So That All Other Peoples

Acts 15:12-18
Jazz Communion

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

‘After this I will return,

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© William G. Carter. All rights reserved.

Background Articles:

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

For Those Who Believe

Mark 9:14-29
August 25, 2024

William G. Carter

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Forgetting to Bring Bread

Mark 8:1-21
August 10, 2024
William G. Carter

In those days when there was again a great crowd without anything to eat, Jesus called his disciples and said to them, “I have compassion for the crowd, because they have been with me now for three days and have nothing to eat. If I send them away hungry to their homes, they will faint on the way—and some of them have come from a great distance.” His disciples replied, “How can one feed these people with bread here in the desert?” He asked them, “How many loaves do you have?” They said, “Seven.” Then he ordered the crowd to sit down on the ground; and he took the seven loaves, and after giving thanks he broke them and gave them to his disciples to distribute; and they distributed them to the crowd. They had also a few small fish; and after blessing them, he ordered that these too should be distributed. They ate and were filled; and they took up the broken pieces left over, seven baskets full. Now there were about four thousand people. And he sent them away. And immediately he got into the boat with his disciples and went to the district of Dalmanutha.

 

The Pharisees came and began to argue with him, asking him for a sign from heaven, to test him. And he sighed deeply in his spirit and said, “Why does this generation ask for a sign? Truly I tell you, no sign will be given to this generation.” And he left them, and getting into the boat again, he went across to the other side.

 

Now the disciples had forgotten to bring any bread; and they had only one loaf with them in the boat. And he cautioned them, saying, “Watch out—beware of the yeast of the Pharisees and the yeast of Herod.” They said to one another, “It is because we have no bread.” And becoming aware of it, Jesus said to them, “Why are you talking about having no bread? Do you still not perceive or understand? Are your hearts hardened? Do you have eyes, and fail to see? Do you have ears, and fail to hear? And do you not remember? When I broke the five loaves for the five thousand, how many baskets full of broken pieces did you collect?” They said to him, “Twelve.” “And the seven for the four thousand, how many baskets full of broken pieces did you collect?” And they said to him, “Seven.” Then he said to them, “Do you not yet understand?”

Wait a second! Haven’t we heard this story before? Just two weeks ago, we were in chapter six. We heard about a large crowd that gathers around Jesus. He teaches them all afternoon, into the evening, way past supper time. They are hungry for everything he has to say. And their stomachs were growling, too. 

He turns to the twelve to say, “Give them something to eat!” They look at him, kind of dumbfounded, and return with five loaves and two fish. Jesus blesses God, breaks the food, and hands it out until it’s gone. Except that there are twelve baskets of leftovers. Something happened.

Here in chapter eight, it happens again. There’s a large crowd. They have been hanging around for three days. Jesus has been teaching all that time. They don’t have any food, either. Jesus says, “I’m afraid to sent them away; they may faint from hunger.” The disciples say, “How are we going to feed all these people?” (Apparently, they don’t remember chapter six.)

Jesus says, “How much food do you have?” They found some bread and a few fish. Same routine: he takes the bread, blesses God, breaks the bread, and gives it away. There are lots of leftovers.

Didn’t we just hear this story? Sure did! When we read the story in graduate school, one of my professors smiled slyly, then said, “Isn’t it the same story? Mark could have benefited from a good editor.” That’s a fair reaction.

Years ago, the Reader’s Digest put together a Bible, kind of a “Greatest Hits” Bible. They sanded down the splinters, glued together the important parts, worked at the narrative continuity, and said, “It’s a reading Bible.” They replaced the verse numbers with page numbers, all in the hope people would read the book. I don’t have one of those Reader’s Digest Bibles, but I’m pretty sure they cut out the repetition and told the great feeding story only one time. Why tell it again? Because it's important.

The account of the loaves and fish is one of the few stories that appears in all four Gospels. Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John all tell of a crucifixion and a resurrection, but they also tell about the multiplication of loaves and fish. They all say there was a crowd, they were hungry, and they were fed – with leftovers.

There’s something about this story that is central to the ministry of Jesus. It’s why his church still feeds people in fellowship meals and food pantries. Food is central to life. As Frederick Buechner once quipped, “We do not live by bread alone, but we don’t live long without it, either.”[1]

All this is true. It still doesn’t explain why Mark tells the story twice. No doubt, Mark was a preacher. My kids say, “Dad, do all preachers say the same things over and over?” I respond, “Repetition is good for you. The point might sink in.”

