When Work Becomes a Burden

Ecclesiastes 2:18-28, 4:4-4:8
Lent 2
February 25, 2024

I hated all my toil in which I had toiled under the sun, seeing that I must leave it to those who come after me —and who knows whether they will be wise or foolish? Yet they will be master of all for which I toiled and used my wisdom under the sun. This also is vanity. So I turned and gave my heart up to despair concerning all the toil of my labors under the sun, because sometimes one who has toiled with wisdom and knowledge and skill must leave all to be enjoyed by another who did not toil for it. This also is vanity and a great evil. 

 

What do mortals get from all the toil and strain with which they toil under the sun? For all their days are full of pain, and their work is a vexation; even at night their minds do not rest. This also is vanity. There is nothing better for mortals than to eat and drink, and find enjoyment in their toil. This also, I saw, is from the hand of God; for apart from him who can eat or who can have enjoyment? For to the one who pleases him God gives wisdom and knowledge and joy; but to the sinner he gives the work of gathering and heaping, only to give to one who pleases God. This also is vanity and a chasing after wind….

 

…Then I saw that all toil and all skill in work come from one person’s envy of another. This also is vanity and a chasing after wind. Fools fold their hands and consume their own flesh. Better is a handful with quiet than two handfuls with toil, and a chasing after wind.

 

Again, I saw vanity under the sun: the case of solitary individuals, without sons or brothers; yet there is no end to all their toil, and their eyes are never satisfied with riches. “For whom am I toiling,” they ask, “and depriving myself of pleasure?” This also is vanity and an unhappy business.

It was a celebration. Most of the office gathered in the conference room. There were balloons and vanilla cake with the blue words, “Happy Retirement.” The secret had been kept for most of the month. Now, the crowd stood quietly as Tom was called to the conference room. “Surprise!” they shouted as he stepped into the room. He saw the cake, the balloons, and the co-workers he enjoyed. 

Tom wipes a tear from his eye. He says, “Thank you. I’m going to miss all of you.” They echoed him, “We’re going to miss you too.” Someone shouted, “Speech, speech!” Another voice chimed in, “Yes, give us one last word!” Tom cleared his throat, paused for a minute. Someone said, “Come on, Tom. Speech!”

“I’m not much for speeches,” he said, “but I do have something to say.” People grinned and collectively leaned forward. “It’s time for me to go,” he said, “but when I’m gone, don’t mess everything up.” There was laughter. Then somebody realized he wasn’t kidding. That was his final word.

It is an Ecclesiastes word. The Preacher Poet who composes the book has seasoned experience. He knows how hard work can unravel quickly. Here in chapters two and four, he reflects on his high accomplishments. And he pays attention to what will likely happen when he is no longer in the picture. Such hard work, such total devotion, and one day it will come to nothing.

It can happen in business. Imagine, if you will, an excellent newspaper in a small city. The staff has outlived a lot of competition while keeping their standards high. That newspaper won awards for its reporting. They had a good habit of hiring good people. Many started early in their careers. They were green but skilled, technologically up to date, and hungry. They do good work. Their work is well respected.

But alas, the owners of the newspaper have a family squabble. Some want to move on to other pastures that have, shall we say, a lot of green. They have quietly sought offers to purchase the company, offers that will make them even richer. When the plot is exposed, the others say, “But this paper has been our life.” The squabble continues. The offer is generous. There is fear the new owners will shrink the product, outsource the labor, sell the building, and trim the local coverage. The matter will be decided by the owners. The workers will not be consulted.

A secret ballot is suggested, but the minority says, “No, everybody speaks.” The vote is taken, the grim news is given a positive spin. The staff is trimmed, the building sold, the paper printed in a plant three hours away – save money to make more money. When the dust settled, the three pieces of newsprint produced on four days a week are almost thick enough to wrap your leftover fish. “It’s all a matter of business,” say the new owners, while the former owners stay silent. That is a hypothetical situation, you understand.

And Ecclesiastes understands. Today’s confession is clear: “I hated all my toil in which I had toiled under the sun, seeing that I must leave it to those who come after me —and who knows whether they will be wise or foolish?” This is vanity. Foolishness is always a possibility, especially among those driven by competition, selfishness, or simple shortsightedness.

It happens. We know it happens. It happens in organizations. The office keeps careful files. They hold some sensitive information under lock and key. As the organization ebbs and flows, a new administrator comes in. He decides filing cabinets are a thing of the past. He makes his case that a virtual office is better than a physical one. “Think of all the rent money that could be saved,” he says.

Before the property is shut down, all the documents are sent off to be scanned, then placed online in a digital cloud. There is full assurance that the information will be readily accessed by leaders with appropriate passwords. What happens? You know what happens. There is turnover of leadership. When a crisis emerges, somebody looks for the files. The leaders are redirected to the cloud. Nobody can find the passwords.

Ecclesiastes surveys the situation and shakes its head. “Vanity of vanities” is the theological appraisal. Why did we work so hard for something that came to nothing? It’s a good question. It is a hard question. It’s an important question for the season of Lent. There is a time limit for us, for our work, for the work that we do. God is eternal; we are not. No matter how loudly we protest, time rolls on.

