What’s in the Storage Unit?

Luke 12:13-21
August 3, 2025
William G. Carter

Someone in the crowd said to Jesus, "Teacher, tell my brother to divide the family inheritance with me." But he said to him, "Friend, who set me to be a judge or arbitrator over you?" And he said to them, "Take care! Be on your guard against all kinds of greed; for one's life does not consist in the abundance of possessions."

 

Then he told them a parable: "The land of a rich man produced abundantly. And he thought to himself, "What should I do, for I have no place to store my crops?' Then he said, "I will do this: I will pull down my barns and build larger ones, and there I will store all my grain and my goods. And I will say to my soul, Soul, you have ample goods laid up for many years; relax, eat, drink, be merry.' But God said to him, "You fool! This very night your life is being demanded of you. And the things you have prepared, whose will they be?'

 

So it is with those who store up treasures for themselves but are not rich toward God."

For this stop on the road of discipleship, Jesus tells a bracing little story about a man who didn’t have enough storage space. Can anybody here relate to that? 

Last time this text showed up was three years ago. It was a transition time in our household. The kids were all officially gone. After taking a breath and changing all the locks, we surveyed all our storage space. The conclusion was clear: we have too much stuff. When I preached on the parable then, I offered a personal report on all the extras.

We have leftover building supplies that we’ve told ourselves we might need someday. Jazz CD’s that nobody is buying. Half-empty cans of paint from rooms that we’ve repainted. A dresser with a broken leg. Two wedding gifts from nineteen years ago, still in their boxes. And abandoned possessions from four adult children who left behind the things they did not want.

The good news is most of that has been cleared out. Maybe you know about a wonderful Facebook page called “Buy Nothing Clarks Summit.” Just in the past six months, we have given away a portable putting green, an unused crab trap, a dart board, and cell phone holder for the car. There are still a lot of extra canning jars, although I was reminded that we are currently canning pickles. And if you’re interested, there’s about a hundred square feet of used laminate flooring for the taking (see me at coffee hour).

The bad news is that if you have closets in your kids’ former bedrooms, you can fill them with craft supplies, unsold jazz CDs, and all that extra clothing that no longer fits or will ever come back in style.

All of this is my entry point to engage that little parable Jesus tells about the man who had too much stuff. He was wealthy. His wealth increased. He was a farmer and had a fertile season. His barns were too small to hold all that he had, so he decided to pull them down and create more storage space.

Take note of what he does not do. He does not create a community food bank. He does not give away the excess zucchini. (Side note to my favorite zucchini farmer: I locked my car doors. But thanks for thinking of me.)

The man in Jesus’ story is not thinking of anybody else. That is one of the curiosities of this parable. Did you notice that? He thinks by himself, talks to himself, convinces himself. He is isolated, self-contained. That’s all we know about his character, and it’s enough. He talks to himself.

This happens in other parables in the Gospel of Luke.

 

• The prodigal son talks to himself and says, “How many of my father’s servants have more food than me!” (15:17)
• The merchant who has been fired from his job says to himself, “I’m going to devise a plan to land in a better position.” (16:3)
• A corrupt judge says to himself, “I don’t care about that widow, but she’s wearing me out.” (18:4)
• The pharisee says to himself, “Thank God I’m not like that terrible tax collector over there.” (18:11)

Do you hear a common theme? If you are a character in the Gospel of Luke and you’re talking to yourself, you are in a whole lot of trouble. Just like the man who has so much stuff that he builds another storage unit. He says to himself, “Look how much I have! I can keep living in comfort for an exceptionally long time.” Then God speaks up and calls him a fool.

In that social context, it was clear. Jesus was a peasant in Palestine. He lived and worked among peasants. In his day, there weren’t many people who had a lot of things. No doubt most of them shook their heads when they heard, “Once upon a time there was a man who was so rich, he had to build more barns to store what he had.” To subsistence peasants, that was ridiculous. Who has that much stuff? Doesn’t he know life is short?

Now, I am in no position to pick on anybody, not when I struggle with an abundance of possessions. It is not a blessing to have too much; it is a continuing challenge. Every so often, I watch one of those cable shows about tiny houses. Know about those? 225 square feet, everything you need, live simply. “Look, honey,” I said, “isn’t that great?” She replied, “Not interested, not yet. But I would come and visit.”

And the core issue remains: how much do we need? When is enough enough? This is a matter of deep spiritual significance. Some may think it is a neutral matter, that we are free to grab as much as we want. But it’s not neutral at all.

The Gospel of Luke does not believe it’s neutral. I’m guessing that by the time he wrote down his book, Luke’s congregation had its share of nice things. There’s no other explanation why he includes so many stories about the trappings and temptations of wealth. Jesus taught about money and possessions more than he did about prayer.