Except that nothing seems to be sinking in with the twelve disciples! Jesus fed a huge crowd with a few loaves and fish. Now, there’s another huge hungry crowd, and the disciples ask, “How are we going to feed a crowd like that?” And Jesus says, “Uhh, Hello!” The words “Uhh, hello!” do not appear in the text, but we can be pretty sure he said it.

For the story proceeds. The Pharisees draw near, buzz around him like hornets, and say, “Hey, give us a sign from heaven!” Jesus groans. “Why do these people want a sign?” Well, maybe because the Pharisees weren’t around either of the two mass feeding miracles. That would have been a sign. Not that it would have done any good!

And hear what happens next: the disciples get in the boat, cross the sea one more time, and Mark says, “They didn’t bring any bread, just had one small loaf.” Meanwhile, Jesus is speaking, “Beware of the yeast of the Pharisees and the yeast of Herod.” One of the fishermen said, “Did somebody tell him we didn’t bring enough bread?”

With this, Jesus hollers, “Stop right here. Drop anchor!” (I know that’s not in the text, but he said it.) And he says, “We are going to have a little talk about bread. When I broke the five loaves for the five thousand, how many baskets of broken pieces did you collect?” And they said, “Uhh…twelve?”

“And when I broke the seven loaves for the four thousand, how many baskets of broken pieces did you collect?” They said, “Uhh… seven?” Then he saith unto them, “Don’t you get it?” And that is the point of the story, both stories, all the stories between those two stories, and all the stories around them. They don’t get it. They never quite get it. Even when Simon Peter speaks up to say, “Oh, I get it: you’re the Christ,” he doesn’t get it. He thinks the Christ is a superhero, rather than a servant who gives life away to others.”

Now, to be fair, who really understands? If you were here last Sunday, I left you dangling after the account of Jesus walking on the water. Remember that? Jesus walked on the water and intended to pass them by, says Mark. But then he got into their boat, and they were “beside themselves.” Out of their minds. Full of the fear of the Lord. They did not understand. Mark says, “Their hearts were hardened.”

In her commentary on the Gospel of Mark, Mary Ann Tolbert says we should have seen it coming. Jesus told them, “There is a Sower throwing around Gospel seed and some of it bounces off hard soil.” He throws it and it never takes root. And Jesus has been dealing with this from the beginning. They asked him, “Why do you teach everything in parables?” His response was to quote the prophet Isaiah, “I teach in parables so that people won’t understand.”[2]

Is that harsh? Maybe. Or perhaps it is realistic. Why aren’t our churches full? Maybe this God Stuff is too much for folks to take in. I don’t know; we might have to talk about that at coffee hour and do so with some honest sympathy.

What I do know is what John Calvin wrote, that one of the signs of our all-too-human condition is a quality of dullness.[3] There is something in us that simply cannot process the glory of God. It’s too big, too marvelous, too wonderful, too exhausting, too bright, too overwhelming, too frightening. And so, we back off, or look somewhere else, or just stop looking at all. The heart calcifies. The eyes shut. Dullness seeps in.

I have reflected on a trip years ago to the Canadian Rockies. I’ve been there twice, I love it. I would go back in a minute. The mountains are majestic. The beauty is bracing. Thanks to the granite dust from glaciers, the lakes are an unreal color, somewhere between azure and cerulean blue. It’s a stunning place. If you ever want to get rid of me sometime, send me to the Canadian Rockies.

At least, that’s what I say. The reality is that halfway through a twelve-day trip, about six hundred miles into our big loop, I started to grow tired. Those great mountains, eleven thousand feet high, capped with snow fields, it takes about an hour to drive around one of them. And you can’t do it quickly. It’s slow going. We came around the bend, and I’d say, “Oh, right, another mountain.” Another hundred miles, it was, “Ho hum, another mountain.” I love those mountains. I stopped looking at the mountains because there were so many of them.

That’s “dullness,” as John Calvin would call it. An overdose of glory and you stop looking at it.

