Of the Same Mind

Philippians 2:1-13
World Communion
October 1, 2023
William G. Carter  

If then there is any encouragement in Christ, any consolation from love, any sharing in the Spirit, any compassion and sympathy, make my joy complete: be of the same mind, having the same love, being in full accord and of one mind. Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility regard others as better than yourselves. Let each of you look not to your own interests, but to the interests of others. Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus, who,

though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, being born in human likeness. And being found in human form, he humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death— even death on a cross. Therefore God also highly exalted him and gave him the name that is above every name, so that at the name of Jesus every knee should bend, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue should confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.

Therefore, my beloved, just as you have always obeyed me, not only in my presence, but much more now in my absence, work out your own salvation with fear and trembling; for it is God who is at work in you, enabling you both to will and to work for his good pleasure.

 

Will Willimon, Methodist preacher and raconteur, was reminiscing about the first church he ever served. It was a little one room building, a bit outside of town. He thought it might be a good idea to drive out there ahead of time, look around, and get the lay of the land. He contacted one of the church leaders and set up a time to meet. When the day arrived, he got in the car and drove out to Friendship Methodist Church.

Yes, that was the name of the congregation: Friendship Methodist Church. Will says it was a misnomer, if there ever was one.

He arrived before his host, which was a good thing. He was surprised to find a huge padlock and chain barring the front door. When the lay leader arrived, Will said, “I’m glad you are here to open the lock on the door.”

“Oh, that ain’t our lock,” said the lay leader. “The sheriff put that there. Things got rough here at the meeting last month. Folks started yelling at one another. One opened the trunk of his car and put in a box of silverware that his mother had donated to the kitchen. Somebody else tried to cart off some furniture they had given.”

“It got so bad,” said the man, “that I called the sheriff, and he came out here and put that lock on the door until the new preacher could get here and settle ‘em down.” He paused, looked at Will, and said, “We’re glad you are here. Welcome to Friendship Methodist Church.”[1]

Now, I do have to say, as churches go, you are remarkably well behaved. The silverware stays in the drawer. The furniture remains where it belongs. Yet this is a very human community. It’s like any other human community. There are diverse perspectives, different opinions, and a multiplicity of life experiences. The fact that we can gather under one roof without calling in the sheriff is a Christian miracle.

We don’t know what First Church Philippi was arguing about, but it must have been something. From the scant information we have, that little congregation was Paul’s favorite. He initiated that fellowship. He told them how much he loved them. Given his repeated run-ins with the powers and principalities, they were the only ones who paid attention to his troubles and sent him a financial gift. He’s grateful and he tells them so.

But something’s going on. We’re not sure what it is. Perhaps the preachers who followed him pointed out his deficiencies; every preacher has them. There is evidence that he had opponents, specifically those who disagreed with his emphasis on grace; there are always good-hearted religious people who struggle when God shows too much grace (you heard a sermon about that last week!).

And bless their hearts, two women were bickering with one another, to the point that he writes down their names from 300 miles away, forever immortalizing their argument in the pages of the New Testament. It’s there in chapter 4: “Tell Euodia and Syntyche to agree in the Lord” (4:2). Stop fighting. Knock it off. Probably not on the order of padlocking the sanctuary, but you know arguments can get out of hand.

Maybe you’ve been watching the circus in Washington as the Congress tries to keep their own lights on. Regardless of how we vote, we perceive a battle of egos, a contest with implicit threats, and unserious people who do a whole lot of grandstanding. It’s almost as harsh as some family skirmishes at the Thanksgiving table. Grievances long nursed bubble up for one more round. Somebody gets hurt. And for what possible benefit?

So, Paul clears his throat and writes a second page to the Philippians. “Do you have any encouragement in Christ?” he asks. “Have you all experienced any consolation from love?” “Are you sharing in the Spirit? Do you experience any compassion and sympathy?” The questions dangle out there – and one by one, the church folk nod their heads.

