Of Potholes and Detours

Luke 9:51-62
Pentecost 3
June 29, 2025

William G. Carter  

When the days drew near for him to be taken up, he set his face to go to Jerusalem. And he sent messengers ahead of him. On their way they entered a village of the Samaritans to make ready for him; but they did not receive him, because his face was set toward Jerusalem. When his disciples James and John saw it, they said, “Lord, do you want us to command fire to come down from heaven and consume them?” But he turned and rebuked them. Then they went on to another village.

 

As they were going along the road, someone said to him, “I will follow you wherever you go.” And Jesus said to him, “Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests; but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.” To another he said, “Follow me.” But he said, “Lord, first let me go and bury my father.” But Jesus said to him, “Let the dead bury their own dead; but as for you, go and proclaim the kingdom of God.” Another said, “I will follow you, Lord; but let me first say farewell to those at my home.” Jesus said to him, “No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.”

 

 

Luke describes the Christian life as a journey. Faith is a travelogue between beginning and end. There is a starting line, for all of us begin somewhere; and then we are off to travel our lives with Jesus. It is an expedition full of adventure and growth. The journey is just as thrilling as the destination. As a way of teaching us about the journey, he describes the journey that Christ took.

 

There was a day, says Luke, when Jesus decided to go to Jerusalem. In the words of Isaiah, “He set his face like flint.” Jesus left behind the carpenter shop and the teaching stump. He left behind what was known, settled, and comfortable. He stepped out to travel toward the cross. That was his destination, his calling. It was the way that he lived out what it meant for him to be God’s person in the world.

 

And that is exactly how the story unfolds for today. Jesus and the boys are traveling. They begin his final journey toward Jerusalem, a journey that will take half of this book. He knows where he is called. He knows what he is destined to do. It doesn’t matter if others understand his purposes or not. Jerusalem is his end.

 

Even so, every journey is prone to interruptions. A mile down the road, you turn around to retrieve a forgotten purse, or that little note with the address of where you’re going. Along the way, a voice in the back seat requests a rest stop. And then there are hazards on the highway to slow you down. Anybody been on I-81 lately? It was no different for Jesus.

 

He begins the journey. Heavenly trumpets resound. The advance team is sent out to publicize his departure. They go to a little Samaritan town. I’m sure you think the Samaritans are nice, gentle people, right? Wrong! The Samaritans and Jews did not get along. They refused to get along. Any thinking Jew would ask, “Jesus, why are you going through a town like that? Those Samaritans smell like camels, and they’re about as friendly.” But Jesus is on the way.

 

Meanwhile, the Samaritans say, “Jews are coming through our village? And they are heading to Jerusalem? To corrupt and evil Jerusalem? Well, they are not welcome here.”

 

James and John get wind of it. Jesus nicknamed them “the Sons of Thunder,” and we are about to find out why. They say, “Hey Boss, remember that old Bible story about the prophet Elijah? Remember when he ran into some unfriendly people from Samaria? He called down fire from heaven and burnt them to a crisp. He did it a couple of times.[1] How about if we do that, too?”

 

Jesus looked at them. It was a major pothole in the road. His road. And it was a Scranton-sized pothole. So, he said something to them that wasn’t very nice. We don’t know what it was. Luke just says, “He yelled at them.” I mean, some people of another race aren’t friendly, and you want to rain down fire? That is not the way to the kingdom of God.

 

Jesus kept walking. Along the way, he meets three different people who could join him on his journey. Three representative people. Each one has the opportunity, now each one takes a detour. Not only did Jesus just step around a huge pothole, but others also have their detours, too.

 

The first one steps right up. He’s a volunteer. He says, “I will go wherever you go.” To which Jesus cracks a smile. It’s that very noble word “wherever.” The man says he will go “wherever.” Really? Does he have any clue where Jesus is heading? And are we willing to go wherever? Wherever?

 

Jesus pushes back. “Foxes have holes, and birds have nests…” Now, that’s code language. Back in his day, there were rich people related to King Herod called “the Herodians.” They fancied themselves as the ruling class. They lived in great comfort, so Jesus says, “If you want nice curtains and comfortable beds, the foxes have their holes.”

 

And then, the Roman army was portrayed popularly as a flock of birds. Vultures perhaps, or certainly hawks. They swarmed into a village. They plucked everything out of the ground. They plundered whatever they wanted, then flew away. So, he says, “If you want to consume viciously, well, the birds build their nests.”

 

“But the Son of Man has no place to lay his head.” That is strange and disturbing. In Jewish thinking, the Son of Man is the supreme authority over all the nations. He has power, glory, and might. Yet Jesus adds, “He is also homeless.” Or another way to say it, “Every place is his home.” He gets around. He will not stay in the holes of rich foxes or the nests of violent birds.

 

It’s a jarring retort! To follow Jesus on the disciple road, we cannot be in love with our own comfort. There are no pillows to soften the trip (this I say to those who sit on padded pews). There can be no extravagance (like air conditioning). Jesus says, if you walk with me, stay portable. Become familiar with people who are deprived of comfort. Never let all the world’s goodies separate you from the world’s needs.

 

He said this because his face was set toward Jerusalem. His final journey would not be comfortable. He would not lounge at a five-star resort, but rather, be nailed to wood.

 

Then Jesus spots a second possible disciple. He is a recruit. He seems willing to follow. Yet he has a detour to take first. “Let me bury my father.” That sounds reasonable, but Jesus blasts him with a harsh word: “Let the dead bury the dead!” It is the coldest thing Jesus ever said.

