Mourning Into Morning

Psalm 30

Easter 3

April 10, 2016

William G. Carter

I will extol you, O Lord, for you have drawn me up, 

and did not let my foes rejoice over me.
O Lord my God, I cried to you for help, and you have healed me.
O Lord, you brought up my soul from Sheol, 

restored me to life from among those gone down to the Pit.

Sing praises to the Lord, O you his faithful ones, 

and give thanks to his holy name.
For his anger is but for a moment; his favor is for a lifetime.
Weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes with the morning.

As for me, I said in my prosperity, “I shall never be moved.”
By your favor, O Lord, you had established me as a strong mountain;
you hid your face; I was dismayed.

To you, O Lord, I cried, and to the Lord I made supplication:
“What profit is there in my death, if I go down to the Pit?
Will the dust praise you? Will it tell of your faithfulness?
Hear, O Lord, and be gracious to me! O Lord, be my helper!”

You have turned my mourning into dancing; 

you have taken off my sackcloth and clothed me with joy,
so that my soul may praise you and not be silent.
O Lord my God, I will give thanks to you forever.

Her living room was filled with shadows. The shades were pulled, the curtains were drawn, and no light had entered the room, even though the sun was shining outdoors. There was a solitary lamp on the table with the dim glow of a forty watt bulb. It’s the only light in a room filled with shadows. She looked at me and said, “When will I feel better?”

Can you imagine who she is? I haven’t told you anything else about her. Is she bearing a long illness, perhaps recovering from surgery? Perhaps that is why there is little light in the room.

Is she a widow, surrounded by empty tissue boxes, still in the numbness of grief? Maybe it is five months after the funeral and everybody else has gone back to their normal lives, and life for her will never be normal again.

Or is she someone who carries a burden that nobody ever sees. The son who moved away at seventeen is now in jail, the daughter has fallen again into thirty days of rehab, her best friend betrayed her in broad daylight, or she did something that embarrassed her which now is making headline news. It is hard for her to leave the shadows. She wants to know, “When will I feel better?”

The sermon today is for her, because the Psalm is for her. Psalm 30 is filled with joy, but as we get into it, we learn it is hard-earned joy. This ancient poem knows about the reality of trouble, and it doesn’t settle on what kind of trouble it is.

There are foes, some unnamed enemies. We don’t know who they are. There is a cry for help and a declaration of physical healing, leading the editor of our English Bible to add the line, “Recovery from a Grave Illness.” The poet says, “I was on the verge of death,” sharing some worry about falling into The Pit, a euphemism for “Sheol,” the resting place of the dead. There is also mention of “sackcloth,” the ancient garb of those who were contending with humiliation or grief.

So what’s going on here? The same thing that happens in a lot of the Psalms. The specific details have been sanded away. We have a poem that rings true for anybody who knows how it feels to be in trouble. And woven within each line is hope that someday we will feel better.

I remember the day in 1998 when my divorce announcement was published in the Scranton Times. I knew the day was coming. It has legally been in progress for a year and a half, and emotionally in progress for a lot longer than that. Even though there was time to get ready for it, seeing the single line in the legal notices was deeply embarrassing, a public announcement of my private failure. The irony was that I was starting to emerge from a long cocoon, feeling better than I had in years – and there it was, in black and white: an invitation to put on a sweater made from sackcloth. 

A lot of us know what it’s like to fall into the Pit. The Psalmist doesn’t need to explain that to anybody. A text like this is a good reminder for all of us that, on any given Sunday morning, we don’t know the full story of those sitting around us. They might have climbed out of wreckage to get here this morning. Thank God that they are here!

Psalm 30 testifies that life is eventually restored, that souls can be lifted up, that healing is possible and enemies will not finally rejoice. It will take a while for anybody to complete that emotional journey, but we do make our way through. And the Psalmist says this is the work of God. It is God who heals, God who lifts. Mourning (with a “u”) will lead to morning, the dawn of a new day.

When trouble draws close, it is hard to believe that. For the writer of the psalm, it felt like God was angry. Why else would we feel like we do? The questions come, as they always do. Am I being punished? If so, what did I do that was so wrong? Is this the kind of God we have, a God who inflicts pain on us? Wouldn’t it be better for God to send a lightning bolt and finish this off?

The feelings are real, and they are raw. I thought that I belonged to God; I believed God established me like a strong mountain . . . and now, I don’t even know where God is. It’s like a game of Holy Hide-and-Seek, and God is nowhere in sight.

But at that point, the poet gives us a lesson in good Jewish prayer. It’s in verses 8, 9, and 10. “You know, God, you won’t get any benefit if I go down to the Pit. If I go back to the dust, that dust isn’t going to praise you. The dirt won’t be able to tell of your reliability.”