There was that phone call that came at just the right time. That casserole Euodia dropped off when Mom died. That hug Syntyche gave me when my troubled son didn’t make it home. That spiritual energy I received when the choir was singing. “Yes, yes, yes,” is the Philippian response. They are experiencing the Gospel of God even in that imperfect gathering at Friendship Church.

With that, Pastor Paul goes to the heart of it: “Have the same mind.” It’s a curious thing to say. “The same mind?” But there’s disagreement. We come from different places. We have different minds. So, he clarifies: “Not your mind. Have the mind of Christ.” Then he bursts into song…

            Have the mind of Christ Jesus, who was the perfect form of God,

            yet he did not clutch onto that, he did not exploit that, but emptied himself…

It sounds like old Paul is singing to them out of their own hymnal. Maybe he taught them the song. The scholars tell us, by syntax and content, this is a perfect hymn to honor Christ Jesus. He was completely with God but came to us. He gave up any semblance of superiority – which he had every right to hang onto - and became our servant. He “emptied himself.”

It’s a remarkable turn of phrase: he emptied himself. He gave himself away. He lost his stature intentionally. And this was not a career move for him, as in, if you relocate to Podunk for three years, we’ll give you a promotion. No, no, no – Jesus gave up the glory and that is his glory. He emptied himself. It’s the only time the New Testament talks this way, but to hear Paul say it, it’s the point of the whole life of Christ – and it’s the point of the life in Christ.

Here's the question for you and me: when do we lose ourselves? When do we lose all track of time? When are we caught up in something beyond ourselves? When do we give up everything else for the sake of something more important. 

·    Maybe it’s that great old Welsh hymn and every time we sing it, you throw back your head and belt it out, even if you’re Italian.

·    Maybe it’s that conversation filled with laughter – or the sympathizing tear.

·    Maybe it’s that argument that you decide you don’t need to win because you love your opponent too much.

·    Maybe it’s that quilt you’re stitching for the homeless, or the sandwich you’re making for the outcast teenager, or that box of food you packed for the forgotten folks, and it feels so good to do something for somebody else.

·    Maybe it’s that moment when you hold the broken piece of bread in your hands and realize it really is grace and it has come as a gift.

·    Maybe it’s the insight that comes only from the Spirit of God, that Jesus-who-is-equal-with-God has emptied himself completely because he believes the world is worth saving, and you’re worth saving, and so are your friends and enemies.

This is the mind of Christ, the self-giving service for the benefit of everybody else. When we share in that mind, all divisions fade, all differences cease, as we discover we are part of God’s mission to the world. We are partners and participants of a good far greater than ourselves. And the more we think like this, the more such thinking is renewed.

I like the story that N. T. Wright tells. The former Anglican bishop of Durham, he was invited to a small banquet, twenty or thirty people of great importance. Notable, well-known people. When the host offered a blessing he said, “Remind us, O God, that the most interesting person in the room is the one we’re sitting next to.” When the blessing concluded with an Amen, Bishop Wright opened his eyes and discovered the room had changed.[2]

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

---

[1] Will Willimon, “One in Christ,” preached on Day 1, 2017. Link: https://day1.org/weekly-broadcast/5d9b820ef71918cdf200416b/will_willimon_one_in_christ

[2] N.T. Wright, Paul for Everyone: The Prison Letters (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2002) 99.

Either Or

Philippians 1:21-30
September 17, 2023
William G. Carter

For to me, living is Christ and dying is gain. If I am to live in the flesh, that means fruitful labor for me; and I do not know which I prefer. I am hard pressed between the two: my desire is to depart and be with Christ, for that is far better; but to remain in the flesh is more necessary for you. Since I am convinced of this, I know that I will remain and continue with all of you for your progress and joy in faith, so that I may share abundantly in your boasting in Christ Jesus when I come to you again.

