Supposing He Was the Gardener

John 20:11-18
Easter
April 9, 2023
William G. Carter

But Mary stood weeping outside the tomb. As she wept, she bent over to look into the tomb; and she saw two angels in white, sitting where the body of Jesus had been lying, one at the head and the other at the feet. They said to her, ‘Woman, why are you weeping?’ She said to them, ‘They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.’ When she had said this, she turned round and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not know that it was Jesus. Jesus said to her, ‘Woman, why are you weeping? For whom are you looking?’ Supposing him to be the gardener, she said to him, ‘Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.’ Jesus said to her, ‘Mary!’ She turned and said to him in Hebrew, ‘Rabbouni!’ (which means Teacher). Jesus said to her, ‘Do not hold on to me, because I have not yet ascended to the Father. But go to my brothers and say to them, “I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.”’ Mary Magdalene went and announced to the disciples, ‘I have seen the Lord’; and she told them that he had said these things to her.

For all the hallelujahs and flowers for Easter, there’s something curious about the Bible passage. You already know what it is. Mary Magdalene doesn’t recognize Jesus when he is raised from the dead. She supposes he is the gardener. 

No doubt she’s in shock. The evidence is there. She sees two angels inside the tomb and doesn’t even blink. They sparkle in white; they sit where his body had been, and then they speak to her. She doesn’t seem the least bit surprised. All she wants to know is where the body of Jesus has gone. Was it moved? Was the stolen? They don’t answer.

Then she turns – and Jesus is right there, upright and alive. She sees him, but she doesn’t see him. Of course, her eyes are scalded with tears. She’s distraught. She’s confused. He’s standing right in front of her, and she doesn’t know who that is. Is this the gardener?

When he speaks, she doesn’t know the voice. He asks two gentle questions – Why are you weeping? For whom are you looking? She says, “Sir, if you did this, tell me, and I’ll take him.” She says this to his face, the same face, but that face is unknown to her.

It’s worse than one of those high school reunions, when once-familiar classmates are unrecognizable. Jesus has been gone for only a couple of days. She had traveled with him, been by his side for years. She stayed at the foot of the cross until the end. She heard him take his last breath.

And here he is again. Clothed, risen, alive, breathing, apparently not too disheveled. She supposes he is the gardener. This is one of the strangest details of the Easter story.

There’s a similar story over in the Gospel of Luke. A stranger joins two disciples as they travel toward the nearby town of Emmaus. He leads a little Bible study for them, gives them a guided tour of the prophet Isaiah’s writings, and they don’t know who he is until he breaks the bread in their home – and promptly disappears.

And it happens again in the Gospel of John. A few disciples returned to Galilee to go fishing. A stranger stood on the beach and yelled, “Hey boys, did you catch anything?” He tells them to throw the net in the water on the other side of the boat - a ridiculous suggestion – until a hundred-fifty-three fish jump into the net. Then they know who it is.

This mysterious, anonymous Savior is one of the unusual aspects of Easter. He shows up. Just shows up. His own people don’t know who he is.

I suppose the Gospel writers are giving a little elbow to the insiders. After all, John begins his Gospel by saying, “He came to his own, and they didn’t receive him.” I guess that wasn’t true only for his birth or his ministry; it’s also true for Easter.

In fact, I’ll bet there are some people present here today. They love the music. They drink in the joy. They celebrate the optimism. And they wonder if all of this is true. This Easter sermon is for them. The rest of you can listen in – but this is for them. Because I want to affirm that there’s something slippery about the nature of faith. The Easter stories tell us this is just the way it is.

You heard about the Gospel of Luke. In the Gospel of Mark, Jesus doesn’t appear at the tomb. An angel says, “He’s alive, just as he said. Go to Galilee. You’ll see him there.” The women run away too terrified so say anything. According to the Gospel of Matthew, a strong angel came down to roll away the stone and two guards passed out and fell over. When the Jerusalem establishment heard about it, they paid the guards a lot of hush money and said, “Keep this quiet.” You can guess how that turned out – Matthew said the Easter story “has been disputed until this day.”

So take heart if you find this to be a slippery story. Mary Magdalene thought he was the gardener! And let’s see if there are any lessons in that for us. I can think of four.

Here’s the first lesson, and you already know it: most of the time, we see only what we expect to see. Mary expected to see the sealed grave of her friend. When she arrived, the tomb had been opened. Without even looking inside, she ran back to tell a couple of disciples, “They stole the body.” Who did? “You know, they did.” So Simon Peter and another sprint to the grave. They look inside, see there’s nobody there, and they leave.

As for Mary, Raymond Brown, the Catholic scholar, pointed out, “Magdalene is looking for the dead Jesus; (instead) she will find the living Lord.”[1] Or better yet, the living Lord found her. I can understand why she didn’t recognize him. Easter is shaped by expectations. A friend of mine expects to receive a basket full of marshmallow Peeps - Is that all you expect for Easter?

In a broader sense, the church can tell you, “Keep your eyes open.” Enlarge your expectations. True enough; yet if you don’t expect to see Christ risen, you won’t. Not yet.

There’s a second from this text, and it emerges from page after page of the Gospel of John. John tells us there is an elusive nature to religious experience. Faith can come and go. It sparks, and fades, then brightens, and might fade again. According to Jesus himself, faith blows in like the wind. “The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes (3:8).” So it is with the life of the Spirit. Faith is not something you catch – rather, faith catches you.