Do you hear what he’s saying? He’s lifting a line from Father Abraham, “Will you wipe out a sinful city if you can find fifty good people there? Ok, well, how about forty? All right, then, thirty…twenty, or ten?” (Genesis 18) Come on, Lord, you can’t wipe out the few good people you would find, if only you took a closer look. Hey, that is a daring prayer.

Or there’s that good Jewish prayer from Moses. God sees the Israelites made a golden calf to worship, and God is so angry there is fire snorting out of the divine nostrils. God’s going to wipe them out. But Moses said, “Now, wait a second, Lord. You are the Lord who brought your own people out of slavery in Egypt. If you wipe them out, what are the Egyptians going to say? ‘Their own God stole our labor force, only to wipe them out in the mountains.’ You can’t do that, God. You have a reputation to maintain.”

I think this might be a pretty good way to pray. It’s like saying, “God, you went to the trouble to get me baptized, and tell everybody that I belong to you. Do you really think it’s a good idea to heap a lot of trouble on me and leave me in despair? Come on, Lord, think of your reputation! We call you Savior, and right now, we need a little saving, thank you very much.” Did you ever realize we can pray like that? That’s one of the ways the scripture teaches us to pray.

There’s no reason to remain stuck in the shadow when we have a God who separated the light from the darkness. There is no reason to be insulated or isolated when we really need God to help. And for those of us who have been carried through the desert on grace, we should tell the stories of how we came through to the other side. As somebody once said, “Church ought to be more like an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. It can be a place where we talk honestly about our struggles, hear stories of how others have gotten through them, and pursue the grace, healing, and courage to begin our lives all over again. If church is not going to be like that, you have to wonder what the big deal is about it.”[1]

The second beatitude of Jesus goes like this: “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” (Matthew 5:4). That sounds like his commentary on Psalm 30. He doesn’t say how it is going to happen, nor does he say how long it’s going to take.

Sometimes grief feels like you are standing in the deep end of the swimming pool. You look up through the murky water and see people up there laughing, talking, and moving around. You can see that, but not very clearly. Life has slowed down. But the promise of our text is when the time is right, when our souls have been tended, we will feel better, and life will improve.

Maybe it’s like the old woman, Miz Lil, that Walter Wangerin had in his congregation in Evansville, Indiana. He stopped by to see her sometime after her husband Douglas died, and she gave him a lesson in how mourning turns into morning.

Miz Lil was rubbing her stomach. “That’s where my grief is,” she said. “It’s a heavy stone in my stomach and it will not pass. I bear it every day because I lost my Douglas. You pray it to go away but it doesn’t go. You ask Jesus to remove it and he doesn’t take it away. And in time, you realize this is the way it is. In time, the sorrow that was your enemy becomes your friend. You realize we grieve because we love.”

She paused for a minute as her pastor began to weep. Then she said, “Douglas is not far from me, nor me from Douglas.[2] She told the story. That was her ministry in that moment. How does the Psalmist say it? “So that my soul may praise you and not be silent.”

The Psalmist says, “I cried to you for help and you have healed me.” The poet who writes those words is testifying to the saving love of God. He or she doesn’t say how long it took or how it happened, only that it’s true. For those of us who still wait in the shadows, here is the promise of our own personal Easter. It is true, and it is ahead of us. Some of us know that to be true, some of us are anticipating what God promises to do. And we certainly don’t want God to waste all the time and effort that God has already invested in us!

In December 1988, the world almost lost Dave Brubeck. Yes, that Dave Brubeck. He was having a serious of heart episodes and under the care of a cardiologist named Lawrence Cohen. Dave kept putting off bypass surgery because of his concert schedule, but his grueling schedule wasn’t doing him any favors. Finally Dr. Cohen ordered him to Yale New Haven Hospital in Connecticut.

When you have a world-famous patient, the cardiologist can get nervous. So Dr. Cohen pulled on his coat the night before his surgery, got in the car, and went to Brubeck’s hospital room. It’s 10:30 at night, and he walks in to discover his patient with music manuscript paper scattered all over his bed. He’s writing a piece of music because he couldn’t sleep.  

Dr. Cohen said, “What are you doing, writing a piece of music? It’s the night before your bypass surgery!” Dave looked up and said, “You’re a Jew; it’s one of your psalms. ‘What can you do, I Lord? Can the dust praise Thee if you put me down in the pit? And joy will come in the morning.’” Psalm 30.

The next day, the surgery went well. Months later, Dave took Dr. Cohen to the premiere of the piece, a big choral piece called “Joy Comes in the Morning” that he had dedicated to his cardiologist. They were sitting in the box and at one point in the performance, Brubeck was smirking. Suddenly Dr. Cohen realized why – Dave had created the bass line of the piece from a transcription of his own irregular heart beat. Right in the middle of the performance, both of them laughed out loud.[3]

Laughter is possible – do you believe that? Joy can come – can you believe it? Yes. Our God is an Easter God. God will lift our souls from Sheol and turn our mourning into a fresh new day.

