Stumble Bumbles

Mark 9:38-50
October 6, 2024

William G. Carter  

“If any of you put a stumbling-block before one of these little ones who believe in me, it would be better for you if a great millstone were hung around your neck and you were thrown into the sea. 

 

If your hand causes you to stumble, cut it off; it is better for you to enter life maimed than to have two hands and to go to hell, to the unquenchable fire. And if your foot causes you to stumble, cut it off; it is better for you to enter life lame than to have two feet and to be thrown into hell.^, And if your eye causes you to stumble, tear it out; it is better for you to enter the kingdom of God with one eye than to have two eyes and to be thrown into hell, where their worm never dies, and the fire is never quenched.

 

‘For everyone will be salted with fire. Salt is good; but if salt has lost its saltiness, how can you season it? Have salt in yourselves, and be at peace with one another.”

 Yikes. I am not sure it is the best text for World Communion Sunday. This is the day when we affirm God has a dream. One day, all God’s children will dine at the holy table. Yet Jesus issues a warning: “Don’t lead any of my little ones astray. Otherwise, you will be wishing you had a concrete necklace and were thrown into deep water.” Yow! It sounds like there is a great deal at stake.

By this point in the Gospel of Mark, the Lord has been working on his disciples for some time. He has shown them signs and wonders, evidence that God has come close to us. He displayed acts of compassion and fed huge crowds from their own limited resources. He stepped over the invisible boundaries of fear and prejudice and cure frightening disorders that afflict innocent people. And he punctured the religious hierarchies and unjust rules that diminish those who want to believe. He has been making a difference. He has been showing the twelve how to do it.

Now he pauses long enough to say, “Don’t trip up anybody else who wants to believe. Especially the little ones.” Apparently, there are things we can do that provoke others to stumble and fall. Can you think of anything? I can.

I heard a true story about a church like this one. It was a communion Sunday. The prayers were offered, the bread was broken, the elders took the trays down the aisle. One of the elders worked his way to the back of the church. As he approached the back of the sanctuary, he saw what he had not noticed. His daughter’s ex-husband was seated in the last row. So, what did he do? He skipped over him. Didn’t serve him the bread.

The former son-in-law gave him a pass, thinking his presence had unsettled the guy. But when the elder brought the tray full of the blood of Christ and skipped over him again, worship was over for the son in law. As he said to the pastor on the way out, “I am done with this. I will not be back.”

Wow. Did you know that it is possible for religious people to sin? That some of them can sin so extravagantly that the sin damages the hearts of those still growing in their faith? In Mark’s Gospel, Jesus calls it “a scandal.” The Greek word is translated for us as “stumbling block.” The original word is “scandal.” To offend on that level is to “scandalize.”

Think of the lost opportunity. If you’re in church, and you see somebody your daughter came to despise, and you have trays of holy communion in your hands, you could witness to the grace and forgiveness of Jesus by leaning forward to say, “The body and blood of Christ for you, too.” Whatever you have done or neglected to do, it’s forgiven. It is canceled by Christ whose grace is bigger than the both of us. You are free, I am free, let’s begin again.  

Instead, we could choose to stay citizens of a fallen world. Withhold grace from one another. Hang on to old grudges. Stick it to one another. Make it hurt. Keep it broken. And that, says Jesus, is the scandal. It declares the Gospel does not matter.

In the instruction he offers today, he says scandals can come in three ways: the hand, the foot, the eye. Fortunately for modest people, he doesn’t mention any other appendages. No, these three are suggestive enough.

The hand: the hand can slap, the hand can pinch, the hand can punch. All are expressions of violence. Yet there is more. The hand can type poison e-mails. It can inscribe anonymous letters. The hand can clinch and withhold affection. And the hand can take. It can grab and steal. I have been around the church long enough to know there are a whole lot of scandals caused by hands.

Some don’t seem like much. Like the two little girls who attended church for the very first time. It was overwhelming to them. Everybody singing, or being quiet, and standing up and sitting down. It was a lot to process. Finally, something else happened. Some nice people came down the aisle with plates full of money. They passed the trays back and forth. Afterward, one kid says to the other, “How much did you get?”

Funny story, but I will tell you I have seen Christian people scandalized when other Christian people take what is not theirs. A congregation can thin out after a significant theft. Even after the loss is remediated, those who left in disgust will not come back. The loss of trust is too much for them. “If your hand leads you astray,” he says….

And then, the foot. What could the foot do to scandalize somebody else? I suppose it could give somebody the boot. Or you could hurt someone if you gave them a swift kick. You could tear the fabric of the fellowship if you stomped on somebody for any reason.

But what I have noticed about feet is that they take us places. I suppose they could take us to dens of iniquity, although most of us are most people; scandals are not our currency. Yet feet can carry us to places of inconsistency. They can expose our hypocrisy, especially to those more innocent or naïve.

Like that night at the Hershey Lodge when my father tried to sneak our family into a small hotel room. There were six of us, but he was only going to pay for two. It really shook me up. I was thirteen or fourteen, back when I still saw everything in black and white. Here was my dad, trying to cheat the clerk out of twenty or thirty bucks.

It was the only time my father ever sinned. I sat on the curb, broke into tears. Teenage righteousness will do that to you. As I recall, my mother gave him a look, and he walked back inside to the desk and made it right. If he had not have done that, I would have lost some respect for him. Or worse, I might have grown up thinking it was OK for me to cheat others too. The feet took us there.

And don’t forget the eye. “If your eye causes you to sin,” says Jesus, “pluck it out.” What is he talking about? Fortunately, we have an idea. Back in the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus said, “The eye is the lamp of the body.” It is the portal by which we see what we want. It opens us to the possibility of acquisition. If we see it, we will want to walk to it on our feet and grab it with our hands.

