You Give Them Something to Eat

Mark 6:35-44
July 28, 2024
William G. Carter

When it grew late, his disciples came to him and said, ‘This is a deserted place, and the hour is now very late; send them away so that they may go into the surrounding country and villages and buy something for themselves to eat.’ But he answered them, ‘You give them something to eat.’ They said to him, ‘Are we to go and buy two hundred denarii worth of bread, and give it to them to eat?’ And he said to them, ‘How many loaves have you? Go and see.’ When they had found out, they said, ‘Five, and two fish.’ Then he ordered them to get all the people to sit down in groups on the green grass. So they sat down in groups of hundreds and of fifties. Taking the five loaves and the two fish, he looked up to heaven, and blessed and broke the loaves, and gave them to his disciples to set before the people; and he divided the two fish among them all. And all ate and were filled; and they took up twelve baskets full of broken pieces and of the fish. Those who had eaten the loaves numbered five thousand men. 

It was a scene painted on the wall of a church classroom. The best I can remember was a large mural. It filled most of the wall. Someone had painted the Galilean countryside with hundreds of people. I don’t know how many figures were there. At least five thousand! Nobody took the time to count.

Somewhere near the bottom of the picture, if you were looking for him, you could make out the figure of Jesus. He blended in. He was in the center of the picture. Of course he was. He was holding up what now seems to have been a loaf of bread. The rest of the story remained untold.

Even so, sitting on one of those little chairs as a second grader, it was a curious story to see. Didn’t need to hear it – we could see it. It was somewhere on the scale between amazing and ridiculous. How was Jesus going to feed so many people with such a little bit of food? No idea. And the story never explains it.

I grew up in the church. We had plenty of potluck meals. Sometimes more people showed up than anybody expected. A few of them even came without any dishes to share. No one was ever turned away. Seeing the unexpected crowd, a few nervous parents whispered, “Take a little bit, we will eat at home.” Another nervous person slipped out to bring back a couple of buckets of chicken. But there was always enough to eat. Nobody went hungry, not that night.

Out in the kitchen, the miracle was explained with a smile: “Loaves and fishes.” As if to say, “He did it again.” To this day, that experience, as with this Bible story, was a complete mystery to me. It still is. I don’t know what happened then - or way back then. All I know is that nobody went hungry.

It was a mystery then. It still is. About all I know is the miracle cannot be replicated. We cannot make it happen on demand.

Picture five thousand people. How many people is a multitude like that? In the statistics available to me, when the Scranton/Wilkes-Barre RailRiders are playing well, about five thousand people show up for a game. Last year, the average attendance was 4,944. Close enough for the Gospel of Mark – and who’s counting? Imagine your preacher out on the pitcher’s mound, breaking two loaves of bread and shouting, “Come and get it!” Oh no.

If I were in charge, somebody would slip away to Chickie and Pete’s for some crab fries, somebody else would head over to Smokehouse BBQ or Pinstripe Pizza. Bread is not multiplied on demand, as if God’s waiting around to do whatever we ask. As the scriptures teach, “You shall not put the Lord your God to the test” (Deuteronomy 6:16). God may be generous, but grace does not come out of a faucet.

No, God remains shrouded in mystery. Always present, or so we trust, but rarely obvious. Were there many in that Galilean crowd who could see the miracle in motion? Doesn’t sound like it. The loaves and fish simply multiplied. Nobody knows how. It just happened. God is generous like that, generous without conditions. Jesus had taught as much: “God shines his sun on the evil and on the good, sends the rain on the righteous and the unrighteous.” (Matthew 5:45) That is generosity from heaven. It is unconditional. It just comes.

And for those who knew the Bible stories, they understood this. Years before, the prophet Elisha saw a hungry crowd. Turning to a certain man who had twenty loaves of barley bread, he said, “Give it to the hungry people and let them eat.” The man said, “But there’s a hundred people!” Elisha said, “Let me repeat myself: feed the people with what you have. There will be leftovers.” And there was. (2 Kings 4:42-44)  

Jesus says the same to his twelve disciples, “Give them something to eat.” It was a long, hot day. The crowd was large. There were no cafeterias around. The disciples would have been happy if Jesus has stopped teaching, stopped talking, adjourned the lesson, and turned them loose. But no, this is Jesus, who had compassion for these human sheep who had no other shepherd. He says, “You give them something to eat.” And we realize he is no longer teaching the people in that crowd. He is instructing the twelve people who stand closest to himself.

