Homeward Bound

Luke 15:11-32
Lent 4
March 30, 2025
William G. Carter


This is the longest parable of Jesus and the most familiar. But I’m nervous about preaching it. Every time I talk about this story, somebody gets upset. So, I haven’t talked about it for the last twelve years.

Last time, I had just returned from a pastoral sabbatical. It was the first sermon I preached after taking three months of sabbath time to get the fleas out of my hair and the breath back in my lungs. Apparently, there was a controversy while I was gone, something I would now classify as a tempest in a teapot. But there was somebody who really felt hurt by the conflict.

And I returned, thinking this would be an exceptional story to begin the fall. I shared an insight that I had discovered, something I had never noticed about the parable. I’ll tell you what it was if you promise not to stomp out of here in a huff. Ready? When the younger son, the prodigal son, comes to his senses, he practices a repentance speech. “Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son.”

He trudges toward home and his father spots him. The father breaks all Middle Eastern customs and runs to embrace him. He kisses him on the cheeks and cuts off the son’s speech. The son doesn’t get to finish his full apology.

At that, somebody decided to leave the church and never come back again. This is a person who had been hurt. They felt they deserved a full apology and didn’t get it. When we talked, I pointed out this is a parable about forgiveness. Sometimes we have to forgive people even if they don’t apologize to us. Well, that wasn’t good enough, I was told. But, I protested, sometimes we never get an apology; can’t we cut the offender loose, if only for the benefit of our own soul? And at that point, we lost a church member.

I suppose I could have just kept my mouth shut. Never addressed the hurt, or never given a gentle pastoral nudge to forgive. Or I could have soft-peddled my reading of the story. Yet this is the story Jesus tells. Jesus was criticized and rejected. One reason is because he told stories like this one.

It’s there in the setting as Luke describes it. The Pharisees and scribes grumbled because Jesus was welcoming sinners. Because he was eating with them. Because he was not insisting on hearing their apologies before he showed them some love. To the Pharisees and scribes, that was offensive.

Their reasoning is that people need to own their mistakes, and turn from their mistakes, and correct those mistakes, and make reparations for their mistakes. If you can’t do all of that, you are not worthy of forgiveness. Meanwhile, Jesus eats with the sinners, whatever it was that they were guilty of sinning. He goes to them. And he shares bread and wine with the tax collectors. It doesn’t seem to matter that they have sold out their neighbors to make a few bucks on the Roman Occupation.

So, he tells them this story. A young boy dreamed of escaping the boredom of the family farm. He said, “Dad, give me my share of what will come my way in the years to come.” To the shock of everybody in the village, the Father cashed in the boy’s share. To nobody’s shock, the kid blew it all, even the last nickel. The storyteller accuses him of “dissolute living,” using a word that appears only once in the New Testament.

We can speculate what that means. A lot of preachers have done that. “Dissolute” means wasteful, with wanton overtones. It’s the kind of behavior that makes people turn up their noses with superiority. Maybe he spent the money on an iceberg and had it towed to the Equator. Or maybe he bet most of it on a three-legged horse. Or maybe he rented some beverages; that’s all we do with our beverages – we rent them. Or maybe he waved a stack of hundred-dollar bills in front of a perfumed floozy with Dollar Store earrings. Jesus doesn’t say. He’s too polite.

What he does say is the kid woke up from a really bad dream. He said to himself, “What am I doing?” He was working for another farmer in a season when all the crops had died. He was throwing peapods to pen full of pigs. His head was hurting so bad the peapods started looking tasty. So, he shook his head, “No, no, no. Can’t do this anymore.” So, let’s give him some credit for that.

He remembers his Daddy. His belly hurt from hunger. Even the hired laborers on the old farm had something to eat. He lays aside his foolish pride to say to himself, “I will go to my Father, tell him I’m not worthy to be his son. Maybe he will let me stay in the chicken coop.” Then, he rehearses the speech – the speech that won’t be allowed to finish – and heads toward home.

The whole story turns on two hinges. First, he wakes up. As the storyteller puts it, “He comes to himself.” Nobody forced him to do it. Nobody compelled him to do it. He took the initiative. It doesn’t matter if his stomach was doing all the talking. It doesn’t matter that he had no idea how he would be received. He decided to go home.

The second hinge on which the story turns is his relationship to his Father. “I’ll tell him I’m not worthy to be his son,” he said. Yet the Father felt differently. All personal relationships have two sides. You might not think you are worthy. You might not believe you are good enough. But what does your Father think? This kid’s Father sees him approaching from far off, runs to him, hugs him, and shouts, “This son of mine has come home.”

This son, this daughter. It’s always this one, this child. That’s all that seems to matter to the Father. The relationship. Not the apology, as helpful as we think it might be, but the relationship. Both father and son approach one another.

