one’s life does not consist in the abundance of possessions.” 

Then he told them a parable: “The land of a rich man produced abundantly. And he thought to himself, ‘What should I do, for I have no place to store my crops?’ Then he said, ‘I will do this: I will pull down my barns and build larger ones, and there I will store all my grain and my goods. And I will say to my soul, ‘Soul, you have ample goods laid up for many years; relax, eat, drink, be merry.’ But God said to him, ‘You fool! This very night your life is being demanded of you. And the things you have prepared, whose will they be?’ So it is with those who store up treasures for themselves but are not rich toward God.”

One of the stated goals in my household is to clean out the basement by the end of the year. We have lived in the house for nineteen years. There’s a lot of stuff in that basement.

As many of you know, years ago we combined two households into one. For the first three months of the marriage, we could not walk through the living room. It was stuffed and stacked to the ceiling. It took a while to talk out what was mine, what was hers, and what would be ours.

So what’s in the basement? Leftover building improvement supplies that we’ve told ourselves we might need someday. Unfinished craft projects. Jazz CD’s that nobody is buying. Half-empty cans of paint from rooms that we’ve repainted. A dresser with a broken leg. Two wedding gifts from nineteen years ago, still in their boxes. Cooking and baking equipment that we use once a year. And abandoned possessions from four adult children who left behind the things they did not want. 

If the goal is cleaning out, that would be easy enough: get a dumpster and send it down to Mount Trashmore in Dunmore. If we don’t want to waste our leftovers, we can put them on Facebook Marketplace. Or have a garage sale, like our neighbors did yesterday. Clearly, if we expect our kids to retrieve their belongings, that ship has sailed.

All of this is my entry point to engage that little parable Jesus tells about the man who had too much stuff. He was wealthy and his wealth increased. He was a farmer and had a number of bumper crops. His barns are too small to hold all that he has, so he decides to pull them down and create more storage space.

Notice what he does not do. He does not create a community food bank. He does not give away the excess vegetables. (A note to the zucchini farmers: I’ve locked my car doors. You can’t put any more of that in there. But thanks for thinking of me.)

This affluent farmer is not thinking of anybody else. That is one of the curiosities of this parable. Did you notice that? He thinks by himself, talks to himself, convinces himself. He is isolated, self-contained. That’s all we know about his character, and it’s enough. He talks to himself.

This happens in other parables in the Gospel of Luke.

• The prodigal son talks to himself and says, “How many of my father’s servants have more food than I do!” (15:17)
• The merchant who has been fired from his job says to himself, “I’m going to devise a plan to land in a better position.” (16:3)
• A corrupt judge says to himself, “I don’t care about that widow, but she’s wearing me out.” (18:4)
• The pharisee says to himself, “Thank God I’m not like that terrible tax collector over there.” (18:11)

Do you hear a trend? If you are a character in the Gospel of Luke and you’re talking to yourself, you’re in a whole lot of trouble. Just like the man who has so much stuff that he builds another storage unit. He says to himself, “Look how much I have! I can keep living in comfort for a very long time.” Then God speaks up and calls him a fool.

Please understand. Jesus was a peasant in Palestine. He lived and worked among peasants. In his day, there weren’t many people who had a lot of things. No doubt some of them chuckled when they heard this story. “Once upon a time there was a man so rich, he had to build more barns to store what he had.” They would have and called that ridiculous. Doesn’t he know life is short? And who has that much stuff?

Not so ridiculous to a lot of us. If you ever visit my house, don’t look in the guest room closet. That’s where I store my extra dress shirts. There’s not enough room in my own closet so I put the overflow over there.

The point is I am in no position to pick on anybody, not when I struggle with an abundance of possessions. It is not a blessing to have too much; it is a challenge. If you have switched houses a lot, you’ve probably learned how to pare down and live with less. Getting rid of treasures may feel like an amputation, but afterwards, there’s a sense of freedom.

These days when I go somewhere to speak or teach, I try to travel with a bare minimum in the suitcase. It’s called packing like a ninja. Can I rinse out my socks at the end of the day? Dress in layers and swap out the shirts? And how many pairs of shoes do I really need? I describe this to others as imagining I am on a campout. This usually gets me weird looks.

But the core issue is this: how much do we need? When is enough enough? This is a matter of deep spiritual significance. Some may think it is a neutral matter, that I can grab as much as I want. But it’s not neutral at all.

The Gospel of Luke doesn’t believe it’s neutral at all. Maybe by the time that he wrote down his book, his congregation had its share of nice things. There’s no other explanation why he includes so many stories of trappings and temptations of wealth. We will move many this fall, as we work through the parables of Jesus.

We will hear some more next week, when we hear him say, “Sell what you have and give the money to those in need.” (12:33). The riches that come from God are intended to build bridges, not walls. Money must build relationships, not tear families apart. So next week, maybe we will talk about the Mega-Millions Lottery and pray for the soul of the person who just won it.