Frankly, that’s good news for me as a professional Christian. The truth of the Gospel doesn’t depend on how big of a show we put on today. I confess a bit of jealousy that some of our neighboring congregations have booked all the trumpet players for over a year – and most of them have been on automatic contracts for over a decade. And I whine, “Can’t we get a few trumpet players for Easter?”

The real Easter is not a show. It’s a mystery. It sneaks up on us. Easter is that moment, when all evidence to the contrary, our souls are opened to the possibility if not the reality that God is here, that Christ holds everybody that he loves, that the Spirit of God does land on us from time to time. And for no obvious reason, we are surprised to discover again that everything turns out better than it should. There is grace in the world, even if it is mysterious.

A third lesson will come when Mary Magdalene compares her experience of the Risen Christ with the other disciples, and the lesson is this: everybody does not come to faith in the same way. For some, faith is a lesson to study. For others, faith is a commitment of the heart. For some, faith is something that prompts us to pray. For others, faith is something we do. Is one way better than another? No, of course not.

Here’s what happens in chapter 20 of the Gospel of John. Mary tells the disciples that the body of Jesus is missing, and the two of them run to see. One of them sees the linens that covered the body; they are folded neatly, and this disciple instantly believes. The other, Simon Peter, sees the same evidence, but doesn’t yet believe.

Mary encounters Jesus individually. It’s one on one. That night, the disciples are hiding out in fear when Jesus appears to the whole group. They come to faith as a community. Of course, Thomas wasn’t with them, so he doubts the whole thing, saying, “I won’t believe until I can stick my finger in the nail holes.” He wants physical proof, so Jesus shows up to him, saying, “Put your finger right here.” Apparently, he was listening in.

The lesson here: everybody does not come to faith in the same way. One size does not fit all. That’s why, some sixty years after the Resurrection, John remembers how Jesus had said, “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.” That’s a blessing for all of us.

Fourth, and finally, faith becomes real when we have the sense that the Risen Christ knows us and meets us where we are. For Mary Magdalene, the last thing she ever thought she’d hear again was the voice of Jesus. And like a sheep who recognizes the voice of the Shepherd, hearing her name - “Mary” – meant he had found here. Right there, soaked in tears, worried and anxious – and he was there. Right there.

This is the promise of Easter. If you have doubts or questions, join the rest of us. Doubts don’t mean the whole thing isn’t real. It only means you’re waiting to be found. And I’ll simply say, “Here you are.” In a church without trumpets, here you are. You are in a safe place, surrounded by people who are doing what they can to love God and other people. There are no marshmallow Peeps, but the coffee’s pretty good. And you may come to discover that you are loved.

So I offer a bit of wisdom from a photographer named Dewitt Jones. He’s shot thousands of photos for National Geographic. One of the things he says, “If you want to shoot a good photo, he says, put yourself in the place of most potential.” That’s the wisdom.

If you want to see salmon fishermen on the River Tweed, go to the River Tweed. Get there at dawn. You’ll see them. And where is the place of most potential for seeing Jesus? Jesus lived out of the scriptures. So find a group of people who love the scriptures. And Jesus taught people of all ages. Why not take what you know and offer it as a gift for others to learn? And Jesus fed large groups of hungry people. So if we feed the hungry – we might see him in the breadline. And he served people in need, wherever he was. So we can step out of our own comfort and go where people need us. The place of most potential.

And in case you forgot, today is Easter. Jesus shows up outside of a tomb. It’s a place of fear, a place of dying.

There’s this woman I know who volunteers for a hospice facility. It’s a place where people pass away. She went with some anxiety, with a vague sense that she could help with some paperwork or something. It was vague. As she kept going, the busywork became respect, deep respect for the caregivers, even deeper respect for those receiving care. She stopped in to tell me about it, and said, “At this point in my life, I need to be there.” 

Why?

“Would you believe me if I told you that God is alive? And I know there is a resurrection.” I nodded yes. Didn’t need her to explain. But it was clear to me: the Risen Christ had called her name. She recognized the Voice.

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

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[1] Raymond E. Brown, A Risen Christ in Eastertime (Collegeville, MN: The Liturgical Press, 1984) 71.

Do You Know What I Have Done to You?

John 13:1-12
Maundy Thursday
April 6, 2023

William G. Carter

Now before the festival of the Passover, Jesus knew that his hour had come to depart from this world and go to the Father. Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end. The devil had already put it into the heart of Judas son of Simon Iscariot to betray him. And during supper Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things into his hands, and that he had come from God and was going to God, got up from the table, took off his outer robe, and tied a towel around himself. Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples’ feet and to wipe them with the towel that was tied around him. 

 

He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, “Lord, are you going to wash my feet?” Jesus answered, “You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand.” Peter said to him, “You will never wash my feet.” Jesus answered, “Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.” Simon Peter said to him, “Lord, not my feet only but also my hands and my head!” Jesus said to him, “One who has bathed does not need to wash, except for the feet, but is entirely clean. And you are clean, though not all of you.” For he knew who was to betray him; for this reason he said, “Not all of you are clean.” After he had washed their feet, had put on his robe, and had returned to the table, he said to them, “Do you know what I have done to you?”

That’s the question of the evening. “Do you know what I have done to you?”