I was intrigued by the recent news, now reported by the Smithsonian. Smart scientists flew over the rain forests in the Amazon. From a helicopter 650 feet high, they pointed a special radar device at an area of Bolivia. It reads beneath the forest canopy, down into the soil. They discovered the ancient structures of a massive city surrounded by many villages. A million people might have lived there 1500 years ago, long before the European conquerors arrived. An entire civilization disappeared. It is now buried fifty feet beneath the rain forest.

The region was once described as “uninhabitable land.” It was widely believed by the Europeans that nobody had ever lived there. But that was not true. It was a competent, organized, technological savvy civilization. They had canals and reservoirs, a huge, fully urbanized community. They built it – and it came to nothing.[1] Time marched on.

Like what happened in my Eagle Scout project. When I asked the leaders of my childhood church if there was a service project that I could organize to earn my badge, they pointed me to the graveyard next door. It needed a lot of work. Many of the graves had sunken, leaving rectangular depressions in the ground. We brought in wheelbarrows of topsoil, filled them, and raked in some grass seed.

The harder work had to do with the tombstones. Several of them were covered with moss. I assigned two of the younger Scouts to scrub them with steel wool. It didn’t go well. At one point, one blustered out, “Why am I cleaning up a tombstone of somebody whose name has been washed away?” Good question. The elements had worn away the identity. He said, “Can’t we just let this one go? We don’t even know who it is.”

That reminds me of last Monday’s episode of NCIS. A beloved member of the NCIS staff died in his sleep. The team is shaken. They reflect on the death. One of them says something like, “There are two deaths. The first is the moment you die. The second death is when they stop telling stories about you.” 

I hate to bring this up, but it is the season of Lent. Lent is the time to chew on the charcoal of our own mortality. Ecclesiastes is one of the few Biblical documents to lay everything out so honestly. We pursue medical treatments to stay healthy or get healthy. Sometimes they work for a while. Or like the community of Whos in Dr. Seuss’s book, “Horton Hears a Who,” we protest against destruction by shouting, “We are here, we are here, we are here.” We want to be noticed. We want life to go on.

To this, Ecclesiastes gives a provisional answer. Rather than the vain dream of going on continuously, the Preacher says, “Make the most of the life that you have.” There are limitations. There are inevitable conclusions. But there can be enjoyment even in the work that we do. And if it finds us, grab hold and take it for all that it’s worth.

Like the retired lady who volunteers at the same office where she retired. She shows up, everybody exclaims, “We thought you retired.” She says, “I did.” What are you doing here? She looks both ways, then says, “Don’t tell anybody, but I really liked what I did.” Hear that? She’s not doing it for the money. She simply likes doing the work.

Or that ancient professor of mine who translated the whole Bible. Long after he stopped teaching classes, he still burrowed down in the university library. Kept dressing in a tweed jacket and tie, long after he had to. Somebody got up the courage to ask, “Dr. Metzger, why are you here?” He smiled and said, “I love to learn. That was the best part of my job. So, I’m still learning.”

Or the volunteer who agrees to serve the church council. Or the Girl Scout leader whose daughter outgrew the Girl Scouts, yet she keeps track of the cookie orders. Or the grownup kid who loves to sing in the choir. Or the guy with the artificial leg who coaches the soccer team.

Let’s hear a good word for enjoyment. Ecclesiastes says it is a gift from God. “Apart from God who can eat or who can have enjoyment? For to the one who pleases him God gives wisdom and knowledge and joy.”

As Bible books go, Ecclesiastes is not full of good news. It’s full of news – just not good news. It describes the way things are, not the way things ought to be. And yet, when joy finds you, give it a big hug and do not let go. Don’t let go until the day when you have to let go.

We live our short lives in the light of God’s eternity. That is the truthful news of Ecclesiastes, who speaks on behalf of all the scriptures. Other news outlets will rise and fall. Institutions can collapse under their very human decisions. The houses we build will be covered someday by vegetation, the names on our stones will fade, and the artificial intelligence that boasts of its own eternity will someday be unplugged and exposed as artificial. That is the way of all things.

What do we do? We keep the stories alive across the generations. We remember the people we have loved. We share the lessons we are still learning. We offer field reports of the Easter eggs we have found – “there’s one over here!” Most of all, we gently push one another beyond the fleeting shadows of this age to the light of God’s eternity. This is the beginning of wisdom.

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

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[1] See, for instance, the report in https://www.bbc.com/news/science-environment-67940671

When Pleasure is No Fun

Ecclesiastes 2:1-17
Lent 1
February 18, 2024

William G. Carter  

I said to myself, “Come now, I will make a test of pleasure; enjoy yourself.” But again, this also was vanity. I said of laughter, “It is mad,” and of pleasure, “What use is it?” I searched with my mind how to cheer my body with wine—my mind still guiding me with wisdom—and how to lay hold on folly, until I might see what was good for mortals to do under heaven during the few days of their life. I made great works; I built houses and planted vineyards for myself; I made myself gardens and parks, and planted in them all kinds of fruit trees. I made myself pools from which to water the forest of growing trees. I bought male and female slaves, and had slaves who were born in my house; I also had great possessions of herds and flocks, more than any who had been before me in Jerusalem. I also gathered for myself silver and gold and the treasure of kings and of the provinces; I got singers, both men and women, and delights of the flesh, and many concubines. 

