The Past is Present

Luke 1:68-79
Advent 4
December 22, 2024
William G. Carter

Then his father Zechariah was filled with the Holy Spirit and spoke this prophecy:
‘Blessed be the Lord God of Israel, for he has looked favorably on his people and redeemed them.
He has raised up a mighty savior for us in the house of his servant David,
as he spoke through the mouth of his holy prophets from of old,
   that we would be saved from our enemies and from the hand of all who hate us.
Thus he has shown the mercy promised to our ancestors, and has remembered his holy covenant,
the oath that he swore to our ancestor Abraham,

to grant us that we, being rescued from the hands of our enemies,
might serve him without fear, in holiness and righteousness before him all our days.
And you, child, will be called the prophet of the Most High;
   for you will go before the Lord to prepare his ways,
to give knowledge of salvation to his people by the forgiveness of their sins.
By the tender mercy of our God, the dawn from on high will break upon us,
to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death,
   to guide our feet into the way of peace.’

One of the remarkable gifts of a true Christmas carol is its ability to transport us to another time and place. We sing here and now, and we are carried back to there and then. 

Take, for instance, the carol, “O Little Town of Bethlehem.” We will sing after the sermon. It is one of my favorites, probably one of yours. “O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie! Above they deep and dreamless sleep the silent stars go by.” I can still remember singing it as a kid, snapping out of my own dreamless sleep and imagining the little town. It was magical. I could picture it, even see the humble place where Jesus was born. I wouldn’t see Bethlehem until I was forty years old, but I could imagine it in my mind. Through the Christmas carol, the ancient story became real to me right then and there.

Years later, I learned the story of how the song was written. It wasn’t written in Bethlehem, but in Philadelphia, in an Episcopalian church on Rittenhouse Square. The Rev. Phillips Brooks wrote the words, then handed them off to the church organist Lewis Redner, who dreamed up the tune. The original manuscript is framed in the narthex of the Church of the Holy Trinity.

Brooks wrote the words, remembering a Christmas journey to Bethlehem while he was taking a sabbatical from his church. He had sat on horseback, gazing at the fields where the shepherds had heard the angelic choir. He took his place in a pew and worshiped at the church that had been built upon the traditional site where Jesus was born. Here’s the thing: he composed the poem in 1868, three years after he had returned from his trip. And he wasn’t only remembering the journey from three years before. He was remembering back over 1868 years.

This is how a lot of Christmas carols work. They travel back in time and take us with them. That’s how the song of Zechariah works. He sings of Christmas in the past tense: “Blessed be the Lord God of Israel, for he has looked favorably on his people and redeemed them. He has raised up a mighty savior for us in the house of his servant David.” The mighty savior is Jesus, of course. Never mind that Luke puts these words on his lips before Jesus was even born. Zechariah sings on behalf of all of us who look into the manger with believing hearts and see the child who redeems us as a sign of God’s favor.

In turn, as Zechariah celebrates the birth of Jesus, he also looks backward. He remembers the ancient promises of the holy prophets. He recalls how God promised to rescue him and his people from trouble and hatred. Then he remembers that God also remembers. God looks back to the holy covenant made with Abraham and Sarah, that, “You shall be my people, and you shall multiply like the stars in the sky.”[1] God remembers and makes good on that promise.

Whatever else we say about it, Christian faith is the practice of memory. Can you remember Bethlehem? Can you see it? Not with the eyes in your head but with the eyes of your heart. That’s the faithful practice of memory.

I tell you, if we only looked at Bethlehem with the eyes in our heads, it could be a disappointment. The shepherds’ fields are full of condominiums. The original manger is covered by a basilica, massive and overbuilt. The site is managed by Catholics, Armenians, and Greek Orthodox, who regularly squabble among themselves. Sometimes the Coptic and Syriac Orthodox join in the arguments. The neighborhood is subject to violence. The Israelis lock it down on a moment’s notice. And when the mood is peaceful, there are more gift shops than there are fleas on a camel. In his Philadelphia Christmas Carol, Phillips Brooks spoke of “dark streets.” They are still there.

And yet, can you remember Bethlehem? Can the Holy Child of Bethlehem, born so long ago, “be born in us today”?

I ask because Christmas, for a growing number of people, is a flat memory, not a living one. Maybe it happened, maybe it didn’t. If the story happened, the retelling of it may have been enhanced. It is not enough to have an unwed couple placing their newborn infant on a bed of straw. We must add a drummer boy and friendly beasts, and a talking snowman, and eight reindeer, and then a ninth reindeer with a bright red nose.

Certainly, the simple story of Christ’s birth has expanded into a cast of thousands, including the North Pole workshop, the Island of Misfit Toys, and the Radio City Rockettes. The guy around the corner from me seems to have spent thousands of dollars on artificial stars, inflatable elves, and a ten-foot-tall Halloween monster who is now wearing a Santa hat. I am not sure he’s remembering his redemption, but he’s spending a lot of money. A lot of people do.

In the thick of all the commercial pressure, family expectations, and the demands of the cold weather, can we remember Bethlehem?

Some help for us comes through Zechariah and his Christmas carol. For one thing, he is not only singing of Jesus before his birth; he also sings of his newborn son John. John, who we will later know as John the Baptizer, comes to prepare the way of the Lord. That is, he prepares the way by which God will come to us.

We remember John. He has come to clear God’s highway by cleaning out the spiritual underbrush. He works by speaking, announcing as loudly as he can that our mistakes and miscues are cancelled. Our sins are forgiven. God comes to straighten out the things we have twisted out of shape. John speaks the liberating wisdom that we do not have to remain captives to our foolishness. There is nothing we can do to remove us from the presence of God. This is John’s message of preparation. His father Zechariah sang about it in the future tense. It is going to happen. God’s coming is a sure bet.