 

Or is it? Because there’s no evidence the man’s father had passed away. In that time and place, no son would ask permission to attend a funeral. He would have been by his father’s coffin, surrounded by the whole family, not standing on the road, waiting for Jesus to walk by.

 

What’s more, if a Jew of Jesus’ day said he wanted to move to Brazil (assuming he knew where Brazil was), the neighbors would ask, “Aren’t you going to bury your father first?” Dad might still be as healthy as a horse. The cultural expectation was to stick around, to take care of dad and mom, to put all other decisions on hold until the family responsibilities were concluded. If it took another twenty years, that was that.

 

So, the hard word is a clear word: Let the dead bury the dead. That is, the Kingdom of God precedes family duties and neighborhood expectations. Christ comes first, especially if he’s given a thin excuse by a man who is watching from the sidewalk and whose father is not dead yet.

 

Jesus says, “Follow me!” The man responds, “I’d love to, but . . .” It is the classic detour from discipleship, spoken in a hundred variations.

 

            I’d love to do the work of servant, but . . .

            I would gladly serve as a leader, but . . . 

            I know the Vacation Bible School needs volunteers, but . . .

            I know those hungry people have great needs, but . . .

            I know there is wisdom waiting to be found in my Bible, but . . .

 

Maybe we know what Christ’s invitation entails, but… That is different from the first guy, who didn’t seem to know. In this case, “I discern the need, yet I keep it at arm’s length.”

 

And then there’s the third person. Not a recruit, but another volunteer. He offers to follow Jesus – but he needs a quick detour: “Let me go home first and take my leave.” That’s what it really says – he’s not merely going home to “say goodbye,” or “bid farewell,” but to “take his leave.”

 

Now, that is a phrase we don’t use very much, yet they know all about it in the Middle East. If you are invited to a party, you honor your host by attending. If you have something else to do, then you ask permission not to attend, or to depart early. This is called “taking your leave.” It is requesting permission from the main figure of the household for them to excuse you. It is the Middle Eastern polite thing to do.

 

So, this third guy wants to go home and request permission from his father to let him follow Jesus. If it is the planting season, he’s out of luck. If it’s the growing season, he’s out of luck. If it’s the harvest season, he is out of luck. Do you get the picture? He is putting his family ahead of the call of Christ. He lets them call the shots on whether he will get in step with Jesus. As Jesus puts it, he is taking his hands off the plow.

 

Family or Jesus? It’s an issue that comes up in a hundred different ways. It’s a preview of what Jesus will say later this summer, “Do you think I have come to bring peace to the earth? No, I tell you, not peace but division. I have come to set father against son, daughter against mother”[2] Again, it’s a troublesome word because Jesus declares he is more important than those who are dear to us. He wishes to stand at the center of our lives. He demands our absolute attention and our complete obedience. And he persistently asks, “Do you love me more than these?”

           

Being a Christian is more than a matter of going to church. It is walking with Jesus first. We learn how to do this better when we do go to church. That’s where the scriptures are opened, the prayers are voiced, and the mission is named and engaged. The heart of being Christ’s disciple is traveling by his side, going to the places where he calls us. We do what he wants us to do. We love the stranger, for Jesus breaks down human divisions and extends God’s reach. We welcome people regardless of politics, gender, or income because Christ welcomes all to his Table. We offer the cold cup of water to those who are thirsty – and a cushion for those who need to sit. We keep our hand on the plow – because it’s his plow, his field, and finally, his harvest.

 

And then he sets out again. Next week, we will travel some more.

 

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

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[1] 2 Kings 1:10, 12.

[2] Luke 12:51-53.

More to Say

John 16:12-15
Trinity Sunday
June 15, 2025
William G. Carter

Jesus says, "I still have many things to say to you, but you cannot bear them now. When the Spirit of truth comes, he will guide you into all the truth; for he will not speak on his own, but will speak whatever he hears, and he will declare to you the things that are to come. He will glorify me, because he will take what is mine and declare it to you. All that the Father has is mine. For this reason I said that he will take what is mine and declare it to you.”

 

Of all the Bible texts I’ve read, this one has kept my curiosity the longest. For Jesus says, “I still have many things to say to you.” It is one of the most astounding declarations of scripture, that the Bible says what it says, but there is more yet to be said. Christ keeps speaking. The life in Christ is an unfolding revelation. We didn’t get it all the first time. And if we did, it would have been too much to take in.

I am reminded of a story from the jazz world. One day a lady in pearls stepped up to ask Louis Armstrong a question. According to the legend, she asked the great trumpeter, “Mr. Armstrong, what is going on in your head when you make jazz?” He smiled a big smile and said, “Lady, if I could tell you, your head would explode.” In other words, it was more than she could manage. 

That’s how it is with music. How much more, then, to understand God? Kathleen Norris tells a similar story. She said an Orthodox Church theologian gave a lecture at Yale Divinity School, she said. When he finished, some wisecracker in the back row shot up his hand to ask a question. “Father So-and-So, what should I do if I don’t believe everything that we say in the church’s creeds.” The priest said, “Say it anyway. With a little effort, you can learn it by heart.” 

The smart student was taken aback, even insulted, and asked, “How can you say that?” The theologian said, “They aren’t your creeds. They are the creeds of the entire Christian church.” The student pushed again. The theologian listened and waited him out. Then he said, “Eventually it may come to you. For some it takes longer than for others.”

Kathleen said there was a chuckle in the room, and then some outrage. A few of the cultured intellectuals wanted to adjudicate the church’s historic beliefs through their own imperial opinions. “But you know,” she said, “the lecturer said made sense to her.” She had slipped away from the church of her grandmothers, and it took a while to find her way back. It happened as the ancient vocabulary was repeated and repeated.