As for today, we consider the rich farmer who talks only to himself. The tragedy of this imaginary parable is that the farmer assumes he will have it “forever.” That he will hang onto it to keep him comfortable – him alone, all by himself. There’s no mention of his family, or any neighbors. No regard for all those farm workers who picked his crops and stashed them the brand-new barns. No, it’s all about him. Only him. He is independent, self-contained, isolated, completely alone. No wonder he’s talking only to himself.

The inference is that the farmer believes it’s his money, all his. We could call it selfishness. Or we name it as greed. Or we might call it what the New Testament calls it: idolatry, literally the worship of something that is not worthy of worship. The contrast is sharp. Either we worship what we have, or we worship God. Jesus says we can’t have it both ways. Somebody tell the televangelists with their private jets! We cannot worship God and wealth (Luke 16:13). It’s one or the other.

I wonder if that truth is also what prompted him to tell the story of the farmer with too many crops. As Luke introduces the episode, someone asks Jesus to step into a family squabble about an inheritance. The attorneys and funeral directors tell me that this still happens. Daddy dies and the kids can’t wait to get their hands on his investment accounts. Like that multi-millionaire who died, and his kids told me to keep the funeral as short as possible. They wanted to hear the reading of the will.

Jesus wisely steps out of that fray. He is neither judge nor arbitrator. Rather he tells us the truth: life does not consist in the abundance of our possessions. More stuff does not make us happy. Read what the psychologists are now telling us. Affluence can destroy families. Wealth does not make us rich.

At the root of the trouble is a something Jesus calls “pleonexia.” Often that Greek word is translated as “covetousness” or “greed.” The better translation may be “hunger.” As in, I’m hungry for some new clothes, or a slicker car, or a bigger pile of cash, or seven new Vera Bradley purses. Would one purse ever do? I’m only asking because I don’t know.

What I do know is hunger is the opposite of contentment, just as greed is the antithesis of gratitude. In a time of accumulation, it’s so easy to be distracted. The evidence is in the parable. A wealthy farmer has a wonderful year. It’s so wonderful that he forgets where the harvest has come from. Sure, he planted the seed, but who provided the sunshine? Who sent the rain? Who established the abundant growing season? Not him.

The tragedy is that this imaginary farmer has disconnected the product from the process. He has become a functional atheist, believing it’s all about him. So he talks only to himself, schemes only for himself. Guess what: God is waiting for him. The message is clear. Take care! Be on guard.

Meanwhile that basement of mine is still full. And I have many more dress shirts than I will ever wear. What shall I do?

The old paint cans need to go. Joshua’s 37 Hess trucks need to be driven over to his basement. The craft supplies can be donated. And the jazz compact discs will become door prizes for this year’s 30^th annual jazz communion on Labor Day weekend; if you don’t have a way to play them, they still make good coasters for your coffee table.

As for the dress shirts, I need to come clean with myself to say the ones that didn’t fit will never fit. Time to let them go. Somebody else needs them far more than me. And I can give two thirds of them away and still have plenty to wear. One of you suggested some time back to hang all my clothes in the closet with the hangers turned backwards. And I haven’t worn them in a year, there’s no reason to hoard them. No reason at all.

There’s something playful about lightening the load and giving away what we have. I get great enjoyment from giving something to somebody else. Anybody else feel that way? Abundant life does not consist of filling a barn with stuff I don’t need. Abundant life consists of freedom. Freedom from the burdens of accumulation. Freedom from the hunger to purchase. Freedom to share. Freedom to give. Freedom to offer what I have to build relationships with those around me.

So that’s what I’m working on today. Maybe you will work on some of it too. And next week, we will talk about winning the Mega Millions lottery. See you then.

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

How Much More?

Luke 11:1-13
July 24, 2022
William G. Carter

Jesus was praying in a certain place, and after he had finished, one of his disciples said to him, “Lord, teach us to pray, as John taught his disciples.” He said to them, “When you pray, say: Father, hallowed be your name. Your kingdom come. Give us each day our daily bread. And forgive us our sins, for we ourselves forgive everyone indebted to us. And do not bring us to the time of trial.” 

And he said to them, “Suppose one of you has a friend, and you go to him at midnight and say to him, ‘Friend, lend me three loaves of bread; for a friend of mine has arrived, and I have nothing to set before him.’ And he answers from within, ‘Do not bother me; the door has already been locked, and my children are with me in bed; I cannot get up and give you anything.’ I tell you, even though he will not get up and give him anything because he is his friend, at least because of his persistence he will get up and give him whatever he needs. 

“So I say to you, Ask, and it will be given you; search, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened for you. For everyone who asks receives, and everyone who searches finds, and for everyone who knocks, the door will be opened. Is there anyone among you who, if your child asks for a fish, will give a snake instead of a fish? Or if the child asks for an egg, will give a scorpion? If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will the heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!”

 

The twelve disciples see Jesus praying. They wait for him to say Amen, and ask, “Lord, can you teach us to do that? Teach us to pray!”

It’s a striking request, for a couple of reasons. According to the Gospel of Luke, Jesus kept praying. On the day of his baptism, he was praying when the heavens opened, and the dove came down (3:21). Many mornings, he slipped away from the crowds to pray (5:16). The night before he selected the first twelve disciples, he went up on a mountain and spent all night praying (6:12).