So, what do they do? They start fussing about the cost. That’s usually the first way to resist a new ministry. Somebody wants to see the budget. They want to tally the cost of goods and services, discuss if this is a charity or a profit center, debate if this is a good time for the start up. How much money are we talking about? The answer: “Two hundred days’ wages.” Well, what’s a day’s wage? How much do you think a day’s wage is?

For comparison, one of my musician friends expects three hundred dollars to play for a concert. That’s three hundred dollars for a day’s wage, times two hundred days, equals $60,000 to feed five thousand people. “We don’t have that kind of money?” So, the disciples fuss about the expense while five thousand hungry people are sitting quietly in front of them.

And Jesus says, “You give them something to eat.” They freeze in place, look at him, then look around. “Well, what do we have? Who brought any food? Anybody have something to give to the crowd?” All they find is five loaves of bread and a couple of fish. “And if we cut up the bread in really small pieces, it’s still not going to be enough.” What can we do with such limited resources, in the face of enormous need?

“What can we do?” Yes, what can we do? I have overheard some folks talk like that, especially when they step out of their comfortable church buildings to move among the hungry. The need is often out of sight, and it is overwhelming. So, maybe they prefer to stay inside, polish the stained glass, and renovate the organ one more time. It is a great way to avoid what lies outside – because we will never have volunteers, time, money, or food to feed all the hungry.

Plus, there are the structural issues, the invisible dynamics that keep people hungry. Like those kids we know, so excited to head off to Appalachia to repair the broken houses in a needy area. The first year, they felt so good about it. Next year, they went back to the same community to extend the work, only to discover a lot of those houses they had fixed were broken again. You cannot fix broken, hungry lives if you go as a tourist. The need is too great.

And Jesus teaches his disciples, by saying, “You give them something to eat.” Pretty soon, they realize they cannot do it all; so much for the illusion of being “victorious” (that’s Lesson Number One). They hear his command for them to do something (that’s Lesson Number Two). They give what they have to Jesus (and that’s Lesson Number Three). Five loaves, two fish, it is not much in the presence of enormous need.

Yet notice what Jesus does. He works with four verbs: took, blessed, broke, gave. These are the same exact verbs for his table at the Last Supper: took, blessed, broke, gave. They are four verbs that define his mission to the world: took, blessed, broke, gave. These verbs still define his mission to the world through us.

He took the bread. It is not enough. It’s never enough. Yet it is the community collection, the accumulated resources, the gathered offering to benefit everybody else. It is no longer private, no longer hoarded, no longer kept while others do without. He took it all because they offered it all.

He blessed it. That is, he sanctified what they offered as an offering to God. Jesus was a good Jew. No doubt he used the Good Jewish Prayer before every big meal: Baruch-ata Adonai Elohenu, Melech ha–olam ha-motz-i lechem min ha'ar-etz. That is, “Blessed are you, O Lord our God, ruler of the universe, who brings forth bread from the earth.” It is God who is blessed, blessed and affirmed, as the Source of all our food. We offer gratitude to God at our tables, for food does not originate from us.

Then he broke it. Broke it? Yes, broke it. If offered to God, it cannot stay the way it was. It cannot remain untouched or intact. Like every gift from God, the bread is to be utilized. Like Passover bread, the Bread of Affliction, the bread is broken to acknowledge that we are broken. We are broken by the world’s pain, the world’s starvation. And we are broken open to do something about it.

Then he gave it away. Of course he did. Giving is generosity. Generosity is grace in action. It is offered freely, without restriction. What Jesus receives from us is processed through him. What he blesses and breaks is given away. Our gifts always cycled forward, provided we do not hold them back in any way. We give because Jesus gives, because it is the very nature of God to give.

If there is any miracle in this Bible story this morning, it is not that Jesus once did a magic trick in a land faraway. No, the miracle is that God keeps giving. The generosity is all around us, waiting for us to participate. In Jesus Christ, God takes, blesses, breaks, and gives. In the end, there is – and there always shall be – plenty for everyone.

 

It’s true: there really is enough for everybody. What we must work on is the distribution plan. That’s why Jesus keeps saying to us, “You give them something to eat.” He could have agreed with the twelve and sent everybody back to their towns and scramble for the next meal, but he didn’t do that. He could have could have snapped his fingers and created free food forever for everybody, but he didn’t do that, either. No, instead he announced the dominion of God, where bread is collected, blessed, broken, and shared, and all of us take part. Jesus stands at the center. In his kingdom, there is little distinction between giving and receiving. It is all a circulatory system of grace.