She said, “I began to appreciate religious belief as a relationship, like a deep friendship, something that I could plunge into, not knowing exactly what I was doing or what would be demanded of me in the long run.”[1] Understanding takes time. True wisdom does not pour out of a faucet. Truth must be sifted from falsehood.

Jesus said, “I still have many things to tell you, but you cannot bear them now.”

When he said those words, the setting was the Last Supper. He was speaking to Peter, Thomas, James, and John, and all the others. Well, not Judas. Judas had already slipped out into the dark. I guess he couldn’t bear to stay with Jesus any longer.

 

As for the others, their toes were still wet from the foot washing, and Jesus told them they wouldn’t understand that either, not for a while.[2] Then he tells them he’s leaving. They can’t come. Then He tells them he will return to “take them to himself,” but he doesn’t say when or how. Then he promises they will not be “cut off” from him yet doesn’t explain how they will stay connected.

 

There’s so much Jesus does not say. It’s because they can’t bear it. They are not able to hear it. He understands they don’t understand. Can’t understand. Not yet.

 

Now, we do like to master our information. My friend Tom tells about the great 20^th century preacher, George Buttrick. Buttrick was flying on an airplane. And as he sat there, he had a legal pad in front of him on which he was furiously scribbling some notes for Sunday’s sermon. The man sitting in the seat next to Buttrick noticed this and inquired, “Say, what are you working on there, sir.”  Buttrick answered, “My sermon for Sunday – I’m a Christian preacher.”

 

“Oh,” the man replied. “Well, I don’t like to get caught up in the complexities of religion. I like to keep it simple. You know, ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.’  The Golden Rule; that’s my religion.”

 

“I see,” said Buttrick, “and may I ask what do you do for a living?”  And the man responded, “Why, I’m an astronomer. I teach astrophysics at a university.”

 

“Ah, yes, astronomy,” Buttrick shot back. “Well, I don’t like to get too caught up in the complexities of science, myself. ‘Twinkle, twinkle, little star, how I wonder what you are.’  That’s my astronomy. Who would ever need any more than that, eh?”[3]

 

We are tempted to just boil it down, aren’t we? There’s so much to understand. There was so much for the followers of Jesus to understand. How about the resurrection? He predicted it. They couldn’t comprehend. Or what about the crucifixion? A brutal way to die, yet the Gospel of John see the cross as a moment of great glory. That’s hard to comprehend. It takes some work.

 

Our text is from John, and the whole Gospel of John is full of misunderstanding. Jesus comes from the Father, where is the Father? Who is the Father? In chapter six, Jesus feeds a huge crowd in the wilderness. They want to make him king; he says no. In fact, as his fame increases, he goes into hiding; explain that! When Jesus approaches the Holy City for the last time, he does not mount a horse like a warrior; rather, he chooses to ride a humble donkey. It’s inexplicable.

 

Even then, the crowds started waving palm branches. Palm branches, the sign of an insurrection against the empire! That’s what they meant in the recent history of Israel. But Jesus ignored what the crowds were demanding. As he said to Pontius Pilate, the point guard for Rome, “My kingship doesn’t originate from around here.” Pilate said, “Oh, are you a king?” He didn’t understand any better than anybody else.

 

So, here at the Last Supper, Jesus addresses all of us, “I still have many things to say to you, but you can’t bear to hear them.” There’s too much else on your minds. Too many other distractions in your hearts. Too much nonsense cluttering your eyes. Too much noise clamoring in your ears. And we wouldn’t understand it even if he said it clearly – which he usually doesn’t do.

 

Yet there comes a point at which we really want to know. Jesus, what is life? And he says, “My words are spirit and life.” (6:63). We ask, “Jesus, what is the Father like?” And he says, “Whoever has seen me has seen the Father.” (14:9). And we want to know, “Jesus, how do we make our way through a world like this?” And he says, “Love one another,” and we know that’s difficult. So, he adds, “Those who love me will keep my word, and my Father will love them, and we will come to them and make our home in them.” (14:23)

 

It just got bigger, and that begs the question: how will you and the Father make your home in us? And Jesus says, “When the Spirit of truth comes, he will guide you into all the truth.” But what is truth? Is he referring to the truth about us – which is not so good? Or is he referring to the truth about himself? To which he says, “When the Spirit of truth comes, he will take what is mine and declare it to you. All that the Father has is mine.” (16:13, 15).

 

Listen, it’s OK if all of this makes your head explode. There’s so much to take in, so much to comprehend, so much for us to grow into. It’s no wonder why the church keeps teaching, or why the church has always built schools. One of the signs that a church is alive is that it keeps reading, studying, and learning, because the honest people inside affirm we don’t know everything. Even if we’ve heard so much, we have not changed sufficiently to live what we have heard.

 

The Gospel is enormous. The creativity of God initiates everything. The truth embodied in Christ exposes everything as true or false. The power of the Holy Spirit reaches into every relationship – individual, communal, economic, scientific, political – nothing lies outside the influence of God’s infusing Spirit. My goodness: God is up to a lot of goodness, often despite our imperfect goodness – or our long-established resistance to goodness.

 

And Jesus, “I still have many things to say to you, but you cannot bear to hear them.”

 

The point is that the Spirit of Christ keeps speaking. The Spirit of Christ is the ancient Jesus, still speaking because the Father – the Creator – makes a world by speaking. In the old Hebrew texts, the Holy One works by putting words into the air. God speaks, and it is so. Jesus says, “Peace, be still,” and all wildness keeps silent. The Holy Spirit speaks – as God speaks, as Jesus speaks – and life is restored, renewed, reanimated. The silence is broken. All things continue. All things are invited to flourish. And it’s all to God’s glory.