 

So I became great and surpassed all who were before me in Jerusalem; also my wisdom remained with me. Whatever my eyes desired I did not keep from them; I kept my heart from no pleasure, for my heart found pleasure in all my toil, and this was my reward for all my toil. Then I considered all that my hands had done and the toil I had spent in doing it, and again, all was vanity and a chasing after wind, and there was nothing to be gained under the sun.

 

So I turned to consider wisdom and madness and folly; for what can the one do who comes after the king? Only what has already been done. Then I saw that wisdom excels folly as light excels darkness. The wise have eyes in their head, but fools walk in darkness. Yet I perceived that the same fate befalls all of them. Then I said to myself, “What happens to the fool will happen to me also; why then have I been so very wise?” And I said to myself that this also is vanity. For there is no enduring remembrance of the wise or of fools, seeing that in the days to come all will have been long forgotten. How can the wise die just like fools?

 

So I hated life, because what is done under the sun was grievous to me; for all is vanity and a chasing after wind.

Every so often we hear a story of somebody who had it all: money, big houses, closets full of clothing, a kitchen full of premium appliances, exclusive memberships in clubs, sports cars, wide circles of influence and power, countless friends, and admirers. They have it all – and it doesn’t turn out very well.

Those stories, as told in books, television, or the news, can be understood as morality plays. They teach us life lessons, especially for those of us who will never have what that person has. Somebody ascends like the mythical figure Icarus, flying into the sky on homemade wax wings. Alas, he flies too close to the sun. The wings melt. He plummets to the earth. It’s an ancient story, an imaginative myth, and it teaches us something valuable.

I’ll never forget when I bought my first lottery ticket. It’s never been my habit to gamble, even on a two-dollar super-duper sweepstakes. But the jackpot was enormous. There were no winners, so the jackpot got bigger. So, I bought a ticket. My imagination was on fire. What if I hit it big? I wouldn’t have to drive an old car. I could get the house fixed up. I could hire a lawn squad to take care of the property. I would have a lot more elbow room for paying my bills. One night, I watched the little balls pop out of the machine – three of those numbers were the same as mine. I could win this thing. I didn’t, not that night, nobody did, so the jackpot increased.

I told my father about it. He listened, then began to smile. As I shared my vain dreams, the smile became a smirk. Finally, I said, “What’s so funny?” Then he told me about a man who won the Super Six lottery in his hometown. A truck driver, I think. He became a millionaire overnight. Fortune smiled. He dumped his wife, found somebody else half her age. He moved out of the double wide trailer and bought a mansion high above the Allegheny River. The day he bought the winning ticket, he had $2.46 in his bank account. He blinked and won $16 million. 

Alas, said my dad, it did not turn out well. The man bought a restaurant in Florida, a liquor license, and a used car lot. Then he bought a plane, even though he didn’t have a pilot’s license. Three months after the first payment on the ticket, he was half a million in debt. And then his brother hired a hit man to take him out in the hopes of getting the inheritance; that didn’t work, although it was a strain on the lottery winner’s sixth marriage.[1]

Are you seeing a theme here? Dad said, “Are you sure you want to win the lottery?” I mean, look at what happened to that guy. It was a haunting tale, so haunting that I threw away my lottery ticket. It’s still out there somewhere if you want it.

No doubt, the man in my dad’s true-life tragedy tale was inept. He didn’t have access to the kind of wealth management services that you and I might have. If we hit it big, you and I, what would we do? I mean, after writing out a check for our church’s endowment. First phone call would be to an attorney, then a financial planner, and then a security service to guard the home. We probably wouldn’t buy a Cessna if we had no license to fly.

And even if we guarded all that wealth, something could go wrong. Not falling into debt, but something far worse. Listen to the tale of woe from the Preacher of Ecclesiastes.

I had it all. I had houses, vineyards, gardens, parks, and pools (plural).

I had hundreds of people working for me. I owned them.

I had more sheep and cattle than anyone ever had.

I plundered the silver and gold of kingdoms.

I had hundreds of lovers and other delights of the flesh.

And I hired countless number of musicians.

Then comes the last line of that bragging list: “And I hated life.” Oof. He had it all and he hated it.

What happened? Was he accused of swindling other people and lost the court case? No, there’s no mention of that. In fact, everything he did was legal and legitimate, at least for the time and place in which he lived (which may have been about four hundred years before Jesus). The sage of Ecclesiastes was honest. He was successful. He was blessed – or at least incredibly lucky. Everything he touched turned to gold. Every project he undertook was completed and paid for. Every accomplishment in his career brought him greater attention and acclaim. And it all made him sick to his stomach. Oy vey.

What went wrong? Can we make a diagnosis? It would be immensely helpful for us to understand, if only to know where life went off the track.

This is not Ebenezer Scrooge, holed up in his big house, counting his piles of cash but too cheap to put another chunk of coal on the fire. This is not the Hollywood rising star, winning the people’s choice award and unable to manage the sudden fame. This is not one of those pop singers on the Grammies, few of which I’ve ever heard of, shooting like a rocket, then disappearing after the hit song evaporates. No, something else is going on.

