God's Pleasure

Isaiah 43:1-7
Baptism of the Lord
January 12, 2025

William G. Carter  

But now thus says the Lord, he who created you, O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel:

Do not fear, for I have redeemed you;

     I have called you by name, you are mine. 

When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;

and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you;

when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you. 

or I am the Lord your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior.

     I give Egypt as your ransom, Ethiopia and Seba in exchange for you. 

Because you are precious in my sight, and honored, and I love you, I give people in return for you,

     nations in exchange for your life. Do not fear, for I am with you.

I will bring your offspring from the east, and from the west I will gather you. 

I will say to the north, “Give them up,” and to the south, “Do not withhold; 

bring my sons from far away and my daughters from the end of the earth—  \everyone who is called by my name, whom I created for my glory, whom I formed and made.”

My good friend John has been a Presbyterian pastor for a good long time. He’s a good preacher, an insightful leader, and a careful listener. John is loaded with people skills. He remembers names and can make you feel like you’ve been friends all your life.

But for all his many abilities, he does something that sets him apart. In every church John has served, he has offered a signature blessing. As the last hymn fades, he steps forward, raises his hands, and looks at the congregation square in the eye. Then he says it: “Remember, you are loved.” The music starts up, the people stand up, the ushers open the doors. And for a brief three seconds, John speaks the holy truth.

Can we hear it? Do we believe it? How quickly do we dismiss it?

The words are easy to dismiss if we don’t hear the words very often. They are easy to dismiss, too, if we hear them too much. Try it sometime when you go home. Say to someone close at hand, “I love you; I love you; I love you.” About five minutes of that, should you pause and take a breath, the other might say, “So, what do you want?”

Ulterior motives aside, maybe it is easier to say those words than to hear them.

When Henri Nouwen taught classes at Yale Divinity School, he befriended a young man named Fred. Fred was not a divinity student. He was a writer. He arrived to interview Henri for the Sunday edition of the New York Times. A friendship sparked. They stayed connected after the interview. Fred read a number of Henri’s books on the spiritual life. Henri encouraged Fred to write books of his own.

One day, as they walked down a street in New York, Fred said to him, “Henri, why don’t you write a book on the spiritual life for me and my friends?” He was a secular Jew in the city. Henri was a Roman Catholic priest. Henri agreed to the project, but soon began to agonize over it. What could he possibly write that would be helpful to those who did not share his religious tradition, his language, or his vision?

In time, he decided to write Fred a letter, a hundred-and-ten-page letter. The sum of that long letter was a single word: “Beloved.” You are beloved, which is the indirect way of saying Somebody loves you. And it’s hard to hear it. As Nouwen wrote to Fred, 

“It is not easy to hear that voice in a world filled with voices that shout: “You are no good, you are ugly, you are worthless, you are despicable, you are nobody – unless you can demonstrate the opposite.” These negative voices are so loud and so persistent that it is easy to believe them. That’s the great trap. It is the trap of self-rejection. Over the years, I have come to realize that the greatest trap in our life is not success, popularity, or power, but self-rejection. . .

 

He adds: “I am constantly surprised at how quickly I give in to this temptation. As soon as someone accuses me or criticizes me, as soon as I am rejected, left alone, or abandoned, I find myself thinking, “Well, that proves once again that I am a nobody.”[1]

Yet behind it all, beneath it all, are the words of blessing: “Remember: You are loved.” Nouwen admitted in his letter to Fred how hard it is to trust these words. Yet, even in his most broken moments, even when every success was shattered and swept away, the word was with him, for it did not originate with him. It came from God. And if he dared sit long enough in silence, the Word echoed again. “You are my Beloved Child; on you my favor rests.”[2]  

Has somebody told you that today?

Jesus heard these words on the day of his baptism. According to the Gospel story, the clouds cracked open, a dove descended, and a Voice thundered, “You are my Beloved Son; I’m pleased with you.” He did not choose those words. He was chosen to listen to them. 

What’s remarkable is when these words are said. According to Luke, Jesus hadn’t done anything yet. He hadn’t cured the sick, restored the lame, or fed the crowd. He hadn’t yet preached a sermon, chased away a demon, or skewered religious hypocrisy. No. On Day One, God said to him, “I love you. I’m pleased with you.” That affirmation remained even as his friends ran away, as the crowds turned sour, as the soldiers laughed at him, The love defined him even when the voice of evil returned to tempt him to climb down from the cross.[3]

For God told him who he was: “You are my Beloved Child.”

Before God said that to Jesus, he said it to the people from whom Jesus came. As preached by the prophet Isaiah, God said, “People, you are my Beloved people. You are mine. I’ve called you by name. I have redeemed you.” Classic Bible words, of course. God is rarely so direct.