 

Did you ever hear about the monk who sat down at the dinner table in the monastery one night? Someone passed him the basket of bread. He pulled off a generous piece. The bread was still warm. He took a knife to spread butter and it oozed into the crevices. The taste was sweet. The smell was overwhelming. Even though the brothers took a vow of silence, he couldn’t help himself and he exclaimed, “This bread is so delicious. It smells wonderful. It tastes so good. Did we bake this bread or was it given to us as a gift?”

 

The abbot turned to him, smiled, and said, “Yes!”

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

A Gracious Invitation

Mark 6:30-34
July 21, 2024
William G. Carter

The apostles gathered around Jesus, and told him all that they had done and taught. He said to them, “Come away to a deserted place all by yourselves and rest a while.” For many were coming and going, and they had no leisure even to eat. And they went away in the boat to a deserted place by themselves. Now many saw them going and recognized them, and they hurried there on foot from all the towns and arrived ahead of them. As he went ashore, he saw a great crowd; and he had compassion for them, because they were like sheep without a shepherd; and he began to teach them many things.

 

I don’t know of a more inviting invitation: “Come away to a deserted place all by yourselves and rest a while.” Jesus speaks to the woman who cannot sleep, to the child who is anxious, and to the man is bone-tired. Come . . . rest. The invitation is gentle, not forceful. He speaks from a level place, a humble place. His invitation is for all us. Everybody come, come and rest.

What intrigues me is why so many people turn him down. Have you ever noticed that?

Some of us resist because of how we have been shaped. I think of my father who always put in a long day’s work. He was raised on a farm and filled all his spare time with activity.    At his desk by eight every morning, home for supper by six, then he would change his clothes and go outside for a few more hours of labor. Every day was long and there was precious little rest.

There are a lot of people like that. They can quote the Bible: “Idle hands are the Devil’s workshop,” says one version of a verse from the book of Proverbs.[1] Or there is that section that somebody read to us at dawn at the teenage Bible camp:

            How long will you lie there, O sluggard? When will you arise from your sleep?
            A little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to rest,
            and poverty will come upon you like a vagabond, and want like an armed man.[2]

This is a compelling lesson from nature. In case you don’t know what a “sluggard” is, the New Revised Standard translates the word as “lazybones.” Go the hard-working ant, O lazybones, and learn your lesson. Work hard. Don’t ever sit still. The Calvinists didn’t invent a hard work ethic. They found it in their Bibles.

Yet the Bible also issues the invitation to rest. According to the Greek dictionary, to rest is “to cease from movement or labor in order to recover and collect (one’s) strength.” We don’t need a dictionary to tell us that. We know what rest is. The problem is we don’t do it very well. 

As Jesus suggests, this is a matter of the soul. Elsewhere, he says, “Come to me, and I will give you rest for your souls.” The soul is the part of us that’s alive. It is the intersection of thought, feeling, and breath. It is the gift breathed into us by God’s Spirit that makes us human. The soul is the wellspring of our dreams, the anchor for our imagination, the seat of all passion and hope.

And the soul is also the part of us that can be traumatized, anxious, and fearful. When a soul is wounded, one typical response is to keep pushing on, persisting through, often in the vain hope that if we just add another inch to the span of our day, we will speed by or gloss over the deep wound that we are trying to avoid.

That’s what Wayne Muller identified as he reflected on the practice of keeping Sabbath – and why so many people resist it. He writes:

This is one of our fears of quiet; if we stop and listen, we will hear this emptiness. If we worry we are not good or whole inside, we will be reluctant to stop and rest, afraid we will find a lurking emptiness, a terrible, aching void with nothing to fill it... If we are terrified of what we will find in rest, we will refuse to look up from our work, refuse to stop loving. We quickly fill all the blanks on our calendar with tasks, accomplishments, errands, things to be done . . . anything to fill the time, the empty space.[3]  

He is right about that. At restaurants or over kitchen tables, some folks would rather stay attached to their smart phones than have an intelligent conversation. Or go the shore to breathe some fresh, ocean air. Then you notice the people at the next umbrella check in with the office from their laptops.

Most of us do this. One summer, I spent a week in a remote monastery, fifteen miles from the highway, seventy-five miles from nowhere. I was furious that I couldn't get a cell phone signal. Not even if I stood on a rock with one arm extended as an antenna.

