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).

The End of the Matter

Ecclesiastes 11:9-12:14
Lent 5
March 17, 2024

William G. Carter  

Rejoice, young man, while you are young, and let your heart cheer you in the days of your youth. Follow the inclination of your heart and the desire of your eyes, but know that for all these things God will bring you into judgment. Banish anxiety from your mind, and put away pain from your body; for youth and the dawn of life are vanity.

 

Remember your creator in the days of your youth, before the days of trouble come,

and the years draw near when you will say, “I have no pleasure in them”; 

before the sun and the light and the moon and the stars are darkened and the clouds return with the rain; 

in the day when the guards of the house tremble,

and the strong men are bent, and the women who grind cease working because they are few,

and those who look through the windows see dimly; 

when the doors on the street are shut, and the sound of the grinding is low,

and one rises up at the sound of a bird, and all the daughters of song are brought low; 

when one is afraid of heights, and terrors are in the road;

the almond tree blossoms, the grasshopper drags itself along and desire fails;

because all must go to their eternal home, and the mourners will go about the streets; 

before the silver cord is snapped, and the golden bowl is broken,

and the pitcher is broken at the fountain, and the wheel broken at the cistern, 

and the dust returns to the earth as it was, and the breath returns to God who gave it.

 

Vanity of vanities, says the Teacher; all is vanity. [ Besides being wise, the Teacher also taught the people knowledge, weighing and studying and arranging many proverbs. The Teacher sought to find pleasing words, and he wrote words of truth plainly. The sayings of the wise are like goads, and like nails firmly fixed are the collected sayings that are given by one shepherd. Of anything beyond these, my child, beware. Of making many books there is no end, and much study is a weariness of the flesh.]

 

The end of the matter; all has been heard. Fear God, and keep his commandments; for that is the whole duty of everyone. For God will bring every deed into judgment, including every secret thing, whether good or evil.

 

 

A few days ago, Anne Lamott wrote a wonderful article for the Washington Post. She is a charming writer, an insightful observer, and a witty Presbyterian. They are a rare breed, those witty Presbyterians. Now on the verge of turning seventy, Anne writes about taking a daily walk with her friend Shelley.

 

Well, they intend to walk every day, she said. It’s really four days a week, maybe five. She and Shelley have been doing this for years. At their age, they don’t walk as fast as they used to. The first lap around, they catch up on gossip. What’s going on? What movies have they seen? What are the kids doing?

 

Second lap around, they talk less and look around a lot more. They listen to the creek, listen to the drizzling rain. No need to say anything, she says. They “know each other’s souls and shadows,” as well as each other’s major screw-ups, and that provides comfort.

 

By the third lap, Anne says,

 

My hip has begun coughing quietly to get my attention. It would like to go home now. My vision is even more blurry because of the drizzle and thin light, added to the dry eyes. This is part of what it means for me to be alive still, the blinky vision. Paradoxically, I see more. Now, instead of the sharp focus, there’s an appreciation of shifts in light that reveal the mutability of the world. The light sometimes changes minute by minute, and with it we perceive changes in the energy around us, above us, inside us. It moves our attention outside our squinty, judgy, little selves.[1]

 

I don’t now if you noticed, but Anne was giving us the last chapter of the book of Ecclesiastes. “This is the end of the matter,” says the Preacher. We get old if we are lucky. We wear down and wear out if we get old. And if we are wise, we see things differently from when we were young.

 

Oh, it was good to be young, wasn’t it? Full of laughter, full of joy. The heart was cheerful. The mind was not worried. Our desires were clear, our inclinations were pursued. The aches and pains were few. And then what happened?

 

Anne Lamott says she was talking to Shelley and trying to remember the word “coaster.” All she could come up with was the phrase “coffee pad.” Shelley started laughing hard when she said it, she had to cross her legs, and then almost lost her balance. (op.cit.)

 

And the Preacher says, “Remember your creator in the days of your youth, before the days of trouble come.”

 

I’ve lived most of my life around people who are older than myself. My teachers were older than me. My parents were older than me. Most of their friends were older than them. And I’m a Presbyterian pastor. No need to do the math. I could retire on the Riviera if I had a quarter for every time somebody said to me, “Don’t ever get old.” I appreciate the thought, but thanks, I prefer to grow old. I am not ready for the alternative.