And then Zechariah sings of here and now. The coming of the Savior is God’s rescue. It is here now, as surely as it has happened. The impact of it all is to serve God, to not be afraid of God, and to live in “holiness and righteousness.” Did you all write that down? Don’t be afraid of God. Instead, live in holiness and righteousness.

Now, I can imagine the cackling in coffee hour if I wander over to your table and refer to you as God’s “holy and righteous” ones. To a one, you’d say, “We’re not worthy.” True enough. Of course we’re not worthy. But in the New Testament, “holiness and righteousness” are not human achievements. They are God’s affirmations. We are called saints because God is doing the sanctifying. We are holy because God has taken away all our excuses. We are declared righteous because Christ is our righteousness. To remember Bethlehem is to remember all of this and live as if it is true. We are loved, we are called, and we are commissioned to make a difference in the name of the One who loves us all.

This is Zechariah’s Christmas carol. Grammatically, it moves freely between the tenses. It looks back to the past, scans ahead to the future, while remaining planted in the present. The story of Christmas is sung again, in our time, in our place. Those who were dwelling in darkness discover light shining upon them.

That reminds me of a man named Brooks. Not Phillips Brooks, but David Brooks. Those who have read his columns in the New York Times in recent years may have detected a shift in his spirit. On Friday’s column, he offered a complete confession of what has been going on in his spiritual life. And it is remarkable. Brooks writes: 

When faith finally tiptoed into my life it didn’t come through information or persuasion but, at least at first, through numinous experiences. These are the scattered moments of awe and wonder that wash over most of us unexpectedly from time to time… In those moments, you have a sense that you are in the presence of something overwhelming, mysterious. Time is suspended or at least blurs. One is enveloped by an enormous bliss…

He had some moments. They did not answer his questions. Rather, they opened him up to enormous mysteries. One April morning, he was riding a subway car in New York. He says,

I looked around the car, and I had this shimmering awareness that all the people in it had souls. Each of them had some piece of themselves that had no size, color, weight, or shape but that gave them infinite value. The souls around me that day seemed not inert but yearning — some soaring, some suffering or sleeping; some were downtrodden and crying out.

These thoughts prompted him to reflect on his job as a journalist. The people he writes about have souls, a spark of the divine, while simultaneously fallen and broken. And then he thought, if people have souls, maybe there is a soul-giver. Not long after that, he was hiking in Colorado. Stopping at a mountain vista, he paused to read from a book. It was a volume of Puritan prayers, of all things. He read these words:

Let me learn by paradox that the way down is the way up,

That to be low is to be high,

That the broken heart is the healed heart,

That the contrite spirit is the rejoicing spirit,

That the repenting soul is the victorious soul.

The upside-down logic startled him. He sensed a goodness greater than anything he could have imagined, a goodness that sounds like the beatitudes of Jesus. It hit Brooks with the force of joy. “I wanted to laugh (he says), run about, hug somebody. I was too inhibited to do any of that, of course,” but he found some happy music to listen to as he smiled his way down the mountain. Something had clicked into place. It was like falling in love.

I like how he concludes:

(More than a conversion), the process felt more like an inspiration, as though someone had breathed life into those old biblical stories so that they now appeared true. Today, I feel more Jewish than ever, but as I once told some friends, I can’t unread (the Gospel of) Matthew. For me, the Beatitudes are the part of the Bible where the celestial grandeur most dazzlingly shines through. So these days I’m enchanted by both Judaism and Christianity. I assent to the whole shebang. My Jewish friends, who have been universally generous and forbearing, point out that when you believe in both the Old and New Testaments, you’ve crossed over to Team Christian, which is a fair point.[2]

Hear what he said? “It felt like someone had breathed life into those old biblical stories.” That is what Zechariah was singing about. The past becomes the future, which is now woven together in the present. In that eternal moment, we know it is all true. There and then. Here and now.

That hearkens back to the other Mister Brooks, not David Brooks but Phillips Brooks. Here is one of the stanzas we are about to sing: 

How silently, how silently, the wonderous gift is given!

So God imparts to human hearts the blessings of his heaven.

No ear can hear him coming, but in this world of sin,

Where meek souls will receive him, still the dear Christ enters in.[3]

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

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[1] Genesis 15:5

[2] David Brooks, “My Decade Long Journey to Belief,” The New York Times, 20 December 2024.

[3] Phillips Brooks, “O Little Town of Bethlehem.”

God, Magnified

Luke 1:46-55
Advent 3
December 15, 2024
William G. Carter

A third Christmas carol is placed on the lips of young Mary. She has gone to a certain town to visit her cousin Elizabeth, after learning Elizabeth is great with child, se she will be. Both pregnancies are extraordinary. Elizabeth is as old as the Old Testament. Mary is young and not quite married. You might think two pregnant women would compare notes about stretch marks and other medical details. Yet this is the Gospel of Luke. Luke says both women are full of the Holy Spirit, so we are going to hear some theology.

And Mary said,
‘My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,
for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant.
Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed;
for the Mighty One has done great things for me, and holy is his name.
His mercy is for those who fear him from generation to generation.
He has shown strength with his arm; he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts.
He has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly;
he has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty.
He has helped his servant Israel, in remembrance of his mercy,
according to the promise he made to our ancestors, to Abraham and to his descendants forever.’

Those are big words for a young girl from a small town. They are structured like an ancient hymn, so it is easy to call this a Christmas carol. Indeed, her burst of praise has been set to music in every subsequent generation of the church. For those parts of the Christian family who pay a lot of attention to Mary, it has become a celebration of her pregnancy and all that has been imputed about it, even though it doesn’t mention a baby at all. Did you notice that? 

She sings of God. She rejoices in God’s saving power. She affirms the great grace she has received as God’s lowly servant. With great certainty, she states everybody in the future will bless her. All of that is true. Yet Jesus is never mentioned. His birth is never specified. There’s even a question that Mary actually sang the song; if you look at the footnote for verse 46, it mentions that a few of the handwritten versions of the text assigned the song to Elizabeth, not to Mary.

