Doing the Inheritance

Luke 10:25-37

July 13, 2025
William G. Carter

Just then a lawyer stood up to test Jesus. "Teacher," he said, "what must I do to inherit eternal life?" He said to him, "What is written in the law? What do you read there?" He answered, "You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbor as yourself." And he said to him, "You have given the right answer; do this, and you will live." But wanting to justify himself, he asked Jesus, "And who is my neighbor?" 

Jesus replied, "A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell into the hands of robbers, who stripped him, beat him, and went away, leaving him half dead. Now by chance a priest was going down that road; and when he saw him, he passed by on the other side. So likewise a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. But a Samaritan while traveling came near him; and when he saw him, he was moved with pity. He went to him and bandaged his wounds, having poured oil and wine on them. Then he put him on his own animal, brought him to an inn, and took care of him. The next day he took out two denarii, gave them to the innkeeper, and said, "Take care of him; and when I come back, I will repay you whatever more you spend.' Which of these three, do you think, was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers?" 

He said, "The one who showed him mercy." Jesus said to him, "Go and do likewise."

As he travels the road to Jerusalem, Jesus fields a question from a lawyer. But he doesn’t sound like any lawyer that we know. The man says, “What must I do? What must I do to inherit?” It’s a ridiculous question. Nobody who knows anything about estate law would take such a question seriously.

What must you do to inherit? First, make sure your name is written in the will. Second, don’t tick off the person who put your name in the will. Third, be patient and wait for the donor to die. That’s how you inherit if you should be so lucky.

Yet that’s not the question the man asks. “What must I do to inherit eternal life? To receive and enjoy the life of God?” That’s a better question, to which Jesus says, “What does the law of God teach?” The inquisitor is an expert in this, so he gets the answer right: “Love God, love neighbor.” Ten points! Jesus says, “Do this. This is life.”

But that’s not good enough. The expert in the Law is giving Jesus a test, a test he himself has just answered. And it’s more than a test. It’s the same word as a “temptation.” Just as Satan tempted Jesus in the wilderness, so this expert is tempting Jesus. “Who is my neighbor?” Who, indeed? Look around. There is your neighbor. Can you recognize your neighbor?

“But who is my neighbor?”  

This provides the preface for one of Jesus’ most famous stories. It’s one of the top three or four stories he tells. We teach it to our kids. We remind our adults. We have Good Samaritan hospitals, Good Samaritan counseling centers, Good Samaritan travel clubs that provide roadside assistance. Everybody knows this story. It’s very familiar. And you must wonder if anybody is listening to it anymore.

You know how it goes. A traveler is walking downhill from Jerusalem to Jericho. It’s a seventeen-mile road, lonely and notorious. Criminals, thieves, and thugs could hide behind the rocks. One day, that’s what they were doing. They pounced on this poor guy, took what he had, stole his clothing, and beat the living daylight out of him. Then they went on their way. In the time of Jesus, everybody knew that road. Everybody knew what could happen on it.

As he is lying there half-dead, a priest saw him, crossed the road, and passed by. You know those clergy are. Sometime later, a Levite came down the same hill. Levites were the choir directors. You know how they can be. He, too, crossed the road and passed him by. And then – you know there must be three of these guys – a third person came down the hill, saw the beaten victim, and stopped. We have a hero!

What a hero! He stopped, knelt down, dressed the man’s wounds. He took some cloth and made bandages to stop the bleeding. He lifted the man on the back of his own animal, probably a donkey, and took him all the way downhill to the Jericho – because there weren’t any way stations on that seventeen-mile road. Then he stayed with him all night (did you hear that?).

Next morning, he had to get on his way. Before departing, he gave the innkeeper two days’ wages. “Here,” he said, “take this. I’ll be back. I’ll come back and check on this man. In the meantime, I leave him in your care. I will settle up with you when I return.” The lawyer had asked, “And who is my neighbor?” I think we have a rather good answer, don’t you?

The Gospel definition of a neighbor is more than the person next door. It is the one who is kind. The one who is generous. The one who is helpful. The one who will do anything for you. The one who embodies the love of God. And that’s the lesson we extract from the story. It’s a good lesson. To be a neighbor, be kind to other people. Love them, in tangible ways.

