Triumph of the Wounded

Revelation 7:9-17
Easter 4
May 11, 2025

William G. Carter

After this I looked, and there was a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, robed in white, with palm branches in their hands. They cried out in a loud voice, saying, "Salvation belongs to our God who is seated on the throne and to the Lamb!"

And all the angels stood around the throne and around the elders and the four living creatures, and they fell on their faces before the throne and worshiped God, singing, "Amen! Blessing and glory and wisdom and thanksgiving and honor and power and might be to our God forever and ever! Amen."

Then one of the elders addressed me, saying, "Who are these, robed in white, and where have they come from?" I said to him, "Sir, you are the one who knows." Then he said to me, "These are they who have come out of the great ordeal; they have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb. For this reason they are before the throne of God and worship him day and night within his temple, and the one who is seated on the throne will shelter them. They will hunger no more and thirst no more; the sun will not strike them, nor any scorching heat, for the Lamb at the center of the throne will be their shepherd, and he will guide them to springs of the water of life, and God will wipe away every tear from their eyes."

I was busy reading the text, so I didn’t notice if anybody flinched when I said it came from the Book of Revelation. A lot of people regard Revelation as a spooky book.

It’s a strange book. The writer is the prophet John. He says he wrote down a series of visions that came on a Sunday morning. I don’t know what kind of visions you’re having today, but some of John’s visions are frightening. He sees vicious beasts with sharp teeth and terrible claws. And he hears thunder, false prophets spouting lies. Some of his visions are destructive. John sees hunger, disease, poverty, and war.

But that’s only half the story. For every horseman of the apocalypse, there are hundreds of holy angels. For every cry of pain, affliction, and suffering, there are resounding songs of praise. For every bowl of hot, burning wrath, there are altars of incense lifted as the prayers of the saints. And for every mighty dragon speaking great lies and blasphemies, there is a single Throne – and the dragon is not on it.

No, John looks and sees a Lamb. The blasphemous dragon doesn’t rule the universe. No, it’s a Lamb. Now, let that sink in.

We’ve met the Lamb before, in chapter five. John sees a Lamb that had been killed. Murdered, in fact. Yet it stands as if it is alive, thoroughly alive. So, we can guess who John perceives. It’s Jesus himself, once killed, now alive. The Lamb of God, as others called him. The Passover Lamb, as one of our Gospels describes him. He is the One who leads his people into freedom, freedom from sin and death. Surrounding him is a veritable hootenanny. A million angels are breaking into a sevenfold song of praise:

Worthy is the Lamb that was slain to receive power, and riches, and wisdom,

and strength, and honor, and glory, and blessing!

It’s an Easter hymn. He was dead but now he lives and sits upon the throne! Today, a new scene, a new vision, and we hear the sevenfold song echoed:

Blessing and glory and wisdom and thanksgiving and honor and power and might

be to our God forever and ever! (and then to reinforce the point) Amen!

This is an Easter song, an Easter vision. Christ has died, Christ is risen, and everybody says Amen!

 But tell me, what’s with all those ugly sights and sounds? You know, the beasts, and dragons and boiling bowls of wrath? Good question!

 In his reflection on the book of Revelation, Eugene Peterson said the same question was on the minds of the first century church. The church was small; the Roman Empire was expansive. The church was blessed with those who were meek, while the Roman Empire worshiped power. The church lived by kindness and good works, while the Empire trampled with cruelty and brute force. This must have puzzled the Christians, Peterson notes. As he puts it,

If the kingdom of God has been inaugurated by Christ, why are Roman armies so much in evidence? The gospel declared God’s love for the world; Roman decrees put the people who believed it in prisons and on crosses. Christ lived, suffered, died, and rose again— and the world was getting worse, not better. Annie Dillard asks the question that presses for an answer in this kind of world— she ranks it as the chief theological question of all time — “What in the Sam Hill is going on here anyway?”[1]

 What’s going on? In the vision for today, the prophet John refers to the “Great Ordeal.” The Greek word that he uses is a word about “pressing together,” as in a squeezing, a compressing, an application of pressure. “I’m your brother in this ordeal,” he said in chapter one. He doesn’t give us a lot of details. We know he has fallen afoul of the Roman Emperor, and was sent to a small, barren rock of an island off the coat of western Turkey.

 

John felt the pressure. Rome demanded absolute allegiance, but John sees Christ the Lamb as the One who rightfully sits on the throne. The Empire pressed in to compel John’s obedience, but John will only answer to Christ who shepherds him with grace. Caesar – in this case, a Caesar named Domitian – reinforces his pressure with cruelty and the threat of death, but John knows his future is secure in the God who is stronger than the grave.

 

In the stunning vision for today, John sees more than the angels, more than the eternal elders. There is also an unlimited choir of saints in a cloud of glory. They are not just Jews like him, but rather a multitude, defined by diversity, drawing from every nation. They speak every language. They represent all the people whom Christ died for and lives for. And then they break into song - and keep singing. These people are triumphant because their Christ is triumphant!

 

But here’s the thing: he’s still a Lamb. Not a brutal dictator, but a Lamb. Not a defiant, belligerent bully who pushes his weight around, but a Lamb. Not an arrogant fool who decrees what he wants, but a Lamb who gave his life for others but now lives. And this may be the most curious thing of all!

 

There’s a Lutheran pastor named Katherine. She was trying to figure out how to talk about this text from Revelation, not just to a congregation, but for a children’s sermon. And then she remembered a phrase she had heard from one of her teachers. Jesus comes with “lamb power.” Not mighty power. Not pushy power, but lamb power. “Children,” she asked, “do you know what lamb power looks like?”

 

“Well, it’s cute and cuddly,” one of them said. “I have a toy lamb,” another added, “and I can hug it whenever I’m upset.” “I saw a lamb at a farm,” one said, “and he came close so I could set its wool.” They went on like this for a while, the way a good children’s sermon can spark more conversations that you can shut down. Finally, Katherine broke in to say, “Let’s pray.” Prayer as crowd control, you know. Then she added, “If you hear any more lamb power in today’s worship service, stand up and say so.”

 

Now, she forgot for the moment that it was a communion Sunday. And she’s a Lutheran. So, in the middle of the long communion prayer, she says, “Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world.” Suddenly three kids started bleating! And everybody said, “Lamb power!”[2]

 

It strikes me how different this is from the way the world configures power. The world exerts power through force and dominance, just like the old Roman Empire. Yet the Gospel reveals that true power thrives on love, compassion, forgiveness, mercy, humility, and self-sacrifice. Empires and their bullies come and go, but Jesus, the Lamb of God, sits upon the throne. He was wounded by the world, but he is alive. His graciousness is his superpower.

 

The truth of this was brought home to me through a couple vignettes. The first happened around a funeral that I led. I got a phone call a few years ago from an old friend from high school who now lives in Florida. He said, “My father died, and I don’t know any clergy from our hometown. Could you officiate his funeral?” Well, certainly! I’d be honored. My buddy gave me the date and time for a graveside service, out in the country hills south of my town.”

