When Consolation Finds Us

When Consolation Finds Us
Luke 2:25-35
Christmas 1
December 31, 2023
William G. Carter

The Christmas Story does not begin with shepherds in the fields and a baby in a manger. The Christmas Story begins in the temple.

This is a Jewish story, so it begins with characters right out of the Jewish Bible. There is a priest, a prophet, an old woman, and an old man. The priest is Zechariah, who serves in the temple. He represents the worship life of Israel, the atonement sacrifices, the holy days, and the singing of the Psalms. The prophet is a woman named Anna. Like the prophets of Israel, Anna speaks when the Spirit falls upon her. The old woman is Elizabeth, who is Zechariah’s wife. Luke says she is barren, unable to bear a child, until like Old Sarah, God gives her a future.

And then there is Simeon. He has a small but important part in the Christmas pageant. Listen to his story:

Now there was a man in Jerusalem whose name was Simeon; this man was righteous and devout, looking forward to the consolation of Israel, and the Holy Spirit rested on him. It had been revealed to him by the Holy Spirit that he would not see death before he had seen the Lord’s Messiah. Guided by the Spirit, Simeon came into the temple; and when the parents brought in the child Jesus, to do for him what was customary under the law, Simeon took him in his arms and praised God, saying,

“Master, now you are dismissing your servant in peace, according to your word; for my eyes have seen your salvation, 31which you have prepared in the presence of all peoples, a light for revelation to the Gentiles and for glory to your people Israel.”

And the child’s father and mother were amazed at what was being said about him. Then Simeon blessed them and said to his mother Mary, “This child is destined for the falling and the rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be opposed so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed - and a sword will pierce your own soul too.”

Luke goes to great lengths to remind us that Christmas does not happen out of the blue. Christmas comes out of the faith of Israel. Simeon was an old man with an ancient religion. He kept the faith, offered the prayers, and clung to his hopes. He was an exemplary believer, deemed righteous and devout. Every time somebody opened the temple door, there he was.

We know people like that. No need to mention any names, but we know who they are. Every spiritual community has such people. They attend every worship service and sing every hymn. They go to Bible studies and offer their talents. They give generously and pray fervently. They make sure the lights are turned on, and worship services stay on schedule, and tables are set up for the next potluck dinner. They call me at home to say, “Someone left the doors unlocked.” We know these people. Some of us are these people.

Simeon stands among them. He hopes, believes and shows up – yet he has never been allowed to see if any of it is actually true. He has always been a believer. He trusts God made a people and given them instructions on how to live. Simeon believes in the covenant, the commandments, and the call to show concern for the poor and needy.

Yet he is still looking for something. Luke calls it “consolation.” Another translation calls it “the comforting.”[1] And what is this consolation, this comfort? Simply this: that everything he’s heard will turn out to be true. There is a God who will make good on his promises.

I remember the small news item from September 2006. Three Jewish rabbis were ordained. I remember because that didn’t seem like a big deal. Rabbis get ordained all the time, right? Except happened in Germany, the first ordination since the Gestapo shut down the rabbinical schools in 1942.[2] 200,000 German Jews were among the six million people who were killed during the Holocaust. Their leaders were the best educated and most progressive in the world. Hitler stopped all that; and sixty-four years later, God started it up again.

Somebody interviewed an old man who spent four years hiding beneath a staircase in the 1940’s. He said, “I never thought we would see new rabbis in my lifetime. I was tempted to give up on God.”

How do anyone keep faith for sixty-four years of deprivation – or much longer? I think of Simeon all those years ago. In his day, there was no Hitler, but there was a King Herod. In the middle of Herod’s rule, along came the Romans. Historically speaking, his faith was live in a compromised environment. He breathed in a politically charged atmosphere. Yet Simeon kept going to the temple, studying the scripture, and praying for “consolation.”

Most of the Bible is a prayer for consolation. Ever notice that? There were very few periods in the Bible books that were settled or peaceful. Faith survives in the middle of turmoil. Hundreds of years before, Luke’s favorite prophet, the prophet Isaiah, cried out, “Comfort, comfort, my people. Say to Israel that her warfare is over, that she is done paying for her sins.” Those are wonderful words, so beautifully set to music in Handel’s Messiah. By the time Simeon came along, those words had been in the air for hundreds of years with precious little comfort.

All of this begs the question for us, namely: when will our consolation find us? When will the comfort come? If we keep going to church, year after year, will we see pay-off? If we keep praying while life gets shaken, when will our prayers be answered? Where is the assurance that the Temple where we’ve worshiped will continue to be a beacon for the community? That the future will unfold according to God’s grace? When will we gain the assurance that the very things that we want to believe really are true?

Simeon’s story points us to two complimentary answers. The first is the presence of the Holy Spirit. No surprise there. Luke is always talking about the Holy Spirit. Nine times in the Christmas story, including three times in today’s story, we hear about the Holy Spirit. The Holy Spirit is what prompted Mary to sing to God. The Holy Spirit offered messages to Zechariah and Elizabeth. The Holy Spirit whispers to Simeon, “Hang in there; you’re going to see the very thing you are hoping for.”

Think of it this way: the Holy Spirit is just enough of the presence of God that you want even more of the presence of God. The Holy Spirit is what creates a spiritual hunger inside every one of us. The Holy Spirit is what brought all of us back to church after all the candles are extinguished.

Have you ever thought of God that way? That God can create within us a hunger for something deeper? Not necessarily something more – here in the suburbs, we’re tempted to think it’s always about something more – no, not something more, something deeper. Our lives can have such a deeper purpose, a deeper grounding, a deeper confidence. The hunger for these spiritual riches comes from God. When God gets inside us somewhere – that’s the Holy Spirit. It’s the Spirit that pushes Simeon into the temple, and it’s the Spirit that whispers to him, “You’re going to see what I have promised that you’ll see.”

And then he sees the real consolation: Simeon sees Jesus. That’s the second answer. Simeon wobbles right up to the young couple with the bundle in their arms. He croaks out, “Let me see his face.” He pulls back that little blue blanket, sees a little tiny baby, and he looks into the eyes of the One through whom all things were made. The Holy Spirit fills him once again, and Simeon starts to sing:

Master, now you are dismissing your servant in peace, according to your word;
for my eyes have seen your salvation,
which you have prepared in the presence of all peoples,
a light for revelation to the Gentiles and for glory to your people Israel.

Let’s call this the “take me home” moment. It’s that rare moment when we see something so special, something so beautiful and amazing, that God could take us home right then and there.