One time, in the middle of a prayer, he looked up at the twelve and asked, “Who do people say that I am?” And then he told them how he would suffer, die, and be raised (9:13). Shortly after that, he took three of them up a high mountain where his appearance changed – his clothes were dazzling white, his face was transfigured – and it happened, says Luke, while Jesus was praying (9:29).

He was always praying – and the twelve said, “Teach us to do that.” They wanted something of what he had. They knew he could teach them.

But it’s a striking request because they already had a prayer book. These men were Jews and they had the Psalms. They committed those prayers to memory. They recited them in their liturgies. The Psalms offer prayers for every occasion: when you rise to begin your day, when you lie down to hand over the night to God. If you need help with an enemy, the Psalms have a prayer for that. If you wish to thank God for safe passage through the mountains, or an abundant harvest, or the success of a childbirth, the Jews already had the prayers. They knew the life of faith is filled with prayers, prayers for every possible occasion.

But these twelve still wanted to know how to pray. “Teach us,” they said to the Master. “teach us to pray.”

Fortunately for us, the Gospel of Luke offers three brief lessons on prayer. The first, as we heard, is that Jesus offers a model for our prayer. We know it, we’ve heard it, we’ve prayed it – and we will pray it again in this service. You may have noticed that this is a shortened version of what we call the Lord’s Prayer. Today we have Luke’s version, so let’s walk through it.  

Begin by saying, “Father, Abba, Daddy.” We can address God with affection. Then, “Hallowed be your name.” Hallowed is Holy, apart from us, guarded and distinct. God can be addressed with affection, but God is holy and completely Other. We speak to the God who knows us all too well and we offer respect. 

“Your kingdom come.” That is the heart of the prayer. It’s the request for heaven and earth to be one. We pray that the God who rules over solar systems and goldfinches would come to rule over the situations that we know: the broken hearts, the wounded bones, the fierce injustices. We want the God who rules over everything to rule over us. It’s an enormous request.

Yet prayer is also specific: “Give us each day the bread we need for today.” He is reminding us of the old story of manna in the wilderness. God sends food from heaven for the Israelites who wander in the wilderness. It comes every day, twice on the day before the Sabbath. Yet it cannot be hoarded or else it rots. It is only bread for today. We need it. We don’t have it. We ask God for it.

“And forgive us our sins, for we ourselves forgive everyone indebted to us.” Luke takes the edge off Matthew’s version of the prayer. In Matthew, we ask for forgiveness conditioned by our ability to forgive. Recall: “forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors.” But in Luke, Jesus assumes we are already forgiving others, in the name of a God we ask to forgive us.

“And do not bring us to the time of trial.” That sounds ominous, as if the Father to whom we pray is the One who can also test us. It reminds us of the beginning of Jesus’ ministry. After he is baptized, the Spirit of God hurls him into the wild places where he is tested by the Devil. God sends him to confront evil on its own turf. That is going to be a decisive test! Do we want God to test us? Jesus says, “Pray you are delivered from the test.”

Here is a model for prayer, says Jesus. This is lesson number one. With simple words, with direct speech, focusing on the life and death issues before us every day, always praying for God to come and rule over us and our lives.

This brings us to the second lesson. It’s not enough to memorize the words and mumble them on occasion. We must mean what we say. Infuse them with faith, hope, and love!

Like my great aunt Charlotte, who confronted me outside of a funeral home. I was in preacher school at the time, and we had just endured a cold, sterile memorial service for her mother – my great-grandmother – led by a minister who never knew the deceased. Aunt Charlotte said, “If I ever catch you reading a prayer out of a book, I’m going to wring your neck.” I don't know if she was a violent Methodist, but she made an impression.  Her point: prayer is serious. You must engage. You mean what you say. You don’t phone it in.

Maybe that’s why Jesus tells a quirky little parable. A friend has come to visit and both of you need some food. What if you knocked on a neighbor’s door to ask, “Can I get borrow some food for my guest and my family?” Is he going to say, “Go away, I’m sleeping.” Of course not. He is a Middle Easterner. He lives by generous hospitality. He won’t turn you down – especially if you keep knocking, keep asking.

With this, Jesus leans over the pulpit to wink and say, “Isn’t God much more generous than your sleepy hospitable neighbor?”

Here’s the lesson: prayer is asking. By definition, prayer requests what we do not have. So it’s more than rote words. It’s persistence. It’s persevering in matters of great urgency, not flailing at thin superficialities. Prayer is swimming from the shallow end of our need to the depths of God’s great mysteries. Because we really don’t know how to pray. Even if we have the words.

Remember the apostle Paul - schooled as a rabbi, trained in scripture, experienced in the grace of God. He confesses in one of his letters, “We don’t know how to pray as we ought” (Romans 8:26). He knows he’s in over his head. We ask for bread from a God who directs the comets and plants the sequoia trees. We ask for justice when we are inadvertently perpetuating injustice.

Sometimes prayer gets twisted out of shape when we make it all about us.  “Lord, give me this. Lord, give me that.” Prayer is not about getting what we want – it is asking for what God wishes to give us. This is a very important lesson.