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

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[1] Paraphrased from Frederick Buechner, Whistling in the Dark: A Doubter’s Dictionary (New York: Harper and Row, 1988) 4-5.

[2] Walter Wangerin Jr., Miz Lil and the Chronicles of Grace (New York: Harper and Row, 1988) 31-33.

[3] From a personal conversation, October 2000. Also reported to Hedrick Smith, http://www.pbs.org/brubeck/theMusic/brubeckRediscovers.htm

Blessed Are Those Who Arrive Late

John 20:19-31

Easter 2 / Holy Humor

April 3, 2016

William G. Carter

A week later his disciples were again in the house, and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.” Thomas answered him, “My Lord and my God!” Jesus said to him, “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.”

God bless Aunt Alice! She was the second child of nine, my father’s older sister. She was a wonderful woman in every way, mother of five, stepmother of two. Aunt Alice always had a quick smile and a kind word. When she walked into the room, she lit the place up. Everybody liked her. She was a lot of fun.

Just one thing about her: she was always late.

We would drive six hours to go to a family reunion. Even though Dad knew the territory like the back of his hand, we would leave plenty of time to find the right pavilion at the county park. Uncle Russ and Cousin Steve would each have one foot up on the picnic bench, as they picked out “Winchester Cathedral” on their guitars. Cousin Jeff would be tossing a baseball with Cousin Duane. Cousins Darla and Trudy would be talking to my sister. The food was ready, it’s time to eat. Where’s Aunt Alice? She’s not here yet.

Her eight brothers and sisters all knew better. So did the in-laws. When Aunt Alice’s kids were old enough to drive, they arrived at the reunion long before her. “Just can’t get Mom moving in time to get here,” said Cousin Bob. His brother, Cousin Bill, said, “Yeah, we tell her to put in gear, and her only gear is reverse.”

About the time we turned our attention to dessert, here came Aunt Alice, carrying a large plate of Jello with strawberries in it. “That’s a good thing about Jello,” she said with a broad smile and a Venango County twang, “you can have it as a side dish or eat it as dessert.” She was a wonderful woman, but she was always late.

Now, to her credit, she didn’t make any excuses. She could have done that. A lot of people do. Why were you late?

·         My hamster died. I had to plan for his funeral.

·         I had to go audition for American Idol.

·         My watch was set to Tokyo time.

·         I was waiting for my deodorant to dry.

·         I was watching the Final Four and it went into overtime. Go Syracuse!

·         I had to wait for the Fed-Ex guy, who was bringing my Richard Simmons Sweatin' to the Oldies DVD.

No, Aunt Alice never gave an excuse. She would say, “What did I miss?” Well, you missed Uncle Bob’s story about shooting four groundhogs with a single shot. “Oh, he already told me about that.”

You missed Aunt Joyce’s three bean salad with horseradish, jalapenos, and sweet pickles. “Oh,” she said, “did you leave any of me?” No, it’s all gone.

“What else did I miss?” You missed Aunt Twila. She was playing the accordion by ear. “Well, how was that?” We said, “A little imprecise. It would have been better if she played with her fingers.”

“Well,” she said, “I’m sure glad I got here in time to see all of you.” Well, we were glad, too. At least those of us who hadn’t already left.

Do have an Aunt Alice in your family? What is it about people who show up late? Maybe they have a lot to do; you know, everybody has a to-do list. I’ve noticed some people don’t take the items in sequence. They get to them as they see them. You’re on the way home and she says, “Wait, I wanted to stop here.” You didn’t know anything about it.

For some people, they are late not because there is a lot to do, but because time moves so quickly. Maybe not for you, as you listen to a sermon, but certainly for Doctor Seuss, who said:

            How did it get so late so soon? 
            It’s night before it’s afternoon.

            December is here before it’s June. 
            My goodness how the time has flewn!

            How did it get so late so soon?

I’m pretty much a stickler for starting things on time. The choir will tell you that. Kay knows we want the call to worship to begin precisely at 10:00. Those who give a ten-minute minute-for-mission know that we have talked about installing a trap door in the pulpit that goes directly to the furnace – and we will give the button to Chuck Woolever.

I can say all these things, but the truth is, thirteen years ago, on the day of my wedding, it was time to start and my bride was nowhere to be seen. Turns out she was hiding in the back stairwell, just to yank my chain. She did it to declare once and for all that I wasn’t in charge. As she later stated, “Nothing was going to start until I got there.” She was right.