 

As I hung up the phone, recalling what I could about his father, I suddenly remembered that my friend had an older brother. His name was Bob, and he was the bully that threatened me when I was in first grade. It’s still traumatic to remember it. Bob was older, taller, and had an anger management problem for a fourth grader. He loved to pick on little kids.

 

One day, noticing I had an interest in a blonde classmate that his brother, my buddy, also desired, he confronted me on the steps of the school bus. “Stay away from her,” he bellowed. Then he pushed me down the steps of the school bus. The bus driver yelled at him, but the damage was done. I cowered in fear. I did what he said. It ruined my first-grade love life. I had never gotten over it – and now I was doing his father’s funeral. Gave me second thoughts.

 

But then, we gathered at graveside, and here he came, fifty-five years later. Now, an old man, thick glasses, walking with a cane, and absolutely distraught. He had lost his father. I said the necessary words, he wept. I prayed his dad into the care of Christ, the Lamb of God, who is our shepherd. After the “amen,” I stepped over to shake his hand and offer condolences. He grabbed my hand, pulled me in, gave a huge hug, and said, “Thank you.” You know, sometimes even the bullies grow up. So do the cowards. Mercy is the way to abundant life.

 

The second vignette is something you may have seen. With all the grief over one pope’s death and another pope’s election, I noticed a brief article about Pope Francis, the one who died. He had a heart for the downtrodden, for the weak, and for the vulnerable. He turned down the fancy mansion years ago and chose a small apartment. He also turned down a salary; reports say he had $100 to his name when he passed.

 

Now, here’s the vignette: when Pope Francis was dying, he bequeathed one of his Pope Mobiles to the children of Gaza, asking that it be used for a mobile health clinic. It will carry bandages, antibiotics, sutures, and vaccines in a land where thousands have died, and the health system has collapsed. As the Vatican reports, “Pope Francis often stated that ‘Children are not numbers. They are faces. Names. Stories. And each one is sacred,’ and with this final gift, his words have become action.”[3]

 

This is Lamb Power, so different from the cruelty, division, and hostility that a hell-bent world won’t restrain. Yet there is another way, the Jesus Way, the Mother-Who-Loves-You Way, the way of mercy and self-sacrifice. It’s the Way for those who hear the voice of Jesus. It’s the Way for those who know he is the way, the truth, and the life.

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

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[1] Eugene Peterson, Reversed Thunder: The Revelation of John & the Praying Imagination (San Francisco: HarperCollins, 1988) 72.

[2] Katherine A. Shaner, “Lamb Power,” The Christian Century, 9 May 2025. https://www.christiancentury.org/sunday-s-coming/easter-4c-shaner

[3] https://www.vaticannews.va/en/pope/news/2025-05/the-popemobile-of-peace-pope-francis-final-gift-to-gaza.html

Easter and Other Ghost Stories

Luke 24:36-49
Holy Humor / Easter 2
April 27, 2025
William G. Carter

     While [the disciples] were talking about this, Jesus himself stood among them and said to them, “Peace be with you.” They were startled and terrified, and thought that they were seeing a ghost. He said to them, “Why are you frightened, and why do doubts arise in your hearts? Look at my hands and my feet; see that it is I myself. Touch me and see; for a ghost does not have flesh and bones as you see that I have.” And when he had said this, he showed them his hands and his feet. While in their joy they were disbelieving and still wondering, he said to them, “Have you anything here to eat?” They gave him a piece of broiled fish, and he took it and ate in their presence.

Then he said to them, “These are my words that I spoke to you while I was still with you—that everything written about me in the law of Moses, the prophets, and the psalms must be fulfilled.” Then he opened their minds to understand the scriptures, and he said to them, “Thus it is written, that the Messiah is to suffer and to rise from the dead on the third day, and that repentance and forgiveness of sins is to be proclaimed in his name to all nations, beginning from Jerusalem. You are witnesses of these things. And see, I am sending upon you what my Father promised; so stay here in the city until you have been clothed with power from on high.”

Of all the jokes and gags told today, do you know any about ghosts? I have a few.

• Why did the ghost starch his sheet? He wanted everyone scared stiff.
• What’s a ghost’s favorite type of music? Sheet music.
• What did the ghost wear to improve his eyesight? Spook-tacles.
• Where do ghosts go when they want to surf? The Dead Sea.
• What's a ghost's favorite makeup to wear? Mas-scare-a!
• How does a ghost unlock a door? With a spoo-key.
• What room does a ghost not need in a house? A living room.
• Why do ghosts love elevators? It lifts their spirits.
• Why don’t ghosts ride in elevators? When the elevator goes up, they fall through the floor.

Let’s talk about ghosts. As far as I know, I have only had one encounter with a ghost. I went to a conference. They put us in a large house, a three-story mansion. After signing in, I received my room key. And the man at the desk said, “Wait a minute. Room 37.” He looked both ways and said, “Are you afraid of ghosts?”

Is the room haunted? “That’s not something we can prove,” he replied, “although we have had reports of strange occurrences in Room 37.” I gave him a long look. He said, “It’s not like anybody died in that room. Not that we know of.” Well, what if they did? He said, “They’re probably still there.” 

So, the conference started well. There was dinner and an opening session. It went until 9:00, and then everybody scattered. I walked across a very dark conference center to my three-story house, punched in the security code, pulled the door shut behind me, and walked up the long staircase. The place could have been better lit. Lots of shadows in that hallway.

When I got to the third floor, I found Room 37. It was at the end of the hallway. Fishing around for the key in my pocket, I opened the door and said, “Anybody in here?” You can’t be too careful. I didn’t hear a reply, so I unpacked the small suitcase, put on my pajamas, and pulled out the book I’d been reading. A murder mystery, of course. Then I plopped into a large wingback chair and turned on the reading light.

About two chapters in, the light went out. I flicked the bulb with my finger. Nothing. So, I got up to turn on another light across the room – and the reading light came back on. OK, I returned to the chair, opened my book, and the light went out again. I muttered under my breath, “You know, I would really like to read for a while” – and the light came back on. It was unsettling… for a murder mystery.

I read for a little bit longer and the light went out again. No use fussing with the paranormal, so I put down the book and crawled into bed. I tried to sleep with one eye open. Tossed and turned, re-fluffed the pillow, rolled over. After about an hour, I drifted off. Then somewhere around 2:30, the bathroom faucet started running full force. I sat right up in bed, turned on the light. Nobody else was there, nobody I could see.

I turned off the faucet, crawled back into bed, stared at the ceiling. Every little sound in that old creaking house, I sat up and looked around. At breakfast, somebody said, “You look awful. Did you sleep?” And my host said, “He was in Room 37.” Everybody else around the table said, “Oh, right!” And they went back to their meal.

Did I see anything? No. Did I hear anything? No. Was I spooked? – that’s an appropriate phrase – was I spooked? You bet.

So, I can’t imagine how it went for the eleven disciples to see Jesus three days after he was killed. Suddenly, he was just there. Nobody saw him enter. Nobody knew how he got there. No, they blinked and there he was, two fingers in the air, saying “Shalom!” Was he hiding? Did he walk through the wall? Nobody knew – and they were terrified.