We don’t pray to hit the Mega Millions lottery; that’s begging for magic. Rather, God desires to rule over us, so we pray thy kingdom come! God grants us life and desires that we flourish, so we pray for bread – for ourselves and for others.

We might secretly want an enemy to be punished; it looks like they deserve it. Yet God wants us to stop fighting and live in peace, so we pray forgive us our sins. That includes the sin of being incapable of forgiving others, and the inability of forgiving ourselves. We pray for what God wants to give us. Nothing more, nothing less. Prayer is asking, searching, knocking, all in the present tense. Here ends the second lesson.

There’s one more lesson for today. It sneaks up on us. If we’re going to ask for what God wants to provide, it’s important to know what kind of God we have. So Jesus pushes this to extremity. He says, “What father gives a snake to a son who asks for a fish?” The answer: no father. And then, “What father gives a scorpion to the daughter who asks for an omelet?” Same answer: no parent would ever do that, not if the parent loves the child. Not if the parent gave that child life.

And God is even better than that.

This is where the third lesson sneaks in. When the Gospel of Matthew reports this section of Jesus’ teaching, here’s what he says, “How much more will your Father in heaven give good things to those who ask!” (7:11) But did you hear Luke tell us what those “good things” are that God provides for those who ask? He specifies: “how much more will your Father in heaven give you the Holy Spirit.” 

Wow. You thought you could pray for a new Mercedes and a cruise to Tahiti. What you get instead is the presence of God. The Spirit. The invisible Peace and Love of the Risen Christ.

This is the open secret of prayer. We can ask for this, beg for that, make all our requests – and what does God give us? God gives us himself. God comes to us as we pray. And the invitation is to enter the dominion of God’s love that lies at the center of all things.

I think of the business executive who loved to go deer hunting. It was the alternative to the stress and strain of the kind of job he had. He climbed into his tree stand before dawn, opened his thermos of coffee, sit and watch the forest wake up. A twelve-point buck sauntered by, so he sat there, admiring the rack, and never squeezed the trigger.

What was that all about? Paid for the license, climbed the tree, never took a shot. His answer, “I go for the peace. It helps me. It’s just like a prayer.”

How much more will a loving God  provide when you pray? God will give you the Holy Spirit. God will give his very Breath and Life to you.

Did you ever hear the prayer of Howard Thurman, the Quaker mystic? If Martin Luther King Jr. was the voice of civil rights, Howard Thurman was its soul. One of his prayers goes like this:

Open unto me, light for my darkness.     

Open unto me, courage for my fear

Open unto me, hope for my despair.       

Open unto me, peace for my turmoil

Open unto me, joy for my sorrow.                      

Open unto me, strength for my weakness

Open unto me, wisdom for my confusion.          

Open unto me, forgiveness for my sins

Open unto me, tenderness for my toughness.      

Open unto me, love for my hates

Open unto me, Thy Self for myself.        

Lord, Lord, open unto me.

So we pray. If absolutely necessary, we can use words. It would be enough to sit in stillness, watch the forest wake up at dawn, and welcome the Peace that we did not create. We open our arms to receive what God most deeply wants us to have. And if we ask for it, it’s because God has already offered it.

Prayer is the life-blood of our relationship with God. It circulates through asking and receiving, acting and reflecting, speaking and silencing, all the while filling us with the life of eternity – which is the Presence of God.

Of all the gifts God wishes for us, that is the greatest. And I pray it for you. All of you. All of us. 

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

A Right Answer Isn't Enough

Luke 10:25-37
July 10, 2022

William G. Carter  

Just then a lawyer stood up to test Jesus. “Teacher,” he said, “what must I do to inherit eternal life?” He said to him, “What is written in the law? What do you read there?” He answered, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbor as yourself.” And he said to him, “You have given the right answer; do this, and you will live.” 

 

But wanting to justify himself, he asked Jesus, “And who is my neighbor?” Jesus replied, “A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell into the hands of robbers, who stripped him, beat him, and went away, leaving him half dead. Now by chance a priest was going down that road; and when he saw him, he passed by on the other side. So likewise a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. But a Samaritan while traveling came near him; and when he saw him, he was moved with pity. He went to him and bandaged his wounds, having poured oil and wine on them. Then he put him on his own animal, brought him to an inn, and took care of him. The next day he took out two denarii, gave them to the innkeeper, and said, ‘Take care of him; and when I come back, I will repay you whatever more you spend.’ Which of these three, do you think, was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers?” He said, “The one who showed him mercy.” Jesus said to him, “Go and do likewise.”

We have been waiting for this text. It’s one of our favorites, an old friend that some of us have heard many times before. We call it the Good Samaritan. And we admire the central character in the plot. Unlike the two religious leaders who step around a wounded man on the road to Jericho, he stops to see what he can do to help.

Ever since, we have named hospitals after him. There is a network of Samaritan counseling centers. Those who travel in RV’s are familiar with the Good Sam Club, which works to make traveling safer (and sponsors a NASCAR race at Talladega). There is a Good Samaritan mission in Danville, aiming to lift those who are down. We have Good Samaritan laws that protect anybody who stops to care for someone in need. This guy is our hero. We love him very much. 