What’s remarkable is when those words are said. The people of Israel are recovering from an unwanted forty-year exile in a far-off land. The warnings had come for years: exploiting the poor, refusing to hold leaders accountable for their crimes, ignoring the teachings of God, skipping out on worship for the sake of their own employment and consumption. God said, “There are consequences to all of your actions.” After the nation had rotted internally, the Babylonians knocked down their temple and dragged them off in chains.

And nevertheless, God said, “I have paid off the ransom for you. I’m going to bring your kids home from east and west, north, and south. You have called me by my name; I’m calling you by name. You are precious. You are ‘significant.’ And I love you.” It’s one thing to hope for it. It’s another to hear it.

How does my good friend John say it? “Remember, you are loved.” Beneath our feet, over our heads. Before we go astray, after we’ve been steered back on course. God believes we are precious, in spite of ourselves. The holy covenant is extended to us through Jesus, a new covenant. It precedes and follows everything we do or say.

It’s no surprise that all of this comes together on a day when we are thinking about baptism. We don’t have any plans to baptize anybody today. It’s sufficient to affirm what God says to all who are baptized. Same words from Isaiah’s collection of God’s: you are precious, you are significant, you are mine. God says, “I call you by name.”

That’s why the preacher says, “What is the name of the one to be baptized?” It’s not because the preacher is old and forgetful, although some of us are. The question did come in handy one Sunday when I met a family at the baptismal font, didn’t have my worship bulletin, and I suddenly went blank, So I asked the question, and they repeated the name. Everybody already knew the name, you understand; but here’s what happens in baptism: that name is inextricably bound to the name of the Trinity. That’s why we baptize in the name of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. It’s more than a formality or a formula. It’s the naming of an identity. “Little one, you are a child of God.” Your destiny is bound to God’s destiny.

And we baptize into the promises of God. We baptize babies before we know if they will grow up to be short or left-handed, bald or curly, gay or libertarian. All we are announcing is, “Here is a new one, precious to God. And we are going to pledge all we can to shape their lives so that they know that.” It may take a while. God takes pleasure in them – and God wants to take pleasure in them. There is a holy life to be lived. Sometimes it’s more than we expect.

About ten years ago, the writer Brian McLaren posted one of his writings on the internet. Within hours it had been shared tens of thousands of times. Brian calls it “A free-verse poem that struck a nerve.” It’s about a baptism, and it goes like this:

      “Please de-baptize me,” she said. The priest’s face crumpled.

     “My parents tell me you did it,” she said. “But I was not consulted. So now, undo it.”

The priest’s eyes asked why.

     “If it were just about belonging to this religion and being forgiven, then I would stay.

  If it were just about believing this list of doctrines and upholding this list of rituals, I’d be OK.

      But your sermon Sunday made it clear it’s about more. More than I bargained for.

      So, please, de-baptize me.”

The priest looked down, said nothing.

She continued:

     “You said baptism sends me into the world to love enemies. I don’t. Nor do I plan to.

       You said it means being willing to stand against the flow. I like the flow.

       You described it like rethinking everything, like joining a Movement.

But I’m not rethinking or moving anywhere. So un-baptize me. Please.”

The priest began to weep. Soon great sobs rose from his deepest heart.

He took off his glasses, blew his nose, took three tissues to dry his eyes.

“These are tears of joy,” he said.

“I think you are the first person who ever truly listened or understood.”

“So,” she said, “Will you? Please?”[4] 

If you were the priest, what would you say? I think I’d say we can’t wash off the water – that’s the nature of God’s love for us. That’s the covenant.

And God loves us so much, that God wants us to grow up and become like Jesus. In fact, God loves us enough to keep interfering in our lives, sometimes stepping in directly, to wake us up, to turn us around, to orient our hearts until the Precious Ones begin to act and look as if they are God’s Precious Ones. That’s the covenant, too. We are bound to God and God is bound to us.

God’s not going to go to all that trouble to gather us, love us, and redeem us, without expecting us to gather others, too; to love them as unconditionally as he loves us; and then to join in Christ’s ongoing work of redemption. For not only are we loved; we are called.

Called to shine God’s light in this present darkness.

Called to love both friends and enemies.

Called to make a healing difference in a hurting world.

We can’t wash off the water of baptism. God loves us – and the world – way too much.

 

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

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[1] Henri J. M. Nouwen, Life of the Beloved: Spiritual Living in a Secular World (New York: Crossroad, 1992) 31-33.

[2] Ibi, 77.