 

Officially speaking, what we’re talking about is the inner life of the Trinity, but I don’t expect you to remember that when you’re ordering omelets for brunch. No, what I hope you remember is that the Voice, the One and Only Voice, the Voice that said “Let there be you” - that Voice is still speaking, is still creating, is still healing. That Voice is still building life-giving relationships is a world preoccupied with its own destruction. The Only Voice that ever said, “Let there be” is the One Voice that will lead us out of the dark into God’s glorious light.

 

One of our church’s creeds is the Theological Declaration of Barmen. It was composed ninety years ago when racist Nazis threatened to reduce the abundance and diversity of God’s world into a sham idol of their own construction. The Barmen Declaration says, “Jesus Christ, as he is attested for us in Holy Scripture, is the one Word of God which we have to hear and which we have to trust and obey in life and in death.”[4] And Jesus keeps speaking.

 

There is no other Voice that tells the truth about the sin of the world, no other Voice that confronts the sin with the redeeming grace of God. There is no other Voice that challenges our apathy and judges our selfishness. There is no other Voice that breathes goodness and beauty back into the world. It all comes from Jesus. He reveals the will of the Father. He keeps speaking in the Voice of his Holy Spirit. He is the One who keeps nudging us into the future, God’s future.

 

You know, there’s a lot more to say about this, but you can’t bear to hear it now. So, music must take over when the words fizzle out. Let’s sing a hymn.

 

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

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[1] Kathleen Norris, Amazing Grace: A Vocabulary of Faith (New York: Riverhead Books, 1999) 64-66.

[2] John 13:7.

[3] Thanks to Tom Long.

[4] Theological Declaration of Barmen, 8.11-12. Online at https://www.ekd.de/en/The-Barmen-Declaration-303.htm

Faith and the Future

Isaiah 44:1-8
Pentecost
June 8, 2025
William G. Carter

But now hear, O Jacob my servant, Israel whom I have chosen!
Thus says the Lord who made you, who formed you in the womb and will help you:
       Do not fear, O Jacob my servant, Jeshurun whom I have chosen.
For I will pour water on the thirsty land and streams on the dry ground;
I will pour my spirit upon your descendants and my blessing on your offspring.

       They shall spring up like a green tamarisk, like willows by flowing streams.
This one will say, “I am the Lord’s”; another will be called by the name of Jacob;
       yet another will write on the hand, “The Lord’s,” and adopt the name of Israel.

Thus says the Lord, the King of Israel, and his Redeemer, the Lord of hosts:
       I am the first, and I am the last; besides me there is no god.
Who is like me? Let them proclaim it; let them declare and set it forth before me.
       Who has announced from of old the things to come? Let them tell us^[c] what is yet to be.
Do not fear or be afraid; have I not told you from of old and declared it? You are my witnesses!

       Is there any god besides me? There is no other rock; I know not one.

 

Let me tell you a story.

The first time I tackled this poem from Isaiah was 35 years ago this week. It was my last summer in my first church. I was feeling God’s nudge to move into another church. This church had caught my eye.

Meanwhile, this church was looking at me. A member of the search committee came to visit and hear me preach. His name was Steuart. He brought his wife, whose name was Sandra. No doubt she was curious. But there was something else going on. They appeared with their daughter Alicen. She was living in that area, so the cover story, in case anybody asked, was that they were visiting her – and taking her to a random church.

I suspected that if my candidacy didn’t work out, at least they could say to her, “Here’s a church near your home where you could connect.” I had the sense she had been taking a lot of Sundays off, as many recent college graduates are prone to do. And her father hinted as much to me in the parking lot. We would really like to get her into a church.”

And I stood to preach from Isaiah 44, “I will pour my spirit upon your descendants and my blessing on your offspring.” When I read the text, Steuart sat up straight in his pew. Sandra looked over at him. Alicen leaned over to see what got their attention.

Well, my candidacy did work out. About six weeks later, I was invited to come up here. As for Alicen, I don’t think she ever returned to that church. But she did end up trying First Presbyterian Church of Allentown. Then she met Steve, they got married, they had a little girl, and she became a leader of that congregation. They elected her to the Session, and I believe she was on a search committee for one of the pastors down there.

Her dad said to me, more than once, “I think it was your sermon.” I said, “Nah, it wasn’t my sermon. And it wasn’t the fact that you brought her and the whole family to worship every week, although that helped. No, it’s the promise in the text from Isaiah – I will pour my spirit upon your descendants.” And that’s what God did.

Now, Isaiah wasn’t aiming that prophecy at one family, although in that family, Alicen has one sister who’s a deacon, another sister who has been an elder and clerk of session, and a brother who has trained to be a lay preacher. To quote a character from Star Wars, “The Force is strong in that one.” 

In fact, the prophet Isaiah wasn’t aiming that prophecy at anybody we know. He was writing to people who had lost everything in a major political upheaval. They lost their temple, they lost their clergy, they lost their Bibles, they lost the ties that bound them together. The economy was in a shambles. Their best and brightest were abducted. The Babylonian army smashed into the city and abducted their best, brightest, and youngest. And the people believed everything they had known was ending.

When you lose your traditions and your institutions, it feels like you’ve lost your life. When you lose your children, it feels like you’ve lost your future. The people of Judah had lost both. To them, God says through the prophet, “I will pour my spirit upon your descendants and my blessing on your offspring.”

