The Power to be Born

The Power to Be Born
John 1:1-18
Christmas Eve 2021
William G. Carter

¹²But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God, ¹³who were born, not of blood or of the will of the flesh or of the will of man, but of God. 

Of all the occasions when I have read this text, I’ve never paid much attention to a phrase in the 12^th verse: He gave power to become children of God. As I read it tonight, the inference is clear: Christmas is for children. Not just the little ones, the chronologically advantaged. Not merely the ancient ones, either, who are now dependent on others for their meals and their care. Christmas is for anyone of any age who is becoming a child. 

It's a striking phrase, not only because it’s a metaphor. It’s striking because there aren’t a lot of kids in the Gospel of John. I could only find one, at the end of chapter four and he’s offstage. It’s a sick little boy in Capernaum healed by Jesus from a distance. He’s the only official child in John’s book.

By contrast, Jesus refers to his followers as children. In chapter 13, he says, “Little children, I’m going away (13:33).” In chapter 21, he returns to say, “Children, have you caught any fish?” (21:5). In the kingdom of God, there aren’t any adults. Only children.

Some say Christmas comes only for children. That depends on what you mean by Christmas. The holidays do become quieter as we age. Old folks like don’t miss the five AM wakeup shake, the shouts of excitement before a slug of coffee, the ripping of wrapping paper, the loud toys, and all of that. These days, my favorite Christmas memories come from sleeping in, having brunch before opening a single package, and sitting quietly by a well-lit tree before the shepherds show up.

The Gospel of John describes Christmas by declaring Jesus “gave power to become children of God.” Maybe he anticipates the words of G.K. Chesterton, the Catholic curmudgeon. Chesterton said, “The great majority… will keep Christmas with Christmas gifts and Christmas benedictions; they will continue to do it; and suddenly one day they will wake up and discover why. That’s what Christmas can do to us.

John calls it “becoming children.” He couldn’t announce it at a better time. The news organizations have written their annual Christmas article about how many fewer people believe in all of it. Self-affirmed Christians in our nation stand at about 63%. My professional opinion is that 37% have decided to be honest.

Becoming a child is challenging work, especially in a world that teaches us to claw your way to the top, hate our enemies, and consume everything we can get our hands on. It gets no easier when you discover the hypocrisy of those who wave their religiosity in our faces; but tonight is not the time to discuss that televangelist in Texas who pays no taxes on his $6 million mansion, or the salacious habits of the now-former president of a religious college, or those who spout pious platitudes but have otherwise lost their minds.

No, we’ll let that go… and explore what it means to become a child.

Admittedly it is a confusing notion, becoming a child. A couple of pages after John says it, he tells of a man who’s confused. He’s a lifelong religious expert, well respected, but something’s missing. Jesus says, “You have to be born from above.” Nicodemus says, “Can somebody like me climb into my mother’s womb a second time?” No, silly. Birth doesn’t happen through our climbing. Birth is a gift. A complete gift. A Christmas gift.

Nobody chooses to be born. Not one of us. Life is a gift. The life of eternity, which John describes, it’s a gift. You can’t strive for it. You can only open your hands. There is a seismic shift from perceiving life as an achievement to affirming life as a gift. It’s the move from something we do to something God does. Rather than achieve, we receive. When this shift is made, gratitude awakens. Trust is built. Love blooms. Life opens up. That’s the essence of how John understands faith: it’s trust, gratitude, love; an open hand, an open heart, an open mind – all of it open to what God is doing.

A good friend asked the Nicodemus question, “How can this be?” I smiled and said, “Yes.” He protested, “But what must I do?” My Gospel of John response: “Let God do the doing. Hang on. Trust that. Receive that.”

See, that’s the essence of Christmas. You and I weren’t waiting for a Messiah, and then God gave us one. And he came to his own folks, the ones who would know him best, and they decided they didn’t want him. But he came to them, they got rid of him, and he came back after they got rid of him, and he’s still around, patiently waiting for us to receive him as a gift. This is all God’s doing; we haven’t initiated any of it.

And it returns us to what it means to become a child. Trust – that’s the true meaning of “belief.” That Latin word “credo,” from which we get the word “creed,” it means “I give my heart.” I give my soul, my mind, my strength. It’s all that God asks of us. And if we listen, it’s all that God is working in us. This is the “power” to become a child of God.

So lean back and let Christmas happen to you. Let the music surround you. Let the joy lift you. Let the love reach you. And then, pass these gifts along. Tonight, the fullness of God’s life comes to this time and this place. It’s for you. It’s for all.

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

The Littlest Shepherd: A Christmas Eve story

Christmas Eve for Children of All Ages
December 24, 2021
William G. Carter


It was a cold night in the hills outside of Bethlehem. Ezekiel stirred the fire with his shepherd's staff. His brother Shemuel yawned and said, "It's getting late."

"Yes," Ezekiel agreed. "One of us will watch over the flock while the others take their rest."