You know, over the years some of us have fantasized, “What would it be like if we could have seen Jesus?” Listened to his voice? Walked with him? Watched what he did, heard what he said, went where he went? Well, the Gospel of Mark doesn’t glamorize it very much. If anything, Mark says we would miss a lot, because the disciples missed a lot – and they were with him every day. That should keep us humble.

Humility is certainly one of the discipleship lessons that emerges from so many of these accounts. We get the sense there’s more to Jesus than we can take in. He loves more people than we do. He goes where we are afraid to go. He takes risks when we’d rather play it safe. According to Mark, he never stops. Even when somebody nails him down on wood, he breaks free. It’s a bigger story than we can comprehend and that’s OK. Stay humble.

But there’s something else about Mark. He doesn’t need an editor, as my professor once said. Rather Mark has been most careful in how he positions his stories. On day one, Jesus steps in the synagogue to teach and casts out an evil spirit. He mends a man, and the people say, “Never had a lesson like that!” Then he steps over the book of Leviticus and touches a person with leprosy. While the healed person dances away, some scratch their heads to say, “Was that legal for him to do that?”

Then he gets in the boat, goes back and forth across the sea, over to the Jews, over to the Gentiles, back to the Jews, back to the Gentiles, back and forth between them, announcing God has a dominion where everybody can flourish together. Nobody understands that kind of boundary crossing.

And then, all those disciple stories. As someone calls them, “duh-ciples.” Dull-ciples. He feeds a multitude, not once but twice, and for all we know, maybe more times than that. They get in the boat one more time, and the disciples say, “Oh yeah, we forgot to bring any bread.” It’s enough to make you want to holler, “Don’t you knuckleheads get it? Don’t you see who this is?” When that exclamation rises in our souls, Mark has done his work.

The Gospel of Mark will do anything to invite us – or provoke us – to see that Jesus is the Christ. He wants us to trust that Jesus is the Suffering Servant who lives abundantly. He wants us to know Jesus steps over any artificial division that punishes or excludes. He wants us to see Jesus is the Son of the Most High God that no religion can capture or codify. And he is invites us to trust Jesus is the One who will love us to the end, and the One who will lift us up after the world lets us down.

Admittedly, this is a lot to take in. It’s greater than our natural understanding. It’s deeper than we realized. It’s clearer than the spiritual cataracts that form on eyes of our hearts. Yet once in a while, the glory breaks like the dawn. The shadows are punctured by light. The fog evaporates. We see what has been before us the whole time, that the dominion of God is right here. Right here.

 

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

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[1] Frederick Buechner, Wishful Thinking: A Theological ABC (New York: HarperCollins, 1973).

[2] Mark 4:11-12, on Isaiah 6:9-10.

[3] John Calvin, The Institutes of the Christian Religion, 2.2.12 – “Indeed, man’s mind, because of its dullness, cannot hold to the right path, but wanders through various errors and stumbles repeatedly, as if it were groping in darkness, until it strays away and finally disappears. Thus, it betrays how incapable it is of seeking and finding truth.”

Pass Me Not

Mark 6:45-52
August 4, 2024
William G. Carter

Immediately Jesus made his disciples get into the boat and go on ahead to the other side, to Bethsaida, while he dismissed the crowd. After saying farewell to them, he went up on the mountain to pray.

 

When evening came, the boat was out on the sea, and he was alone on the land. When he saw that they were straining at the oars against an adverse wind, he came towards them early in the morning, walking on the sea. He intended to pass them by. But when they saw him walking on the sea, they thought it was a ghost and cried out; for they all saw him and were terrified. But immediately he spoke to them and said, “Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid.” Then he got into the boat with them and the wind ceased. And they were utterly astounded, for they did not understand about the loaves, but their hearts were hardened.

 

Of all the Bible stories I’ve ever heard, this may be the hardest to understand. It has so many strange details, I’m not sure which one is the strangest.

You may remember the setting from last week. Jesus had a long day of teaching. He had a hungry crowd of five thousand or so. Somehow, thanks to him, everybody was fed. A day like that had to be exhilarating and exhausting. The emotions go hand in hand. It was a big day. Quite the accomplishment. Talk all day, sustain the interest, give them what you know – and then, preside over a poor person’s banquet.

Nobody would be surprised when he said to the crowd, “It’s time for you to go.” Having to oversee obstinate disciples, it’s no surprise he said, “You too. Get in the boat and start rowing.” He backed away from all of them, then walked up the long hill to step away for a while. It was time to pray, to offer thanks to God for the teaching and the feeding. It was time to catch his breath and stay grounded. There’s nothing unusual about that.

