A Severe Mercy

John 15:1-8
Easter 5
April 28, 2024
William G. Carter

“I am the true vine, and my Father is the vinegrower. He removes every branch in me that bears no fruit. Every branch that bears fruit he prunes to make it bear more fruit. You have already been cleansed by the word that I have spoken to you. Abide in me as I abide in you. Just as the branch cannot bear fruit by itself unless it abides in the vine, neither can you unless you abide in me. I am the vine, you are the branches. Those who abide in me and I in them bear much fruit, because apart from me you can do nothing. Whoever does not abide in me is thrown away like a branch and withers; such branches are gathered, thrown into the fire, and burned. If you abide in me, and my words abide in you, ask for whatever you wish, and it will be done for you. My Father is glorified by this, that you bear much fruit and become my disciples.”


I love this passage. It comes up with regularity at the communion table. As Jesus prepares to depart his disciples, he speaks in a figure of speech: “I am the Vine, you all are the branches.”

This is how he speaks of our relationship with him. It is Christ who sustains us and gives us life, and I take that to mean “the Risen Christ.” This is a text that only makes sense after Easter, as Jesus is raised and available to all. He is our Life, the Life of God given for us. When we eat the bread and drink the cup, we receive Christ through our own imperfect faith. The life that goes out through the Vine is extended to all the branches.

And this is how he speaks of our relationship with one another. The branches are connected through the Vine. The same mercy Christ showed in the flesh when he was among us is the mercy we show to one another. We refuse to take advantage of those to whom we are connected. We will not insult, abuse, or refuse to forgive, for we are connected through Christ, who holds us in the love of God. This love is patient and kind, never insisting on its own way. Such love bears all things, hopes all things, and endures all things. It never ends.

Mmm… it would be enough to simply pause and take all this in. Feels good, doesn’t it? Just breathe in the warm glow of God’s Spirit and know that we are loved.

The only problem is that’s only the first half of the passage. The second half is troubling. God loves the Vineyard,[1] but some branches wither and die. Some branches are gathered as kindling for the fireplace. Some branches have borne no fruit. They are no good to anybody.

Jesus is the Real Vine, but his Father is the Vine Dresser. And do you know what the Vine Dresser does? He goes after the Vine with a big, hooked knife.

Picture a gardener trimming a rose bush at this time of year. She snips the bush and trims all the dead stalks. She cut it down to almost nothing. Lean forward and you might hear the rose bush cry out, “Ouch! That hurts!” Of course it does. It always hurts when something alive is trimmed back. Jesus invites us to think of God as the One doing the trimming. Can you picture that?

Picture the little church by the crossroads. The country cemetery out back has many more occupants than the pews. Once the building was filled with the sound of activity. They never had a lot of people, but there was a season when they flourished: Bible study, hymn singing, community meals for the neighborhood. Then the community changed. People moved off the dairy farms that circled the little church. The new highway directed newcomers in another direction. The day came when the few remaining leaders said, “We can’t do this anymore.”

They decided to have one last reunion, deciding to invite everybody back one last time, plan for a final worship service, and then they would call a realtor. A small crowd sang, “O God, Our Help in Ages Past, Our Hope for Years to Come.”

The guest preacher gave the final benediction and said, “Let’s have one last potluck meal.” They shuffled out, but one woman wouldn’t budge. She didn’t want to leave. Closing that church felt just like dying. Ouch! The knife hurts. My question: was that the knife of God?

I know there are some people who believe that faith is supposed to make you successful, that every year will bring an increase, that we will continue endlessly to reach further and stretch taller. In rational moments, we know that isn’t true. A text like this offers a corrective. “My Father is the Vine Dresser,” says Jesus. You know what that means? He cuts away every branch that bears no fruit. And he cuts every branch that does bear fruit, to prune it, to make it bear more fruit. The branches that bear fruit, the branches that bear no fruit – both experience the knife of God.

When Jesus says this, he is playing with the verbs. In Greek, the word for "cutting" has the same root as the word for "pruning." They sound the same. "Every branch that bears no fruit, airei (he cuts away). Every branch that does bear fruit, athairei (he prunes)." Airei, he cuts. Athairei, he prunes. They sound the same. They look the same. And, the truth is, cutting or pruning, the experience feels the same.

It is hard to enjoy this text. It speaks of a hard truth, which is why we avoid it. We really don’t want anybody to cut us or trim us. We certainly don’t want to be hemmed in, much less criticized. There is the illusion that maybe we ought to let things slide, leave things alone, let everything work it out over time, when it really needs a necessary pruning.

I served on a community task force one time, not here, somewhere else. None of our groups are like this. We had a man who couldn’t keep quiet. Always the expert on everything. Always the critic to point out what everybody else was doing beneath his standard. The chair of the group never did anything about it and figured it would work itself out. Well, it did. People got tired of the loudmouth blathering on and stopped trying to speak. Others refused to volunteer, saying, “Why bother?” One by one, everybody drifted away. Finally, only the loudmouth was left, so he went home.

Talk about fruitless – have you ever been involved in something that just doesn’t bear any fruit?

When John Calvin comments on this verse, he says the crop needs “incessant culture.” That is, it needs continuing care from the Vine Dresser. God expresses love by staying involved with the crop, trimming here, cutting there, all to make the Vine abound in fruit. The picture of God here is not an absentee landowner, but an attentive farmer, constantly involved, regularly paying attention, knowing right where to cut and when. Calvin says we need this; otherwise “our flesh abounds in superfluities and destructive vices.” So, we need to be pruned, which is what the living God will do, provided we are still alive and connected to Christ.

There are people who understand this. Some of them gather here every morning of the week. They unlock the door and let themselves in, and they talk about how alcohol has been ruining their lives. Under the influence, they had smashed cars, demolished relationships, lost their jobs, even got arrested. Every one of them comes here because they got in trouble with alcohol.

Here is what one of them said to me: “God had to slap me awake. I had lost everything – my wife, my kids, my house – and then I came here and realized God still had a hold of me. I had everything taken away, but God still had me.” He said, “Man, it hurt to realize the truth, but that’s when life began to turn around. It was God’s doing.”