"Oh let me stay up," said the youngest of the three. His name was Yitzak. He was the only son of Ezekiel. This was the first night that his mother allowed him to join his father and uncle for the night watch.

Ezekiel turned and smiled broadly. "Little one, you can barely keep your eyes open. I give you only a few minutes before you nod off to sleep."

"But Abba - Poppa - if I stay awake, maybe this is the night I will see an angel."

With that, Ezekiel and Shemuel looked at one another. They sat in silence. After a long pause, Shemuel said, "Child, that was a long time ago."

"Yes," said the boy, "but the way you describe it, it could happen at any time."

Ezekiel nodded. "We were startled. There was a burst of light, at first a fierce, frightful light, but . . ." His voice trailed off.

"But Abba, you were there."

"Both of us were," said Shemuel, "along with a few others. If one of us had been alone, the others would have dismissed it as a dream. Or a fantasy. But no, it wasn't a dream. It was an angel."

The fire crackled. Ezekiel stirred it again.

"Abba, something about the story is hard to understand. I thought God didn't like shepherds."

Ezekiel laughed. "Where did you ever hear that?"

"In Jerusalem, when I was young."

"You are still very young."

"When I was much younger. Our family delivered three lambs to the temple. For the sacrifices. They were spotless. And the man in the dark robe was angry. He was mean, and said, 'Get out of here, shepherd.' He wanted our lambs, but he didn't want us."

Shemuel growled. "That stupid man had a short memory. David, our greatest king, tended the sheep. So did Amos, one of the greatest of our prophets. And Ezekiel, the prophet for whom your father was named - he knew the true leader of God's people is a shepherd."

Ezekiel touched his brother's sleeve and motioned for him to be quiet. "Son," he said, "It's a recurring property dispute. We follow wherever our flocks will nibble. The sheep know the land belongs to God. The grass of the fields has been planted by God and given to our flocks as a gift. But the city people, who spend money trying to claim land as their own, they complained and complained. So, some years ago, the leaders of the Temple wrote our names on a list. The list said, 'You are not welcome in our Temple. Not unless you atone for all the sins of your sheep.'"

The boy replied, "Is that why we do not attend the festivals or offer the prayers?"

"No, we don't go to the festivals," said the father, “especially if we are not welcome. But we pray everywhere. We pray in the fields. We pray when the sun comes up, we pray at night when the moon replaces the sun. Our work is hard. We need help, so we pray."

Yitzak sat by the fire. It was warm. He was starting to grow very tired. But a new question was making its way to the surface. "Abba," he said, "did the angel go to the priests in the Temple?"

"I cannot say," said his father. "All I know is that the angel came to us, out here, far off in the fields. The angel knew where to find us. He knew because God the Almighty knew. He knows where we are and who we are."

"Yes, indeed," added Shemuel, nodding his head. Now he was smiling, too.

Yitzak said, "What was it like?"

"What was what like?"

"The angel!"

Shemuel said, "Terrifying. Confusing. Hard to take it all in. The angel spoke in a song. We didn't know all the words."

"Oh stop," said his brother, "we could understand. The angel sang that the Messiah is with us, out here, in the fields. It was so compelling. All our hopes, all our memories, all of the promises are in God's hands. That fierce song began to sound sweet. When we blinked, there were hundreds of angels - above us, around us, before us and behind us - all of them singing the same song. Then suddenly they were gone."

A log in the fire sparked. Then another. Yitzak asked, "Abba, is that when you left to see the baby?"

"Oh yes." Both men were nodding, smiling.

Yitzak said, "What did he look like?"

Shemuel said, "That's the point of it all. He looked just like us. And that was enough for me."

"Me too," said Ezekiel. "When I saw him, and the humble place where he was born, I knew that God had truly found us. The Temple may not want us, but God does. The angels may have vanished, but I can still hear their song. God has come among us. God is still here. So go to sleep, little shepherd."

Yitzak yawned deeply, then protested with a small voice, "But I want to stay up and see the angel."

His father pulled the blanket up around his son. Then he said, "We don't have to see everything in order to trust that it's true. It is enough to remember the song."

(c) William G. Carter. Share the story with those you love!

Sitting in Darkness

Luke 1:68-79
Blue Christmas
December 21, 2021
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 my friends recently announced he has a perfect Christmas tree. Is it real or artificial? He didn't say. Is it perfectly shaped? He hasn't told us that either. "It's a perfect tree," he says, "as all of my trees are perfect?" What is his criteria? "It lights up when I plug it in."

"At this busy, frantic, demanding time of year," he says, "I like to conclude my day by sitting in my darkened living room and looking at the well-lit tree."

It's a wonderful image on this darkest night of the year, and one that many of us can immediately understand.

We know how it feels to sit in the darkness. If we lose a loved one and the sun goes out for a while. Lose a job and the stars disappear from the sky. If your marriage concludes, or your child does something destructive in an attention-getting way, or you get really sick, the "gloomy clouds of night" may descend. And it's multiplied by all the demands that this season puts on our souls - or the demands that we put on ourselves.