One of my friends is a Catholic priest. The day he was ordained, people were shaking his hand. Suddenly he saw a nun that he’d known ever since he was a wild child in parochial school. She was tiny, barely came up to his waist, but she stretched up and wrapped her hands on his face, and said, “Tommy, I’m so proud of you that I could die right now” Or to put it another, “Take me home, Lord, it doesn’t get any better than this!”

Simeon looked into the eyes of little Jesus, and he knew his whole life had prepared him for this moment. He knew that, even though this weary old world is in a mess most of the time, everything is going to turn out OK. He knew “the hopes and fears of all the years” would be most deeply met in this one, little Child. And he also knew that this little Savior would save us all, but only after going through a battle of his own.

“Mary, your son will expose people for what they are,” said Simeon, “and some will oppose him, and it will pierce your soul.” Welcome to the world that you made, little Jesus. It’s a world where the crèche is never far from the cross. Yet in crèche and cross, God shows us how far he will go to save the world. He will give himself to a people who reject him, that even in the means of his ultimate rejection they might be saved.

The writer Philip Yancey has this to say:

In the birth stories of Luke and Matthew, only one person seems to grasp the mysterious nature of what God has set in motion: the old man Simeon, who recognized the baby as the Messiah, instinctively understood that conflict would surely follow… Somehow Simeon senses that though on the surface little had changed – the autocrat Herod still ruled, Roman troops were still stringing up patriots, Jerusalem still overflowed with beggars – underneath everything had changed. A new force had arrived to undermine the world’s powers.[3]

This Christmas, I don’t know what you were looking for, or if you were even looking for anything. It could be that you are content with all the hustle, bustle, and noise. Or you simply tried to get through it all as quickly and inexpensively as possible. Or you enjoyed the lights and decorations, but the rest of it only in small doses.

But there really is something very important at the heart of this holiday. Call it a Holy Spirit Hunch. That little baby boy in Jerusalem started something. He keeps sending his Holy Spirit and we find ourselves hungry for something more than tinsel and artificial light. His Spirit pushes us to stand in places that we would not have noticed the truth if we had not been pushed.

The Holy Spirit that opened Simeon’s eyes and loosened his tongue is the same Spirit that compels us to look more deeply and sing more boldly. And the same Spirit comes to give us a glimpse of Jesus, to show us the world is held securely in his wounded hands. Whether we are ready to depart the world or ready to dig in, his saving work continues. It will be a light for revelation, a glory for his people. And this is our consolation.


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

[1] according to Young’s Literal Translation

[2] From Yahoo News, 14 September 2006.

[3] Quoted in “The Visited Planet,” Watch for the Light, pp. 260-1.

Made Visible

Made Visible
John 1:1-18
Christmas Eve
December 24, 2023

This is the best night of the year. It is an amazing evening, with all that it awakens within us. The pervasive darkness is pierced by a thousand lights. The beauty of this sanctuary counters the fierceness of the weather. The music we make bubbles with joy. And then there’s that X Factor. Call it “community,” “friendship,” or “homecoming” – whatever it is, it is captured in that New Testament word “koinonia,” which simply means we are here together.

What inspires our celebration is the announcement of a baby’s birth. In the words of the prophet, “A child has been born for us; a son is given to us.” This birth sparks everything. A brand-new child can do that. I think of a dozen different fathers I have known, shaken to the core when a child is first placed into their arms. One spoke for all when he blurted out, “I didn’t know I could love anybody so much as when I first saw my baby.”

No doubt Mary and Joseph melted when Jesus arrived. During that pregnancy, so much was demanded of them: nutrition, good health, protection, emotional stability, and a whole lot of waiting. To make matters worse, a foreign emperor’s decree had inconvenienced the family. The young couple had to travel ninety miles from Nazareth to Bethlehem, walking on foot for four or five days. When they arrived at Joseph’s ancestral home, there was no place to stay. The child was born in a borrowed room. With no available cradle, his mother placed him in a feeding trough. It was a challenging situation.

Despite it all, there was delight, joy, and deep gratitude - because every birth is a miracle. Not just that birth, but every birth. When a child comes to us, it prompts a hallelujah. It’s big news, the best news. “Unto us a child is born!” That is true every time a baby comes.

Yet in the Christmas birth there’s something else afoot. Mary, Joseph, and those around them wouldn’t know the full importance of Jesus’ birth for another thirty years. It will take even longer for people to wrap their brains around what happened. Ninety years after Christmas, the Gospel of John put it in the ancient poem that I have just read. Here is what he says: the Child born in Bethlehem is the sign that God is in love with the world.

Now, John tells us this because it is not obvious. Walk outside on a clear December night. The stars twinkle. The frigid air is bracing. See your breath, then trace a meteor as it falls across the night sky. It is a stunning sight, reminding you how small you are. You are alive to see it, even though that meteor’s been traveling a lot longer than you or I have been taking breaths.

The view is stunning. The sky is overwhelming. But there’s no evidence of love. Physics, yes. Mystery, to be sure. You can assume it had to originate from somewhere, that it didn’t happen by accident. But you don’t know how, where, or Who. You don’t know why. And the ancient poet declares, “In the beginning, there was a Word, a breath, a logic and intention.” Everything emerges from that Word that none of us ever heard.

The Poet tells us that same Word, breath, logic, and intention created life. Life ignited light, and light and life pervade all things. The Light sings joy into the universe. It fuels wisdom and intelligence. Light keeps shining, regardless of the darkness that attempts to snuff it out. Where does all of this come from? The Poet says, “God.” God is the Source. But what do we know about God? What kind of God is out there? We can never be sure…

… until the Child Jesus is born, until he grows up and matures, until that Mysterious Word speaks in him. Then things begin to happen. Broken people get mended. Hungry souls are fed. Injustices are untangled. Truth fractures all the lies. Grace cancels violence. The darkness cannot handle this. It conspires to silence him. Yet Jesus comes back. The light shines. Life abounds. He is with us. He is still here.

Those awakened by Jesus have always been the keepers of Christmas. They look upon this night to see a birth, and they see more than a birth. They recognize Christmas as the beginning of a rescue. It is a salvage operation, a mission from heaven to earth. The world has always seen glimpses that the God unseen by human eyes is up to something. The coming of Jesus makes it clear. God is deeply in love with the entire world. That’s why the angels are rejoicing. That is why we are singing. God so loved the world that God gave us Jesus.

One of my greatest memories of this church family is a night when we went into New York City. We heard Dave Brubeck, the renowned jazz pianist, was performing his Christmas cantata at Fifth Avenue Presbyterian Church. Enough of us were interested to fill a bus. But then the 9-11 attack happened. Everything was shaken, but we still wanted to go.

One of our church friends was a commercial pilot who lost colleagues in the attack. He told us that before he became a pilot, he had worked as a firefighter in Hell’s Kitchen. Members of his hose company were killed when the first tower fell. So, we wondered out loud: how could we show the survivors some love? How could we make that journey to the city redemptive?