Now, that’s a remarkable promise. It means there are going to be kids. And they will be full of God’s Spirit and anointed with God’s blessing. They might not be elders, deacons, clerks of session, and Bible preachers – but who is to say they won’t? Faith will go on. The Good News will be proclaimed. The Gospel will be lived. And how do we know this? Because God is providing God’s own future. This is the work of God’s Spirit, the Holy Spirit, the Pentecost Spirit.

 Some of you know we are planning a church pilgrimage to Ireland. We will leave the week after Easter next year and visit the Emerald Isle. To get ready, I’ve been reading Thomas Cahill’s classic book, How the Irish Saved Civilization. The title is typically Irish, high on blarney, low on humility, but Cahill makes a convincing case. When the Roman Empire unraveled in the fifth century, Europe went dark. Violence increased. Chaos ensued. And it stayed that way a lot longer than the Babylonian Exile.

And yet there was a flicker of light as the Irish monasteries kept praying. The monks protected the scriptures, even illuminating the manuscripts to teach the Gospel to the illiterate. Their acts of charity modeled the love of Christ. Faith was nurtured in intentional communities. And the light continued for hundreds of years until it could ignite once again. And was it the monks? Or was it the Holy Spirit working through those monks, quietly reaching into future generations?

When we speak of the Holy Spirit, we speak of something or Someone we cannot see. Yet there is a Force, a Presence, a Wisdom that will not be reduced or dismissed. God keeps going on, even if the rest of us rise and fall.

I was thinking of this two weeks ago. It was Memorial Day, and we took our place down one block on the corner. Here came the VFW, the Mayor, the Village Council, the fire trucks, and more fire trucks. Then a tanker or two, and more fire trucks. Then the baseball team, the now-champion girls lacrosse team, the Cub Scouts, the Boy Scouts, the twirlers, the marching band, and a few others I cannot remember. There were lots of kids.

I was about to ask myself the question that I ask every year: “Who are these kids and why don’t they come to our church?” Then I realized in that parade, I didn’t see one single float for anybody’s Vacation Bible School. Often, we’ve seen three or four floats, kids on a hay wagon or a spaceship or Noah’s Ark. But not this year – because the kids in this town are busy doing a lot of other things. We are one of the few churches that can still pull off a Vacation Bible School.

And there are plenty of kids. There are over 3,400 kids in the six schools of the Abington Heights school district. That’s a lot of kids.

So, I thank God for the kids we know. For the ones we see. For the ones who drag their parents here. For the kids, whose faith is being nurtured by their grandparents. And I think God for those who keep the flame of faith alive when we live in a time with so many other distractions. But most of all, I thank God – just thank God – for the promise that the Holy Spirit will come through us or in spite of us to animate faith and energize the hearts and minds of those who come after us.

Isaiah could imagine that faith will ignite in a variety of ways. He could hear one person say, “I am the Lord’s.” He could hear another say, “My name is Jacob.” Still another would inscribe on the back of their hand, “The Lord’s.” Yet another would adopt the name of Israel; it wasn’t their name, but they will make it their own.

This is how the Spirit works. One way or another, we figure out there is a claim on our lives. We belong to God, who came before everything else. We will finally deal with God, who comes after all is said and done. “I am first and I am last,” says the Lord. In between beginning and end, we live, move, think, speak, and serve.

And sometimes we discover how busy the Holy Spirit continues to be.

Four weeks ago, I returned to Princeton Theological Seminary for my fortieth reunion. It was a wonderful gathering, but clearly my graduating class has lost some of its sparkle. Of the 197 graduates in my class, only about a dozen showed up. I knew church work was tough, but I didn’t think it was that tough. Other than that, I saw some friends, heard some good presentations, and had a few wonderful worship services. Yet I wondered what kind of future lies ahead of God’s church.

I did run into a good friend. Martin is the music director at the chapel. Spotted him and said, “Martin, it’s great to see you!” “Bill!” he exclaimed, and we shared a big reunion hug. Then he looked me in the eye and said, “Now, I have to tell you Taylor is doing so well.” 

Taylor? The same Taylor whom I baptized in Clarks Summit? The same Taylor who was in confirmation class with my daughter? Taylor, who asked all the tough questions in youth group, could be a pain in the neck? Taylor, who disappeared off to college, dropped by a couple of times to say hello, then disappeared again? Do you mean Taylor, who asked me to write a recommendation letter for the seminary, then said plans were changing? Taylor is here, at the seminary, somewhere? Martin said, “Yep, and doing well!”

Well, I was dazzled. Couldn’t quite process all of that. So, I needed a coffee. I headed over to the coffee tent, waded through the old duffers from the class of 1825, grabbed my coffee, took a sip, and gazed off into space.

 Then, fifteen feet away, I saw Taylor selling seminary sweatshirts at the swag table. “Hey you,” I said, “it looks like that baptism took hold.” And Taylor lagughed and said, “You never know. God found me. Here I am.” Then Taylor said, “Hey everybody, this is Rev. He baptized me.” That radiant young adult was shining with joy. It was effusive.

 Oh, you never know. With the Spirit of God, we never know. What we do know is that God, the First and Last, takes responsibility for God’s own future, which is our future, too. God can find any of us. Maybe God is reaching out for you. Maybe there is something for which you have been prepared – and now it’s time to step up. Maybe you have been deferring a life-giving decision, tossing up excuses – and now it’s time to put your foot where your heart is. Maybe you are tired of running in circles – and now it’s time to simply stand still long enough to say, “I am the Lord’s. God found me too.”