Why do we resist the rest that restores our souls? I can tell you it's easier to preach on Sabbath than to observe it. Perhaps the fuzzy nature of our lives is addictive. To hear some folks talk, they have resigned themselves to the weariness and befriended the heavy burdens.

Yet the invitation or Jesus persists. "Come away and rest." Not come to church. Not come to another meeting. Not one more spiritual exercise to check on the to-do list. Not one more thing before gulping down another late meal. "Come away," he says, which by implication is a “come away with me.” It is gentle, far gentler than we are willing to be with ourselves.

I think, at heart, this is an invitation to grace. We come away with Jesus by hearing him say that every one of us has inestimable value. We come by chewing on his promise that we “do not live by bread alone;” he speaks the life-giving words that come from God. We come by paying attention to the birds of the air, noticing how they are cared for by an Unseen Benevolence. We come by admiring the wildflowers that shimmer with beauty we did not plant.

Life is all about grace, the invisible goodness and favor which creates and surrounds all life. If all we know is weariness and burden, then it is time to pause, to step out of the fray, and explore the truth that everything is a gift, a generous gift. We can do this any time during a day.

A friend who is a spiritual director keeps a votive candle and a couple of matches in his desk. A few times during the day, he physically pushes back from his desk and creates his portable monastery. After chewing on a few verses from a psalm, he sits in silence, takes a breath, and starts up again. "More often than not," he confesses, "I am strangely refreshed."

We know all of this; but blessed are those who do it. And blessed are you for carving out the time to spend an hour in worship. I do not take that for granted. This is a pause within the week to welcome the grace of Christ who does not expect you to produce anything for this hour. He invited you to lean back into the eternal arms.

Wendell Berry, the Kentucky poet farmer, is a keen observer of grace. For forty-five years, he has taken a Sunday walk, sat beneath a big Sabbath tree, and written short verses on some of these themes. In the preface of his last collection of poems, he wrote:

We are to rest on the Sabbath in order to understand that the providence or the productivity of the living world, the most essential work, continues while we rest. This work is entirely independent of our work, and is far more complex and wonderful tha any work we have ever done or will ever do. It is more complex and beautiful than we will ever understand.[4]

What he has discovered is that the world doesn’t revolve around him, any more than it rotates around you or me. His invitation is to choose the better portion, to orbit around the One who makes all of it, to return to the One who fills all things with abundant life.

“Come to me . . . and I will give you rest.” That’s why the invitation persists. We don’t rest once and then think we’re done with it. Neither do we sit on our hands while others labor to benefit us. A full life is a rhythm of work and rest, of task and reflection. And if life is out of balance, if the rhythm is limping, the invitation is to come, to keep coming, to persist in coming to the grace of Jesus Christ.

At its heart, this kind of rest is about one thing: what will fill me with God’s abundant life? What will restore my soul?  What are the practices that create a song in my heart? What is it, for you, that brings you totally alive? That’s the kind of rest we’re talking about.

 Every one of us has an answer unique based on who they are, how they are growing, and how they are wondrously made. In my house, my wife picks up yarn and needles, and imagines a hat for a premature infant; although these days, she is just as likely to design and create a kitchen table or a backyard deck. It is an awesome thing to be married to a woman with a nail gun. Meanwhile I sit in my red chair, juggling metaphors or scratching out a new jazz melody. All of us are wired differently.

The lady up the street has an enormous flower garden; tending it is what gives her life. Or there’s the man who persists in welcoming cast-off puppies; they keep him company and he returns the favor.

For some people, it’s running marathons (which I can’t understand) or singing difficult songs (which I do). For other people, it is providing a happy table, where joy is the main course.

For some people, it’s the solitary work of quiet prayer for the needs of the world. For others, it’s translating those prayers into acts of mercy and justice. It gives life to them and to others.

This is what it means to come to Christ in restorative rest. In the grace of God, we find what gives us life and we pursue it. And we keep pursuing it, not for the sake of indulgence, but in the pursuit of a greater integration and health. This is a different kind of yoke to be placed upon our shoulders. We give up all the other slaveries and take on the disciplines that heal our souls.

That’s why we keep coming into this place for worship. For this is where we hear once again how much we are loved, how deeply we are saved, and how greatly the world is kept in hands far more gracious and just than our own.

May you have a blessed Sabbath, again and again.

