For Many

Matthew 26:17-29

Lent 2

March 8, 2020

William G. Carter

On the first day of Unleavened Bread the disciples came to Jesus, saying, “Where do you want us to make the preparations for you to eat the Passover?” He said, “Go into the city to a certain man, and say to him, ‘The Teacher says, My time is near; I will keep the Passover at your house with my disciples.’” So the disciples did as Jesus had directed them, and they prepared the Passover meal. When it was evening, he took his place with the twelve; and while they were eating, he said, “Truly I tell you, one of you will betray me.” And they became greatly distressed and began to say to him one after another, “Surely not I, Lord?” He answered, “The one who has dipped his hand into the bowl with me will betray me. The Son of Man goes as it is written of him, but woe to that one by whom the Son of Man is betrayed! It would have been better for that one not to have been born.” Judas, who betrayed him, said, “Surely not I, Rabbi?” He replied, “You have said so.”

While they were eating, Jesus took a loaf of bread, and after blessing it he broke it, gave it to the disciples, and said, “Take, eat; this is my body.” Then he took a cup, and after giving thanks he gave it to them, saying, “Drink from it, all of you; for this is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins. I tell you, I will never again drink of this fruit of the vine until that day when I drink it new with you in my Father’s kingdom.”

She paused when the bread was handed to her. The elder expected her to take the silver tray and pass it down the pew. Her hesitation caught him by surprise. But he stood patiently and then caught her eye. She took the tray and then handed it to the next person beside her.

“Is something wrong?” he asked quietly. She responded by putting her hand out flat, as if to say, “Not now, this is not the time.” And when he returned a few minutes later with a tray full of communion cups, she had slipped out the door.

Have you ever seen such a thing? Perhaps you have. The elders here keep track of how many people receive the Lord’s Supper. They pencil in the number on a chart inside a cabinet in the church kitchen. Sometimes, instead of counting, one of the elders may say, “Let’s just use the attendance number and write that in.”

“No,” comes the reply. “Not all the people who came for worship actually take communion.”

For some of us, this may seem a curious thing. If you think about it, there may be children whose parents haven’t yet allowed them to partake. Or we may be hosting people whose membership is in another church, and they are not sure if they are welcome; perhaps their own congregation is more selective than this one. Or it could be that there are people here whose faith is wavering or whose convictions have changed.

But it could be that it’s somebody who is taking our Bible text very seriously.

Today, we hear the account of the Last Supper. Jesus gathers his friends for the Passover feast. These are good Jews who have kept the Passover all their lives. They are in Jerusalem and Jesus has arranged the location. It would normally be an evening of quiet dignity, a solemn tradition that celebrates God’s redemption of the people of Israel.

But this night is different from all other nights. After Jesus rode into the city in triumph, he proceeded to chase the merchants and moneychangers out of the Temple. The religious leaders pushed back, coming at him with challenges which Jesus counters masterfully. He responded offering a prophetic denunciation of their hypocrisy and arrogance. He calls them fools. He curses them as whitewashed tombstones. Then he declares the whole Temple will come smashing down because of their spiritual incompetence.

And while he arranges to celebrate the Passover with his friends, these so-called spiritual leaders are plotting his death. “Just don’t do it during the Passover,” they murmur, “or else the crowds might turn against us.”

So it’s Passover. The storm clouds are swirling when Jesus interrupts the feast. “One of you is going to turn me in,” he says. “One of you is going to betray me.” And the most striking detail is that every last one of his friends thinks he may be talking about them. To a person, each one says, “It isn’t me, is it? Is it me?”

Now before we rush ahead and point to Judas Iscariot, and say, “No, Lord, it’s him,” let’s pause and give this a little bit of time. Peter, James, John – the inner circle – they want to know what evil he sees in them. “You’re not talking to me, are you?” They wonder, “Is he talking about me?”

How about Matthew the tax-collector? He knew how to cut a deal with the Romans, so he could surely conspire with the rulers of the Temple. Or what about Simon the Cananaean? He was murky enough from spending time in the shadows and kept a dagger beneath his cloak. The other disciples themselves do not single out Judas, for each one of them knows he has the capacity to turn his back on Jesus. “It isn’t me, is it?”