Simon Peter wiggled his toes, still stunned by the action.
What was Jesus, his Lord and Master, doing on his hands and knees?
It was beneath his dignity, beneath his station, doing what a house servant would do.
Jesus kneels, cups his hands, lathers the gentle soap, rinses each foot, then wipes them dry.
How could one so exalted come down so low?
Jesus said, “Later you will understand.”
Later, indeed, he might perceive what Jesus had done by coming from the Father,
Starting so high, descending so low. It was the sweep of his entire life.
But in the moment, he could not, did not, understand.

Andrew watched nervously as the Master made his way around the circle,
uncertain if he would accept this invasion of his privacy.
His feet were his feet, all his, carefully guarded, just like his heart.
It was embarrassing to see Jesus caress his brother’s foot,
Rubbing the street dust from between the toes, then rinsing slowly.
Too close, too intimate. He was anxious about anyone encroaching on his heart.
There had been opportunities before, from some of the women of the night.
Virtuously he held them off, pushed them away.
To one, he said, “If I wanted my feet clean, I would stand in the sea.”
Andrew had no intention of allowing Jesus to come that close.
He chose to misunderstand. He needed to refuse, even if Jesus insisted.

Young John scratched his head, then had a glimmer of understanding.
The Master acted like a Servant. Like a servant… Ahh! There’s a lesson in this.
Traveling with Jesus for three years, he saw the Master leaning down frequently.
The crippled beggar, lifted up. The diseased woman, restored.
The blind man, honored and opened to sight. He served those in need by drawing near.
Sometimes it was stunning how Jesus could be so sensitized to so many in need.
He rarely passed by anybody, pausing regularly, giving each one time,
Gifting back their humanity, setting them free, restoring their lives.
No one could do what he did without choosing to be a Servant.
It was inspiring. John wished he could serve as Jesus serves.
“I wish I could be like him,” he thought, if that were what Jesus was modeling for all of them.

Judas Iscariot leaned back into the shadows and shook his head with disgust.
He murmured to nobody in particular, “Here we go again.” Thoughts run though his head.
Just a few nights before, that woman in Bethany had massaged the toes of the Master.
She cracked open that jar of expensive perfume, splashed the whole thing all over his feet,
then let down her long hair and wiped the mess with her dark mane.
It was disgusting, appalling, inappropriate for a banquet.
Judas muses: I knew exactly what she was doing but wouldn’t say it out loud.
So I barked about the cost. Jesus said, “Leave her alone.” It was infuriating.
Now, it’s the Master’s turn to get down on the floor.
One after another, he cups his hands in the basin, spills the water on a fisherman’s toes,
Scrubs and rinses, pats them dry, and then moves on.

Simon Peter pushes back. Andrew looks nervous. John’s got that stupid beatific smile.
Enough of this, thought Judas, it’s time to force his hand. Time to push him into real action.

And Jesus says, “Do you know what I have done to you?” The same action prompts many replies: you’ve descended into servanthood, encroached upon our personal space, inspired us to be like you, all of which is true. But there’s one act at the heart of it all, one thing Jesus has done and continues to do, one gift he has offered that we never anticipated: Jesus has cleansed those who were willing to be cleansed.

Notice this if you notice nothing else: Jesus never asks permission to scrub them clean. He just does it. That’s so typical in the Gospel of John.

•  He steps up to feed thousands of people, never says, “Anybody want something to eat?”
•  He approaches the beggar with the useless legs, never asks, “Is it OK if I give you something more than a donation?”
•  He muddies up his thumbs, puts them on the blind man’s eyes, and never says, “Do you mind if I disrupt your life by giving you sight?”
•  He stands outside of a beloved friend’s tomb, fully aware of what might happen, and yells inside, “Lazarus, it’s time to live again.”
•  Now, he intrudes upon the twelve, pours water into a basin, and scrubs clean those whose hearts are filthy and whose heads are confused. He needs no permission. This is his work. This is what he was sent to do.

John the Baptizer, who washed other people all the time, saw him on the very first day, and said, “Here is the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world.”[1]. That’s the story of our redemption, our Christian Passover. Jesus has “carried off” the sin. He has lifted it off the ground and high onto the cross. He has removed our transgressions from us as far as east is from the west.[2]

In this Gospel’s language, as Moses once lifted the bronze serpent to lift away the poison harming his people, the Son of Man is lifted up to give us life.[3] Or to dwell with the language of this evening, Jesus has washed us thoroughly, inside and out. This is God’s doing, initiated through him.

The only qualifying condition is whether we really want to be cleansed. As Jesus says to Simon Peter, “If you merely wish to be washed, take a bath. If you want to be cleansed, let me do it for you.”

In the Gospel of John, the scandal of Judas Iscariot is not that Jesus washed his feet, too, but that he refused to be cleansed. Immediately after the foot washing, he slips out the door to make his deal and turn Jesus in. For whatever reason, he cannot let the Christ come that close to his soul. We can only hope that Jesus will find another opportunity to chase him down in the shadows.

Years ago, there was a tradition at Elm Park church in Scranton as the season of Lent began. All the men of Lackawanna County were invited to a communion service in the sanctuary. Some of us remember the event at its peak, full sanctuary, hundreds of voices belting out, “Guide Me, O Thou Great Jehovah, pilgrim in this barren land.” Before the tradition faded into the sunset, the organizers invited Tony Campolo, the great Baptist preacher, preach a sermon about prayer. He said yes, I lined up a sub for that Sunday so I could hear him, and I’ve never forgotten that sermon.