A blue Christmas is often a dark Christmas. Around us, there are amplified invitations to spend more or to decorate like the neighbors do. The most sinister invitation of all is to "get busy" or to stay busy. The well-meaning friends of Job circle around to tell us to "snap out of it." Some of them point fingers in blame or shame. Yet if we have any experience in grief, we know blame and shame are dead-ends, a forced smile is not helpful, and busyness is merely a postponement. We cannot outrun our sadness; it waits for us.

And it comes with life. This is why the venerable Charlie Brown Christmas is so poignant with so many of us. As Charlie Brown said famously in the opening lines of the show, "I think there must be something wrong with me, Linus. Christmas is coming, but I'm not happy. I don't feel the way I'm supposed to feel." A lot of TV producer-types were nervous about those words. They thought they were too honest.

Well, there's nothing wrong with honesty. Darkness is real. If you're feeling it, you are not alone, and that is the first gift of a Blue Christmas. We are in this together. And together, we are not abandoned. There's a striking text from the prophet Isaiah, written during a gloomy season in his nation's history. In the 45th chapter, he hears God say, "I am the Lord, and there is no other. I form light and create darkness." (45:6-7) God is in the darkness because God made it - just as God made the light.

Tonight we hear the Song of Zechariah, the father of John the Baptist. As he gets back his voice after a nine-month spell of muteness, he recalls the faithfulness of God that has gotten him - and his people - through a lot of bumpy days and nights. He looks forward to the coming Messiah, and praises God that his own little boy will point the way and prepare the way.

Then comes the concluding promise:

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.

In the middle of the darkness, there is light. It comes, also, as a gift from God. We receive just enough light to keep from stumbling. It provides necessary illumination for the shadows of all the losses we have known. And one thing more: Zechariah uses a most unusual verb to speak of this illumination: he calls it an "epiphany." It's not merely a visual gift -- it's a gift of insight. An awakening - or better, a re-awakening. We are reminded that we will get through the darkness - because we have gotten through it before. The darkness must be respected. It must be honored.

But the epiphany is remembering that light and darkness coexist. They balance one another. That's why my buddy sits in front of the lit-up Christmas tree in a darkened room. As he puts it, "It's my reminder that there's more to my life than darkness. The light is there, too. When darkness falls, it feels inescapable. But the longer that I befriend it, the more I notice the light." He didn't use the word, but it sounds to me like an epiphany.

The late Ann Weems was the closest we ever had to a Presbyterian poet laureate. She wrote a lot of cheerful poems, about balloons on Pentecost and children with chocolate-covered fingers. One of her final books was her most personal. She wrote it as a way of working through the loss of her son Todd, who was killed on the evening of his 21st birthday.

With the encouragement of a Bible scholar, she started composing some psalms of lament. That's the biblical form of a complaint, naming the pain and trouble, and lifting it into the face of God. These were unfinished prayers, she admits, some of them yet unanswered. She endured long silences in her soul, and then perhaps in a burst of energy, she would scribble on down and then put it in a drawer.

It was hard work. Grief always is. As she described it, "Anger and alleluia careen around within me, sometimes colliding. Lamenting and laughter sit side by side in a heart that yearns for the peace that passes understanding. Those who believe in the midst of their weeping will know where I stand."[1]

In her darkness, the light that crept in came in the form of a promise from Jesus, "Blessed are those who weep, for they shall be comforted." And then one more prayer found its way onto her page. Goes like this:

 

In the godforsaken, obscene quicksand of life,

there is a deafening alleluia

rising from the souls

of those who weep,

and of those who weep with those who weep.

If you watch, you will see

the hand of God

putting the stars back in their skies

one by one.

The darkness is real. But so is the Light.

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

---

[1] Ann Weems, Psalms of Lament (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 1995) xvi

Insignificance, Redeemed

Luke 1:39-45
Advent 4
December 19, 2021

In those days Mary set out and went with haste to a Judean town in the hill country, where she entered the house of Zechariah and greeted Elizabeth. When Elizabeth heard Mary’s greeting, the child leaped in her womb. And Elizabeth was filled with the Holy Spirit and exclaimed with a loud cry, “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb. And why has this happened to me, that the mother of my Lord comes to me? For as soon as I heard the sound of your greeting, the child in my womb leaped for joy. And blessed is she who believed that there would be a fulfillment of what was spoken to her by the Lord.”


When I was younger, I tended to tune out whenever women talked about their pregnancies. I am the wrong gender and knew pregnancy could never happen to me. Or I regarded the entire process of childbirth as a mystery, particularly after it’s been initiated. Certainly, I grew up in a family where biological matters were never discussed in mixed company; we could learn a lot in high school health class, but never discuss these things at the family supper table.