 

Even so, Ecclesiastes reminds all of us that aging is not for weak of heart. The centerpiece of our text today is a rich poem about the effects of aging. The philosopher who composes the book takes an imaginative spin down the corridors of the Shady Acres.

 

·       “The sun and the light and the moon and the stars are darkened.” In other words, the lights grow dim.

·       “The guards of the house tremble.” Those are the arms and legs.

·       “The strong man are bent.” That’s the spine.

·       “The women who grind cease working.” Those are your teeth.

·       “The doors on the street are shut.” Want to guess? How do you spell constipation?

·       “One rises up at the sound of a bird.” True enough, because who sleeps the whole night through?

·       “The almond tree blossoms, the grasshopper drags itself along, desire fails.” What’s the poet saying there? Let your imagination run wild.

 

Get the picture? It’s the picture of, well, don’t call it “old age.” Call it the picture of extensive experience. And it can happen at any time, not just at an advanced age. In any accident, “the silver cord” can be snapped (that’s the spine). The “golden bowl” might be broken (that’s our skull). To put it simply, life is fragile. We are fragile. And trouble can come in any season. So, he says, “Remember your creator before the times of trouble come.”

 

This, in a nutshell, is why so many people skip over this book. They will remember the Creator, perhaps faintly, but they prefer to avoid the times of trouble. In fact, they hope that if they remember the Creator, it will keep them out of times of trouble. Sadly, it doesn’t work that way.

 

They want to jump from the wisecracking book of Proverbs to the sexy sirens of the Song of Solomon. Yet should they jump, they could trip and fall. That’s what happened to a woman we know. She caught her sweater on the knob of her dresser, swirled and fell. The impact from the fall caused her heart to stop. She’s going to be OK, but it will be a long recovery. And it could happen to any of us. It happened to an NFL player last year; he took a hard hit and his heart stopped. Life is short. Life is dangerous.

 

And if I might quote Anne Lamott, “The greatest gift that people can accept at any age is that we’re on borrowed time and they don’t want to squander it on stupid stuff.”

There are preachers who speak of joy and health and salvation, but the Preacher of Ecclesiastes is not one of them. At the end of his book, any possible effort to develop life under our own ability has been explored and dismissed. Any attempt to secure God’s favor or extend our longevity does not matter. Here’s a Preacher who is so truthful that it hurts. Maybe he’s just a little too honest.

While other biblical writers speak of sin, the preacher of Ecclesiastes points to the limits of human existence. God has planted a sense of eternity in our minds, he says, but we cannot move beyond our mortal limits (3:11). We are stuck with ourselves. Should we wish to escape, we pack ourselves in the suitcase whenever we go.

Dogs, cats, and turtles seem content to be themselves, but we humans are always looking for ways to be something more than what we are. We explore for excitement. We search for meaning. We shop for pleasure. But nothing ever quite advances our situation. Some people give up early. Others keep flailing away at it. But the whole enterprise of trying to improve ourselves is a form of vanity. It’s a bunch of smoke.

The Preacher reminds us that, no matter who we are, no matter how good we behave, no matter how correct we are in our opinions, no matter how hard we labor, we are limited by ourselves. We are stuck with ourselves. And if any joy dribbles down from above, well, we had better not miss it. Because that’s all that we might ever find. No amount of manufactured joyful noise will change that.

The southerner Walker Percy graduated from medical school and practiced medicine for a while. He worked as a pathologist in New York until he contracted tuberculosis. During his recovery, he slowed down long enough to deal with his own soul. His father took his own life. His mother died early. Percy began to realize that most people don’t need another doctor; they need another kind of diagnosis. So, he became a novelist. As he once noted, novelists are those who tell the truth even when they are making up stories.