Years ago, a good friend told me about a Maundy Thursday service in his church. They had communion in the beginning of the service. Then the ushers dimmed the lights and the preacher stood in the pulpit. He had large tin bowl and a sack of silver coins. He began to slowly name one way after another that we fail to speak up for Christ, or how we fail to love the people he loves, or how we mistreat others contrary to how he teaches us to treat them.

Every time he named another human failure, he tossed one more coin into the tin bowl. Clink…clink… clink… My friend said, “About twenty silver coins in, I was about ready to confess: it’s me, I’m the one, I’m so sorry, please forgive me, Lord.”  

Now, this can be overdone. I’ve seen that, and maybe you have, too. One memorable Good Friday service in another town, a preacher that I would readily describe as unstable screamed at the congregation and handed out roofing nails from a bag she carried down the aisle. I thought, “Who needs to prepare a sermon? Just scream at the people and bring some props.”

She came to the lady next to me and thrust a nail toward her. The lady shook her head, clenched her arms, and said no. “Take it,” yelled the preacher, “it’s your nail.” The lady stared in return and quietly said, “Where’s yours?” Wow, I never saw a gas bag deflate so fast.

Notice: Jesus isn’t wagging his finger at anybody. He’s not rubbing anybody’s noses in anything. He simply states the truth: “one of you.” And every honest person is invited to ask, “Is it me?”

When he comments on the Bible passage, teacher Dale Bruner reminds us that communion is a sacrament ripe for self-examination. Baptism claims us as the children of God; the Lord’s Supper is when each participant asks, “Am I living as one who is faithful to the Lord Jesus Christ?” Bruner says Jesus was willing to ruin a perfectly good Passover meal, in order that all future meals with him would be observed with an honest heart and a recognition of our own vulnerability and spiritual need.[1]

It is a Passover, after all, a recognition that all of us are potentially enslaved to something that makes us less than human, and only the grace and power of God can set us free. The freedom is a gift. It comes at great cost. And it must never be taken lightly. This is not a scrap of bread and a sip of wine. It is Christ offering his body and blood to free us and renew us. It costs him everything. Shouldn’t it cost us something, as well?

So I think of the lady whose story we heard at the outset. She wasn’t quite ready to receive the bread and the cup. Nobody can force this on her. She must ready. She must be receptive.

But ready and receptive for what? Forgiveness. That’s the gift, the liberating gift. And if we haven’t spent any time or energy naming the broken shards of our lives that we wish could be mended, it’s a gift that we are not ready to receive.

“Communion is not ceremony for the self-satisfied,” writes Dale Bruner. “And if I’m honest, my most frequent feeling on Sunday mornings is spiritual numbness – feeling neither good nor bad about myself. Should I take Communion? If I ask for forgiveness for this numbness, this spiritual void, yes indeed. In such a state I need all of Christ I can get.”[2]

Then he quotes John Calvin, “Let us remember that his sacred feast is medicine for the sick, solace for the sinner, alms to the poor.” This is what Christ is saying, “Do this, remembering me.” Remembering everything that he provides, everything he has carried us through, everything he points us toward, we remember him. We keep him firmly in view.

So Matthew’s story of the Last Supper is a call to self-examination. We join each of those closest to Jesus in asking, “Is it I? Could it be me?” We return again and again to the Table, acknowledging our deepest need.

And the amazing gift is that Christ meets us there and invites us to take what he hands to us. He is the one who offers. He is the one who gives. His generosity does not depend on how good we are; rather it flows from how good he is. Even as his enemies are plotting to take his life, it is God’s intention for Jesus to give his life. Even as Judas and his conspirators are caught in a web of destructive evil, Jesus will destroy the power of that evil through his death, his resurrection, and ultimately, his forgiveness. 

So there is plenty for everybody. “Take, eat,” he says. “Drink of it, all of you!” There’s enough mercy for all. Even Judas. He hasn’t left yet. The bread and the cup are offered to him, too. We cannot deny what Jesus provides for him.