Now, before you run out of here, screaming this is an unfinished story, let me point out that we haven’t heard the half of it. Because out in the fields, slaving away, is another son. The other son. The older son. The dutiful son. The one who had neither wandered nor squandered. As the oldest of four children, I am particularly sensitive to his plight.

Maybe you’ve seen the set of three t-shirts: “I’m the oldest, I make the rules.” “I’m the middle child; I’m the reason we had the rules.” “I’m the youngest child; the rules don’t apply to me.” Ah, if you grew up with siblings, you’re probably thinking about them.

Some of us oldest children grew up in a home where there was a clear curfew. Be home before eleven. Or as a brilliant father chuckled, “I told them to be home before the alarm clock next to my head went off at eleven.” Yet by the time the second, third, or fourth child came along, the parents were worn out. I know a family where the baby sister got away with things that her oldest brother would never have gotten caught dead doing. Or rather, that her oldest brother would never have gotten caught doing. A story like the one Jesus tells always circles around to the families we grew up in.

This Father: he’s an extraordinary parent. He goes out to the younger son, welcomes him home. He goes out to the older son, invites him inside. He shows extravagant love for the desperate child: throws a party, barbeques the steer, hires the band, dances the polka. For the steady older child, he shows steady love: ensuring there’s a roof over his head, three square meals on the table, ongoing emotional support, to say nothing of the two-thirds of the financial estate that the older boy will one day receive in accordance with Jewish law.

But as we heard, there’s a problem. The older son has a problem with his Father. “This son of yours came back and you threw him a party,” he sneers. “He wasted what you gave him and that doesn’t matter to you,” he argues. “Look,” he says, “I’ve never done anything wrong, never squandered what you’ve given me, and you’ve never so much as cooked up a lamb stew for me to enjoy with my friends.”

To which the Father pleads to him, in the essence of grace, “My son, you are always with me. All that I have is yours. All that I have left will be yours.” Then he adds, “This brother of yours came home. He was dead to us but is now risen. Lost, but is now found. We must celebrate his return.” Doesn’t that matter?

As far as we know, the story remains unfinished. Does the older boy turn his back? Does he keep his arms crossed? Does he swallow his anger and settle down? We don’t know. Does he wake up from his own bad dream, trudge toward the house, grab a burger off the grill, and shake his brother’s hand? Or does he pop him in the kisser?  For all we know, he might still be standing alone out in that field. Because that’s where an inability to forgive leaves us – all alone.

Now, I don’t know where a story like this one leaves you. I’ll have to think for a while where it leaves me. A good unfinished story can spin off in many directions.

• If you’re a Pharisee, you might make a good older brother, resentful that the wasteful sinner is welcomed back into the family.
• If you are the tax collector, you might feel relieved that maybe, just maybe, a path will open up for you to come home.
• If you’re a scribe, a biblical scribe, you have invested so much energy into getting the scriptures right that you expect everybody else to follow the single path that you believe is right.
• And if you are one of those sinners, immersed in whatever your favorite sins might be, you might be astonished that anyone would ever throw you a party if you ever came to your senses. Especially the Father.

And what about the next day? What happens next? Will the older brother decide now it’s his turn to hit the road and burn what he has to the ground? Or will the younger boy wake up late, get a clean shirt, and head out again? And what will the Father do? That question has already been answered. He will welcome the wanderer home and invite his brother to drop his resentments.

True repentance is based on the truth that we belong to one another. We are family, the Father’s family, God’s family. God waits for us to wake up from our mistakes. He pleads for us to cancel all our grudges. He tells us the truth - there is room for all – for all of us – for it is the Father’s house, not ours. We live not by sin, not by righteousness, but by his mercy.

Such is the extravagant love of God for us all.

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

But What About?

Luke 13:1-9
Lent 3
March 23, 2025
William G. Carter

At that very time there were some present who told him about the Galileans whose blood Pilate had mingled with their sacrifices. He asked them, “Do you think that because these Galileans suffered in this way they were worse sinners than all other Galileans? No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish as they did. Or those eighteen who were killed when the tower of Siloam fell on them—do you think that they were worse offenders than all the others living in Jerusalem? No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish just as they did.”

 

Then he told this parable: “A man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard; and he came looking for fruit on it and found none. So he said to the gardener, ‘See here! For three years I have come looking for fruit on this fig tree, and still I find none. Cut it down! Why should it be wasting the soil?’ He replied, ‘Sir, let it alone for one more year, until I dig around it and put manure on it. If it bears fruit next year, well and good; but if not, you can cut it down.’”

One of my favorite activities each month is to meet with our Men’s Breakfast Group. The group meets on the first and third Thursdays of each month. It’s a Bible study with donuts. On a good day, there will be about twenty guys around the table. 