As he goes on to say, “If your eye is healthy, your whole body will be full of light; but if your eye is unhealthy, your whole body will be full of darkness.”[1] So, he is talking about health. He’s talking about sufficiency. He’s talking about satisfaction. And if we give in to our hungers, if we pursue what we see but is not ours, it can lead us down the road to destruction. “If your eye causes you to sin,” he says, “pluck it out!”

Now, please do not take that literally. Through the ages of Christian history, a few people have done so. No, do not take it literally, take it seriously. For the point is to not lead others astray. To not scandalize the faith of others by our bad choices. To care so much for the rest of the Christian household that we will not willfully embarrass them. Or demean them. Or to live and behave in such a way that they begin to think that the Gospel is not true.

It will take self-discipline for each of us. It will require patience with one another and perseverance for ourselves. This is why Jesus concludes with the admonition, “Have salt in yourselves.” He is calling us to be the seasoning of a bland world. He invites us to live with the same generosity and grace that he has brought us from God. There is something distinctive about loving others as God has loved us.

Will we get it perfect? No. Yet we do not stop trying to become more like Christ. He is our model for living and our example for loving. He is the One who calls us together as strangers and equips us to become friends. He can lift us up when we fall down and take us down a few pegs when we get too big for our britches.

He is the One who stays with us, in life, in death, in life beyond death. Something happens to us as we stay with him. We change. We deepen. We extend ourselves. So deep is his transforming love that we can believe it is possible to embrace the final invitation of today’s text, “Have salt in yourselves and be at peace with one another.”

 

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

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[1] Matthew 6:22-23.

More Than Us

Mark 9:38-41
September 29, 2024
William G. Carter

John said to him, ‘Teacher, we saw someone casting out demons in your name, and we tried to stop him, because he was not following us.’ But Jesus said, ‘Do not stop him; for no one who does a deed of power in my name will be able soon afterwards to speak evil of me. Whoever is not against us is for us. For truly I tell you, whoever gives you a cup of water to drink because you bear the name of Christ will by no means lose the reward.

It was an interview, almost 75 years ago, back when television was young. They put a poet on CBS News and asked him to sit for an interview. The poet was no ordinary wordsmith. It was Carl Sandburg, three-time winner of the Pulitzer Prize. He was a man who loved words, who juggled words, and who adjudicated words. 

Edward R. Murrow was the interviewer, an ever-present Camel cigarette in his hand. After a bit of small talk about Sandburg’s work, Murrow gave him this question: what is the ugliest word in the English language? Sandburg looked him over, then started working over the question. “The ugliest word, what’s the ugliest word?” He rolled the question over his tongue. “Ugliest? Ugliest word? Hmm…the ugliest word.”

Then, rather abruptly, he gave his answer. “The ugliest word is exclusive.”

Edward R. Murrow blew a bit of cigarette smoke, then asked the question, “Why? What makes that the ugliest words?” The reply: “That word ‘exclusive’ shuts out a large portion of humanity from your mind and heart.”

It is a word that has often been used to make people feel special. We live in an exclusive community. We vacation in an exclusive resort. We are inducted in an exclusive society. We are offered an exclusive deal. We worship in an exclusive church. It’s not so ugly if you are one of the insiders, if you count yourself among the brightest and the best, the richest and the most privileged. You might be tempted to boast, “I am a member of an exclusive club.”

Yet, that, precisely that, is why the poet named it the ugliest word. Because it separates you from the rank and file. It presumes to lift you above everybody else.”

And the disciples announced to Jesus, “We saw an exorcist out there, healing in your name. We told him to stop because he was not following us.”

Last week, we overheard the twelve of them bickering over which one of them was the greatest. Which one was superior? Which one of them was most faithful, most loving, most generous, and most handsome – to say of most humble? Jesus took them off at the knees, declaring the greatest would be the one who serves everybody else. He punctured their view of competition. You cannot be a follower of Jesus if you are obsessed with superiority.

Today, it is their notion of exclusivity that Jesus takes on. John the disciple, one of the inner circle from Galilee, boasts with pride about what he has done. “Teacher,” he says, “we saw an exorcist who didn’t have a union card. He was casting out demons in your name, but he wasn’t following us. We told him to stop!” In other words, John thinks he himself belongs to the only show in town.

Now, we know Jesus is going to take him on. Redirect him. But Jesus is simply gracious. He chastises the opinion by speaking to the best capacity within his own misguided followers. The Lord says, “Don’t stop him. Anybody who does a deed of power in my name will be unable to speak evil of me.”

Then he cuts to the chase: “Who’s not against us is for us.” That unnamed exorcist wandering around out there by himself is really part of a bigger work. Imagine that: that there might be people out there who are doing the same work and pursuing the same purposes. In fact, we are already on the same team. Call it “Team Jesus.”

I like that word “team.” I am old enough to remember when churches worked together on matters of common concern. The two high rise apartments in our town began when religious leaders agreed that our senior citizens on limited incomes needed affordable housing in this community. The pastors worked together; the churches worked together. Can you imagine everybody working together?

These days, so many churches are struggling even to keep their doors open, so they find themselves obsessed with survival. Some are so anxious they steal sheep from other flocks and call it “evangelism.” Or they profess to be the only true believers, declaring in word and deed, “We are the only show in town.”

There is an alternative. Jesus hints at it. You know what it is. It’s called teamwork. What do we know about teamwork?

Somebody asked me the other day about teamwork. What was my experience of sports, and being on a team? Well, I played high school football for three seasons. Actually, I sat on the bench for two and a half seasons, while the superstars were out on the field. The coach put me in for a game in the third season. He was desperate. First play of the game, I was triple-teamed, and they carried me off the field with a ruptured knee. So much for my sports career.