It turns out that Brubeck’s Christmas music set the context for our day-long pilgrimage. It was a major production: big choir, jazz ensemble, and a mariachi band. Next the end of the performance, he put the Christmas message in 5/4 time. The words go like this:

   God’s love made visible, incomprehensible! Christ is invincible! His love shall reign.
   From love so bountiful, blessings uncountable. Make death surmountable.
   His love shall reign!  (c. Derry Music)

God’s love made visible. That is the point of Christmas. The Invisible God reveals how much this world is loved. It is a Word announced, not just to us, but to everyone. It’s a Word – the Word - not merely for those we know, but for strangers, too. Jesus has been sent into this world. He began to save us by loving us. When darkness conspired against him, he came back. Then he sent his Very Presence, his Breathing Spirit to us so that we would continue to show God’s love and make it visible.

We are loved. Every last one of us. That is truth and grace. It is light and life. It is God’s love enfleshed in Jesus. As we carried seventy-five homemade pies to the 9-11 first responders, we broke into song, “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” We sang to them, and they sang to us. That’s the way love flows, from heaven to earth, from Jesus through us.

There wasn’t a dry eye in that fire station. Just peace, joy, and a whole lot of love. And that’s what God intended from the beginning.

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

Not Me, It's Him

John 1:6-8, 19-28
Advent 3
December 17, 2023
William G. Carter

There was a man sent from God, whose name was John. He came as a witness to testify to the light, so that all might believe through him. He himself was not the light, but he came to testify to the light.

This is the testimony given by John when the Jews sent priests and Levites from Jerusalem to ask him, “Who are you?” He confessed and did not deny it, but confessed, “I am not the Messiah.” And they asked him, “What then? Are you Elijah?” He said, “I am not.” “Are you the prophet?” He answered, “No.” Then they said to him, “Who are you? Let us have an answer for those who sent us. What do you say about yourself?” He said, “I am the voice of one crying out in the wilderness, ‘Make straight the way of the Lord,’” as the prophet Isaiah said. Now they had been sent from the Pharisees. They asked him, “Why then are you baptizing if you are neither the Messiah, nor Elijah, nor the prophet?” John answered them, “I baptize with water. Among you stands one whom you do not know, the one who is coming after me; I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandal.” This took place in Bethany across the Jordan where John was baptizing.

One of my favorite holiday greeting cards features a photograph of a burly character dressed in ragged clothing. His unruly hair is out to here. His countenance is fierce. There is a snarl on his face. Beneath is the caption in bold letters: Happy Advent, You Brood of Vipers.

It is John the Baptist, of course. He is a recurring figure in our December preparations for Christmas. While we plan to burn the yule log, he declares, “The fire is coming for us all.” If we sing “Deck the Halls” as we put of the Christmas tree, John shouts, “Already there is an axe at the root of that tree.” And if we have spent considerable time developing a wish list, we hear John say, “Whoever has two coats must share with the person who has none.”

John bears the mantle of moral advisor and religious truth teller. And he comes back every year. Church folks who want a holly, jolly Christmas have generally learned to avoid him. Those who don’t go to church anymore don’t miss him. If the general public knows anything about John, they dismiss him as a precursor of Ebenezer Scrooge. He shows up one Sunday morning a year, maybe two. For a lot of people, that is just enough.

Yet the Bible is fascinated with John the Baptist. The Gospels tell us he showed up in the wilderness, the symbolic place where Israel had been tested. John spoke of hope and dressed in memory. The dominion of God is coming, contrary to the cruelty of the Roman empire. That was the hope. He wore animal skins and lived on the periphery, just like the ancient seers. That was the memory. And in John, two grand traditions of Jewish faith were united. His father was a priest, and he was a prophet. He was both the insider and the outsider, rolled into one.

And the crowds went to see him. All the accounts agree on that. People left bread in the oven, shops unattended, to go and see the spectacle. They left their villages. They left their cities. As we heard this morning, they even left their temple. We know it had to be a big deal because priests and Levites, who made their living within organized religion, went out to the river to see what was going on. They went to John and said, “Who are you?” Who indeed.

The first century historian Josephus confirms all of this. Writing around 95 AD, he said the memories about John the Baptist were strong. “John was a pious man,” he writes, “bidding the Jews to practice virtue and exercise righteousness toward each other and piety toward God.” He wrote this sixty-years after John’s death.

And if you remember the story of John’s brutal death, how Herod Agrippa had him beheaded after he had been called out for his sins, you will understand the popular tradition that arose after his demise. As Josephus wrote, “The Jews believe that the destruction that overtook (Herod’s) army came as a punishment for Herod, God wishing to do him harm.”[1] Herod assassinated John; God demolished Herod’s army. That was the well-told rationale sixty-five years later.

John was a significant figure. So much so that Jesus once said, “Truly I tell you, among those born of women, no one has arisen greater that John the Baptist.”[2] He was a big deal, a hero, a first-century celebrity. No one like him.

So, the Temple establishment in Jerusalem sent out an investigative team to ask, “Who are you?” Well, he’s John. “Yes, but who are you? What’s your deal?” And he said, “I’m not the Messiah.” If you think he is the Messiah, it’s not him.

They asked again, “Who are you? Are you Elijah?” That was a loaded question, too. Elijah was the greatest of Israel’s prophets. He never died. He was swept up into heaven by a chariot of fire. The last book of the Jewish scriptures, the sermons of the prophet Malachi, suggested Elijah would come again before the great and terrible day of the Lord. “Are you Elijah?” they asked. John replied, “I am not.”

So, they tried again. “Who are you? Are you the prophet?” Which prophet? Know what they were referring to? Well, in the final speeches of Moses, in the 18^th chapter of Deuteronomy, Moses predicted the coming of a great prophet. He or she will speak with the power and authority of the Lord. They said, “Are you that prophet?” John said, “No way. Not me. You have the wrong guy.”

Well then, who are you? To which John replied, “I am a Bible verse.” Say what? “Yes, Isaiah, chapter 40, verse 3. I am the voice of one crying out in the wilderness, make straight the way of the Lord. That’s me. Get rid of the speed bumps. Fill in the potholes. Make the road smooth so that God can get to you. I am not the Word; I am simply a voice. Not the voice, but a voice.” And they still do not understand. He is not Messiah, Elijah, or the great unnamed prophet. He is only a mouth, attached to a guy who splashes a lot of water.

It is worth asking why the Gospel of John tells the story this way. This is one of John the Baptist’s big scenes in the Fourth Gospel and then he is dismissed. And from what we can tell, this was a necessary distinction that the Gospel writer believed that he had to make. John the Baptist is not the One we are waiting for.