It’s a good group. Sometimes it’s a fun group. But once in a while, we have a distraction.

Years ago, we had one attendee, a man who has since gone on to his eternal reward. He came with news clippings. He always asked the same question, “But What About This?” If the subject were “the God of love,” he would pull out a clipping of some heinous crime and ask, “But what about this?”

I don’t know if he was concerned about the crimes which always happened to someone else, somewhere else. I don’t know if he was worried about the state of the world, which can be confusing for any of us. I don’t know if he was baiting the teacher, questioning God, or if he expected an answer that would settle all other questions once and for all. And he kept asking: “What about this?”

We live in a difficult world. Terrible things happen. Danger lurks in the shadows and in broad daylight. Sometimes life unravels. Sometimes evil reveals its yellow teeth. Bob wanted to know, “What about this?”

It’s a good question. They asked it of Jesus. He is making his last trip to Jerusalem, teaching as he travels. In rapid succession, he warns people that they will be divided from one another. He tells them to read the signs of the times as closely as they watch for the weather. He encourages them to settle disputes as best they can. Then they said, “But what about what Pontius Pilate did to the pilgrims from Galilee?”

We can only infer the story, but it sounds tragic. Apparently, some people traveled from up north in Galilee to the Jerusalem Temple. They made the journey to offer sacrifices on the altar, as the Jewish Law taught. We don’t know the circumstances. Maybe there was a childbirth, and they wanted to thank the Lord. Or they were asking God’s forgiveness or celebrating God’s mercy. Perhaps they wished to renew their faith and brought a sacrificial lamb to seal the deal.

Don’t know. But blood was spilled. Their blood was spilled. And Pontius Pilate, the Roman empire’s representative, was behind it. What about that, Jesus? Why did that happen? Were they being punished for something they’d done? Was the Empire simply being cruel? Or worst of all, was it a senseless act of violence with no meaning? They want to know.

Jesus steps in, but curiously, he does not give a quick answer. He does not offer a plastic assurance that everything is going to resolve with a happy ending. Life just doesn’t work that way. When trauma interrupts our lives, we can’t simply click our heels three times and expect it will turn the frown upside down. Jesus can’t fix it, but he can pose a question: “Do you think those Galileans were worse sinners than all the other Galileans? Do you think they deserved how they were treated?” Then, conclusively, he says, “No!”

Yet as we heard, he goes on to say, “Unless you repent, you all will perish, just like them.” What does he mean, repent’?

Then he tells them a story of his own: “Remember that tower of Siloam in Jerusalem? It tumbled down to the ground. Eighteen people were crushed. Every one of them died.” Then he asks the question again. “Were the people who died worse sinners than everybody else in the city?” Again, he answers his own question, “No, I tell you.” They weren’t being punished. They weren’t being singled out. It was an act of irrational evil.

But then he says it again, “Unless you repent, you will all perish, just like them.” Oof! What does he mean, ‘repent’?

It sounds harsh. Imagine a teenage boy returning home one night at eleven o’clock. His mother is waiting up. She says, “Are you OK?” Of course he’s OK. He’s home. She says, “Were you fooling around with your friends tonight?” No, Mom. He was on a date. He took her home. He’s home.

Mom says, “I got a phone call. Your friend Jackie just flipped his parents’ car. He was on a date too. The ambulance took them to get checked out. We’re waiting to hear if they will be OK.” It’s disturbing news. He must sit down. Jackie and his girlfriend are friends of his. This is hard news.

Then his mother interrupts his thoughts to say, “Listen, buster, if you don’t straighten up, the same is going to happen to you.” And he looks at her. It doesn’t seem fair. He was home by eleven. He took his date home before that. They didn’t do anything wrong. At least, not this time. They were innocent. He had nothing to do with Jackie’s situation. Is his mother just being cranky? Or protective?

The fact is, Jesus has just separated tragedy from punishment. Both the situation he’s given and the story he tells are about innocent people. They’ve done nothing wrong. They were no worse sinners than any of the rest of us.

Yet he calls the people in front of him to repent. To turn around. To change their ways. To make a new beginning. At least, that’s how we traditionally take that word “repent” to mean.

Like my great-grandmother Leda Boal. We went to see her. She was up in years. My dad was prodding me to tell her my big news. I was bashful. He pushed again, so I blurted it out, “Great-Grandma, God is calling me to become a minister.” She looked at me, her face in blank shock. Then she turned to my father to say, “Glenn, you’re going to have to shape up.”

We think repentance is all about shaping up. At least we think that’s what it means. If you’re taking a date home late at night and take the corner too fast, you could flip the car and hurt both of you. Don’t do that. If you are doing something wrong – lying, stealing, cheating – sure, got to shape up. Change your ways. If you are acting cruel, mistreating others, causing real damage, knock it off! That’s exactly what repentance looks like.