But I have to wonder where Doubting Thomas was on Easter Evening. Why wasn’t he with the other disciples? Did he run out to the store at the last minute to get something? The Gospel of John doesn’t say. John does say the door was locked because the disciples were afraid; perhaps Thomas had gotten himself locked out. How comical, then, that Jesus shows up anyway – locked doors never kept out the Risen Savior. Jesus is there, Thomas is not. We have every reason to think he was late.

He would be a week late, as it turned out. In the meantime, he had missed the moment when Easter became real. He didn’t hear Jesus bless them with peace.  He didn’t hear Jesus commission them to continue his ministry of forgiveness. He didn’t feel the breath of Jesus, who breathed on them and said, “Receive the Holy Spirit.”

No, Thomas missed all that. And he refused to believe it. Hear what he said? “Unless I put my finger in the nail holes in his hands . . .” Now, that’s disgusting. What is this, a bad joke?

I think Thomas would have done far better to offer an excuse for being late. I can think of a few excuses:

• My heat was shut off, so I had to stay home to keep my rattlesnake warm.
• I had to let out the dog and water my Chia pet.
• I stopped at Rite Aid to check my blood pressure and my arm got stuck in the machine.
• I heard a fire truck, so I went home to make sure my house wasn’t on fire.
• I would have been here on time, but when I was putting in my contacts, I reached for the wrong bottle and  accidently super-glued my eye.
• I was abducted by aliens. They were debating about sucking out my brains, but they couldn’t find any so they turned me loose.

Thomas doesn’t even have an excuse. Neither does he take responsibility for being late. Maybe he should have done that. Perhaps he could have said, “If the Lord wanted me to be here, he should have told me what time to show up.” But no. And he doesn’t make it any better when he insists, “Unless I stick my finger in the nail holes . . .” What a goof!

Now, I know this is the Bible, but I think Jesus rubs Thomas’ nose in it when he suddenly appears again, and says, “You want to see those nail holes?” I mean, Jesus is not only risen; he had been listening in on that previous conversation between Thomas and the others. He can come and go, he can listen and stay invisible.

Thomas sputters, because he’s been smoked out. “Stop doubting,” Jesus says to him. “Just stop it.” Thomas sputters again, and then he says, “Oh My God.” And that is the Really Big Creed in the Gospel of John.

But here’s the really important thing: Jesus turns from Thomas toward all of us. We weren’t there, either. In fact, I check the clock and you and I are running late, about two thousand years late. From Thomas to all of us, Jesus offers his final beatitude, his final blessing: “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.”

That’s all he says. He doesn’t judge Thomas for showing up late, because faith comes to every person only when the time is right. For a lot of us, it’s a tangle path of doubt and drama, clarity and confusion. Physical proof would be nice (that’s what Thomas wants), but for us, it is not longer possible.

If you go to Jerusalem today, one of the crazy things you will discover as a tourist is that the Christian church can’t even agree on the location of the empty tomb. It could be over here, it could be over there. Nobody knows, because he’s not in it. Sooner or later, we simply have to trust that Easter happened, that Christ is risen, and that, in his good humor, he is listening in on this conversation, too.

God bless Aunt Alice. She taught me a deeply spiritual lesson. There is no judgment on what time we show up or the route we took to get there. Blessed are those who arrive late, because at least they arrive. I suppose there are all kinds of reasons for being late:

·         The line was too long at Starbucks so I couldn’t get to coffee hour.

·         I was losing my mind, and it took me a half hour to find it.

·         The usher wouldn’t leave me alone until I put more in the offering plate.

·         I dropped my glass eye down the drain and couldn’t see what time it was.

·         I was listening to the sermon and overslept.

Any of those might be valid reasons for being late. But the blessing comes when we arrive. The good humor this day is a sign of the grace of God, the eternal God who can wait out any one of us until we get to the place where we trust and believe. However this happens, whenever faith forms in us, it always occurs at the right time, because that’s the moment when the heart says “yes.”

(c) William Carter. All  rights reserved. 

What the Women Could Not Do

Luke 23:54-24:12

Easter Sunday

March 27, 2016

William G. Carter

It was the day of Preparation, and the sabbath was beginning. The women who had come with him from Galilee followed, and they saw the tomb and how his body was laid. Then they returned, and prepared spices and ointments. On the sabbath they rested according to the commandment.

But on the first day of the week, at early dawn, they came to the tomb, taking the spices that they had prepared. They found the stone rolled away from the tomb, but when they went in, they did not find the body. While they were perplexed about this, suddenly two men in dazzling clothes stood beside them. The women were terrified and bowed their faces to the ground, but the men said to them, “Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen. Remember how he told you, while he was still in Galilee, that the Son of Man must be handed over to sinners, and be crucified, and on the third day rise again.” Then they remembered his words, and returning from the tomb, they told all this to the eleven and to all the rest. Now it was Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, and the other women with them who told this to the apostles. But these words seemed to them an idle tale, and they did not believe them. But Peter got up and ran to the tomb; stooping and looking in, he saw the linen cloths by themselves; then he went home, amazed at what had happened.