So I’ve always marveled at this brief account of Mary and Elizabeth. It’s out there in the open. The angel Gabriel had announced to Mary that she would bear a child. After she gulps and nods acceptance, she rushes off to another town in the hills to visit Elizabeth, who’s related to her somehow. Even though Elizabeth is up in years, she’s six months pregnant. She and her husband kept it quiet. Now the pregnancy was far enough along that it couldn’t be hidden any longer. That’s when Mary knocks on the door.

The Bible story tells of two generations intersecting. The first was pregnant Elizabeth, wife of a Jerusalem priest. Not only was she old – she was old enough to step out of the Old Testament. The Jewish scriptures tell one story after another about barren women who were surprised by a pregnancy. When we hear Elizabeth is bearing a child, the Bible is waving a flag to say, “God is doing this again.”

Like Hannah, who also lived up in the hill country. One of the two wives of Elkanah, her rival taunted her because she was barren. This happened “year after year” – as the years started piling up. One day, the priest at the local chapel tried to shoo her out of there. Hannah protested, said she was praying, and Eli the priest said, “OK, may God grant your prayer. Now, go in peace.” In time, she conceived and bore a son (1 Samuel 1:1-20).

Before that, there was the unnamed wife of Manoah. An angel of God appeared to say, “Even though you have no child, you shall conceive and bear a son. Just one thing: don’t ever cut his hair.” She told her husband. He said, “I didn’t hear any angel. Maybe God will send the angel again.” And God sent he angel again – to the wife, not to the husband, so she had to introduce him to the angel. Manoah was impressed and said, “Let me cook you up a goat.” While he lit up the fire, the angel rode the smoke back up to heaven. Soon after that, Manoah and Mrs. Manoah had a child. His name was Samson, and they never did cut his hair. (Judges 13:4-24).

Before that, Rachel, the wife of Jacob was barren – until after years of stress, God opened her womb. (Genesis 30:22). 

Before that, Rebekah, the wife of Isaac, could not have a child. And then God granted the prayers of father and mother (Genesis 25:21)

The quintessential story was that of Sarah, unable to create a child with her husband Abraham (Genesis 11:30). God promised them more children than they could ever count – but now they were well up in years. And you remember what happened: Sarah conceived in her advanced age. She gave birth to Isaac and Medicare picked up the tab.

This was a recurring story in the history of Israel. It became the sign that God could do what we could not. After the Babylonian Exile, the prophet Isaiah surveyed his desolate country. Filled with the Holy Spirit, he lifted his head to cry out,

Sing, O barren one who did not bear.

burst into song and shout you who have not been in labor.

For the children of the desolate woman will be more

than the children of her that is married, thus says the Lord.

Enlarge the site of your tent…

for you will spread out to the right and to the left.” (Isaiah 54:1-3)

The point of these recurring stories is that God alone gives life. God can populate what seems like barrenness. God can fill what appears empty. And there is no expiration date on the grace of an eternal God.

And so, Elizabeth was old, incredibly old, and she conceived a son. She never gave him a haircut, either.

By contrast, Mary was young. Very young, barely old enough to produce a child. The angel Gabriel surprised her and the rest of the world by announcing her pregnancy. She didn’t know how that could be; no man had ever touched her. He mentioned the mystery of the Holy Spirit “overshadowing her” – she didn’t know what that meant either. Yet conceding all of it was possible, agreeing God is the source of life, she nodded a quiet “yes,” and then said, “Let it be.”

In the account for today, Old and Young coincide. Young Mary bursts into Old Elizabeth’s house. The baby in Elizabeth’s belly is startled. Filled with the Holy Spirit, she determines that means the mother of the Messiah has entered her home. Then she fills the air with three beatitudes – three blessings:

Blessed are you among women!

Blessed is the child that you are carrying!

Blessed is she that believes the promises of God!

Now, let’s pause here for a minute This is no longer a story merely about pregnancies. This is a story about blessing, about the unexpected but very real presence of God. It happens in a house, not a temple. And it happens in conversation, not during a speech. And it happens between two women. Blessed, blessed, blessed!

In a way, this will not surprise us. Luke is the gospel write who gives us this story. Of all the documents in the Bible, the one most affirming of women is the Gospel of Luke. Luke repeatedly sees women in the shadows and brings them into the spotlight.

When Matthew tells his version of the Christmas story, he never says much about Mary, and never mentions Elizabeth. The Gospel of Mark mentions her only once (6:3), and says her son was a carpenter. When John tells the story of Jesus, he never actually mentions Mary’s name; she’s merely called “the mother of Jesus,” as if his birth is what defines her.

But not so Luke. Mary is the first Christian believer, trusting what God promises through her son. When Elizabeth overflows with the Holy Spirit’s blessings, she is the first prophetess in the book. It is Luke’s book where we meet Martha and Mary, the sisters of Lazarus. It is Luke who says faithful women financed the work of Jesus out of their own purses. And it is Luke who says the male disciples tried to dismiss the women’s report that Jesus had been raised from the dead – yet the women still persisted.