Jesus is telling us we cannot grow if we don’t allow God to trim away. We cannot live abundantly unless we are regularly pruned. As the gardener did surgery on the rose bush, she pointed to all the new shoots of life down below. “If I don’t cut the winter burn away, the new blooms won’t have a chance.” There is a lot of human wisdom in horticulture.

“I am the Vine, you are the branches, and my Father is the Vine dresser.” It is a promise to all who are connected to Jesus Christ. Life comes with a good bit of trimming. Growth comes when we let God trim away the old stuff, the futile stuff, the extraneous stuff.

So, what needs to go? Sometimes, it is a closely held belief, or a proposition we have trusted, or a practice we have clung to. I think of the other text that our women’s group was studying last week. It’s the account of the apostle Philip out on the Christian frontier. He meets a eunuch from Ethiopia, reading out of the prophet Isaiah, and wondering how it applies to him. He is an Ethiopian, so he doesn’t look like Philip. He is a eunuch, a sexual minority, so the book of Deuteronomy (23:1) doesn’t want him around. And he is a Gentile – three strikes!

… except that God is working in his life, and he wishes to be baptized. If God has said “yes,” who is Philip to say no? So, Philip baptizes him as a Christ follower, and then he must go back and explain to the Jerusalem church why he has done a pastoral act for a person that, up until now, the Old Testament excluded. Do you think that was easy? Philip must let go of a long-held belief because the Spirit of God said, “Go talk to that man.”

Sometimes what needs to be trimmed away are the dreams we carry around in our imagination. If I take the promotion, I can make more money, I can move up the ladder, I can better myself. Perhaps, but if you take the promotion, it might destroy your family life. What will you do? Could it be that our vain dreams must be pruned for something else to grow?

Or what else? Is it the persistent grudge that we hold against the person we once loved? Or is it a form of pride that has overgrown the garden and chokes out the good crop? Or it is something even more sinister, like the long-established patterns of hatred or indifference?

What is it that needs to be pruned? For those who abide in Christ, it will anything that keeps us from growing in Christ. That’s the promise of the Gospel in this text. God will come to those who are committed, to those who are connected to Christ, and God will keep working to make them more like Jesus.

What might God want to do in you? Consider this to be Christ’s invitation for you to grow and flourish. Maybe it’s time to undergo that change that you haven’t had the courage to make. Maybe it is time to commit to whatever you have been postponing. Maybe it is time to ask God to trim away the persistent sin or the self-destructive impulse. Maybe it is time to stop hating and start giving. Maybe it’s time to ask the Lord to crucify your pride and to welcome God’s cleansing, renewing love. I certainly have my issues. Maybe you have yours.

The one thing I know is that if we stay connected Jesus, we will be changed, and it will be for a greater good than mere self-improvement. It will be for the glory of God that we flourish and bear fruit. And we will have to let go of all the vain things that charm us most, if only because they simply aren’t very fruitful in God’s vineyard.

It reminds me of how someone once commented on another of the teachings of Jesus. I love this line. Someone said, “It is possible for the camel to go through the eye of the needle. All things are possible with God. The camel can go through the eye of the needle. But it’s extremely hard on the camel.”[2]

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

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[1] Undoubtedly Jesus remembers the “Song of the Vineyard” in Isaiah 5. And he speaks frequently of “vineyards,” especially in the Gospel of Matthew.

[2] Attributed to C.S. Lewis, but he probably didn’t say it.

Laying It Down for One Another

1 John 3:18-24
Easter 4
April 21, 2024

William G. Carter

We know love by this, that he laid down his life for us—and we ought to lay down our lives for one another. How does God’s love abide in anyone who has the world’s goods and sees a brother or sister in need and yet refuses help? Little children, let us love, not in word or speech, but in truth and action. And by this we will know that we are from the truth and will reassure our hearts before him whenever our hearts condemn us; for God is greater than our hearts, and he knows everything. Beloved, if our hearts do not condemn us, we have boldness before God; and we receive from him whatever we ask, because we obey his commandments and do what pleases him.

 

And this is his commandment, that we should believe in the name of his Son Jesus Christ and love one another, just as he has commanded us. All who obey his commandments abide in him, and he abides in them. And by this we know that he abides in us, by the Spirit that he has given us.

Today is “Good Shepherd Sunday.” That’s the nickname for the Sunday four weeks after Easter. The church leans in to consider the care and guidance of the Lord. Scripture lessons are selected because they resonate with the theme. 

You could have guessed the Psalm: “The Lord is my shepherd.” That ancient poem is engraved on a lot of our hearts. Even though few of us have ever kept sheep or encountered a sheep herder, we can understand what a shepherd does. He provides safety for the flock. He leads the sheep to abundant pastures where they will find plenty to eat. If the animals steer off course or nimble themselves out of bounds, he takes the shepherd’s staff and gives them a tap on the hindquarters to keep them from going further astray.

It’s a glimpse of the kind of God we have discovered. God provided. God guides. God knows where the green pastures and still waters are. God steers us where we most need to go. The shepherd embodies goodness and mercy.

Not only that, but God also stays with us, no matter what happens. The presence of goodness accompanies us even if the path is steep and the way is hard. In his little book on the 23^rd Psalm, Rabbi Harold Kushner reminded us:

To say, ‘the Lord is my shepherd’ is to say that we live in an unpredictable, often terrifying world, ever mindful of all the bad things that might happen to us and to those around us. …But despite it all, we can get up every morning to face the world because we know there is Someone in that world who cares about us and tries to keep us safe. To philosophers and theologians, God may be the First Cause, the Unmoved Mover. But to people like us, what is most important about God is that He is the Presence that makes the world seem less frightening.

As Kushner says, “The primary message of the Twenty-third Psalm is not that bad things will never happen to us. It is that we do not have to face bad things alone, ‘for Thou art with me.”[1]

Jesus knew these words, of course. He knew the psalms, prayed the psalms, recited the psalms. So much so that they shaped his perception of his own identity. For Good Shepherd Sunday, we overhear his words as recorded in the tenth chapter of John: “I am the Good Shepherd. I know my own and they know me.” There is a connection between Jesus and his flock. They recognize his voice. He calls them by name.

