Getting the Tenses Right

Revelation 1:1-8

Christ the King

November 22, 2015

William G. Carter

“I am the Alpha and the Omega,” says the Lord God, who is and who was and who is to come, the Almighty. (Rev. 1:8)

Our scripture text comes from the book of Revelation, the last book for the Bible. That may be enough to make you sit up straight or chase you out the door. The book of Revelation is a difficult book. It is a difficult because it is a book of Christian scripture, and anybody who has not done the necessary work of heart and mind is going to misunderstand this or any other biblical book.

In the front of your pew Bible is the name of somebody I once met. In fact, he is the only person that I have ever met whose name is printed in our Bibles. His name was Bruce Metzger. He was the general editor and leader of the translation team that prepared the New Revised Standard Bible. Dr. Metzger taught New Testament at Princeton for forty-six years. I took two classes with him, and one was on the book of Revelation.

On the first day of class, he said, “There are two things you need to know. This is a hopeful book about Jesus Christ, and it is also the happy hunting ground for heretics.”

A lot of people avoid the book of Revelation, because it’s full of fantastic visions, wild creatures, and ecstatic speech. Some people only read the book of Revelation, because it’s full of fantastic visions, wild creatures, and ecstatic speech. Both perspectives are unfortunate.

The book is a collection of visions by a Christian prophet named John, which he sent as a letter to seven churches. Near the end of the first century, the Roman Empire has exiled him to an island off the western shore of Turkey. I have been to the cave where this man lived. Now it’s a religious shrine with tour groups and a lot of incense; back then it was a cave.

In that cave, John had visions of the Risen Christ, who opened to him the truth about heaven and earth. He could see, at points, heaven and earth are in conflict, and he could also see that, in the end, heaven wins. That’s what the book is all about. Don’t let some wild-eyed crackpot make it any spookier than it is. Heaven wins, God rules over the universe, Christ is the king.

In its wisdom, the church put this as the last book of the Bible, because this is where all things are headed. It provides the last word on God. How can you say anything more? Heaven wins!

At the same time, Revelation needs to be read with the rest of scripture, if only because the 404 verses of this book make 518 allusions to earlier passages of the Bible.[1] The writer of this book points to the books of Exodus, Daniel, Zechariah, and quotes a lot of Psalms. John uses the language of a lot of Bible texts to point to whatever he sees and hears.

This is ecstatic speech, mostly. The Greek scholars say he doesn’t worry about sanding off the splinters and providing a polished text. No, a lot of Revelation is offered in bursts of praise, like poetry or pieces of various songs. We know some of the songs:  “Holy, Holy, Holy” – chapter four. “Blessing and glory and wisdom and thanksgiving and honor and power and might” – the seven-fold praise is in chapter seven.  The Hallelujah chorus is found in chapter nineteen. It is possible for Christian people to sing their way through the book.

But as we heard in chapter one, twice John gives us an unusual phrase: “who is and who was and who is to come.” He is speaking about God, “who is and who was and who is to come.” But the tenses are out of order. How do we explain that?

Ever since English class, the teacher told us the proper order is past, present, and future. It should be “who was, who is, who is to come” – past, present, future, just like the three spirits that would visit Ebenezer Scrooge. That’s how John says it in chapter four: was, is, is to come (4:8). He knew the proper order, but here he rearranges it. Not once, but twice. What is he trying to tell us?

It is confusing. There is a proper sequence of events: something happened, then this happened, then that will happen. She graduated from school, has a job, and one day she will retire. The Penn State football team worked hard in the pre-season, didn’t look so hot yesterday, but there is always next year – past, present, future. That’s how it goes, but John begins with the present, and that moves him to the past and the future. What is he saying?

Sometimes it is the case that we experience something now, and it opens up the history of what happened before. The middle school class goes on a trip to Gettysburg, sees the fields and the split-rail fences. The guide points them to a house in the town with ancient bullet holes in the brick walls. What happened here? The present-day trip reveals an ancient event.

I recall overhearing a couple of kids talking in the early nineties. One of them mentioned the Beatles. The other one said, “Who are the Beatles?” The first one said, “Oh, that was Paul McCartney’s first band.” These days, of course, they might ask, “Who was Paul McCartney?” It is hard for a lot of people to imagine anything before they were born.

John writes to the Christians he remembers. They are scattered in a circle of seven towns in western Turkey. These people gather to worship Jesus. They welcome his grace and share his peace. They know the present reality of faith – they know what is.  But to remember what was - ah, that points to a deeper history, a longer story, and it all happened before they came along.