Is it boredom? Could be, we don’t know. It sounds like he has seen and heard it all, over and over. Sure, when you heard we would dig into Ecclesiastes for Lent, maybe you thought of chapter three. “For everything there is a season, turn, turn, turn.” Well, that’s a little bit from chapter three. Take the poem in context, and it sounds more like an endless cycle of the seasons. There’s a time for war, a time for peace, and then another time for war, and a time for peace. Life keeps circling around. What goes around comes around. Here we go again.

If you have put in a lot of time, you’ve seen it go around and around, too. Haven’t you? S.S.D.D. – same stuff, different day. And there can be a weariness, especially as the years accumulate and nothing improves. Ecclesiastes teaches that progress is overrated. Isn’t that true? I am old enough to remember someone say, “Computers will make your life easier.” Does anybody believe that to be true? Only if your hard drive has never crashed or your passwords have never been stolen. The truth is computers allow us to do more in less time than ever before. They can be wonderful tools. Yet they cannot make our lives any more substantial.

What’s going on with the Preacher of Ecclesiastes? Is he depressed, an ancient Eeyore braying out that everything turns out poorly? Possibly, but just a few lines below today’s text, we hear him say, “There is nothing better for mortals than to eat and drink and find enjoyment in their toil.” (2:24). He says it more than once.

No doubt someone will stop me at coffee hour and say, “Why didn’t you give us that verse, rather than the others?” Well, the quick answer is, “It’s Lent.” The better answer is, “There are more verses like these in Ecclesiastes than the happy ones you like.” And the best answer of all is this is a document of Jewish wisdom. As such, it has no intention of being logically consistent. Rather, this is a dialogical text. It skittles back and forth. In that dialogue, the Preacher pushes us to consider what is truly valuable about life. What really matters. If we have a quick answer, it’s probably not the right answer. To truly embrace the holy gift of life, we don’t skim across the surface. We dive into the depths.

So, tell me: what really matters? How do we spend our time, our money, our energy? Today, in chapter two, we hear the Preacher say there is limited joy in pleasure. There is limited satisfaction in consumption. It’s like eating too much chocolate cake. A little bit is tasty; too much is really too much.

Sure, we can jet off to Vegas, see a show, and throw some chips on the table. I’ve been there. It is what it is, an expensive distraction. Some of it is cheesy and mundane. Some of it appeals to the senses, provoking a WOW around every street corner. And there was that moment when six Elvis Presleys walked down the sidewalk. That was cool. If you enjoy the entertainment, and some of you do, then enjoy it.

But Ecclesiastes invites us to test the experience. The Preacher presses us to ask, “Why are there so many sad people in the casino? Why, at the floor show, are there some who are too numb to sing along? Why do those who devote themselves to consumption end up getting consumed?” And why are there a thousand people experiencing homelessness who live in the stormwater tunnels below the Las Vegas strip? There are no quick answers; yet a life that matters will ask the questions.

Now, I will be the first to agree: Ecclesiastes is a strange book. In the sixty-six books of scripture, it stands off to the side and scowls. As we make the long Lenten journey toward Easter, Ecclesiastes is a grumpy old man scowling on the park bench. He pops all the yellow balloons, then says, “See, I told you this could happen.” Like it or not, he reminds us that life is not all thrills and titillations. There are disappointments, too, and they match or exceed every success. Our true purpose will not be found chasing after the next new pleasure or the big new purchase.

So, welcome to a journey with Ecclesiastes for Lent. We will read this scripture – and it will read us. As it scrapes away all that is false, all that is empty, all that is enticing, we are left with nothing but God. In the end, this is all that matters. And the invitation of faith is to lean toward the eternal God who alone can complete what we cannot. This is the beginning of wisdom.

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

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[1] Read the sad tale here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Post

Dust in the Wind

Ecclesiastes 1:1-18
Ash Wednesday
February 14, 2024
William G. Carter

The words of the Teacher, the son of David, king in Jerusalem. Vanity of vanities, says the Teacher, vanity of vanities! All is vanity. What do people gain from all the toil at which they toil under the sun?

A generation goes, and a generation comes, but the earth remains forever. The sun rises and the sun goes down, and hurries to the place where it rises. The wind blows to the south, and goes around to the north; round and round goes the wind, and on its circuits the wind returns. All streams run to the sea, but the sea is not full; to the place where the streams flow, there they continue to flow. All things are wearisome; more than one can express; the eye is not satisfied with seeing, or the ear filled with hearing.

 

What has been is what will be, and what has been done is what will be done; there is nothing new under the sun. Is there a thing of which it is said, “See, this is new”? It has already been, in the ages before us. The people of long ago are not remembered, nor will there be any remembrance of people yet to come by those who come after them.

 

I, the Teacher, when king over Israel in Jerusalem, applied my mind to seek and to search out by wisdom all that is done under heaven; it is an unhappy business that God has given to human beings to be busy with. I saw all the deeds that are done under the sun; and see, all is vanity and a chasing after wind. What is crooked cannot be made straight, and what is lacking cannot be counted. I said to myself, “I have acquired great wisdom, surpassing all who were over Jerusalem before me; and my mind has had great experience of wisdom and knowledge.” And I applied my mind to know wisdom and to know madness and folly. I perceived that this also is but a chasing after wind. For in much wisdom is much vexation, and those who increase knowledge increase sorrow.