I think of Pete Rose, the great baseball player, caught betting on his own team, getting permanently banned from baseball. He finally admitted what he had done, but never really apologized for it. Never said he would change his ways. Instead, he blamed everybody else. He said they were in the wrong. Never made the whole move.

Yet none of this is quite what Jesus seems to be saying. “Unless you all repent,” he says. This is the Gospel of Luke. Luke is always talking about repentance. The whole Christian life is one of continuing repentance. At the end, Christ is raised from the dead and he says to his church, “Preach repentance everywhere.” And it’s more than straightening up for your son’s great-grandmother, more than apologizing for your ongoing gambling problem. Rather, it’s an orientation for your whole life. It’s a routine of continually returning to God.

In truth, it’s a reminder of what happens in our baptism. Somebody official asks, “Do you turn from evil and all its works? Do you turn from the ways of sin that separate you from God?” The only good answer is, “Yes, I renounce them.” And I keep renouncing them. I renounce them every day. Because I continually need to be reoriented. To turn from myself and all my failings and turn again to God. To step out of the darkness that surrounds all of us, and step into the light. And if I slip back into the shadows, to come out again. Because God is patient and waits for us all.

The key is not to be distracted, but rather to keep our eyes on what is holy, right, and good. And there are plenty of distractions. Have you noticed that?

What about northern Spain, where dozens have been evacuated due to unusual flooding?[1] Or what about Tijuana, Mexico, which suffers from severe drought.”[2] What about the parking garages that have collapsed in Delaware[3] and Ottawa[4]? People are suffering from natural disasters. What about these tragedies? He says, “Repent. Stay grounded in the mercy of God. Pray for those people and help them in my name. That’s who you are.

But Jesus, what about all the daily report of human cruelty? What about the car show in New Mexico last Friday night, where three people were killed and sixteen wounded at a mass shooting[5]? Or last week, what about that thirty-year study in diabetes prevention that lost its NIH funding due to political games?[6] Or what the news that the US Department of Agriculture has cut $500 million from food pantries?[7]

And Jesus says, “Stay grounded in my identity. That’s repentance. Stay focused on my love for all people. That’s repentance. Feed the hungry best you can. Work for health and wholeness. Bind up the wounded and teach peace. That’s who I am and who I call you to become.”

We can say “what about this” and “what about that.” We can groan and moan what a terrible world this is. But it is the world where God has put us. This is the world where God has called us. And if we stay close to Christ, if we remain grounded in Christ’s values, anchored in Christ’s love, showing the same persistent mercy that Jesus shows to us, the road to repentance is not long. And we might be able to do some good.

It’s a tough world out there. Always has been, always will be. The difference that Christ makes is that the world doesn’t call the shots. Ruling the world and directing its people is God’s work. And God has told you, O mortal, what is good and what is required of you: to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God.[8]

That’s what repentance is all about.

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

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[1] https://www.euronews.com/my-europe/2025/03/22/dozens-evacuated-and-roads-closed-after-flooding-in-central-and-northern-spain

[2] https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2025/mar/20/tijuana-mexico-water-trump

[3] https://www.delawareonline.com/story/news/local/2025/02/17/significant-damage-4-wilmington-buildings-as-parking-garage-wall-collapses-hypark/78972832007/

[4] https://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/ottawa/public-servant-spotted-cracks-before-downtown-parking-garage-collapsed-1.5429726

[5] https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2025/mar/22/mass-shooting-new-mexico

[6] https://www.ajmc.com/view/trump-administration-cancels-crucial-funding-for-diabetes-prevention-program

[7] https://www.washingtonpost.com/nation/2025/03/21/food-banks-funding-cuts-usda-trump/

[8] Micah 6:8.

Backtalking the King

Luke 13:31-35
Lent 2
March 16,2025
William G. Carter 

At that very hour, some Pharisees came and said to him, “Get away from here, for Herod wants to kill you.” He said to them, “Go and tell that fox for me, ‘Listen, I am casting out demons and performing cures today and tomorrow, and on the third day I finish my work. Yet today, tomorrow, and the next day I must be on my way, because it is impossible for a prophet to be killed outside of Jerusalem.’ Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing! See, your house is left to you. And I tell you, you will not see me until the time comes when you say, ‘Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.”

 

We are two weeks into Lent. Since the fourth century, the church has set aside these forty days to prepare us for Easter. Prayer, meditation, and generosity are encouraged as spiritual disciplines. Lent calls us to withdraw from any form of excess, whether it’s overeating or overspending. As an alternative, we focus on the self-giving love of Jesus Christ. That points us to the end of the forty days, where there is a cross. A cross.