In his memoirs, the great preacher Fred Craddock remembers his childhood. The family was dirt poor, and lived outside a small town in western Tennessee. At eight months old, he contacted diphtheria. In those days, it was almost a death sentence. Medical care was rare and expensive, especially for such a family. When Fred took a turn for the worse, his father ran all the way into town to get a doctor. They didn’t think it would do any good, but it was a last attempt.

The doctor came, tried a few things, said, “We will hope for the best,” and offered to  stay with the family.  Fred’s mother stayed up all night and prayed, “Lord, if you let my little boy live, I will pray every day that he will serve you as a minister.” It was just like the prayer that the prophet Samuel’s mother prayed, as we heard last week. In the morning, the doctor said, “I think he’s going to be alright.”

“We will pay you when we can,” said the family. “I’ll send you a bill,” said the doctor, and he never did.

Here’s the thing: Fred never knew this story as a child. His mother never told him. He grew up, always a little sickly, but a good student. Through a variety of experiences, he decided to go to school and study to become a minister. The night before he took the bus, his mother said, “Sit down for a minute,” and she told him the story. “I never told you about my prayers,” she said, “because I wanted you to say yes to God and not to me.”[2]

Fred was stunned. He thought faith in God was his own idea. He believed that his faith prompted him to go forward.  But his mother had a head start on him. She asked God to influence Fred before he ever knew it. Before he could even recognize it, God was at work in his life.

God is, God was . . . and God is to come. That’s where everything is headed: toward God, in line with God’s purposes.

You know, when Jesus teaches us to pray “Thy will be done,” he is not saying “maybe,” as if to say, “God, we hope that you might get your way.” No, he is making a declaration: your will is going to be done. God is not going to wait for all of us to agree before God will do what God is going to do. God does not set the planet Neptune in orbit, then say, “I hope it keeps going.” Oh no, Neptune moves because God says it’s going to move. The orbit is not optional or conditional.

And when God says, “I’m the Alpha and the Omega,” that is, “the A and the Z,” the beginning and the end, the destination for all things belongs only to God. The end is not up to us. God gives us great respect, and lets us make a lot of decisions, but the final word is God’s. The whole story of our lives begins and ends with God. The whole story of the universe originates and concludes with God. God is that great.

As I told a couple of guys in the church choir, the reason why I picked the next hymn is because it has a phrase that declares God is “the potentate of time, Creator of the rolling spheres, ineffably sublime.” You and I don’t normally talk that way. We are not accustomed to thinking in such grand terms. We want God to fit inside our hearts or to come when we call. But God already stands ahead of us. God possesses the future, and knows how everything is going to turn out.

I remember walking into a Bible study one time. Some of the people had a lot of questions about the end of the world. Are we going to blow up our planet with atomic bombs? Are we going to defrost the ice caps and flood the coastal cities? Are we going to unleash a deadly nerve gas?  I wondered if they had been watching too many James Bond movies. They were really working themselves up. They wanted to know what the Bible predicted about all of this.

I asked everybody to take a breath. Then I said, “From the second page of the Bible, it is clear that human beings are capable of doing any number of stupid and destructive things. All of us are capable of that. But the future is God’s future, not ours. It’s like our birth - we didn’t determine the beginning of our lives; our lives were a gift.” They looked quizzically, and one of them said, “What about the book of Revelation?”

I smiled and said, “Yes, the book of Revelation. Do you how the book of Revelation begins? After the first heading and blessing, it says, ‘Grace and peace to you, from the One who is, who was, and who is to come.’ (1:4).”

“And do you know how the book of Revelation ends?” They didn’t know. “Chapter 22, verse 21: ‘The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ be with all the saints.’”

We can spend a lot of time fussing about the difficulties in the middle of our very messy lives. It can be a real distraction from the truth of God: that we begin and end with grace. 

I don’t know what you are carrying on your shoulders today, what troubles you bear, what fears you have, but I do know God is with you. And the God who is with you was with you from the beginning, and will be waiting for you at the end.

In the name of the One who is, who was, and is to come, Amen.

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

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[1] Eugene H. Peterson, Reversed Thunder: The Revelation of John and the Praying Imagination (San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1988) 22-23.

[2] Fred Brenning Craddock, Reflections on My Call to Preach: Connecting the Dots (Indianapolis: Chalice Press, 2007) 20.

Praying When You Are Desperate

1 Samuel 1:1-20

Ordinary 33

November 15, 2015

William G. Carter

Life is not fair. You know that, and I know that.