But then the curious details emerge. Mark says Jesus had his eye on the twelve disciples. They weren’t getting very far in that big fishing boat. Oh, they were rowing as hard as they could. And they had been at it for a while. Jesus told them to go to Bethsaida, about five miles across the northern shore of the Sea of Galilee. But by the middle of the night, they weren’t getting anywhere. We can take that as a metaphor for their spiritual condition.

There they were, pumping their arms as hard as they could. The wind was blowing right at them. It’s a cartoonish image. Row, row, row, get nowhere – and for commercial fishermen, they didn’t have far to go. Jesus comes down from the hill, stands on the shore, and sees those disciples aren’t making a lot of progress. It’s a comical scene. It’s a strange detail.

Yet it’s not as strange as what comes next. When Jesus sees they haven’t moved very far, he steps onto the water and starts moving toward them. Some have made this joke, and say, “He knew where the rocks are.” If only! The Sea of Galilee goes deep very quickly on average about sixty feet deep. No rocks.

But there are winds, so there are waves. That body of water is exactly the same length as Lake Wallenpaupack, 13.05 miles. The Sea of Galilee is also the lowest freshwater lake on the plane. It’s 686 feet below sea level. Without notice, hot winds blow off the Mediterranean, drop down, swirl around the lake, stir up the water. The weather can be fierce and unpredictable. And Jesus walks on those waves, heading toward his disciples.

They see him. They think it’s a ghost. The sight strikes terror in their hearts. Seeing him is more frightening than the winds that are battering their boat. They shout. They cry out, which brings us to the next odd detail. It’s what he says to them. “Don’t be afraid!” We should expect that. It’s the Easter greeting. Then he says, “It is I,” or to put it literally, “I am!” All you Bible scholars know that is the name of God: “I am!”

But it’s that third affirmation which is most outrageous of all. According to our text, Jesus says, “Take heart!” That’s a sanitized translation. It really says, “Cheer up!” Cheer up? While the wind is blowing against you, you’re not getting anywhere, and you see a ghost? “Cheer up!” Really? It’s no wonder that when Jesus gets into the boat, and the winds suddenly cease, Mark tells us they were “beside themselves.” Astounded, stunned, and scared beyond words!

That’s most of the story. Most, but not all of it. For there’s one detail which I’m certain you heard, the strangest detail of all. When Jesus approached the boat full of disciples, Mark says, “He intended to pass them by.” Wait – the text said he stepped on the water to move toward them when they were in trouble. And now, we are told Jesus was going to move around them, beyond them? What was this, a race?

Usually, a rowboat moves a good bit quicker than those walking, although, as we’ve heard, “the wind was against them.” And what makes this so bizarre is the apparent indifference. Wouldn’t we expect the Savior to say to the wind what he said in chapter four: “Peace, be still”? And he doesn’t even have to say it. He climbs into the boat. The wind stops.

What’s more, the account is insistent: Jesus intended to pass them by. As if to say, he didn’t think it was necessary to stop. His aim was to keep going. This strange and curious note prompted the creation of a Gospel hymn, which Kay played on the organ:

Pass me not, O gentle Savior. Hear my humble cry!

While on others Thou art calling, do not pass me not.

It’s one of more than eight thousand Gospel songs by Fanny Crosby, a talented woman who knew all about trouble. And I believe it’s a sermon on this text. If not a sermon, at least a prayer. The Jesus we know is a busy savior. He has the whole world in his hands, his wounded hands. And there is a lot to carry on his shoulders. If you have a broken finger, he might commend you to the doctor’s office while he tends to those with broken hearts. And a lot of people call out for his attention. “Hey, I’m here. Don’t pass me by!”

Maybe this was Mark’s experience as a Gospel storyteller. He describes a Jesus who is on the go. He will pause to pray, but then he’s ready to go. Perhaps he was signaling to those twelve disciples of his, “Come on, boys. Stop dallying around. We have places to go, people to see, demons to cast back into hell.” Perhaps. 