And he cares about them – actively, aggressively, faithfully. “I’m not a hired hand,” he says. “I don’t quit my job and run away at the first sign of trouble. If a wolf approaches, snarling, licking his chops in hunger, the hired hand disappears, saving his own skin. But not the Good Shepherd. He stands his ground on behalf of the sheep.

It’s like that moment in C.S. Lewis’ little book, The Screwtape Letters. In those imaginary letters, a senior devil gives advice to a junior devil on the subtleties and best practices for tempting people. The goal, he counsels, is not wickedness but indifference. The point is not to convince them to do evil, but to convince them to do nothing at all. Keep the prospect comfortable. Don’t let him think about anything of importance. Encourage him to make plans for lunch.

Then comes the definitive job description: “I, the devil, will always see to it that there are bad people. Your job, my dear Wormwood, is to provide me with the people who do not care.”[2] Jesus says there are plenty of those. Their care is only a day job, a part-time gig. They are in it only for the money. But the Good Shepherd? His duty defines who he is. His compassion compels him to care.

Speaking of himself, Jesus says, “The Good Shepherd lays down his life for the sheep.” He must have meant it, because he says it five times in that brief passage we heard from the Gospel of John. This “laying down” is intentional. It’s his choice. It’s his purpose. Jesus reveals something essential about God. God comes to us with self-giving love, never playing it safe, never holding back, always more concerned about the flock than his own personal safety.

Some years ago, one of my friends told me about the memoir of Ivan Doig, called, “This House of Sky: Landscapes of a Western Mind.” Doig grew up on a sheep farm on the Montana plains, the only child of a widowed ranch foreman. He recalled a time when an unreasonably cold July rainstorm threatened to wipe out his father’s entire flock of newly shorn sheep. In frantic desperation, Ivan, his father, his grandmother, and the sheep dogs did everything they could to round up the terrified animals and head them toward a ravine.

“In a cold driving rain” (he writes), “hundreds of trapped ewes would destroy themselves” and trample their own lambs. Even worse, the prairie wind could blast open the gate and release the huge flock into unprotected territory. Doig writes:

 

What we faced, if we could not bring the band under control, was a rapid, steady push toward the steady devastation of our sheep – they were aimed like an avalanche to the cliffs. One way alone offered any chance: try to funnel them along the bottom of the single big coulee. To do so we would have to fight the sheep sideways along the punishing storm. And so, we fought, running, raging, hurling the dogs and ourselves at the waves of sheep, flogging with the gunny sacks, shaking the wire rings of cans. We were like skirmishers against a running army.[3]

Nothing sweet or docile about those shepherds! They did everything possible to stop the stampede and corral them to safety. It was only after the incident that Ivan realized he could have lost his life while saving the animals.

“I lay down my life,” says Jesus the Good Shepherd. “Nobody makes me do it. Nobody pays me to do it. I lay it down for others because that’s who I am.”

Just a few chapters later, Simon Peter bursts with bravado, “Lord, I will lay down my life for you!” Jesus turns to look at him. “Really, Peter? Are you going to lay your life for me? Truly I tell you, you’re going to chicken out and run away before the rooster crows.”[4] And that’s exactly what happened. Not Peter’s best moment, nor ours. Yet it distinguishes who Jesus is and what he has done, for Peter and for the rest of us.

“For this reason, the Father loves me,” says Jesus, “because I lay down my life in order to take it up again. No one takes it from me, but I lay it down of my own accord. I have power to lay it down, and I have power to take it up again. I have received this command from my Father.”[5]

Now, these are the days after Easter. He’s talking about his death and resurrection. Laying it down, taking it up again. As the Gospel of John remembers these words, maybe as long as sixty years after Jesus said them, he recognizes that this has been the shape of Christ’s entire ministry.

He set aside his rightful glory with the Father to come down here.

He emptied himself into acts of service, healing the sick, welcoming the outcast.

He told the truth about the grace of God, even if people couldn’t comprehend it.

He knelt on the last evening of his life and washed the dirty feet of his friends.

Then he went out, carrying his own cross, giving his life to take away the sins of the world.

Then he took up his life again and breathed his Spirit upon us.

One act after another, he laid down his life. For us, for Simon Peter, for Pontius Pilate, for all.

Then he said, “There is no greater love than to lay down one’s life for one’s friends. You are my friends if you love one another.” With this, his self-giving life is turned into Gospel ethics. For in the third text for today, a preacher from the early church tells it to us straight:

 

We know love by this, that he laid down his life for us—and we ought to lay down our lives for one another. How does God’s love abide in anyone who has the world’s goods and sees a brother or sister in need and yet refuses help? Little children, let us love, not in word or speech, but in truth and action. 

We continue the good news of Easter by doing what Jesus has done. We give ourselves to the needs of the world, beginning with the needs of the neighborhood. We refuse to sit on our hands when children are hungry. We don’t walk away when others have no place safe to sleep. We puncture the all-too-present temptation to indifference. We leave behind our own comfort when others have needs.

And I have to say, this has been our growing edge. A church like this, with such talented people, in the middle of a community of education and affluence, it would be very easy for us to sit in a circle and smile at one another. Yet there’s a constant nudge – call it an Easter nudge – to open our hands to others, all in the name of Jesus, whose hands were opened – and wounded – on account of us. We lay down our lives for one another. Let that be the motto for these days after Easter, because all our days are lived after Easter.

So, what are we going to do? Stitch quilts for the homeless. Collect groceries for the hungry. Sit with the sick. Make banquets for the bereaved. Deliver supper to those home from surgery. Phone those who are left out and overlooked. Muck out the houses of those who were flooded. Prepare turkey sandwiches for anybody who need one. Raise a lot of money for a teen homeless shelter, perhaps befriend the kids and affirm their value. It’s called laying down our lives, laying down our lives in the name of Jesus. That’s our mission.

In fact, let me tell you a story. I stopped in a little place to buy a sandwich. I was wearing a coat and tie, and most men don’t do that. The guy behind the counter looked me over, then said, “What do you do?” I’m a pastor. 

“Where’s your church?” Up on the hill. 

“Oh, is that a church?” Yes. 

“What’s it called?” It’s the Presbyterian church. 

He paused, looked at me, and said, “Oh, that’s the church that does stuff for other people.” Not bad.