What made it worse is that the eleven had just been told a wild tale about Jesus disguised as a stranger. It’s the story we heard last Sunday in worship. Two other disciples were trudging off to the tiny town of Emmaus, dejected by what they had seen on the cross, incredulous about what they had heard from the tomb. This Stranger stepped alongside, heard their tale, then gave them a two-hour-long Bible lesson to explain it. He called them “stupid.” He said they were slow.

It was kind of rude, but they listened. When they drew near their home, they invited him in for dinner. And as we heard, he took the bread as if he owned it, broke it, gave it to them. They realized it was Jesus. Then he vanished – like a ghost. It was enough of a shock to send them running back seven miles to Jerusalem. They knocked on the door, gave the password, hurried inside. As they told their story, he was again, showing up, inside a room that we can presume was locked. They had only one logical conclusion: was this a ghost?

Now, I don’t know if you believe in ghosts. Maybe you do, maybe you don’t. Maybe like me, you stayed in a room with faulty wiring and a leaky faucet. Or maybe you’ve had a moment you cannot explain. Most of us, if we felt safe, might confess to seeing somebody in a dream – and we are completely convinced it was real. Others of us have had even more mystical moments if we dared to confess them.

Ghosts inhabit our stories. Like all those Harry Potter books, floating apparitions of those who died tragically, passing through walls, peeking underwater, commenting truthfully on the deceptions underway. Or that most famous Christmas story apart from the New Testament accounts. It’s a ghost story, leading Ebenezer Scrooge to say, “How do I know you are not a dab of mustard or an underdone potato?” To which Jacob Marley howled!

The eleven disciples saw Jesus and thought he was a ghost. He said, “Why are you frightened?” And the line Luke left out of the Bible is, “Why do you think?” People who die don’t come back. But he did.

So, he said, “Look at my scars – hands and feet. See, it’s me!” Again, the line Luke left out of the Bible is, “We see the scars, but that’s not particularly comforting.” And he says to them, “Want to touch them?” Again, the deleted bit of dialogue, “No, we don’t want to touch them. No, thank you.”

What Luke does say is a remarkable description, “in their joy, they were disbelieving.” They were overwhelmed – and overwhelmed.

Then he said something else. “Got anything to eat?” It was stunning. Like a teenager coming home from soccer practice, ravenous with hunger, peering into the refrigerator, “Is there anything here to eat? I see half a jar of pickles, some mustard, and three containers of expired yogurt. Is there any food here?” They gave Jesus a piece of fish. Then they all leaned forward to see if they could watch it go down into his belly. It’s a bizarre story.

I remember the late, great Jimmy Connors, three-term mayor for the city of Scranton. He always had a joke. And if he was forgetful, he wrote them down on 3 by 5 cards. Here’s one of his favorites: “A skeleton walked into a bar and said, ‘Give me a beer and a mop.’” It’s a dumb joke, but it makes the same point.

They watched Jesus eat that piece of broiled fish. Did it go down into his belly? Could they track it down his throat through his translucent body? And the answer was, “He really did eat the fish.” To be fair, he hadn’t eaten anything since Thursday night. That was, as we say, his Last Supper. Three nights later, he was eating a leftover piece of broiled fish. Well, didn’t he have some of the bread he broke up in Emmaus? No, the Bible says he broke it, but it doesn’t say he ate it. In fact, he vanished before supper. And now, he’s in Jerusalem.

Go ahead and try to figure this out. I can’t. You can’t. The disciples couldn’t. It was more than they could comprehend. It still is. But just because we don’t understand something doesn’t mean it’s not real.

Of all the stories! Why does Luke add this account to his larger story? No doubt there were deep questions bubbling up in the generations after Jesus. What really happened on Easter? How could Jesus choose to disguise himself? How could he get from one place to another so quickly and effortlessly? Was he just a vision, a fantasy, a phantasm? Within a hundred years, a teacher named Marcion taught that Jesus was so divine that he could not have been a human. Since God doesn’t have a material body, Jesus didn’t either. He only appeared to suffer.

Hearing all that, the church said, “No, that’s heresy. Jesus was real. He took up physical space. His body was wounded because of us. He came back breathing through the mystery of God’s power. He still had the scars, yet he was completely alive. And he ate a piece of fish.” We can’t explain anything more than that.

But we can listen to the story he tells and the meaning he provides for it. The Messiah came to us from God. A deadly mix of religion and politics conspired to kill him in a ghastly way. But then God raised him and sent him back to us, to announce God’s forgiveness for what we had done. And in his own voice, Jesus called us to turn from our destructive ways and proclaim the mercy that has the power to set us free. This is the Good News. All of us are invited to live it and tell it.

Easter is more than a ghost story; and in a way, it prepares us for the Ghost who is to come. This will be the Holy Ghost, the Holy Spirit. Jesus predicts what we have come to know, that he continues among us to keep his story alive. This is more than a fantasy. It’s reality. We embody it here and now in our own time and place.

“Let repentance and forgiveness be proclaimed everywhere,” he said. Everywhere, starting right here.

Love God, love one another. That’s the aim. Take God seriously. Take one another seriously, from the tips of their heads to the bottom of their smelly feet. And that reminds me of a song…

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

An Easter Recipe for Holy Heartburn

Luke 24:13-35
Easter
April 20, 2025
William G. Carter

Now on that same day two of them were going to a village called Emmaus, about seven miles from Jerusalem, and talking with each other about all these things that had happened. While they were talking and discussing, Jesus himself came near and went with them, but their eyes were kept from recognizing him. And he said to them, “What are you discussing with each other while you walk along?” They stood still, looking sad. Then one of them, whose name was Cleopas, answered him, “Are you the only stranger in Jerusalem who does not know the things that have taken place there in these days?” He asked them, “What things?” They replied, “The things about Jesus of Nazareth, who was a prophet mighty in deed and word before God and all the people, and how our chief priests and leaders handed him over to be condemned to death and crucified him. But we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel. Yes, and besides all this, it is now the third day since these things took place. Moreover, some women of our group astounded us. They were at the tomb early this morning, and when they did not find his body there, they came back and told us that they had indeed seen a vision of angels who said that he was alive. Some of those who were with us went to the tomb and found it just as the women had said; but they did not see him.” 

 

Then he said to them, “Oh, how foolish you are, and how slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have declared! Was it not necessary that the Messiah should suffer these things and then enter into his glory?” Then beginning with Moses and all the prophets, he interpreted to them the things about himself in all the scriptures. As they came near the village to which they were going, he walked ahead as if he were going on. But they urged him strongly, saying, “Stay with us, because it is almost evening and the day is now nearly over.” So he went in to stay with them. When he was at the table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them. Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him; and he vanished from their sight. They said to each other, “Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?” That same hour they got up and returned to Jerusalem; and they found the eleven and their companions gathered together. They were saying, “The Lord has risen indeed, and he has appeared to Simon!” Then they told what had happened on the road, and how he had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread.

 

Happy Easter, everybody! This is our big day.