[3] Luke 23:35, 37

[4] Brian McLaren. See https://brianmclaren.net/a-poem-that-struck-a-nerve/

The Dark Side of Epiphany

Matthew 2:1-12
Epiphany / Christmas 2
January 5, 2025

William G. Carter

In the time of King Herod, after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, wise men from the East came to Jerusalem, asking, “Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews? For we observed his star at its rising, and have come to pay him homage.” When King Herod heard this, he was frightened, and all Jerusalem with him; and calling together all the chief priests and scribes of the people, he inquired of them where the Messiah was to be born. They told him, “In Bethlehem of Judea; for so it has been written by the prophet: ‘And you, Bethlehem, in the land of Judah, are by no means least among the rulers of Judah; for from you shall come a ruler who is to shepherd my people Israel.’” Then Herod secretly called for the wise men and learned from them the exact time when the star had appeared. Then he sent them to Bethlehem, saying, “Go and search diligently for the child; and when you have found him, bring me word so that I may also go and pay him homage.”

 

When they had heard the king, they set out; and there, ahead of them, went the star that they had seen at its rising, until it stopped over the place where the child was. When they saw that the star had stopped, they were overwhelmed with joy. On entering the house, they saw the child with Mary his mother; and they knelt down and paid him homage. Then, opening their treasure chests, they offered him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. And having been warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they left for their own country by another road.

In the Christmas services of my youth, the three kings were my favorites. Maybe they were your favorites, too. The shepherds wrapped themselves in blankets. The kings put on elaborate gowns. The shepherds had walking sticks, which doubled as staffs to intimidate the wolves. The kings carried a cigar box wrapped in gold foil, a silver jar of frankincense, and an emerald container of myrrh. While the shepherds had hand towels held by twine on their foreheads, the kings wore an elaborate turban or a royal crown. If the shepherds were sloppy, the kings were dignified. There was no way to dress up a shepherd, but the kings were mysterious, even exotic.

And if that wasn’t enough, they had their own song. You know it, we’ve sung it: We Three Kings of Orient Are, bearing gifts, we traverse afar. Field and fountain, moor and mountain, following yonder star. In my childhood church, the congregation sang the first verse mightily. 

Then three men from the choir sang the successive verses. Russ Cashwell sang, “Born a King on Bethlehem plain, gold I bring to crown him again.” Gold is a gift for a king. That’s appropriate.

Then Gerry Hess made his entrance to sing, “Frankincense to offer, have I; incense to own a Deity nigh.” Ah, frankincense was incense, precious, the smoke ascending like a prayer.

Bruce Williams followed. With his deep voice, he belted out, “Myrrh is mine, its bitter perfume breathes a life of gathering gloom…” We ignored the words, I think. The pageantry was too dramatic, and we were focused on the star of wonder. After all, Jesus was born. That was the point of it all. Still is.  

As time went on, I began to read and learn. The prophet Isaiah told of a future day when Gentile strangers would come from afar. Kings would arrive on camels. They would bring gold and frankincense. Sound familiar? Isaiah did not mention any myrrh, so I looked it up. Myrrh was a burial spice, the worst possible gift anybody could bring a baby. No wonder Isaiah did not mention it.

Then I realized our traditional “three kings” story never mentions any camels. And the story doesn’t say the strange visitors were kings. The Gospel of Matthew calls them “magi.” They were star-gazers and fortune tellers, considered heretics by the book of Deuteronomy and the Jerusalem elite.  Worst of all, our familiar story never numbers them as “three.” All we’re told is magi from the East arrived. There could have been three, or two, or six. The story never says. The magi brought three gifts. Early on, the number was fixed as three. Nobody ever counted the people in the entourage.

Of course, there’s no reason for us to stop singing “We Three Kings.” The fact is, we’ve been adding details to the story since the seventh century. That’s when the kings, or rather magi, were named. Not Russ, Gerry, and Bruce, but Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazzar – but only in the Western church. The Syrian church, the Ethiopian church and the Armenian church each provide three different names of their own. Some in the Chinese church believe the wise men came from way out East, you know, from China.

Raymond Brown, the great Catholic scholar, says this is what we do. We take the text into our hearts and put ourselves into it. With sincere faithfulness, we build upon it. A good argument can be made that’s what the writer of the Gospel of Matthew has done. If Matthew hasn’t expanded upon the prophet Isaiah, at least his telling of the Christmas story has been shaped by it.

Interesting, don’t you think?

Yet all of this can be a distraction from the heart of the story, namely that Jesus is born and the local king wants to do away with him. The king’s name is Herod. At least, that was his family name. There are six different kings named Herod in the New Testament. The one in our story was the granddaddy of them all. They called him Herod the Great. He ruled from about 37 B.C. to 4 B.C. He played up to the Roman Empire that occupied his land; in turn, they kept him propped up. He compromised any values to get his way, so Rome kept him around.

Herod was everything that the Gospel of Matthew described him to be. Herod was ambitious; he loved to develop real estate to prove how important he was. He had a reputation for profound cruelty, even violence. He never thought twice about imprisoning or eliminating any threat, even if that threat came from his own family. The Herod of history showed little restraint. He was sneaky, sinister. As we’ve heard today, he was devious.