The tragedy is that, for Judas, his self-examination won’t happen until later. He will wake up from the nightmare and discover what he has done. It’s then that he comes to his senses. It is then, says Matthew, that he repents. And the astonishing truth of the Gospel is that the very worst thing that Judas ever did – handing Jesus over to be crucified - is the very thing that God used to redeem the world.

This is the great mystery of grace. “Drink from this cup,” Jesus declares, “for my blood is poured out for many, for the forgiveness for sins.” His forgiveness is here, right here, freely offered, and ready to be received … whenever you are ready.

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

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[1] F. Dale Bruner, The Churchbook: Matthew 13-28 (Waco: Word, 1991) p. 951.

[2] Ibid, 959.

What Will You Do With the Money?

Matthew 26:1-16

Lent 1

March 1, 2020

William G. Carter

When Jesus had finished saying all these things, he said to his disciples, “You know that after two days the Passover is coming, and the Son of Man will be handed over to be crucified.” Then the chief priests and the elders of the people gathered in the palace of the high priest, who was called Caiaphas, and they conspired to arrest Jesus by stealth and kill him. But they said, “Not during the festival, or there may be a riot among the people.”

Now while Jesus was at Bethany in the house of Simon the leper, a woman came to him with an alabaster jar of very costly ointment, and she poured it on his head as he sat at the table. But when the disciples saw it, they were angry and said, “Why this waste? For this ointment could have been sold for a large sum, and the money given to the poor.” But Jesus, aware of this, said to them, “Why do you trouble the woman? She has performed a good service for me. For you always have the poor with you, but you will not always have me. By pouring this ointment on my body she has prepared me for burial. Truly I tell you, wherever this good news is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will be told in remembrance of her.”

Then one of the twelve, who was called Judas Iscariot, went to the chief priests and said, “What will you give me if I betray him to you?” They paid him thirty pieces of silver. And from that moment he began to look for an opportunity to betray him.

It’s a story that make a lot of Presbyterians sit up and take notice. We’ve never been big fans of waste. The candles on Christmas Eve get re-used. As one of our careful volunteers once noted, it takes three minutes to sing “Silent Night,” and if Rev. Carter doesn’t give a long benediction, we use each candle for about four and half minutes, so we can get another year out of a candle. We can get about six more years out of a candle. We don’t like waste.

We don’t like waste. Recycle the worship bulletins. Cut up the leftover committee agendas and use them for note paper. Manila folders can get a fresh label and a new life.

My home church sent out an email to the member yesterday, inviting everybody to bring a coffee mug and keep it on a new shelf in Fellowship Hall. Everybody can rinse out their own mugs, the note said, and we won’t buy so many disposable cups. They said it’s a way to cut down on excess waste.

Yesterday, I led a workshop for a dozen lay preachers. For hospitality, I picked up some blueberry muffins at Sam’s Club and we plugged in a pot of coffee. There were leftover muffins, and they will re-appear at coffee hour. There was also about a gallon of leftover coffee, but Karen told me that we wouldn’t keep it for you. I grumbled but I understand; I am a fan of fresh coffee. But it did hurt a little bit to throw it out. I’m a Presbyterian. I don’t like waste.

Some of us are inclined to agree with the disciples on this matter. An anonymous woman slips into a dinner party in the village of Bethany. She cracks open an overpriced jar of an aromatic oil, and then pours it over the head of Jesus. Peter, James, John, and all the rest grumble and sneer – it’s a complete waste! Think of how much that ointment cost. Now it’s gone. The room smells pretty, but the ointment is gone. It’s just like throwing away money.

By some accounts, it was a lot of money. One verse of the story says it was valued at three hundred days’ wages. How much money is that? How much money do you bring home in a year? That’s eighty-two percent of your income, poured over the man’s head, spilled onto the floor, and now evaporating.

Sure, they are in the house of Simon the Leper, whoever he was. He was a leper; I’m sure the house didn’t smell very good, and a little perfume would go a long way – but $65,000 of perfume, on one splash? It seems so excessive. And we wouldn’t want it to be wasted.