In Luke’s second volume, the Book of Acts, he names Mary as a key figure in the resurrection community. And when he begins all of it by reporting how he had chased down accurate information to get the story straight, we have every reason to assume that he listened to Mary. Who else could have told him mangers, angels, and shepherds – but the mother who was there?

All of this fits the grand view of how Luke understands the Gospel: God’s work is about redemption. It’s about buying back what has been set aside. It’s about reclaiming what has been lost. It’s about bringing into the light of glory what was dismissed to the shadows. It’s about perceiving the saving work of God in household conversations, every-day routines, and the rhythms of pregnancy.

One of Luke’s most revealing stories gets overshadowed by the story that follows it. In chapter 15, we hear Jesus tell about a man with two sons, often titled the parable of the prodigal son. It’s a powerful story, large and explosive.

A much smaller story precedes it. Jesus said, “The kingdom of God is like a woman who lost a nickel.” Picture all those Pharisee men, rolling their eyes and poking one another with their elbows. “She lost a nickel? That’s it? A nickel?” And one of them bursts out, “Of course she did. She’s not one of us. Good thing she only had a nickel.”

Jesus winces and continues, “The kingdom of God is like a woman who lost a nickel. And she turned over all the furniture and swept the floor until she found it. Then she called out to her neighbors, ‘Come on over. I’m throwing a party. What was lost is found.’ And I tell you (said Jesus), there is more joy in heaven over one lost soul who turns around and is found by God.” (15:8-10)

The point is in the finding. God pays attention to what the world dismisses as insignificant. God magnifies what seemed so small that nobody was paying attention. God has been busy in our midst doing what others have overlooked.

And Elizabeth said, “Blessed are you, the young unwed mother, for you are the mother of our Lord.”

This is one of the scandals of the Gospel. God is working in a pregnancy, two pregnancies in fact. God speaks up to put blessings in the air when others would be quick to dismiss. God evokes a song from women silenced by their culture, their community, their religion. God declares the priorities of heaven are to remember those forgotten are now remembered and to cast off the proud and obnoxious from their thrones. This is the work of God, revealed in a conversation between two pregnant women, one old, one new.

We sing this truth every Christmas. In a minute, we will sing the words of the prophet Micah: “O you, little Bethlehem, little sleepy town where nothing significant happened for a thousand years: you are the hometown of our Savior.”

At our best, we translate our Christmas energy into gifts that reach those otherwise forgotten. Our Deacons delivered over forty poinsettias this week. Two teams of our church volunteers packed 656 boxes of food to distribute to our hungry neighbors. Pajamas were donated to children. Gifts were offered to strangers. These are just a few ways God offers light to the world through us.

That is the continuing work of Christmas – to shine light into the dark corners, to call out the obscure and the overlooked, and to announce through word and deed that God has found us. And blessed are you, if you believe and do.

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

That Water Burns!

Luke 3:7-18
Advent 3
December 12, 2021
William G. Carter

John said to the crowds that came out to be baptized by him, “You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come? Bear fruits worthy of repentance. Do not begin to say to yourselves, ‘We have Abraham as our ancestor’; for I tell you, God is able from these stones to raise up children to Abraham. Even now the ax is lying at the root of the trees; every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire.” And the crowds asked him, “What then should we do?” In reply he said to them, “Whoever has two coats must share with anyone who has none; and whoever has food must do likewise.” Even tax collectors came to be baptized, and they asked him, “Teacher, what should we do?” He said to them, “Collect no more than the amount prescribed for you.” Soldiers also asked him, “And we, what should we do?” He said to them, “Do not extort money from anyone by threats or false accusation, and be satisfied with your wages.”

As the people were filled with expectation, and all were questioning in their hearts concerning John, whether he might be the Messiah, John answered all of them by saying, “I baptize you with water; but one who is more powerful than I is coming; I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandals. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire. His winnowing fork is in his hand, to clear his threshing floor and to gather the wheat into his granary; but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire.” So, with many other exhortations, he proclaimed the good news to the people.


The southern end of the Sea of Galilee empties into the Jordan River. There is a place there, visited by pilgrims from around the world. The buses park outside. After an admission fee is paid, you enter the site through the gift shop. (That’s one of the realities of the Holy Land: there are thousands of gift shops.) After weaving through the aisles, passing up olive wood creche sets, Dead Sea bath salts, and forty kinds of incense, you pass through the glass doors – and there is the Jordan River.

It's an impressive location. Beautifully landscaped. Clean. Not a palm frond in the river. And the tour guide never bothers to tell you that you are seventy miles north of the spot where John the Baptist did his work. It’s way south, near Jericho, not far from the Dead Sea. But they don’t tell you this, and the tourists come, step into the river, take their photographs. And when the visit is done, they leave through the gift shop. Back and forth, past the olive wood crosses, the postcards, and the t-shirts that read, “I was baptized in the Jordan River.”