I can imagine a church deciding to do something about that. They pool their resources to rent a billboard. The message goes up for a month before the holy day. “Come to our church and see that Easter is true and Jesus is alive!” Then they train the ushers to be super friendly, plan for good food at coffee hour, and start the countdown. The sign is in a prominent location. Thousands of cars pass by every day. There’s hope that the building will be full of fresh faces. 

And when the day comes, attendance is the same as it was last year and the year before that. Worried that they wasted money on advertising, a huddle forms in the back of Fellowship Hall. Why didn’t we see more visitors? Should we have used brighter colors on the sign? Should we have left the photo of the pastor off the billboard?

Nobody can say. Until one seasoned choir member says, “In all my years, I’ve never known a billboard to make more believers.” She has a point.

There’s something about Easter faith that cannot be flashed up on a sign. We can’t prove the resurrection by posting a picture of an empty tomb. Something else has to happen. Something that the Gospel of Luke is telling us some fifty years after the raising of Jesus.

All four Gospels tell us that it took a while for the Easter announcement to sink in. Mark says the women went to anoint the body of Jesus with burial spices. They ran away terrified and didn’t say anything to anybody. Matthew says the Roman guards were bribed to say the body was stolen; the lie was told for many years. John says there was confusion and tears. One of those closest to Jesus declared, “I won’t believe it until I can put my finger in the nail holes.”[1]

Luke adds a pathetic note of his own. The women return to tell the disciples what an angel told them, that Jesus had to be delivered into the hands of sinners, be crucified, and raised on the third day. Their report is dismissed as nonsense, an idle tale, a curiosity. It’s no wonder that a billboard won’t get anybody to church on Easter Sunday. The news is a lot to take in.

So, Luke tells us about two of Christ’s followers walking away from the whole event. Naturally, they are talking about their disappointment. They had hoped Jesus was the Messiah, but the Messiah was never supposed to die. They hoped Jesus would chase out the Roman army, but the soldiers presided over his crucifixion. They hoped what they heard the women say was true, that the tomb had been opened, and the body wasn’t there. Yet as they told a stranger about it, they scratched their heads and admitted they didn’t know what to think.

But this stranger seems to know his Bible. He says, “Wasn’t it necessary the Messiah should suffer?” That was something they never thought about. They assumed it was all glory, more glory, and victory. Yet in a world like this, God’s ways are resisted. God’s teachings are broken. God’s messengers are rejected. It happened to Moses. It happened to the prophet Samuel. It happened to Elijah, Elisha, Isaiah, Jeremiah, right down to the present day. “It’s all in the Bible,” he said. It doesn’t mean the Messiah wasn’t the Messiah; it simply means the Messiah never expected an easy time of it.

At this, Luke says the two followers of Jesus began to have heartburn. Not because they had eaten something spicy, but they knew this is the truth about we are and how we push God away. The Bible is a big thick book. It says a lot of things. One of the prevailing themes is how good God is, how righteous God is, and how hard it is for human beings to be around such goodness and righteousness. We want it, but we don’t want it, and no Easter billboard will quickly change anybody’s mind.

It was a long lesson. The three of them were walking seven miles, says Luke. That’s about a two hour walk if you’re talking and the terrain is flat. From the sounds of it, the Bible teacher filled up most of that time. The two arrived at their destination. The teacher was going on – but they said, “It’s getting late. Stay with us.” And we heard what happened: he took the bread, blessed, broke it, and gave it to them. They realized it was Jesus. Then he disappeared.

And with that, they hustled back seven miles to Jerusalem in the dark. They had to tell the disciples whom they had seen – even though they could not now see him. They told what he had said – and how it put everything in perspective. And they told them how they knew he was alive – it happened in the breaking of the bread.

Now, let’s take a couple of minutes to unpack this. There are a few reasons why this is a critical Easter story.

First, Easter is easy to miss. It’s just out of sight. None of us were there to see the empty tomb. Of course, we’ve heard about it. Today we sing about it. But there is no assurance the message that Jesus is alive will lodge in our souls. In fact, it might ricochet off us like an acorn bouncing off a turtle shell. We can never judge those who do not believe. After all, every single Easter story reports some were not sure.

So, it’s OK to admit our own uncertainty. To confess our unfinished faith. Some days faith is strong, other days it’s not. That’s the nature of faith. It doesn’t mean the things we’ve been told are not true. Only that we don’t see them. And we are all on the road. Faith is a journey. All of us have a way to go.

Second, faith can be awakened by discussing scripture. That’s how it is on the road to Emmaus. Reading scripture is important, but talking with others about it is what sinks into the soul. The Bible is a collection of field reports of where God has been heard and what God has done. You and I weren’t there when any of that happened. But when we read what others have said about the works of God, the character of God, of the love and justice of God, a picture begins to form.

When we talk to one another about it, we come to some clarity. We build a consensus. What Cleopas and his companion discover is there is a truth behind their trauma. Jesus was good, and they loved him. Jesus was crucified for doing good, and it tore them up. And the stranger says, “Wasn’t it necessary for him to suffer, just as the prophets did?” They begin to nod their heads in recognition. They remember what it is like to live for God in a world like this.

Third, the Bible prepares us to catch a glimpse of the Christ who lives again. It’s good to hear the Bible. It’s good to discuss the Bible. But Jesus is more than a character in the Bible. He is alive. He is no longer bound by history. He is always in the present tense. We see the evidence in the little game he plays with these two disciples seven miles out of Jerusalem. He takes the bread, blesses, breaks it, and gives it to them.

Wait, wait, wait. Just like the Last Supper! Just like the time he fed the multitude in the wilderness! And they see him. They know him. They cannot hold on to him, which is fine. He has places to go, people to see, illnesses to heal, multitudes to feed, sinners to restore, a world to run, and a universe to rule. You can’t pin him down because he is no longer bound to the tomb, no longer confined to the Holy Land, no longer stuck in the past. Jesus is alive. He is perpetually in the present tense. And for us, there are moments when this becomes crystal clear.

Can you think of those moments for you?

·       Maybe somebody you loved was sick, desperately sick, and somehow, they got better.

·       Or maybe somebody you loved was slipping away, and you recognized they were going to be in better hands than your own.

·       Maybe life was unraveling for you and then you got a second chance.

·       Maybe you were swirling in a moral tornado, turning every which way, when things became clear, you knew there is a right and wrong, and life needed to change.

·       Maybe you were struggling to find some purpose in your life – and then your purpose found you.

·       Or maybe you crawled through some trauma until an internal switch clicked, and you knew the old trauma no longer needed to define you. 

All are signs that Jesus is alive, that he is with us. We do not see him, but we can know him. And Luke reminds us in all his writing that the scriptures help us understand who Jesus is, what he has been through, and what he continues to do.

One of my professors was a guy named Jim Loder. He taught Christian Education theory, but his specialty was teaching us how to spot Jesus when he comes. He loved this story of the road to Emmaus. He used to say this is the moment where it all comes together. Two disappointed disciples discover Jesus is alive through the “breaking of the bread.”