 This is the work of the Holy Spirit, the same Spirit who breathed life into the ancient church, the same Spirit who brings people alive in Christ in every continuing generation. God is First. God is Last. And God is Now.

 So, don’t be afraid.

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

The Last Word

Revelation 22:12-14, 16-17, 20-21
Easter 7
June 1, 2025
William G. Carter

"See, I am coming soon; my reward is with me, to repay according to everyone's work. I am the Alpha and the Omega, the First and the Last, the Beginning and the End."

 

Blessed are those who wash their robes, so that they will have the right to the tree of life and may enter the city by the gates. [15 Outside are the dogs and sorcerers and fornicators and murderers and idolaters, and everyone who loves and practices falsehood.]

 

"It is I, Jesus, who sent my angel to you with this testimony for the churches. I am the root and the descendant of David, the bright morning star." The Spirit and the bride say, "Come." And let everyone who hears say, "Come." And let everyone who is thirsty come. Let anyone who wishes take the water of life as a gift.

 

[18-19  I warn everyone who hears the words of the prophecy of this book: if anyone adds to them, God will add to that person the plagues described in this book; if anyone takes away from the words of the book of this prophecy, God will take away that person’s share in the tree of life and in the holy city, which is described in this book. ]

 

The one who testifies to these things says, "Surely I am coming soon." Amen. Come, Lord Jesus!

The grace of the Lord Jesus be with all the saints. Amen.

 

 Ideas for sermons come from a variety of places. This sermon began by overhearing a conversation. Well, it was more of an argument. He said, “Are you going to finish that sandwich?” She said, “What does it matter to you?” 

• 
  
• He said, “We shouldn’t be wasting food.” She said, “I haven’t wasted anything that I’ve eaten.”
• He said, “It costs a lot of money. Twelve dollars is a lot for a sandwich.” She said, “What I ate tasted pretty good.”
• He said, “But you didn’t finish it all.” She said, “What does it matter to you?”
• He said, “I’m going up to pay the bill. That matters.” She said, “I’m going to the restroom.”
• He returned to put down a few bills for a tip, looked at me, and said, “Hope you enjoy your overpriced sandwich.” She returned, looked at me, and said, “Don’t you pay any attention to him.”
• He said to her, “I wasn’t talking to you.” She said, “Yeah, but I get the last word.”
• He said, “That’s what you think.” She looked at me and said, “Just watch this.” And that was it.

Who gets the last word? It can be a conversational contest. Words bounce back and forth like a ping pong game. The last word is the dominant word. The authoritative word. The victorious word. The lingering word. There is nothing more to say. It’s the Last Word. Don’t try to add anything more. 

There’s a bit of this in today’s text. Somebody, I believe it’s the prophet John, says, “Don’t add anything to my book. Don’t take anything out of my book. If you add anything, or delete anything, God is going to curse you.” He’s not talking about the Bible. He’s talking about his book, the Book of Revelation.

It came in a Sunday vision, he says. It was a Lord’s Day, a worship day. He suddenly saw and heard all the doings and soundings of heaven and earth. And then John wrote it all down with the best language he could muster. The syntax is sloppy at points. The Greek can be imprecise - but cut him a break. Did you ever try to write down a dream? It’s nearly impossible to put all of it into words.

John borrows a lot of words in this book. Some of the best words he could find. He quotes the book of Psalms, reaches back into Genesis and Exodus, refers to Isaiah, Ezekiel, and the prophet Daniel.[1] As Eugene Peterson comments, “Every line of the Revelation is mined out of the rich strata of scripture laid down in earlier ages.”

So, John says, “Don’t mess with my book. Don’t amend it, don’t dilute it. Don’t tinker with it. Don’t even try to explain it. Just experience it. Let it work on you.” The words do what the words are going to do. In this sense, it’s the last word on John’s words.

But is this the last word? Good question! This is the last page of our Bible. I say, “our Bible,” because there were other versions of the Bible before our Bible. The Jewish Bible doesn’t have a Book of Revelation. It has a book of Daniel, parts of which sound like this book. Yet there’s no Jesus in the book of Daniel – and Revelation is drenched in Jesus Christ. The reality of Jesus enlarged and clarified the promises of God.

Even so, the Book of Revelation was just that – a book. Not a Bible, but a book. It was the Christian church that put our Bible into the shape its in. Our faithful forebears could have concluded their collections of Gospels, a theological history, and a bunch of letters with any document they wanted. But when you have a book like this one, which declares God’s Holy City comes down from heaven to redeem the broken earth, why not end with that? What could you possibly put after that? Maps and an index, maybe, but no more words.

The Bible is an edited book, a collection of sixty-six edited books. They have been carefully preserved, accurately translated (well, mostly), loving given to each new generation. And it ends with New Heaven descending into a New Earth. The collection begins with a Garden, the Garden of Eden, and ends with a City, the New Jerusalem. The whole journey begins with the generosity of a Creation, which we broke early, and concludes with everything repaired and flourishing. That’s the grand plot of our Bible – as edited by the church.

Well, drop a footnote here. Everything does not get repaired because everything does not get welcomed into the Holy City. Everyone does not get into the Holy City because everyone does not belong to the Holy City. That was the nasty verse fifteen. The Lectionary Makers didn’t want to ruin your day by telling you that. However, if the prophet John says, “Don’t mess with my book, and don’t take anything out of it,” we need to spend a minute or two on verse fifteen, which sounds like it’s spoken by Jesus.