Did you know that over twenty years after this episode, long after Jesus went into heaven, the apostle Paul went to the big city of Ephesus. A major city of the Empire. And when he arrived, he found some believers who worshiped the work of John the Baptist. They were imitating his message, declaring “The Messiah is coming; repent and be baptized.”

The apostle Paul said, “Whoa, Nelly! Hang on. Why are you saying the Messiah is coming?” They said, “We follow John, and John said the Messiah is coming.” To which Paul said, “Got news for you. He is already here.”[3] He is? Is the Messiah already here? This is a matter of some dispute.

Did you know there is still a small sect of believers called the Mandeans? There are about a hundred thousand of the Mandeans around the world, many in the fertile crescent living in Iraq and Iran. They believe John the Baptist was the final and ultimate prophet of God, and that all life is divided between light and darkness. John points to the light, they believe, and they undergo repeated baptisms to purge their sin and prepare for the Messiah.

It could be the gospel of John knew about groups like these. So, he makes the distinction and puts the message on John’s lips: “I’m not the one. I’m not the Messiah. I’m merely the voice.” We can be sympathetic, I think, because there is always enough misery in the world to tempt us to believe the Messiah has not come. Read the news, see the horrors and the distortions every day, and faith has real challenges.

Yet listen to what John the Baptist also testifies: “Among you stands one whom you do not know, the one who is coming after me; I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandal.” That is, the One we await is already here. We do not see him, not clearly, not yet. We know him, but we don’t always know him. And this is one of the grand messages of the Gospel of John: Jesus, the life-giving Word of God, has come into the world.

He came to his own, and they did not see him. A few did, but not everybody. And one person at a time began to perceive the truth. He is here, he knows me, he knows what I have done and what I have said. He knows my struggles, because in coming to us, he has taken on the struggles and limits of being human like us. And wherever he goes, whenever he speaks, life happens in surprising ways.

Those with damaged legs begin to dance. Those with confused minds can understand. Those who feel abandoned are accompanied. Those who die enter into life. Those who are hungry are fed. Those who have lost everything are found. Light and life to all he brings. That is the truth that confirms that the One we await is already among us.

So, the message of John the Baptist is simply this: keep looking, keep listening, keep scanning for the Life of the One we cannot completely see. For he is here. Like John, we testify to what we see and hear.

A couple of weeks ago, I had a conversation with two young friends on a Saturday morning. It was the day we had a team here to decorate the sanctuary. Someone discovered a few creche scenes in the attic, and I decided we would put one of them in the entryway, by the door from the street.

It took some doing. Who knows how long that creche had been in the attic? It was covered with dirt and dust, but it is a barn after all. I called over my two young helpers, thinking this was an opportunity to retell the Christmas story as we put the figures in place. One figure at a time, they helped me place Mary and Joseph, the shepherds, and the wise man, then all the friendly beasts. If you take a moment to look at it next time you pass, take note that everybody, even the camel, is looking at the baby Jesus.

Normally hidden from us, blending in for over thirty years, not looking like anything more than a wood cutter’s son. Yet he is in the center of it all. He invites our attention. Even if we cannot see him, we can keep looking for him. And sometimes, a star will blink, a soul will be mended, a hungry stomach will be filled, a hope will be renewed.

That’s when John the Baptist gets it right. For he says, “It’s not about me. It’s all about him.” And it is.

 

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

---

[1] Josephus, Antiquities XVIII, v. 2, quoted in the Interpreter’s Dictionary of the Bible, p. 939.

[2] Matthew 11:11

[3] Acts 19:1-10

The Man with the Pointy Finger

Mark 1:1-9
Advent 2
December 10, 2023
William G. Carter

The Bible is full of unusual people
who resemble us in every way.
Distance and time do not separate us
from what these folks do, what they say.
We look in the mirror when we open the pages
Astonished, we realize, that across the ages,
With clear relevance these now ancient sages
Speak with truth and point the way.

So, consider a man who smelled like a camel.
He barked like a dog in the night.
John was his name, and he wasn’t tame.
He spoke with all of his might.
Folks thought he was strange, living out on the range,
His hair, long and dirty, an impressive mange.
He feasted on bugs. To us, that sounds strange,
This Man with the Pointy Finger.

Before we dismiss him, consider his pedigree.
His father lived up in the hills.
A priest, with his wife, resided in Galilee,
off the beaten path where there are no thrills.
Because of his calling, he traveled to the Temple,
Not always, but sometimes, the schedule was simple.
He prayed and burned incense without drama or dimple.
Until an angel pointed to him.

“I have news for you,” Gabriel said with delight.
“Despite your old age, you’ll soon have a son.
He’ll point to God’s work and turn people’s hearts.”
The priest said, “No way. I can’t be the one.
My wife, dear Elizabeth, is long past her days.
We’ve given up on children, with sadness, I’m afraid.
A baby’s not possible. No hope but dismay.
Surely, you’ve got the wrong father.”

Don’t argue with an angel. For they never lie.
They speak for God with clear intent.
These messengers bring tidings of truth from on high.
It is God whom they represent.
The angel said, “You’re a priest. Don’t you recall?
The scriptures tell stories of barren folks, all,
Who gave birth despite the biological call.
Clearly, you have nothing to say.”

The priest was struck silent in front of God’s altar.
Then he stumbled out, stiff as a post.
The crowd was astonished and somewhat frightened.
It seemed the old Priest saw a ghost.
He pointed inside. He pointed up high.
He pointed to his wife who let out a sigh.
Nine long months later, her birthing was nigh
For a baby with a pointy finger.

That loosened his tongue, especially the day
when it was due time for the boy to be named.
People in town thought he’d be called Junior.
The priest shook his head. The matter reframed.
“His name shall be John,” he wrote on a slate.
“God gave him this name and I have to state
He’s given to the Lord like Samuel – who was great.”
(Though for us, he’s the Man with the Pointy Finger.)

A prophet, a truth-teller, pointing ahead
to God’s good work in one more Child.
John was called to reside in the desert,
by the river, where everything’s wild.
His Old Testament clothing and his direct speech,
sounded like the God of old could still reach
The hearts, souls, and minds of those now impeached
By the Man with the Pointy Finger.

He pointed to royals and named them as fakes.
He pointed to peasants and called out their sin.
He pointed to priests and named them as snake.
He pointed to all and invited them in.
“Repent! Come home to the God who still loves you.
Turn around from wrong paths. Resist what is killing you.
God will burn everything false. It is true!”
Said the Man with the Pointy Finger.