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

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[1] Harold S. Kushner, The Lord is My Shepherd, Healing Wisdom of the Twenty-Third Psalm (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2003) 15.

[2] As reported by Rev. Roger Howard, in a paper presented to the Homiletical Feast for May 14, 2000.

[3] Ivan Doig, This House of Sky: Landscapes of a Western Mind (New York: Harcourt, Brace, Jovanovich, 1978) 217ff.

[4] John 13:37-38.

[5] John 10:17-18.

Any Donkey Can Preach

Numbers 22:22-31
Holy Humor Sunday
April 7, 2024

William G. Carter  

God’s anger was kindled because (Balaam) was going, and the angel of the Lord took his stand in the road as his adversary. Now he was riding on the donkey, and his two servants were with him. The donkey saw the angel of the Lord standing in the road, with a drawn sword in his hand; so, the donkey turned off the road, and went into the field; and Balaam struck the donkey, to turn it back onto the road. 

 

Then the angel of the Lord stood in a narrow path between the vineyards, with a wall on either side. When the donkey saw the angel of the Lord, it scraped against the wall, and scraped Balaam’s foot against the wall; so he struck it again. Then the angel of the Lord went ahead, and stood in a narrow place, where there was no way to turn either to the right or to the left. When the donkey saw the angel of the Lord, it lay down under Balaam; and Balaam’s anger was kindled, and he struck the donkey with his staff. 

 

Then the Lord opened the mouth of the donkey, and it said to Balaam, “What have I done to you, that you have struck me these three times?” Balaam said to the donkey, “Because you have made a fool of me! I wish I had a sword in my hand! I would kill you right now!” But the donkey said to Balaam, “Am I not your donkey, which you have ridden all your life to this day? Have I been in the habit of treating you this way?” And he said, “No.” Then the Lord opened the eyes of Balaam, and he saw the angel of the Lord standing in the road, with his drawn sword in his hand; and he bowed down, falling on his face. 

Have you ever heard of this one? It is the story of a talking donkey! It is one of the wildest tales of the Jewish Bible. A Gentile prophet named Balaam is riding his animal along. The donkey sees a fierce angel ahead and turns off the road. Balaam whips the donkey. And God gives the gift of speech to the donkey. It’s in the Book.

Animals don’t speak in the Bible. There’s a talking snake in the Garden of Eden, sly and sneaky, cursed to slither on the ground after leading Adam and Eve astray. But that happened a long time ago in a land far away. Balaam’s donkey is a different case, empowered under stress.

Those of us who spend time with animals can pick up their ability to communicate. There’s a cat lover that insists her felines speak telepathically. Don’t know if that is true, but I’ve noticed many cats play mind games. Some of you know there are two springer spaniels in our home; they tell us clearly what they want. Pippa is the older one, clearly more dominant. Oakley is younger, a big galoot. He will often appear to tell, “Pippa says it’s time to go outside.” After a quick jaunt, he appears at the back door to say, “Pippa wants us to come in now.” Half an hour later, they are at it again.

A young woman says her favorite conversationalist is her goldfish. Every available moment, she’s staring into the goldfish’s eye. Ask what she’s doing; the answer: “Picking up messages.” In the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, there is somebody who claims to be a horse whisperer. I don’t doubt it. For those with ears to hear, our animals communicate.

But this Bible story almost sounds like one of the collected accounts of Dr. Dolittle. Remember him? That was the fictional British physician who claimed to talk with the animals.

In case, let’s explore this Bible story which one Princeton scholar calls, “the funniest in the Old Testament.”[1] It comes from the wilderness stories after Moses led the Israelites out of Egypt. They were making their way through Moab, somewhere east of the Dead Sea. Someone told King Balak that there were a gazillion Israelites trudging across his land. He got nervous. He said, “They will overwhelm me as an ox licks up the grass of the field. So, he sent for a world-renowned prophet named Balaam to come and help him out.

Balaam lived far off, near the River Euphrates. It was a great distance away. But he was famous. And he was expensive. King Balak sent a lot of money and said, “I want to buy a prophet who has the power to curse these trespassing Israelites.” I guess it was a lot of money because he got Balaam’s attention. He sent his messengers and told them to say, “These people are swarming me, so come and curse them. Folks say when you curse somebody, they stay cursed – and that’s what I need you to do.”

Balaam says, “Let me sleep on the matter and give you God’s answer in the morning.” During the night, God said, “Don’t you curse my people! They are blessed.” So, after his first cup of coffee, Balaam said, “Emissaries, go home.” They depart, return a long distance back to Moab, and report to their king.

King Balak tried again. He sent higher ranking officials across the land, sending piles of money, declaring he would pay anything to have the Israelites cursed. Again, Balaam says he will sleep on it. He adds, “I cannot do what the Lord doesn’t want me to do.” That night, God says to Balaam, “If they have come to summon you, get up and go with them, but don’t say anything other than what I say.” In the morning, Balaam gets out of bed, saddles the donkey, and sets off with the nobles of Moab.

But then we have a problem. According to the story, God gets angry. God blows a gasket. Was there a change of the Divine Mind? Did Balaam garble the Holy Message from Headquarters. It’s not real clear, but one scholar points out that Balaam the Gentile Prophet stepped over a little bitty word in God’s Message. The word was “if.” “If they have come to summon you…” As the scholar points out, there’s no real summons. Balaam just goes. He follows the money.

This detail was not lost on the early church. The apostles talked about Balaam as a bad example. The consensus was he was consumed by greed. In the Second Letter of Peter, Balaam “loved the wages of doing wrong.”[2] According to the letter of Jude, he “committed error for the sake of gain.”[3] Even in the Book of Revelation, Balaam taught King Balak to lead the people of Israel to moral and spiritual destruction.[4] Was he a bad dude? Perhaps. At least he was tainted, compromised, and a good bit suspect.

And that brings us to the comedy of the story. Here he is, the world-famous Gentile prophet, and he’s riding a donkey across the sands of Mesopotamia. Not an expensive, big white horse, but a farm animal. Clip, clop, hoppity hop, the guy who supposedly can make his curses stick. God is annoyed at him. God is going to stop him.