Turn down the thermostat when you leave the room. Keep the lights off when you don’t need them. Next time, don’t make thirty cups of coffee for twelve people, especially if three of them drink tea. “Waste not, want not.”

I think of the Book of Proverbs, the twenty-first chapter: “Precious treasure remains in the house of the wise, but the fool devours it.” (21:20) Or this one: “Whoever loves pleasure will suffer want; whoever loves wine and old will not be rich.” (20:17) In other words, stop wasting your money. Don’t throw it away. Be prudent.

And so, naturally, the twelve disciples were upset. The Greek word is furious, incensed, indignant, rip-roaring mad. They yell in unison: “We could have sold that ointment and given that money to the poor.” Now, that would be a noble thing to do with the money! Feed the poor for another day. Give it to the needy and get them off your guilty conscience for a little bit.

After all, what does Jesus say to the whole world, immediately before today’s Bible story? “Whoever does this for the least of these has done unto me.” – Matthew 25. Remember that one? Feed the hungry, clothe the naked, take care of the needy – and then somebody slips into the dinner party and dumps the expensive perfume all over Jesus’ head. What a waste! Is that what you are going to do with the money?

And Jesus interrupts and says, “Leave her alone!” But Jesus… “No, leave her alone. She has done a beautiful thing.” But Lord, look at the waste… “Listen,” he says, “it’s not waste, it’s generosity. She has anointed me for burial.” In the Gospel of Matthew, nobody can get to the tomb fast enough to anoint Jesus for burial, and this woman, whoever she is, has already done so, at great cost, with loving extravagance.

“Leave her alone,” he says, “For she has done a good work. She has shown me her generosity, and treated me with the utmost respect.” That’s what she does with the money.

Meanwhile, as we heard, this brief story is entangled with another story, also about money. The religious leaders have nothing but scorn for Jesus. They have been watching him since chapter nine, and here it is, chapter 26. The scribes complained to the Pharisees, the Pharisees grumbled to the elders, the elders buzzed like hornets around the chief priests. All of them concurred: we must get rid of this troublemaker Jesus!

Take note: they presume to take the matter into their own hands, while Jesus is completely obedient to the Father in heaven. The authorities have “the illusion that they are in control, but it is the Father’s will that Jesus be handed over.”[1] They conspire to take Jesus by stealth, when nobody is watching, for they don’t want to be seen for their treachery.

And then, the opening comes. Judas, one of the twelve, appears at the door of the inner chamber, and says, “What will you give me if I hand him over to you?” They offer him money. Turn over Jesus, sell him out: that’s what they want him to do for the money.

How much money? Thirty pieces of silver. Actually, biblically speaking, it’s thirty shekels of silver. That’s not very much. It’s a paltry sum, an infinitesimally small fraction of what that expensive ointment would have cost. And it’s an insult. No human being is worth a mere thirty shekels of silver.

The scholar Dale Bruner says Matthew is pointing us to the other Bible passage that we heard this morning, from the prophet Zechariah. Zechariah is called “the underappreciated shepherd.” He told the spiteful, money-grubbing people whom he served, “If it seems right to you, give me my wages.” They gave him 30 shekels of silver, an insult. And God said, “Throw that away. Cast it into the treasury.” Life is worth a lot more than that.

What will you do with the money? Today’s entangled story offers two very different answers. You can show somebody deep respect or sell somebody out. You can do a generous good work or use the cash to maneuver in dark shadows. You can throw caution to the wind and honor somebody effusively; money is no object in displaying your love. Or you can cheapen someone’s life and discount it for next to nothing. It’s all what you do with the money.

Because, as you know, it’s all about the money – which is to say, it’s never about the money. It’s truly about what it is in our hearts. When I meet with couples before their marriages, we always have a conversation about money, for it can be one of the number one reasons that a relationship gets into trouble. You know the Other Golden Rule? “Who has the gold makes the rules.” So money in a relationship has to do with values, priorities, and power. And if there is any battleground in a marriage, money is often the field where the skirmish works out.

So the root issue is not merely the money, but what is in your heart. What is in our hearts will determine how we live and what we value.