Only, live your life in a manner worthy of the gospel of Christ, so that, whether I come and see you or am absent and hear about you, I will know that you are standing firm in one spirit, striving side by side with one mind for the faith of the gospel, and are in no way intimidated by your opponents. For them this is evidence of their destruction, but of your salvation. And this is God’s doing. For he has graciously granted you the privilege not only of believing in Christ, but of suffering for him as well— since you are having the same struggle that you saw I had and now hear that I still have. 

Last week, we heard the opening words of this affectionate letter. The apostle Paul was writing to a young congregation across the sea. We don’t know how large, maybe forty or fifty souls. He is in prison and the little church has heard about it. They were worried, so they collected money to send him a gift, a sizable gift. And they sent it through one of their members, a man named Epaphroditus.

That prison is about three hundred miles as the crow flies and the boat sails, significantly longer if the journey is taken by land. It was a risky enterprise to send a messenger that far with such a sum of money. The good news is that Epaphroditus delivered the gift to Paul. The bad news is that he got sick. He almost died. The folks in Philippi don’t know this. All they know is that the messenger had not returned. They had heard he was ill, but no more. 

So, Paul takes his pen, writes this letter, and returns it with Epaphroditus. It’s a thank-you letter, as we will hear when we get to chapter four. Before he expresses his gratitude, he feels the need to address a few matters.

First, he says, “I want you to know that prison life is going pretty well. It’s prison, of course. But my little forced vacation here has advanced the Gospel.” The guards know he’s there because of his passion for Jesus Christ. The other prisoners know he’s jailed because of his love for Jesus Christ. Some of them want to know, “Who is this Jesus that you’re talking about?” So, Paul tells him.

Prison is a great place to spread the Gospel. Many of the people there have a lot of time on their hands. Some of them are looking for relief from their distress, or mercy for their mistakes, or hoping for a fresh start. Paul says, “I’m telling them about Jesus (1:12-14).” The Word of God is advancing.

The second thing he says is a general commentary on preachers. No doubt all of you can offer commentary on preachers, but you ought to hear what the preachers say about one another. Go to a church gathering, as I will this afternoon, and the ministers clump together like dust bunnies. One will say, “How many people did you have in worship?” The other says proudly, “We had a hundred twenty.” The first says, “We had a hundred twenty-one.”

Paul says, “I know they are.” Jealousy or rivalry, comparison or competition. Some of them are always seeking the bigger or better church. As one of my professors was heard to say, “Let me describe the perfect clergy career: five years, ten years, and life.” Always sounded like a prison sentence to me.

Or the poet Wendell Berry, who has outlasted one career-climbing Baptist preacher after another in his small Kentucky town. “When they leave our congregation,” he says, “each one says, ‘I wish I could stay, but the Lord is calling.’” Berry says, “How come the Lord keeps calling them to a church with a bigger salary?” Would the Lord ever call one of those turkeys to stay?

Paul says, “I know how those preachers can be.” All the human striving and ambition, yet he says, “I rejoice because Christ is still preached.” That’s all that counts. Whether they preach from goodwill or jealousy, servanthood or self-striving, what matters is that the people hear about Jesus. It’s all about Jesus. It’s only about Jesus. We cannot get distracted about the humanness of the church, although a lot of people do. The Gospel is Jesus Christ.

“In fact,” he says, “life for me is all about Christ. Living is Christ. The only thing better would be dying.” OK, let’s pause there to ask what kind of person talks like that? It’s one of the many outrageous statements that the apostle Paul makes. Was it a burst of bravado? Or a well-polished slogan? We don’t know. “Life is Christ, dying is even better than that.”

If all he said was “Life is Christ,” we could admire him. He sits in a prison cell and remembers he is eternally loved. God knows him. God sees what he has done, good and ill. God forgives him. God gives him a commission. “Proclaim the Gospel to all the world, including those who are not Jews like yourself.” Paul has done that.