But teamwork, what is it look like? At our best, we see it all the time. One of the best things our congregation does is to offer meals for those who have lost a loved one. We did it last Saturday. We did it yesterday. Whether we make the meal or serve the meal, we are engaged together. The work is collaborative. Collaboration always takes time, energy, and communication. There is something everybody can do. And in the end, everybody eats.

All this shared work is in service of the greater purpose. It’s in service to what we are here to do. If you are in choir, our purpose is to make music together. If we play a sport, we play the sport with others as well as you can. If we follow Jesus, we do the very things that he does, both for him, with him, and with all the others who are doing his work.

“Teacher, we saw somebody casting out demons in your name, and we told him to stop because he wasn’t following us.” Sounds kind of hollow, especially in the Gospel of Mark. In this Gospel, the predominant image for the work of Jesus is exorcism. The very first thing Jesus does after his baptism and a retreat in the wilderness is to cast out a demon.

It happened in a synagogue, in a holy space, on holy time. A man started yelling at Jesus. He hollers, “Jesus, I know who you are. Have you come out to destroy us?” The Lord stared down the evil spirit and said, “Get out of him!” In that confrontation, the tormented man is made well. That is the ministry of Jesus. It is the active force of God’s Spirit in him, repairing what is broken, healing what is ill.

One page after another, Mark wants us to know that this is why God sends his strong Son into our midst: to do an exorcism on the world, to make all things well. He confronts the evil that destroys, and he ushers in the healing power of God. The Jews have a phrase for that: “tikkun olam.” It means “to take the world in for repairs.” It is to restore all that is broken and to build shalom . . . peace, balance, integration, wholeness.

This is the work of the Christ. If you are not against it – and who would be against it? You would have to be out of your right mind to be against it, and that suggests Jesus will be coming to you, to make you well. – If you are not against it, you are for it.

And if we’re not entirely for it yet, I do believe the work of Christ is powerful enough and enticing enough to invite all of us into the deep gladness of his well-being. A world that was ill enough to crucify Jesus must contend with him returning in his resurrection, working persistently to heal and restore everything that belongs to God. If you are not against it, you will be for it.

“Do not stop him,” says Jesus.” The psychologist who unlocks the learning disorder, the dentist who fixes smiles, the social worker who connects, the resource center that provides a safe place for a frightened woman to sleep, the counselor who listens to the broken heart, the volunteer ladling out tuna casserole, the deacon who prays, the exercise instructor who calms the soul – all of them are part of the mission, God’s mission. And we are in it together. We are all part of God’s salvage operation.

Don’t stand in the way of any other person or group that welcomes people into the embrace of God. Do not deny the outcasts who can’t believe that anybody might love them. Don’t turn away the person whom you might lift higher. Put a muzzle on the ugly exclusivity and replace it with encouragement. And for God’s sake – for God’s sake – never insist you are the only one who does it right. Love requires us to put others first, to tend to their wounds before our own. This is how we drive out evil and welcome the Christ who comes to heal all.

Maybe that’s why Jesus says what he does: “Truly I tell you, whoever gives you a cup of water to drink because you bear the name of Christ will by no means lose the reward.” Imagine that – you are not only one of the healers, but you are also the recipient. Is there anybody in the dominion of God better than all the others? No, not one. All of us drink from the water of Christ’s mercy. All of us. That’s why we need to work together.

One of my teachers told the story of growing up in Appalachia. “We didn’t think we were poor,” he said, “because there was always somebody worse off than us.” It made him feel better, a little better. One day, his church group announced they would make up fruit baskets and deliver them to the poor families in town. Fred felt good about that. It would lift his spirits to do something kind for somebody else.

The fruit baskets, mostly apples, were put together. The group split up in a few different cars and headed out to the poor sections of town. Fred held his basket on his knee. He knew what he would do. He would sneak up to the front door, put down the basket, knock hard, and then run away. It was guerilla charity, he said. Unload the basket and split.

So, he approached a run-down clapboard house. Lawn was overgrown. One of the bedroom windows was broken. A single lightbulb on inside the home. He thought to himself, “Oh, these poor folks are really going to enjoy this bruit basket. I’ll bet nobody has done something nice for them in a long time. I’ll drop the basket on the porch, knock on the door, and run away. Good plan.

He leaned down to place the basket when the front door opened abruptly. He stood up, shocked. This was not the original plan. A grizzled sharecropper took the basket in his wrinkled knuckles. He brightened in a broken smile, then said, “How kind of you! Thank you ever so much.” Then he paused, held out the basket, and said, “Would you like one of these apples? They look delicious.”

The kid froze. This was definitely not in the plan. He was supposed to give away the apples, not take one. The old man stood there, waiting. So, Fred took one of the apples. Took a big bite. Indeed, it was delicious.

“Ever since that moment,” he said, years later, “I realized we all eat from the same basket. All of us, from the same basket.” Just as God intends for it to be.

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

They Did Not Understand

Mark 9:30-37
September 22, 2024
William G. Carter

They went on from there and passed through Galilee. He did not want anyone to know it; for he was teaching his disciples, saying to them, “The Son of Man is to be betrayed into human hands, and they will kill him, and three days after being killed, he will rise again.” But they did not understand what he was saying and were afraid to ask him.

 

Then they came to Capernaum; and when he was in the house he asked them, “What were you arguing about on the way?” But they were silent, for on the way they had argued with one another who was the greatest. He sat down, called the twelve, and said to them, “Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all.” Then he took a little child and put it among them; and taking it in his arms, he said to them, “Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me.”