As we heard today, Jesus receives a death threat. The word comes, “King Herod wants to kill you.” This is not the same King Herod who attempted to kill the infant Jesus after a visit from the three wise men. This is Herod Antipas, the son of old King Herod.

Like his father, he is a piece of work. This is the guy who arrested John the Baptist who had denounced him for marrying his half-brother’s wife – who was also his niece. This is the one who had a reputation for hosting well-lubricated parties. At one of them, he promised a dancing girl anything she wanted. She wanted the head of John the Baptist on a silver platter. Rather than embarrass himself further, Herod granted her wish. Now, we hear Herod is coming after Jesus.

The death threat comes from a group of Pharisees. That’s curious. The Gospel of Luke usually portrays the Pharisees as moustache-twisting villains. They attack Jesus for healing on the wrong day of the week.[1] They accuse him of being soft on sin.[2] They jump all over him for forgiving sins.[3] They criticize Jesus for eating with the wrong kind of people.[4] When one of them invites Jesus to his table, he pounces on him for not washing his hands before he eats.[5] It’s constant nit-picking, criticism, and complaint with the Pharisees.

Yet here, the Pharisees track him down to say, “Watch out, Jesus! Herod wants to kill you.” Is this for real? Is this a joke? Is this a trap? What’s going on here? We really don’t know.

What we know is something about Herod. He is curious about Jesus. Back in chapter nine, he hears about all the healings and the teachings. He says out loud, “Who is this guy? I beheaded John the Baptist. Has he come back from the dead?”[6] He wants to meet Jesus, have him do some miracles on demand. His curiosity will continue all the way to the end, when he wraps the Christ in a purple curtain and puts a crown of thorns on his head.[7] For Herod, Jesus becomes a big joke. There’s never any mention of a murder plot. Not from him. 

As for the Pharisees, they want Jesus to go away. Far away. “Get away from here,” they said. Then they add, “Herod wants to kill you” – which we know is not true. It should be said they have put the subject of death into the air.

Well, first thing’s first. Jesus backtalks the king. He is surprisingly indifferent to the king's authority.  “You go tell that fox that I have work to do. I’m casting out demons. I’m curing illnesses. I’m going to work until the third day.”

Then he turns to the Pharisees to say, “I have to go to Jerusalem. I must go. Jerusalem is where the prophets are murdered.” Ouch. There it is. They warned him of death; he knows he will die. Yet he has no death wish. Rather, he knows who he is and what he has come to do. Jesus is the prophet of God. And nobody wants a prophet.

That became clear in his hometown. Jesus climbed the hill to Nazareth. He went into the hometown synagogue. Everybody was excited. The boy was back in his hometown. “Open the scriptures for us,” they said, and handed him a scroll from their own Bible. Jesus opened the scroll of Isaiah, found the place where it says, “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me…to preach good news to the poor…to proclaim the day of God’s grace.” Then he sat down like a teacher to say, “Today the scripture is fulfilled in your hearing.” Everybody smiled. They said, “Listen to how well-spoken he is!”

Then Jesus told them two stories out of their own Bible, stories of outsiders unlike them who received the grace of God. They grabbed him, grinding their teeth. They tried to throw him back off that hill. They wanted to get rid of him – in his hometown![8] Because he was a prophet. Nobody wants a prophet.

Here is what prophets do. They tell the truth. They critique from within. They reach back into their own tradition to remind the others of what they have tried to forget. These are the prophets that God raised up in Israel. When the king was corrupted by power and abuse, God raised up the prophet Elijah to call him out. When the nation grew so wealthy that they ignored their own poor, God raised up the prophet Amos to speak to the economic imbalance. When the nation was invaded and robbed by Babylon, God raised Jeremiah, and Ezekiel, and others to say, “It’s our own idolatry, injustice, and greed. We did it to ourselves.” And nobody wanted to hear what the prophets had to say.

It goes with the territory. Remember the prophet Isaiah? He had a vision of God and said, “Here I am, Lord. Is it I, Lord? I have heard you calling in the night.” (We love that song!) Well, here is what God then says, in response: “Isaiah, I am going to send to speak to people who will not listen to a word you have to say. Keep speaking. They will keep ignoring you.”[9] That’s the rest of the story. It’s in our Bible.

According to the Gospel of Luke, Jesus understood those words so deeply that he applied them to himself.[10] As he said to his disciples one day, “To you, I give the secrets of the kingdom, and others just won’t understand.” That is, there is a division of the house. Some will understand the truth. Others will resist the truth. The One whom God raises up to speak the truth is the prophet, and he usually pays for it.

Have you ever thought of Jesus this way? He is Savior, Lord, and Son of God. Luke says he is also the Prophet. “I must go to Jerusalem,” he says, “for it is impossible for a prophet to be killed outside of Jerusalem.” This is one of the deepest insights into the mission of Jesus. God sends him to his own people. They reject him. And God still doesn’t give up on them.