I saw this water bottle and decided to purchase it. There’s a picture of John the Baptist on the front. I asked the salesclerk, “Is this water from the Jordan River?” “Oh yes,” he replied, “from the Jordan River. It’s holy water.” So I packed it in my suitcase and brought it home. It remains on the top shelf of the bookcase, near the Bible dictionary, and the samples of frankincense and myrrh.

One day, I got to try out the spritzer nozzle. One of our outspoken church folks had paid me a visit. He was a man well known for his opinions, often shared generously. I won’t say anything more than his name was Ed. He stopped in to make a speech about something or other. Taking a breath, he looked up from his chair, saw the bottle, and asked what it was. So I went over, picked it up, and told him the story. “Does it work?” he said. What? “The spritzer with the holy water. Does it work?” So I aimed it at him and went psst, psst.

“Wow,” he said, “it’s going to burn.” We both broke out in laughter. I always thought I should make a sermon out of the story. Today’s the day. Holy Water, from the Jordan River, with John the Baptist – and that water burns.

It’s not the heat, of course, but the impact. All the accounts of John the Baptist tell us about the crowds who made their way to the Jordan River. It was a national event. Everybody was affected. They came in the expectation of the Messiah, the long-imagined deliverer who would lift them from oppression and turn around the fortunes of the nation. 

John dressed like one of the prophets who announced him. He lived simply in the desert, in austerity, not luxury. He embodied the closing words of the last book in our Old Testament, where the prophet Malachi declared, “Behold, I will send you the prophet Elijah before the great and terrible day of the Lord” (4:5).

And the people came. God was breaking in from the desert. God was present in the fire of the word that John preached. He called his listeners a bunch of snakes. He called them out for avoiding the fiery judgment of the Lord. He took them off at the knees if they thought they could stand on their prominence or good breeding. And he called them into the water to invite God to wash their sins away.

What sticks out in this account is that baptism is merely the beginning. It’s not the end. It’s not the goal. It’s the first sign – the wet sign – of everything that must follow. In the church, we practice a Jesus baptism – that is, a Trinity baptism, not a John the Baptist baptism. The difference is we believe the Messiah has come. In covenantal obedience we offer ourselves and our children to the new Dominion of God where John was pointing.

Yet there is an identity to be claimed. A life to be lived. A faithfulness congruent with the calling of God for all of us.

John Burgess wrote a book about this, which he titled After Baptism. John teaches at our Presbyterian seminary in Pittsburgh. He knows all too well our tendency to sentimentalize our baptisms. As he notes,

The pastor sprinkles a few drops of water on the baby’s head and parades her up and down the aisle. Those in the pews smile approvingly, as the organist finds the register with tinkling bells and plays, ‘Jesus Loves Me.’ But baptism is not simply a gentle anointing that makes everything about that baby innocent and clean. Baptism is also a drowning and dying. We have every reason to be terrified by it… (so) it is not inappropriate that a cute little baby dressed in a white linen dress should now holler and scream as she comes to new birth in God’s kingdom. None of us takes on a new identity without some kicking and screaming.[1]

You might say the water burns.

A couple of months ago, a pastor of a nearby church was awakened at four in the morning. Somebody was pounding at the door. That was strange, since he and his wife live out in the hills. Peeking through the window, he recognized the man. But he didn’t like the tone of his voice. And he didn’t know yet the man had just attacked his own father after waking him from sleep. All he knew is this man was pounding at the door, getting louder. Then it sounded like he was trying to break in.

With this, the pastor and his wife ran into the bedroom and locked the door. Just in time – the intruder smashed through the door, screaming and bellowing, calling out for the pastor. Well, he and his wife grabbed their phones, dialed the state police, and escaped to a neighbor’s house. The state police arrived quickly, and after some resistance from him, arrested the intruder.

Now, that’s a frightening event. It sounds totally random – except for this: the pastor’s wife told the newspaper that the man had been baptized by her husband that morning.[2] Baptized! Do you suppose it’s possible that some time passes before a baptism will take hold?

I’ve wondered about this. In the early church, one of the leaders advised those who were newly baptized. He said, “You were taught to put away your former way of life, your old self, corrupt and deluded. And you were taught to be renewed in the spirit of your minds, and to clothe yourselves with the new self, created according to the likeness of God in true righteousness and holiness” (Ephesians 4:22-24).

To put it another way, it’s not enough to simply get wet. True baptismal water has the power to burn, to singe away the bad habits, the selfish assumptions, and the destructive actions. There is a holy life to be lived after we climb out of the water. There is a righteousness that reveals the transformation that God is stirring in our lives. Yes, God loves us as we are – but never calls us to stay that way.

The Messiah is at hand. What does that mean? In the days of John the Baptist, it meant, “Turn away from your sin, change your heart, step into the water, and then keep moving toward God’s light.” The righteous life is not static. It’s far from finished. “The Holy One is coming,” John announced, going on to say, “Prepare yourselves for the Messiah to rule over all things.” Live a life that is congruent with your baptism.