Well, there they go again. The disciples “did not understand” what Jesus was saying. We had three weeks with them in August. If you tuned in for any of those sermons, they did not understand Jesus. They could not comprehend him.

A hungry crowd assembled to listen to the Lord. It got late, so he told the twelve, “Feed the crowd.” They looked around, had no idea what to do, so he said, “Bring me what you have.” Some bread, a little bread, He breaks what they have, tells them to share it, everybody is well fed – and there are leftovers. The classic church potluck supper! And they don’t get it. So, he sends them off in the boat and disappears to pray. In the middle of the night, he goes to them, walking on the water. They think it’s a ghost. Then he calms the water and climbs into their boat, and they are really shook up. They ask what they have asked before: who is this?

Then again, a crowd gathers, Jesus collects the little food they have, breaks it, blesses it, shares it, and everybody is fed a second time. The merry band moves on from there. Then there’s a crisis: the disciples are hungry because they forgot to bring any bread. I picture Jesus slapping his head, and saying, “You didn’t bring any bread?” No, we don’t have any bread. Imagin him saying, “Any idea who might have some bread for you?” And they look around, look at their sandals. Crickets. Mark doesn’t have a high regard for these disciples

Last week, our preacher reminded us that Jesus was not the Messiah that the twelve expected. Not sure what they expected. Maybe they wanted Jesus to have enough power to chase the Roman army back across the sea. Maybe they had enough awe and wonder to perceive that he, the Nazarene woodcutter, was a whole lot more than he appeared. Yet he started talking about getting betrayed, arrested, beaten, and then crucified – and all their glorious dreams of religion making them successful seemed to evaporate. Jesus crucified? How? Why?

Today, he says it again. He would be betrayed, then killed, then rise again? What was he talking about? Why was he saying this? And Mark says, “They did not understand. And they were afraid to ask.”

This theme of misunderstanding comes up so many times that we need to lean in and pay attention. How can it be that those who traveled day and night with Jesus the Christ did not comprehend who he was, what he was up to, and what was lying ahead of him? Apparently, their discipleship was malfunctioning. They were in the right place, following the right guy, going to the right places – but something “They did not understand.”

I looked it up in the Greek dictionary. The designation is more nuanced. “Not understand” is the Greek word, “agnostos.” Literally, a “not knowing.”

These days, that old Greek word has prompted an English word, “agnostic.” An agnostic is somebody who isn’t sure. Perhaps they are uncertain. Or they have doubts. Or they are waiting for more conclusive proof. Or they wish to keep their options open before giving a final answer. Frankly, that’s a lot of us. Even if we think we’ve got all the faith stuff figured out, even if we have published fifty-seven volumes of systematic theology, there are some matters beyond our comprehension.

It was true of the apostle Paul! He wrote that thick letter to the Christians in Rome. In one heavy page after another, he laid out an entire system of the faith in Christ. Yet at the end of his argument, when he reaches the end of chapter eleven, Paul pauses, leans back, looks up to the sky, and confesses, “Who has known the mind of God? Who really understands?” His conclusion is that everything comes from God, everything ends up with God. Then he says, “To God be the glory, Amen.” (Romans 11:36) He can’t contain it all. And that’s the apostle Paul. Most of us can understand his lack of understanding.

But it sounds different in the Gospel of Mark. That word “agnostos” does not mean the same thing as our word “agnostic.” Mark is not signaling a little bit of confusion. He’s not suggesting the disciples still had a lot to learn – who among us doesn’t have a lot to learn? No, he is declaring that they are ignorant. “Agnostos” means ignorance. And it’s not a lack of knowledge. They traveled with Jesus. They ate with Jesus. They saw what he did. They heard everything he said/ And yet, they were “ignorant.” “Agnostos,” that’s the word.

It wasn’t a matter of intelligence. Not matter how smart they were. As one college professor once declared, “You can take my class, ace every test, get a good grace, have a four-point average – and still miss the point.” It’s more than a blind spot or a missing sector on your mental hard drive. It’s a moral failure.

It was true of Judas Iscariot, the one who turned him in. He did it for the money. On the old sermon illustration websites, somebody once wrote, “Judas had the best pastor, the best leader, the best advisor, and the best counselor. Yet he failed. So, the problem may not be the leadership or the church you go to. If your attitude or character doesn’t change, if your heart is not transformed, you will always be the same.”

Well, it’s easy to kick old Judas Iscariot. Fact it, in the Gospel of Mark, none of the disciples smell particularly good. Peter, says, “Crucified? No, not you, Lord, never you!” And when Judas shows up with a mob to get Jesus arrested, Peter and the others run away. Mark tells us these things to remind us that a lack of understanding doesn’t occur in the head – it also happens in the heart.

We heard it in the account for today. On the road to Jerusalem, for a second time, Jesus says, “I’m going to die. I will be betrayed, arrested, and killed.” He notices they aren’t paying attention. Why? Because they are arguing among themselves which one of them is greatest? Now, isn’t that ridiculous?

He speaks to them privately about his impending death. They are too busy singing that country music song from the 1980s, “Oh Lord, it’s hard to be humble when you’re perfect in every way. I can’t wait to look in the mirror ‘cause I get better looking each day.” Who’s the greatest? It’s not you, it’s not you, it’s certainly not you. It’s me.

Mark puts that story precisely because it’s so absurd, so ridiculous, so over the top, and so … ignorant. He’s holds up a mirror to anybody who lives on the slightest whisp of superiority. Think you’re better than those around you? Tempted to say there are acts of service that are beneath you? Perceive that you have the edge on everybody else? Well, disciple class is now in session.