We are told that God sends an angel to block the road. The angel stands there with a big sharp sword. The donkey sees the angel swinging a sword and veers off the road. Balaam hits the donkey rather severely, then steers the beast back onto the road. The angel comes again, this time blocking a narrow passage through a vineyard. The donkey veers again, crushing Balaam’s foot. That provokes the Gentile prophet to whack him again. Then the angel appeared a third time, causing the donkey to drop to the ground. Balaam loses his cool and beats the donkey severely.

This is when God gives speech to the donkey. The donkey says, “What do you think you are doing? You’ve hit me three times.” Balaam says, “Well, you are messing with me! If I had a sword, I would stick it in your side.” The donkey spoke up again and said, “Haven’t I been good to you before? Can’t I be trusted? Have I ever done anything like this to you?” And Balaam must admit, “No.”

That is when God opened Balaam’s sight. He sees the angel and falls face-first into the dirt. The angel of the Lord said, “Why are you beating up the donkey? Knock it off. I stand against you because your way is perverse.” Balaam grovels, repents, says, “If you wish, I will turn around and go home.” And the angel said, “You can go with these men, but only say the words that I give you to say.”

Finally, the world-famous curser Balaam meets King Balak out in the boundary country. Balak is accustomed to people coming whenever he calls on them – especially if he throws money at them. But Balaam says, “So here I am. But am I able to say any fool thing? I can say only the Word that God puts in my mouth.”

Well, this is the story. It is an odd one, and it goes on a good bit more. And what in the world is the point of all that? Does anybody want to offer insight?

   Chris: “I think it means Don’t Beat Up Your Animals.”

Yes, that’s always a good idea. Cruelty is always wrong. Always. But what else does the story say?

   Chris: “Grace thinks that it says, ‘Some animals are more obedient than humans.’”

Well, that’s certainly true. Dogs and donkeys, to be sure. Maybe not cats.

   Chris: “Judy has a cat. Sometimes her cat sees things that mere humans cannot see.”

Not only do cats have nine lives. They have a sixth sense. Animals probably see angels better than the rest of us. And there is more Mystery around us than what our human eyes see or perceive.

But there’s one more thing that we haven’t said yet. This story is all about the power of words. The power to bless or curse. The power to speak the truth to power – or simply speak the truth to say, ‘Hey, there’s an angel standing in the middle of our street.” The power to speak on behalf of God, for the benefit of God’s own people.

    Chris: “So there’s one more thing that the story tells us.”

What’s that?

   Chris and Friends: “Thanks to the power of God, any donkey can preach!”

True enough. Thanks be to God.

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

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[1] Katherine Doob Sakenfeld, Numbers: Journeying with God (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1995) 124.

[2] 2 Peter 2:15.

[3] Jude 1:11.

[4] Revelation 2:14.

As to One Untimely Born

1 Corinthians 15:1-11
Easter
3/31/2024

William G. Carter

Now I would remind you, brothers and sisters, of the good news that I proclaimed to you, which you in turn received, in which also you stand, through which also you are being saved, if you hold firmly to the message that I proclaimed to you—unless you have come to believe in vain. For I handed on to you as of first importance what I in turn had received: that Christ died for our sins in accordance with the scriptures, and that he was buried, and that he was raised on the third day in accordance with the scriptures, and that he appeared to Cephas, then to the twelve. Then he appeared to more than five hundred brothers and sisters at one time, most of whom are still alive, though some have died. Then he appeared to James, then to all the apostles. Last of all, as to one untimely born, he appeared also to me. For I am the least of the apostles, unfit to be called an apostle, because I persecuted the church of God. But by the grace of God I am what I am, and his grace toward me has not been in vain. On the contrary, I worked harder than any of them—though it was not I, but the grace of God that is with me. Whether then it was I or they, so we proclaim and so you have come to believe.

It was clear that he had a good time. The Easter worship service was over. He approached me at the back door and shook my hand vigorously. “This was absolutely fantastic!” he exclaimed. “The flowers, the decorations, the glorious music – I loved it all. If I weren’t in church, I would say, ‘What a great show!’ It’s more than a show, of course, but, well, wow!” 

He stepped away, then paused, turned back, and a twinkle in his eye, he added, “Why can’t it be like this every Sunday?” I smiled and said, “How do you know it isn’t? Come back and see.” He chortled, and then stepped away.

Now, I know what he’s saying. Easter is our big day. We turn up the wattage, sing hymns that everybody knows, have communion, and all of you show up looking so fine. It is wonderful. We could do this every week – and in some sense we do. Every Sunday is our Little Easter. Even in the forty days of Lent, the Sundays don’t count toward that season of austerity. The spiritual deprivations are on hold. This is the first day of the week, the day when God flipped the Sabbath calendar by raising Jesus from the dead. It’s Easter every week.

That’s the official answer. As we all know, time rolls on. The week snatches us back and wears us down. Old habits resurface. Old routines rebound. Old choices re-present themselves: should we go to church, go to brunch, or catch up on our sleep? And the annual pep rally, the great show, doesn’t seem to have the same juice. I understand all of that. This big day, this Easter celebration – how do we keep it going?

Or the better question: this big day that we watch, how might it get inside of us?

That’s why I invited the apostle Paul to speak with us today. I knew the Gospel of Mark would announce that the tomb is empty, Jesus is risen, and he is out there on the loose somewhere. That’s good news, even if it terrified that first group of women who had taken spices to embalm the body. Easter is an explosion of vitality. The event sent shock waves through the faithful and the unfaithful. Something happened beyond explanation, beyond control, beyond all reason.

And like all explosions, spiritual and otherwise, the energy returns to equilibrium.

Yet, twenty-five years later, the apostle Paul was still talking about it. That’s about the time Paul composed this text. This may be the earliest written account of the resurrection that we have. Yes, there are four other accounts, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. They wrote down the stories that got into the book, but Paul came before all of them.

Historically speaking, his correspondence is the earliest in the Christian scriptures. He started churches, he corresponded with them, he gave them advice. To the struggling congregation in Corinth, he answered their questions about the resurrection. It comes at the end of his letter, but we get the sense that he has been saving up all his energy to say the one thing he wants them to know. He has saved it for the end to give it maximum emphasis. He wants them to have the message – and he wraps that message in his own experience.