So, today we have the rich farmer who talks only to himself. The tragedy of this tale is that the farmer assumes he will have it “forever.” That he will hang onto it to keep him comfortable – him alone, all by himself. There’s no mention of his family, or any neighbors. No regard for all those farm workers who picked his crops and stashed them the brand-new barns. No, it’s all about him. Only him. He is independent, self-contained, isolated, completely alone. No wonder he’s talking only to himself.

The inference is that he is selfish. Or greedy. Or we might call it as the New Testament calls it: idolatry, literally the worship of something that is not worthy of worship. The contrast is sharp. Either we worship what we have, or we worship God. Jesus says we can’t have it both ways. We cannot worship God and wealth (Luke 16:13). It is one or the other.

And there’s this story of a farmer with too much food. As Luke introduces the episode, someone asks Jesus to step into a family squabble about an inheritance. Attorneys and funeral directors will tell you this still happens. Momma dies and the kids can’t wait to get their hands on the investment accounts. Like that multi-millionaire in my first church. He died, just like every other mere mortal. His kids told me to keep the funeral as short as possible. They wanted to hear the reading of the will.

Jesus wisely steps out of that fray. He is neither judge nor arbitrator. Rather he tells the truth: life does not consist in the abundance of our possessions. More stuff does not make us happy. Read what the psychologists are now telling us. Affluence can destroy families. Wealth does not make us rich.

At the root of the trouble is something Jesus calls “pleonexia.” It’s a Greek word often translated as “covetousness” or “greed.” A better translation may be “hunger.” As in, I’m hungry for some new clothes, or a slicker car, or a bigger pile of cash, or seven new Vera Bradley purses. Now, would one purse ever do? I’m only asking because I don’t know.

What I do know is hunger is the opposite of contentment, just as greed is the antithesis of gratitude. In a time of accumulation, it’s so easy to be distracted. The evidence is in the parable. A wealthy farmer has a wonderful year. So wonderful that he forgets where the harvest came from. Sure, he planted the seed, but who provided the sunshine? Who sent the rain? Who established the abundant growing season? Not him.

The tragedy is that this farmer has disconnected the product from the process. He has become a functional atheist, believing it’s only about him. So, he talks to himself, schemes only for himself. Guess what: God is still waiting for him. The message is clear. Take care! Be on guard.

Meanwhile, three years after the last time I looked at this parable, my basement is getting cleaner, but I still have more dress shirts than I will ever wear. What shall I do? Shall I empty the closet so I can fill it up again? Or should I pass them along to somebody else who needs them far more than me? If you tell me what you’re going to do, together we might make a plan.

There’s something playful about lightening the load and giving away what we have. I get great enjoyment from giving something to somebody else. Anybody else feel that way? Abundant life does not consist of filling a barn with stuff I don’t need. Abundant life consists of freedom. Freedom from the burdens of accumulation. Freedom from the hunger to grab more. Freedom to share. Freedom to give. Freedom to offer what I have to build relationships with those around me.

So that’s what I’m working on today. Maybe you will work on some of it too. It’s going to take some continuing work because it’s part of our discipleship, and discipleship never lets up. We empty out the clutter to make more room for God. We unload the stuff we can never take to heaven so we can invest what remains in God’s heaven here on earth.

It’s a big task, and Luke will take it up again next week. See you then.

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

Distracted By Many Things

Luke 10:38-42
July 20, 2024
William G. Carter

Now as they went on their way, Jesus entered a certain village, where a woman named Martha welcomed him into her home. She had a sister named Mary, who sat at the Lord's feet and listened to what he was saying. But Martha was distracted by her many tasks; so she came to him and asked, "Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her then to help me." But the Lord answered her, "Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her."

Here is one more travel story. Jesus and his entourage are back on the road. They walk into a well-known village, where Jesus is welcomed into a familiar home. We know the name of the two sisters who live there, Mary and Martha. We know the moment Luke captures in time: Martha is in the kitchen, Mary sits at the feet of Jesus. And we know the lesson that is easily extracted from the scene: don’t get caught up in so much doing that you don’t sit still and listen to Jesus. 

It is a familiar story. Since it is a story of two women, women will draw upon this story for Bible studies and retreats. The leader will ask them to divide themselves into two groups, the Mary’s over here, the Martha’s over there. They talk among themselves, “Which are you?” Are you quiet or noisy? Are you capable of sitting still or are you compelled to keep moving? Are you attentive to Jesus or are you too busy?

On the few occasions when I’ve observed such conversations, I’ve noticed a room full of Martha’s and precious few Marys. The recognition is often seasoned with guilt. “You ought to sit still more.” “Remember to breathe.” Or even, “Let your husband take care of the dishes.” That might be helpful advice if you have a husband; yet there is no husband, nor anybody else named in the story. Just Mary or Martha, either-or. One or the other.