(c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved.
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[1] Proverbs 16:23, The Living Bible
[2] Proverbs 6:6-11, Revised Standard Version
[3] Wayne Muller, Sabbath (New York: Bantam, 1999) 51-52
[4] Wendell Berry, This Day: Collected and New Sabbath Poems (Berkeley: Counterpoint Press, 2013), introduction.

Neither Cold Nor Hot (Laodicea)

Revelation 3:14-22

Pentecost 6

July 7, 2024

William G. Carter



“And to the angel of the church in Laodicea write: The words of the Amen, the faithful and true witness, the origin of God’s creation: “I know your works; you are neither cold nor hot. I wish that you were either cold or hot. So, because you are lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I am about to spit you out of my mouth. For you say, ‘I am rich, I have prospered, and I need nothing.’ You do not realize that you are wretched, pitiable, poor, blind, and naked. Therefore I counsel you to buy from me gold refined by fire so that you may be rich; and white robes to clothe you and to keep the shame of your nakedness from being seen; and salve to anoint your eyes so that you may see. I reprove and discipline those whom I love. Be earnest, therefore, and repent. Listen! I am standing at the door, knocking; if you hear my voice and open the door, I will come in to you and eat with you, and you with me. To the one who conquers I will give a place with me on my throne, just as I myself conquered and sat down with my Father on his throne. Let anyone who has an ear listen to what the Spirit is saying to the churches.”

It was a portrait in stained glass, the first window on the right in the transept. A figure stands outside a closed door. His right fist is raised. He is ready to knock. If we did not have this scripture text, we could still identify the figure. The brown beard, the white tunic with a red wrap – looks just like Jesus.

Looks like our bulletin cover, too. This dramatic picture of Jesus knocking the door, waiting to be welcomed – it is a common image in religious art. It’s a picture that shows up in a couple of couple of church hymns. Some of you may be old enough to remember the first line of a hymn from 1867:

O Jesus, thou art standing outside the fast-closed door,

In lowly patience waiting to pass the threshold door.

That one didn’t make the cut for our new hymnal, but right after the sermon we will sing a great, old spiritual.

Somebody’s knocking at your door. Somebody’s knocking at your door.

O sinner, why won’t you answer? Somebody’s knocking at your door.

Knocks like Jesus! Somebody’s knocking at your door.

The insistent refrain defines the scene. Knock, knock, knock! He wants to be let in. Open the door. Let him in. But the people inside don’t seem to be paying attention.

It’s remarkable, given the way the book of Revelation begins. The prophet John hears a Voice, then falls to his knees with a vision. It’s the Heavenly Christ, in the full power of the Resurrection. His eyes are burning. His face shines like the sun. His Voice thunders – and he holds seven stars in his right hand. His Word cuts like an enormous sword. Why does he bother to knock? Why not blast the door in? He has the power.

John is telling us something true about the Gospel. Christ rules eternally over both universe and church. Yet we can’t see him unless we open the door. Not yet. Oh, the day will come when his gracious dominion will be obvious to all. But here, now, just as back then, Christ is knocking, and the door remains shut.

Now, I suppose we can take this in personal terms, but Jesus is writing to a church. The church in Laodicea was different from the other six that received letters from the Lord. Ephesus was a hot bed of persecution, but not in Laodicea. Smyrna was impoverished, but not Laodicea; when devastated by an earthquake, the city leaders told the Empire, “We do not need any help from you. We have plenty of money to rebuild.” Pergamum and Thyratira were overrun by evil, Laodicea was doing just fine. Sardis was a dead town, Laodicea was alive. Philadelphia struggled, but Christ set before them “an open door” of opportunity. By contrast, Laodicea’s door remained shut.

 What was the problem? It was a wealthy city, with strong financial institutions and a thriving textile industry. The city had art and culture, evidence of its affluence. There was a medical college that specialized in curing eye diseases. It was a most impressive city.

 Yet it had one enormous problem: there was no fresh drinking water nearby. The city planners thought they had addressed the shortage through an ingenious series of aqueducts. They brought in cold water from a town six miles to the south. From the city of Hieropolis to the north, they piped in water from the hot springs. Great ideas, but by the time the cold water came down it had warmed up. The hot water cooled off. All of it left a calcium residue, which tasted awful – and the water was lukewarm. Yuck.