What is the message? Jesus died for our sins, because of our sins, on account of our sins – and God raised him from the dead. We did our absolute human worst to him, just the prophet Isaiah declared: He was wounded for our transgressions, crushed for our iniquities; upon him was the punishment that made us whole, and by his bruised we are healed.[1] It is no mystery that he was destroyed; people damage one another all the time.

Yet there is a mystery in what happened next: he took the damage and removed it. He canceled the damage. He forgave it. Then God gave him back to the very people who tried to get rid of him. Death and resurrection. It is profound.

For Paul, it was a personal story. Was he religious? Yes, he was religious. He had memorized his Bible. Have any of you done that? Was he faithful to God? Well, he thought so. He discovered a small group of infidels, declaring the Messiah had come. He knew it couldn’t be true because the world was still in a mess. The Messiah was supposed to fix everything, so it couldn’t have been Jesus. Paul decided to silence those misguided people, to cut them off, to remove them from the land.

And then, you know the story. On his way to hunt down more of those Jesus followers, there was a bright light that he did not initiate. There was a Voice speaking only to him, nobody else heard it. And the Voice knew his given name, “Saul,” an Old Testament name. The Voice quoted the Jewish scriptures that Saul knew so well, “Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?” This was an ancient story told in the present tense.

The eternal Son of David confronted this younger son of Saul. Saul realized that he did not see. Instantly, the damage he was doing to others ceased. It was absorbed and taken away. Then, through the prayer and teaching of a very modest Jesus follower named Ananias, Saul had his eyes reopened. It was his own resurrection. Saul rebranded himself as “Paul,” a name that means “Tiny,” “Puny,” “Shortie,” or “No account.” He was the last, the least, the most unlikely follower of a Jesus who is very much alive.

There are two things he says about that experience in this Easter account of his. First, there is no human way that it should have happened. “I am unfit,” he says. “I persecuted Christ’s own people. Morally, ethically, I am the wrong guy.” He even uses a strange phrase to describe his change of heart. If Simon Peter and James and the others were “born from above,” Paul says, “I’m a spiritual miscarriage.” It is an ugly way to put it, but we know what he means – Jesus should never have found him, much less let him off the hook.

And that is the second thing he says, twice in fact. It is pure grace. “The grace of God…the grace of God.” Grace is the power of resurrection, freely providing a second chance on life. Grace is the pure gift of God, lifting any of us out of the captivity to our worst impulses. New beginning, new life, however God works it into our lives. Easter was not merely a one-time event for a long-ago Galilean named Jesus. Easter is the present-tense power of Jesus working in you and me. To borrow a verb from Paul, it’s the experience of being salvaged, which is another word for “saved.”

What is amazing to me is that the apostle Paul speaks as if it all had just happened to him. The events he narrated occurred twenty, twenty-five years, before. Some of us can’t remember what we had for lunch last Wednesday, and here’s the apostle with a crystal-clear affirmation. How did Easter get inside of him? How did it stay real? How did the resurrection retain its power?

He tells it to us straight: by repetition. “I tell you what somebody told me.” “I tell you of first importance what I first received: Christ has died, Christ is risen.” Same message, over and over again. The same message that restructured his soul. This is the same message that somebody told me, which I give to you, which you can give to somebody else. When you come back next week, we will say it again. And the week after that, too.

When Easter gets inside of us, it is more than an annual spectacle. It is the Way, the Truth, the Life. It is the grace to see us through, the light by which we see.

That reminds me of a little story. Perhaps you have heard of C. S. Lewis, the British academic of the last century. The author of scores of books, he came to faith the hard way, through bumps on the road, deep studies into mythology, lectures, and radio addresses to thousands. He says hit conversion happened quietly. When he got on a bus one day, he didn’t believe. When he got off the bus, he did. How did that happen? The mystery of grace.

And it changed him. In fact, although he was buried in a churchyard near his cottage, somebody put a memorial to him in Westminster Abbey. It includes a quotation from one of his talks. He said, “I believe in Christianity as I believe the sun is risen. Not only because I see it, but because by it I see everything else.”[2]

This is what happens when Easter gets inside us. May it get inside you over and over again.

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

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[1] Isaiah 53:5

[2] As quoted by N.T. Wright, Simply Good News: Why the Gospel is News and What Makes It Good (New York: HarperCollins, Publishers, 2015) 31.

What We Received

1 Corinthians 11:23-26
Maundy Thursday

March 28, 2024

William G. Carter

For I received from the Lord what I also handed on to you, that the Lord Jesus on the night when he was betrayed took a loaf of bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and said, “This is my body that is for you. Do this in remembrance of me.” In the same way he took the cup also, after supper, saying, “This cup is the new covenant in my blood. Do this, as often as you drink it, in remembrance of me.” For as often as you eat this bread and drink the cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.

Back in the Presbyterian schoolhouse, the professor told students like me to memorize the communion service. That’s what I did. “Memorizing will maximize eye contact,” he said. It will facilitate not only heavenly communion but earthly connection. So, I learned the whole thing. I learned it good. When I began my work as a pastor, I was ready to show the fruit of my hard work. 

I think it was my first Maundy Thursday in a pulpit robe. It was a night like this. The lights were low. The gloom was thick. The congregation sat in the shadows as I stood to lead us in the Lord’s Supper. “This is the joyful feast,” I intoned, not too cheerful, not too glum. “They will come from east and west, north and south,” I said with my arms extended. That congregation was not prone to smiling, but perhaps a head nodded in agreement.

Then, to the words of institution. “These words matter the most,” our professor had declared. So, I picked up a load of bread, previously sawed in half by a zealous deacon. I held it high to say, “This is my body that is for you.” I was making maximum eye contact as the loaf split in my hands. Each half was extended toward a congregation hungry for grace.

After putting the bread on the silver plate, I leaned over to pick up the pitcher and chalice. Still gazing at my beloved church, with maximum eye contact, I said, “This cup is the new covenant in my blood.” And I poured the grape juice all over my right hand.

It was dark. Maybe nobody would see what I did. I was wrong. There was a gasp in the third row, over here. The organist started to giggle and almost fell off his bench. One of the altos in the choir exclaimed not so quietly, “He ruined a perfectly good tablecloth.” I had a sudden pang of guilt. What if I had ruined the sacrament as well?