Now he sits in a prison cell. Was it because he was proclaiming the Gospel? Might have been. A world that does not live by forgiveness is quickly confronted by grace. This is the world created by God, and it pushed God onto a cross. This is the world that knows death and deals death. It cannot comprehend resurrection. And Paul preaches Jesus Christ, crucified by the world and raised from the dead by God.

Is this why he is in prison? We can speculate. Ultimately, we don’t know, and it doesn’t matter. He is a very unusual character. Throw him in prison and he sings, “Rejoice in the Lord always, again I say rejoice!” He is incarcerated on charges either real or fake, yet he says, “For me, living is Christ.” The Spirit of the living Jesus infuses him and drives him on.

The only thing better than living in Christ is dying, he says. How can he say that? Because death will carry him into the full presence of Christ. Either he can live in him here and now or he can die and be with Christ completely.

It is an astonishing statement to make. Living or dying, he will be OK. You don’t hear that sort of thing very frequently. Even Paul, in this letter, he’s either unsure or he does a little dance. “I want to be with you, but I can’t be with you. I want to keep living but I’m unsure how my situation will turn out. If I can come and be with you, I’d love that. But I’d rather die and be with Christ.” 

Yep, this is Paul. He is a rare bird. Most people would say, “If I can’t be with you, I would die.” Paul is saying, “I’d rather die!” And then he says, “For your sake, for the possibility that I can return and help you grow in faith, I hope to keep living.” What’s it going to be – life or death? Paul says, “Doesn’t matter. Living is Christ, dying is Christ, either way, I’m free.” And that is the point of it all.

I don’t know if you noticed. In the two brief paragraphs that we heard today, Christ is mentioned five times. Living is Christ. Departing with Christ. Boasting in Christ. The Gospel of Christ. Believing in Christ. On the basis of our text alone, we can know what’s the focus of this entire letter. Is it Paul? No, it’s Christ.

That’s why begins the letter this way. The Philippians collected money, sent it with Epaphroditus. Epaphroditus delivers the gift, got sick. They didn’t hear from him. Then they got word he was sick, and they were also worried about Paul. Is he alright too? Will they see him? And his response: it’s not about me. It’s about Jesus. “Living, I’m in his hands. Dying, I’m in his arms. Either way, I’m doing just fine. So, I hope to see you again.” How remarkable, how clear, how free! His clarity and freedom shine light on every relationship in our own lives, beginning with the relationship that the Lord Jesus has established with each of us.

As many of you know, last Sunday night, I lost one my best friends in the world. Al Hamme was the co-founder of my Presbybop Quartet. He was my mentor for forty-five years and my musical partner for forty-three of them. He played over thirty jazz communion services here and never took a dime for it. If we gave him a check, he handed it back. Al was scheduled to play music here two weeks ago but was hospitalized in mid-August. We talked on the phone, and he said, “I hope to be released in time to be there. Save a seat for me.”

I went to see him in the hospital. We swapped stories, laughed a bit, but Al was not well. When he was released into hospice care and the ambulance carried him home, I went again to see him. We spent an hour and a half together, a time I will never forget. We shared memories of making music in literally hundreds of churches and concert stages.

I joked how, whenever we traveled, he bought another pair of expensive shoes. He told me he was proud of me. I told him I loved him, which was something he would say to me at the end of every phone call. I thanked him for his impact on my life. In the final moment, he reached up and clasped my hand. Each of us held tightly. Looked into one another’s eyes and didn’t let go. And when we released one another, I could affirm he is in far better hands than mine. Living or dying, we are held by Christ.

This is the great mystery of the Gospel, which means it is the great mystery of our lives. In life and death, we belong to God. This is the truth that illumines and qualifies everything else. Through Jesus Christ, we belong to God, and Christ lives in us… forever. No worries. Not now, not ever.

How remarkable. How gracious. How free.

 

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

Every Time I Think of You

Philippians 1:1-11
15th Sunday after Pentecost
September 10, 2023

 

Paul and Timothy, servants of Christ Jesus, To all the saints in Christ Jesus who are in Philippi, with the bishops and deacons: Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.