Every so often that message is heard,
though dismissed by an indulgent crowd.
Yet every so often, that message cuts through
the world’s charms and distractions so loud.
God desires our cold hearts without a rival.
God wants our attention to ensure our survival.
God comes to ignite our souls in revival,
Said the Man with the Pointy Finger.

Now, lest we think this John works only through words,
the Prophet calls us to the river.
He declares, “We must turn from every distraction
that pulls us away from life’s Giver.
“Get into the water. It’s bracing and cold.
The shock will affect you and shake up your soul.
But you’ll stand again, wet, and part of God’s fold,”
Says the Man with the Pointy Finger.

If we’ve become selfish, consumed by our greed,
if we in our arrogance push others around,
John points us to all who are starving in need,
saying, “Cut it out! Stop shaking them down.”
If we have full closets of coats we don’t wear,
God says it is high time to learn how to share.
For this is but one way we can show holy care,
Says the Man with the Pointy Finger.

This Pointer remains a remarkable man,
a priest’s son and prophet, with plenty to say.
Crowds heard him gladly, for this was God’s plan.
Hip-deep in the river, he prepared the Way.
The Way, toward what? You might wish to ask.
The Way for God’s coming, our souls to unmask.
For this was the Pointy Man’s ultimate task,
To point to the coming Messiah!

“He is greater than I. Stop looking at me!
Turn your gaze toward him. See his fire!
He will burn worthless chaff. His grace sets us free.”
Those words, quite profound, will inspire.
John points us to all, the good and the bad.
He points us to brokenness that makes us sad.
Then he points us toward Jesus whose love makes us glad.
This is the mission of the Pointy Finger.

I suppose we could stay just the way that we are.
Self-contained, independent, indifferent to all.
Yet God selects John to speak, wash, and point.
A prophet, indeed, with a self-giving call.
So, turn around and come home. Return to our God.
Get ready for the Christ, who is God in a bod,
Repent and embrace him, even if it is odd.
Says the Man with the Pointy Finger.

We can dismiss John as ancient, a prophetic antique,
declaring he’s got nothing on us.
Yet the Word that he speaks is relevant still,
without a whole lot of fuss.
Through him, God still points and calls to account
All wayward children who live on this mount
To access their souls, their fears to surmount.
No one escapes that pointy finger.

All of us wander from One who keeps loving us.
Some who still wander are lost.
All of us live with fidelity and fear,
and a few have their hearts touched by frost.
John shows up again to ignite our weak hopes,
To call us back home and to wise up the dopes.
Without his clear call we’d be lost on the ropes.
Thank God for the pointy finger!

So come home, O saints, you Beloved of God.
You’re wanted, you’re loved, and you’re found.
The Way is now clear to return to the Source.
The welcome awaits. It’s profound.
Trust you are loved, no matter the sin.
Trust sin is canceled, despite your chagrin.
Trust there is One who gathers us in –
And he has his finger on you!

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

Wake Up! The Beginning is Near

Mark 13:24-37
December 3, 2023
Advent 1
William G. Carter

“But in those days, after that suffering, the sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light, and the stars will be falling from heaven, and the powers in the heavens will be shaken. Then they will see ‘the Son of Man coming in clouds’ with great power and glory. Then he will send out the angels, and gather his elect from the four winds, from the ends of the earth to the ends of heaven.

 

“From the fig tree learn its lesson: as soon as its branch becomes tender and puts forth its leaves, you know that summer is near. So also, when you see these things taking place, you know that he is near, at the very gates. Truly I tell you, this generation will not pass away until all these things have taken place. Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away.

 

“But about that day or hour no one knows, neither the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father. Beware, keep alert; for you do not know when the time will come. It is like a man going on a journey, when he leaves home and puts his slaves in charge, each with his work, and commands the doorkeeper to be on the watch. Therefore, keep awake—for you do not know when the master of the house will come, in the evening, or at midnight, or at cockcrow, or at dawn, or else he may find you asleep when he comes suddenly. And what I say to you I say to all: Keep awake.”

Here we go again. Another Advent, on our way to another Christmas. The season come around quickly for most of us, maybe not so much for our children. But the months do circle by. A lot of annual patterns are set. There’s the annual Christmas party on the first Friday night of December. The community-wide Messiah singalong on the third Sunday of the month. Some families put up their Christmas trees on the day after Thanksgiving: they cut them down or tie them to the roof of the car or pull the tree out of the closet. These things happen every year, right on schedule.

The church marks the season by counting back four weeks from December 25. The consumer world starts even earlier. After Thanksgiving comes Black Friday, then Small Business Saturday is followed by Cyber Monday. Everybody has a deal. The deals come like clockwork. There is a shift as Cyber Monday leads into Giving Tuesday, a now annualized appeal for end-of-year generosity. I counted thirty-seven e-mails asking for money and contributed to three of them, because my first commitment is giving to this church.

The calendar may change but the dates are locked in. In the words of a recurring holiday cartoon, “Look, Charlie Brown. We all know Christmas is a big commercial racket. It’s run by an eastern syndicate, you know.” We are accustomed to this, even numbed by it. Ho hum, another holiday. Here we go again.

And how does the Bible respond? It hurtles this text into our sanctuary, telling us an interruption might come at any time. Mark’s Gospel says the lights will go out – sun and moon and stars. Heaven will shake. Then everybody will see the Son of Man coming toward us. It will be a glorious day for some, a terrifying day for others. This is how the season of Advent begins, with the promise there will be an enormous interruption to all our routines, all our schedules, all our consumer spending. There is a great day coming, even bigger than Christmas. It is going to smash into everything. This is the Gospel of our Lord.

Not what you wanted to hear. Me neither. I hope to see the Lord come with power and might. But quite yet. We just got the sanctuary decorated yesterday. I would like to enjoy this for a while. It is early enough in Advent that we haven’t fired up the Christmas carols yet. Don’t worry, we will. A couple of quick Purple Sundays, then it’s “Joy to the World.” We will light candles and sing “Silent Night.” It’s on the schedule. Christmas is coming. The worship bulletins are already prepared. That’s how I like to work: plan ahead!

Unless something happens.

So, what could happen? This thirteenth chapter of Mark began with Jesus walking out of the Jerusalem Temple with a few of the boys. One of those upcountry fishermen paused, looked up, and said, “What a place! It’s so big.” To which Jesus replied, “It’s coming down, stone by stone.” Not what those Galileans wanted to hear. They considered the Temple as God’s house. This is where God met the people – in the Temple, in the holidays, in the rituals, in the annual routines. Jesus said, “It’s coming down.”

So, they pulled him away from the crowd and said, “When is all this happening?” He didn’t answer the question. What he did suggest is they pay attention to the signs of the times:

The Temple was coming down. Just on the previous page, Jesus accuses institutional religion of taking advantage of widows and those most vulnerable in the community. God won’t let that stand. Not in his name.
   