So, Jesus dictates this letter and gives the church in that city a sharp elbow. Pokes them where it hurts. They aren’t hot. They aren’t cold. They’re not…anything. Well, they are something. They are a disappointment.

The faith in the Laodicea church resembles the cup of coffee that I left on my desk and forgot about. That was bad enough. And I had brought up some dairy creamer from the church kitchen and it left on the warm office shelf. It curdled my lukewarm coffee. I considered drinking it anyway. One sip, and I decided to throw it out.

Jesus says, “Laodicea Church, you’re not hot. You’re not cold. You’re lukewarm.” In King James language, “I want to spew you from my mouth.” They had money, they had fashion, they had medicine, they had an extremely comfortable lifestyle. Didn’t have to labor for anything. So, Eugene Peterson comments, “Lukewarmness is the special fault of the successful. Those who have achieved or inherited are particularly prone to it. It is a basic threat to our church and our Christian faith.”[1] Neither hot nor cold; lukewarm.

When she joined our congregation, folks thought she was so full of promise. She came every Sunday, brought in her friends, sang with exuberance. She came to Bible studies, tried out the choir rehearsals, and signed up for all the events she could get to. Her enthusiasm was matched by a most generous weekly donation. People noticed.

Somehow, she went missing. A deacon called, had to leave a message. The pastor called, she said, “I’ll have talk later, I’m getting a bigger car.” Somebody saw her at the garden shop; she waved and kept moving. And then she was out of sight. Everything OK? “Sure, all’s fine, see you on Christmas Eve.” She missed that, too. All the while, the generous donations kept coming in. But can I say it? It did not seem her heart was in it.

What happened? I don’t know. You tell me. I’m paid to show up, plus I enjoy the work. Yet why do the warm souls fizzle out. Why do the chosen stay frozen? Who knows?

• Maybe it’s the rumor in the hallway or the plot in the parking lot.
• Or somebody flinches when the Gospel challenges them, so they back off.
• Or they try to get their way and can’t.
• Or they make a suggestion, and nobody listens.
• Or they believe everybody should agree with them, and they don’t.
• Or some insect crawls up their nostril and they can’t get over it.
• Perhaps they learn the hard way that the church is full of sinners. Every pew has a sinner.
• Or they have some distaste in discovering all the sinners get forgiven. 

Any of it, or all of it. I don’t know. But remember, Jesus is writing to a church, not a person. And in that light, Eugene Peterson may have it nailed when he says a lukewarm church can be diagnosed with a single word: affluence. The evidence from Laodicea is compelling. Jesus quotes what he overhears from the Laodicean church parking lot. The people are saying, “I am rich, I have prospered, and I need nothing.”

To which Jesus counters, “Don’t you realize your own needs? You have so much, and you are so poor. You have a major eye clinic in your town, and you cannot see. You have a flourishing garment industry in your city, and your souls are naked. What a pitiful sight? I have the only gold to make you rich, and the Easter robe to cloth you, and the medicine to let you see.”

One thing more, he says: “And I love you. That is why I am talking to you this way.” Jesus loves the lukewarm church. Jesus loves the lukewarm people in the church. He raises his voice and knocks on the door. And he waits for them to warm up and come to their senses.

Now, he is knocking. He’s always knocking. The Jesus of eternity has given himself to church and world. He won’t back off. He commits to our wellbeing. He gives his life for the planet’s health. He refuses to be lukewarm about his mission to heal our broken spirits, ignite our frozen hearts, and straighten our tangled ways.

Yet we must do something about it. We cannot sit and watch for him to do it all. We cannot nod our heads in agreement, and then fold our arms in indifference. We cannot wait for others to step and do what Christ is nudging us to do. Otherwise, we are hiding behind an unlocked door. And he is on the other side - knock, knock, knock.

We can mute the sound. We can soften the insistence. We can postpone the response. And he’s still there – knock, knock, knock.

What happens if we open the door, just a little bit? We see him nod in recognition. If we open a little more, we discover he’s not going to blast it down; the responsibility has been given to us. And if we pull the door completely open, he doesn’t yell. He doesn’t say, “Why did it take you so long?”

No, Jesus leans in the threshold to say, “How about if we get something to eat?” Just a little bread, just a little wine. That’s all we need to welcome his love. Some bread and wine … and a door that we have opened.

Let anyone who has an ear listen to what the Spirit is saying to the churches.

 

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

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[1] Eugene Peterson, The Hallelujah Banquet, (Colorado Springs: Waterbrook, 221) 137.