Yet I think something else is going on. Mark may be the simplest of the Gospel writers, but he seems to know his Jewish Bible. In the ninth chapter of the wise old book of Job, Job tells the truth about God. He says, “God alone stretches out the heavens and treads on the waves of the sea.” Hear that? “He treads on the waves of the sea.” God does that. The One who makes the sea has mastered it.

And Job says more: “God performs wonders that cannot be fathomed, miracles that cannot be counted.” True enough. God created the laws of physics; therefor e God is greater than the laws of physics.

And listen to one more thing Job says: “When God passes by me, I cannot see him. When he goes by, I cannot perceive him.”[1] Sound familiar? Mark is giving us a sermon from the ninth chapter of Job. The punchline goes this, “If you don’t understand this Bible story, you are in good company.” Job didn’t understand God. Mark didn’t understand Jesus. The disciples didn’t comprehend God or Jesus. Neither do you nor me.

Say it any number of ways. According to the prophet Isaiah, God says, “My thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways my ways.”[2] Or listen to the apostle Paul as he tries to sum up the destiny of God’s comprehensive salvation, “How unsearchable are God’s judgments, and how inscrutable God’s ways!”[3] (Romans 11:33). In other words, God is bigger than our brains can process, holier than our little sins allow us to perceive, more mysterious than we can manage or control. In the language of today’s text, “He intended to pass them by.” We manage only what we can; the rest is left to awe, wonder, and appropriate reverence.

I was telling my friends about the prayer of George Washington Carver, the great Tuskegee scientist. He discovered over three hundred uses for the common peanut. A brilliant man, he nevertheless thought he could understand it all. According to one story, he prayed to God, “Lord, I don’t understand the purpose of your universe.” And God replied, “George, your brain isn’t big enough to understand more than a peanut. Just work with that.”

Do we understand? Yes and no. If yes, it quickly becomes no. And what about the twelve disciples, those who stayed closest to Jesus? Did they understand? Mark says, “They were utterly astounded, they were beside themselves.” No, they didn’t understand.

So, the lesson for today is both simple and difficult. Since we will never comprehend it, I’m not going to tell you what it is.

We will take this up again. See you next week.

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

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[1]Job 9:8, 10-11.

[2] Isaiah 55:8.

[3] Romans 11:33.

The God Who Gives - Homily at Jazz Mass

The God Who Gives
John 6:24-35
August 4, 2024 – Jazz @ St. Benedict’s, Clarks Summit

William G. Carter  

So when the crowd saw that neither Jesus nor his disciples were there, they themselves got into the boats and went to Capernaum looking for Jesus.

 

When they found him on the other side of the lake, they said to him, ‘Rabbi, when did you come here?’ Jesus answered them, ‘Very truly, I tell you, you are looking for me, not because you saw signs, but because you ate your fill of the loaves. Do not work for the food that perishes, but for the food that endures for eternal life, which the Son of Man will give you. For it is on him that God the Father has set his seal.’ Then they said to him, ‘What must we do to perform the works of God?’ Jesus answered them, ‘This is the work of God, that you believe in him whom he has sent.’ So they said to him, ‘What sign are you going to give us then, so that we may see it and believe you? What work are you performing? Our ancestors ate the manna in the wilderness; as it is written, “He gave them bread from heaven to eat.” ’ Then Jesus said to them, ‘Very truly, I tell you, it was not Moses who gave you the bread from heaven, but it is my Father who gives you the true bread from heaven. For the bread of God is that which comes down from heaven and gives life to the world.’ They said to him, ‘Sir, give us this bread always.’

 

Jesus said to them, ‘I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.

My father and I were there. We had a very tasty meal. Lunch was pita bread and tilapia. Our destination was Tabgha, a spot on the northern shore of the Sea of Galilee. It is a stone’s throw from the ruins of Capernaum, at the bottom of the hill where Jesus gave the Beatitudes. It is the place where Jesus multiplied the loaves and fish. 

These days, the Benedictines run a tourist chapel there. "Watch your step," said the bus driver, "and be sure to see the mosaic in the floor." If you’ve been to the Holy Land, you know how it works: pay your admission, work your way through the gift shop, and snap some pictures before the tour guide starts talking. True enough, the mosaic was a sight to behold. Little chunks of porcelain tile have been shaped into the image of loaves and fish.