People will turn on one another. Well, that still happens. It is not God’s will.  

Nation will turn against nation. Yep, that’s business as usual. Also, what God does not want.
   

The public life of faith will be desecrated, what Jesus calls a “desolating sacrilege.” Cheapened, watered down, disregarded, turned into a spectacle.

Jesus said all of this will happen because all of it was happening. And in every generation, it keeps happening. Somewhere, somehow, there is always destruction, fear, animosity, and desolation. All of that has become a routine, just like the other routines we have fallen into.

But Jesus is clear on one thing: the Gospel must be preached. It is the same Gospel he came preaching on Day One. The message is this, that the Kingdom of God is coming toward us. The Rightful Ruler of the world will dismantle the deadly old ways. Love will win. Life as we know it will be healed and transformed. All who belong to God’s coming dominion will be gathered in and embraced by the angels.

This is the Advent hope, the deepest Advent hope. We come to prepare for the birth of the Baby Jesus, but his birth was only the beginning. What is really coming is a whole new heaven and earth, re-created in the love and justice of Christ Jesus. People will stop hurting one another – that is the world he will create. Consumers will find another purpose for their lives, something greater than racking up their credit card balances. They will learn how to give to their neighbors. This is how the earth will be reborn. A tired old world that profits on animosity and destruction will be ultimately silenced by the Gospel that God is in charge. People will wake up from a bad dream. That long, dull ache from years of hurt and weariness will be relieved. For Christ, the Son of Man, is coming toward us.

We live in the meantime. Meantime can be the meanest time. Jesus reminds us earthquakes will shake us, famines will starve us, trouble will weary us, liars will twist reality out of shape. We can expect all of this. The world is broken and so are we. 

Yet none of this will last, says the Lord. What will continue to the end is the Word that Christ speaks, that those in need are God’s beloved, that the wealthy are called to participate as equals in the human race, that life is far more than mere consumption, that fairness is something we must work for every single day. The kingdom is coming, says Jesus the King. God is knocking at the door. And when the full transformation comes, every one of us shall see it.

What is the invitation for us? Literally, to stay awake. To keep our eyes open and our hearts aligned with God’s purposes. If there is any Gospel word that has ignited our hearts, keep that fire burning. Invest in the future that God is creating. Let go of the habits that are holding you back. Live simply, even if the world is wasteful. Love generously, even when your neighbors are greedy. Most of all, trust deeply, for this is God’s world. God has not brought us this far to abandon the world he loves to bigots and fools. That is why he is coming. To clarify and judge, to heal and restore, to heal and re-create.

So, let’s stay awake. When the person next to you nods off, give them a little nudge. When someone you love becomes fearful of what’s out there, calm them with the assurance of what’s ultimately coming. When bombarded by the consuming message of “No payments ‘til February,” counter that empty nonsense by pulling extra coats out of your closet for those who have none. And if you discover somebody eats alone, invite them to dine at your table. We were made to enjoy one another. Christ promises to wrap his arms around us all; do what you can to live as if that is already true. Stay awake.

For Christ is coming nearer, redeeming us from sin.

Our broken lives will soon be healed. God’s kingdom now breaks in.

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

Gratitude without Gravy

Psalm 100
November 26, 2023
Christ the King

William G. Carter

Make a joyful noise to the LORD, all the earth.

Worship the LORD with gladness; come into his presence with singing.

Know that the LORD is God. It is he that made us, and we are his;

we are his people, and the sheep of his pasture.

Enter his gates with thanksgiving, and his courts with praise. Give thanks to him, bless his name.

For the LORD is good; his steadfast love endures forever, and his faithfulness to all generations.

This psalm is a favorite for many of us. And it’s famous, too, so famous that it was quoted by Mark Twain in The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. You may remember the scene. Tom, Huckleberry Finn, and their friend Joe Harper were hiding on an island and pretending they were pirates. The whole town fears they had drowned in the Mississippi. As the boys sneak back into town, they discover their funeral is about to happen in the local Presbyterian Church. 

They hide up in the balcony as the mourners arrive in black. Nobody could ever remember the church so full. The preacher stands up in the pulpit and starts lying about them. He talks about what wonderful children they were, spreading platitude upon platitude as if he is icing a cake. Oh, it seemed like they were such rascals, he said, but they were sweet and generous, so noble and beautiful in their youth. The whole congregation breaks down into anguished sobs, and even the preacher gives way to his feelings and begins to cry in the pulpit.

Just then there’s a rustle. The back door creaked, and one pair of eyes after another looked up to see the lost boys walking down the aisle of their own funeral. They are smothered with kisses and poured-out thanksgivings. Suddenly the minister shouts at the top of his voice: “Praise God from who all blessings flow — Sing! — and put your hearts into it.” And they did. Twain says,

Old Hundred swelled up with a triumphant burst, and while it shook the rafters Tom Sawyer the Pirate looked around the envying juveniles about him and confessed in his heart that was the proudest moment of his whole life. As the congregation trooped out, they said they would almost be willing to be made ridiculous again to hear Old Hundred sung like that once more.[1]

“Old Hundred,” of course, is the One Hundredth Psalm, the same psalm that we dwell with today. The Genevan setting became a tune we frequently sing. And we know how good it feels to burst into song. A few of us are even wired to sing joyfully at any moment. The rest of us need to be beckoned to join in. Old Psalm 100 is about as good a song to sing.

It is a psalm of joy; as the heading announces, it is a song of thanksgiving. When early church leaders like the apostle Paul told the church to give thanks regularly, I’1l bet my Thanksgiving turkey that he is talking about psalms like this one. All the elements are there:

• The invitation to praise God.
• The affirmation of covenant love: we are God’s people, and the sheep of his hand.
• There is the call to joy. Like the line in that old version, we sang: “him serve with mirth.” I love that! Just imagine those grumpy old Presbyterians singing about mirth.
• Then there is the continuing invitation: “give thanks to God. Enter God’s gates with thanksgiving.”

In that small town next to the Mississippi River, it wasn’t long before Tom Sawyer’s Aunt Polly discovered the truth. While she was mourning his death, he was off smoking tobacco, covering himself in mud, and swapping lies with his friends. But in the moment when everybody sang in church, she was glad that he and his friends were alive. There isn’t a better sermon on the text than that. 

Is there anybody here who feels glad to be alive? This is the psalm for you. It is a profound reminder that life is a gift from the God who made us. It reminds that we belong to God, as one large flock guarded by one shepherd. This is the primal memory that stirs up gratitude.