He didn’t talk about prayer in general. He talked about his prayers, specifically his morning prayer and his evening prayer. “In the morning,” he said, “I shut up and don’t say anything. I empty my mind of the hundred and one things that are spinning in my head. Then, focusing on Jesus, I let him love me. I wait to feel enveloped by his presence. I silently yield to being saturated by his Spirit. I say nothing, usually hear nothing. That’s my morning prayer.”

“At the end of each day, I number all the good things that I tried to do during the day. I thank God for the moments when I could be an instrument of love and peace. Only then, am I prepared to review my day a second time. This time, I recall every moment I fell short. I try to remember every hurtful word that came out of my mouth, every occasion when I fouled up the grace of God. And I ask not only for God’s forgiveness, but also for God’s cleansing. I ask Christ to reach out from Calvary, across time and space, and absorb out of me the sin and darkness that accumulated within me during the day. And whenever I ask him to do it, Jesus always shows up.”[4]

This is the Jesus who dwells with us tonight as we share the bread and cup, the Christ who is with us as we retell the story. He is the One who washes feet and asks, “Do you know what I have done to you?”

Yes, Lord, we know. You are here to scrub us free of our sin. And we are grateful.

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

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[1] John 1:29

[2] Psalm 103:12

[3] John 3:14-15.

[4] Tony likes to reuse his material. He writes about his prayers in the July 2009 edition of Sojourners, in “Let Jesus Love You,” online at https://sojo.net/magazine/july-2009/what-sustains-me

Cheering Jesus for All the Wrong Reasons

John 12:9-19
Palm Sunday
April 2, 2023

William G. Carter  

When the great crowd of the Jews learned that he was there, they came not only because of Jesus but also to see Lazarus, whom he had raised from the dead. So the chief priests planned to put Lazarus to death as well, since it was on account of him that many of the Jews were deserting and were believing in Jesus.

 

The next day the great crowd that had come to the festival heard that Jesus was coming to Jerusalem. So they took branches of palm trees and went out to meet him, shouting, “Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord— the King of Israel!” (But) Jesus found a young donkey and sat on it; as it is written: “Do not be afraid, daughter of Zion. Look, your king is coming, sitting on a donkey’s colt!” His disciples did not understand these things at first; but when Jesus was glorified, then they remembered that these things had been written of him and had been done to him. 

 

So the crowd that had been with him when he called Lazarus out of the tomb and raised him from the dead continued to testify. It was also because they heard that he had performed this sign that the crowd went to meet him. The Pharisees then said to one another, “You see, you can do nothing. Look, the world has gone after him!” 

If there’s anything we know about the human animal, it’s how deeply attracted we are to celebrities. Maybe at one point famous people were mere mortals, growing up in a town that nobody could find. And then something happens: a special achievement, a historic ascension, a moment of widespread recognition – and they become somebody special.

I regale my friends with tales about the people who pass through our area. In election season, everybody claims to come from Scranton; there are frequent sightings of VIP’s. Or there’s a hot tip that a star player for the New York Yankees has just stepped into a watering hole on Courthouse Square. Or the night a young adult in my family was working at the front desk of a downtown hotel when a bus full of professional wrestlers rolled in. Her brother was impressed! Two mornings later, she had a sighting of rock star Gene Simmons in the hotel lobby. I was impressed.

Truth be told, a celebrity sighting will always turn my head. Some years back, I was on a minister’s retreat in Malibu, California. I know, somebody has to do it. We discovered a Starbuck’s within walking distance, so next morning, off we went. It was Malibu – I was on high alert. And there she was! A movie star in line for a latte!

Soon as we got outside, I said to my friend, “That’s Uma Thurman!” The friend said, “No it’s not.” “Oh, yes, it is. She’s gorgeous. Didn’t you see her?” The friend said, “Get over yourself. You wouldn’t have a chance, and what’s more, you’re married.” Ahh, the truth can deflate your hopes.

So we walked back up the hill to the retreat center. We passed the homes of James Cameron, Mel Gibson, and Britney Spears. When we passed the driveway of Dick Van Dyke, I bent down to tie my shoes. I took my time, one lace, then another. You never know if he might step outside to check the mail.

Think about the amazing people you have seen, even from a distance. There’s little chance we might strike up a conversation, much less befriend them. Yet we can’t stop looking. What is the attraction? Why do they turn our heads?

According to the Gospel of John, Jesus has become quite the celebrity. Word has gotten out that he’s coming into town. Forget what you’ve heard from Matthew, Mark, and Luke about the story. In John’s account, the singular reason the crowd is looking for Jesus is because he raised Lazarus from the dead. It happened in a little town just over the hill from the city.

Just last night, Saturday night, the family of Lazarus threw a dinner party to say thank you. Word got out about that, too, and a crowd began to form. Everybody had hopes that they might see him. They were camping out, keeping vigil, waiting to catch a glimpse of the miracle worker – while the religious officials snarled.

Next day, the door opened – there he was! Lazarus, too, standing on his own two feet. It was quite the spectacle. It’s not every day you see a dead man walking. And the miracle worker who raised him! Everybody cheered as the religious officials snarled.

Jesus began to move. The crowd oscillated around him. Most of the disciples formed a protective bubble around him, yet he was out in the open, smiling, waving, making his way to the top of the hill to head down. Then something happened to give him pause. A few of the young men had scaled a palm tree. They were cutting bunches of branches and dropping them to the ground, where well-wishers scrambled to pick them up. They began to sing and wave the branches.