It turns out that matter was settled in the Fourth Century, with something called the Donatist Controversy. The short version went like this: if the sacrament is presided over by a clergy person who is a sinner or a fool, does that sacrament still count? The answer is yes. Because the sacrament is not about the one who breaks the bread. It’s not about the one who pours grape juice all over his hand. The sacrament is about Jesus Christ. He is the host of the Table and the one who truly presides.

The words that he has passed on somehow to the Apostle Paul are not magic words. They do not presume to turn bread into flesh nor wine into blood. They are Tradition Words. They provide continuity between the original meal and the meal that we celebrate tonight. These are the words that carry us into the presence of Christ. The bread broken is the same bread broken and blessed by Jesus. He names it as his “body,” which means his body infuses our bodies. His life is welcomed into our lives.

And that cup, poured out so lavishly for us, is the cancellation of our sin, of all sin. Paul says the bread and the cup form a public announcement of the cross. Our human sin is crucified as Christ is crucified. Killing him is about the worst thing people have ever done – and he forgives us. There is no punishment, though deeply deserved. No, the sin is cancelled. Its power is broken.

Do people still sin, even after the Supper? Well, listen to the story unfold this evening. Judas will slip out and cut a deal to turn in his Lord. Simon Peter will lie three times that he knows Christ. The religious leaders will act in ungodly ways. An indifferent government will dismiss Jesus as a troublemaker. Oh, yes, the sins go on.

Yet we keep returning to this Table because this is the place where we are reminded how Christ sets us free. His cross cancels the power of our rebellion. We come to the Table again and again to receive his forgiveness and hear his invitation to begin again. This is the Table of Jesus, once crucified, now risen. He continues with us, and we make this Table available to all as he first made it available to us.

Keep this in mind as we hear the Gospel of Mark. It is an ugly story of how people turn on one another. Some of the characters are scared. Others are anxious enough to say foolish things. Some act irresponsibly, others are violent. Many are indifferent. Yet standing at the center of the drama is this wondrous and mysterious Galilean. He knows what lurks in human hearts, and willingly gives his life to pay the ransom and set us free.

This is what we have received. The living tradition comes from Christ to Paul, from Paul to us, through us to the neighborhood. Grace is what we have received. Forgiveness is what we share. And this is the true story of a God who loves us, proclaimed in broken bread and poured-out wine.

Someone asked a question once. She seemed embarrassed, but it was an excellent question. She said, “What should I do while communion is going on?” What should you do? She said, “You know, during the silence, while others are receiving the bread and the cup. Is there something I should do?”

I replied, “Well, you could pray.” “Right,” she said, “but what do I pray? What kind of prayer?”

I thought for a minute. What do we pray while the people of God receive the bread of life and the cup of salvation? Then I said it: “Say thank you.” Just say thank you.

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

Acclaimed, Yet Unnoticed

Mark 11:1-11
Palm Sunday
March 24, 2024
William G. Carter

When they were approaching Jerusalem, at Bethphage and Bethany, near the Mount of Olives, Jesus sent two of his disciples and said to them, “Go into the village ahead of you, and immediately as you enter it, you will find tied there a colt that has never been ridden; untie it and bring it. If anyone says to you, ‘Why are you doing this?’ just say this, ‘The Lord needs it and will send it back here immediately.’” They went away and found a colt tied near a door, outside in the street. As they were untying it, some of the bystanders said to them, “What are you doing, untying the colt?” They told them what Jesus had said; and they allowed them to take it. 

 

Then they brought the colt to Jesus and threw their cloaks on it; and he sat on it. Many people spread their cloaks on the road, and others spread leafy branches that they had cut in the fields. Then those who went ahead and those who followed were shouting, “Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord! Blessed is the coming kingdom of our ancestor David! Hosanna in the highest heaven!”

 

Then he entered Jerusalem and went into the temple; and when he had looked around at everything, as it was already late, he went out to Bethany with the twelve.

 

What a strange way to end the Palm Sunday story! Jesus rode down the hill on the back of a donkey. His friends threw their cloaks on it, kind of a poor person’s saddle. He is surrounded by a group of people who cover the road with their own outer garments and leafy branches. Everybody is singing a song, “Hosanna! Hosanna!” It is a word from one of the psalms.

Then Jesus arrives at the Temple, looks around, and decides to go. It was late. So, he goes back up the hill to find a place to stay for the night. What a way to conclude the account!

We have been trained by other writers in the Bible to make more of the story.

• Matthew calls attention to the donkey, tying it to the prophetic words of Zechariah. “Your mighty king will come on a humble farm animal.”[1]
• Luke connects the story to Christmas song that the angels sang at Jesus birth. Remember? The heavenly host sang, “Glory to God in the highest heaven, and peace on earth!”[2] In Luke, the Palm Sunday crowd sings, “Peace on heaven!” They understand the mission of God – to create peace – so they echo the Christmas angels.
• The Gospel of John says, “No, the onlookers don’t understand at all.” Why? Because they cut down palm branches and started waving them around. Ever since the Maccabean rebellion of 168 BC, waving palm branches was like waving the national flag[3] in the faces of the imperial oppressors. According to John’s Gospel, the crowd on Palm Sunday believed Jesus would lead them in a revolt against the Roman Empire. They seriously misunderstood.

By contrast, today’s version of the account says, “He came down the hill and went straight to the Temple, but it was after closing time, so he went back up the hill.” A bit anticlimactic, don’t you think?

The storytellers and novelists among us would suggest that verse is a throwaway line. It breaks up the action. It would have been far more effective to say, “He acquired the donkey, rode down the Mount of Olives, people were cheering, and he rode it to the front door of the Temple. Then he dismounted, strode up the steps, and started shouting.” Now, that is the way to tell the story. In fact, that’s the story that the Gospel of Matthew tells. But that is not the story according to Mark.