Now, what does that mean? Communion? Feeding the five thousand? Some other meal? Dr. Loder said, “Let’s talk about the bread. When was the last time Jesus had some bread? It was when he said, ‘This is my body, broken on the cross.’ The bread is Jesus’ own symbol for his crucifixion, now held by his resurrected Presence” – and he gives it to them. His brokenness is united with theirs. He gives it to them as the One who lives, so that now they might live, and live abundantly. When they see this, it’s enough. Jesus doesn’t need to stick around, and they don’t need him to stay visible. The miracle of Easter has happened in them, and they have people to tell.[2]

As Dr. Loder said to us – and it’s true for all matters of faith - “Once you’ve wised up, you can’t wise down.”

Friends, Jesus Christ is risen. He is no longer confined to a place long ago. He can draw near us, and we don’t recognize him. He can open the scriptures in a way that our hearts will burn. In the power of his resurrection, he breaks the bread and puts it into our hands. And should we see him, we know that nothing will ever be the same ever again.

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

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[1] Mark 16:8, Matthew 28:13-15, John 20:25.

[2] Adapted from James E. Loder, The Transforming Moment, (Colorado Springs: Helmers & Howard, 1989), 121.

Can You Spot the Betrayer?

Luke 22:14-27
Maundy Thursday
April 17, 2025
William G. Carter

When the hour came, Jesus took his place at the table, and the apostles with him. He said to them, “I have eagerly desired to eat this Passover with you before I suffer; for I tell you, I will not eat it until it is fulfilled in the kingdom of God.” Then he took a cup, and after giving thanks he said, “Take this and divide it among yourselves; for I tell you that from now on I will not drink of the fruit of the vine until the kingdom of God comes.” Then he took a loaf of bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to them, saying, “This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.” And he did the same with the cup after supper, saying, “This cup that is poured out for you is the new covenant in my blood.

 

But see, the one who betrays me is with me, and his hand is on the table. For the Son of Man is going as it has been determined, but woe to that one by whom he is betrayed!” Then they began to ask one another, which one of them it could be who would do this. A dispute also arose among them as to which one of them was to be regarded as the greatest. But he said to them, “The kings of the Gentiles lord it over them; and those in authority over them are called benefactors. But not so with you; rather the greatest among you must become like the youngest, and the leader like one who serves. For who is greater, the one who is at the table or the one who serves? Is it not the one at the table? But I am among you as one who serves.

Thanks to columnist David Brooks, I’ve been working through a book of prayers. Back around Christmas, Brooks wrote a major article in the New York Times about his spiritual journey. He mentioned a book called The Valley of Vision. An Amazon gift card appeared under the Christmas tree, and I used it to purchase the book. It is an attractive book, of Puritan prayers. 

Every morning, at the end of my morning reading, somewhere around 8:30, I recite one of the prayers. I’ve decided I might not make a good Puritan.

The Presbyterian Church has descended, in part, from the Puritans. Most of us have moved on a good distance beyond them. The prayers can be demanding at best, scathing at worst. They scrape away any pretension that we are good people. They highlight our sins, especially the ones we have not noticed. They scrub like steel wool on the soul.

You see, “self-esteem” was not a phrase known by the Puritans. They believe it leads to deadly pride, spiritual arrogance, and the flawed assumption that we have no need for God. Build yourself up, inflate your importance, and it’s a short time before you fall. As I work through these prayers, I frequently find myself chastened, corrected, and exposed.

I wonder how the disciples felt, years later, when their foibles were written down and published in scripture. There they are around the Passover table. Jesus says it will be the last Passover he will celebrate for a while. He speaks of suffering. He speaks of blood. He speaks of death. And an argument breaks out between the boys, “Which one of them is the best?” Are they that tone-deaf? Yes.

Over in the Gospel of Mark, this episode is told on the road to Jerusalem. Here, it’s right there at the Last Supper, as if Luke is telling us the holiest moment can be punctured by worst human impulses. The description of this interruption is pretty scathing: “I’m better than you.” “No, you’re not.” They sound like children fighting over their mother’s attention. They miss the moment. They miss the mark. They miss the truth they are loved equally. The blessing of Passover devolves into arrogance, division, and competition.

It can happen to any of us. Especially if we are intoxicated by our own importance. That’s what the Puritan prayers have been teaching me.

Fact is, Jesus pours out the cup, calls it blood, and says, “One of you will betray me. Your hand is on the table.” They look around the table. Who is it?

We know it would be Judas, but they didn’t know that. For twenty-two chapters, Judas has been towing the line, fitting in, doing whatever the other disciples did. In Luke’s account, there was no sign of unfaithfulness. There was no hint Judas will turn out bad. It’s only years later, looking back on the event, that Luke says, “The devil got into him,” the same devil that tempted Jesus. The point is it could have been any of us.

Listen to what happens tonight. Two disciples are with Jesus in the Garden. One has a sword, the other comes with a kiss. Which one is friend? Which one is enemy? The one with the sword is friend. The one with the kiss is the enemy. Who would have known that?

So, we are invited to some self-reflection. Judas was at the table. So was Simon Peter. And here we are. Anyone who partakes of the Eucharist can betray the Lord. Just because we eat the bread and drink the cup is no assurance that we will persevere. As someone notes, “Only Jesus’ intimates can betray him.”[1] Those closest to Jesus are most at risk. It could be any of us.

This is how Luke wishes to shape our faith. He invites us to look into a warped mirror, detect our distortions, and correct what we see. And we reflect on what we don’t see – but it’s still there.

For the invitation continues. Come to God once more through the grace of Jesus Christ. Take the bread, always broken for you. Drink the cup poured out for you, remembering he has made a new covenant for us. We are thoroughly and completely loved, so there is always a place for us at Christ’s Table. We are welcome, no matter what we’ve done. We are invited to a journey that continues to transform us.

At every step of the way, we’re invited to come home. Come home to God.

 

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

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[1] Frank J. Matera, Passion Narratives and Gospel Theologies (Mahwah NJ: Paulist Press, 1986) 163.

Did Not Know

Luke 19:41-48
Palm Sunday
April 13, 2025

William G. Carter

As Jesus came near and saw the city, he wept over it, saying, “If you, even you, had only recognized on this day the things that make for peace! But now they are hidden from your eyes. Indeed, the days will come upon you, when your enemies will set up ramparts around you and surround you, and hem you in on every side. They will crush you to the ground, you and your children within you, and they will not leave within you one stone upon another; because you did not recognize the time of your visitation from God.” Then he entered the temple and began to drive out those who were selling things there; and he said, “It is written, ‘My house shall be a house of prayer’; but you have made it a den of robbers.” Every day he was teaching in the temple. The chief priests, the scribes, and the leaders of the people kept looking for a way to kill him; but they did not find anything they could do, for all the people were spellbound by what they heard.

The Palm Sundays of my childhood were joyful events. It was one of the few Sundays when the choir marched down the aisle. The ushers handed out palms. We sang triumphant music. We dressed in the bright colors of spring. On Palm Sunday, Jesus was our triumphant king. Everything was right with the world.