And Jesus stopped. Do you know how I know that? It’s not because it’s written in the text. No, it’s because Jesus remembered what they remembered. Nearly two hundred years before, the Jewish nation had been overrun, not by the Roman army of Jesus’ time, but by a Greek army. Judas Maccabeus, a valiant Jew and a bit of a guerilla fighter, led a rebellion to chase off the occupying army. This insurrection was cheered on by crowds who waved palm branches.[1] Palm branches – as a sign of righteous violence!

And if that wasn’t enough, they changed the words of the Psalm they were singing to acclaim Jesus as their King. Waving the palm branches, naming Jesus as king. And Jesus had heard that before. In chapter six, he fed thousands of people, who swarmed him and tried to make him king. He wouldn’t have it. He slipped away.

This time, surrounded by an enormous crowd, there’s nowhere to escape. No large rocks to hid behind. Yet there is something he can do. He claims a donkey and climbs upon its back. It’s a different kind of spectacle. That humble donkey cancels the acclamations and counters the palm branches. It announces Jesus is not coming in triumph, which is what our Palm Sunday hopes get wrong. He is coming in humility. He descends downhill in vulnerability.

Jesus knows that giving life to Lazarus is the very deed that will sign his death warrant. The religious leaders fear what he has done; frightened that they’ve lost their grip, they want him gone. The crowds cheer Jesus but misunderstand who he is and how he comes to rule over us. Which is to say, Palm Sunday according to John is a lot more confusing than we thought it was.

When we see a celebrity, what is it that we want? Let’s ponder that question for a minute. Are we drawn to the glamour, the appearance, the larger-than-life persona? Do we want some of their luck to rub off on us? Do we vainly hope that some of their good fortune will trickle down to us?

And if we see a miracle worker, are we hoping he might do a few miracles for us? Of course we are. As other crowds shouted to Jesus when he visited his hometown, “Do for us what you have done for others!”[2] It becomes obvious why so many celebrities are so consumed with pleasing the public that they develop bad habits, destroy their families, and lose all their friends.

Truth be told, the only celebrities who have their heads on straight are the ones who choose to ride a donkey. And of all the celebrities I could ever dream of meeting, there’s only one man who fits that bill. Jesus will not be the King that the crowd wants him to be – forceful, strong, and authoritarian. Rather he will be the kind of King that God has sent him to be – humble, merciful, clear-headed, and truthful, giving his life for the life of others. And he waits for us to receive him on God’s terms, not our own.

According to the Gospel of John, nobody understands who Jesus really is. On the very first page of the book, a thematic statement is there for all to see: “He came to his own people, and they did not receive him."

• The crowds shout, “Hosanna! Rescue us!” and wave the palm branches of violent insurrection. They don’t understand.
• The religious leaders claim to love God. They are defenders of the faith, at all costs. Yet they cannot comprehend the One whom God sends.
• And it’s true of even the twelve disciples. John sums up the Palm Sunday scene by saying, “They saw what Jesus did – how he chose a lowly donkey over the strong white horse – and they did not understand.”

Yes, even the twelve were confused. Jesus has a way of exceeding our expectations. But then,

• when he was raised up to take away the sins of the world,
• when he was raised up to defeat the power of death,
• when he was raised up to rule over all who love him, as well as the world that still resists him,

they saw him glorified for who he truly is. Jesus is the King who comes in truth and grace. Always in truth, revealing who we are. Always in grace, revealing the mercy of God.

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

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[1] F. Dale Bruner, The Gospel of John: A Commentary (Grand Rapids, Wm. B. Eerdmans, 2012) 708-710.

[2] Luke 4:23.

If Easter Comes Before Good Friday

John 11:1-53
Lent 5
March 26, 2023

William G. Carter

⁵³So from that day on they planned to put him to death.

The Gospel of John tells big stories. Lengthy in content, weighty in significance, full of nuance, metaphor, and the wink of irony. The raising of Lazarus scores all those points.

It’s fifty-three verses long, and spills into chapter twelve (which we’ll hear next week). That qualifies as lengthy in content. It is a story of life and death and life again, which makes it weighty in significance. There are curious nuances – Jesus lingers before traveling to his friend, and his tears strike the onlookers as something other than grief. As for metaphors, “death” is “sleeping,” and faith is a light within us.

And then there’s the irony. John loves to poke us with his irony. Martha says she believes the resurrection will come one day, while Jesus says, “Resurrection is standing on two feet right in front of you.” Some of the neighbors say, “Look at Jesus’ tears; oh, how he loved his friend,” while others say, “If he loved him so much, why didn’t he come and save him from dying?” That opens us to even more irony, as Jesus raises Lazarus from the dead.

It is a stunning account, a big story. Like the other big stories of John’s Gospel, it is subject to misunderstanding. Jesus first appears in chapter one, and a wisecracker quips, “Can anything good come from that pitiful Podunk town of Nazareth?” At a wedding in Cana, he transforms water into wine for no deep reason, only because the party ran out of wine, and some goofball says, “This is better wine than anything we’ve ever tasted.”