The neighbor down the street has a perpetual smirk on his face. His kids have gotten into the best schools, scored top grades, and secured wonderful jobs. Whenever he stops to chat, he has to brag about how successful they are. He pauses, waits a few seconds, and asks, “So how are your underachievers doing?”

The lady in the front office has gotten all the good breaks. She is tall and good looking. Her speech sparkles with confidence. They keep moving her up the ladder. One day she sees you in the hallway and blurts out, “It’s been forever since I’ve seen you. Are you still a secretary? After all this time?”

A man holds the telephone in his hand. The caller on the other end has already hung up the line, but he is still stunned from the news. “Cancer,” they said. “It’s malignant.” Time is short. It just isn’t fair.

No, of course it isn’t. There has never been a promise that life dishes out equal servings of grace. So we can understand when Hannah says, “All I want is a child. Lord, is that too much to ask?”

The story we have heard is Hannah’s story. She steps onto the biblical stage and we know two things about her: she is one of the two wives of Elkanah, and she is barren. The other wife is Peninnah, and she has been having babies right and left. Hannah is unable to bear a child, and Peninnah keeps rubbing it in.

Hannah, it’s too bad you can’t bear as many children as me.

Hannah, the Lord has blessed me with plenty of kids; when will God bless you?

Hannah, it feels like another baby is about to come. Could you hold my other three babies?

Hannah, I’m running out of room in my nursery. Do you have some room to spare?

It begins as a comparison. It becomes a contest. In a long-ago land where children were seen as a blessing from God, here is a home with two wives – one is blessed with plenty of children, the other has none. And the blessed one scowls at the barren one and says, “What’s wrong with you?”

Hannah knows what you and I know: life is unfair. For some hidden reason, God doesn’t roll out a lump of cookie dough and then stamp everybody the same. There are differences and discrepancies. Some receive more, and that can be their burden. Others receive less, and it’s a different kind of burden.

What’s interesting about this story is the unfairness is exasperated when everybody goes to worship. Once a year, we’re told, the whole family goes up to the sanctuary at Shiloh. It was an important shrine, a central place of worship long before there was a temple in Jerusalem. Annually they go to Shiloh to thank God for their lives, to make offerings of well-being, to worship the Lord who brought them to the Promised Land and guided them with his Words.

That’s when Peninnah would hammer away at Hannah: “whenever they went up to the house of Lord” (1:7). It was not enough for Peninnah to chastise her housemate for her infertility. It sounds like she was trying to drive a wedge between Hannah and her God. And this went on, “year after year.”

Elkanah could see it. There’s no word that he ever said anything about it, but he could see it. And while we do not know if he ever told Peninnah to shush and be quiet, we know he treated Hannah to an extra portion of food because he loved her. He implored her, “Don’t weep! Have something to eat.” He countered Peninnah by showing kindness to Hannah. After she had something to eat, Hannah went to the sanctuary to pray.

When life has been unfair to you, do you ever bring that unfairness into your prayers? That’s one of the lessons here. Hannah will not wait until the sun is shining before she prays. She does not wait until her tears are dry. She does not pause if she gets a busy signal from heaven. No, she persists, and she lays out her complaint to God: “O Lord of hosts, if only you will look on the misery of your servant, and remember me . . .”

Can you hear what she is doing? She is complaining to God, because it is God who has been unfair. For her, this is not merely a household competition where the other wife is popping out more babies. No, it is a deep injustice where she feels scorned by her housemate because God is withholding a blessing from her. There is no reason for her to “pretty-up” her prayer. She looks toward heaven and says in her heart, “Don’t you forget me!”

I have a movie in my library called “The Apostle.” Robert Duvall plays a Pentecostal preacher who falls on hard times. His congregation doesn’t like him and his wife has taken up with the youth minister. He is bitterly angry, but one night he puts it into his prayer: “You’re my Lord and I’m your child, and you can’t treat me like this.” He unloads on God at the top of his lungs – it’s so loud, the neighbors call to say, “Can you turn it down?” He ignores them, because he’s not talking to them; he’s talking to God. He is not a polite Presbyterian.

Neither is Hannah in our story. She is sobbing, she is deeply distressed – and for some reason, she is offering her prayer silently. She directs her heart to God, not to anybody else. Her complaint is against God. Her argument is with God. She is not going to turn sideways and make a casualty out of innocent bystanders. She is going to take on the Lord directly - - and she knows that God can hear her.

Meanwhile, as this is going on, over here is the local priest, a man named Eli. In a chapter or two, the storyteller says Eli and his sons are corrupt and inept. They are bad news. And we get a glimpse of it here: Eli the priest can’t tell the difference between drunkenness and prayer – chew on that one for a few minutes, if you will. And he tries to shut her down – to him, it seems all wrong: there’s no incense, no ritual, and no need for a priest like him. She skips all the protocols, ignores the written prayers and set liturgy, all because she wants to address God directly.