Ultimately, the singer doesn’t matter. What matters is the song itself. It’s a really big song, enormous in fact. For what we have today is an overture to the Gospel of Luke. Or as Luke calls it, “the Good News of God.” Everything that will happen in the next twenty-three chapters of Luke’s book is foretold in this Christmas carol. And everything in this Christmas carol has already been declared in the promises of the Jewish Bible.

Now, Mary didn’t need to make up these words. She already had the words. Over on my bookshelf, there are a couple of thick books that tell us every line in her Christmas carol comes from somewhere else. If Mary were in school, she might get reprimanded for plagiarism. But she is not in school. She’s in the Psalm Making Tradition of Israel. She lifts phrases from the prayer book. She quotes the Song of Hannah, from the second chapter of First Samuel.

Like a jazz saxophonist, she is singing new variations on an old song, while keeping continuity with that song. We hear the reference points, the rhythms, the resonance with the original. Hannah did not have a child until God said a baby’s coming. She says, “My heart exults in the Lord; my strength is exulted in my God.” (Sound familiar?) She says, “God brings down and God lifts up.” (Uh huh!) She says, “God raises the poor from the dust, and God cuts off the wicked and the proud.”[1] It was true for Hannah, it will be true for Mary, it will even be true of the ministry of Jesus.

For Jesus would say, “The last shall be first and the first shall be last.”[2] Sounds like his mother. He would teach the people saying, “Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God. Woe to you who are rich, for you have received all the consolation you’re going to receive.”[3] That is in his mother’s song, too. “The hungry will be filled, those who are satiated will go hungry.” That’s the grand reversal of God’s kingdom, by which God remembers those in need, and God reminds those who think they have plenty that they also have needs. Everyone is addressed. Everyone is reminded of God.

What I notice about this Christmas carol is how Mary universalizes the particular. By other evidence in Luke’s story, we know she is poor, yet she knows God loves her, and therefore God loves the poor. As a young maiden of that time, she had no social standing, yet she celebrates that God lifts her up. She has nothing but a song; therefore, God fills her with all good things. She has done nothing to deserve God’s honor. Therefore, she is worthy of God’s honor, the very definition of God’s grace.

What I also notice about this Christmas carol is that what Mary is singing about is not visible to the multitudes. It is not obvious to the powerful, the mighty, and the rich. Yet she sings about being seen, noticed, cared for, and lifted up. For this is the small work of God, and it is magnified. Magnified. It’s how Mary begins the song, “My soul magnifies the Lord.” That’s a wonderful word: magnified.

As I age, I am finding support by having magnifying glasses all over the house. My wife, who’s a few years older than me, taught me that. The optometrist says my eyesight is still good if my glasses are on. But these days, the small print seems smaller.

Out of increasing need, I was delighted to find magnifiers available online at Temu.com. They are cheap, probably made in Chinese sweatshops, but they do the trick. I ordered a few. When they arrived, they seemed smaller than they appeared on the website. But they do make small things a lot bigger. A third grader might use one of these to get a closer look at a bug. I use them to view the four-point font of my Bible footnotes. Or the tiny liner notes on the back of a recording. A magnifier shows you what is always there but has remained too difficult to see.

And we hear Mary sing, “My soul magnifies the Lord.” It’s a curious phrase, isn’t it? What she is telling us is that what’s going on in her inner being (her soul) is making God bigger in her understand. I get that. I’ve never had a baby, and I’ve never given birth to the savior of the world. But I understand. God is frequently hard to see, so much so that many doubt that God is even there. Yet when a miracle happens – and especially a miracle like childbirth – it brings God’s power and grace into clearer view.

When you get a sense that God is lifting you up, it affirms that you have value even if you have felt unseen. When you get a view that God is knocking the arrogant down a few pegs, it confirms there is justice in the universe. When the hungry are fed, it clicks that this has been God’s intention all along. When the greedy are held accountable and given limits, we can nod in recognition that God wants everybody to have what they need and not closets stockpiled with extras.

This was one of the apocalyptic revelations of the pandemic a few years ago. Remember when a few people were stockpiling all the toilet paper for themselves? There was a lady in town who had two pallets delivered in her driveway. What was she thinking? What was she full of? Full of herself, most likely, at the expense of others. Just that little greedy click of the mouse, so she could grab what others could not. What a magnification of the smallest human impulse! It revealed a heart full of selfishness, to which God says, “No!”

You see, I know Christmas is coming. But Mary is not singing about the birth of a baby, her baby or anybody else’s. Mary sings about God. God is the subject of every one of her sentences:

God shows mercy.

God shows strength. God scatters the proud.

God brings down the powerful. God lifts up the lowly.

God fills up the hungry. God sends the rich empty.

God helps his people. God remembers those who remember him.

These are God’s values, the values of a kingdom governed by mercy, not greed. And are these values political? Well, you tell me. It pushes the question: what kind of a world do we hope for? What kind of world is worth working for? Is it God’s kind of world – or our kind of world?

Did you know, Mary’s Christmas carol is so revolutionary that it was outlawed in India before British rule ended? Or that in Guatemala, if you sang the Carol in the 1970’s and 1980’s, you could be jailed without a trial. Or that during the military dictatorship in Argentina, the mothers of those who had “disappeared” sang the Magnificat as a protest? They did so at the risk of their lives. And they did so because they believed in a God who makes things right, rather than keeps things crooked.

And this God does not work on pure air, sitting on a cloud somewhere. This God works through people with their feet on the ground, people who take on God’s holy values, people who practice truth-telling rather than lying, people who believe in openness rather than oppression, people who feed others rather than hoarding food for themselves, people who work for the benefit of their neighbors rather than manipulating people’s ignorance to work against their own best interests.

This week, I’ll bet somebody is singing Mary’s Christmas carol in Syria, where fifty years of a torturous regime has suddenly come to an end and the torturer ran off to hide in Russia. Who knows where Mary will sing it next?