However, we haven’t really heard the story yet, not the whole story. A Jewish scholar says this is one of the stories with three prominent characters. See if you can fill in the missing piece: Father, Son, and ____ (Holy Spirit). Larry, Moe, and __ (Curly). Priest, Rabbi, and ____ (minister). Or for Jesus’ day: Priest, Levite, and _____ (Israelite). That was the pattern. Nobody expected Jesus to say “Samaritan.”

Everybody hated the Samaritans. They were not nice people, at least, not perceived as such. In fact, remember two weeks ago, Jesus set his face toward Jerusalem. James and John said, “Boss, can we incinerate some Samaritans? Can we call down fire from heaven, as the prophet Elijah did? Can we treat them as Israel treated Iran? Or as Iran wants to retaliate against Israel?” Jesus said to them, “Hush up!” It was harsher than that, but you get the drift.

Nobody expected Jesus to make the Samaritan the hero of the story. Nobody expected the Samaritan to show compassion to the wounded traveler. Nobody expected any Samaritan to ever be called “good.” Nobody. You can hear it when Jesus turns the story on the lawyer, the supposed expert on God’s Law. “Which of these three acts as a neighbor?” The lawyer can’t even say it. He can’t stammer out the word “Samaritan.” All he can say is “the one who showed mercy.”

Things haven’t changed much, have they? It’s hard to call enemies by their given names. We are such divided people, swearing allegiance only to the like-minded, never nudged out of our comfort zone, never pushed beyond our safety.

When one of our daughters moved to South Philly, I took her home one night. I took a wrong turn, drove down the wrong street, and automatically locked the door. She looked at me and said, “What’s wrong with you?” Good question. We are conditioned to identify enemies, to name them, to keep our distance, and in time, to develop a serious indifference to others.

Sometimes, as the story is told, someone will say, “The priest didn’t stop because he was afraid the man was dead. That would make him ritually impure. Same for the Levite.” Dr. A.J. Levine, New Testament scholar, says, “Nah, you don’t understand the Jewish Law, the Law of God. The Law teaches us to care for one another. Always. In every circumstance. Love of neighbor. For another thing, the man wasn’t dead, he was only half-dead. What’s more, the two Temple guys were going downhill, away from Jerusalem. Their work shifts at the Temple were over. No, they weren’t concerned about purity. They were indifferent. They didn’t care.”[1]

After all, they were Jews. The man in the ditch was a Jew. If they weren’t sure, they could have leaned over to look. He was naked. “Yep, he’s a Jew.” But that priest and that Levite didn’t care. For whatever reason: fear, didn’t want to get involved, no interest in investing themselves.

And then it’s the Samaritan. Surprisingly, a Samaritan. We can imagine if the beaten man, half-dead, but not completely dead, could look through broken tears, see the compassionate traveler bend over him, and say, “Lord, couldn’t you send somebody else?” I mean, he’s a Samaritan. Are you willing to accept help from a Samaritan? That’s really the question. Can you imagine a world where people care for one another? It would be close to the Kingdom of God, close to the Life of Eternity that the lawyer wants to inherit.

What must I do? What must we do? If we follow the logic of the story, the whole thing turns. As somebody says, “Don’t call this the parable of the Good Samaritan. Call it the parable of the man who fell among thieves.”[2] That’s how the tale begins: “There was a man who fell among thieves.” That could happen to anybody. That’s what will happen to Jesus. When he gets to Jerusalem, he walked into a place he called “a den of thieves.”[3] Same word! When they grabbed him, they beat him, stripped him, left him half-dead. This is our human situation. Life can beat us up.

But will we accept help? Ah, that’s the turn in the parable. The victim by the road has little choice. He cannot do anything. He cannot save himself. He can only receive the mercy of an unexpected stranger. There is a bit of Gospel hidden here. To paraphrase the apostle Paul, “When we were helpless, Christ gave himself for us. When we were powerless, Christ died for us.” (Romans 5:6-8). We have received help from the most unexpected Person.