As somebody notes,

Eli has never seen anything like it. In charge of keeping order in the sanctuary, authorized to guard and guide the religions life of the people, he sees her only as a bag lady, a drunk, and reprimands her, accusing her of violating the decorum of the sacred place of worship. But Hannah is not intimidated by religious authority. She will not be confined by precedent. She is more attentive to her heart than to the hierarchy. She dismisses his charges and asserts her right to pray in her own way by laying out the pain of her life before the Lord.[1]

It’s a daring prayer by a daring woman. Without a script, she prays her deepest longing. And all the old priest can say is, “Go in peace, may God grant your request.” He may not be very engaged with the spiritual life of this unusual woman, but at least he has the good sense to hand over the prayer to the God who can answer it. Life has been unfair to her, and she wants God to address it. Eli has to get out of the way.

One summer night, I was sitting on a porch swing at a family’s home. The crickets were chirping and we were making our own small talk, enjoying a balmy evening. There were three of us, a husband, wife, and me. Suddenly she blurted it out: “We want you to pray for us to have a child.” I gulped on my iced tea, her husband laughed nervously. I was going to make a joke about that being above my pay grade, but she was serious. Dead serious.

“The fact is,” she explained, “we’ve worked hard in our careers, and have everything else we could ever want, but I’ve been learning there are some things that only God can give you. No matter how hard we have tried, we haven’t yet been granted a child.”

Well, what’s a preacher to do? It was an awkward moment, but an honest one. So I stopped rocking on the swing, sat up straight, and said, “Why don’t we pray?” About ten months later, their first daughter was born. I can assure you that I had nothing to do with it. Was it a miracle? It was a miracle, the same way every child’s birth is a miracle. Was it an answer to prayer? Of course; some prayers are answered with a “yes,” some prayers are answered with a “no.” Beyond that, it is a mystery, and I’m OK with that.

What I will affirm, beyond a shadow of a doubt, is that God heard the prayer, just as God hears every prayer. And in all the unbalances and unfairness in our lives, there is nothing more essential than telling God what is on our hearts and waiting for a response. In prayer, there is no assurance that we will get what we want – but there is the promise that we get something even better: we gain the presence of God. Prayer is entering the mystery of God, even when we haven’t received what we wanted.

Maybe that explains the most curious piece of today’s Bible story: that, after Hannah receives a child, then she offers him to God. The child she desires will not be hers – it will be God’s. Even before she receives an answer, she dedicates the answer to God’s purposes. So Hannah’s prayer is to bring a child into the world who will love God and serve God. With this, she sets an example for Mary, the mother of Jesus, who bursts into song just as Hannah does in the very next chapter. In a minute or so, we will sing the song that Hannah and Mary share.

Let me conclude this way. I don’t know what you have been praying for. I trust it’s something important, and I hope you keep at it. Whatever the challenges we face in this life, we bring them with us to the sanctuary. For it is here that we learn again and again that God takes us seriously. God invites us into the mystery of his holy presence, where we are welcomed and transformed. God grants us the gifts that will further his work in the world. You can count on it.

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

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[1] Eugene Peterson, 1 Samuel: Westminster Bible Companion (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press) p. 19.

All the Way In - Bethesda, MD

All the Way In
November 8, 2015

The November 1 sermon was also preached at Bradley Hills Presbyterian Church, Bethesda, MD, on November 8, 2015. Here is the link for watching it online: https://vimeo.com/145054611

All the Way In

Mark 12:38-44
November 1, 2015

William G. Carter

As Jesus taught, he said, “Beware of the scribes, who like to walk around in long robes, and to be greeted with respect in the marketplaces, and to have the best seats in the synagogues and places of honor at banquets! They devour widows’ houses and for the sake of appearance say long prayers. They will receive the greater condemnation.”

He sat down opposite the treasury, and watched the crowd putting money into the treasury. Many rich people put in large sums. A poor widow came and put in two small copper coins, which are worth a penny.  Then he called his disciples and said to them, “Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury. For all of them have contributed out of their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on.”

This weekend marks the thirtieth anniversary of my first major failure in ministry. It was a stewardship sermon about the poor widow who drops in her two small coins. It did not go well.

I had been ordained as a minister for about a month. At the first-ever session meeting that I moderated, somebody mentioned that Stewardship Dedication Sunday was coming up. They wanted a good sermon, because they wanted to be able to afford their new preacher. Then they sat back, folded their arms, and smiled.