The Gospel of Luke will keep reminding us that Christmas is about far more than the birth of a little boy. Christmas is about God’s intention to recreate a broken world through that little boy. He is the boy who grew up, who did good and suffered as a result, and who came back and is still working. Mary sings of nothing less than a new heaven and a new earth.

-        The new heaven is the heaven of God’s mercy, forgiving our sin and calling us to turn away from it. Heaven says God has restored our broken relationship to him through no help from us. It is a gift to be accepted. A grace to be received.

-        The new earth is obvious: it is the earth where every one of God’s creatures is treated with dignity, respect, and fairness. It is the earth where justice and righteousness are interchangeable words. It is the earth of welcome, inclusion, and embrace of all, where we are alternately knocked down or lifted up until all of us fit. 

So, listen to Mary sing. Listen to her sing of God’s great vision for us and for all. Listen to her sing of love enacted, of grace turned into graciousness, of brokenness healed, of shalom restored. Listen to her sing until you can sing along. Listen and sing. It is the song of God, magnified.

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

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[1] See 1 Samuel 2:1, 8-10.

[2] Luke 13:30.

[3] Luke 6: 20, 24.

Perplexed By Grace

Luke 1:30-37
Advent 2
December 8, 2024
William G. Carter

But she was much perplexed by his words and pondered what sort of greeting this might be. The angel said to her, ‘Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God. And now, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you will name him Jesus. He will be great, and will be called the Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give to him the throne of his ancestor David. He will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and of his kingdom there will be no end.’ Mary said to the angel, ‘How can this be, since I am a virgin?’ The angel said to her, ‘The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you; therefore the child to be born will be holy; he will be called Son of God. And now, your relative Elizabeth in her old age has also conceived a son; and this is the sixth month for her who was said to be barren. For nothing will be impossible with God.’

A few years ago, I visited the Philadelphia Museum of Art with one of my adult children. We climbed the Rocky steps, paid our admission fee, and proceeded to be overwhelmed. There’s so much to take in: paintings, sculptures, photographs, tapestries, and suits of armor.

But I was there to see one particular piece. It’s a painting by Henry Ossawa Tanner. I had first seen it on a postcard. On a previous visit, it was unavailable for viewing. This time, I made sure it was there. I pitched the case to my daughter. She said, “Sure, let’s find it.” Grabbing a map, we located the painting – in a gallery at the far end of the building. We took a brisk walk. Suddenly, there it was.

Tanner painted our Bible story. It’s called the Annunciation, a portrayal of the Angel Gabriel announcing to Mary that she would bear a son. The painting is large, about six feet wide by five feet tall. As I expected, it stopped us in our tracks.

Gabriel is portrayed as a shaft of light, burning with energy. If you didn’t know the story or the connection to it, the angel would be unrecognizable. By contrast, Mary sits on the edge of her bed. There’s no halo around her head. The young woman wears a peasant’s tunic, a little rumpled. Her head tilts to the left. For me, what makes the painting is the look on her face. Without speaking a word, she says, “What am I getting myself into?”

Now, angels announce. That’s what they do. They appear to declare what God is going to do. Last week, we heard of the angel telling the old priest Zechariah, “Your prayers are answered. Your wife will bear a son.” Today, we hear of the same angel visiting the young maiden, Mary. Gabriel says, “You are also going to bear a son – and you weren’t even praying for this.”

No wonder Henry Ossawa Tanner captures the unspoken response from the young girl, “What am I getting myself into?” The Gospel of Luke says she was perplexed. That’s the polite translation. The more accurate translation would be to say she was totally blown away.

Now, let’s give Gabriel some credit. He doesn’t roll out the news all at once. He comes with a joyful greeting, kind of like a “Good morning!” or a “Happy day!” It’s the same greeting Jesus offers to the women outside the Easter tomb,[1] kind of a mix between “Howdy” and “Hallelujah.” Gabriel says, “It’s a great day!”

Then he goes on: “You are blessed. You are filled with the beauty of God. The Lord be with you!” Rather than say, “and also with you,” she tilts her head, looks at him, and wonders, “What’s this all about? What am I getting myself into?” It’s a good question. She had a lot of good reasons to ask.

Around that time, there was a popular folk tale in Israel. It’s the story of Tobit, a legend that didn’t get into the Bible. The book of Tobit tells about a young woman who was about to be married. On the verge of her wedding night, a jealous angel appears and strikes down her bridegroom. In that popular legend, this happened seven times to seven different bridegrooms. The bride, a woman named Sarah, got tired of an angel appearing before her wedding. If Mary knew the story (and a lot of people knew it), she wouldn’t be too happy about an angel appearing.

She was promised to Joseph. In that time, the marriage would have been arranged by her father. She would live with her parents for a year after the betrothal, until the day would come when Joseph arrived to take her into his home. And here is an angel, appearing to say, “Hail Mary, full of grace!” What was this about?

We rush too quickly into these stories, reaching for their conclusions, and speeding by the certifiable confusion of this young woman. Why is the angel coming to her? What does the angel have up the holy sleeve? What does all this mean? Because angels do not normally show up, much less show up to say, “You’re full of beauty, you’re full of grace, you’re full of blessing.” Come to think of it, nobody ever shows up out of the blue to say, “You’re full of beauty, you’re full of grace, you’re full of blessing.” Not unless they want something!

My teacher Fred Craddock tells of sitting in a diner late one night. He ordered a hot dog and a Coke. While he waits, the door blusters open and an old man takes a seat at the counter. The waitress knows him. She puts down a cup of coffee in front of the man and he says, “You almost done for the night?” The waitress nods toward Fred, as if to say, “He’s my last customer.” The cook brings out the hot dog, she delivers it with the Coke.

The old man says, “Are you closing up soon?” She nods yes. He says, “How about if I walk you home.” She says, “You are not going to walk me home.” He says, “I’m happy to do it.” She said, “No, you will not. If I let you walk me home, soon I will be great with child.” At that, Fred looked up from his hot dog.