Mark’s version raises some questions. Here’s one: why didn’t anybody notice Jesus when he stopped by the Temple? Everything we’ve ever heard about Palm Sunday suggests the entire day was a ruckus. In another account, it says, “The whole city was shaken.” Shaken, same verb as the two earthquakes he reports on the same week, on Friday and the following Sunday. Everybody said, “Thie is the prophet Jesus.”[4]

Mark, by contrast, is quieter. The crowds never identify Jesus, other than to put coats and branches before him on the street. The song they sing is Psalm 118, the same one we sang a few minutes ago. It is a Passover song, an annual prayer to praise God and call on holy help from trouble. It is the one big “hosanna” song – and “hosanna” means, “Save us – deliver us!” Everybody was singing because of the Passover holiday. There is no real inference in today’s version that Jesus would be the One doing the saving. It’s ambiguous.

In any case, nobody spots him in the Temple. Nobody shouts, “Hey, that’s the guy the crowds surrounded.” Sounds like there were no crowds by the time Jesus arrived at the Temple, just him and the twelve. He looks around, then he departs.

This is a strange text. As someone points out, “Mark spends more time describing the preparations for Jesus’ entry to Jerusalem than the entrance itself, more time talking about the colt than talking about the intentions of the one who will ride it.”[5] It sounds like he has pre-arranged the donkey, just as he will pre-arrange the Passover feast on Thursday night. Jesus is checking out the scene in advance. He is casing the joint. He “looks around,” to prepare for what he does next.

Then he goes back uphill to Bethany. No crowds, no parade, no singing, no fuss. I wonder if he went to return the donkey. Only needed it once, even though Mark says he continually went in and out of the city.[6]

And then, Jesus puts everything in motion. First thing on Monday, in a prophetic demonstration, he condemns a fig tree for being unfruitful. Then he walks downhill, back into the city, and up into the Temple. There he condemns the Temple for being unfruitful like that fig tree, yelling, “You have turned my Father’s house of prayer into a den of thieves.” He shouts this in the tradition of the prophet Jeremiah,[7] who shouted pretty much the same thing. This is why he was doing a surveillance the night before.

What has upset him so? Well, the money changers, for sure. They are present because the high priests decreed no street money was allowed on temple property. They called it filthy, inappropriate. So, they welcomed the money changers to make their own temple money available. All at a jacked-up transaction rate, you can be sure.

And then, the dove sellers. Why were they selling doves? Ever since the book of Leviticus, doves were the approved alternative to sacrificial lambs.[8] Doves were sold to the poorest of the poor, presumably vastly overpriced. If you’re going to Jerusalem, you must pay the big city prices, right?

Jesus calls out the whole thing as corrupt. The religious system was selling salvation for a profit. Like a prophet of justice, Jesus rides down the hill, slips into the Temple after closing time, scopes out the operation, then returns the next morning to overturn the tables and chase away the birds. For this, Mark says, the religious leaders want to kill him.

They have had him in their sights since chapter two, back when he worked the small towns of Galilee. Now Jeus has stepped onto their turf. They will confront him; he will push back. He will challenge them; they will push back. They will interrogate, he will silence them with the wisdom of God. For he came into the city to confront a religious system that bilks the poor, sells out to the rich, and cuts oppressive deals with the Roman Empire.

In turn, the religious system will maneuver the Empire to get rid of this troublemaker. The whole Gospel story has been building to this moment. There is a conflict building, and it is emphasized by two competing parades on Palm Sunday.

Two, you say? Yes, two. The first was the one we know: Jesus borrows a donkey and rides it down the hill. The second parade, held at just about the same time, was a procession of Roman soldiers, led by the imperial governor Pontius Pilate, entering the city from the opposite direction. The conflict was inevitable. On this hill, a quiet man on a donkey, accompanied by the singing of a Passover song. On this side, drums and trumpets announced the military might of the entire Empire.[9] The two were due to clash.

Palm Sunday is a big day for us. The music is big. The hosannas are loud. Yet don’t miss the inevitable confrontation. It’s Jesus the humble prophet up against the powers and the principalities. Jesus will lose. That’s the truth of it. Jesus rides into the city to confront a corrupted Temple in cahoots with an indifferent pagan Empire. He has no army, no armor, no evidence of physical force. He could not win such a battle.

That is the irony of this coming week. Palm Sunday is often called the “triumphal entry” of Jesus into Jerusalem. But where is the triumph? He will be accosted, arrested, interrogated, condemned, and sent away into oblivion. That’s what the cross is all about. Palm Sunday is not really about triumph. The triumph will belong to the religious leaders who don’t want their authority interrupted. The triumph will belong to the moneychangers and the dove sellers, who will set their tables back up by Tuesday. The triumph will belong to the Empire, who eliminates the troublemaker and moves on.

What they miss about Jesus, the same Jesus unnoticed after the Temple has closed on Sunday night, is that for him, his losing will ultimately be his winning. This is a most unusual truth. Like Jesus, it remains largely unnoticed. Consider the mystery of it all, which begins on Palm Sunday:

Jesus will win by humility, not by force.

He will win by gentleness, not by brutality.

He will win by truthfulness, not distortions and lies.

He will win by willing self-sacrifice, not by defiant self-protection.

He will win by love, not hate.

He will win by the grace of forgiveness, not the ugliness of retribution.

He will win by losing everything on the cross, and for that he will be exalted.

All the world’s false values are flipped on their heads. All the empty virtues of corrupt religious leaders will be cancelled. All the Empire’s brutal efficiency will be exposed as a sham. For those who were paying attention, it was revealed in the song the Palm Sunday crowd was singing. Can you remember the words? Went like this:

The stone that the builders rejected has become the chief cornerstone.
This is the Lord’s doing; it is marvelous in our eyes.

Jesus rejected, now the foundation of what it means to be human and holy. Can you believe it? Behold, the mystery at the heart of all that we Christian people trust and hold dear. Come back next week and we will tell you what it’s all about.

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

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[1] Zechariah 9:9.

[2] Luke 2:14.

[3] See, for instance, https://ignatiansolidarity.net/blog/2015/03/29/day-40-what-does-your-palm-branch-mean/

[4] Matthew 21:10-11.

[5] Gary W. Charles, in Preaching Mark in Two Voices (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2003) 187.

[6] Mark 11:11, 11:12, 11:20, 13:3, 14:3, 14:13.

[7] Jeremiah 7:11.

[8] Leviticus 5:7, 12:8.

[9] See Marcus Borg and John Dominic Crossan, The Final Week: What the Gospels Really Teach About Jesus’ Final Days in Jerusalem (New York: HarperOne, 2007).