One of the things he noticed is how our culture keeps hawking success stories that do not work. Try as we might, diet plans, get rich schemes, flimsy business plans, and feel-good counselors. Percy said, “Whenever you have a hundred thousand psychotherapists talking about being life-affirming and a million books about life-enrichment, you can be pretty sure there is a lot of death around.”[2] Life can be so diminished in a land of plenty. Walker Percy, again: “There is something worse than being deprived of life; it is being deprived of life and not knowing it.”[3]

Ecclesiastes 12 pushes us to face the truth of our humanness. For the young person, it is a reminder of what is coming. For the old person it is an affirmation of how it is. The end of the matter is fearing God. Not in the sense of being afraid of God but trusting God. Honoring God, worshiping God, submitting to God. Easier said than done. When trouble hits, or aging slows us down, when the joints creak and the bones break, we would love to bargain for more time. As medical care advances, we find some help although it is limited. If possible, we would love to live forever, if forever doesn't include aching bones and mental confusion. Even this is vanity. A striving for the wind

Eugene Peterson says Ecclesiastes is not a meal; it’s a bath. In his words, “It is not nourishment; it is cleansing. We read Ecclesiastes to get scrubbed clean from illusion and sentiment, from ideas that are idolatrous and feelings that cloy. It is an expose and rejection of every arrogant and ignorant expectation that we can live our lives by ourselves on our own terms.”[4] Only when we get cleansed are we ready for God. 

That is about all we can expect out of the book of Ecclesiastes. At the end of the book, the Preacher says about all we can do is fear God and remember that God is more important than we are. He tells us to honor God, who is beyond our capacity to comprehend or understand. That is the end of it all, says the Preacher. Life is not about gloom. Life is not about doom. Life is about accepting our limits, and worshiping a God who stands beyond them. 

So, where do we stand at the end? What are we left with? Only God. A God whom Ecclesiastes describes as the originator, the hidden wisdom, the ultimate organizer, and the last word. Fear this God. Honor this God. Affirm that we are ultimately in God's mercy.

This is a prediction not only of our lives, but an exposition of the life of Jesus. Or more specifically the death of Jesus. For what does he say at the very end? Remember? “Into your hands I commit my spirit.” It is a quote from one of the old Psalms,[5] and ultimately an affirmation that when all is lost, we are still found. God knows us. God catches us. Honor and trust God alone.

Get all that right, and we will be ready to face Holy Week.

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

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[1] Anne Lamott, “Aging gives me gifts of softness and illumination,”   https://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/2024/03/14/anne-lamott-aging-life-friends-vision/

[2] Walker Percy, “Novel-Writing in an Apocalyptic Time,” in Signposts in a Strange Land (New York: HarperCollins, 1991), 162.

[3] Ibid, 163.

[4] Eugene Peterson, in the author’s introduction to Ecclesiastes, The Message (Colorado Springs: NavPress, 2002) 1162.

[5] Psalm 31:5.

Life Within Limits

Ecclesiastes 9:1-12
Lent 4
March 10, 2024

William G. Carter  

All this I laid to heart, examining it all, how the righteous and the wise and their deeds are in the hand of God; whether it is love or hate one does not know. Everything that confronts them is vanity, since the same fate comes to all, to the righteous and the wicked, to the good and the evil, to the clean and the unclean, to those who sacrifice and those who do not sacrifice. As are the good, so are the sinners; those who swear are like those who shun an oath. This is an evil in all that happens under the sun, that the same fate comes to everyone. Moreover, the hearts of all are full of evil; madness is in their hearts while they live, and after that they go to the dead.

 

But whoever is joined with all the living has hope, for a living dog is better than a dead lion. The living know that they will die, but the dead know nothing; they have no more reward, and even the memory of them is lost. Their love and their hate and their envy have already perished; never again will they have any share in all that happens under the sun. Go, eat your bread with enjoyment, and drink your wine with a merry heart; for God has long ago approved what you do. Let your garments always be white; do not let oil be lacking on your head. Enjoy life with the wife whom you love, all the days of your vain life that are given you under the sun, because that is your portion in life and in your toil at which you toil under the sun. Whatever your hand finds to do, do with your might; for there is no work or thought or knowledge or wisdom in Sheol, to which you are going.

 

Again I saw that under the sun the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, nor bread to the wise, nor riches to the intelligent, nor favor to the skillful; but time and chance happen to them all. For no one can anticipate the time of disaster. Like fish taken in a cruel net, and like birds caught in a snare, so mortals are snared at a time of calamity, when it suddenly falls upon them.