When I was a lot younger, I was in a Sunday School class with kids my age. One day, our teacher handed out books for our entire class. It was an impressive volume, a hardcover chapter-book published by the Westminster Press of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. The book was full of Bible stories, all of them Jesus stories. There were pictures too. What I remember most about the book was its title, The King Nobody Wanted. Imagine a book about Jesus written for kids with a title like that! And we were reading it for our class.

Even at that early age, I had been raised to believe everybody wanted Jesus. He was so kind, so loving, so gracious, so peaceful, so perfect. How could anybody not want a king like that? Then we read the Bible stories.

King Herod the Great was put off when the three wise men said, “Where’s the other king? The real king?” And the people in Jesus’ hometown blew a gasket when he opened the Bible for them. The most religious people of his time, the Pharisees – good, holy followers of God – they wanted to get rid of him. And finally, Jesus rides a peaceful donkey into Jerusalem. His enemies arrest him after dark and put him on a cross.

Maybe it’s the first time I wondered, “What’s wrong with us?” God sends us Jesus, so kind, loving, gracious, peaceful, and perfect – and we feel the need to eliminate him. In his place, we keep bowing down before those who are anything but kind, loving, gracious, peaceful, or perfect. If somebody points that error to us, we want to get rid of them too.

In the thick of our turmoil we hear Jesus say, “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!” 

He was speaking to his own people as one of those people. He does not stand far off and point at others, but stands under the same canopy, and laments that something has gone terribly wrong. It’s a matter of willfulness, he says. “You were not willing.” Willing for what? I wonder if the heart of what he saying is that we are just not willing for God to get that close.

Because if God got close,

we’d have to admit who we are, 

confess what we’ve done,

declare what we’ve left undone, 

fix what we’ve broken,

correct what we’ve said, 

stand up for what we’ve neglected,

speak up when we shouldn’t have been silent, 

gather what we have scattered,

expose what we have hidden, 

and return after we’ve wandered away.

And we’re not willing.

The status quo may be awkward. It may be messy. But it’s a whole lot easier to stay fixed in place than it ever is to change. That’s why God commissions the prophet to speak the uncomfortable truth. The Jewish Jesus goes to Jerusalem. The city will kill him because he speaks God into the midst of his own conflicted people. And he’s there because God has sent him to speak.

Now, this is the most remarkable thing. What other religion has a self-critical component? If you’re a Scientologist and speak up, they sue you. If you’re a Mormon and speak up, they put a chalk X on your sidewalk and shun you. If you a Hindu prophet, they demote you. If you are a Buddhist, they blissfully ignore you. But if you are a Jew named Jesus, or Elijah, or Amos, or Jeremiah, or Ezekiel, or Isaiah, your own people give you nothing but trouble. Because they know you have come with the truth. And they can’t handle the truth.

And yet, in the great irony of the Gospel, if you are a prophet, all your relevant writings, sayings, and deeds will be recorded in your religion’s Bible even after you’ve gone. That’s what you and I have, a self-critical religion. For this is the mind of God: to expose the lies, to correct the distortions, to rebuild the fractured community, all in preparation for the Messiah to call us together and begin again with a clean slate.

And are we willing? Willing to stand with nothing in our hands? Willing to be honest? Willing to be gathered? Willing to be forgiven and free? It’s hard to say.

Yet Jesus sees us as we are. And he tells us the day will come when we see him. In the words of one more of the ancient prophets, the prophet Zechariah, “They shall look upon the one whom they have pierced.”[11] They shall look upon him, they shall see his wounds. Then they shall hear him speak, “I have wanted to gather you as a mother hen gathers her chicks. Are you willing? Are you finally willing?”

How about you? Are you willing to be loved so deeply that you are challenged? Corrected? Forgiven and free?

If so, “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!”

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

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[1] Luke 6:2.

[2] Luke 7:39.

[3] Luke 5:21

[4] Luke 5:30.

[5] Luke 11:38.

[6] Luke 9:9

[7] Luke 23:11

[8] Luke 4:16-30.

[9] Isaiah 6:9-10.

[10] Luke 8:10.

[11] Zechariah 12:10.

Misreading the Bible

Luke 4:1-13
Lent 1
March 9, 2025
William G. Carter

Jesus, full of the Holy Spirit, returned from the Jordan and was led by the Spirit in the wilderness, where for forty days he was tempted by the devil. He ate nothing at all during those days, and when they were over, he was famished. 

 

The devil said to him, “If you are the Son of God, command this stone to become a loaf of bread.” Jesus answered him, “It is written, ‘One does not live by bread alone.’” 