One of my minister friends wrote King Herod into his Christmas pageant one year. I don’t know what he was thinking. But he gave his King Herod the same lines that Matthew gives him: “Go and find this child. Let me know where he is. I want to worship him too.” At that moment, one of the children stood up over here in the manger scene to yell, “No, you don’t. You’re a liar!” People laughed, nervously, but everybody knew the child was right.

These Bible stories are more than stories. They teach us morality. They instruct us to distinguish between right and wrong. They declare directly or implicitly that this is a dangerous world. A lot of children are at risk. One of the reasons they are at risk is because some adults are intoxicated with their own arrogance. Any sense of compassion or humanity shriveled long ago.

And the children know this. Whether they’ve read the stories of Harry Potter, Hansel and Gretl, or the Hunger Games, they know there are dark forces alive in the world.

Today’s text tells us what has unleashed the evil. Matthew says, “Wise men from the East came to say, ‘Where is the new king? All we want to do is worship him.” That was enough to set loose the beast in old king Herod. He had no intention of getting off his throne. He insisted on staying in power, no matter what. So, he said, “Let me know when you find him. I want to worship him too.”

That little kid in my friend’s church said, “No, you don’t. You’re a liar.” Herod the Great proved him right. In the process he exposed himself as being not so great. Not compared to the Real King, King Jesus, who would one day ride into the city on a very humble donkey. This is what the Bible teaches us.

The lesson can be broken down in a few simple points:

    1)     First, the coming of Jesus into our world exposes how broken this world is. The baby provokes old Herod who compromised with Rome and trafficked in arrogance. His ego was so wounded that he could not make for anybody else. In the same way, the grown-up Jesus will walk into a town. The sick folks will flock to him. The demented ones will yell at him. He comes with mercy and complete goodness, and a broken world says, “We need to get rid of Jesus. Let’s see if we can find some of that myrrh.”

     2)     Second, the church tells the truth about the brokenness. We may be tempted to smooth out the Christmas story, polish out the splinters, kept it positive and idyllic. Yet we have King Herod’s number. We’ve written it down in our Bibles. And we will not shy away from speaking about him. And we will not be afraid of our own brokenness, either. Why? Because King Jesus has been born. King Jesus grew up and taught us there is an alternative to the ways of Herod. He taught us how to live with love and service within God’s true dominion.

And in the great irony of the Gospel, the world did get rid of Jesus. They put him on a cross – but nobody got around to using any myrrh because, by the time the women got to the tomb to anoint him, God has already raised him from the dead.[1]

    3)     And here’s the third truth, as expressed so simply by Stanley Hauerwas in his commentary on Matthew. He reminded us: every Herod dies. Hauerwas says, “Crafty as he was, his craftiness could not save Herod from death. Kings come and go, but God’s people endure. They can endure, because God has made endurance possible through the kingdom begun in Jesus.”[2]    

So, here we are. This broken world has been broken into. The fake king has been exposed because the real king has come. Jesus remains with us always, just as he promised. And we bring him our gold, as befits a king. We bring him our frankincense, for he is a king worthy of our worship, and he is the priest who holds our prayers.

But you know, Isaiah was probably right. Forget about the myrrh. The death of Jesus was important, and is central to our faith, but so is his resurrection. So, Jesus doesn’t need the myrrh. He needs our hearts, our minds, and our strength. He will take our love. He alone is worthy of it.

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

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[1] See Mark 16:1. “The women brought burial spices to the tomb”, i.e. myrrh.

[2] Stanley Hauerwas, Matthew: Brazos Theological Commentary on the Bible (Grand Rapids: Brazos Press, 2007) 43.

A Sense of Destiny

Luke 2:25-33
Christmas 1
December 29, 2024
William G. Carter

Now there was a man in Jerusalem whose name was Simeon; this man was righteous and devout, looking forward to the consolation of Israel, and the Holy Spirit rested on him. It had been revealed to him by the Holy Spirit that he would not see death before he had seen the Lord’s Messiah. Guided by the Spirit, Simeon came into the temple; and when the parents brought in the child Jesus, to do for him what was customary under the law, Simeon took him in his arms and praised God, saying, 

 “Master, now you are dismissing your servant in peace, according to your word;
  for my eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared in the presence of all peoples,
  a light for revelation to the Gentiles and for glory to your people Israel.”

And the child’s father and mother were amazed at what was being said about him.

Simeon arrived at just the right time. Has that ever happened to you?

I remember taking the bus from Scranton to Manhattan. As I crossed the street on 44^th and Broadway, one of my college classmates walked right toward me. “Bob,” I exclaimed, “what a surprise!” He replied, “Bill, it’s great to see you!” Then he kept walking. OK, no big deal. We hadn’t been that close. Yet ten seconds in either direction, we would have missed one another.

It happens in less dramatic ways. Say you park the car in a random location and make your way to the store. As you walk in through the sliding door, there’s somebody you know arriving at the same time. Call it a coincidence. Or maybe it’s something more.