We are nine chapters in. By now, we can see what Ecclesiastes is up to. This unusual book was written by a philosopher. He surveys his life and determines it is both successful and empty. On one page after another, he sweeps off the table everything he once thought important:

• Pleasure: “Whatever my eyes desired, I didn’t hold back. And it became like reaching for a puff of smoke.”
• Achievement: “I accomplished so much, worked so hard, climbed so high. Then I discovered it was like chasing the wind.”
• Money: “I worked hard for my money. I chased after my money. I couldn’t get enough of my money. I loved money. Then I discovered nobody loved me.” 

How sad. He had the promise of a good life, a rich life, a successful life, and it ran through his fingers like sand. He didn’t lose it. He still had all of it. Yet it didn’t mean as much as he thought it would. Now he looks back, he reflects. What did it all mean? All the promise, lost in its achievement. Quite sobering.

The scholars tell us the book of Ecclesiastes was composed four or five hundred years after King Solomon, but to us, it sounds like Solomon could have written it. He had plenty of pleasure – the Bible says seven hundred wives and three hundred girlfriends. I don’t know how he got an hour of sleep. He had piles of wealth, much of it inherited; Jesus once referred to him as “Solomon in all his glory.” And he was wise.

His wisdom was the gift of God. According to the Biblical account, which was composed by one of his subjects, God was so impressed by King Solomon, that God said, “Ask for whatever you want, and I’ll give it to you.” Solomon thought long and hard. Anything he wanted! He could have said “give me more of what I already have,” but he didn’t say it. He could have said, “Give me revenge over all my enemies,” but he was too confident to make that his prayer. The king could have said, “Let me live forever,” but he knew better.

Instead, Solomon prayed, “Lord, make me wise. Wise enough to rule over your people. Wise enough to know the difference between right and wrong. Wise enough to look under the surface to see what is true.”[1] God was pleased to grant him that request. In the Bible tradition, there was nobody as rich or smart as King Solomon.

And now, in Ecclesiastes, we hear the critique that comes if someone is richer and smarter than everybody else. If I might summarize it this way, if you are richer and smarter than everybody else, you still end up like everybody else. As the sage says in his own poetic way, “I saw that under the sun the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, nor bread to the wise, nor riches to the intelligent, nor favor to the skillful; but time and chance happen to them all.” All of us end up the same.

Do you have a sense of why we are working through this text in the season of Lent? It is so honest. Honesty strips the varnish off our furniture. In the light of truth, there is no pretense, no privilege, no superiority, no escape from the inevitable. 

There’s that lady that landed in the personal care home. They sold her large house and moved her into a twenty-by-twenty-foot room. She was able to bring a few favorite antiques. There’s a new tennis bracelet on her wrist, a gift from the son who said he hoped to visit but hasn’t gotten there yet. Her daughter brought the cranberry sweater with the designer logo. She seems to be doing well.

Yet this afternoon, nobody is responding when she hits the call button. She taps it again, and again. Mutters, “I deserve better than this.” Taps the call button once more, and an overworked staff member appears at door. “What can I get you, Sugar?” she says. The angry lady glares at her, laser beam eyes drilling a hole in her caregiver’s head. Then she mutters, “I don’t remember. I can’t remember.”

Life has a leveling force. Despite the advantages of some, nobody gets much of an advantage. Ecclesiastes knows this. “All the streams empty into the sea,” he says, “and the sea is never full.” (1:7) Everything runs downhill. That’s not always negative. Sometimes it can be OK.

A man stopped by to complain with his pastor. Not to complain about the pastor, at least, not that time. No, he was upset by somebody he saw on television. As he described the object of his scorn, “That tyrannical old man gets way too much attention. He’s a scoundrel and not worthy of it.” He went on like that for ten minutes. The pastor listened.

After blowing off a lot of pressurized steam, the man suddenly chuckled. “What is it?” said the pastor. “Well, it just occurred to me that someday the one I despise will go into the ground like anybody else. And every afternoon at 4:00, a visitor will walk his poodle. And precisely at 4:05 each day, the dog will pause at that ugly man’s grave, lift a leg, and anoint it.” They had a good laugh over that one.