Tabgha is the place. Last week in church, maybe you heard the story of what happened there. A large crowd gathered around Jesus. Five thousand people, they say. None of them were invited; they simply showed up. None of them were screened; they were all welcomed and fed, with a whole lot of food left over. Sounds like a church picnic! Loaves and fish.

We listened to the tour guide. At that point in the two-week trip, heard one, you’ve heard them all. He droned on, "The church is styled as a Byzantine Basilica. Over there we see the remains of a fifth century church." Blah, blah, blah. It’s the sort of thing you hear whenever you visit any of the sacred spots. I must confess I was underwhelmed. I did not even take any pictures.

You know, it is one thing to hear the Bible describe the generous feeding of the five thousand. It is another to stand right there, smell the fumes of tour buses, keep your eyes peeled for pickpockets, see the pious Orthodox kiss the floor and the indifferent Baptists look at their watches. Of all the spots I visited in the Holy Land, Tabgha was the biggest letdown.

It helps me understand why the crowd chased after Jesus the day after he fed them. The miracle was over. The leftovers were stale. Their empty stomachs were aching again, and Jesus had gone on ahead of them. Some of them figured, "We had a free meal once, let's get another." The rest followed along because they did not have anything else better to do.

They ask about his travels. "Rabbi, when did you come here?" Jesus talks right past them: "You are looking for me, not because of my signs, but because of your stomachs." Then he adds, "Don't work for perishable food. Pursue the enduring food that gives you life."

I wiped my brow at Tabgha and took a minute to scan the crowds. There was a large person in blue spandex bossing around a short little guy (must have been her husband). Three dark-eyed beauties were crossing themselves and praying in Italian, while their bored-looking taxi driver took a long drag on his cigarette. Over here, a few puffy Presbyterians posed for a photograph.

Why do people go to places like that? Why pay all the money and fly across the sea? We have a clue in what the people said in today’s text. "Our ancestors ate manna in the wilderness. Way back then, God gave them bread from heaven to eat. It happened long ago.”

I pondered that as I heard a tourist in Bermuda shorts say, "Evelyn, stand over there by that pretty mosaic. I will get a picture of you in the place where Jesus once fed the multitude. Smile!" For spiritual tourists, as for that ancient crowd chasing after Jesus, faith is remembering something that happened long ago. Mark the spot, snap the picture.

How does Jesus respond? He changes the tenses from past to present. He says, “Don’t look to Moses as if he gave you the bread of heaven. It is my Father who gives the true bread, the bread that comes down and gives life to the world. I am the bread of life." In that subtle shift of grammar is the fundamental change of perception from history to faith. Jesus reveals God into the present tense. That is the invitation to a living faith. It’s better than a misty memory.

In a way, it is a lot like jazz. My daughter once said, “Jazz musicians know how to play the old tunes because they perform for a lot of old people.” She is thirty-two. Yet under the inspiration of the Creative Spirit, jazz musicians aspire to bring the music alive. That’s what matters. Not merely the old tune but the living music, the toe-tapping, heart-stirring, abundant life-giving music. Here and now, alive! Can you tell the difference? I’ll bet you can.

We could visit the Red Sea and remember how God split the waters and brought the people out of slavery. We could remember that. Or we can look around and see where God continues to free the oppressed and lift up those once beaten down. The miracles continue.

We could rent a camel and ride out to Mount Sinai, and say, "Wow! Once upon a time, there was fire and smoke, and God gave us the Ten Commandments." Or we can look around to see people who don’t need the commandments bolted to a kindergarten wall because the Words of God are inscribed upon their hearts. They are living a faithful and obedient life in praise to God.

We could travel to ancient Bethlehem, make our way through the barbed wire, and drive out past a new row of condominiums. After the tour guide takes our money, he says, "This is the place that we sing about every December. You know, “Angels We Have Heard on High, Sweetly Singing Over the Condominiums Built Upon the Old Fields.” But we sing, "O Holy Child of Bethlehem, descend to us, we pray; cast out our sin and enter in, be born in us today."

Jesus Christ brings the ancient activity of God into the present tense. All he asks is that we trust that, that we trust him here and now. In the power of his resurrection, he is not bound by history. Rather he comes to feed us. For he is the Christ. He reveals the truth. The truth is the God who gave is the God who gives. Everything we need to flourish in life is given to us.

Do you believe that? Then, taste the Living Bread from heaven!

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