It’s a memory that recurs throughout the Bible. Old Moses knew about that. His people were on the edge of the Promised Land. They were so close that they could see the fruit dangling in the trees. They could smell the honey. And he says, “Now, wait a second. Let me give you the Book of Deuteronomy.” In one long speech after another, Moses reminded them how much God has done for them. He knew that when people end up with a lot of the good stuff of life, they start thinking they have earned it, or they deserve it, or they are worthy of it. The truth is far simpler. They have received it.

So, Moses says, “Don’t forget about God. God has given us everything: food, freedom, protection, abundance, and most of all, steadfast love. Don’t forget about God — lest God forget about you.” Sometimes a whiff of obligation when somebody says, “You ought to be grateful.” Well, there’s no “ought” to it. Gratitude is funded by our memory. It is our memory of God - what God has done, how God has carried us through our troubles, how God connects us to people who love us — it is our memory of these things that stirs up our thankfulness.

It is painful to see people forget. Those who have the most are often the ones who are least grateful. The children with the most toys in the closet are the ones who throw the biggest tantrums in the shopping mall. Spiritually speaking, the problem is amnesia. We forget where everything comes from. In that lapse, we start hustling to make sure we have more stuff than everybody else. Or push to the front of the line. That may be the greatest spiritual problem, both in this town and in this nation: too much milk and honey can lead to memory loss.

The pandemic has been over for a while, but we can still remember how it felt. Isolation, anxiety, silence, and fear. And then, as the plague subsided, we began to gather again to share our meals. More than one mother said, “We take so much for granted and forget how close we came to losing even more.” She paused and said, “Thursday was a real Thanksgiving.”

All of us have the capacity to remember. The baby who was sick, but now is strong — thanks be to God. The teenager that got through a tormented season – thanks be to God. The lost job that eventually led to a new open door — thanks be to God. The relationship that blew apart but taught us new insights about ourselves – thanks be to God. The precious one we lost, who instructed us how to love and trust more deeply — thanks be to God.

One of the gifts of scripture is that it reminds us of how many things God has done for us. There are, of course, the big moments, always spoken in first-person plural. We were saved from Pharoah by walking through the sea. We walked through the desert and received food and Torah. Lost in sin, we were saved by the cross of Jesus. When we worried how to live without Jesus in a hostile world, God blew the Holy Spirit upon us, and inspired the Torah to be written down and shared — thanks be to God.

This is the pattern of a God who gives freely, who gives regularly, who gives abundantly. When we remember the large, saving events that the scriptures narrate, it conditions us to start seeing the quieter salvations that happen every day. As we remember, we say thank you.

Psalm 100 was the first Bible passage that I ever learned. Who would have thought my first memorized text began, “Make a joyful noise to the Lord”? Or that whenever I got too big for my britches, the reminder came,  “The Lord God made us, and we are his”? Or that the continuing invitation of the spiritual life is to discern the baptismal promise that we claim again today, namely that the Lord’s “steadfast love endures forever’?

At the heart of it all is the line stenciled over the organ pipes in the church where I grew up. I saw it every week. Still see it whenever I return. In large letters, lest anybody forget, “Enter his gates with thanksgiving.” It’s the code word for accessing the grace of God like the way Eugene Peterson re-translates the verse: “Enter with the password: Thank You!”[2]

I don’t know how you might live this out, but I’ll tell what a friend does. She keeps a gratitude journal. She went to a local bookstore and picked up a blank journal. Every time something good happens, she writes it down and whispers, “thank you.” First thing in the morning, last thing before she shuts her eyes, she scans her life for traces of grace.

“It’s done wonders for my spirit,” she says. “If I am inclined to rush on to another distraction, the gratitude journal slows me down. If I’m feeling grouchy, the journal expands my point of view. And on those days when the world seems out of control and I’m not so sure there’s a God, I flip through the pages and reconsider. That simple practice has rewired my soul. I’m a different person. I pay attention a whole lot more.”

On the festival day of Christ the King, we remember Somebody else is running the world. Life can be hard, and often is, but every day we are showered with uncounted gifts. It is good to open our hands, to receive well, to stop believing we must do it all as if we could save or sustain ourselves. But to pause, count the blessings, and to thank the God who gives them.

Remember. Pay attention. Don’t forget. And once in a while, at least once every day, why not break into song? In fact, this would be a pretty good time.

 

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

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[1] Mark Twain (AKA Samuel Clemens), The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, chapter 17. Accessed online at Project Gutenberg. https://www.gutenberg.org/files/74/74-h/74-h.htm#c17

[2] Psalm 100:4, Eugene Peterson, The Message (Colorado Springs: NavPress, 2005)

Counting Our Days

Psalm 90
November 19, 2023
William G. Carter

 

The story is told of a young boy who dreamed of going into outer space. When he was little, his dad bought him a toy rocket. From that moment, his imagination took over. The countdown would begin, “Ten-nine-eight-seven-six-five-four-three-two-one.” And he would hurl that rocket into the air.

The dream stayed with him. He leaned forward in science class. The possibility of zero gravity excited him. He investigated what kind of foods he could eat in outer space.

And the adults who encouraged his interest were curious. What’s the attraction to becoming an astronaut? Do you want to explore new worlds? Colonize Mars? Go where no one has gone before? One day, at age twelve, he replied. “I want to fly into eternity. Infinity and beyond!”

He had a point. There are no clocks in outer space, just revolving planets that rotate around the sun. The universe seems endless, with no obvious limits, no schedules, no deadlines. After you launch, you just float on forever.

One day, a well-intentioned adult pointed out, “Space may go on forever, but you won’t. You have sixty, seventy, maybe eighty years to go.” When the truth of that sank in, he landed with a thud. There is eternity, call it God’s infinity. Compared to that, our lives are short.

This is the truth of Psalm 90. We have an everlasting God, a God who was there before there was a beginning. Before the mountains, before the earth, before the whole universe was sung into being, God was. As a wise old Episcopalian priest once said to me, “God is prior.” That is, before it all. This eternal God shall also outlast us.

 As for each of us, we have an expiration date. Don’t know when it is, but this is a certainty. Sorry to bring that up, to puncture the illusion of an unlimited life span, but everything ends. Everything except God.

The poet who put together Psalm 90 knows this. Perhaps she was a philosopher, watching the rise and fall of one person after another. Maybe she observed a sunset like the one we watched on Thursday afternoon, a sherbet-colored sky streaked with red, orange, and purple, and then decided there was beauty before us, there will be beauty after us, and that kind of eternity will outlive us all. Maybe that gives you comfort. Or maybe you want to push against it.

The psalmist pushes a bit. Three times, we hear about the “anger and wrath” of God. This is not a scare tactic. The poet is not trying to frighten us, like those fire and brimstone preachers in other churches and previous generations. No, the “anger and wrath” in this psalm sound more like a recognition that sooner or later, life gets hard.