Why should any of us think we are better than that? Ecclesiastes says, “All this I laid to heart, examining it all, how the righteous and the wise and their deeds are in the hand of God. The same fate comes to all, to the righteous and the wicked, to the good and the evil, to the clean and the unclean, to those who sacrifice and those who do not sacrifice. As are the good, so are the sinners; those who swear are like those who shun an oath… The same fate comes to everyone.”

Do you ever think about these things? I do because my work requires it. Death is the recurring companion of the pastor. After a few hundred funerals, you cease to fear it. Yet each singular loss remains real. Each departure diminishes us.

Sometimes I’ve hiked three blocks up the hill and walked among the tombstones. Each stone marks a story. Each name is a saint. Each dash between the dates is a lifetime. It is good to greet my silent congregation and remember each one.

What stories they have told! The widowed schoolteacher who never had children of her own but left an impression on a thousand adopted grandchildren. The henpecked man who finally found peace when he laid down for the last time. The jovial funeral director whose cancer went undiagnosed until it was too late. The pretty woman whose husband never paid attention to her, even when she was slipping away. The teenager who decided he had enough of his pain. The ancient couple that died within hours of one another. The young infant who never had a chance.

These stories are the stuff of our lives. My job is to make grief official, bear it with their survivors for a while, point them through the long sorrow, and suggest God’s presence in the thick of it. I would be lying if I did not confess how my work as Grief Officiant quietly affects me. John Donne said it right: Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind.[2]

It helps to walk among the stones. In time, each story loses its shock but not its value. Wisdom is learned from the dead. We calculate what is important by paying attention to the lives that passed before us. We learn to love by seeing the incalculable value of each child of God. The wise ones number their own days.

I stop at the stones whose stories I know. "Hello again," I say. "We miss you. We wish you peace in your silence." They smile on us, these quiet saints. Their troubles are over, their joy fulfilled. After that, I say farewell. I depart a different man. Love changes me.

Do you ever consider these things? Of course you do. Ecclesiastes speaks the inevitable conclusion today, “Eat your bread with enjoyment. Drink your wine with a merry heart, for God has long ago approved what you do.” Then my favorite line in the whole book, “Enjoy life with the wife whom you love, all the days of your vain life that are given you under the sun, because that is your portion in life and in your toil at which you toil under the sun.” Love your wife; or love your husband, or in the refrain of songwriter Stephen Stills, “love the one you’re with.”

Let love be the legacy that remains. Let love be expressed in the gifts that we provide for the future that outlasts each of us. Have you heard the poem “Epitaph,” by Merrit Malloy? I think someone should read it for me when my time concludes. Goes like this:

When I die give what's left of me away

to children and old men that wait to die.

And if you need to cry, 

cry for your brother walking in the street beside you.

And when you need me, put your arms around anyone

and give them what you need to give me.

 

I want to leave you something,

something better than words or sounds.

Look for me in the people I've known or loved,

and if you cannot give me away,

at least let me live in your eyes and not in your mind.

 

You can love me most by letting hands touch hands,

Letting bodies touch bodies,

and by letting go of children that need to be free.

Love doesn't die, people do.

So, when all that's left of me is love,

give me away.

I’ll see you at home in the earth. 

Do you ever think about these things? It’s the fourth Sunday in Lent, time to consider them.

Let me offer a brief vignette as a way of rehearsing the benediction. It’s not my benediction, it’s from a friend who has dropped out of contact. We were in the same preachers’ group for twenty-five years, studying at the same table, sharing our lives, swapping jokes and lies. I love that guy, but Alzheimer’s has wiped his memory clean. When he was a pastor, he blessed his congregation with the same benediction each week. He stood with his hands in the air, looked into the faces of friends, enemies, and strangers, and repeated the same words every Sunday.

It’s not my benediction, and it wasn’t his benediction either. He found it in the journal of the Swiss philosopher Henri-Frederic Amiel. Nevertheless, that benediction was my friend’s gift to me, so I make it my gift to you: “Life is short, and we have never too much time for gladdening the hearts of those who are traveling the dark journey with us. Oh, be swift to love, make haste to be kind!”[3]

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

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[1] 1 Kings 3:3-15.

[2] John Donne, “No man is an island.”

[3] Journal entry, December 16, 1868, Amiel’s Journal: The Journal Intime of Henri-Frederic Amiel (1885)