 

I thank my God every time I remember you, constantly praying with joy in every one of my prayers for all of you, because of your sharing in the gospel from the first day until now. I am confident of this, that the one who began a good work among you will bring it to completion by the day of Jesus Christ.

 

It is right for me to think this way about all of you, because you hold me in your heart, for all of you share in God’s grace with me, both in my imprisonment and in the defense and confirmation of the gospel. For God is my witness, how I long for all of you with the compassion of Christ Jesus.

 

And this is my prayer, that your love may overflow more and more with knowledge and full insight to help you to determine what is best, so that in the day of Christ you may be pure and blameless, having produced the harvest of righteousness that comes through Jesus Christ for the glory and praise of God.

 

The letter was discovered in an antique cabinet, lodged in the back of the second drawer. Its location was easily forgotten. There’s no telling how long it had been there. The postmark had faded on the envelope. The letter inside was simply dated “Wednesday.” That Wednesday was a long ago. The stationary had yellowed with age.

And when she read it, was like entering a different world. Addressed to somebody she didn’t know, composed by people she had never met, yet she was drawn to it with a healthy curiosity. Who were these people? What were they talking about? What were the issues that prompted the letter? And what might any of this have to do with her?

I don’t know if you’ve had that experience. These days, many folks don’t write letters. They tap out text messages or send emails. Perhaps we receive greeting cards with handwritten notes in the margins. Or there’s that holiday letter, reproduced with a personal signature, all the while sharing the news of the latest grandchild, the best vacation, or the last diagnosis.

But think of that curious experience of reading somebody else’s mail. Who wrote it? Who received it? When and why is the letter written? And what does any of this have to do with us?

These are good questions, especially when we read the Christian Bible. Most of the documents in the New Testament are pieces of correspondence. Somebody is writing to somebody else. What are they saying? What is the occasion? How do they put together the words?

Imagine this: “Dear John, I’ve been concerned about you. I’ve sent three letters and not yet received a response. Are you OK? Are we OK? I realize it’s been a while since you passed through town, but I haven’t stopped thinking of that moment when you took me in my arms. And I’m wondering when that can happen again…”

Or imagine this note, actually addressed to our church: “Dear Mr. Church: We are notifying you that we have not heard from you about your account. This is the third attempt to reach you about our special discount offer. If you do not reply within the next seven days, we will be compelled to make this special offer to somebody else.” Those are two completely different letters, aren’t that?

Here’s a letter from the apostle Paul to the churches of southern Turkey: “I am astonished that you are so quickly deserting the one who called you in the grace of Christ and are turning to a different gospel— not that there is another gospel, but there are some who are confusing you and want to pervert the gospel of Christ. So if anybody should proclaim to you a gospel contrary to what we proclaimed to you, let that one be accursed!” (Galatians 1:6-8) Whew, he’s angry! Sets the entire tone in the first paragraph. 

Contrast that to the opening words that we heard today: “I thank my God every time I remember you, constantly praying with joy in every one of my prayers for all of you, because of your sharing in the gospel from the first day until now. I am confident of this, that the one who began a good work among you will bring it to completion by the day of Jesus Christ.”

 

What do we hear from that? Affection. Appreciation. Gratitude. Confidence. And the very best of wishes. “I thank my God every time I remember you.” That’s the kind of letter any one of us would like to receive. It announces that there’s somebody out there who loves us, who has the highest regard for us, who wants the very best for us. And how remarkable it is that this is coming from the apostle Paul!

 

He’s writing from a prison cell. He was arrested and jailed when he was in Philippi. Now he’s been arrested and imprisoned, probably in the city of Ephesus. Paul wrote a lot of his letters from prison. Had a lot of time on his hands, I suppose, and he wanted to maintain his relationships from a distance. Out of sight, but not out of mind. And this letter is intended to create a bridge between his present circumstances and that small congregation that he initiated across the Aegean Sea.