As is the case with those we love, we let them get close enough to tell us the truth. The more American Christians dig into the parable, the more truth we uncover. Some of it is so true it’s uncomfortable. Here’s a short list:

1. The priests and Levites of Jesus’ day were regarded as good people. Some bad apples, of course, but most were not the moustache-twisting villains of children’s stories. They knew the Laws of Gods, knew they were summarized as Jesus states them – love God, love neighbor. Their love for God was expressed in an effort to remain pure. If the man in the ditch was bleeding, God’s commandments taught, “Stay clear from blood. It’s the life force inside us.” So we can’t dismiss those characters out of hand.
2. For another thing, Jesus seems to be picking a fight. He could have named the three travelers as a priest, a Levite, and a Jew. But he says, “Samaritan.” That’s trouble. Samaritans twisted the Bible in their own direction. Samaritans were suspicious. Samaritans were enemies. Did you notice? Jesus says, “Which one acted as a neighbor?” The lawyer doesn’t say Samaritan. He can’t say Samaritan. So he mumbles about mercy.
3. Dig a bit deeper, and the parable has an edge. The inference is that the Samaritan is a neighbor. We thought we could redline someone like that to another town. Push a bit more, and the story implies the enemy is the one who saves our life. Is there anybody who would dare teach such a thing? Pretty soon, we start to understand that parables like these got Jesus killed. That’s something that we don’t tell our children.

Now I’ve said all this before in my dozen sermons on the Good Samaritan. What I haven’t really explored is why the story gets told. There is a lawyer: not an attorney, not somebody who went to court, not somebody who handled lawsuits. Rather, a professional expert in the Law of God – the Torah. He knew the 613 commandments, knew what they said and knew what they didn’t say. His life’s work was to immerse himself in the Bible, at least the first five books of it, and then prepare to discuss and debate what the text means.

 So he asks about life. “What must I do to gain life?” Not merely life, but the “life of eternity.” That’s the true phrase in the original language. The sense of his question was this: how do I live with God, the Eternal God? He’s not talking about something later, but something now, something that goes on and on forever. The life of eternity. How do I receive it? Good question, maybe the only question.

Jesus the Jew answers his fellow Jew with a question. That’s the Jewish way of learning. Somebody asked Woody Allen, “Why do Jews always ask questions of the rabbi?” Allen answered, “Why shouldn’t the Jews ask questions of the rabbi?” So Jesus asks his questioner, “What do you read in the Law?”

The man knows the right answer: love God and love neighbor. Deuteronomy 6 and Leviticus 19. If you’re going to summarize it all, there’s no better summary. Jesus affirms this. He ought to know. In the Gospels of Mark and Matthew, someone asked Jesus, “What is the greatest commandment?” He answers the same, love God and love neighbor. The teachers had been stapling those two commandments together for years.

We know the truth, that John Lennon said so simply, “All you need is love.” For the Jew, as for those who follow Jesus the Jew, we love upwards, and we love sideways. Love is more than a fluttering emotion. Love works for the best interest of those you love. We can work for God’s best interest or the neighbor’s.

We know the right answer, just like the lawyer does. “Love is all you need.” He knows it. But knowing is not enough. For the conversation goes on, as we heard. The lawyer asks another question, “But who is my neighbor?” And boom! With a twinge of self-righteousness, he had just fired a missile and blew it all up. If you must ask who your neighbor is, you have already been defining whom you will love and whom you will not.

So Jesus spins this parable to address the question. He doesn’t answer it directly. He tells this story. It’s a slanted story. It presses all of us to ask whom we love. Do we love only those who are familiar, like family and friends? Do we love only those who are healthy and well-adjusted? Do we love only those who have no obvious wounds?

And perhaps to flip it for a minute, can we love those who want to offer us help? That’s one of the fresh insights that I had after our men’s group spent some time with this parable last Thursday. One of one of the guys said, “That victim in the ditch – he was a Jew, right?” We looked, and the text doesn’t say. If the victim in the ditch was a Samaritan, the priest and the Levite had one more reason not to draw near. But Jesus doesn’t designate who the victim is. So we can presume it’s a Jew.

Assuming he’s a Jew, we must assume he was deeply wounded, really out of it. A first-century Jew wouldn’t want a Samaritan to touch him, not if he was conscious. So do you hear what Jesus is doing? He’s expanding the neighborhood. Rightfully so. The lawyer asked him about gaining life, the life of eternity, the life with God.

And I don’t know much about eternal life, but I know this: it’s eternal. It has no boundaries. It has no borders. There are no ethnic divisions. No worldly categories. No human judgments about who belongs and who doesn’t belong. This is God’s life we’re talking about. To be part of that, we must see what God sees: that every single creature has meaning and value. We must love whatever and whomever God loves. Which is to say, the life of eternity does not continue the divisions, the grudges, the hurts of our ages.