So, Dr. A.J. Levine reminds us,

We’re the person in the ditch. And we might think, with the Samaritan coming, I’d rather die than acknowledge one of that group helped me. And then it’s even harder, because we have to realize the face of the enemy is also in the image and likeness of God. And the face of the person we think might kill us is the very person who might save our lives. Yes, there are bandits on the road and yes, it’s dangerous. But what Jesus is saying here is, “Recognize that everyone is a human being. Recognize that the person who saves you might be the person you think is the enemy.” You’re not the Samaritan; you’re the person in the ditch. Who will save you? And can you acknowledge that everyone has the possibility of doing that? If you can do that, the parable has worked on you.”[4]

Now, I know, I know. It’s just a story. And then, I was mulling over last week’s flood in Texas. They were still counting the victims, accounting for those still missing. It’s a terrible tragedy. One of my friends called to say, “Did you hear the flood victims have gotten some help?” They did? “Yes, Mexican firefighters have come to rescue and repair the Hill Country of Texas.”[5]

And I thought, “Wow! Mexicans! The people who some folks want to keep out of our country with their big, beautiful wall – they have come to help us. They have compassion on us.” For the moment it felt like the kingdom of God had come close. It felt like eternal life, here and now. And I remembered what a teacher told us in class one day. I don’t remember much else, but I wrote this down and I never forgot it. He said, “What is most humane is most holy.”

“What must I do to inherit eternal life?” Jesus doesn’t tell us what to do. Rather, he re-describes our world. His world is a world where people show concern for one another. The life of his eternity is not merely about loving God or loving neighbor. It is loving enemies, too, bending down: coming alongside, showing care, dressing their wounds, staying at their side, working for their healing – which will also be our healing, too.

 

This is the Gospel that is our inheritance. Go and do it. Do the inheritance. Do it in the name of Christ who has done it for all of us.

 

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

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[1] Amy-Jill Levine, Short Stories By Jesus: The Enigmatic Parables of a Controversial Rabbi (New York: HarperOne, 2014) 102-103.

[2] Robert Farrar Capon, Kingdom, Grace, Judgement: Paradox, Outrage, and Vindication in the Parables of Jesus (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2002) 8.

[3] Luke 19:46.

[4]  Amy-Jill Levine, podcast: “Jewish, Yankee Feminist, New Testament Professor” https://nosmallendeavor.com/blog/s1e9-jewish-yankee-feminist-new-testament-professor-aj-levine

[5] https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2025/jul/08/mexico-firefighters-texas-flooding-search-rescue

No Baggage to Check

No Baggage to Check
Luke 10:1-11
July 6, 2025
William G. Carter

After this the Lord appointed seventy-two others and sent them on ahead of him in pairs to every town and place where he himself intended to go. He said to them, “The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few; therefore ask the Lord of the harvest to send out laborers into his harvest. Go on your way; I am sending you out like lambs into the midst of wolves. Carry no purse, no bag, no sandals, and greet no one on the road. Whatever house you enter, first say, ‘Peace to this house!’ And if a person of peace is there, your peace will rest on that person, but if not, it will return to you. Remain in the same house, eating and drinking whatever they provide, for the laborer deserves to be paid. Do not move about from house to house. Whenever you enter a town and its people welcome you, eat what is set before you; cure the sick who are there, and say to them, ‘The kingdom of God has come near to you.’ But whenever you enter a town and they do not welcome you, go out into its streets and say, ‘Even the dust of your town that clings to our feet, we wipe off in protest against you. Yet know this: the kingdom of God has come near.’

Last Sunday, we heard Jesus set out on a journey. He “set his face toward Jerusalem.” Today, he sends other people to travel ahead of him: seventy-two of them, representing the seventy-two known Gentile nations of the world. “Go on your way,” he said, “and don’t take anything with you.” What a remarkable commission!

Have you ever struck out on a journey and not taken anything with you? He’s not talking about forgetting a cell phone charger or a make-up bag. Most of us have done that. No, he’s saying don’t take anything at all. “Carry no purse, carry no wallet, take no bag, take no luggage.” Don’t even put sandals on your feet. Just go – just you.

I would find that difficult to do. How about you?

Fact is, I have attempted for years to travel lighter. If I’m traveling for a week, I can’t fit my necessary stuff in an overnight bag. The necessaries just won’t fit. Sure, if you’re flying to Paris, they probably have a Walmart where you can pick up some deodorant. If you’re heading to the lowland of South Carolina, you might be able to buy a pair of socks.