As I reflect back, the celebration reflected our social location. Our Presbyterian Church was in a county seat. There was a high scale affluence. IBM was the major employer in our town. Everything seemed right with the world, or at least our little corner of it. Many of the Presbyterians didn’t seem to notice we lived on the northern shoulder of Appalachia.

Our celebration was festive and joyful. There was optimism in the air. It had a narcotic event. While our parents sipped coffee after the service, kids like me had imaginary sword fights with the palms they gave us in church.

That’s how we celebrated Palm Sunday when I was a kid. There was no clue anybody was going to die by the end of the week, especially Jesus.

So, it feels like jumping in a vat of ice water to hear how the Gospel of Luke tells the story. Jesus rides a borrowed donkey downhill from the town of Bethany. As he comes around the bend, he sees Jerusalem in all its splendor. Rather than burst into praise, he begins to weep. Rather than echo the enthusiasm of the crowd around him, Jesus shouts to the city, “If only you had recognized today the things that make for peace.” Then he adds, “Because you don’t recognize God’s visit to you, your enemies will crush you to the ground.”

Happy Palm Sunday! If you expected happiness and joy, Luke’s story is a downer.

The pilgrims still march that route. They assemble at the top of the hill and sing hosannas. They wave palm branches. Then they come around the bend, take in the majestic view, and there’s a church a few steps to the right. It’s called Dominus Flevit, which means “The Lord wept.” The building is shaped like a teardrop. It does not get a lot of tourists. It’s not what they want for Palm Sunday.

Let’s reflect on that. Why the uniquely positive spin for the day when Jesus rides into the city that will kill him? Are we going to race through the events of Holy Week and get to the happy ending on Easter? Perhaps. Holy Week services are a bit of downer, too. At least, that’s what some folks have told me. The Last Supper, the betrayal, the arrest, the hammering of nails, the last gasp of breath – it is a lot to process.

At this point in my life, I value what Luke is trying to tell us. That even in the midst of our hosannas and hallelujahs, there’s a lot of unfinished business. When Easter comes, it doesn’t bring instant recognition of God or an understanding of the things that make for peace. My goodness, Jesus was talking about Jerusalem. That city hasn’t had any peace in two thousand years. And if we take a deep breath, we realize he’s talking about us.

When Jesus offers his lament, he speaks in the language of the Jewish prophets. This is one of the ways Luke describes his ministry. Just about the time Pontius Pilate visits Jerusalem from the west, surrounded by a military parade and a display of force, Jesus rides in from the east. The people around him carry no weapons. They are singing Passover psalms. They offer their coats as a makeshift saddle. The contrast could not be more dramatic. Power on one side of the city, humility on the other.

It's just as the prophet Zechariah imagined: “Rejoice, your king comes on a donkey… He will cut off the warhorse from Jerusalem.”[1] Jesus knew what the prophet wrote. Why else did he arrange ahead of the time for the donkey?

And there is lament itself, the weeping. It’s right out of the prophet Jeremiah. From chapter eight, “My joy is gone, grief is upon me; my heart is sick… For the brokenness of my people I am broken. I mourn, and horror has seized me.”[2] Jesus knew the prophet Jeremiah’s writings. Why else would he pause when he saw the city?

Luke wants us to remember Jesus is a truth-teller. Jesus knows there is a lot of hurt in the world. Forcefulness will not fix it. Neither will it be healed if someone tries to smooth it over. So, he weeps, weeps for the city, weeps for all the people within it, weeps for those of us centuries later who haven’t figured out the things that make for peace. They did not know. Neither do we.

In an elegant passage from his Palm Sunday sermon, Frederick Buechner wrote,

I think he weeps for every place on the face of this heartbreaking planet where children have no food to eat and no place to turn to, and the dispossessed turn to lawlessness and chaos, and the homeless sleep wrapped in newspapers to keep out the cold. And I think he weeps too for the rich who have homes all over creation but often can find no home inside themselves and who add to the world’s pain, and to their own pain, less by any evil they do than by the good they don’t do, the good they could do, maybe even dream of doing but somehow never quite get around to doing very well, for the poor and broken of the world. I think he weeps for all those who hunger and thirst after righteousness but don’t know where it is to be found, or are afraid to find it, or don’t even know that it is what they are hungering for maybe more than they hunger for anything else. There at the bend in the road he weeps, in other wors, for all of us an for the self-destroying, world-destroying darkness that is part of all of us, and says to you and me as he said to Jerusalem all those centuries ago, “Would that even today you knew the things that make for peace,” if only for peace inside our own skins.[3]  

To put it simply, the world is a mess. That’s why the Christ weeps. That’s why anybody weeps. And it’s precisely why this day is grounded in a single Hebrew word: Hosanna! Some think this is a praise word. It certainly sounds like that. But at its heart, it is a prayer word. Hosanna means “save us.” It’s the best word of all for this beginning of Holy Week. Saving is exactly what Jesus does. For those who can recognize it, Jesus saves in at least three ways: by speaking, by acting, by giving.

Jesus saves by speaking, by speaking truth. He reveals the hurt and names it. There is no saving if we don’t know what he is saving. The hurt is often buried, denied, and covered up. I think again of the prophet Jeremiah, speaking to Jerusalem centuries before Jesus, “They have treated the wound of my people carelessly, saying, ‘Peace, peace’, when there is no peace.”[4] Sounds like Jesus.

The prophet of God says, “Here is what is going on.” It is description. It is diagnosis. And it usually gets the prophet into trouble. Yet it’s the right thing to say, because it is the truth, and the truth matters, and nothing is healed if the truth is not told. Jesus has been telling the truth. Even now, a cross is being prepared just outside of the city.

Not only does Jesus speak, he acts. His donkey ride concludes at the door of the Jerusalem Temple. He storms inside and chases out all the merchants. Luke holds both scenes together, as if to say, “All in a day’s work.” The coming of the prophet leads to the acting of the prophet. And the cleansing of the Temple was not a purging of the gift shop, as popularly described. Rather, Jesus quotes the prophet Jeremiah. “Has this house of God become a den of robbers?” asks the prophet. A den of robbers.

Well, whom did they rob? They robbed those in need, like the widows and the orphans who had no other means of income. And they robbed the resident aliens from other countries. And they worshiped gods of their own invention and lied about what they were doing. That’s how the prophet Jeremiah described it.

The historians now tell us the Sadducees, the keepers of the Temple, had cut a deal with the Roman army. The Sadducees kept a thumb on the status quo, effectively keeping the needy in need. In return, the Romans would allow them to keep their wealth and play church in their Temple. Jesus arrives, makes a tussle, effectively announcing the whole system’s coming down.[5] That had happened by the time Luke wrote down the story.

Jesus speaks, Jesus acts. And the end of the week, Jesus gives. He was always giving. Giving food to the crowds, giving wisdom to the simple, giving healing to the sick, and finally giving his life. He willingly took on the injustice, the brokenness, and the sin that conspired to silence him. The miracle, the saving miracle, is that he gave it all away. Even on the cross he says, “Father, forgive them (give it away for them), for they don’t know what they are doing.” Or to put it in the words of Palm Sunday, “They do not recognize the time of their visitation. They do not know the things that make for peace.”