Almost twenty years ago, I wandered out to the high desert of New Mexico to spend a week at Christ in the Desert, a remote monastery of Benedictine brothers. My heart was telling me it was time to pray. I would stay long enough to join the brothers for six worship services each day, with the first one beginning at 3:45 in the morning. The task was to pray all one-hundred-fifty psalms, a virtuous task. I said to myself, “Self, if you get through this week, you are going to be a spiritual rock star.” And who doesn’t want that?

Nice thought, but first thing in the morning, the prior of the monastery appeared with his clipboard to hand out the work assignments. Just like anywhere else, there are chores. Things to do, dishes to wash, gardens to pull weeds. I confess I was thinking, “Wait, I’m working at becoming a spiritual rock star.” The prior said, “Good for you; in the meantime, that enormous floor in the dining room needs to be mopped. It’s not going to mop itself.” So, I got a bucket, filled it with suds, and started to work.

Did I mention it was a really big floor? But hey, that was my morning job. The boss came back in an hour to review my work. “Missed a spot,” he said. “Keep going.” But I was hoping to read, meditate, and pray. It’s not easy being a spiritual rock star.

I finished the job at the end of the second hour, leaned on my mop to appreciate my work. The prior appeared again, sniffed a bit, and sneered, “That is a perfectly Presbyterian floor. Unacceptable. Do it again.” Then he was gone. So, back to it. Another hour. Careful mopping. Thorough mopping. And you know what I discovered? There’s no such thing as a spiritual rock star. If you advance, it’s not upward, but downward. You’ve got to set aside your heroic notions and become a servant. Mop the floor, that perfectly Presbyterian floor.

“What were you arguing about, you ignorant disciples?” Nobody would say, but he knew. Of course he knew. They were bickering over which of them was superior. Which of them was the greatest, the best, the most loving, the humblest, the one most worthy of praise? And it’s a spiritual dead end. It is hard to reach toward heaven when you are called to wash somebody else’s feet.

That’s why Jesus put a child in the middle of their circle. “Welcome one of these,” he said. “Welcome the little one that nobody notices, the child that everybody hushes. Welcome the one that the world won’t see, and you will be welcoming me.” It’s still a good lesson. It’s the only way to follow Jesus, much less to welcome it.

This is challenging work. And it is necessary work. We are so enticed by our aggressions, so enamored by our illusions. Like the person who says, “If I put thirty-seven political signs in my front yard, I will tell everybody else there’s only one way to vote, and it’s my way.” Wow, how’s that working? Wouldn’t it be better to talk with your neighbors rather than attempt to dominate them? Exerting your dominance is one more way to say, “I have the right answer, and you don’t.” And Jesus shows another way.

In my morning devotions, I’m reading a collection of letters written by Henri Nouwen. I have several of his books on my shelves, but his correspondence reveals his soul. He was a generous, gracious man. Sometimes, he was so Christ-like that he didn’t seem to keep pace with the place where he was. Like when he was hired by Notre Dame to teach in its brand-new psychology department. He started one fall, then wondered, “Why is everybody around here so obsessed with football? You know, we’re supposed to be Christians.”

It was because he saw clearly that the Christian life is not about competition, but compassion, and welcoming others, and serving others. As he writes in one of his books,

 

This all-pervasive competition, which reaches into the smallest corners of our relationships, prevents us from entering into full solidarity with each other and stands in the way of our being compassionate. We prefer to keep compassion on the periphery of our competitive lives. Being compassionate would require giving up dividing lines and relinquishing differences and distinctions. And that … is so frightening and evokes deep resistance... This fear, which is very real and influences much of our behavior, betrays our deepest illusions, that we are the trophies and distinctions we have won. This, indeed, is our greatest illusion. It makes us into competitive people who compulsively cling to our differences and defend them at all cost, even to the point of violence.

 

The compassion Jesus offers challenges us to give up our fearful clinging and to enter with him into the fearless love of God himself… He asks us to love one another with God’s own compassion.[1]

 

So, the lesson concludes. Who is the greatest? Who is first in line? Who stands the tallest in God’s dominion? It is the one who kneels the lowest to serve everybody else. Just like Jesus.

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

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[1] Henri J. M. Nouwen and others, Compassion: A Reflection on the Christian Life (Garden City, NY: Image Books, 1983) 19-20.

So That All Other Peoples

Acts 15:12-18
Jazz Communion

The whole assembly kept silence and listened to Barnabas and Paul as they told of all the signs and wonders that God had done through them among the gentiles. After they finished speaking, James replied, “My brothers, listen to me. Simeon has related how God first looked favorably on the gentiles, to take from among them a people for his name. This agrees with the words of the prophets, as it is written,

‘After this I will return,

and I will rebuild the dwelling of David, which has fallen;
    from its ruins I will rebuild it,
        and I will set it up, so that all other peoples may seek the Lord—
    even all the gentiles over whom my name has been called.
Thus says the Lord, who has been making these things known from long ago.’ 

 

You will be forgiven if you feel tempted to dance. The jazz for today is rooted in the rhythms of Brazil, rhythms that glide rather than bounce. So, we hear and feel the samba, the bossa nova, the cha-cha, and the meringue, all of which provide the rhythms for our music this morning.

Back in 1962, saxophonist Stan Getz connected with guitarist Charlie Byrd’s trio. They recorded an album in a Washington D.C. church and called it, “Jazz Samba.” The music caught everybody by surprise. It was nominated for three Grammy awards: record of the year, album of the year, and Getz winning a Grammy for best soloist.

It was the perfect time. TWA flew in and out of our airports, expanding American ears to new sounds from other continents. Bossa Nova, literally “the new thing” in Portuguese, was so cool it became hot. Elvis Presly latched on to the bossa nova. So did Frank Sinatra. Bossa Nova was portrayed as make-out music in that great American film “Animal House.” Bossa Nova provided the theme tune for a spy named Austin Powers. It landed in the Charlie Brown music of Vince Guaraldi and the jazz of Dizzy Gillespie and Chick Corea. Brazilian music became a national craze.