It’s not a fair division. All of us, men and boys included, are a combination of Mary and Martha. It’s never either-or, but both-and. We are created with the capacity for complexity. Can an introvert be distracted? Of course. Is the busy bee able to sit and listen? Certainly.

Today, I’m not going to divide the house to say, “Mary it over here, Martha over there.” Oh no. But I do want to raise a couple of questions. The first is this. How is it that we have become so distracted? Distracted by many things?

On Tuesday morning, on my way here, the driver ahead of me was weaving in and out of his lane. I started to pull around him on the left, just as he decided to make the same move. There was nobody in front of him. He just did it. I tapped on the horn. He looked at me and gestured affectionately. Then he weaved back into his lane. It was then that I saw what you can probably guess – he was steering with left hand and holding his cell phone in his right.

Our windows were rolled up for air conditioning, so I couldn’t holler over there to say, “Hey, Pennsylvania now has a distracted driver law. Put down the device and drive.” He didn’t seem in the mood to listen anyway. No, he had made the commitment to being distracted. I say that because he had not made the commitment to refrain from distraction. And that’s what it takes. So, here’s my question: where does this come from?

To be fair, the cell phone I was never going to buy twenty-five years ago is always with me. I’ve had to learn the hard way to keep it out of this room when I come for worship. For an hour, at least, there are some things more important than taking a call.

Think of all the things that distract us. Some people are distracted by the internet (Guilty!). I will start writing my sermon on the computer. Within twenty minutes, I switch over to check my e-mail. That task takes more time than it should, even if I don’t have any e-mail, so it’s a struggle to reignite the sermon. Then, let’s look at the headlines. Or check out cat videos on Instagram. Or survey my investment portfolio. Or say hello to my 1600 closest friends on Facebook. There are a thousand ways to lose ourselves in distractions without ever sticking to the one thing that matters.

Some are distracted by the latest outrage. Lord knows, there are plenty of outrages currently simmering at any given moment. Some are on the news, some are shared by friends, some bubble up because of the times we are in. “Did you see this? Did you hear about that? Can you believe what they just heard?” And so on. It can be exhausting. So exhausting that we don’t notice we’ve been tugged into a fight we didn’t start and can never win.

One antidote is to turn down the outrage. Or change the channel. Or simply walk away. There’s so little we can do anyway. So, we give ourselves some space.

However, when we escape, sometimes we are distracted by the escape. Blame Martha all we want, but she had a good point. The meal wasn’t going to cook itself. The table needed to be set. It’s not every day that the Savior of the World is sitting in your living room. “Mary, get off your tail and help me out.” I can hear her say that. We can understand.

Truth is, there are a hundred ways to escape. When I was younger, I loved to lose myself in a James Bond movie marathon. They seemed so unrealistic. It was fun. Others lose themselves in other forms of fiction, sometimes for hours at a time. One of my cousins lives for the Hallmark Channel. She says, “All the stories turn out so well.” Her husband says, “There’s only one story and they just keep telling it.”

This week, as the Washington Post reminded us, it was the 40^th anniversary of Neil Postman’s book, Amusing Ourselves to Death. Postman traced how everything is now infected with entertainment. The senses are titillated. Emotions are piqued. Nobody can get elected if they don’t look good on TV. You can’t play pro ball if you don’t make commercials. The evening news has a warm puppy story. There are churches that now specialize in show biz. Everybody looks at the preacher up on the screen, who happens to also stand fifty feet away in the pulpit. Forty years ago, Postman said, “This obsession with entertainment affects our brains.” Boy, did he ever nail that!

And it is a matter of the brain. When Jesus says, “Martha, you are distracted by many things,” the Greek verb has to do with head space. There’s too much swirling around above the neck. Too much stimulation to allow us to focus. At heart, this is a spiritual matter. The emptiness in our souls prompts us to overload ourselves with things that will never satisfy.

I remember our friend, conveniently named Mary. She was a wonderful church educator. She could plan conferences for three hundred people and keep track of all the moving parts. One of the most maddening things about her is what she would do in a worship service. When the sermon would start, she would pull out her knitting. I couldn’t believe it. There would be a great preacher at the conference, and she’s back there, clicking her sticks. What in the world?

But she explained, “The slow, repetitive action helps me to focus. I can hear better with my head when my hands are doing their own ritual.” She smiled and added, “And I usually have a sweater to show for it, too.” Fascinating. She trained herself to slow down the other things so she could attend to the one thing.