Jesus saves by giving: giving himself. He does not “save himself,” as he was devilishly tempted.[6] He doesn’t give in or give up. He gives away. That’s the true meaning of forgiveness. We “give away” the hurt, give away the damage. We release it, we let it go. It’s the only way there can be a new beginning. Can’t you see? Don’t you know? This is what makes for peace.

Soon after he was born, another prophet, the prophet Simeon approached his parents in the Temple. The same Temple. Luke says, “He was looking for the consolation of Israel.” Let’s say he was looking for the things that make for peace. Peeking in the little blue blanket, he said to Mary and Joseph, “This child is destined for the fall and rising of many.”

The fall is the tragedy, of course. The days would come when the enemies of Jerusalem would build the ramparts, surround the city, hem it in, and crash it to the ground. And the days would come when those same enemies would be surrounds, hemmed in, and crash to the ground. Every empire rises and falls. Sometimes it collapses under its own excess.

But there is the rising, too. The raising of many, just as Jesus has been raised. If we are granted the vision to know the things that make for peace, blessed are all who do them. Blessed are those who lift others up. Blessed are those who lift up the work that Jesus left for us to do. Blessed are those who speak the truth and expose the selfish. Blessed are those who cancel the power of sin by forgiving it.

Palm Sunday pushes the story forward. By the end of the week, Jesus is the first one to rise. His raising was God’s vindication of everything Jesus said, did, and gave. Today, we celebrate that he keeps coming back into our town. Maybe this time we will know him when we see him. Maybe this time we will get it right. Maybe this time he will have to keep forgiving us until we understand peace, his peace, God’s peace. Let’s see how that goes.

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

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[1] Zechariah 9:9-10.

[2] Jeremiah 8:18, 21.

[3] Frederick Buechner, “The Gates of Dawn,” The Longing for Home (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1996) 163-164.

[4] Jeremiah 6:14.

[5] Marcus Borg and John Dominic Crossan, The Last Week: What the Gospels Really Teach About Jesus Final Days in Jerusalem (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 2006) 39-52.

[6] Luke 23:37, 39.

The Truth Will Out

Luke 11:37-12:3
Lent 5
April 6, 2025
William G. Carter

While he was speaking, a Pharisee invited him to dine with him; so he went in and took his place at the table. The Pharisee was amazed to see that he did not first wash before dinner. Then the Lord said to him, “Now you Pharisees clean the outside of the cup and of the dish, but inside you are full of greed and wickedness. You fools! Did not the one who made the outside make the inside also? So give for alms those things that are within; and see, everything will be clean for you. 

 

“But woe to you Pharisees! For you tithe mint and rue and herbs of all kinds, and neglect justice and the love of God; it is these you ought to have practiced, without neglecting the others. Woe to you Pharisees! For you love to have the seat of honor in the synagogues and to be greeted with respect in the marketplaces. Woe to you! For you are like unmarked graves, and people walk over them without realizing it.” 

 

One of the lawyers answered him, “Teacher, when you say these things, you insult us too.” And he said, “Woe also to you lawyers! For you load people with burdens hard to bear, and you yourselves do not lift a finger to ease them. Woe to you! For you build the tombs of the prophets whom your ancestors killed. So you are witnesses and approve of the deeds of your ancestors; for they killed them, and you build their tombs. 

 

Therefore also the Wisdom of God said, ‘I will send them prophets and apostles, some of whom they will kill and persecute,’ so that this generation may be charged with the blood of all the prophets shed since the foundation of the world, from the blood of Abel to the blood of Zechariah, who perished between the altar and the sanctuary. Yes, I tell you, it will be charged against this generation. Woe to you lawyers! For you have taken away the key of knowledge; you did not enter yourselves, and you hindered those who were entering.” 

 

When he went outside, the scribes and the Pharisees began to be very hostile toward him and to cross-examine him about many things, lying in wait for him, to catch him in something he might say.

 

Meanwhile, when the crowd gathered by the thousands, so that they trampled on one another, he began to speak first to his disciples, “Beware of the yeast of the Pharisees, that is, their hypocrisy. Nothing is covered up that will not be uncovered, and nothing secret that will not become known. Therefore whatever you have said in the dark will be heard in the light, and what you have whispered behind closed doors will be proclaimed from the housetops.”

We have been bombarded by a flurry of headlines lately. One of the news stories that may have slipped your attention was the release of the John F. Kennedy assassination files. Since that president’s death in November 1963, there has been an enormous amount of speculation. Who pulled the trigger? Who set it up? What did others know? When did they know it? 

The Warren Commission was appointed to discover the facts. They reported back to say, “There was a lone gunman. We know who it was.” Then they promptly locked away the files and said, “You can’t see them.” In the sixty-two years since, there have been insinuations, accusations, and no shortage of conspiracy theories. Now, as promised, our president has finally released the files.

Well, most of them. Many have been released over the years. If you have time on your hands, there are sixty-two thousand pages of reports for you to read on the internet. They tell us who pulled the trigger (same guy we always thought), that he had been on the radar of the American intelligence community, and that some people in that community tried to cover up what they knew. No surprise. Most of the secrets have been revealed.

In the text for today, we have background information on another infamous assassination, the death of Jesus. People have had their ideas about this one, too. The apostle Paul shared what he came to believe, about twenty years after the crucifixion. The Gospel of Matthew had even more opinions, about thirty years after that. And today we hear from the Gospel of Luke.

Luke tells us the cross was a human tragedy. It didn’t have to happen, but it did. From the foot of the cross, a Roman centurion looks up at the spectacle to announce, “Certainly, this man was innocent.”[1] Other gospels say the death of Jesus was a revelation, and they put the words, “Truly, this man was the Son of God” on the lips of the centurion.[2] But Luke insists he was innocent.

Pontius Pilate said it twice. The Roman governor declared, “Jesus committed no crime.”[3] Yet, a crowd had formed. They were stirred up by their own religious leaders. That may be the greatest irony in the story of the crucifixion. The very people who were most invested in the worship of God, the ones who studied the scriptures most fervently, were the ones behind the assassination of Jesus. Luke tells us this flat out. It is no secret.

In today’s text, we hear some of the backstory. Jesus was invited to dinner by a Pharisee. He went. No sooner did dinner begin and there was a controversy around the table. Jesus denounced his own host. Then a lawyer piled on. He felt insulted by Jesus. Another argument ensued. It’s not the kind of Bible story we tell in Vacation Bible School

Pharisees, lawyers. What do we know about these people?

Before we pick on the Pharisees, historians tell us they were good people. They loved the Bible. They worked for social justice. They believed all of life must be lived under the Word of God. If God calls us to give away the first ten percent of all our income, doesn’t God also call us to give away ten percent of everything else we have? It would be nice to have more Pharisees.

And then, the lawyers. Not the kind of attorneys we about, but experts in the Law, God’s Law. Often described as “scribes,” they knew the 613 commandments given by God. They were conversant with centuries of interpretation. Why interpretation? Because the commandments were not always specific.