 

“I remember you,” he says. He names some of them in the letter. He has kept in touch with their concerns. And he tells them outright that he is praying for them. There’s no greater bond than that.

 

Today, among the names on our prayer list, we will pray for Shirley and Steve. They’re two members of our church family and live a long distance away. The other day, Steve left a message on my voicemail at home. I returned the call and spoke with Shirley. She said, “Can you pray for us?” That’s the kind of request we can never turn down. Whether life is bumpy, or the road is clear, all of us are standing in the need of prayer. God know what we need – and when we pray for one another, we are participating in the grace of God.

Listen to Paul’s prayer: “I pray that your love may overflow more and more.” That’s good! “I pray you will have knowledge and full insight to help you to determine what is best.” That’s good too. “I pray that, in the day of Christ, you may be pure and blameless.” Wow – he wants what is best for them. That’s the essence of love. 

Likewise, he realizes that the people in Philippi remember him as well. We’re talking about a two-sided relationship, even though we have a one-sided letter. They have sent him a financial gift and he’s grateful. He says, “I know you hold me in your hearts, just as together we share in the grace of God.” There are no more affectionate words in the entire Bible. Take note of what we’re reading here. For he goes on to say, “I long for all of you in compassion of Jesus Christ.” In his day, they imagined that compassion was seated in the gut. Literally, “I long for you in the guts of Jesus Christ.” Can you tell that he loves these people? 

And how remarkable that it’s these people, the Philippian people! There’s trouble in that church. From what we can tell, there’s some competition among the members. That happens. I know a church where a couple of the key leaders are always trying to outdo one another. The way two of them is acting, it’s as if they are saying, “I can volunteer for more things than you can.”  And Paul says to the Philippians, “Knock it off. Be servants to one another as Christ has serve you.”

And then in chapter three, he’s starting to wind up the letter. He writes, “And finally…” Then he yawns and puts down the pen – and overnight, he hears about some troublemakers infiltrating the church, spreading some false doctrine, and acting squirrely. So in the morning, he picks up the pen and says, “Watch out for them!” He warns them because he loves them – and then he goes on for a good bit more.

Reminds me of an old church joke. Do you know what it means a preacher says, “And finally”? Not a darn thing.

And then, in chapter four, he calls out two women in that congregation who are fighting with one another. I’m sure you can’t imagine church people fighting, but there it is, beginning in chapter four: “I beg Euodia and Syntyche to stop arguing. Have the mind of Christ – and the rest of you, help them out.” And I’ve always wondered how Euodia and Syntyche felt when they realized the letter to the Philippians would become scripture and their names would be permanently enshrined as those two bickering ladies in Philippi.

But hey, if you know what churches can be like, if you know that churches are very human communities under the sign of the cross, you know that we are all unfinished, in process, and under construction. Which is precisely why Paul says, “I am confident that the One who began a good work among you will bring it to completion by the final day.” He’s talking about Jesus, he’s talking to them, and he trusts that the Gospel is at work in them.

This is what we discover when we open an old letter. We don’t know any of these people, yet we know them all too well. And regardless of whether we know them or whether we like them, we can learn a lot about love by paying attention to their relationships. This is the overture to the sermons for this fall. We’ve going to take a deep dive into this epistle from the apostle. It’s a personal letter which means it’s intended for all of us. The church decided very early to hold tightly to this piece of correspondence, if only because it opens up the truth of what it looks like when we live as a very human community under the sign of the cross.

As a matter of introduction, let me give you a piece of homework. Take a pencil from the pew. Take your worship bulletin. Write down a name of somebody who comes to mind. Maybe somebody close at hand, maybe somebody far away. Maybe that person is in this room, maybe not. Can you picture someone in your imagination? Who is it? Why are they significant to you? How have they been a gift of God to you?