 To the reading of the text, I add two more lines from elsewhere in the book. From chapter three, “All go to one place; all are from the dust, and all turn to dust again” (3:20) and another verse from chapter 12, “The dust returns to the earth as it was, and the breath returns to God who gave it.” (12:7)

 

Texts like that remind me of a song, a song that hit the charts when I was eighteen years old. The band that performed it had a hit, and they were coming to play a concert in the hockey arena in Binghamton. I snared two tickets, one of them for a beautiful young lass. I offered to pick her up in my parent’s Dodge. We would sit in arena seats and listen to a band called Kansas. They would sing to us their classic song, “All we are is dust in the wind.”

It’s a classic rock ballad with a lyrical violin solo and haunting lyric:

I close my eyes. Only for a moment and the moment’s gone.

All my dreams pass before my eyes, a curiosity.

Dust in the wind. All they are is dust in the wind.

 

Same old song. Just a drop of water in an endless sea.

All we do. Crumbles to the ground though we refuse to see.

Dust in the wind. All we are is dust in the wind.

What a strange song for teenagers to swoon to. Back then, we believed we were made of rubber, able to bounce forward as well as bounce back. If there was trouble, they were certain they could get through it. If there was pain, the assumption was they could remain unscathed. The future was wide open. Things were looking up.

Yet the rock and roll arenas were filled with teens holding cigarette lighters in the air, singing along with Kansas, “All we are is dust in the wind.”  Maybe they knew the truth, that life is fragile. Sometimes there is a car crash on prom night. Everybody wakes up from the illusion that life goes on forever, especially for those who push it to the limit. The dream passes before our eyes.

Or you discover you are not a big deal, not anymore, if you ever were. On the first day of the 100-level introductory course at the university, four hundred people are crammed in the lecture hall. It is a far cry from the twenty-four in A.P science in high school. The professor says, “If you can’t find a seat, don’t worry. In two weeks, a third of your classmates will have dropped the course.” Here is the truth: you are a drop of water in an endless sea.

The wise people who put Ecclesiastes in the Bible did so for a reason. They know what we know, that try as we might, we are not as important as we believe ourselves to be. Life doesn’t always turn out as we hope. Things break, people break, plans are scattered. If we live an honest and introspective life, we end up with more questions than answers. So, the Preacher declares, “This is the way it is. I don’t want you to be deceived.”

We don’t know much about the so-called Preacher who composes this book. He claims to be wealthy. He declares himself a worldly success. This anonymous writer describes himself as King Solomon, who lived hundreds of years before him. The Preacher has the palace, the pleasures, the riches, and the concubines.

Yet he doesn’t have it all. He says, “I have wisdom.” And he says, “I don’t have wisdom.” That’s the paradox. He can’t make sense of it all. Probably composing this meditation at the end of his life, the Preacher faces clear limits on what he has done, what he can still do, and what he can understand. He knows his life has an expiration date. “The dust returns to the earth as it was, and the breath returns to God who gave it.” (12:7)

Or as we say in church and synagogue, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

Today, as the first day of Lent collides with Valentine’s Day, many have chuckled at the weird intersection. I sent out a picture in last week’s church e-mail, of ashes placed on somebody’s forehead in the shape of a heart. Others have pointed out it’s impossible to spell “valentine” without spelling “Lent” in the middle of the word. And today, two of you sent me the same poem for these intersecting holidays. It reads, “Roses are red / Ashes are grey / We’re all going to die / Happy Valentine’s Day.”

That might be a little too honest, yet this is the truth. There are limits to our lives. Whether we perceive it or not, the eternal God puts a parenthesis before us and after us. When our days conclude, there will be a dash between two dates. The Preacher says, “A generation goes, a generation comes, the earth continues on.” True enough.

The Gospel would add one thing more. We are dust, yes. But we are God’s dust. We are breathed alive by the same Spirit Set before the One who is the Alpha and the Omega, the first and last, the beginning and the end, our days are remarkably short. Yet our days are known. We are known.

Tonight, we come with all our limitations, mortally aware of our finitude, and what we receive is the mark of the cross. For we belong to God through the love of Jesus Christ. Even if we know the hard truth that none of us will understand it all or get everything done, we can trust the holy God that gathers us here, holds us for a while, and embraces us forever. In life and death, we belong to God. That is all we need to remember. And it is enough.

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

Bright Jesus

Mark 9:2-9
Mardi Gras / Transfiguration
February 11, 2024

William G. Carter  

Six days later, Jesus took with him Peter and James and John, and led them up a high mountain apart, by themselves. And he was transfigured before them, and his clothes became dazzling white, such as no one on earth could bleach them. And there appeared to them Elijah with Moses, who were talking with Jesus. Then Peter said to Jesus, “Rabbi, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.” He did not know what to say, for they were terrified. Then a cloud overshadowed them, and from the cloud there came a voice, “This is my Son, the Beloved; listen to him!” Suddenly when they looked around, they saw no one with them any more, but only Jesus. As they were coming down the mountain, he ordered them to tell no one about what they had seen, until after the Son of Man had risen from the dead.