Then, as now, it’s worth asking, “So what should we do?” And the Baptizer offered three specific examples:

•  To the affluent: share your coats and food with those who have none
•  To the tax collectors: don’t take more money that amount prescribed
•  To the soldiers: be content with your wages and don’t extort money through threats or intimidation

Did you notice? All three requirements have to do with money and possessions. Sounds like Jesus, the Coming Messiah. When he found his voice, he warned constantly against greed, selfishness, and deprivation of the neighbor. According to Jesus, according to the Gospel of Luke, the kingdom of God is a matter of economics. In God’s kingdom, there will be no hoarding of coats and food, no grabbing what isn’t yours, no cheating of those less powerful. Instead, if you are baptized, you are called to give generously, to share willingly, to love honestly. This is how God treats us; this is how those who are baptized shall treat others.

If you feel challenged by this, it’s because the baptismal water burns. John says, “The One who is coming will baptize all of you with Holy Spirit and fire.” Every selfish inclination will be burned away. Every evil intent will be incinerated. And the Gospel of Luke says, “This is Good News.”

So what should we do? I suppose we could share what we have in our closets, which is something that cuts both ways. On the one hand, there are many who need the very coats and sweaters that we moth-balling. On the other hand, it’s good training for the soul to learn how to live with less. The same goes for food.

And for the tax collectors among us? Well, we only have a few, and they’ve never struck me as particularly greedy. So the Word from John expands to confront all the waste that is manufactured for the holidays. It’s the same thing Lucy has been saying to Charlie Brown for the past 56 years: “We all know that Christmas is a big commercial racket. It’s run by an eastern syndicate, you know.” Conspiracy theories aside, abundant life is rooted in the joy of giving, not the greed of grabbing.

So let’s consider the invitation from our Mission and Justice committee this month, to share Christmas with a stranger, to show love to those whom we have not met yet. Our Narthex is filled with invitations to make abundant life abundant for all.

And then for all those Roman centurions who can hear John speak: be a good steward of your power. Use it to lift up others, rather than to keep them down. Learn contentment, as a kingdom alternative to the hunger for acquisition. God is the giver of every good and perfect gift; we do not have license to steal candy canes from children. Or rent money from those working two jobs. We are only given permission to help them.

And let me tell you one thing more, a bit of personal confession. Remember that day when I squirted old Ed with the holy water? Well, I don’t remember the specifics of the conversation that day, but I will tell you old Ed was one of the many people who called me to a life of integrity and generosity. I miss him, but I still hear his voice.

I hear him speak whenever one of you speaks up for those who are overlooked,
whenever one of you punctures the illusions of suburban well-being,
whenever one of you says, “Can’t we stop thinking so much about ourselves
and do something to empower the hungry, the lonely, and the left-out?

That’s when I hear Ed speak,
That’s when I hear John the Baptist speak,
That’s when I hear Jesus say, “Whatever you have done for the least of these, you have done it for me.”

And in those moments, if you’re listening,
you will hear that baptismal water sizzle and burn...to the glory of God.
And that’s good news.

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

------------------

[1] John P. Burgess, After Baptism: Shaping the Christian Life (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2005) p. 3

[2] “Newton Twp man charged in assault of father, break-in at neighbor’s house,” The Scranton Times-Tribune, 16 September 2021.

A Word in the Wilderness

Luke 3:1-6
December 5, 2021
Advent 2
William G. Carter

In the fifteenth year of the reign of Emperor Tiberius, when Pontius Pilate was governor of Judea, and Herod was ruler of Galilee, and his brother Philip ruler of the region of Ituraea and Trachonitis, and Lysanias ruler of Abilene, during the high priesthood of Annas and Caiaphas, the word of God came to John son of Zechariah in the wilderness. He went into all the region around the Jordan, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins, as it is written in the book of the words of the prophet Isaiah, “The voice of one crying out in the wilderness: ‘Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight. Every valley shall be filled, and every mountain and hill shall be made low, and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough ways made smooth; and all flesh shall see the salvation of God.’”


When we gather each week to open God’s Book,
Let’s confess that sometimes we scarcely don’t look
Beneath or beyond the white page to the Source
Of all that is Good as we run our course.
Perhaps rhythm helps to engage heart and mind,
And give us fresh ears to discover and find
That God can still speak a Good Word from above.
It originates in mercy, and goodness, and love.
So bear with me, please, for it has been some time
Since I offered a sermon entirely in rhyme.
Today, I’m inspired by Spirit and text
Even if you’re wondering what could possibly be next.
Well, I will tell you if you’re willing to linger
Today here’s a Man with a sharp Pointy Finger.
His name is John and his fierce voice is strong.
Now bear with me please, and I shan’t go too long.