And then, your assignment is to write them a note sometime this week. When you do, begin with the words, “I thank my God every time I remember you…”

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

 

Sometimes a Song is Enough

Psalm 40
1 Samuel 16:14-23
Jazz Communion
September 3, 2023

One of the assumptions of American Christianity is that life always turns out well. We lean into optimism, always looking on the bright side of life.

This cheerfulness is often nourished by a selective view of scripture, particularly the Psalms. There are one-hundred fifty prayers in the middle of the Bible. Many of them start gloomy and conclude with a smile. For instance, Psalm 22 begins, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” That’s a brutally honest text, suitable for Jesus to quote from the cross. By the end of the Psalm, the poet declares, “Lord, I will tell of your name to my brothers and sisters; in the midst of the congregation I will praise you” (Ps. 22:22). Suddenly, Good Friday turns into Easter.

We want this, of course. We hope for this. We pray for injustices to be corrected and hurts to be mended. We wish for every illness to be healed and every evil to be banished. We want to trust there is a moral order to the universe and that “all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.” Those are the things for which I hope and pray – and there are enough joys and pleasures in this life to suggest life should be like this and ultimately will be like this. 

Yet there are enough troubles and difficulties to raise honest objections to any form of optimism. Health breaks down. Loved ones betray us. We make serious mistakes not easily undone. And there’s a whole lot of evil out there, both lurking in the shadows and glimmering in the sunlight. 

Perhaps you heard that in the reading of the psalm. Psalm 40 oscillates between pain and praise, damage and release, joy and anguish. The poem begins, “I waited and waited and waited for the Lord.” The Hebrew verb suggests a whole lot of waiting. And then God turned around and heard my cry. Lifted out of the quicksand of near death, the poet is placed on firm ground. The sorrow in the soul has been replaced. “God put a new song in my mouth.” Ah, yes, a new song.

That would be enough, right? Like the old story of King Saul, suffering with mental illness. His kingdom had come unraveled, and he sat in a deep slump. The castle staff was at wit’s end. They didn’t know what to do. Finally, somebody said, “I found this young man David. He plays the guitar. Maybe that will help.” And so it did. Every time young David played for the King, Saul’s spirits were lifted. Music can be medicine.

Now, we know King Saul continued to have trouble. The dark spirits kept swirling in his soul. In time, he came to a humiliating end. But his pain was interrupted by melody, harmony, and toe-tapping rhythm. And it was enough. Sometimes the song is enough.

As I mentioned, Psalm 40 oscillates. “I waited for the Lord.” “God gave me a song.” Then there was trouble again. It came from outside: “Evils have encompassed me without number,” he says. And there was trouble inside, as well: “My iniquities have overtaken me,” he says. To drop a footnote, what is an iniquity? The Hebrew word refers to the experience of being twisted out of shape. The soul is wrenched because of something we’ve done – or something we’ve failed to do. That’s an iniquity. And every one of us is prone to the experience.

When we first began playing jazz here years ago, one of the reactions was resistance. Simply phrased, “Why are you playing music by people so twisted out of shape?” My response has been, “Because that’s the only kind of music there is.” Not jazz, per se, but any kind of music – every kind of music – comes through skilled practitioners with their own set of personal issues. David, the young guitarist, would replace King Saul one day. He slew giants but couldn’t keep his tunic on.

By most accounts, Mozart was an immature genius, Franz Liszt was a drama queen, Richard Wagner was a bigot, Duke Ellington was a womanizer, and - God bless him - Jimmy Buffett never found his lost shaker of salt. Each one created amazing music. We would stay her all day if recounting the gifts and flaws of great musicians. It’s enough to reflect on trumpeter Lee Morgan, whose music we feature today.