Well, I was up for the challenge. That was back in the days when I knew everything. I had preached a dozen sermons in my career, so I was an expert. I had a shelf full of books about the Gospel of Mark. To my distress, I opened them to discover they said hardly anything about this brief, little story. So I built a sermon on this wonderful widow who gave everything to the temple. Perhaps I invented a few details, but I thought it was a good sermon. This time, they sat back, folded their arms, and scowled.

The critique came quickly. The chair of the Finance committee pounced first: “Worst sermon I ever heard! You never mentioned the budget. You should have laid on some guilt, and made these people feel guilty for the pitifully small contributions that they make to the church budget. We will never make it on two pennies per person.” Then he spun around and stomped away.

A saintly woman approached next. “Thank you, Reverend, for your good effort. I could tell you prayed before you preached that one. I was praying for you too. But, well, I can’t afford to give any more money to the church. I’m afraid I don’t have the means, and I do need to eat.” And she shuffled away.

Then a third man came forward. “You kept my attention for a couple of minutes, Rev. You really did. But then my mind started to drift, so I picked up the Bible and read that passage again. Did you know that the widow gave her two cents to the temple that Jesus accuses of fleecing all the widows? ‘Beware the scribes who devour the widow’s houses.’ Jesus says that. That’s all I wanted to say.”

Clearly I wasn’t going to get a raise that year. No sir.

If we take it for what it says, this is a troublesome text. Jesus points to this anonymous woman and says, “Look at her!” She had taken her place in line, along with all the faithful who have come to donate to the temple. According to Mark, it is a few days before Passover. Jerusalem’s population will swell as all of God’s people came home to celebrate their identity. While in town, go to the temple, give thanks to God, and make a financial gift.

The wealthy people were putting in a lot, because they had the money to give. Then this woman comes and - clink, clink - she drops in two small coins. “Look at that!” says Jesus.

Mark says she’s a widow. How could he identify her that way? Did she have a big black “W” on her dress? Was she dressed in black and clutching a Kleenex? And how did he know she was poor? Was she wearing old sandals or a tattered shawl? We don’t know. There is no evidence that Jesus knew her. He never mentions her name.

Yet the irony is thick. As my third critic pointed out, Jesus has just condemned how some religious leaders mistreated women like her. It seems the scribes of his day had a habit of handling the estates of men who died, declaring their widows incapable of handling money. These scribes distributed the estates, claiming whatever professional fees they deemed necessary.[1] It was sanctified exploitation.

It reminds me of those old television evangelists in the 1980’s who loved to appeal to people who were too feeble to leave their own homes: “You, too, can be a Faith Partner of our Cathedral to the Sky. Call now, operators are standing by.” Then they used the donations from disadvantaged people to buy private jets, air conditioned dog houses, and water slides.

So what was I thinking, trying to excavate a stewardship sermon out of this text? The finance committee chair wanted me to speak gloom and doom about the budget, the saintly woman was feeling pinched, and the Bible student said, “In the Gospel of Mark, this is a conflicted passage, to say the least.”

But there’s still something about it. Jesus says, “Look at her.” Take a good long look. What does he want us to see?

It looks like she is making an enormous sacrifice, for one thing. We don’t know why. We already have a hunch why she shouldn’t.  But she does it any way. It’s astonishing. What we have here is the miracle of generosity. Have you ever seen that miracle at work?

After my father died this summer, it took my mother a couple of weeks to return to worship at her church. She had been skipping out, wanting to spend every possible moment with my dad before he passed. After he was gone, she wanted to return to church – but she couldn’t go back to the same pew that the two of them had inhabited for 53 years. The grief was too raw.

One Sunday she took a deep breath and said to herself, “OK, it’s time to go.” She sat with some friends. Everybody was glad to see her. She went to coffee hour and was glad to be back.

As coffee hour was winding down, something unusual happened. A lady she didn’t know very well asked, “Can I talk to you privately?” This woman is married to a dishwasher at a local hotel. She is on disability, and lives in a trailer park on the edge of town. She usually sits in the back of the church, and often wears the same dress. It may be the only dress she owns.

She gave my mother a hug and then slipped her an envelope. “Please open this later,” she said, “not now.” Mom thought it was a sympathy card, and slipped in her purse. Later that afternoon, she remembered it and opened it up.

There was a long handwritten letter on yellow paper. “Dear Ann, my husband and I are so sorry Glenn died. We are concerned about you. We watch out for people who are going through difficulty, and want to help any way we can." Inside the letter, there are two twenty dollar bills.