Happy Easter, church! This is our big day. The music is big, the message is big, the crowds are big. This is the day when God did something never done before. A man crucified as a political criminal of the empire and a religious outcast from Jerusalem was raised from the dead. It turned everything upside down and jump-started the movement that we call “church.”

I was thinking of that at 6:00 this morning, when my wife kissed me goodbye and drove off to play the organ at a sunrise service in the Lackawanna Valley. Only Easter is a big enough day to get some Presbyterians out of bed before dawn – and then to celebrate it with balloons and organ music. I wished her well, quietly grateful that we don’t have a sunrise service over here.

But I recall a sunrise service when I was a teenager. The pastor asked our youth group to put together the service, and then asked me as the youth group president to preach. I don’t recall if he was present, but no matter: I was ready to preach. At 6:00 in the morning, I was going to prove the resurrection actually happened to a group of about twenty bleary-eyed Presbyterians.

It was the first of many occasions when I overshot the mark. Of course they believed the resurrection; why else would they pull themselves out of bed, drive to a farmer’s field overlooking the Susquehanna River, and listen to some kid read from 3x5 cards to argue an event from two thousand years ago actually happened. I could have simply honored the fact they were present, that God raised them out of their comfortable beds. But no, I had to insist it was all true – and then one old duffer lingered behind, and said, “So do you really think it’s all true?”

It is an extraordinary announcement that the church has held through the centuries. Jesus is risen, he is alive. To read the story as Luke tells it, it hardly provides any rational proof. Most of the people in the story are going about their lives as Easter happens, and then they are scratching their heads.

We are told the same women who followed Jesus from Galilee wanted to anoint the body of Jesus. He wasn’t properly buried. The work was rushed, because the Sabbath was near. Some of them observed the place where his body was entombed, so they quickly prepared the necessary spices and ointments. Then, as the Law of God declared, they rested for the Sabbath. Jesus was safe in his tomb, they remained in the place where they were staying.

Luke says they got up at “deep dawn.” That’s his description of the time: “deep dawn” (24:1). Just as soon as they could get moving, they hurried to the tomb. And then follows at least seven different things that they could not do (I made a list).

First, they could not move the big boulder in front of the tomb. It seems they are in such a rush, they hadn’t even thought it about it. When they get to his grave, the stone is rolled away. It has been done for them.

Second, they could not anoint the body of their friend. That’s why they went there, after all. For the pious Jew, a graveyard is considered ritually unclean. But they were going to risk it and take on all the purification rituals afterwards, because they loved their friend Jesus. They wanted to offer him one final act of dignity, and they couldn’t do it.

Third, they could not make any sense of this. It was strange, it was odd. He wasn’t there. The linen cloth that had wrapped him was over here by itself. It was confusing, they couldn’t understand it, and then two men – the approved number of witnesses – appeared in dazzling light. “Why are you looking for the living among the dead? He is risen, he is not here. Remember how he told you?”  

Fourth, they could not avoid his promise of resurrection. If they had forgotten, they would not forget it now. It was so strange, so disorienting. These two men, were they angels? Here they are on level ground, beside these women, telling the truth, that Jesus had died but now was risen.

Fifth, the women could not contain the news of what they saw, heard, and remembered. There was no reason to stay among the dead if Jesus was now among the living. So they run back to the place, knock on the door, and blurt out what they knew – Jesus is alive. We saw him die, but now he is alive.

Sixth, they can’t convince the eleven men of anything. He’s alive. What are you talking about? We know he is risen. Did you see him? No. Did you hear him? No. Did you see the moment when he was raised. No. This is an idle tale, they said. Chit-chat. Silly gossip. Empty words. The eleven remaining disciples were not convinced of anything. There is no proof. Faith is not created in others by hitting them over the heads.

Seventh, the women could not stop Peter from checking out the news for himself. In a strange, open-ended move, Peter jumps up, runs to the opened tomb, pokes in his head, risks defilement himself, and sees the linen cloth, but never hears any angels. He wonders what has happened. It is so much bigger than he ever imagined. He doesn’t have it all figured out yet.

The story is a chain reaction of what the women could not do. The women couldn’t move the boulder. They couldn’t anoint their friend’s body. They couldn’t make any sense of the event. They couldn’t avoid his promise. They couldn’t contain the news. They couldn’t convince the others. They couldn’t restrain Peter, restrict or manage the message. That’s because Easter is never really about us. Easter is about God, and what God has done.