Many years ago, I played with a band on New Year’s Eve. It was up in Saratoga Springs, New York. My roommate was a trombone player who traveled with a set of fresh underwear and a toothbrush, which he kept in a paper lunch bag. “You are traveling light for an overnight gig,” I commented. He said he would be out on the road for six weeks. This is all he took. Everything else could be rinsed out at night and hung up to dry. What about toothpaste? He said, “You can always ask at the front desk.” I never think to do that.

For some folks to take an overnight trip, the whole wardrobe must be packed. More belongings are added, just in case. There are contingencies upgraded to necessities. And what we pack is usually a reflection of our level of anxiety.

Some of you have seen Rick Steves on TV, the international traveler. He says, “If you take a trip with him, you can’t take more than a carry-on bag and a backpack.”[1] Anything more than that and Rick won’t let you on the plane, boat, or bus. Take three shirts and keep swapping them out. Nobody will care because they will do the same thing.

So, I wonder why Jesus told the seventy-two, “Don’t pack anything.” It’s the same command he gave the twelve disciples before him when he sent them out. “Take nothing for your journey: no staff, nor bag, nor bread, nor money—not even an extra tunic.”[2] Why would he tell them that? There are a few reasons that I can think of; maybe you will have some more.

First, he sent them to be vulnerable. Just like him. Jesus went here and there – and never protected himself with a weapon. He did not guard himself from those he met. He went with open hands and an open heart. He walked into a town on level ground, not three steps above reproach. He took people as they are, not as he wanted them to be. This made him accessible to others, allowing them to decide if he could be trusted.

The same went for those he sent. “I send you as lambs into the midst of wolves,” he said. As lambs, not lions. As humble, accessible, available – and vulnerable. Ready to engage, but never to dominate. How would this look?

David Brooks’ most recent book is called How to Know a Person. In a time of intense division, he asks, “How do we connect to other people?” The lessons are not rocket science. Ask open-ended questions. Pay attention to the answers. Seek understanding, rather than judgment. Find common ground that you already share. Put yourself in the other person’s shoes. Stay present and pay attention. Care about them, rather than insist on your own way.

Any surprises about any of that? I didn’t think so. It’s just as Jesus says, “Go as lambs in the midst of wolves.” Open, available, not defensive. Don’t pack the baggage of might, expertise, or superiority. Go open handed.

The second thing he says: be dependent on others. Knock on their doors (something we don’t do much any more). Don’t pack your own food; eat what they set before you. Resist the impulse to turn your visit into a transaction, financial or emotional. In some ways, it’s an extension of the lesson of vulnerability. Yet it goes further: learn how to receive a gift.

The lesson for me came several years ago on a journey to Haiti. We sent a delegation to learn about a literacy ministry, to ask what we could do to support the work. Not merely to send them mission money, but to come alongside as fellow companions. What a humbling experience!

Midway through our stay, our team broke up into smaller groups. We stayed with families out in the countryside. Someone in our small group squealed one night. She was sitting at the pit toilet when a four-inch cockroach climbed up between her legs. Our host laughed, “It happens all the time.”

Then for our final dinner, the family prepared a platter of meat and set it before us with immense pride. We didn’t recognize the meat. Turns out, they spent an entire month’s wages to buy a goat for our meal. Blew it all on us! “We are so happy you are here!” they said. And I discovered, with enough tabasco sauce, you can eat anything.

What did I learn? The importance of receiving a gift. And here, I thought the gift was that we had gone to them. I was wrong.

I’m sure you know the third lesson. The good news of God is shared through words. Sometimes there are simple words, like “Peace be with you” or “Peace be in this house.” Sometimes they are words that never get spoken, as in, “Instead of moving from one place to another and another, I’m going to stay with you.” Believe me when I tell you, career advancement can’t hold a candle to putting down roots.

And once in a while, the word we carry is the word that reveals what is not otherwise obvious. “When you go,” says Jesus, “tell them the Kingdom of God has come near to you.” Even if they can’t see it or won’t believe it, say it again, “The kingdom of God has come near.” Believe it or not, God is ruling over us and one another!

So, baggage is not necessary. All the journey requires is to stay open, to receive what others share, and to name the central truth of our human existence: that God has come close. This temporary residence is a holy room, not because we are holy but because God is here. And if we travel light, not only will we be blessed. We will be a blessing, God’s blessing to those we meet along the way of Christ.

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

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[1] https://www.ricksteves.com/travel-tips/packing-light/packing-smart

[2] Luke 9:3

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.