The old man said, “What do you mean?” The waitress said, “Haven’t you heard about Sarah?” Sarah who? She said, “Sarah in the Bible.” What about her? “She was old like me, and she conceived a baby.” How did that happen? And the waitress said, “She believed in the man upstairs.” He said, “Well, I could still walk you home.”

The waitress said, “You will not walk me home. Haven’t you heard about Hannah?” Hannah who? “Hannah in the Bible. She could not have a baby, but then she conceived and bore a son.” He said, “How did that happen?” Again: “She believed in the man upstairs.” The man at the counter sat quietly, then said, “I can still walk you home.” At this point, Fred said he had forgotten about his hot dog.

Then the waitress said, “You will not walk me home. I suppose you have heard about Elizabeth.” Elizabeth who? “Elizabeth in the Bible. She was old like me, but she conceived and had a baby.” He said, “How did that happen?” She said, “She believed in the man upstairs.”

He took a slug from his coffee, winked at her, then said, “Well, if I were a woman, I wouldn’t believe in a man upstairs.” Whew, the stories you hear when you step out of church.

Now, no amount of sweet talking will do. Yet it sounds like that is exactly what the angel does. Listen to what the angel sings:

You are going to have a son, Mary.
He is going to be great. He will be the greatest.
People will know him as the Son of the Most High God.
He is going to be king. His kingdom will be forever.
He will sit on his ancestor David’s throne. He will rule over Jacob’s people forever.

With this, she looks at the angel Gabriel and says, “How can this be?” She has a point. The biology does not add up. She is still living in her parent’s house. Her future husband has not come for her yet. The town of Nazareth will not look with favor upon a young woman who becomes pregnant out of wedlock, especially if she has not yet joined with her future husband. It’s not what you do in a Middle Eastern village, where cultural values are reinforced by shame.

And, as you and I know, the angel Gabriel has left a few details out of his announcement. He has not mentioned that Mary’s future son will not only do a lot of good, but he will also face a lot of trouble because of the good that he does. The angel doesn’t tell her the boy will run afoul of the religious authorities. Or that the Roman empire would execute him as a criminal. There is no mention that her son will be betrayed, arrested, abused, whipped, or crucified. That got left out of the Christmas carol; it usually does.

The reason for that is we tend to sing the conclusions, not the stories. Everything Gabriel tells her will be true. Jesus will be the greatest, the Son of the Most High God, the king who rules forever. Yet the angel sings of the end of the story, not the story itself. And we cannot blame him for this. Angels are eternal. They live with God who resides concurrently in past, present, and future, all at the same time.

So, the angel knows ahead of time how the end of the story will turn out. Mary, young Mary, bound to her time and place, can only ask, “How can this be?” It is too big to take in, too enormous to comprehend. In the grand screen of eternity, she cannot see that the whole announcement is about grace.

What is grace? It’s the news that God so loved the world that God sent Jesus into the world. Today we hear about Gabriel coming to Mary. We hear about Mary hearing the news of what’s coming to her – and to the world. Yet the story is not about Gabriel or Mary. It’s about God: God who believes we are redeemable, God who affirms we are forgivable, God who thinks all of us are worthy of love, mercy, justice, and peace.

Gabriel’s Christmas carol today is all about God who decrees the conclusion: that Jesus will be great and will rule over all, that he will rule forever. And it’s about God who is willing to work with us, through us, and in spite of us to accomplish his will by sending us Jesus, first in person, and then through his Holy Spirit.

This is the Gospel, the work of God that reveals the heart of God. And it’s so much to take in. It’s no wonder that Mary asked, “How can this be?” Or that we wonder what we’re getting ourselves into by believing all of it. But this is what I’m telling you today: it’s all Good News. Everything that God is going in Jesus is blessed good news. It’s full of grace. And so are we. Not because of who we are, but because, as Jesus tells us, “God is kind, even to the ungrateful and the wicked.”[2]

That, as they say, is something to sing about.

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

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[1] Matthew 28:9

[2] Luke 6:35

On Getting What You Ask

Luke 1:13-17
Advent 1
December 1, 2024

But the angel said to him, ‘Do not be afraid, Zechariah, for your prayer has been heard. Your wife Elizabeth will bear you a son, and you will name him John. You will have joy and gladness, and many will rejoice at his birth, for he will be great in the sight of the Lord. He must never drink wine or strong drink; even before his birth he will be filled with the Holy Spirit. He will turn many of the people of Israel to the Lord their God. With the spirit and power of Elijah he will go before him, to turn the hearts of parents to their children, and the disobedient to the wisdom of the righteous, to make ready a people prepared for the Lord.’


The first Christmas carol from the Gospel of Luke is a surprising song from an angel. On the day when the priest Zechariah offers prayers in the Jerusalem temple, the angel Gabriel appears to him. “Your prayer has been heard,” he says. “Everything you’ve asked has been granted by God.”

Now, that is an amazing gift. Who receives everything on their wish list?

I’m assuming all of us have a wish list. There are the things we want and the things other people want to give us. The conversations begin over pumpkin pie at the Thanksgiving table: “Do you have a wish list? Christmas is coming. The sales start tomorrow. No shipping charges until next Tuesday.” That’s how it sounds in a consumer household. The deals match the desires.

I was gently badgered for a list. My list is simple: three books, three CDs, and world peace. This year, I declared, please no more printed t-shirts, no more socks, no more coffee mugs. I have enough.

I’m wondering what’s on your wish list. Hopefully, it includes world peace.

And I am wondering what was on Zechariah’s wish list. If you were a priest in Jerusalem, once in your life you might be invited to light the incense and put the prayers of the nation into the air. Only once could you do this. No doubt it was heavily scripted. The priest was praying for all the Jews everywhere. It was a huge prayer – a prayer for the mercy of God, a prayer for loving kindness, a prayer for the working out of God’s holy righteousness. That was Zechariah’s job: pray that really big prayer.