Maybe we dream about someone – and then, without planning, we see them the next day. Or we pick up the phone to call someone and there’s no dial tone. After an awkward silence, that very same person says, “Hello?” She was trying to call you at the precise moment you were trying to call her. The psychologists call that synchronicity. Unless it’s something else.

Everybody must be somewhere, I suppose. The older I get, the more miraculous is every occurrence. Was it a random occurrence? Was it meant to be? Was it destined to happen? Who can say?

I’ve always marveled over the serendipitous meeting between Simeon and the infant Jesus. They both showed up at the right time in the right place. We don’t know if Simeon lived in Jerusalem or if he hovered around the Temple. All we know is that he was there at the precise moment when Mary and Joseph walked in to consecrate their son. And the Spirit said, “That’s the one.”

Luke, the storyteller, puts it that way. He loves to talk about the Holy Spirit. He says, The Spirit “rested upon” Simeon. The Spirit also had said, “Old man, you’re not going to die before seeing the Messiah.” And then, one day the Spirit said, “Step right up. Look to your left. See that little family? Go up to them and look into the blue blanket.” And that’s what he did.

Was it a coincidence? Luke says, “It was the Holy Spirit.” Something more than a coincidence.

According to the account, Simeon was primed for the occasion. His head was filled with the pages of Scripture, which is why he is described as “righteous.” He marinaded his soul with prayer, which is why he is called “devout.” His eyes were open. His heart was available. He trusted the Word that he would see the Messiah. That is remarkable. Most of us will have to wait until we die to have such a moment. Simeon got a preview. Just as the Spirit had promised.

It’s a remarkable story. It prompts one final Christmas carol: “Master, now you are dismissing your servant in peace.” Simeon has seen enough. We presume he is old, although the storyteller never actually says that. He’s simply “a man.” There’s no reference to his age. All we know is Simeon had heard God’s promise and saw it confirmed. That’s it. The rest of the story would remain in God’s hands.

Like I said, it’s a remarkable story, which is exactly why it gets written up in the Bible. Luke knows who Jesus will become. He calls him an “apocalypse to the nations,” the unveiling of holy light on those who had previously been excluded from the light. And Jesus will be the “doxology” of God’s own people Israel, the One worthy of praise and rejoicing – again, another promise that waits its complete fulfillment.

Insiders and outsiders, united as one family: this is the comprehensive salvation that Simeon could already see. And it was enough. “I’ve seen it all,” he shouts to God. “I have seen what you will do. Let me go into your peace.” He moves from serendipity to serenity. He had expected God to send the Messiah; now he can expect what God will do through the Messiah. The future will be in God’s hands. And it’s going to be all right.

Like the other Christmas carols in Luke, what Simeon sings is a good preview of the whole Gospel story. Light and praise, promise and fulfillment, God’s holy salvage operation has begun. We play our parts, of course, yet we trust the Good News to expand beyond us. Like Simeon, we see and hear just enough at the birth of Jesus that we can trust God to continue the story.

Whether we are at the end of our lifetimes or at the end of this year, this is a good word for us. There is so much in our lives that remains unfinished. But when we see what God has begun, it’s OK to let God carry the future for us.

A week ago, I received a most unusual Christmas card. It came with an address label from my friend Don Byers. I shook my head and said, “Wait, didn’t Don pass away last summer?” Indeed, he had. Don was a retired Presbyterian minister, living in Syracuse. He taught stewardship. He raised money for the church’s mission. We served on the board of a conference center. When he retired, he moved into a senior facility. He called Bingo numbers, set up his model trains in the lobby for neighbors to enjoy, and nursed his wife Jinny until she passed away. Then, last June, Don also passed away.

His daughter found their Christmas card list and sent out one final card with a two-page letter. She wrote about her mother. Jinny had borrowed money from a sister to pursue a nursing degree. She had always dreamed there might be a way for others to become nurses, regardless of their ability to pay tuition. It was a wonderful dream but remained unfulfilled.

After Jinny died, Don took responsibility for her estate. It included some family land in North Carolina that she had acquired over the years. After reflecting on the matter, he decided last year to sell the property. It was now worth a hefty sum. He donated all the proceeds to nursing school in Syracuse to create an endowment in his wife’s name. I can almost hear him say, “I’m old, she’s gone, we don’t need to hang onto the property. Let’s build somebody else’s future.”

Don lived just long enough to meet the first recipients of the scholarship. As their daughter now tells the story, “This gift has outlived them both.”

That’s how it works in the kingdom of God. We let go of what we’ve held so tightly, and we entrust it to hands greater than our own. An expanding future is promised to people we don’t even know. The gifts of God outlive us all. The light and glory of the Messiah continues to increase. When this truth becomes obvious, we can pray, “O Master, you are dismissing your servant in peace, according to your word.” The future belongs to God.