In case you forgot, here’s what it says: “Outside (that is, outside the open gates of the Holy City) are the dogs and sorcerers and fornicators and murderers and idolaters, and everyone who loves and practices falsehood.” OK, pet lovers, take a breath. He’s not talking about canines. My two lovable Springer Spaniels have taught me amazing lessons about love, friendship, companionship, and creativity. You wouldn’t believe the things they get into. I have no doubt they will be welcomed into God’s Dominion a lot quicker than me.

No, he’s not talking about dogs. He’s talking about dogs. About those sub-human souls with endless appetites who have no regard for love, friendship, companionship, or God’s holy creativity. They are on par with the sorcerers, those who try to manipulate creation for their own interest, and the murderers who have no regard for the value of life, and the idolaters who worship anything other than the One Holy God who alone is worthy of our worship.

And then, how about the fornicators? This is the Book of Revelation, written by John, who was sent into exile for speaking the truth about Jesus to Roman Empire. He’s nodding to those who were consorting with the Empire, to those who would sell their souls and bodies to move on up the food chain, to those who have no integrity, no principles, no faithfulness, and no covenant. They have sold out to power and brutality.

One more excluded group are those who “practice falsehood.” Not only are they liars, but they also practice lying, they live by lying, they perfect lying, They are so good at lying that they convince themselves that lies are real. No place for truth, just distortions, cover ups, evasions, and denials. Jesus can’t have people like that in his Holy City. All those practices bend in upon themselves and twist their practitioners out of shape.

C.S. Lewis describes this in The Great Divorce, a fable about the separation between Heaven and Hell. One of the characters quotes John Milton, saying, “The choice of every lost soul can be expressed in the words ‘Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven.’ There is always something they insist on keeping even at the price of misery. There is always something they prefer to joy—that is, to reality.[2]

And that’s the alternative of Christ: living in reality, living in joy, living in the light, responding to the three-fold invitation, “Come, come, come…” The last word of Jesus might be the final beatitude he speaks in our text, “Blessed are those who wash their robes, so that they will have the right to the tree of life and may enter the city by the gates.” Their robes are clean because they are clean.

I like the way my friend Brian Blount puts it, “The blood of Christ is the detergent that launders those robes to be dazzling clean.”[3] Christ forgives them, and they welcome the forgiveness. They come clean because his mercy makes them clean. And the city, the Holy City, awaits them through its wide-open gates.

Does this mean there will be no riff raff in the City of God? Of course there will. But it will only the riff raff that knows it is the riff raff, for they will also know their future, lust like their past and present, is completely dependent on the mercy of Christ. We don’t get through the gates of that City by flashing our winning report cards. Our access has nothing to do with our goodness, real or imaginary. No, we get through by Christ’s goodness. He is the One who says, “I am the Alpha and the Omega, the first and the last, the beginning and the end.” He was quoting the prophet Isaiah when he said it as the only One who could ever say it. “I am the first and the last.”[4]  He is the Last Word.

And he holds the Last Word, too. For when we travel through all sixty-six books of the Bible, when we turn to the last page of Revelation and get to the very last line of the last chapter, here is what is says: “The grace of the Lord Jesus be with all the saints.”

The Last Word, and by that, I mean the only Last Word, is grace.

 

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

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[1] Eugene H. Peterson, Reversed Thunder: The Revelation of John and the Praying Imagination (San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1988) 23.

[2] C. S. Lewis, The Great Divorce (New York: Macmillan) 71.

[3] Brian K. Blount, Revelation: A Commentary (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008) 408.

[4] Isaiah 44:6. 41:4.

Heaven Comes Down Here

Revelation 21:10, 22-22:5
Easter 6
May 25, 2025

William G. Carter  

And in the spirit he carried me away to a great, high mountain and showed me the holy city Jerusalem coming down out of heaven from God.

 

I saw no temple in the city, for its temple is the Lord God the Almighty and the Lamb. And the city has no need of sun or moon to shine on it, for the glory of God is its light, and its lamp is the Lamb. The nations will walk by its light, and the kings of the earth will bring their glory into it. Its gates will never be shut by day--and there will be no night there. People will bring into it the glory and the honor of the nations. But nothing unclean will enter it, nor anyone who practices abomination or falsehood, but only those who are written in the Lamb's book of life.

 

Then the angel showed me the river of the water of life, bright as crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb through the middle of the street of the city. On either side of the river is the tree of life with its twelve kinds of fruit, producing its fruit each month, and the leaves of the tree are for the healing of the nations. Nothing accursed will be found there any more. But the throne of God and of the Lamb will be in it, and his servants will worship him; they will see his face, and his name will be on their foreheads. And there will be no more night; they need no light of lamp or sun, for the Lord God will be their light, and they will reign forever and ever.

Last fall, we answered an invitation to visit two old friends. They are retired teachers and have a place on the east shore of Chesapeake Bay. Their old farmhouse was built in the 1840’s. It needed a lot of work when they bought it as a getaway place in 1998. Slow improvements took place, at first during summer vacations. A detached garage was added, then the kitchen enlarged, then a library with a vaulted ceiling. The home is comfortable – but the location is even more spectacular.

Every night, the sunset from the back deck offers an extraordinary light show. You can also watch it from the hammock beneath the shade trees. When soft shell crabs are in season, our friends drop their own traps into the bay and collect supper. If you don’t want to take the boat out on the Chesapeake, you can jump into the swimming pool and cool off.

Just to sum it up, our hostess said, “Welcome to our little piece of heaven on earth!” Heaven on earth. Can you imagine that?

Some of you may enjoy a place like that. If not, you may have spent time in such a place. Some of the characteristics are the same. Natural beauty, splendor, lots of life. Maybe your special place is on the beach. Mine would be in the mountains. And there are two complementary descriptions to mark the location. First, God is there. The Holy One touches down. Second, the place gives life. It’s life-giving.