I’m in church, so it’s time to confess. I have been preaching the Gospel for thirty-nine years, yet I’ve never been able to wrangle this text. It is wild. It is unmanageable. It is so big that it cannot be reduced to a simple lesson. What should we do with it?

Jesus climbs a high mountain with the three boys in his inner circle. At the top of the hill, he begins to shine. It was more than the glistening perspiration on his brow. Jesus lit up like a solar flare. Peter, James, and John froze with their eyes wide open. They never saw anything like that back in their hometown of Capernaum.

They knew Jesus, walked with Jesus, ate with Jesus. Never seen him catch fire before! It was such a strange moment, the Gospel writers had to invent a word to describe it: “transfiguration.” Mark turns it into a verb, saying Jesus was transfigured, and never quite explaining what that means. Did he change into something else? Or, in the words of the poet Madeleine L’Engle, did they see him the way he was, the way he always was? Your guess is as good as mine.

It's a moment when the distinction between past, present, and future collapses. Moses and Elijah appear suddenly. They had been gone for centuries, but here they were, completely alive. Matthew says they were “chatting” with Jesus. Moses, the greatest teacher of God’s Law, and Elijah, the greatest prophet in Israel’s memory speak with Jesus as if they were contemporaries.

And then the moment is gone. It would not be captured or reduced. What we have here is an insight into the nature of spiritual experiences. The insight is this: they come and go. Peter, James, and John see something about Jesus. They hear the Big Voice. Everything is changed. Then it’s back to normal. Well, almost. It’s a new normal, a normal punctured by a heavenly intrusion.

Do we have these experiences, you and me? Seeing Jesus burst into flame? Not likely. At least, not on the top of a mountain in Palestine. But what about a moment of insight? A flash of awareness? A sudden awakening? A burst of holiness? These moments can come. They probably do come – and we shrug them off. Sometimes they get through our defenses, though, and they change everything.

In November, I was invited to a church meeting in Louisville, Kentucky. Since I had been elected the moderator of our local presbytery, somebody figured they should teach me how to moderate. It was a short conference. I have friends who would be there. I was glad to go.

We gathered in the national office of the Presbyterians on the Ohio River. When the opening night reception was over, I decided to stretch my legs. The hotel was just a few blocks away. It was a warm night. So, I took a stroll around the city. There’s an enclosed street mall on South 4th Street, between Liberty Street and Muhammad Ali Boulevard. All the hipsters were hanging out at the Maker’s Mark lounge, the Grolsch microbrewery, and Guy Fieri’s Smokehouse. All those revelers were feeling no pain.

Suddenly, in the midst of all that revelry, I saw it. It’s a street sign that I’ve seen before. On one side, it honors Thomas Merton, the well-published monk who lived in a monastery about an hour south of Louisville. He often went into the city for errands and medical appointments. Frequently, he slipped into a jazz club on Washington Street and enjoyed the music. Merton was a big jazz lover. One side of the sign pays him homage.

It's the other side of the sign that knocks me out. It says, “A Revelation: Merton has a sudden insight at this corner March 18, 1856, that led him to redefine his monastic identity with greater involvement in social justice issues. He was “suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that I loved all these people…’ He found them ‘walking around shining like the sun.’”

Another holy moment. He was in a city, not on a mountain. He didn’t see Jesus beaming bright, but for the moment, the people in front of him were “shining like the sun.” Merton knew he loved them as God loved them. Just as the friends who saw Jesus heard God say, “This is my Son, the Beloved.” It was love that set him and them ablaze.

And what do we do with moments like these? For Merton, it signaled that prayer must be joined with action, all in the name of love. He took a stand for voting rights, protested wars that he believed were unjust, and worked to promote understanding between people of differing faiths. It was all about love embodied in shining glory.

For Jesus, the transfiguration was a turning point in his story. It is the hinge upon which the door opens between his work in Galilee to make his way to the cross. Up north in Galilee, Jesus gave himself to healing, teaching, and casting out evil spirits. When he steps off the mountain, he will move toward Jerusalem. There he will give himself in the ultimate sacrifice to set people free from all that enslaves them. For God loved him – and God loved all people – and glory shines brightest in the work of self-giving love.

According to the records that I can find, we have had an annual Mardi Gras service for a dozen years or so. Maybe to you it seems longer. Nobody resisted when I first suggested the idea. It’s a last gasp of joy before the hard work of Lent. It’s a nice break from the winter blahs. Truth be told, the Dixieland music is shaped a lot like our church hymns. In fact, it sounds like what would happen if the choir director had too much caffeine.

I think it’s time that I confess why I cooked up the idea: because I had run out of ideas for talking about the Transfiguration. The event comes around every year on the church calendar. I didn’t know what to say about it. But after a dozen years in, it hangs together a good bit better than I thought it would. We are halfway between Christmas and Easter. The joy of the Nativity now moves toward Cross and Resurrection.

All of it is glued together by this account of a spiritual experience. We didn’t dream it up. Just as we cannot create those moments when they come. Sometimes the Holy Spirit finds us. The lights go on. The glory shines. Something in our souls wakes up. In the ancient words of the psalms, “Steadfast love and faithfulness meet, righteousness and peace kiss one another” (Psalm 85:10).