All those iniquities over the years, those secret things that twisted us out of shape, they are exposed in God’s searing light. The effects of aging, the aches and pains, that touch of arthritis that I now have in my right hand – it’s ouch and sigh.

Blame Adam and Eve if you wish. Our primeval parents lived in an eternal Garden until they committed an act of independence. With that, God put limits on our lives. We had to live with the passing of four seasons, the cycles of the moon, the creation of the sundial, the calendar, the clock, the wristwatch, and a thousand handheld devices that shackle us. Our sense of time is merely a subdivision of eternity. Even if we could blast off into eternal space, at some moment, we would run out of time.

The last time I preached on this psalm was 2008, fifteen years ago. Back then, I mentioned a website that a friend recommended. It is www.deathclock.com. I don’t recommend it. It’s billed as “the internet’s friendly reminder that life is slipping away.” If you type in your birthdate, gender, weight, and emotional mood, it will calculate how long you have left.

In 2008, the death clock told me that I will last until 2033, just ten years from now. Pretty ominous if you ask me. So, the other day, I tried it again and it said, “October 24, 2032.” Uh oh – I lost a year. And on a whim, I tried a second time. This time, it said, “November 14, 2047.” Wow – I picked up fifteen years! Then I realized I’ve given my birthdate to a computer server in China. Twice, in fact. And some stupid website cannot tell me how long I have left.

But if only we knew. If only.

When our men’s group gathered last Thursday to reflect on the psalm for today, I considered showing them a portion of one of my favorite movies but decided against it. It’s a film called About Schmidt. Jack Nicholson plays Warren Schmidt, a man whose dreams for retirement are interrupted. His wife dies unexpectedly. She left him with a Winnebago he didn’t want. Their daughter is marrying an idiot. Not what he expected for his autumn years!

And Schmidt, of all people, knows life is short. As he explains,

I was an actuary at Woodmen of the World Insurance Company. If I’m given a man’s age, race, profession, place of residence, marital status, and medical history, I can calculate with great probability how long that man will live. In my own case, now that my wife has died there is a 73% chance I will die within nine years, provided that I do not remarry. All I know is I’ve got to make the best of whatever time I have left. Life is short, and I can’t afford to waste another minute.

 In the very next scene, Schmidt is taking a snooze in his Lazy Boy recliner.

The Bible scholars say this passage reminds us that God is God. God is not arbitrary. God is not mean. God does not dish out absurdity or meaninglessness. But neither will anybody ever step on God’s toes. There are limits to what we can and cannot accomplish in this life. There is only so much that we can get done in one day. Even if God loves us, one scholar reminds us, “Death is the final and ultimate ‘no’ that cancels any pretension to autonomy from the human side.”[1]           

We cannot finish our own lives. We may not finish all the projects around the house. That’s what Psalm 90 says in five or six different ways. This is not intended as good news. It’s simply the news of how things are. There are limits to our ability. No matter how capable we are, we cannot do it all. No matter how good we try to be, there are limits which are established beyond our control. No matter how much time we think we have, we will not have enough. Either that, or we get bored with the time we have. Or end up taking a nap while the world carries on.

This psalm, with the collection of the psalms, lies under the category of biblical wisdom. It lies beside the wisecracking book of Proverbs, the sardonic book of Ecclesiastes, the passion of the Song of Solomon, and the head-scratching mysteries of the book of Job. All of them are unified in the truth that God is greater than we are – God is a whole lot smarter, God is more elusive, God is more loving or more faithful, or – in this case – God has longevity that we don’t have.

It's that insight that gets echoed in the strange Second Letter of Peter, one of the other texts for today. An early apostle reflects on the final coming of Christ, that great day when history will end, when all things will be caught up in the glory of God. It’s going to be a big moment, the greatest of all – but it’s taking a while. It’s taking a long while.

So, Peter draws on the language of our psalm by saying, “Don’t forget that, with the Lord one day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like one day.” God is not being slow, he says. God’s showing you some patience. God is giving you some time to shape up and come to your senses. (2 Peter 3:8-15)  

This is the beginning of wisdom, what the psalmist calls “a heart full of wisdom,” or simply “a wise heart.” In the words of one scholar, "A wise heart does not refer to knowledge, skill, technique, or the capacity to control. Instead, it seems to mean the capacity to submit, relinquish, and acknowledge the decisive impingement of Yahweh on one's life."[2]

God will outlive us. Ultimately God will win…over everything. One way to gain this wise heart is to lean back into God’s everlasting arms and try to get the biggest picture possible - - to see as God sees, over vast spans of time. To be patient, as God is infinitely patient. To affirm that life happens to us, through us, and in spite of us. To declare there is nothing separates us from the steadfast love of the Lord. To hold fast to such truths is to develop a wise heart.

It is of great comfort to remember God does not wear a wristwatch. God is eternal, standing outside of human time, while mysteriously entering our time with the grace of Jesus Christ. From moment to moment, we catch glimpses of how God is inclined to help us when we can’t help ourselves, and that’s how God will save us. To some extent, we are always up against the wall and our own failings are obvious. But God holds the ability to finish what we cannot.

In my journal, I’ve copied and re-copied some words by the theologian Reinhold Niebuhr. They give me perspective, and they go like this:

• Nothing that is worth doing can be achieved in our lifetime; therefore, we are saved by hope.
• Nothing which is true or beautiful or good makes complete sense in any immediate context of history; therefore, we must be saved by faith.
• Nothing we do, however virtuous, can be accomplished alone; therefore, we are saved by love.
• No virtuous act is quite as virtuous from the standpoint of our friend or foe as it is from our standpoint. Therefore, we must be saved by the final form of love which is forgiveness.”[3]

Our time is short. But God’s time is eternal. And the best way to number our days is to make them count. To do something important with whatever time we have left.

And so, I charge you to help a child reach for the stars. Enjoy a sherbet-colored sunset. Plant a sequoia. Write the next great American novel. Forgive the lingering grudge. Feed the hungry. Empty your pockets for somebody else’s children. Take a stand against wastefulness. Show strangers they are worthy of your respect. Tell those who circle around you that you love them. Make the most of what you have left, because, eternally speaking, time is short.

Most of all, don’t sweat the small stuff and don’t sweat the big stuff, for God’s steadfast love endures forever.

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

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[1] James L. Mays, Psalms, Interpretation (Louisville: John Knox, 1004) 292.

[2] Walter Brueggemann, The Message of the Psalms (Minneapolis: Augsburg) 111.

 

[3] Reinhold Niebuhr, The Irony of American History (New York: Charles Scribner’s sons, 1952) 63.