Mom called me immediately and said, “What should I do? It’s forty dollars. She can’t afford that. What do I do?” I said, “You always told me to write a thank you note. Turnabout is fair play.”

Mom said, “But I don’t need the money.” “Yes,” I replied, “but she needs to give it to you.” There was a moment of silence, and then she said, “Fair enough.” My mother knows if such a gift is given, whatever else we do, we guard the contributor’s dignity, express our thanks, and extend our gratitude by sharing what God has given us.

For this is how God works in our hearts to create the miracle of generosity. It’s like the woman in Jerusalem. There’s something at work in her soul to make her generous. Jesus notices that it is something more than the average rich person who gives because they always seem to have some cash. “They give out of their abundance,” he says, “but she gives out of her poverty.”

So I marvel at this woman that Jesus points out. She gives freely and generously. No doubt she knew what it was like to have needs. No doubt she knew the institution through which she was giving had its flaws. No doubt she believed somehow that God’s work would be done and God would be honored if she gave.

But here’s the thing: look at what she gave! She gave everything. Two small coins, equal to one of our pennies, quantitatively not much, but Jesus declares it is “her whole living.” Or to translate it literally, “her whole life.” She gave her life. No wonder Jesus, of all people, took notice of her. On the very next page, the Passion story begins and Jesus gives his whole life.

This is a story about sacrificial giving, about trusting God so much that you live a generous life. It’s about having your soul intact, that you might love God and neighbor even if the institutions around you are on shaky ground.

I have a friend named Carlos. Three years ago, in the middle of a storm warning, he looked out the church window to see a guy from the Weather Channel broadcasting live on the church lawn. That’s when you know it is going to be a tough day. When Hurricane Sandy stopped blowing two days later, hundreds of the people in Point Pleasant Beach, New Jersey, had lost their homes. Two weeks after the storm, it was Stewardship Dedication Sunday.

Carl stood in the pulpit and said, “Today is not a day about fundraising. It’s a day about being the church. We exist to pray together. We exist to worship God together. We exist to care about human needs.” With that, the church offered individual prayers for healing. Then they prepared a free meal for anybody in the community who was hungry or needed a friend. Carl said, “This is what Christian people do.” Somehow there seemed to be plenty of money, because everybody wanted to be part of that. Now, there’s a church with its soul intact.

Jesus said, “Look at that woman over there. Do you see her?” She had virtually nothing, while the affluent people around her had more than enough. They put in large sums – but she put in everything. They offered their leftovers to God, but she put herself all the way in.

We can speculate all we want about her motivation. Was it obligation? Perhaps. Was giving her habit? Certainly. Was giving a spiritual practice for her? We hope so.

Here’s what I think. I believe she gave because she knew the purposes of God’s temple are central to our lives: to lead people in praising God, to gather around the sacred texts, and to listen and act when the scriptures say, “The Lord upholds the homeless child and the widow, but the way of the wicked God brings to ruin.” (Psalm 146:9)  

We know why she gives: because she gave herself to God - - - heart, soul, mind, strength, and pocketbook. Is God greater than the institutions that claim to do God’s work? Certainly! And in emptying her pockets, she worships the God who comes to save the world by building justice among God’s people. She gives because she wants to take part in that work.

“So look at her,” says Jesus. “Take a good look!” She gives her all for the work of God. So does Jesus.

What about you?

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[1] Ched Myer’s observation, in http://radicaldiscipleship.net/2015/10/29/the-widows-mite-commendation-or-condemnation/#more-2974

What Delights Jesus

Mark 10:46-52

Ordinary 30

Series: “Discipleship Camp”

October 25, 2015

William G. Carter

We have been on the road with Jesus for a while. Just like the other Gospels, Mark portrays faith as a journey. Jesus appears in the desert, gets baptized, is tested in the wilderness, and then he is off and running. It is a rare occasion in the Gospel of Mark for the Lord to sit still. There is always a leper to be healed, a storm to be silenced, or a parable to be hurled into the crowd. The world is in rough shape, and the Savior has a lot of saving to do.

Mark’s favorite word is “immediately.” Immediately Jesus goes into the village. He says to the paralyzed man, “Get up and walk,” and immediately the man jumps to his feet. Immediately he goes here, immediately he goes there. Mark portrays Jesus as a man of action, the strong man of God who is on the move. Jesus is on the go, and if you wish to follow him, you have to keep up with him.