Luke has a marvelous way of telling the story. He leaves some holes in it. The story isn’t air-tight. It is not a logical argument that intends to prove everything. No, it’s the discovery that the stone was moved and the burial shroud is not needed. It’s the question, “Why do you look for the Living One among the dead?” It’s the reminder that everything we have seen about God in the words and work of Jesus has brought to the point of affirming that somehow, the words and work of Jesus are going to continue.

What Luke says about Easter is this: there is a Power beyond our own. The God who makes everything brings Jesus alive again. Nobody can shut down what God intends to do. That’s why the first Easter is awkward, unmanageable, so beyond our control. That’s why Luke will not let us reduce the story and dismiss it. He tells us just enough to remind us that something is afoot.

The writer Frederick Buechner tells about some useful advice he received from a ship’s officer on a Bristish freighter. It was night; the ship was in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, and the officer had been peering into the darkness, looking for the lights of other ships. He told Buechner that the way to see lights on the horizon is not to look straight at the horizon, but to look just above it. You can see the lights better, he said, when you do not try to look at them directly. “Since then,” Buecher writes, “I have learned that it is also the way to see other things.”[1]

Luke tells his Easter story in a way that can create faith. He does not try to contain the resurrection and make it manageable. Rather, he points to what is happening in the margins, around the edges: the surprise on the women’s faces, the shock that Jesus did not stay where he was expected to stay, the bewilderment of eleven frightened disciples, and the impulsive reaction of Peter who runs to the tomb in astonished wonder.

God has done something just out of sight – it’s beyond our expectations, it’s beyond our understanding, it’s even beyond the hope of those astonished women and defeated disciples who had walked with Jesus in the days of his ministry. God raised Jesus from the dead.

Do you know what that means? The prophet who spoke the truth is freed from death to keep speaking. The Savior who healed the sick and restored the outcasts is free to keep working. At the point of his death, Jesus was pronounced “innocent” by the centurion who stood beside the cross (23:47); now in his resurrection, he is vindicated by God.  

Easter means that God keeps working in Jesus Christ. Where there is death, he brings life. Where there is sorrow, he brings joy. It always happens around the edges; rarely when we expect or demand it – and suddenly, life happens again.

So happy Easter, church! This is the day when everything we believe about God is confirmed and enlarged. This is the day that announces it’s OK to still be figuring out your faith, it’s OK to ask big questions, and it’s OK to have big questions asked of you, such as, “Why you are looking for the living among the dead?”

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

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[1] Frederick Buechner, “The End is Life,” The Magnificent Defeat (New York: HarperCollins, 1966 )79-80.

Missing the Moment

Luke 22:24-27

Maundy Thursday

March 24, 2015

William G. Carter

A dispute also arose among them as to which one of them was to be regarded as the greatest. But he said to them, ‘The kings of the Gentiles lord it over them; and those in authority over them are called benefactors. But not so with you; rather the greatest among you must become like the youngest, and the leader like one who serves. For who is greater, the one who is at the table or the one who serves? Is it not the one at the table? But I am among you as one who serves.”

Here’s one of the wonderful characteristics of scripture: it doesn’t sugar-coat the people who say they love Jesus. Oh no, we get to see them as they are. Even a passage like this, written down some forty or fifty years after the Last Supper – there is no hesitation in describing the twelve disciples just like they are.

Luke says, “A dispute arose among them…” Actually that’s a polite translation of a more contentious word. In Greek, the word is much harsher. Other translations say “they bickered,” or they were contentious. One scholar says they had “an invidious dispute.”

I had to look up the word “invidious” to see if was as bad as it sounded. It was. The dictionary says, “calculated to create ill will or resentment.” “Discriminating.” “Provoking animosity.” “Hateful.” “With a deliberate purpose of inspiring envy.”

Get the picture? It’s when brothers and sisters say to one another, “Momma loves me more.”

A father of twins hears it all the time. “I want to sit in the front seat.” “Well, you sat in the front seat last time.” “It’s my turn.” “But Momma loves me more.”

That’s what the twelve children of Jesus are doing at the final Passover meal, following the four glasses of wine. They are posturing among themselves. They are poking one another with forks. They are looking over their shoulders to see if he’s noticing. And these are the people who have been following Jesus to the end.

It’s embarrassing to think Christians might act like this. Where do you sit? Who do you know? Do you have the inside track on gossip? Do you make the most conspicuous gift? Do you get noticed? Do you get all the attention you so desperately crave? This is how they are when their bellies are full with the bread and wine. It’s almost unbelievable…except that the sin of competitiveness is highly contagious.

Years ago, in my first church, I encountered an unusual situation that has never been repeated. Two of my church members were roommates in the same hospital. With all the various choices in health care, it was a bit unusual. Two people from the same church, in the same hospital room, side by side. Now, you would think they would be singing together, praying together, supporting one another.