We don’t know what was going on in the heart of Judas Iscariot. Was he disappointed by Jesus? Or did he want to force his hand and reveal him as Messiah? Or was something else going on? Another Gospel calls him “a thief,” and says he always had his hand in the offering plate. And when the woman anoints Jesus, it may have been the last straw.

Who knows? Later in the story, he regrets what he did, repents of it, and throws the money back at the temple treasury, just like the prophet Zechariah. The nicest thing was could say about Judas is that he was complicated. The worst thing is that he sold out Jesus for a pitifully small amount.

But it’s pretty clear how the unnamed woman regarded Jesus. She saw him as a treasure, as a gift of inestimable value, and she was willing to show her love, reverence, and respect to the world, no matter what it cost. As someone notes, when she anoints him,

. . . she was not draining away resources that could have been used for the poor. To the contrary, her act recognized Jesus’ death, a sacrificial death, a saving death. All acts of Christian ministry grow out of this one profound act of Jesus’ ministry. When the woman anointed Jesus, she proclaimed that in the death of this man was the miracle the poor need, indeed, the miracle we have all been waiting for.[2] (Long, p. 292)

And Jesus says, “Truly I tell you, wherever this good news is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will be told in remembrance of her.”

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

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[1] Stanley Hauerwas, Matthew: Brazos Theological Commentary (Grand Rapids: Brazos Press, 2006) p. 214

[2] Thomas G. Long, Matthew: Westminster Bible Companion (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 1997) p. 292

Living in the Moment

Matthew 17:1-8

Mardi Gras Service

February 23, 2020

William G. Carter

Six days later, Jesus took with him Peter and James and his brother John and led them up a high mountain, by themselves. And he was transfigured before them, and his face shone like the sun, and his clothes became dazzling white. Suddenly there appeared to them Moses and Elijah, talking with him. Then Peter said to Jesus, “Lord, it is good for us to be here; if you wish, I will make three dwellings here, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.” While he was still speaking, suddenly a bright cloud overshadowed them, and from the cloud a voice said, “This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him!” When the disciples heard this, they fell to the ground and were overcome by fear. But Jesus came and touched them, saying, “Get up and do not be afraid.” And when they looked up, they saw no one except Jesus himself alone.

I heard the story that a grown woman tells. When she was a teenager, her aunt took her to hear the great jazzman Louis Armstrong. He and his band were playing in an auditorium in a nearby town. The teenager didn’t know much about Louis or his music, so the whole evening was a revelation to her. As the music filled the hall, the crowd began to sway. The air was charged with energy. The crowd cheered and the band dug in even harder.

She remembers two things about the evening. First, there was a stack of folded handkerchiefs on top of the piano. As Armstrong blew his trumpet, his brow began to glisten. Drops of hard-earned perspiration were visible. Every so often, Pops would take a handkerchief, mop his scalp, and drop it on the floor of the stage. He would work up another sweat, wipe his brow again, and drop the handkerchief on the floor.

And now I wonder, what would that DNA be worth?

The second thing she remembers is the emotional consensus in the room. Everybody was feeling good, really good. Endorphins were high. Excitement was palpable. If joy had a taste, you could almost taste it in the air. By her description, everybody in that auditorium was thoroughly, completely alive.

So that’s how my mother describes the first time she heard Louis Armstrong jazz up a room. She never forgot the moment, and seventy years later, she tells the story like it happened last night.

It’s probably my pastoral inclination, but it sounds to me like a spiritual experience. Certainly her own spirits were lifted, if that’s one of the benefits of such an experience. But it was far more than an emotional moment. It was physical, too: one of her ankles was sore from tapping her foot, which she had done unconsciously throughout the concert.

It was also a communal moment, one of those rare experiences where people are brought together. Strangers were smiling at one another. Differences were transcended. No matter where they scattered after the conclusion of the show, they held about an hour and a half of music in common.

What’s more, the exhilaration in the air wasn’t merely happiness. The band played some sad songs, too. They lamented in the musical language of the blues. The room in that northwestern Pennsylvania town was filled with white folks, yet some wiped away a tear when Louis sang one of his signature songs, “My only sin is the color of my skin. What did I do, to be so black and blue?”