Sometimes I receive a visit by somebody around here. They come to say they have a hard time forgiving another who hurt them. I listen. I invite them to blow off some steam. But if there’s an impasse, I might say, “Listen, you’d better let it go. Better get over yourself. Eternity is a long time. Start practicing now.” And the best way to practice is to start forgiving. Go and do. Show some love, even from a distance.

And Jesus shows us how. Stop your hurried journey to Jericho. Step down on level ground. Draw alongside, not above. Identify the hurts. Offer what you have to facilitate healing. Accompany the wounded to a safe location. Stay for a bit in case a new need emerges. Make sure they are cared for before slipping out the door. Stop back and follow up.  

Love begins by getting off your donkey (I was going to say that another way and decided not to). Get off your donkey and put yourself out for another. That’s what love looks like.

Nobody comes to this naturally. Like the lawyer in the story, we are inclined in our own direction. So it takes a while to learn love, even longer to do it. Like the new father, so awkward that he didn’t know how to pick up his crying son and console him. Or the freshly minted math teacher who doesn’t know how to slow down a student can’t comprehend the multiplication problem. Or the in-laws who grieved at the brother’s funeral and never once checked in with widow.

Love can misfire in a hundred different ways. Could be incompetence, naivete, or self-absorption. Or emotional ineptness, hardened indifference, or good old-fashioned fear.

The miracle in the story is that someone stopped for the wounded man. Maybe he was wrong person, or maybe not. But he stopped. He showed up. He could not fix everything. He couldn’t police that terrible, lonely road from Jerusalem to Jericho, a road where a lot of travelers were attacked and robbed. He couldn’t find the robber and bring them to justice. He couldn’t chase down the priest or the Levite, even to ask, “Where’s your conscience?”

But we know what he did. He paused from his journey. The robbers might still be hiding behind a rock, so he’s risking his own vulnerability. But he stops anyway, to offer some humanity. And this, of course, is what Jesus has done for all of us – offers his own vulnerability in the fullness of his humanity.

So you want life, life with God, the life of eternity? Jesus says, “Do this and you’ll live.” For life comes from love. And doing love is the only life worth living. And it takes a while to learn this. Takes a lot of practice.

Some years ago, Robert Wuthnow, a researcher from Princeton University, was researching how some folks have learned to care for others. He talked to Jack Casey, a volunteer fireman and ambulance attendant. Casey had recently been called to the scene of an accident. The driver was pinned upside down in his pickup truck, and Jack crawled inside to try to get him out of the wreckages. The gas tank was leaking onto both Jack and his driver, and there was the imminent danger of an explosion.

The driver was distraught. “I don’t want to die,” he said. “I’m afraid I’m going to die.” Jack said, “Look, don’t worry, I’m right here with you. I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to stay until they get your free.”

Later, after the other rescue workers had freed him and taken to the hospital, Jack stopped by to see how the driver was doing. The man took one look at Jack and said, “You’re crazy. I can’t believe you did what you did. The truck could have exploded. We’d have both been burned up.” Jack sat quietly, waited him out, and replied, “I felt like I couldn’t leave you.”

Wuthnow was curious. In the interview, he said, “Jack, can you remember a time when somebody treated you with such kindness?” He thought for a minute and recalled a moment twenty years before. Jack said, “I was just a child, and I needed to have some teeth extracted. They told me they were going to put me under with anesthesia. I was scared I would not wake up. A nurse nearby saw the fear on my face. She came over, sat down, put her hand on my arm, and said, ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be here right beside you no matter what.”[1]

It was the same thing he said to the truck driver twenty years later. Even though he couldn’t consciously remember the story at the time, it shaped how he responded to another human being in peril. The nurse had shown him some love. He had learned how to “go and do likewise.”   

So do you want to live? Really want to live? Live so deeply that it’s like you are living with God? We know the answer. Of course we know the answer. But it’s not enough to know the answer.

Jesus says, “Do this … and live.”

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

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[1] Quoted in Thomas G. Long, “Dancing the Decalogue,” The Christian Century, 7 March 2006, p. 17. https://www.religion-online.org/article/dancing-the-decalogue-ex-201-17/

Swallowing Your Pride

2 Kings 5:1-14
July 3, 2022

Naaman, commander of the army of the king of Aram, was a great man and in high favor with his master, because by him the Lord had given victory to Aram. The man, though a mighty warrior, suffered from leprosy. Now the Arameans on one of their raids had taken a young girl captive from the land of Israel, and she served Naaman’s wife. She said to her mistress, “If only my lord were with the prophet who is in Samaria! He would cure him of his leprosy.” So Naaman went in and told his lord just what the girl from the land of Israel had said. And the king of Aram said, “Go then, and I will send along a letter to the king of Israel.” He went, taking with him ten talents of silver, six thousand shekels of gold, and ten sets of garments. He brought the letter to the king of Israel, which read, “When this letter reaches you, know that I have sent to you my servant Naaman, that you may cure him of his leprosy.” When the king of Israel read the letter, he tore his clothes and said, “Am I God, to give death or life, that this man sends word to me to cure a man of his leprosy? Just look and see how he is trying to pick a quarrel with me.” But when Elisha the man of God heard that the king of Israel had torn his clothes, he sent a message to the king, “Why have you torn your clothes? Let him come to me, that he may learn that there is a prophet in Israel.”