To make sense of all this, I turn again to Thomas Merton, the Trappist monk and jazz lover. Merton would understand that the Transfiguration of Jesus and our own spiritual experiences dwell together under a huge umbrella that he called “contemplation.” What did he mean by the word contemplation? Here’s what he wrote:

(Contemplation is) life itself, fully awake, fully active, fully aware that it is alive. It is spiritual wonder. It is spontaneous awe at the sacredness of life, of being. It is gratitude for life, for awareness, and for being. It is a vivid realization of the fact that life and being in us proceed from an invisible, transcendent, and infinitely abundant Source. Contemplation is, above all, awareness of the reality of that Source.[1]

What’s he talking about? That God can sneak up on us in silence. Or God can dance with us in jazz. We are not abandoned or cast off. We are beloved, holy beloved. And that love calls us to wake up. To engage. To sink deeply in the work God gives us to do while we keep breathing and dancing. The invitation is for us to come alive, completely alive.

And when the lights go on, even if only to flicker for a moment, there’s nothing in heaven or earth that can take that away, for it is a reminder the Holy One is with us, we are loved, and there is work to do..


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

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[1] Thomas Merton, New Seeds for Contemplation (New York: New Directions Publishing Corporation, 1971) pp. 1–2.

Won’t Stay in His Lane

Mark 1:40-45
February 4, 2024

William G. Carter  

A leper came to him begging him, and kneeling he said to him, “If you choose, you can make me clean.” Moved with pity, Jesus stretched out his hand and touched him, and said to him, “I do choose. Be made clean!” Immediately the leprosy left him, and he was made clean. After sternly warning him he sent him away at once, saying to him, “See that you say nothing to anyone; but go, show yourself to the priest, and offer for your cleansing what Moses commanded, as a testimony to them.” But he went out and began to proclaim it freely, and to spread the word, so that Jesus could no longer go into a town openly, but stayed out in the country; and people came to him from every quarter.

My friend’s name was Tony. We met on the school bus. I think it was second grade. The big yellow bus picked up me and my sister first. We bounced down about a quarter mile, then took the sharp left turn onto Bodle Hill Road. From there, it was a straight shot to our elementary school.

Tony stood at the last stop before the school. We were the same age, same grade, same homeroom. There were differences. He was short and Italian. I grew too fast for my blue jeans and a Celt. Tony loved to play sports. I was usually the last to get picked for the kickball team. He was a Lutheran; one day, he was carrying a Bible to school and showed me the pictures between Old and New Testaments. I said I was a Presbyterian, and confessed we didn’t have a lot of pictures in our Bibles.

The friendship continued for a while. There’s a snapshot of the two of us standing on the sidewalk outside my parent’s house. We were getting ready for our first Boy Scout camp out. Big grins on our faces, boots laced up, backpacks loaded with candy bars. The truck dropped us off at the edge of the forest. As we hiked in, my long legs carrying me faster than his, another Scout a few years older came alongside and said something just loud enough for me to hear. He said, “How come you’re bunking with that kid? Doesn’t the smell turn your stomach?”

He didn’t say this to be mean. He was being descriptive. Tony’s body had a strong odor. Sometimes it was stronger than others. I had tried to ignore it because he was my friend. We liked the same baseball team. We got along easily. He was often at my side in Scout meetings, and sometimes took pity on me and picked me for his kickball team.

That was the moment I realized that Tony stood by my side because nobody else ever stood by his side. It probably had to do with the odor. The odor came from a terrible rash that covered the back of his neck. I am no dermatologist and can’t tell you what it was. Yet it persisted. It was there for years. People stayed away from him. And at this point in my ministerial career, I would declare if Tony had lived in the first century, he would have been diagnosed with leprosy.

Did you see the footnote at the bottom of the Bible page? “The terms leper and leprosy can refer to several diseases.” All of them were visible on the skin. Each was inexplicable, happening without prediction or cause. The effects were disfiguring. They held the threat of contagion. Neighbors were frightened. Families were separated, all because of an unknown disease.

A thousand years before Jesus, Moses had laid down the law. If you are bored next week after the football season concludes, you can read all of that in the 13th and 14th chapters of Leviticus. We learn a lot of things: leprosy was a catch-all word for skin infections, ulcers, psoriasis, eczema, dermatitis, and what we now call “Hansen’s Disease.” Leviticus declares they are signs of impurity. You are considered unclean. You are cast out of the community, forced into isolation, and segregated to live with strangers with whom you have absolutely nothing in common except the same diagnosis. Leviticus also says, that in ancient days, the religious leaders were the gatekeepers for health or sickness. They alone could declare someone was getting well. Or they could say, “Go away, you smell.” “Go away, your appearance scares us.” Go away, we don’t want to catch what you have.”

We don’t have to survey our recent past to see what the threat of contagion will do. We know the stories of loved ones separated from us by covid-19. These days, they might be banished to the guest room. Before the vaccines were created, they may have spent weeks in the hospital. And it’s only the latest of a litany of diseases through the ages. Each illness invades a human body, often unrelated to prior behavior.