That may sound strange, especially for jazz. Stan Getz came up playing tenor saxophone Woody Herman’s big band. There he was, almost on a whim, hitting it big with the lilting melodies of Antonio Carlos Jobim. But it was not a fluke. Jazz first emerged from the musical jambalaya of New Orleans. There were folk melodies, African rhythms, European instruments, all with a pinch of Creole seasoning. From the beginning, it was all stirred together. The old jazzer Jelly Rolly Morton famously declared that true jazz has what he called “a Spanish tinge.” You can hear it. You can taste it. Tastes like gumbo.

So, why not welcome the sensuous rhythms of Rio de Janeiro and Ipanema beach? Jazz musicians know something good when they hear it. In 1962, the American listening public couldn’t have agreed more. The “Jazz Samba” album sold a half-million copies in the eighteen months of its release. “Jazz Samba” became the first and only jazz record to ever become a number one hit on the music charts in America.

Today we offer this music to reflect on the phenomenon of cultural appropriation. That’s the practice of taking the riches of another culture and absorbing them into your own. Last month, when we celebrated my wife’s birthday at a Mexican restaurant, the wait staff put a sombrero on her head and sang, “Feliz Cumpleanos.” Then they gave her a margarita. Nobody intended to be disrespectful, but it was a bit awkward.

And we do this, don’t we? We pick and choose from other people, claim it as our own. When I was but a child, one Saturday night we had pizza for the first time. It came out of a box from some guy named Chef Boyardee, who manufactured it in a Pennsylvania factory on the Susquehanna River. It bore no resemblance to the wood-fired pies of Naples, Italy, much less the delicacies of Old Forge, where there’s a pizza shop every hundred feet. We didn’t know. We didn’t care. All we knew was it wasn’t meat and potatoes anymore.

No one told us we were stealing a small slice of another culture. It’s just something we did. It never occurred to us, either that at roughly the same time, our elders were becoming enchanted by the music of Brazil. It’s something that happened – and somebody did it for profit. I’m pretty sure, for instance, that Verve Records, the company behind the “Jazz Samba” recording, never quite paid the Brazilian people a sufficient sum for the music they lifted from South America. They didn’t pay the American musicians, much, either. One of the American drummers got one hundred-fifty bucks for the recording session – and it was the number one album on the sales charts for seventy weeks. It made millions for the record company.

Now, this is a complicated matter. The blending of cultures, the buying and selling of cultural assets, the dilution of cultural riches – all at a time when we are waking up to the incredible diversity that already exists in God’s world. Diversity is all around us. My colleague Frank teaches in the Dunmore schools. A call went out from the office on the first day of school: “Does anybody here speak Russian?” A new student speaks only Russian. We can bark all we want about speaking English, but a lot of people don’t. God’s world is diverse.

Sometimes we discover the bias in our own thinking. In her novel, The Accidental Tourist, the novelist Anne Tyler pokes fun at us. The main character is a guy who is so uptight that he alphabetizes his spice rack. He has some control issues. He writes travel guides for people who accidentally get stuck in a foreign country. Where can you find a Taco Bell in Mexico City? Is there a Pizza Hut in Rome? He maps the world on his assumptions.

I bring this up because it is the Bible’s concern. Ever since the mythical story of the Tower of Babel, we have inhabited a world of multiple languages. This diversity has been built into God’s world. As much as we’d like to insist everybody else must be like us, the truth is they would like to be like themselves.

Back in high school history class, somebody told us America is a melting pot. No, that’s a myth. The truth is, America, like the rest of the world, is more like a salad: take a tomato, a radish, diced peppers, croutons, A variety of lettuce, and mix it all up. All the components maintain their distinctiveness yet make up something bigger. You might not like that radish, but it’s in the salad. It belongs as much as anything else.

This is how it was when the Christian church got started. It was a lot easier when all the believers were Jewish men. Then they realized women were around the table too. Then others started showing up, claiming Jesus had called them, too. The early church expanded. The leadership struggled with a fundamental question: are we going to make room for people who are not like the rest of us? The question has never gone away. And Christ has never let his people back off from the question.

For it became obvious to that first circle of believers that God was pushing them beyond their own boundaries, that God was loving those other people as much as he was loving them, that God had a message of forgiveness and grace that cut through all the walls that the human family constructs to divide itself The early Christian preachers found in their earlier Jewish Bible that has always been God’s intention to make room for all his own children. In the words of one of their prophets, they heard God say, “I will set it up so that all other people may seek the Lord.” And it does say, “all other peoples.”

Is this difficult? Of course it’s difficult. Anything worth doing is difficult. But when we discover that the love of God is not something we’ve hoarded, but a gift that is showered on all people, it opens you up to the gifts of other people, to the hunger and the food of other people, to the faith of other people, and as we taste today, the music of other people.

And this is where God is pushing us, ready or not. It is awkward. It stretches us. It pushes beyond our ignorance. It insists we learn how to translate. It requires us to show hospitality. It calls us to practice the holy skill of welcoming others. It opens us up to be loved by those we don’t know very well. And this is the first sign of Christ’s dominion, that wide-reaching fellowship to which all are invited. God says it first-hand in scripture:

“My love is for all peoples.” And I looked up the verse. It really does say “all.”

Is all this easy? No. Does it demand a great deal of us? Certainly. And I can understand that all-too-human inclination to pull back and stay among those who are just like you, even if that crowd is shrinking. But the day may come, in fact the day may be here, when we wake up to discover there are more people in God’s world than we ever realized.