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

Glory Up, Peace Down

Luke 2:14
Christmas Eve
December 24, 2024
William G. Carter

In that region there were shepherds living in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night. Then an angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid; for see—I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign for you: you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.” 

And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying, “Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace among those whom he favors!”

 

Among all the holiday chatter, there was a moment on a TV show a few weeks ago. The studio was filled with Christmas trees. The backdrop was colored in green and red. Three women in festive outfits shared their thoughts about the holiday. “It’s my favorite time of the year,” she said, “for everybody is so happy and joyful.” Apparently, she didn’t know anybody who was feeling stressed, lonely, or sad.

“I love the food,” said another. “It’s so much fun to go out to eat. So many choices, and cookies, too!” Apparently, she didn’t know anybody who’s going hungry, or can’t afford the groceries, or eats alone.”

And then the third said, “I love Christmas carols. I make my annual trip to the church and listen to the music.” Apparently, she doesn’t know that some people go to church more than once a year, or that others volunteer to make music regularly in the choir loft. Then she added, “I do have to admit, when the preacher starts talking, I zone out. All those big words they toss around in church – incarnation, redemption, reconciliation – all those words are over my head.”

Of course they are over our heads. Whatever is going on in heaven is above us. It’s beyond us. It’s up here somewhere, just out of reach. The angel Gabriel appears in a burst of light. Evening gloom is punctured by something greater than starlight. It’s so dazzling that the first thing he says is, “Don’t be afraid!”

He gives his message to a group of anonymous sheep herders, but he doesn’t explain. What’s a Messiah? Who or what is he saving us from? The only evidence of his “good news of great joy” is that the Lord will be found in the humblest of surroundings as a peasant just like them. It is a lot to take in. I agree with that lady who goes to church once a year: it’s over our heads.

But it doesn’t stay there. It comes down. What I notice in the old story is that the angel isn’t hovering overhead. He is standing on the ground. When the angelic choir appears, they are not up in the sky either, but around them, alongside the messenger. It is a multitude, which means the shepherds were surrounded. Perhaps all of us are surrounded. If only we had eyes to see what the shepherds heard!

The multitude of angels sing a song. “Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace among those whom he favors!” It’s a short song, at least in the number of words. A Christmas song doesn’t need a lot of words.

On Sunday afternoon, I went to the Messiah singalong in Scranton. Near the end of the concert, we sang a song that needs only one word: Hallelujah. It’s a big word. I counted it up. We sang that word 165 times. If you have a good word, you don’t need many others.

In the Christmas carol tonight, there are three words: glory, peace, and favor. Glory is the fundamental exclamation of praise. The word is amplified, excessive, directed beyond us toward the heavens. It points to the truth that whatever happens in Christmas is God’s doing. And it’s big.

The second word is peace, an all-encompassing peace, literally an “all is calm, all is bright” kind of peace. Christmas comes in stillness, not commotion. Christmas reveals serenity, not chaos. Peace comes after the kids are snuggled in their beds. Or when warring nations or families declare a cease fire. That’s peace. Christmas reveals serenity at the heart of all things. It is God’s gift for us.

The third word is favor, a strange word. The peace of God is lodged “among those whom God favors.” That is s an accurate but awkward translation. The heart of it can be summed up in that grand old phrase, “good will.” The Maker of us all, out of our sight, has “good will” for the shepherds, indeed “for all the people.” God is kind, even to those who can’t be kind. God is benevolent, even to those who are stingy. God intends the best for all people.

Glory, peace, and favor. Whatever else we want to say about Christmas, this is the message. This is the song. And it is sung, not only to those who feel happy and joyful, but to those who are stressed, lonely, and sad. The song comes as a gift, not only to those who overeat and overconsume, but to those who don’t know where the next meal is coming from.

And it’s especially given to those who zone out when the preacher talks. None of those shepherds could spell the words incarnation, redemption, or reconciliation. Yet they knew the song was for them. The good news is for all the people. The God we glorify is at peace with us, and that’s the evidence of God’s good will.

So, we sing. The angels sing to the world. We return the song. The glory goes up to God, for the peace of God comes down. That is the Good News of Christmas. Heaven and earth are singing together. Christ the Lord has come.

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

The Past is Present

Luke 1:68-79
Advent 4
December 22, 2024
William G. Carter

Then his father Zechariah was filled with the Holy Spirit and spoke this prophecy:
‘Blessed be the Lord God of Israel, for he has looked favorably on his people and redeemed them.
He has raised up a mighty savior for us in the house of his servant David,
as he spoke through the mouth of his holy prophets from of old,
   that we would be saved from our enemies and from the hand of all who hate us.
Thus he has shown the mercy promised to our ancestors, and has remembered his holy covenant,
the oath that he swore to our ancestor Abraham,

to grant us that we, being rescued from the hands of our enemies,
might serve him without fear, in holiness and righteousness before him all our days.
And you, child, will be called the prophet of the Most High;
   for you will go before the Lord to prepare his ways,
to give knowledge of salvation to his people by the forgiveness of their sins.
By the tender mercy of our God, the dawn from on high will break upon us,
to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death,
   to guide our feet into the way of peace.’