 

Then the devil led him up and showed him in an instant all the kingdoms of the world. And the devil said to him, “To you I will give their glory and all this authority; for it has been given over to me, and I give it to anyone I please. If you, then, will worship me, it will all be yours.” Jesus answered him, “It is written, ‘Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him.’” 

 

Then the devil took him to Jerusalem, and placed him on the pinnacle of the temple, saying to him, “If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down from here, for it is written, ‘He will command his angels concerning you, to protect you,’ and ‘On their hands they will bear you up, so that you will not dash your foot against a stone.’” Jesus answered him, “It is said, ‘Do not put the Lord your God to the test.’” 

 

When the devil had finished every test, he departed from him until an opportune time.

Lent begins with this familiar account of Jesus being tempted. He is tempted because every human being is tempted, and Jesus is completely human. He is fresh from the waters of baptism yet still tempted. He is full of the Holy Spirit, yet the devil tests him. He is not exempt because we are not exempt. 

The spiritual life aspires to be full of the Holy Spirit. We want to be infused with the presence of God. We wish to be surrounded by the power of God. We aim to flourish within our faithfulness. We’d like peace in our hearts and compassion in our hands. We want to grow in our holiness. We hope to look more and more like Jesus. We wish to be like him in every way. All worthy pursuits!

That means we are going to be tempted.

Luke tells us how it happened for Jesus. Before he began his ministry, Jesus withdrew to the wilderness. He was there for “forty days,” which is a biblical euphemism for “a good long time.” After they were claimed as God’s people, the people of Israel spent forty years in the wilderness. In other words, a good long time. It was a season of preparation, a time to get their heads straight and their hearts aligned, a time to get the kinks out of their faith. So, it took them forty years; it took Jesus forty years. And it was necessary time. Nobody is claimed by God – then instantly ready to serve God. There is spiritual work to be done.

I think of the quick believer, the person whose faith is ignited, and they are ready burn with glory. There’s a high level of enthusiasm, a hunger for ready the Bible. They jump in with both feet. They volunteer for everything. They come with high enthusiasm for the works of God. They can’t wait to go to a lot of committee meetings.

We had a man like that. Showed up, stood tall, jumped in, got elected to our Board of Deacons. He took it as an act of affirmation. Then the Deacons couldn’t find a moderator, so he said, “I’ll do it.” We met together, I offered some coaching, showed him a sample agenda – because he had never done this before. But he wanted to. His faith was burning. I have no doubt he was full of the Holy Spirit.

Three months later, he was gone from the church. He sent a hastily composed resignation. He wouldn’t answer the phone. I tracked him down in his regular haunts. He didn’t want to talk. I respected his distance but tried to stay connected. Finally, he approached me at the diner one day to say, “I’m sorry, it wasn’t for me.” What wasn’t for you? “The whole thing, I guess.” I suggested he give it some time. We would manage, the Deacons would manage, but I wanted him to be all right. He slipped away.

When the fire was burning in his soul, the sparks were flying. But the wood was not cured long enough to keep burning. It can happen. So, Jesus, like his people Israel, is driven into the wilderness to prepare.

What is striking about the story for today is its content. Jesus faced three representative temptations. There might have been four temptations, or four hundred of them, but three of them summarize any others. Turn this stone into bread. Claim the kingdom, power, and glory. Call on God to protect you.

Each temptation has great value. None of us can turn stones into bread; but if we could, we could feed every hungry multitude around the world. None of us bear the authority and glory of all the nations; if we did, we could use that power to make a constructive difference wherever we wanted. And none of us have the influence to call God’s angels to catch us when we jump. That would be an impressive superpower, and we could win over everybody’s hearts, minds, and souls. To each, Jesus says no.

And how does he refuse? By quoting the Bible.

Now, anybody can quote the Bible. That’s what the devil was doing – he was quoting the Bible. Because you can quote the Bible – or you can quote the Bible. And there’s a difference.

Forty days of fasting had left Jesus famished, one of the great understatements of scripture. Of course he was hungry. The devil said, “If you are the Son of God, command this stone – this one right here – to become a loaf of bread.” For the Devil knows Jesus has the power to make bread. In just a few chapters, Jesus will feed five thousand hungry souls with five loaves and a couple of fish (9:13-17).

Not only that, in the story of Israel, God provided food to his people in the wilderness. It was just a short time after God brought them out of slavery in Egypt. They began to complain, “There’s no food. Back in Egypt, we never went hungry.” So, God sent down the manna from heaven. God spoke and their needs were met.

“Come on, Jesus,” said the devil. “Don’t be so noble. I know you can do it. Your stomach is growling. You have the power. There’s nobody around to see you do it. Just take care of yourself. Make a sandwich out of the sand.”

And Jesus said, “It is written: We do not live by bread alone. We live by the Word of God.” That’s an old quote from the book of Deuteronomy.[1] We live by the commandments of God. We flourish by the mercy of God. We do not twist the Word of God to serve our own purposes. No. We find our purpose by serving God.