And if you keep up with him, his words and actions invite you to a deeper faith. Listen to this story:

They came to Jericho. As Jesus and his disciples and a large crowd were leaving Jericho, Bartimaeus son of Timaeus, a blind beggar, was sitting by the roadside. When he heard that it was Jesus of Nazareth, he began to shout out and say, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!” Many sternly ordered him to be quiet, but he cried out even more loudly, “Son of David, have mercy on me!” Jesus stood still and said, “Call him here.” And they called the blind man, saying to him, “Take heart; get up, he is calling you.” So throwing off his cloak, he sprang up and came to Jesus. Then Jesus said to him, “What do you want me to do for you?” The blind man said to him, “My teacher, let me see again.” Jesus said to him, “Go; your faith has made you well.” Immediately he regained his sight and followed him on the way.

Finally, somebody sees. This is the second story of a blind person healed by Jesus. The first story was back in chapter eight, and it didn’t go so well. Jesus was up in Bethsaida, a fishing village not far from his home base in Capernaum. They brought to him a blind man. Jesus took him by the hand and led him out of the village. There he performed the traditional folk cure of wetting his fingers and placing them on the man’s eyes. “Can you see anything?”  The man said, “I can see people, but they look like trees walking.” So Jesus had to do it again, give him a second whammy, and then the man could see. Jesus said, “Don’t go back into the village.”

It’s an odd story, but pretty soon we understand how hard it is to see. Jesus takes the twelve on a retreat and asks, “Who do people say that I am?” Simon Peter gets it half-right: “You are the Messiah, the Christ,” but he doesn’t understand that the Christ has not come to beat up the Romans or stage a religious revival. No, Jesus has come to give his life in self-giving love.

And then we have one story of somebody after another who does not understand Jesus. Mostly it’s the twelve disciples. They see Jesus glow with the power of heaven, but can’t comprehend that he uses that power to heal a child with epilepsy. He reminds them again how he will go to Jerusalem and give away his life for many, but then he has to interrupt an argument among them about which one of them is the greatest. After the healing of a blind man, the disciples can’t see a thing. They simply don’t get it – and neither do those around them.

Let me briefly recount the stories we have heard this fall.

·         The disciple John, one of the original fishermen, runs up to tattle on a wayward exorcist. “Teacher,” he exclaims, “we saw somebody casting out evil in your name, and we told him to stop because he wasn’t following us.” Jesus said, “Don’t stop him; we are on the same team.” (9:38-42)

·         Parents were bringing their children to Jesus and get them blessed, but the twelve disciples were trying to keep them away. “Adults only,” they said. “Get those kids out of here!” But Jesus said, “Let them come. Let them come! The kingdom is for them, and those who are like them.” (10:13-16)

·         Then a true-blue spiritual seeker comes near and says, “Good Teacher, how can I inherit the life of eternity?” They talk about God’s expectations, and Jesus loves what is in this man. But he lacks something: he lacks a neighborly charity. Jesus says, “Give it all away to the needy, then come with me.” And the man can’t do it. He loves his money and his material belongings more than the life of eternity. (10:17-31)

·         So Jesus says a third time, “I’m going to Jerusalem to give away my life for the benefit of the world.” And James and John, the two brothers, push to the front of the line and say, “Ooh, ooh, when you come into your glory, can we sit next to you?” And then another fight erupts when the other ten find out that James and John got to ask him first.”

They don’t get it, any more than any of us get it. It takes a conversion to follow Jesus. Anybody can tag along as an affiliate member, but to go the whole way . . . whew, that’s difficult. Mark is teaching us that spiritual clarity is an ongoing journey. You have to keep at it, keep stripping away the illusions, keep peeling away the protective layers of vanity, keep pushing your soul beyond self-preservation.

So they go to Jericho, the oasis town by the Dead Sea, and there’s another blind man. This one has a name: Bartimaeus. Most of the people Jesus cures, we don’t know their names. But this one we do. He is the son of Timaeus, Bartimaeus. And he calls out to the Son of David. That causes a stir. Surely there are Roman soldiers near the street in Jericho, and “Son of David” is an explosive phrase - - some say it was code language for a military hero, so the townspeople say, “Shh! Quiet down! Don’t get us in trouble.”

But then Jesus does something remarkable. He calls to Bartimaeus, who jumps up and leaves behind his beggar’s cloak. And the Lord asks the same question that he asked James and John last week: “What do you want me to do for you?” This man does not want power or prestige. He wants mercy. He wants the powers of heaven to show him some kindness.

And he makes it very specific: “My teacher, let me see again.” His prayer is granted. Faith like that makes him well.