Morgan got his first trumpet for his thirteenth birthday. By age eighteen, he was playing in Dizzy Gillespie’s band. A native of Philadelphia, he soared high, scoring record dates with drummer Art Blakey, pianist Herbie Hancock, and saxophonist Wayne Shorter. He was full of melodies, often played with confidence and a playful swagger. First time I heard him, it was a recording with John Coltrane, called “Blue Train.” Coltrane was amazing, but when the trumpet solo began, I said, “Who is that?” It was recorded when he was only nineteen. 

Like any great artist, Lee was a product of raw talent and hard work. He was nurtured by the creative musical community in Philadelphia. He soared high – and like the Greek myth Icarus, his wax wings melted when he climbed too close to the sun. As with too many young musicians of the 1950’s, Lee fell into a drug addiction, and was in and out of rehab a few times. Relationships were tumultuous, friendships often betrayed. And all the while, he created some amazing music. He was a fountain of creativity, pulling new compositions out of the air.

His biggest hit, if anyone could say that jazz musicians have “hits,” was “The Sidewinder,” that boogaloo blues that we played for the prelude. Morgan had come off a tough stretch. He’d been struggling with his iniquities and had been terribly twisted out of shape. Hoping for a comeback, he took the band into the recording studio to lay down some new compositions. They didn’t have enough music to complete a full album. After some frustration, Lee excused himself and went to the rest room.

The band waited and waited, a whole lot of waiting. After twenty minutes or so, the bass player feared Lee Morgan had fallen into an old bad habit. Suddenly the door opened, and Morgan emerged with two panels of toilet paper with musical notes written on them. Whenever the inspiration comes, you’ve got to write it down! He called the tune, “The Sidewinder.” They recorded it on the first take. The album sold so well that it climbed to #35 on the pop charts and saved his record company from financial ruin. The case could be made that the song was a gift from God. It was an unexpected gift.

Alas, like Psalm 40, and like mad King Saul, the comfort and consolation did not abide. Morgan blew the $15,000 that he made on the record, fell into financial ruin and chemical disrepair. He put his trumpet in a pawn shop and lived on the street. A woman named Helen literally pulled him out of the gutter and got him back on his feet. She protected him, fed him, managed his money, kept him on his feet. But a few years later, they had a fight in a nightclub. She pulled a pistol. He was gone at age 33.

Now, I suppose we could stick with the happy tales, the success stories when everything turns out well. That’s how we want the plot to unfold. Yet that’s not always true to life. We wait and wait and wait for the Lord. Sometimes he comes and gives us a song. Then the evil surrounds us, the iniquities twist us, and we cry out for help again. And maybe there’s enough grace in the universe to give us some more help, to give us another new song.

That’s what I am hoping for, praying for, working for. There’s a lot of pain in our world, isn’t there? There’s anguish and sadness which can only be expressed by music in a minor key. But if we focus only on the anguish and sadness, we may miss the inspiration of creativity and the surprising grace that interrupts the despair. Life is both-and, not either-or.

And that lies close to the mystery of Christian faith. We gather at the Lord’s Table, which is a table that holds together death and resurrection. It’s both-and. At the heart of the Christian story is the memory of crucifixion, the clearest evidence that the human family has been twisted out of shape. The innocent man Jesus is killed by the very people he came to love. Yet the tragedy is flipped upside down, as the Christ is lifted again to life to preside over this Table with his wounded hands. It’s both death and resurrection.

Sometimes injustices are corrected, and hurts mended, the illness is healed, and evil is banished for a while. Sometimes we are surprised by how good life is, right when we were convinced that all was lost. And in the thick of it all, God can send us a song. God can put a new song on our lips.

So let me tell you why I like music like the music we hear today: because it’s real. Because it’s honest. Because it tells the truth about who we are – and the truth about who God is. Because it sounds like the old spirituals that Lee Morgan grew up hearing in his Baptist church in Philadelphia. He infused his music with the same yearning, passion, and hope that he heard in his church.

And so shall we. There’s a great old spiritual that we’re going to sing. It comes as a gift to our unfinished lives. It’s a new song placed on our lips. And it’s a reminder that sometimes a song is enough.

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