No, it was not a happy song. Yet it joined with all the other tunes to create an experience of being met, of facilitating understanding. It was as if somebody knew who was in the room and met them as they were. That, too, was part of the spiritual experience. It’s what she meant when she said everybody there was thoroughly, completely alive.

The second-century bishop Irenaeus wrote a famous line that’s roughly translated like this: “The glory of God is the person who is completely alive.” That has become one of my favorite descriptions of the spiritual life. My mother’s experience is that God’s glory can find somebody in a concert hall. Music can be released as incense in a room, and everybody has the potential to be transformed. If somebody in the audience arrived bearing a burden, these difficulties can be dropped to the floor like Armstrong’s handkerchiefs. This doesn’t mean that they aren’t real, but it does suggest there is more to life than pain and suffering. And in the moment, you are completely alive.

So one day, Peter, James, and John climbed a mountain with Jesus. When they ascended and stood closer to heaven, suddenly something happened. Jesus began to shine as bright as the sun. Matthew and the other Gospel writers don’t really have the words to describe it. Quite possibly, one of them made up a word – “transfigure” – to describe what they experienced. Jesus changed, or he was revealed for who he truly is, or he was transformed somehow. It’s hard to say, especially since none of us were there to see it.

What we do know is that even though Jesus changed, his three friends could still recognize him. In the thick of his transfiguration, he was suddenly joined by the two holiest men in Israel’s memory – Moses the lawgiver, Elijah the prophet – and they can recognize him, too. Moses and Elijah appear and converse with Jesus, as if they were there all along. The Law and the Prophets are in conversation with Jesus.

Peter doesn’t know what to say. He stammers out something about enshrining the holy moment. But then God engulfs the mountain top in a cloud, quotes a psalm about the royal Son, and declares in an earth-making Voice, “Listen to him!” It drove those fishermen to their knees. And then Jesus came and touched them, and said “Don’t be afraid,” and it was over.

These moments come. Real moments. They come on mountain tops or shabby music halls. They might even come in a church. We don’t have the words to describe them. We can only point. In the words of one poet,

   . . . Each venture

Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate

With shabby equipment always deteriorating

In the general mess of imprecision of feeling,

Undisciplined squads of emotion. .” (T.S. Eliot, “East Coker”)

Or to translate: we don’t know what to say, but it’s real.

It was Madeleine L'Engle, the great author and holy Christian, who points us to the Transfiguration of Jesus and says it is a moment that we best approach through the creative arts. By this, she means poetry, paintings, music, drama, and storytelling, among other things. “As a child,” she said, “it did not seem strange to me that Jesus was able to talk face to face with Moses and Elijah, the centuries between them making no difference.” In the depths of imagination, it all fits. But by the time she grew up, the world had instructed her to parcel out life in different compartments: true and false, past and present, sacred and secular.

So: what if God comes to break down those barriers? What if eternity smashes all the clocks so that past and future are in this moment? What if God finds us in the places we would never expect God to make an appearance – like the mountain tops, the shabby music halls, even the churches? What if holiness just happened here, in a moment beyond words? It could be frightening.

So Madeleine writes: “We are afraid of the Transfiguration for much the same reason that people are afraid that theater is a "lie," that a story isn't "true," that art is somehow immoral, carnal, and not spiritual . . . We are not taught much about the wilder aspects of Christianity. But these are what artists have wrestled with throughout the years.”[1]

When these moments come, there are too all-too-human tendencies. The first is the attempt to explain them, as a way of managing them, or controlling them, or reducing them, or dismissing them. How many times has a brilliant sunset spoken to us and we shrug it off? Or we are given a glimpse of great glory and we try without success to capture it on our cameras or phones?

A second impulse is to try and capture the moment, which it sounds like Simon Peter wanted to do. “Lord,” he said, “let me build three monuments to this moment.” He was going to try that, until the dark cloud rolled in, spoke in holy thunder, and interrupted what he thought he could do.