One of the remarkable gifts of a true Christmas carol is its ability to transport us to another time and place. We sing here and now, and we are carried back to there and then. 

Take, for instance, the carol, “O Little Town of Bethlehem.” We will sing after the sermon. It is one of my favorites, probably one of yours. “O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie! Above they deep and dreamless sleep the silent stars go by.” I can still remember singing it as a kid, snapping out of my own dreamless sleep and imagining the little town. It was magical. I could picture it, even see the humble place where Jesus was born. I wouldn’t see Bethlehem until I was forty years old, but I could imagine it in my mind. Through the Christmas carol, the ancient story became real to me right then and there.

Years later, I learned the story of how the song was written. It wasn’t written in Bethlehem, but in Philadelphia, in an Episcopalian church on Rittenhouse Square. The Rev. Phillips Brooks wrote the words, then handed them off to the church organist Lewis Redner, who dreamed up the tune. The original manuscript is framed in the narthex of the Church of the Holy Trinity.

Brooks wrote the words, remembering a Christmas journey to Bethlehem while he was taking a sabbatical from his church. He had sat on horseback, gazing at the fields where the shepherds had heard the angelic choir. He took his place in a pew and worshiped at the church that had been built upon the traditional site where Jesus was born. Here’s the thing: he composed the poem in 1868, three years after he had returned from his trip. And he wasn’t only remembering the journey from three years before. He was remembering back over 1868 years.

This is how a lot of Christmas carols work. They travel back in time and take us with them. That’s how the song of Zechariah works. He sings of Christmas in the past tense: “Blessed be the Lord God of Israel, for he has looked favorably on his people and redeemed them. He has raised up a mighty savior for us in the house of his servant David.” The mighty savior is Jesus, of course. Never mind that Luke puts these words on his lips before Jesus was even born. Zechariah sings on behalf of all of us who look into the manger with believing hearts and see the child who redeems us as a sign of God’s favor.

In turn, as Zechariah celebrates the birth of Jesus, he also looks backward. He remembers the ancient promises of the holy prophets. He recalls how God promised to rescue him and his people from trouble and hatred. Then he remembers that God also remembers. God looks back to the holy covenant made with Abraham and Sarah, that, “You shall be my people, and you shall multiply like the stars in the sky.”[1] God remembers and makes good on that promise.

Whatever else we say about it, Christian faith is the practice of memory. Can you remember Bethlehem? Can you see it? Not with the eyes in your head but with the eyes of your heart. That’s the faithful practice of memory.

I tell you, if we only looked at Bethlehem with the eyes in our heads, it could be a disappointment. The shepherds’ fields are full of condominiums. The original manger is covered by a basilica, massive and overbuilt. The site is managed by Catholics, Armenians, and Greek Orthodox, who regularly squabble among themselves. Sometimes the Coptic and Syriac Orthodox join in the arguments. The neighborhood is subject to violence. The Israelis lock it down on a moment’s notice. And when the mood is peaceful, there are more gift shops than there are fleas on a camel. In his Philadelphia Christmas Carol, Phillips Brooks spoke of “dark streets.” They are still there.

And yet, can you remember Bethlehem? Can the Holy Child of Bethlehem, born so long ago, “be born in us today”?

I ask because Christmas, for a growing number of people, is a flat memory, not a living one. Maybe it happened, maybe it didn’t. If the story happened, the retelling of it may have been enhanced. It is not enough to have an unwed couple placing their newborn infant on a bed of straw. We must add a drummer boy and friendly beasts, and a talking snowman, and eight reindeer, and then a ninth reindeer with a bright red nose.

Certainly, the simple story of Christ’s birth has expanded into a cast of thousands, including the North Pole workshop, the Island of Misfit Toys, and the Radio City Rockettes. The guy around the corner from me seems to have spent thousands of dollars on artificial stars, inflatable elves, and a ten-foot-tall Halloween monster who is now wearing a Santa hat. I am not sure he’s remembering his redemption, but he’s spending a lot of money. A lot of people do.

In the thick of all the commercial pressure, family expectations, and the demands of the cold weather, can we remember Bethlehem?

Some help for us comes through Zechariah and his Christmas carol. For one thing, he is not only singing of Jesus before his birth; he also sings of his newborn son John. John, who we will later know as John the Baptizer, comes to prepare the way of the Lord. That is, he prepares the way by which God will come to us.