So Naaman came with his horses and chariots and halted at the entrance of Elisha’s house. Elisha sent a messenger to him, saying, “Go, wash in the Jordan seven times, and your flesh shall be restored, and you shall be clean.” But Naaman became angry and went away, saying, “I thought that for me he would surely come out, and stand and call on the name of the Lord his God, and would wave his hand over the spot, and cure the leprosy! Are not Abana and Pharpar, the rivers of Damascus, better than all the waters of Israel? Could I not wash in them, and be clean?” He turned and went away in a rage. But his servants approached and said to him, “Father, if the prophet had commanded you to do something difficult, would you not have done it? How much more when all he said to you was, ‘Wash, and be clean’?” So he went down and immersed himself seven times in the Jordan, according to the word of the man of God; his flesh was restored like the flesh of a young boy, and he was clean.


This is the story of a man who had everything. Naaman was the commander of an army: he had power. He was a friend of the king: he had prestige. He won his battles on the field: he had success. He was a mighty warrior. He was a great man. Naaman had everything – except his health.

Despite his greatness, he had one of the skin diseases that the scriptures refer to as “leprosy.” Not a precise diagnosis in our own time, but we have a pretty good idea what it meant. Leprosy was the one disease nobody wanted. It threatened your life, but more than that, it cut you off from others. As soon as the trouble spots appeared on your skin, the rest of the world deemed you unacceptable. It was a social disease.

When others learned you had it, they insisted you stay away. There was no known cure. You weren’t going to ever get better. Nobody would come close enough to take care of you. Your blood vessels would shrink, first in your extremities. You would lose all feeling in your fingers and toes. The sickness would create terrible scars. It would change your appearance. You could have all the power, prestige, and success in the world – but there was no cure. You would wither slowly, with no help from anyone else.

Naaman was a man who had everything, and none of it mattered.

So naturally, he leaned forward to listen when his young servant girl offered a way out. She was a slave, stolen from Israel in one of his army’s raids. She was a nobody. We never learn her name. She served as a domestic servant for Naaman’s wife (we don’t know her name, either). But she had two things Naaman does not have: knowledge that could lead to healing, and compassion for him.

“If only my lord were with the prophet of Samaria,” she says, referring to the prophet Elisha. “He would cure him of his leprosy!”

So Naaman, who had everything but good health, lacks one thing more: the power to cure himself. Fortunately, for him, he has a good reputation with his king. He goes to the palace and tells the story. He reports the good news. The king says, “You must go. I will send a letter to the king of that region, and some money, too.”

Some money indeed. Do you know how much money he sent? “Ten talents of silver” – by my estimation, about $14 million. Not only that, six thousand shekels of gold – we can’t imagine what that was worth! Suffice it to say, health care is expensive, but not that much. The king of Syria, Naaman’s boss, is making an extraordinary gift. Either that, or a bribe. He really wants his leprous general to be made well.

No doubt, you noticed the king of Israel was upset, not by the appearance of a leprous soldier from the land we call Syria, but by all that money. It’s too much. And he doesn’t know the first thing about healing a leper. What if he can’t make Naaman well? Is this some kind of mobster deal, where if he doesn’t deliver, he’ll swim with the fishes?

In a fit of anxiety, the king of Israel exclaims, “Who does he think I am? God? I have no power to give life or death. The king of Syria is setting me up!” And he rips his clothes in despair.

So we have a problem here. Naaman is powerful but can’t heal himself. His king sends an extraordinary sum to buy off the healing, because he’s powerless to do anything else. The king of Israel rips his clothes because he’s powerless to do anything, either. All of them are powerless – please notice that. It is the primary condition for salvation: helplessness.

But here comes word from Elisha. They call him the Man of God. He’s the One that the slave girl has heard about. “Send Naaman to me,” he says to his own king. “Send him to me, and we will teach him there is a Prophet in the land of Israel.”

So Naaman rolls up on his chariot. He is surrounded by chariots. And he has horses. Big horses, war horses, impressive horses. General Naaman comes with a staff and an entourage because he’s a really big deal. He rolls up in front of Elisha’s house. The horses whiney. The armor on his chest is shining.

And do you know what Elisha does? Absolutely nothing. He pours himself another cup of coffee. Finishes the sports page. Yawns. Waits. Outside, Naaman is waiting. He waits. And what does Elijah do? Nothing. He sends out a servant. He doesn’t even bother to go outside. The servant pads out there on his sandals. Looks up at Naaman, says, “My master says, ‘Go jump in the Jordan River seven times. That’ll cure you.” Then he turns and goes back inside.

Naaman is sitting there in the hot Israeli sun, and he is getting hotter. Really, really hot. He’s hot enough to throw something against a wall. Or lean over the front of the chariot, put his hands around his bodyguard’s throat... I mean, he is furious. He is incensed. He sees red. He is really mad.