For instance, on the one hand, the Law says, “Thou shalt not kill.” On the other hand, in the book of Joshua, God says, “Claim the land and kill the people who live there. “[4] On the one hand, on the other hand. The Law says, but God says. Can God tell us to do something beyond what the Law says? And thus, Jewish theology was born. It was discussion and debate, all to reach provisional understandings of how God commands us to live our lives.

Jesus goes to that dinner party. The host jumps all over him. “You didn’t wash your hands.” To which Jesus says, “You wash only the outside of your cup, but your inside is filthy.” That is, you do things only for show, but your soul is wicked. Your heart is greedy.”

Then the Bible scholar piles on, “You’re insulting people like me.” Jesus really lets him have it. “Woe to you! You heap dead of religious rules on the backs of God’s people. You keep them from experiencing God’s grace."  Suddenly they realized, it is always risky to invite the Christ to your table. You may want to discover what makes him tick, but he may tell you what you don’t want to hear.

It happened in Nazareth, up on the hill. He opened the scriptures in his hometown synagogue. The congregation tried to kill him. Pretty soon, the Pharisees and scribes started surveilling him. He forgave sins; they said only God can do that. He healed people; they growled, “He’s doing that on the day of rest.” Once he even broke the law of Leviticus, where it says, “Don’t ever touch a leper.”

And now, as he goes to one of their homes, sits at one of their tables, and calls out the shallowness of their spiritual lives. Wash your hands, but don’t deal with the filth inside. Teach the Torah but do it in such a way the creates a burden. The problem, he says, is hypocrisy.

It’s not the hypocrisy of the unfaithful.

It’s not the hypocrisy of the nominally committed.

It’s not the hypocrisy of the pagan empire.

No, it’s the hypocrisy of the best spiritual minds of his generation. It’s the hypocrisy of those who ought to know better (which is a theme that will come up again in Luke’s writings). It’s the hypocrisy of those who quickly quote Bible verses but know nothing of God’s true character. And all that’s left is an empty shell. It’s the hypocrisy which festers and rots until it becomes the hatred that kills Jesus.

As somebody puts it, “Jesus is sharply critical of religion that has become self-perpetuating, that has hardened principles given for life into regulations that suffocate and condemn, that has quantified piety and lost its heart, that has, in sum, lost its capacity for self-criticism.”[5] It’s empty structure, no self-evaluation. All obligations, no love. All “out there,” nothing “in here.”

As you may recall, the word “hypocrite” comes from the theater stage. It means a “play actor,” somebody who puts on a persona. They might be very convincing. They might talk a good game. They might have a whole room full of people believing they are who they pretend to be. But the truth comes out. Sooner or later, the truth comes out.

Just ask our children. They see us as we are. Like that night my Dad was driving our new paneled station wagon down a country road. My sister and I were loaded in the back. To escape an oncoming truck, he veered to the right, dipped into a drainage ditch. A piece of that gold-colored trim got snagged by a rock and came right off. My mother started to get excited. Dad pulled the car out of the ditch, put it in park, and went out to look. Climbing back into his seat, he said, “Just a scratch.” My sister and I knew, “It’s more than a scratch,” but we didn’t dare say it.

Kids know the truth. They know when the emperor has no clothes. When my kids were little, sitting out in the pews, it often appeared like they weren’t paying attention. They had crayons and their Good Samaritan coloring books. They didn’t seem to be listening to me. And when we got to the parking lot, one would say, “Dad, that story you told in the sermon didn’t happen quite like you said.” And I said, “Shh! I don’t want the church people to hear you.” Please don’t point out my inconsistency.

And yet, if we don’t nip off those little inconsistencies, they grow. A simple distortion can twist your soul out of shape. That’s what that old Bible word “iniquity” means. It’s a twisting out of shape. It is the perversity that becomes the depravity. And then there’s the cover-up.

In his delicious little book about sin, Neil Plantinga says a little sin creates more sin.[6] A little crack of inconsistency grows into a Grand Canyon that separates us from the truth. Dr. Plantinga says this is the progress of corruption. If it is unchecked and unrepented, things only get worse. And it’s true for any of us, especially for  those who love the Bible and fashion themselves as “religion scholars.”

As somebody said, “Why do you think Luke put this story in the Bible? Was it only to kick and punish the Pharisees and scholars from forty or fifty years before? Or was it that he sniffed some hypocrisy in the church that he knew?”[7] It’s a good question. Religious play-acting was never restricted to the first century.

I think of Philip Yancey, wonderful, faith-filled writer. Looking back on his life, he admits some of the meanest people he has ever know consider themselves Christians.[8] Or I remember hearing the late great Billy Graham when I was nineteen years old. He stood in a packed arena and confessed, "The Christian church has a habit of shooting its own wounded." Prophetic words, as I was considering a call to beome a pastor. 

Or I think of those who claim to know everything. They are so certain, only to be later exposed as fools? Or I think of those who are so terrified of change that they narrow their view, they restrict their hearing, they take in only what they’ve convinced themselves to be true. And for them, life has gotten so small.

Like Jesus said to his dinner host, “You know God calls us to give away ten percent of what we have. But what do you do? You go to your spice rack. You spoon out some wilted mint leaves and a dried-up chunk of cumin you weren’t going to use anyway. And you think you’re so holy as you ignore the hungry neighbor whom God calls you to love.” How terribly small of you! Doesn’t God see us for who we are?

It’s a wake-up call - for all of us. Especially if we are not the people we profess to be. Especially if we project an appearance to others that does not resonate with reality. Especially if we declare our certainty about matters we don’t know much about. Especially if we reduce living faith to a set of dead rules. Or worse if we use religion as a way of manipulating others.

Jesus puts it out there, “There is nothing covered up that will not be uncovered; there is no secret that won’t be known.” God sees. God knows. God has the final assessment. As one of Shakespeare’s characters says in The Merchant of Venice, “truth will out.” 

Did you hear about the man who stopped by to see his minister. He gave her a copy of his obituary. It was rather extensive. Very impressive. She looked at him, she looked at all the pages, and said, “Are you sick?” He said, “No, not at all.”

“So, why are you giving this to me?” And he replied, “Well, someday this what I want people to believe about me.”

She handed it back. Then she said, “Don’t worry. Everybody knows the truth.”

There will be no cover up, says Jesus. We might as well tell the truth right now, right here. Because this is one of the safest rooms in town. God knows us. God sees us as we are. And God wants us to come home. To get over ourselves and come home.

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

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[1] Luke 23:47.

[2] Mark 15:39, Matthew 27:54.

[3] Luke 23:4, 14.

[4] See, for instance, Joshua 10:40.

[5] Fred B. Craddock, Luke: Interpretation (Louisville: Westminster John Know Press, 1990) 159.

[6] Cornelius Plantinga Jr., Not the Way It’s Supposed to Be: A Breviary of Sin (Grand Rapids: Wm. Eerdmans, 1996) 52-77.

[7] Craddock, ibid.

[8] Philip Yancey, Vanishing Grace: What Ever Happened to the Good News? (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2014.)