When that day comes, blame it on the Bossa Nova. And move over a little bit on your comfortable pew. Somebody wants to sit by you. 

© William G. Carter. All rights reserved.

Background Articles:

• https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jazz_Samba
• https://www.huffpost.com/entry/jazz-samba_b_1427237
• https://www.washingtonpost.com/lifestyle/style/jazz-samba-landmark-album-recorded-in-a-dc-church-turns-50/2012/04/19/gIQAWVWqTT_story.html

For Those Who Believe

Mark 9:14-29
August 25, 2024

William G. Carter

 

When they came to the disciples, they saw a great crowd around them, and some scribes arguing with them. When the whole crowd saw Jesus, they were immediately overcome with awe, and they ran forward to greet him. He asked them, “What are you arguing about with them?”

Someone from the crowd answered him, “Teacher, I brought you my son; he has a spirit that makes him unable to speak; and whenever it seizes him, it dashes him down; and he foams and grinds his teeth and becomes rigid; and I asked your disciples to cast it out, but they could not do so.” He answered them, “You faithless generation, how much longer must I be among you? How much longer must I put up with you? Bring him to me.” And they brought the boy to him.

When the spirit saw him, immediately it convulsed the boy, and he fell on the ground and rolled about, foaming at the mouth. Jesus asked the father, “How long has this been happening to him?” And he said, “From childhood. It has often cast him into the fire and into the water, to destroy him; but if you are able to do anything, have pity on us and help us.” 

Jesus said to him, “If you are able! - All things can be done for the one who believes.” Immediately the father of the child cried out, “I believe; help my unbelief!” 

When Jesus saw that a crowd came running together, he rebuked the unclean spirit, saying to it, “You spirit that keeps this boy from speaking and hearing, I command you, come out of him, and never enter him again!” After crying out and convulsing him terribly, it came out, and the boy was like a corpse, so that most of them said, “He is dead.” But Jesus took him by the hand and lifted him up, and he was able to stand. 

When he had entered the house, his disciples asked him privately, “Why could we not cast it out?” He said to them, “This kind can come out only through prayer.”

 

Well, there he goes again. Jesus gives a little kick to his twelve disciples, reminding them once again of their spiritual ineptness. In the Gospel of Mark, he is something like a drill sergeant, instructing them on the way to the cross, and barking out rebukes when they get it wrong.

Here, Jesus contends with his followers who cannot perform a healing. Back in chapter six, he gave them power to cast out the forces of evil that cripple human lives. He sent them out with the authority to do what he has been doing, to confront the array of destructive powers at work in the world. Jesus delegates his power to the twelve disciples. He empowers them to take on his work and to extend it.

That was chapter six. By chapter nine, they have lost their juice.

We hear of a little boy in a lot of trouble. He cannot speak. He cannot hear. He has seizures at unpredictable times. He is a threat to himself. His family must protect him when he stands too close to the fire pit or near open water. They never know when he will start shaking, or foaming at the mouth, or stiffening up and falling over. How frightening that was!

Those of you who have known a child with epilepsy, or a similar disorder can imagine what that family was going through. They never knew when the malady would strike. They never knew what it would do. There was no way to ever rest, no way to ever leave the boy alone. They had to always watch him, always vigilant, always on edge, if only to keep him from further harm.

It’s no wonder the father brings the boy to Jesus. No wonder at all. If there’s any help, it’s going to come from the powerful Galilean who can make people well. And since Jesus wasn’t right there, since he was up on the mountain with Peter, James, and John, the father takes the boy to the remaining nine disciples. “Here he is. Can you do anything to help?” They try to help, but it does not work. That’s how the story begins. Or at least I thought that’s how the story begins.

Fact is, there’s this curious little detail at the outset. As Jesus and three disciples approach, there’s an argument going on. Some religious leaders, the Bible scribes, are squabbling with the other nine disciples. They are having a noisy disagreement. Jesus says, “What are you arguing about?” Did you notice? Nobody answered him. They never tell him about the argument.

That is when the boy’s father speaks up about his son. “I’ll tell you what is going on. I brought my son to you. You weren’t here, so I asked your disciples to help him. They couldn’t do it.”

No doubt this annoys the Lord. Yet it does not explain the squabble. There’s a sick kid in need of life-giving help, and some religious people was bickering about something – God knows what. Religious people are experts at bickering – but meanwhile, there’s a child in need and the religious people are bickering. That’s a curious little detail, isn’t it?

And then, there’s the little interchange before the healing. The father brings his kid to Jesus, and says, “If you can do something, can you help us?” Jesus says, “IF?! Did you say, IF?! All kinds of things can be done for those who believe.” All right, believe what? Believe that something can be done, that God can do something, that God in Christ wants something to happen. It is that kind of belief – an active belief, a compelling belief, an open and intentional belief: I believe that God is right here and can do something for this child!

In the power of that father’s belief, Jesus heals the son by hurling out the oppressive powers and making him well. So, the disciples pull him into a house and say, “How did you do that? How come we couldn’t do that?”  He looks at them and goes, “Well?” And with just the right amount of sass, he says, “Those kinds of demons only come out through prayer.”

We know we have an interesting story when it spins in all kinds of directions. For me, that seems to be the point. There is the squabble between Jesus’ followers and the religious leaders. We never learn what they are bickering about it, and it’s a distraction that keeps childish adults from the needs of a kid. It helps me understand the frustration of Jesus in this story.

Then there is the uselessness of the disciples. Remember the Three Stooges? Jesus had twelve of them, or at least Mark thinks so. They cannot do anything right. Maybe they thought they couldn’t do the exorcism because they held their hands the wrong way, or ran out of holy water, or goofed up the magic formula. Perhaps they were distracted by all the flak from the religious leaders.