Tiberias was Caesar, the Roman despot.
He thought he was God, but certainly was not.
Pilate was governing at his Judean post.
An incompetent fool, yet quite prone to boast.
King Herod ruled over all Galilee
When he wasn’t debauching and collecting fleas.
Philip, Lysanias – oh, no one remembers
who they were, what they did, that’s in history’s embers.
When the Lord chose to speak, he didn’t speak to them.
They weren’t listening any way. So not to condemn,
But to preclude them from pride, God spoke out to John,
That outsider prophet with camel skins on.
He was the Man with the Pointy Finger.

Take note: God spoke not to the palaces of power,
And neither to priests for it wasn’t the hour.
No word went to Annas, or Caiphas, either,
Preoccupied with order in the ancient cathedral.
They obsessed over candlesticks, vestments, and gowns.
They might as well sit on high thrones wearing crowns.
So smugly in charge of their inherited religion,
They muted the Voice that created the pigeon.
When they opened God’s scrolls, they read with a drone,
As if the Almighty were sleeping and prone.
So God didn’t speak to the priests in the Temple.
The Message was aimed for the meek and the simple:
“Come home,” spoke the Lord, “turn around and come home!”
“Wake up and repent ‘til you sparkle like chrome,”
Said the Man with the Pointy Finger.

Where was he pointing? He pointed ahead:
For Someone is coming who raises the dead.
He will gather the harvest of all that is good
And burn chaff with fire like blazing deadwood.
“Don’t presume you have privilege to escape the Great Purge!”
John said, “Repent now! That is what I must urge.
Let mountains be lowered and valleys raised up,
And straighten that highway for God to walk up
And claim prime allegiance from you and your soul.
Or else you will perish and be cast in a hole.”
His message burned hearts and exposed what is phony.
God’s Word came with fire but without acrimony.
His intent was to cleanse. To set right. To restore.
To prepare us for One who knocks at the door.
“The Christ will come soon to set all things right,
To teach us to fear God without any fright.
He is coming with power, and fire, and might.”
So spoke the Man with the Pointy Finger.

They came from the cities. They came from the hills.
They traveled to the desert ‘cause they had the chills.
They went to the river with hope in the heart,
They stepped in the water so life could restart.
They hoped for Messiah whose righteousness could
Create them anew in the lives where they stood.
The accounts also tell us that leaders took notice
Caesar ignored – but Herod was curious.
And up from the river, the Pharisees listened,
Their hearts slightly warmed, their eyes almost glistened.
“Who dares to speak truth on behalf of our God?”
Their conventional religion found that a bit odd.
But John spoke the Word with passion and fire.
Even tax collectors, soldiers, and others were inspired.
“God is near,” he proclaimed in his most simple speech,
“Wake up and get ready! Scrub your souls with hot bleach!”
There was truth in the fire of John’s living Word.
To ignore it would be foolish and truly absurd!
He spoke with deep energy and everyone heard
the Man with the Pointy Finger.

Where else is he pointing? At me and at you.
Disturbing the peace by speaking what’s true:
“Don’t presume to believe that you’re tight with God,
If you go through the motions, you’re merely a fraud.”
Oh, I think of the times when I’ve just played the game,
As I diluted God’s Holiness and made it look tame.
John points down below the soul’s hardened crust
Illuminating the shadows and calling forth trust
That God sees us as we are, without any illusion
How sin damages life and creates contusions.
His voice cuts through all filters at night and at day,
He blows back our hair as he speaks up to say,
“You’re greedy like Scrooge! You’re mean like the Grinch!
You stumble through life with no more than an inch.
Of repentance and turning from darkness to light.
You avoid all exposure. Your soul is affright.”
When I hear him speak thus, I know he is right.
For sin can destroy the great grace of Shalom
“So I call you to turn back, to repent and come home,”
Says the Man with the Pointy Finger.

He names our homesickness, our primary thirst
For love and inclusion where we can be nursed
Back to wholeness of life with venerable grace
To untangle what’s twisted and discover the Face
Of neighbor and God whom we’re called to love.
This is Primary Commandment from heaven above.
John calls us to obedience as we live here on earth,
While pointing beyond us to Christ whose soon birth
Offers us life eternal in justice and mirth.
And confirms the deep dignity of our true worth.
God has no grandkids, just children who trust
That they are beloved, so they shall not rust
From baptisms grown lazy and negligent of
The works of compassion, and justice, and love.
In each generation, God’s family is formed
As each of us steps up with hearts that are warmed.
We all start from scratch with no assets to claim.
It is God who adopts us and gives us a name.
“You are my child,” God says when we’re wet,
“So come home and stay close. Don’t wander or fret.”
God has kept speaking to reprieve us from threat
After the Man with the Pointy Finger.

This is a remarkable Gospel to hear,
And all flesh shall see it. The truth shall be clear.
All illusions dispersed. All crooked made straight.
True mercy shall replace our tendency to hate.
John calls us to wake up and prepare the Way
For Christ to live with us. He goes on to say
That honesty prepares to live with the Lord.
Let’s give up on greed. Put away the sword.
And stand with our heads high, scrubbed by his grace.
The hour is nigh. We will soon see God’s Face.
So says the Man with the Pointy Finger.


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