Nicodemus sneaks up after dark, curious about the very things he should comprehend as a religious teacher, asking, “Does born again mean crawling back inside a mother’s belly?” The Samaritan woman says, “You’re going to give me living water? If you’re so great, where’s your bucket? And then, in chapter five, Jesus commands a man paralyzed for thirty-eight years to stand on his own two feet – it causes a ruckus because the healing happened on the wrong day of the week. Irony, misunderstanding, yet Jesus proceeds.

He keeps working, he keeps speaking, he keeps offering life where life has been taken away. He comes as a gift from God, an unexpected gift, in some ways an unwanted gift. Yet he comes - with the grace and truth of God.

Those who study the Gospel of John suggest at least one reason why he waits until his friend has died before he shows up. That is, of course, one of the strangest details about this story. Why does he wait? His answer is even weirder, when he says, “For your sake (not for Lazarus’ sake) I am glad I was not there.” Why does he say that? Well, the scholars remind us that Jesus according to John is not reactive. He’s not sitting around waiting to take our requests. He shrugs off his mother at the banquet when she tells them there’s no wine.

Instead, he chooses to act as a man on a mission, taking the initiative, healing the blind man who never asked to be healed. (Did you notice that last week?) He comes from God to bring light and life as gifts for those who can receive them. And he acts as if he has all the time in the world – which he does. Maybe you’ve noticed that too.

The first half of John’s book is organized around seven events. John calls them “signs,” Each sign is a miracle, yet more than a miracle. A sign is a miracle with a message. The message is this: God is here. In Jesus from Nowhere Nazareth, God is here. Here are the seven signs:

Water is transformed into wine.

A young boy is healed from miles away.

A paralyzed man stands up on restored legs,

Five thousand hungry people are fed in the wilderness.

Jesus walks on top of the Sea of Galilee

A man born blind is given his sight.

A friend of Jesus is raised from the dead

The stories get longer, the messages get bigger, until the raising of Lazarus leads all the other signs to their astounding conclusion, that Jesus Christ is the life of the world. What we sang in the Christmas carol is now as clear as a bell: “Light and life to all he brings.” There’s no more dramatic moment than a tomb opened on a hilltop in Bethany, another nowhere town. Jesus shouts, “Lazarus, come out of there!” The dead man comes out alive, wrapped in bands of cloth, and Jesus adds, “Unbind him from death. Let him go free.”

What a wonderful, dazzling way to end the seven signs, And it’s only the first half of the book. There is even more to come. For there will be a reaction to this seventh sign, just like all the others. Jesus raises Lazarus from the dead, and “from that day on, they planned to put him to death.” This is the hinge upon which the Gospel of John will turn.

Perhaps you hear the irony. Jesus raises a man from the grave and the authorities decide to put him in the grave. It is a sad revelation of what people with power will do when they feel challenged. They turn against the very things that are making people well. We’ve heard it since in the second paragraph on page one in John’s book: “He came to his own people, and they refused him.” John said it again in chapter three, “Here is the crisis of the world: light came into the darkness; the world preferred the darkness and said, ‘Snuff out the light.’”

As Holy Week gets closer, let’s chew on this a bit. It is a recurring description of the human situation. Our world is enchanted with its own destruction. Those who can grab the upper hand will do anything to push away those who disrupt their control. Truth is spun, lies are disseminated, whether it’s the notion that cigarettes are good for you or more bombs will make you more secure. To cut to the quick: don’t question us if we are in charge. And don’t ever let the truth be told about what we have done.

It's all here in the story of Lazarus. “We must kill Jesus,” conspire the religious leaders, “because he brought somebody back to life. Now everybody’s going to believe in him.” What a vain, intoxicated, insane thing to say! It’s right out of the headlines of this – or any other – year. The world keeps getting it wrong in ten thousand different ways.

“From that day on, they planned to put Jesus to death.” Because he brought Lazarus back to life. Because it has always been his gift to give us life. Because, in the faith of this Gospel, all things were brought to life in Jesus, and, through him, all things were created. He come from God to give life to the world – to the world, to the corrupt, anxious, fearful world.

And don’t miss this one truth, most of all: he chooses to do this. He chooses to give life to Lazarus, to us. As someone puts it, “Apart from trust in God, the world is a cemetery, but into the world God has sent in Jesus Christ the offer of resurrection, the opportunity to pass from death to life. Just as the crowds wanted bread and he offered Bread, so here the sisters want their brother returned and Jesus acts to restore the world to life. To act in this larger life-giving way means Jesus must move to his own death, and so he does.”[1] 

Jesus gives life, even if that means giving his life. For Lazarus, Easter comes before Good Friday. His resurrection will send Jesus to the cross. The machinery is set in motion. And Jesus chooses this.

As you know, there’s more to the story. Much more. John’s book is only half-finished. Death will lead to resurrection – for Lazarus, for Jesus, and for us. And maybe that’s why John tells this grand story sixty years after it happened. He knows the world tried to shut down Jesus – and he knows Jesus was raised from the dead.

This is how the Gospel unmasks the folly of the world. This is how the Truth about us is revealed. The Giver of Life has come – and the world wished to take his life. But Jesus comes back alive, every time. He’s the One through whom all things have been created. He’s not going anywhere. You can push him away, but he’s still here. You can go your own way and he will wait you out. You can deny him, but he stands in silence, reflecting your indifference as a mirror. You can nail him to a cross – and he comes again, full of life and breath, scarred and wounded yet vitally alive.