We’ve visited those places. We have those moments. I’m talking about the moment when we sense heaven and earth are one. When it feels like what has been ripped asunder has been reunited. When the bruised are healed and the broken are healed. When hostility dissipates and opposites are reconciled. Heaven on earth.

It’s that for which Jesus teaches us to pray. Remember the line in the Lord’s Prayer? “Thy kingdom come; thy will be done…” And where? “On earth as it is in heaven.” Heaven is defined as God’s dominion. It is wherever God rules. The territory is enlarged from “heaven” out there to “earth” around here. Heaven on earth. We pray for it.

And this is what Jesus embodied in his incarnation. Jesus is the One from Above. He comes down here, the Presence of Heaven in earthly flesh and bone. We listen to his voice, we look to his deeds, and we hear and see what God intends for everybody on this planet. Even in his crucifixion, one of the Gospel writers describes him as being “lifted up.”[1] That is, he is suspended between the sky and the ground. He holds together heaven and earth.

And this is what the prophet John sees in the vision reported in our scripture. As John is taken to the top of a high mountain, the Holy Spirit opens his eyes. John sees the City of God descending. Not staying out of sight, not remaining inaccessible, not a “castle on a cloud,” but coming into our midst. This is a stunning moment. There is so much that is right about it:

-        There is light everywhere, no shadows, no darkness.

-        There is universal appeal. The nations are there, not just our nation, but the nations.

-        There is universal access. The gates remain open.

-        There is the abundance of life, represented by the river flowing in the middle of the city.

-        This is complete purity and honesty. No unclean habits, no secrets, no lies.

-        At the center of it all is Jesus Christ, the Lamb of God.

Remember the Garden of Eden? John sees the restoration, except this time it is a city, not a garden. Life is flourishing for everybody and everything. This is God’s intention. It always has been. Heaven on earth.

The only wrinkle in the plan is that the rest of us see only earth. We don’t see heaven.

Do you remember that place I described on the Chesapeake Bay? The house that was built in 1840’s? It’s only a few miles from where Harriet Tubman was born into slavery, less than twenty years before. At least, we think so. The plantation owners didn’t regard her as a real human being. She was treated as property, worthy only of being bought and sold.

Our friends took us to lunch in their village. On the way, we stopped in front of the Dorchester County courthouse. Three years ago, a statue of Harriet Tubman was installed outside. It’s located on the exact spot where human beings were bought and sold. Harriet reaches toward the North Star of freedom, inspired by her faith in Jesus and the stories of Moses leading his people out of slavery.

By no coincidence, that statue is also in the very same spot where Harriet “stole away” her niece, who was about to be sold to a new owner.[2] While the slave owner took a meal break from the auction, Harriet stole her away. She did it because her faith taught her that God wants all of us to flourish to the fullness of our ability. Her faith declared nobody should be bound by anything or anybody less than God. We were created in God’s image to experience the fullness of life. Just one person was set free that day. But for her niece, it made all the difference.

“A little piece of heaven on earth.” That’s how our friend described it. Just a little piece.

Every once in a while, we glimpse what the prophet John saw so clearly. The clouds open, visions are clear, and life begins anew. There is life all around us, all the time, but we don’t always perceive it. Saints and poets, maybe they see it some. But reality waits for all of us to catch on.

Let me tell you what I find most striking about this vision in the Book of Revelation. It happens in the present tense. John sees the Holy City coming. Not merely in the future, but here and now. Not completely here, but already present. The river of life is here. The tree of life is available. The healing of the nations is ready. Somewhere just out of earshot, the heavenly choir is already singing. God’s new creation has broken in.

It’s not obvious to all. Neither is the Holy City completely unveiled. Yet the truth of the Gospel is that heaven has come to earth in Jesus Christ. The holy invasion is underway. And this is what a broken-down world needs most of all. A lot of cynics may dismiss it, well aware of the church’s spotty track record on mission. Some would dismiss the prophet John’s vision as some kind of purple haze fantasy; all of us must decide for ourselves if we believe it is real.

But I pledge my faith in what John saw, because I see it in the love and faithfulness of this congregation. The New Testament theologian Paul Minear once put it this way: “Delete the thought of heaven from (our) lexicon, and (we are) soon reduced to a one-dimensional environment, living without any invisible means of support.”[3] No heaven, and we are stuck only with ourselves, a closed system, no assistance from anywhere.

Yet faith invites us to say, “Our help is in the name of the Lord, who made heaven and earth.” Faith invites us to hope for what we cannot yet see. Faith invites us to trust that Christ is risen and living among us. Faith announces, “There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God; (it is) the holy place where the Most High dwells.”[4]

Today, we ordain our elders and deacons. My charge to them is the same as my charge to all of us. We are here to proclaim in word and deed that the glad river is the river of life. It flows from the heavenly throne of Christ, always from Christ, and it pours into this dry and weary land. There is help. There is hope. There is love. There is joy. Our work as church is to create an irrigation system that brings all the gifts of God to the people of God. Let the river of life flow on.

 

For heaven has touched down and continues to come among us. And until the day when everybody can see it for themselves, we live and love and serve as if it is already here. Because it is.

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

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[1] John 12:32.

[2] https://harriettubmanbyway.org/new-beacon-of-hope-harriet-tubman-statue-finds-permanent-home-in-her-homeland/

[3] Paul Minear, I Saw a New Earth (Washington, D.C.: Corpus Books, 1968) 14.

[4] Psalm 46:4