Then there’s the second temptation: the kingdom, the power, the glory. “They can all be yours, Jesus. Just say the word. Get on your knees. Worship what I have to offer, and you can have it all.” Sounds attractive, right? There are people in our country, good Christian people who really want the kingdom, the power, and the glory. They will organize rallies, tell their church people how to vote, and declare they alone have the noble cause.

And should they be successful, they are going to win over the whole world. Isn’t that what good Christian people want? A whole lot of winning?

Jesus says, No. “For it is written: Worship the Lord your God and serve only him.” That’s another line from the book of Deuteronomy. In fact, it’s close to the center of all that Deuteronomy teaches. The power is God’s. The glory is God’s. The true kingdom is God’s dominion; it’s not some shadow kingdom from a Devil who lies. Oh no, Jesus taught us to pray, “The kingdom, the power, and glory are yours.” Not mine, not ours, but yours. They are God’s.

This can be a difficult matter to sift out, but there are a few clues to discern the truth. Does the kingdom exhibit any signs of humility? Does it truly honor God or only a few puny humans? Is the power used for serving all the people in that dominion? Or is it preoccupied with benefiting the few? Does this kingdom operate with openness, mutual respect, and competence? Or was there a backroom deal like the one the Devil was pushing on Jesus? Everybody needs to decide.

And this second temptation is particularly devilish. Here’s what the devil was saying, “Jesus, you can skip the cross and get the power right now.” You don’t have to suffer as you take on the sins of all the people. You don’t have to give yourself away. You can keep your life, without any wounds. No need to suffer humiliation, abuse, or rejection. Just fall to your knees, say the word, and we’ll do this my way, not God’s way.”    

Jesus says no. Worship God, God alone. Not the power, Not the glory. Worship God. If you’re going to build a kingdom, do it God’s way, not your way. That’s what the Bible says.[2]

So, the Devil says, “The Bible? Well, I know what the Bible says. The Bible says, ‘He will raise you up on eagles’ wings, bear you on the breath of dawn, make you shine like the sun, and hold you in the palm of His hand.’ Jesus, that’s what the Bible says in Psalm 90. Don’t you believe it? Why not try it out? Jump from the highest place on the Jerusalem temple. Do a triple flip. Command the angels to catch you. Just think how popular you would be.”

Father Henri Nouwen called this “the temptation to be spectacular.” To be impressive. To be a winner. To show everybody how special you are. As Nouwen says, specifically to the church, “We act as if visibility and notoriety were the main criteria of the value of what we are doing… To be spectacular is so much our concern that we, who have been spectators most of our lives, can hardly conceive that what is unknown, unspectacular, and hidden can have any value.”[3]

Yet what do we know about Jesus? When he would heal somebody, he’s often said, “Don’t tell anybody about this.” He would go on healing. When he taught, folks would often say, “I don’t get it.” He kept on teaching. When the mob of desperate Jews shouted, “Hosanna! Save us, Messiah,” Jesus risked catching fleas from a humble donkey that he rode downhill to the cross. A nobody, from a town nobody could find, and this was the Son of God. For it is written, “Do not put the Lord to the test.” That’s a quote from the book of Deuteronomy.[4]

Do you hear how Jesus counters the Devil and his misreading of the Bible? He counters this misreading of the Bible by quoting the Bible. And it’s not some silly Bible game of, “I know more verses than you do.” Of course not. I had old friends who used to play that game. It was usually to be impressive, or to exert power, or to meet their personal needs. No, no, no.

What Jesus is teaching us, through the help of the Gospel of Luke, is that the spiritual life is primarily about God. It’s completely about God. The Bible’s main subject is God. The best way to counter the temptations to feed ourselves first, or to grab power for ourselves first, or to make ourselves impressive and first, is to stop thinking about ourselves. Instead, we are invited ask, “Who is God? What does it mean to claim my identity as a child of God? How can I live simply and faithfully in a way that honors God? And if I have fallen into a bitter, cold pool of selfishness, how can I return to God?”

These are questions that lead us through the barren land of Lent. These are the searchlights that guide us home. For temptations will come, even if we are full of the Holy Spirit. Yet if we keep God first - ahead of us, behind us, above us, beneath us – the way is not easy, but it is clear. We are the beloved of God. So we seek God in all things. The Bible tells us God is the One who is worthy of all praise, power, and glory.

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

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[1] Deuteronomy 8:3.

[2] Deuteronomy 6:13

[3] Henri J. M. Nouwen, The Selfless Way of Christ: Downward Mobility and the Spiritual Life (Maryknoll NY: Orbis Press, 2009) 56.

[4] Deuteronomy 6:16.