Jesus tells them that hard work of confronting evil is not a matter of mechanics or procedures. It is primarily a matter of prayer. It is a spiritual matter. Constant prayer is staying close to God. It opens us to God’s purposes. It beckons us to God’s work in the world. It puts the mission of God before every personal agenda. We pray “Thy will be done” – and then we do God’s will. We pray “deliver us from evil” – and then we confront the evil. Prayer is our primal weapon. Prayer is the tactical force of God’s kingdom. Prayer calls on God to come and make good on the promise that Jesus is saving the world. It is the business of the Spirit.

Yet there is the father’s concern, the father’s initiative, the father’s incomplete faith that prompts him to say, “I believe; help my unbelief.” That Bible verse speaks for all of us.

Let’s just say it: our faith is always unfinished. If we have a sick kid, we are bound to be shaken. If our world is shattered by a loved one in pain, we wonder if it will ever get better. If we fear what may happen tomorrow, it is difficult to get dressed to face the fears of today. There is no shortage of unbelief. We worry, we fret, we lose sleep. We hear stories of help from heaven and wonder if any of that help is going to come for us. We hear ancient stories like the one today and wonder what they have to do with us. “Lord, I believe; help my unbelief.”

Should we pull Jesus aside and get his attention, he will most likely say what he said to the twelve: “These kinds only get driven out through prayer.” Through prayer. How much are we praying? How much are we chasing after God? How much are we hungering and thirsting for righteousness? How much are we grounding our shaken souls in the life-giving, evil-confronting work of Jesus? The Gospel of Mark says this is the mission of God to the world. We access it at a spiritual level. It is a matter of prayer.

Kathleen Norris is a writer, a Presbyterian lay preacher. She also became a widow. A week after burying her husband David, she took her sister for chemotherapy. She was numb. In her memoir, she writes, “I had no idea how I would inhabit that devastating word, widow. s for prayer, I was not surprised that (a) mocking spirit was alive within me, or that when I most needed the consolation that prayer can bring, I was unable to pray.”[1] Lord, I believe; help my unbelief 

She says, “When I missed David most acutely, I would remind myself that I could not wish for him back, because that would mean his having to endure more suffering. All of that was over for him, the gasping for breath, the pain of that accursed cracked shoulder. I did not know what to hope for, but I knew that I needed to pray again.”

As she stumbled through the loss, as all of us stumble, she found a book of prayers. David had been a part-time Episcopalian, and it was his Episcopalian Book of Common Prayer. Thumbing through it, Kathleen found a prayer for herself:

This is another day, O Lord. I know not what it will bring forth, but make me ready, Lord, for whatever it may be. If I am to stand up, help me to stand bravely. If I am to sit still, help me to sit quietly. If I am to lie low, help me to do it patiently. And if I am to do nothing, let me do it gallantly. Make these words more than words, and give me the Spirit of Jesus. Amen.

The words were helpful. She prayed the prayers. She prayed the Psalms, especially the realistic ones and the sad ones. She kept at it, discovering a prayer from Gregory of Nyssa, one of the ancient Fathers of the church. Writing about the phrase, “Give us this day our daily bread,” he wrote, “We can, each of us, only call the present time our own… Our Lord tells us to pray for today, and he prevents us from tormenting ourselves about tomorrow.” There is enough bread for today. There is sufficient light to get through the shadows. Keep praying. Stay close to God.

As somebody puts it, “What is unbelief but the despair, dictated by the dominant powers that nothing can really change, a despair that renders revolutionary vision and practice impotent. The disciples are instructed to battle this impotence, this temptation to resignation, through prayer.”[2] They are taught once again what matters more than their own inadequacy.

For this is the good news according to the Gospel of Mark: this present order of things has been punctured. The recurring storm system of pain, suffering, and loss has been broken open. The assumption that nothing can ever be done is cracked open. Mark says it began when Jesus appeared. The gloomy sky was ripped apart from the other side. The power of heaven came down like a gentle dove. The same Voice that sang the world into existence declared, “This is my child, my Beloved.” And then God got to work as Jesus got to work.

That’s the Good News: God is alive, Jesus is his agent, the Holy Spirit keeps blowing. But maybe we’re wondering why he hasn’t gotten to us yet. It’s a legitimate complaint. We have needs. Our children have needs. Goodness knows, the world has needs. As we wait, anxiety creeps in. We worry we are stuck in the same old patterns of pain. Our temptation is to cling to the pain rather than to turn that pain into a prayer. Because we can do that. We can flip the essence of our distress by placing it in the hands of God – that can be our prayer.

“Lord, I believe; help my unbelief.” That is a pretty good prayer. And it’s a reminder that faith is not an idea in our heads. It’s not a concept for our intellects. It’s not a proposition to discuss. Faith is a muscle in our hearts. Like any muscle, it gets stronger through exercise. And the best exercise is to pray.

Let us pray:  Holy God, you have not left us to ourselves. You have not abandoned us to our greatest fears, nor have you turned us over to our worst impulses. No, you have come to us in Jesus Christ. You have interrupted the works of evil. You have broken the power of death. So, teach us to trust you in all things. Keep us always close to your heart. Rescue us and those you love. We ask this, in belief and unbelief, through Jesus Christ, our Lord.

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

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[1] Kathleen Norris, Acedia and Me: A Marriage, Monks, and a Writer’s Life (New York: Riverhead Books: 2008). These quotes are taken from pp. 248-251, 260.

[2] Ched Myers, as quoted by Brian Blount in “Stay Close,” Preaching Mark in Two Voices (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2002) 171.