It helped me understand my own history. I can be as distractable as a cat on coffee. On childhood Sundays, my folks would position us between them on the church pew just to keep us still. One day, I picked up one of those little pew pencils, took the worship bulletin, and started filling in all the zeros, the O’s, and the small e’s. Are any of you doing that today? And I heard the sermon in a way that I normally wouldn’t if my eyes were darting around the room. It had to do with focus, being present, and training myself to concentrate. We turn from the many things to the one thing. The one necessary thing.

This is the habit of some spiritual communities. Down in New Mexico, there’s a monastery in the high desert, among the beautiful red rocks. Does anybody remember the old Road Runner cartoons? This is where they filmed them. Then this monastery, call it the Acme Monastery, has an early morning mass with a short, little sermon. Know why it’s short? Because the scripture reading is short, maybe two or three verses. The point is to hear a brief text early in the morning – maybe a sentence or two directly from Jesus – and then the brothers chew on it all day. Just a small morsel of rich spiritual food. It’s enough. You mull it over. You take it to work; you sit with it at rest. The word of Jesus seeps in.

Like I said, this is basic spiritual food, food for the journey, road food. Nobody has to memorize the encyclopedia. Just take in a little bit. Work on it. Let it work on you. Like Jesus said to Martha, “Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.” Now, what is the better part? What is the better part for me, for today? How will this stay with me? If you chew that way, you won’t need to watch more than an hour of the Hallmark Channel.

Contrast this practice with all those places that attempt to juice us up with distractions. I think of my friend’s congregation. He doesn’t go any more. One Easter, he rousted himself off the couch, ironed a shirt, drove over there, and took a seat. Nobody in the church seemed very excited. Same old thing. Suddenly, there was a roar at the back and the preacher rode a motorcycle down the aisle. My friend said, “That’s the moment I said I was done. I guess the resurrection wasn’t wild enough. I was there to hear if God is alive.”

This is what feeds us, a living Word, a glimpse of the Holy. Over here on the wall is a pyramid that our Vacation Bible Children have marked for us. Each symbol represents a “God sighting.” Maybe it was big, maybe it was small – but it was real for someone here, so they shared it with the rest of us. Yes, God is alive. God still speaks. God is present and accounted for. And we cannot perceive that if we are distracted.

As I said, there are two questions for the sermon. The first was, “How have we become so distracted?” Everybody needs to spend some time with that, for then we can ask the second question, “How can we lean in and pay attention?” Especially to pay attention to God, to listen for Jesus.

All of us will have some answers for this. You’re probably working on a few answers for yourself. How will we screen out the unnecessaries? What are the practices for filtering out the nonsense? What will open my heart to what will open me up? What will animate my imagination to capture what is life-giving? Not deadly, nor dull, but life-giving? What is Jesus inviting me to trust, to hope, to do? There are many responses, all appropriate for a Sabbath day reflection. What they hold in common is the move from the “many things” to the “one thing.”

As Jesus said to Martha, “You are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her." How do we discover the one thing?

I’ll leave you with just one example, a story about Thomas Merton, the famous monk. He was an ultra-capable person and interested in so much. One time, a photojournalist visited him in the monastery and showed his prints. Merton was smitten and decided rather spontaneously to take up photography. Of course, in a Trappist monastery, the monks can’t own anything. So, Merton didn’t have a camera. That didn’t stop him. He asked the photographer if he could borrow a camera for a while. You know, five or ten years, or so.

Merton jumped into that as he jumped into everything else. But something happened. He started snapping shots unlike anything the photographer had ever seen – a battered fence, a rundown wooden shack, weeks growing out of a sidewalk, work gloves on a stool, a dead root, a broken wall. “It seemed,” said his friend, “that he approached each thing with attention.”

One day, he went walking in the woods with his young friend, Ron Seitz. Both carried cameras. Pretty soon, Merton yelled at Ron and told him to slow down. He said, “Stop looking and begin seeing.” Seitz looked at him curiously, so Merton explained,

 

“Because looking means that you already have something in mind for your eye to find: you’ve set out in search of your desired object and have closed off everything else presenting itself along the way. But seeing is being open and receptive to what comes to the eye: your vision total and not targeted.”[1]

Stop looking and begin seeing. Good advice for anybody whose attention wanders. From many things to the one thing. It’s the better portion. It will not be taken away.

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

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[1] Quoted in Esther De Waal, Lost in Wonder: Rediscovering the Spiritual Art of Attentiveness (Collegeville, MN: The Liturgical Press, 2003) 64.

Doing the Inheritance

Luke 10:25-37

July 13, 2025
William G. Carter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But who is my neighbor?”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

[3] Luke 19:46.

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

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

No Baggage to Check

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[2] Luke 9:3

Of Potholes and Detours

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

William G. Carter  

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

           

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

 

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

 

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

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[1] 2 Kings 1:10, 12.

[2] Luke 12:51-53.