But he’s enough of a grownup to step away. Or stomp away. As he stomps, he makes a little speech: “I’m the General of the Aramean army. I am particularly important. I’ve come all this way. I’ve brought loads of money that, for some reason, nobody wants. I thought the least this guy could do is step outside, wave his hands, and make the spots disappear. I thought he could call on his god and cure my illness. And he wants me to jump in that little creek over there? We have real rivers in Damascus! They are better than all the trickles in Israel. If that’s all it took, couldn’t I wash in them?” And he was enraged.

Naaman stomped for a while. A good long while. None of his servants said a word. Just let him be. He’s an important man. A great man. A friend of the king back home. And that’s such a long way away.

So…after a while, one of the servants cleared his throat, and said, “Father…We’ve come all this way. We didn’t see the prophet, but we heard from him. If he had told you to climb a mountain, you would have done it. If he said, ‘fast for forty days,’ you would have done it. If he commanded you to do something hard, you would have done it. All he said was, ‘Wash and be clean.””

Naaman was a great man. An important man. A wealthy man. A powerful man. But not powerful enough to wash the leprosy away. He took a long breath. Didn’t say a word. He immersed himself in the Jordan River. And again, and again. Seven times. And when he climbed out, dried himself off, his skin was pure as a baby’s bottom. No more leprosy.

Now, the story goes on a good bit from there, but there’s enough for us here to chew on.

Is the Jordan River magic? Some might think so; you ought to see the tour buses pull up and sell tickets! I merely pass on what my tour guide said: “There’s a herd of cattle upstream.” It’s only water. Fresh water, reused water, whatever. It’s only water.

How about the prophet Elisha? Is he magic? Truthfully, he’s quite rude. Doesn’t bother to meet up with Naaman. Doesn’t care about the soldier’s authority, wealth, or status. In the best sense, doesn’t even seem to care for Naaman to the exclusion of anybody else. His initial retort was simply, “Let’s show this guy there is a prophet in Israel.”

Ok, so what about that? He’s a prophet. A Man of God. Does this mean he is loaded with magic? Well, no, but he has access to power – and the power doesn’t come from him, That’s the point at which the whole story resolves. The power is God’s power. It cannot be purchased. That means somewhere there’s still ten talents of silver and six thousand shekels of gold that God didn’t take. But there is power – power to heal and restore - and it comes through Elisha’s speech. That’s the only tool of God’s prophet. He works with words, God’s words. And the words reveal that God wants that Syrian army commander to have his skin washed clean.

What did Naaman have to do to become well? On the face of it, nothing. It was the Word of God that cleansed him. It was the gift of God that healed him. He didn’t have to do a whole lot. Well, he did have something to do. Two things, really. He had to obey what God told him, third hand; the message came through the messenger of God’s messenger. And he had to make himself available. Those are the two keys: obedience and availability. God did all the rest.

The Word from the prophet is that God wills for wholeness, health, and restoration. I have no trouble broadening that intention to include us all. God wants us to be clean. Purified. The stigmas washed away. And God know, there are plenty of stigmas, right?

- It might be a disease that isolates
- A tough or broken marriage,
- A kid with an addiction,
- A series of bad decisions that can’t easily be undone
- An act of public embarrassment,
- A difference of opinion that separates you from those you love.

There are plenty of “social diseases,” if we called them that. And the only thing that can make us well is the grace of God, the power of God, the healing cleansing mercy of God. One of the lessons we learn from Naaman is that we might have to get out of God’s way – which means we might have to get out of our own way. Because pride insulates us from true healing. It can be a form of arrogance that pushes God away.

This is a personal matter. And it’s also a community matter, too. In fact, did you know that Naaman makes a second appearance, this time in the preaching of Jesus? It was there, in his hometown, as he stood on the Sabbath to announce the God’s kingdom was at hand, that the promised Jubilee had come from the heart of God, that all people would be welcomed, loved, restored. All people! Jesus said this, as he spoke on the words of the prophet.

And then he said, “Doubtless, you will quote the proverb, ‘Physician, heal yourself.’ But I tell you, in the days of Elisha the prophet, there were many lepers in Israel, and none were cleansed but Naaman, the Syrian.” And they were furious with him, and pushed out the door, and pushed him to the edge of a cliff, because he dared to say that God comes to love the stigmatized, as much as God comes for any of us. They couldn’t see it because of their own pride. (Luke 4:16-30)

Yet the cure comes from God, released in the syllables that come from God’s prophetic heart. And if we really want to be well, the same two invitations are given to us: obedience, that is, do what God says; and availability, put yourself in the place to receive what God provides.

So we put ourselves here, a place of enormous availability. God has met us here before. And we hear the Word from God in Christ, “Take, eat, this is my Body, you are my Body. Take, drink, all that separates us from God and one another is cancelled and forgiven. 

And we look down: such a little piece of bread. Just a dollop of juice. God’s not telling us to eat a huge loaf or drink down a gallon. And we have better bread and juice back home. But here we are, nothing extravagant, with just enough for us to obey and make ourselves available.

Listen: when we eat and drink at the Lord’s Table, look around. We’re part of something.

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