Jesus grants Easter to Lazarus. That leads to Good Friday for Jesus, which is also Good Friday for the world. Then it’s Easter for all of us, even for the world that can’t yet believe it. Of all the life lessons to extract from that, there is one above all others: trust God, who loved the world so much that he sent Jesus into the world to breathe it with life.

On my bookshelf, there’s a thin volume of poetry. I picked it up because a radical friend recommended it. It’s good to have a radical friend. Radical friends never let you play it safe. They never let you become intoxicated by your own delusions or consumed by your own fears.

The poetry comes from Julia Esquivel, a human rights activist from Guatemala. She loved the poor and remembered those who had been forgotten. Julia was exiled from her native country because she kept writing Easter poems. One of those poems goes like this:

I am no longer afraid of death
I know well
Its dark and cold corridors
Leading to life.
I am afraid rather of that life
Which does not come out of death,
Which cramps our hands
And slows our march.
I am afraid of my fear
And even more of the fear of others,
Who do not know where they are going,
Who continue clinging
To what they think is life
Which we know to be death!
I live each day to kill death;
I die each day to give birth to life,
And in this death of death,
I die a thousand times
And am reborn another thousand
Through that love
From my People
Which nourishes hope![2]

First time I ever heard that poem, it sounded like Jesus. Just like Jesus.

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

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[1] Fred B. Craddock, John: Knox Preaching Guides (Atlanta: John Knox Press, 1982) 85.

[2] Julia Esquivel, Threatened with Resurrection: Prayers and Poems from an Exiled Guatemalan (Elgin: Brethren Press, 1982) 65.

Neither on This Mountain Nor Jerusalem

John 4:3-29
Lent 3
March 12, 2023

William G. Carter  

³Jesus left Judea and started back to Galilee. ⁴But he had to go through Samaria. ⁵So he came to a Samaritan city called Sychar, near the plot of ground that Jacob had given to his son Joseph

This is a remarkable story, for all kinds of reasons.

For one thing, it’s a long story. We’ve heard only half of it. One thing about John, his stories are long, and they get longer. This tale is forty-two verses and we’ve heard just over half of it. 

The content is remarkable too. The story unfolds as a conversation between Jesus and an unnamed woman. Conversations like that did not happen in first century Palestine, not out in the open. Men didn’t talk to women in public, and they especially did not converse with a woman who goes to the well at noon when none of the other village women are there. No wonder when the twelve disciples return to the scene, “They were astonished he was speaking to a woman” (v. 27).

Not only that, but she was also a Samaritan woman. Forget all those nice stories you’ve heard about a Samaritan. They weren’t pure-bred Jews; one scholar says they were regarded as “mongrels.” Samaritan religious practices were suspicious. They mixed Jewish faith with folk religion, mistranslated the Bible to suit their own purposes, and set up a rival temple on Mount Gerizim. No wonder the Gospel writer says, “Jews had nothing to do with Samaritans.” Or to translate more literally, “Jews did not share utensils with Samaritans.” Even more remarkable that Jesus asks for a sip from her cup!

This is a woman. She is a Samaritan. As the conversation unfolds, sexism rises to the surface. Racial tension is revealed. The woman picks a fight about religion. And maybe you noticed how the conversation goes deeper and deeper.  

• He says, “Give me a drink.” She says, “You’re a Jew. Why are you asking me for a drink?”
• He says, “If you knew the grace of God, you would ask me for living water.” She says, “Where’s your bucket? Are you greater than our ancestor Jacob?”
• He says, “You have had five and a half husbands.” She says, “Sir, you are a prophet.”
• He says, “You worship only what you know.” She says, “I know the Messiah is coming.”
• He looks at her and says, “I am…” She runs away to say to the town, “Could this be the Messiah?”
• The villagers come out, talk with Jesus, and declare, “This is the Savior of the World.”

Hear that progression? Jew, greater than Jacob, prophet, Messiah, Savior of the World. The comprehension goes deeper, the titles go wider. Like I said, this is a remarkable conversation. The revelation unfolds a step at a time, just as it does for many of us. Rare is the person who comprehends Jesus all at once, especially in the Gospel of John.

This time though it, what catches my ear is a brief phrase. It’s almost a throwaway. The phrase is often skipped over in the retelling and sliced off the reading, which normally begins at verse 5. I’m talking about verse 4: “But he had to go through Samaria.”

No. No, he didn’t. Last week, he was in Jerusalem, down here. He’s heading north to Galilee, up here. Samaria is over here. He didn’t “have” to go through it. There were plenty of roads that went around it, because, as we heard, “Jews had nothing to do with Samaritans.”

So who is saying Jesus had to go through Samaria? John, the Gospel writer. He’s saying it. He writes down this story around 90 A.D. That’s about sixty years after the conversation took place. Just think about that. Some people would have trouble recalling something said sixty years ago, especially if they were not present to hear the conversation. John doesn’t write himself into the story.

Yet John remembers from the standpoint of sixty more years of the church’s experience. Jesus HAD to go to Samaria, because the church that followed him would have to go to Samaria. Which is to say John’s not talking about geography. Rather he presumes a purpose. He chose this. But why?

No doubt, part of the answer is due to how this Gospel describes Jesus. He works and speaks with intention. Nobody tells him what to do. He chooses what he’s going to do.