The angel said, “Zechariah, your prayer has been answered. Your wife Elizabeth will have a baby. You will call him John.” Ahh, there are the prayers we say, and the prayers we are supposed to say – and then there is the desire of our heart. It is the gift we really want, the gift that gives us life, hope, and a future. It does not always get spoken out loud, but it’s there. Of course it’s there.

Zechariah and Elizabeth were getting up in years. They were really old, maybe fifty or fifty-five. Long past the expiration date. As such, they remind us of Abraham and Sarah, father and mother of the Jewish family, childless until they, too, were visited by an angel. Luke wants us to remember it’s never too late for the promises of God, especially an eternal God. God can make anything happen, which the old priest should have known.

(He shouldn’t have asked, “How can this be?” But I’m getting ahead of myself. More on that in three weeks.)

I want to focus on the gift, in this case, the gift of a child. Unexpected, unanticipated, unimaginable, yet real. When an angel says, “You’re having a baby,” there are not a lot of options open to you. The veterans of childbearing will smile slyly and say, “Your life is going to change.” They never fill in the details. They just smile.

And this particular baby – what a child of God he is going to be! Gabriel promises, “He will be great before the Lord.” Not average, but great. He will also be alcohol-free; that may sound curious, but it suggests he will be raised with the discipline of the Nazarite vows. It was an invitation reaching back to the sixth chapter of the book of Numbers, to live a pure and uncontaminated life as a way of honoring God. It also meant never cutting your hair which explains the appearance of the child who will be John the Baptist.

Furthermore, Gabriel says John will be full of Holy Spirit. That’s the prophetic presence of God, the ability to be a truth teller in a world of self-deception. And if that’s not enough, this child will be just like the prophet Elijah. That, too, is coded language; on the last page of our Old Testament, the prophet Malachi predicted one like Elijah would come. Zechariah and his people had been waiting for over four hundred years for that promise to be fulfilled.

Gabriel promises Zechariah he will get the child he has always wanted. Yet he, his wife Elizabeth, and all the people are going to get a whole lot more. We are talking now about something greater than t-shirts, socks, coffee mugs, books, and CDs under the Christmas tree. Something on the order of world peace, or at least the prospect of it.

Have you given any thought to this? Maybe the world needs something more than consumer spending for the holy days? In our house, we heard whispers of it when the cranberry sauce was still on the table. One of the young adults confessed that Black Friday has lost a lot of its luster. This is one who spent Thanksgiving Night in a parking lot to score some deals at dawn at one of the Big Box stores in Dickson City. All that seems crazy to her now (thank God!). She sees there are bigger matters to consider, which takes us back to the story of Zechariah.

The angel says, “You will have a son named John. He will be great, holy, full of God, just like Elijah, the greatest prophet we can remember.” And his primary work will be to “turn” – to turn the children of Israel back to their God, to turn the hearts of fathers back to their children, to turn those who are disobedient to the wisdom of righteousness. To summarize quickly, his life’s work will be to turn people from themselves toward God and God’s gifts. And he will do his work through his words.

If you know the story, Zechariah will ask, “How can this be?” I think he’s not just talking about the miracle birth to old-timers, but the nature of the work that their miracle child will undertake.

For instance, “He will turn the hearts of fathers to their children.” Is that a promise that parents will start showing affection? Perhaps. That would be a good thing. But it’s more. It reveals a concern for children and their well-being, a constructive continuity between “now” and “then.” Some parents regret the kind of world they are bequeathing to their children; John the Baptist will say, “Do something about it.” Give up your selfishness. Take responsibility for future generations. Open your heart to who comes after you.

By the way, that line “turn the hearts of fathers to their children”? It is the last sentence of our Jewish scripture, the very last words spoken by the prophet Malachi (4:6). God’s concern for our children’s future has been lingering for a good long while.

And the angel said John would “turn the disobedient toward the wisdom of the righteous.” That is a Jewish ism. It’s also a phrase that was tidied up when translated into English. The spiritual problem is more disobedience; it’s a willful disobedience with a large dose of foolishness and measure of hard-headedness. That is who some of us are, or at least who I am.

When I was a kid, I told my father about a mechanical problem with my car. Fortunately, his heart was already turned toward me. He told me how to address the problem, and then I thought I could improve on his suggestion. It did not work. I didn’t tell him right away. He noticed the problem and said, “Well, you can do it your way, or you can do it the right way.” Best diagnosis of my spiritual condition that I have ever received!

That’s what John the Baptist was born to point out: you can do it your way, or you can do it the right way. God’s way.

And everything John said and did was in service for his life’s purpose: “to turn the children of Israel back to the Lord.” They were already God’s children, loved, claimed, instructed – but they believed they could live their terms, not God’s terms. It never works that way. So, we hear the invitation to turn, to re-turn, to return again and again. This is the essence of repentance, the essence of the spiritual life, to turn and to re-turn. In the confession of a favorite hymn, “Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it. Prone to leave the God I love; here’s my heart, O take and seal it, seal it for thy courts above.”

The invitation is always there. To come back. To come home. To return. This continuous call of the Gospel is not to those who have never heard of the love and grace of God, but to those who have. Life is hard. Trust erodes. Faith can fade. It is easy to be disappointed, discouraged, disillusioned, disenfranchised, and disengaged. Yet the angel can appear at any time. The prophet’s voice can be heard. A priest’s religious duties can be interrupted by the Living God who is at the center of it all.

That’s the promise of this Advent season. As the northern hemisphere grows dark, the angels of God announce the lights are on. The silence of sadness is interrupted by music we did not create. If we are the slightest bit attentive, something can spark in our spirits. Hope is reignited. Visions return. Songs are lifted. And a Holy Voice whispers, “There is a place for you here.”