I have spent a bit of time this week, thanking God for the gift of vision. When you can see every day, you start to take it for granted. One of my friends developed a detached retina a week or so ago. She had surgery and all went well. For a week, she wore an eye patch and we joked about getting her a parrot so she can be a pirate for Halloween. But losing your sight is no laughing matter.

If we have troubles with our vision, it is hard to get around – my friend was temporarily unable to drive for ten days. She had to depend on others to drive. And unlike those who have adjusted to sightlessness, most of us are not prepared to suddenly have our lights go out. Can’t we all understand why Bartimaeus asked to see again? It sounds like once he had been able until something took it away. He knows what it was like to see the deep colors of the sea or the wrinkles of a familiar face. “Let me see again,” he says.

Just the other day, at the end of a week that had a few bumps, I was feeling a little blue. So was my wife Jamie. An idea came out of the air – “Let’s go for a ride and look at the autumn leaves.” It was just what we needed. We went out to Newton Township and drove along the base of the mountain. We turned right and toodled our way over hill and dale. Somehow we found ourselves in Nicholson, so I took her by the cemetery so we could say hello to friends buried there. We found the back way to Fleetville, and since we were close, we went over to the dairy to say hello to the cows and get ice cream cones.

It was a perfect day, full of color and beauty. We must have been out for a couple of hours, enjoying the scarlet maples, the yellow birches, the auburn oaks. This is a beautiful part of the world, especially if we take the time to see it. And it gave me a glimpse of what Bartimaeus wanted. He didn’t want another donation, he didn’t want to remain a beggar or a fixture by the side of the road. He wanted to participate in the world. The blind man wanted to see.

But the irony is that he already did see. He is different from the other characters that Mark has been parading in front of us. He recognizes who Jesus is and trusts what he can do. Bartimaeus’ lack of visual sight has been a hurt that has defined his life. He’s been the local beggar who sits by the road, but he doesn’t want to be that any more. Sight, for him, is not only the ability to see the leaves and hills and the faces that accompany the voices he hears.

Sight is the clarity to see the truth, to peer through the ways the world pulls the wool over our eyes. It is to perceive what others have missed, to notice what everybody else ignores, and to shed the denial to which we have become accommodated.

Just review with me again what others have in this Gospel have overlooked between the two stories of blind men that Jesus restored. We see the other exorcists who are out there doing Christ’s work, even if they are not part of our particular tribe. We see the children that the disciples think they should chase away. We see the affluent man who wants to “inherit eternal life” but cannot give what he has to his neighbors in need. We see the longtime insiders, James and John, who think their persistence has earned them a higher rank than those who empty themselves for others as Jesus does.

Jesus says to Bartimaeus, “What do you want me to do for you?” Bartimaeus says, “Let me see.” And when he sees, he leaves the old life behind and, in the very next verse, follows Jesus who goes into Jerusalem to carry his cross.

Finally somebody sees… not merely the beauty of God’s earth which restores our souls, but the invitation of God’s Christ to give our lives for the service of others. As Mark describes Jesus, he is constantly doing whatever he can to repair the world and tend to the souls upon it. That is the tactical work of God’s kingdom. It is to confront everything that demeans and demolishes life, and work for healing with the mercy of God.

I hope when you reflect on your life with this church, you perceive there is more here than meets the eye. There are so many people in this church family who are committed to doing Christ’s ministry. Some are quiet, some we wish were a little more quiet, but all of them wishing to be part of God’s saving and salvaging work in Jesus Christ. We send funds to support mission work around the world, but we send people too, for if we merely write a check and don’t show up, we cannot see what God is doing.

We are so blessed with people in this church who look in on one another, who offer rides and deliver meals, who visit the sick and sit with the dying, who listen with a loving heart and a box of Kleenex, who testify with their skin and bones and souls that God is stronger than the powers of destruction and Jesus is risen from the dead. I hope you see this, because if you can see it, you can take part in it.

And if you take part in it, I promise you will see Jesus. When we join him in his work of repairing the world, he walks with us. Maybe he is a half-step ahead, beckoning us to follow. Or maybe he is right behind us, giving us the proper nudge to get moving and keep moving. But this is what delights the Lord: a company of unfinished people who join him in his unfinished work.

They are the ones who decide they are not going to sit by the side of the road anymore; they are going to get in step. They are the ones who believe they live by God’s mercy, and now they will show that mercy to others.

They are the ones, when asked, “What would you like the Lord to do for you?” will say, “My teacher, let me see again. I want to see where you are going, so I can go too. I want to see what you are doing, so I can do my part. Open my eyes, Lord, so I can see your presence in all that you have set before me.”

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