Well, I stopped in to say hello. I had received the room number of one of them and discovered the other was there. They didn’t know one another, until they realized they had me in common. I said hello to both of them. I chatted with both of them, prayed with both of them. As I’m walking out of the room, I overhear one say, “Well, I think he was here to see me.”

The other said, “Well, I’m sicker than you are.”

The first said, “But I’m sure my wife called him first…”

“Yes, but I’ve known him a lot longer…”

And I’m only a pastor. I wonder what the Lord has to put up with when he listens to our prayers.

Jesus says, “I am among you as one who serves.” As one of his final teachings before his arrest, he gives us the  model for the Christian life. It’s not about competition or comparison. It’s not about getting ahead or even getting what we want. The Christian life is about imitating Jesus. It’s about becoming like him in his self-giving love. And it takes a while for this to sink in. Even then, we must return to the posture of a servant over and over again.

Sometimes life itself is the teacher. Maybe you heard that a tabloid reporter found David Letterman on an island beach the other day. He has a full beard, and he’s lost more hair on top. Since retiring as a late night talk show host for thirty years, he’s gained perspective on his work.

“I never realized how insignificant my job really was,” Letterman confessed, “no doubt reinforced by a revolving door of self-important celebrities. You believe what you are doing is of great importance and that is affecting (human)kind. And then when you get out of it you realize, that wasn’t true at all. And when that occurred to me, I felt so much better and realized I don’t think I care that much about television anymore. I feel foolish for having been misguided by my own ego for so many years.”[1]

As we hear the story of Jesus and his passion tonight, we hear of a Savior who had every reason to claim equality with God, yet he sets that aside and empties himself, taking the form of a servant. To follow him to the cross, and beyond, is to follow him as servants, servants of God and servants of one another.  An over-inflated ego will misguide any of us, and we will miss the moment.

For here is the Christ who gives us his body, who pours out his blood. And he does it so that we might follow him each day and night, giving our lives for the healing of a broken world, ever announcing that his kingdom is at hand.

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

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[1] See http://dailym.ai/1Zr9t0P

Visiting Hours Are Over

Luke 19:29-44

Palm Sunday

March 20, 2016

William G. Carter

As Jesus came near and saw the city, he wept over it, saying, “If you, even you, had only recognized on this day the things that make for peace! But now they are hidden from your eyes. Indeed, the days will come upon you, when your enemies will set up ramparts around you and surround you, and hem you in on every side. They will crush you to the ground, you and your children within you, and they will not leave within you one stone upon another; because you did not recognize the time of your visitation from God.”

If you stick around the hospital late enough at night, you may hear the ominous voice: “Visiting Hours Are Over.” It is meant as a gentle reminder that patients need their rest, and that nobody gets healed by conversation alone.  The few times in recent years when I have been a hospital patient, the announcement has sometimes come as a helpful reprieve. Even those who love us might stay too long.

The voice intrudes to say the visit is over. There’s a time when all good things must come to an end. No need to linger, for it won’t improve the circumstances anyway. So it’s time to go. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.

How curious that Jesus should talk like this as he views the city of Jerusalem on Palm Sunday. There lies the city in full splendor. It is gleaming with light. The throngs of Passover pilgrims surge with energy. There is a palpable buzz in the air – and Jesus speaks of the “visitation hour.” It has come to an end. The people have missed it.

Jesus is speaking like a prophet here. God has gone to the people and they pushed him away. It is a plot line repeated many times in the Bible. This time, it causes Jesus to weep over the city. Luke says he is just like the prophet Jeremiah, often called “the weeping prophet.” Jeremiah says:

• “O that my head were a spring of water, and my eyes a fountain of tears, so that I might weep day and night for the slain of my people.” (9:1)
• “If you will not listen, my soul will weep in secret for your pride.” (13:17)
• “Let my eyes run down with tears night and day, and let them not cease, for (my people are) struck down with a crushing blow, with a very grievous wound.” (14:17)

This is how the prophet Jeremiah spoke about God coming to his own people and they reject him. And when Jesus sees the holy city, he has a clear view of how it is going to go for him and his people, too. Luke reports that Jesus erupts into tears. Then he announces, “The days will come upon you, when your enemies will set up ramparts around you and surround you, and hem you in on every side. They will crush you to the ground, you and your children within you, and they will not leave within you one stone upon another; because you did not recognize the time of your visitation.”

Most of us might find this a harsh word for Palm Sunday. It’s not what we expect when there are sweet hosannas in the air, words of blessing from the book of Psalms, and children singing. As you would expect, even the stones are hollering out! This is supposed to be the day of exuberant affirmation, where everybody rejoices in a major key as Jesus rides on in majesty. And while all this excitement swirls in the air, the Gospel of Luke reminds us there is something else going on.