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

Looking Behind the Curtain

Daniel 7:9-14

Christ the King

November 24, 2024

 

⁹As I watched, thrones were set in place, and an Ancient One took his throne, his clothing was white as snow, and the hair of his head like pure wool; his throne was fiery flames, and its wheels were burning fire. ¹⁰A stream of fire issued and flowed out from his presence. A thousand thousands served him, and ten thousand times ten thousand stood attending him. The court sat in judgment, and the books were opened. ¹¹I watched then because of the noise of the arrogant words that the horn was speaking. And as I watched, the beast was put to death, and its body destroyed and given over to be burned with fire. ¹²As for the rest of the beasts, their dominion was taken away, but their lives were prolonged for a season and a time. ¹³As I watched in the night visions, I saw one like a human being coming with the clouds of heaven. And he came to the Ancient One and was presented before him. ¹⁴To him was given dominion and glory and kingship, that all peoples, nations, and languages should serve him. His dominion is an everlasting dominion that shall not pass away, and his kingship is one that shall never be destroyed.

 

Before I became a pastor, I had a career in musical theater. Yes, that’s true. You probably didn’t know that because I performed in only one musical. It was a high school production. It ran for two nights, Friday and Saturday. And it was a thrill to be on stage for Meredith Willson’s Tony-award-winning show, “The Music Man.”   

I didn’t sing “Seventy-Six Trombones” or “Marian the Librarian,” but I did have a shining moment. It was in my role as, “Crowd Member #12.” For that offered me a feature as “Fourth Man on the Train.” In a Pullman car full of traveling salesmen, a piece called “Rock Island” starts moving with the train. On cue from the director, I lowered a newspaper to say, “Look, what do ya talk…?” I got to do it three times.

Now, my acting was forgettable. So was most of the play. What I’ll never forget was the production. Not the production on stage but the production that happened backstage. It was dazzling. The acting was so-so; we were high school kids. But the stage crew audience was meticulous. They were well-rehearsed. The lights went up and down at just the right time. The sound effects were spot on. The cardboard backdrops changed flawlessly. Nobody in front of the curtain saw it, but I did. It was a revelation. Literally, a revelation!

No wonder the Bible uses similar language. It’s there in that word “apocalypse.” Ever heard that word? It’s usually reserved for horrible movies about wars, natural disasters, and end-of-the world crises. Yet the term “apocalypse” comes from the world of theater. It’s when you get to see what’s behind the curtain. The true operations are disclosed – and for the moment, everybody can see what’s going on behind the scenes. The Bible word for this is “apocalypse” – a revelation.

What we have from scripture today is a moment like that. There aren’t many such moments in the Bible. Of course, there’s the Book of Revelation (the Greek title is “The Apocalypse of John”). It’s like a science fiction script. And then there’s this section from the book of Daniel. It’s a rare moment in the Hebrew Bible.

Up until now, Daniel has offered stories about the Babylonian Exile. That was the critical breakdown in Jewish history, and it prompted a lot of composition of the Old Testament. In 587 BC, a foreign empire swooped down in Israel and Judah like locusts. The Babylonians destroyed the Jerusalem Temple. The brightest and the best were stolen as slaves. It was a crisis unlike anything the Jews had experienced.

Warnings had come for years but went unheeded. When the invaders came. Society collapsed. The people had to figure out how to be Jews when they had no temple, no homeland, and the wind was blowing against them. How would they live a faithful life?

That’s what the first six chapters of the book of Daniel are about. We hear heroic stories of how the Jewish heroes remained Jewish. Stolen away to a foreign land, they still ate the kosher foods. Surrounded by counterfeit gods of a foreign empire, they prayed to the God who they believed is greater, they spoke up, acted up, and stayed faithful – even when they were cast into a fiery furnace. Even when they found themselves locked in a lions’ den.

Here in chapter seven, the book makes a dramatic shift. According to the storyteller, Daniel lies down on his bed one night. While he’s lying there, he has an overwhelming dream. He dreams with his eyes wide open. Call it a nightmare, call it a vision. The Bible would call it an apocalypse. Daniel sees a revelation of the truth. He is allowed to see what is normally hidden behind the curtain. Some of it isn’t pretty.

A dozen years ago or so, an investigative reporter named Matt Birkbeck wrote a book about organized crime in northeastern Pennsylvania. He named names. A lot of people recognized the names. Mr. Birkbeck moved and didn’t tell anybody where he was living.

As somebody who didn’t grow up around here, I found some of his stories shocking. Like the Roman Catholic priest who carried a handgun and always had a lot of cache; I presided at a funeral with that guy, had no idea. Or the quiet man who lived on a quiet street in Kingston. Who knew he was a crime boss? Or the nice gentleman that I once met at a wedding? It turns out he has, shall we say, a lot of influence? Birkbeck’s book opened the curtain – and it was ugly.

In fact, Mr. Birkbeck was invited by the Lackawanna library to talk about his book in Scranton. Suddenly, it was announced the event was cancelled, and he had been paid his fee by an undisclosed person and told to not show up. Hmm. Are things going on that everybody knows, and nobody talks about?

An apocalypse is an unveiling. It is truth-telling. It is calling out what many people know but nobody wants to talk about. It is revealing what’s behind the curtain. An apocalypse is a reality check.

I just finished reading an amazing book by Tim Alberta. It’s called, The Kingdom, the Power, and the Glory. With chapter and verse and extensive research, Alberta reveals how a lot of evangelical church leaders have sold their souls to gain political power. It is a sad book, in many ways. There is one story after another about television evangelists who have no scruples. The characters in that book will do just about anything to make more money, spread their influence, and tell the congress and the White House what to do.