In prior days, it was presumed you got sick because you did something wrong, the same way some parents exhorted their kids to zip up their winter coats, so they didn’t catch a cold. I think of the old fable of Job, the tragic man who lost it all. In his misery, three friends descended on him to say, “What did you do wrong, to end up so low?” Or as the twelve disciples asked Jesus about a man born blind: did he sin or did his parents sin? What went wrong with him?

But listen to what the man with leprosy says to Jesus: “If you will, you can make me clean.” He responds, “I will.” Not merely, “I can,” but “I will.” Because it is God’s will. God wants us to be healed, restored, purified, and uninvaded by disease. That is the holy will of God. Jesus comes to make known the will of God. Sometimes we call him “the Great Physician,” not only because he healed so many people in first-century Palestine, but because he is the patron of every physician, nurse, PA, psychologist, dietician, and dermatologist who works out rhe healing work of God. Wellness is God’s will. God doesn’t want us to be sick, much less separated by our sickness.

But there are some curious details in the healing story for today, details that suggest even more about the will of God. Here’s one: Jesus isn’t very happy about the situation. There’s a variant manuscript, early in New Testament days, suggesting that he healed the man out of “anger,” not “compassion.” That’s also mentioned in the footnotes. “Anger” is a curious motivation for healing somebody.

It gets clearer a verse or two later when Mark says, “he sternly warned” the man. That’s another moment where the English translation vastly softens what Mark is saying. No, it was harsher than a “stern warning.” Jesus was “boiling with indignation.” Why?

The scholar Ched Myers reads the text closely. He finds a hint that the man with the disease already been to see the priest, that he has made the three-day trek from the outskirts of Capernaum to Jerusalem, that he tried to get an audience with one of the holy men, that he was refused and sent away. So here he is, denied the health care that his own scriptures promised, and all he can do in desperation is to throw himself at the feet of Jesus. Jesus sees all of this, and he “snorts with rage.”

As Jesus heals the man, he judges a religious system that was spiritually bankrupt. The leaders professed to love God and love neighbor, but the truth is, they ignore God and push away neighbor. It’s as if, in the parlance of our own day, the religious establishment off and says, “You’re on your own, so handle your own medical care.” Something like having to wait three months after a heart attack to get a cardiologist appointment.

Jesus will not let this stand. He heals the man with the disease and says, “Go back down there to Jerusalem, show yourself to that priest, and demand he restores you to complete fellowship.” Why? Jesus says, “Let this be your testimony to them.” OR to put it another way, let this be a testimony against them.

A second detail: the man doesn’t go. Doesn’t feel he needs to go. Sure, Jesus is honoring the old rules in Leviticus 13 and 14, saying, “Show your body to the priest. Get your card punched. Get the official release.” Yet why does he need to be seen by a priest when he has been seen by Jesus. Jesus has made him well, and therefore clean. He has been restored.

In effect, Jesus is far better than a cumbersome system of health care that has no regard for the sick. An unconcerned system sends the unhealthy back out to the waiting room to say, “Let us know if you’re feeling better.” By contrast, Jesus affirms the person is more valuable than any broken system. He makes it known there is no illness that separates the person from the love of God.

And then, this third and most inflammatory detail: how does Jesus heal the man? By his powerful word, of course, and through his holy intention, “I will” – and also by his touch. He touches the man with the skin disease. He clasps him with his hands. He attaches himself to him. He risks catching what that guy had. He takes on systemic impurity to release a man from systemic impurity.

Which is to say, he steps over the old rules of Leviticus:

He steps over the invisible barrier between illness and wellness.
He steps over the wall between sterility and infection.
He steps over the fear that separates clean and unclean.
He steps over the distinction of religious hierarchy and neighborly care.
He steps over the division between religious rules and the power of God.
He steps over the breach between hopeless despair and the possibility of health.
He steps over the separation between isolation and connection.

Which is to say, Jesus refuses to stay in his lane and merely be a nice preacher. Mark said this was going to happen. On the very first day, the sky was ripped open from the other side. God came down in power, like a dove that settled on Jesus, this Jesus, who works tirelessly to claim this world as God’s dominion. Some think God is staying up in heaven. Some believe God ought to stay up in heaven. Some think God is never coming down. But what do you do if you discover Jesus has really come – and God is here?

You live. That’s what you do. You live as if God rules heaven and earth. Like my old friend Tony. He’s gone now. He slipped away two years ago from a long bout of cancer. That illness did not keep him from returning from high school reunions, where he was affirmed as the kindest person in our reunion class. I do not grieve but celebrate how a childhood illness cracked opened his own heart in compassion. Tony kept going to his Lutheran churches wherever he lived. He served as a youth group leader, and a volunteer visitor to men in prison. He trained as a Stephen Minister to visit the sick and troubled of the congregations to which he belonged.

Obviously, he kept reading that Bible that he sneaked onto the school bus and looked at more than the pictures. His faith completed him as a human being. And he lived that chapter where it is written that nothing shall separate from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. Nothing, not illness, not persecution, not anything at all.

Such is the will of the God who, in the fullest sense, wants us to be well. Thanks be to Christ, who reaches out to us.


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