That is the nature of holy moments, after all. There is more going on than anybody can perceive. If God is present, some will get it, some will not. I recall a moment in another Gospel; God speaks, some thought it was an angel, some believed it was thunder, and others didn’t know what it was.[1] Not everybody is given the eyes to see or the ears to hear.

Our Gospel story is full of such conflicted disagreements. A large crowd of pilgrims shout praises, and the religious leaders tell them to be quiet. The disciples sing of peace, and Jesus says, “You don’t know what makes for peace.” Jesus himself affirms the joyful noise of the moment, declaring “if these were silent, even the stones would cry out.” But then he goes around a bend in the road, sees the city, and breaks into sobs of heart-broken grief.

It’s this tension that is so instructive. It cannot be reduced. It cannot be smoothed out easily.

I remember an old preacher confessing that he wouldn’t let his congregation sing any happy songs on Palm Sunday. What?! We couldn’t believe it. No “Glory, Laud, and Honor”? No “sweet hosannas” ringing? “Not any more,” he said. “The people in my church don’t come to Holy Week services any more. They skip communion on Maundy Thursday and the Passion story on Good Friday. So the accumulated effect moved from rejoicing on Palm Sunday to rejoicing on Easter. They sang resurrection on Easter but never heard Somebody died. That’s part of the story too.”

As Jesus rides into the city, there’s more going on than joyful songs and singing stones. There is also the deep resistance that the human race has to the love of God. “You missed the time,” says Jesus. “The visitation from God is over.”

Maybe that’s a description of who we are. A few years ago, I went to learn from an expert on conflict resolution. At one point, he put his elbow on the podium and said, “Do you know why churches can be so full of conflict and damage? It’s because those same churches are all about the work of peace and forgiveness. We hear Christ speak of mercy; it sounds so good, until we are invited to cut a break for somebody else.”

It’s the religious people in Palm Sunday who praise God for Jesus. It’s more religious people who tell Jesus to make them quiet down. To diagnose this doxological schizophrenia, Jesus says, “You missed the time of your visitation.”

I believe he is not talking about those people back then; no, he describing the human condition. We resist the things that can make us well. We know better, but it’s so hard to live as if we know. I remember the radiologist who looked at other people’s lungs every day; he was a chain smoker. Or that sweet lady, so kind and benevolent, and she was the biggest gossip in town. Or the police officer who broke up bar fights; he went home and couldn’t restrain his temper. Or the man who ran for office so he could serve his community and, well, you can guess what happened to him.

We know better, but we don’t know. We know the things that make for peace, but we are incapable of making peace.

So here’s the thing: none of this is a surprise for Jesus. He knows how people can be. He knows what resistance God has faced time and time again. He knows what lies ahead of him in Jerusalem. Yet he rides into the city one more time, because this is the way God is. God does not allow our refusal and resistance to call all the shots. God goes up the hill one more time, to see if this time we will receive the surgery our souls so desperately need.

It is profoundly moving to see Jesus make his way into the city. He is not swayed by the happy songs. Nor does he turn aside from the threat of suffering and crucifixion. He goes with a clear eye of where he is going and what he is doing. It took tremendous courage and extraordinary clarity to see us for how we are . . . and to still go into that city.

A theologian named Alan Lewis puts it this way:

In Jesus, God has been enfleshed not as a sovereign but as a servant, emptied of grandeur and privilege, coming among us slavelike and self-abasing, solid in his fellowship with the outcast and defenseless, selfless in his capacity for suffering and pain. Yet it is precisely the innocent one, who comes as a lamb to the slaughter, not opening his mouth in self-defense let alone retaliation, who provokes our violence and contradiction, our intolerance and hatred, and our thirst for blood. The gentle embodiment of God’s own love proves intolerable to the human objects of that love… Thus by the cross of Jesus the truth about us is smoked out; we are unmasked.[2] 

It is then, on the cross, that Luke overhears Jesus to say, “Father, forgive them; they don’t know what they are doing.”[3]  You know, our lives depend on the answer of that request.

Palm Sunday is about the passion of Christ and the perseverance of God. Our Lord goes right into the city that will reject him and put him on the cross. Do you know why he does it? Because he believes every last one of us is worthy of the grace and forgiveness of God. It is his courage that saves us.

So when he comes back – and I assure you, Jesus will be back – don’t miss the time of his visitation. Welcome him with open arms. Receive him with an open heart. Extend to him the same grace that he has given to you.

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

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[1] John 12:28-29

[2] Alan E. Lewis, Between Cross & Resurrection: A Theology of Holy Saturday (Grand Rapids: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company, 2001) 84.

[3] Luke 23:34