Like that day when the whole village of Cana celebrated a wedding – and the party ran out of wine. It was a catering disaster (or a St. Patrick’s day parade, you decide). The mother of Jesus went up to him to say the obvious: “They ran out of wine.” And he’s rude to her: “Woman, what concern is that to me? And it’s not the right time.” She spins around and says to the catering director, “Do whatever he tells you.” After she’s offstage, Jesus turns a hundred gallons of water into the finest Manischewitz anybody ever tasted. He does it, not because she said so, but because he decided to do so. He acts out of grace, not obligation.

What John wants us to know is that Jesus had to go to Samaria. He had to do it. He chose to do it. Jesus chose to go where he would not be wanted. Even though he was a Jew, he went where he would not be expected.

And one more thing about the Jesus of John’s faith: Jesus knows everything. It’s mysterious. He walks on two legs; he grows tired and must sit down. Yet he knows why this woman comes to the village well by herself. He knows she has been either abandoned or discarded five times. He knows she is disillusioned, disrespected, and regarded as disposable. That’s exactly why he speaks to her. John describes a Jesus who does not waste an effort nor chitchat about trivialities. He knows who we are. He steps into our brokenness. 

“Woman, call your husband.” She has no husband. According to the Gospel of John, he already knows that. The two of them have never met, but he knows her. He goes right to the core of her fractured identity. And he offers her living water. She’s ready for it. She’s thirsty. She would love to have a spring inside her gushing up with life.

But before she can accept this, she must step over – not only her broken past, but her deep resistance to him as a Jew. Jesus names her pain – “You’ve had five and a half men” – so she picks a fight. “You Jews worship on the wrong mountain. You worship on Mount Zion, but we worship on Mount Gerizim.” And that’s a bigger deal than many of us realize.

There’s a congregation not far from here. They are struggling to stay open. Actually there are a lot of churches not far from here that are struggling to stay open. The crowd dwindled. The kids graduated at confirmation and didn’t come back. The offerings dwindled. A couple of the long timers have been breaking their backs to keep the lights on. The doors are still open – but nobody’s coming in. And it’s hard, so hard.

The remnant remembers a full building, reminisces over the glory days, recalls the great preachers of the past. And I’ve discovered something about those churches. The last thing they ever want to give up is their building. They have memorial plaques on everything. They mark their history. They are so concerned with looking backward that they can’t even look around. (I’m not talking about looking ahead; I’m talking about looking around.) All they can see is their ancient shrine, inherited from previous generations. Meanwhile they are surrounded by a world of need while they grumble about polishing the silver communion ware and bicker over the price of light bulbs.

Here's what Jesus says to the woman: “The hour is coming when you will worship the Father neither on this mountain nor in Jerusalem.” In other words, the life of eternity is never about the place. It’s not about the sacred geography. It’s not about the great-grandmother’s name on the stained-glass window. God is the God of all people, all places, all times. God is the very definition of eternity.

And I haven’t yet mentioned the funny thing, the comical irony about this entire story. When John wrote it down in 90 A.D., the Jerusalem Temple had been demolished by the Roman army twenty years before. So there was no way anybody could have a worship service there. That Temple was gone. And the Samaritan temple? It had already been demolished in 112 B.C., about two hundred years before this account. The point of all this being it’s not about the place. It’s about the God who becomes completely accessible in spirit and truth.

Jesus says, “I am the Truth… the way, the Truth, the life.” Then he says, “When I return to the Father, I will send you the Spirit… my Spirit.” To worship God in spirit and truth is to worship Jesus, available to all in the presences of his Spirit. The God we meet in Christ can encounter us anywhere but will not be confined to only one place. In his own words, he has been “raised up” which can only mean three things: raised up on the cross, raised up from the dead, raised up where he is accessible and available to all people in every age.

The hour is coming and is now here.

Years ago, my father and I visited the well of Jacob. It was being redeveloped as a tourist site. The land once called Samaria is now part of what we call the West Bank. It is the most disputed property on the planet. Tension was high on the day when our bus rolled into town. Armed soldiers were everywhere. Just five months after we were there, the second intifada broke out, a battle that lasted over four years.

The guide took us down the steps of an Orthodox church, and there it was: a large hole in the ground. It is enclosed by a marble structure that looks like a baptismal font. Over top, there’s a bucket with a long rope.

Beeswax candles were burning all around. A grouchy priest sat on a stool. He growled, “No talking. No pictures. If you want a drink, be quick about it.” My dad mumbled, “This is disappointing.” The priest barked, “I said no talking.”

Meanwhile, our guide had drawn a bucket of water from the well, dipped a pewter ladle in it, and began to pass it around. When it came to me, I took a deep, long sip. It tasted just like…water. It was water, everyday water. We had a quick prayer and then we were abruptly dismissed.

On the way out, we shrugged off the gift shop. Didn’t need any more postcards. Didn’t need any incense or beeswax candles, even if they were on sale. We could worship God anywhere, under a tree, or in a pew, or in a closed-down sanctuary with great-grandma’s name on the stained-glass window, to say nothing of a three-thousand-year-old well in the basement of an Orthodox church in the West Bank. The location doesn’t matter, for God-in-Christ-in-the-Spirit can find us anywhere.

When that happens, we discover we are deeply known, strangely engaged, and our hearts and minds awakened. All the parochial sanctuaries, the racial divisions, the land squabbles, and the all-too-human resentments simply melt away. For God has found us in Jesus Christ, now through the power of the Spirit.

And this is why Jesus had to go through Samaria.

 

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