We remember John. He has come to clear God’s highway by cleaning out the spiritual underbrush. He works by speaking, announcing as loudly as he can that our mistakes and miscues are cancelled. Our sins are forgiven. God comes to straighten out the things we have twisted out of shape. John speaks the liberating wisdom that we do not have to remain captives to our foolishness. There is nothing we can do to remove us from the presence of God. This is John’s message of preparation. His father Zechariah sang about it in the future tense. It is going to happen. God’s coming is a sure bet.

And then Zechariah sings of here and now. The coming of the Savior is God’s rescue. It is here now, as surely as it has happened. The impact of it all is to serve God, to not be afraid of God, and to live in “holiness and righteousness.” Did you all write that down? Don’t be afraid of God. Instead, live in holiness and righteousness.

Now, I can imagine the cackling in coffee hour if I wander over to your table and refer to you as God’s “holy and righteous” ones. To a one, you’d say, “We’re not worthy.” True enough. Of course we’re not worthy. But in the New Testament, “holiness and righteousness” are not human achievements. They are God’s affirmations. We are called saints because God is doing the sanctifying. We are holy because God has taken away all our excuses. We are declared righteous because Christ is our righteousness. To remember Bethlehem is to remember all of this and live as if it is true. We are loved, we are called, and we are commissioned to make a difference in the name of the One who loves us all.

This is Zechariah’s Christmas carol. Grammatically, it moves freely between the tenses. It looks back to the past, scans ahead to the future, while remaining planted in the present. The story of Christmas is sung again, in our time, in our place. Those who were dwelling in darkness discover light shining upon them.

That reminds me of a man named Brooks. Not Phillips Brooks, but David Brooks. Those who have read his columns in the New York Times in recent years may have detected a shift in his spirit. On Friday’s column, he offered a complete confession of what has been going on in his spiritual life. And it is remarkable. Brooks writes: 

When faith finally tiptoed into my life it didn’t come through information or persuasion but, at least at first, through numinous experiences. These are the scattered moments of awe and wonder that wash over most of us unexpectedly from time to time… In those moments, you have a sense that you are in the presence of something overwhelming, mysterious. Time is suspended or at least blurs. One is enveloped by an enormous bliss…

He had some moments. They did not answer his questions. Rather, they opened him up to enormous mysteries. One April morning, he was riding a subway car in New York. He says,

I looked around the car, and I had this shimmering awareness that all the people in it had souls. Each of them had some piece of themselves that had no size, color, weight, or shape but that gave them infinite value. The souls around me that day seemed not inert but yearning — some soaring, some suffering or sleeping; some were downtrodden and crying out.

These thoughts prompted him to reflect on his job as a journalist. The people he writes about have souls, a spark of the divine, while simultaneously fallen and broken. And then he thought, if people have souls, maybe there is a soul-giver. Not long after that, he was hiking in Colorado. Stopping at a mountain vista, he paused to read from a book. It was a volume of Puritan prayers, of all things. He read these words:

Let me learn by paradox that the way down is the way up,

That to be low is to be high,

That the broken heart is the healed heart,

That the contrite spirit is the rejoicing spirit,

That the repenting soul is the victorious soul.

The upside-down logic startled him. He sensed a goodness greater than anything he could have imagined, a goodness that sounds like the beatitudes of Jesus. It hit Brooks with the force of joy. “I wanted to laugh (he says), run about, hug somebody. I was too inhibited to do any of that, of course,” but he found some happy music to listen to as he smiled his way down the mountain. Something had clicked into place. It was like falling in love.

I like how he concludes:

(More than a conversion), the process felt more like an inspiration, as though someone had breathed life into those old biblical stories so that they now appeared true. Today, I feel more Jewish than ever, but as I once told some friends, I can’t unread (the Gospel of) Matthew. For me, the Beatitudes are the part of the Bible where the celestial grandeur most dazzlingly shines through. So these days I’m enchanted by both Judaism and Christianity. I assent to the whole shebang. My Jewish friends, who have been universally generous and forbearing, point out that when you believe in both the Old and New Testaments, you’ve crossed over to Team Christian, which is a fair point.[2]

Hear what he said? “It felt like someone had breathed life into those old biblical stories.” That is what Zechariah was singing about. The past becomes the future, which is now woven together in the present. In that eternal moment, we know it is all true. There and then. Here and now.

That hearkens back to the other Mister Brooks, not David Brooks but Phillips Brooks. Here is one of the stanzas we are about to sing: 

How silently, how silently, the wonderous gift is given!

So God imparts to human hearts the blessings of his heaven.

No ear can hear him coming, but in this world of sin,

Where meek souls will receive him, still the dear Christ enters in.[3]

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

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[1] Genesis 15:5

[2] David Brooks, “My Decade Long Journey to Belief,” The New York Times, 20 December 2024.

[3] Phillips Brooks, “O Little Town of Bethlehem.”