By the last chapter, it is the same old sad story of human corruption. You can gain the world and lose your soul. Some of these folks could have learned a good lesson from Tony Campolo, the Baptist preacher who died this week. One time, Tony told somebody, “Putting religion and politics together is like mixing ice cream with horse manure. It doesn’t hurt the manure, but it ruins the ice cream.”[1]        

What does Daniel see? What is his dream, his apocalypse? Two things, really. First, he sees the powers of the world, represented in four vicious beasts. They rise out of the chaos of the sea. There is a lion, a bear, a leopard, an unnamed monster with a lot of teeth. Through the years, scholars have perceived allusions to the empires of Babylon, Persia, and Greece, and Rome – but the specifics do not matter. What does matter is naming the evil they represent: the arrogance, the inflictions, the chaos they create, and the wreckage. One empire after another, one figurehead after another – the names change, the evil continues. It is a revelation of the broken world where we live. Daniel is given the sight or the insight to see what’s truly happening in the world. That’s the first thing he sees.

Yet then there’s a second part of the vision. He sees a throne, The Throne, and an Ancient One who takes his rightful place upon it. His presence is full of fire. And he takes a book, opens it, finds the name of the first vicious beast, and judges it. Then the same with the next three beasts. They are judged, too. Then Daniel says something we had not known: “Their dominion was taken away, although their lives continued for a season and a time.” Evil has no ultimate power, in other words, even if it sputters on.

With that, the vision gets broader, larger, brighter, bigger. Daniel sees somebody coming, one “like the Son of Man,” he says, a human being – but presented to the Ancient One as the only one worthy of true dominion, glory, and authority.

As Christians, we are quick to jump on that scene to say it’s Jesus, the exalted Christ – although Daniel does not name him, not yet. The day will come. When it does, every eye shall see him. Every voice shall praise him. Every living being shall declare he is the Only One worthy of worship and praise. It is the sort of thing we can only sing about – and in a minute we will sing the song.

Before we do, let me simply make the connection that, when the curtain is pulled back, we see the world in all its corruption for what it is. We see the One who rules over it with holy love, and the One who is worthy of all praise. And we see that the battle between good and evil will finally be won by goodness. Arrogance will not be defeated by further arrogance. Rather, God judges the world through by perfect goodness. This is the true meaning of judgment: God will win over the world by truth, glory, and goodness. Everything less than that will be taken away. One “like the Son of Man” will rule – forever and ever.

Like I said, this is truth so deep that we cannot fully describe it. But we can sing it. And let the song ring out forever.

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

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[1] Quoted in https://religionnews.com/2024/11/19/tony-campolo-sociologist-and-famed-red-letter-christian-has-died/

Preaching After the Temple Falls Down

Mark 13:1-10
November 17, 2024

William G. Carter  

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, we can regard his prediction a few different ways. One way is to assume Jesus was a fortune-teller and knew what would happen. A slightly different slant is that he could perceive the inevitable clash between Rome and Jerusalem, which Rome would win. Or third, perhaps Mark wrote down the words of Jesus after they were fulfilled. This makes great sense to me. When something important happens, something traumatic, we sift through our memories to make sense of the crisis. Harsh as it is, truth bubbles up.  

“This temple is coming down…” That’s what he said. His prediction suggests there would be no central Temple for those who followed Jesus, no singular location to gather and pray. The faithful people of God would have to spread out, differentiate, find multiple places to worship. And so it has unfolded. But remember, as Jesus remembers, the Temple had been destroyed six hundred years before. The truth is that every Temple is temporary.

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

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

Then he said, “For nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom; there will be earthquakes in various places; there will be famines.” These are inevitable, he says. We are a warlike species who can’t quite figure out how to live in peace with one another. And we do this on an unstable planet. There are San Andreas fault lines, erupting volcanoes, and enlarging deserts. Terrible things happen in our world. Nobody will be surprised by that.

The worst of what happens is what people do to one another. For Jesus said, “They will betray you and beat you up,” and that shouldn’t surprise us at all. It happened to Jesus – in the very next chapter of Mark’s account, someone betrayed him. In the chapter after that, somebody beat him up. If we follow Christ, the road goes all the way to the cross.

Just one more reminder that life is hard. It is hard for everybody – please remember that. Nobody is exempt from pain, difficulty, distress. Especially if they are following Jesus. Especially if their faithfulness is what sets off the powers of destruction.

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

Like the congregation I knew that had been through so much. They lost their building in a fire, but they pulled together and rebuilt. But finances were tough, and they couldn’t afford a minister anymore. They tried fundraisers, but raffle tickets didn’t do the job.

Kind-hearted friends pointed out how the old neighborhood had changed. It was no longer a tight-knit community of Welsh families. The new neighbors were speaking Spanish. Further down the block, they spoke Vietnamese.

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

And then, there was the tragedy of opening the closets of a church that had imploded: a broken mimeograph machine no one had ever fixed, a stack of worship bulletins from 1978 that no one had ever thrown out, a rack full of choir robes spotted with mildew. I couldn’t help but fear those dear people had gotten so stuck that they forgot what Christ has called them to do.

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

That’s what we do because it doesn’t depend on our circumstances. Our proclamation rests solely on the grace of God. That’s why we speak and act. That’s why we are here.

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

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

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

Some of my volunteer work is to help out other churches, especially those who don’t have the resources that we currently enjoy. As I make my way around the region, I have heard a lot of belly aching. “The church isn't what it used to be. Our congregations are fading away. We don't have any hope. We don't know how much longer we can go on.”

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

Jesus came preaching the kingdom of God. This is the announcement that God rules over everything. The Good News reveals at least two truths.

• First, none of us are going to get everything what we want. Why? Because we are not in charge; the planets don’t revolve around any of us.
• Second, because God rules over everything, God's ways will ultimately become the world’s ways, and God willing, they will become our ways, too. This may take a while. We can expect a struggle. But resistance is futile. God will win.

What we hear today is a hopeful word. God is greater than the temple that worships him. God is greater than the people who worship him. God rules over all things, not just the small, undersized heart, not only the puny despots who tear down physical temples, but all things. God rules over all. It is a theme as old as the book of Psalms. That’s what we proclaim. 

So, we have nothing to fear. And that’s good news. Let’s tell other people about it.

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