We never quite capture the moments. I mean, there I was, at the edge of the Grand Canyon some years ago, and I tried to snap a picture of it. It turned out a lot smaller than it is. Or how excited to discover that a great concert that I had attended was recorded? And when I listened again, it didn’t have the same impact. Or to hear a wonderful speaker, and find a recording or transcript of what she said? Notoriously, it’s never the same. These are unmanageable spiritual moments, and they slip away, as all incense slips away.

But before we kick around old Simon Peter, let’s affirm that he gets it half-right. When he finds his voice, remember the first thing he says? “Lord, it is good for us to be here.” What a tremendous affirmation, in and of itself. Just stay with this. Don’t move on. Pause and savor. Let that be the blessing.

Earlier this week, my friend Kent Groff and I were talking about these matters, so he sent me a poem that he composed, called “There and Here.” It’s an affirmation of Simon Peter’s words. Here it is:

You can't get there from here.

Only if you stay with each here

and discover a way to embrace its fear

can you listen for the seed of hope

within the horror or the terror.

You can't get here from there.

By dwelling on a future place,

an outgrown year, you fail to be aware

in this space, this here, and

you will miss the seed of joy

within the anger or the languor.

You will find that living 

into the present--
the question this day, 

the struggle this moment,

you will inch your way

along into some amazing answer-

then serendipitously, miraculously,

you will discover that you are there.

But you will not see it along the way,

and even in arriving at your destiny

you will not find yourself saying,

"Now I am there"--but

only what you have been

practicing each day:

It is good to be here.

So the illuminating moment comes and then it disperses. That’s how such moments are. Yet even if they don’t linger, we linger. And quite possibly, God has changed us and brought us a good bit more alive. We can hope for that. We can pray for that.

And while we hope and pray, let me just say one more thing that I never want to take for granted: it is good to be here…with you…in the hidden presence of Jesus our Lord.

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

Slipping Out Before the Offering

Matthew 5:21-26

February 16, 2020

William G. Carter

“You have heard that it was said to those of ancient times, ‘You shall not murder’; and ‘whoever murders shall be liable to judgment.’ But I say to you that if you are angry with a brother or sister, you will be liable to judgment; and if you insult a brother or sister, you will be liable to the council; and if you say, ‘You fool,’ you will be liable to the hell of fire. So when you are offering your gift at the altar, if you remember that your brother or sister has something against you, leave your gift there before the altar and go; first be reconciled to your brother or sister, and then come and offer your gift. Come to terms quickly with your accuser while you are on the way to court with him, or your accuser may hand you over to the judge, and the judge to the guard, and you will be thrown into prison. Truly I tell you, you will never get out until you have paid the last penny.

Last week, we heard the entire Sermon on the Mount. As planned and led by our Worship, Music, and the Arts committee, the entire text was read, sung, and prayed by our congregation. A few of you mentioned that, at first glance at the worship bulletin, you saw a lot of words. It seemed daunting. But soon, you were glad to be here.

The Sermon on the Mount is the central teaching of Jesus. It is the first and foremost of the five speeches of Jesus, whom Matthew portrays as the New Moses. Just like the book of Deuteronomy for the Jews, the Sermon on the Mount is a binding and liberating Word for the church. It announces who we are: salt of the earth and light of the world. It declares the higher righteousness of the kingdom of heaven, a righteousness that exceeds that of people who are merely religious. Above all, it teaches us how to live, now that Christ has come.

It is a big text. The Lord’s Prayer is here. The Golden Rule is here. The law and the prophets are here – and they are exceeded. Like I said, this is a big text. So big, in fact, that some of it seems impossible.

·         “If anyone strikes you on one cheek, offer your other cheek.” That’s hard to do, without feeling like a punching bag.

·         “If your right eye causes you to sin, pluck it out and throw it away.” Seems a bit extreme, don’t you think?

·         “Don’t worry about your life, especially about what you will eat or what you will wear.” Thanks, Jesus, for the advice, but all of us know people who live to worry.

·         “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be children of heaven.” There are some people who refuse to believe that verse; they think it is impossible.  

This, of course, is Matthew’s book. He pushes the church to extremity. Matthew wants to see deep discipleship. For him, casual churchgoing is not enough. No one who takes the name of Christian will drift in and out whenever they feel like it. They are called to go deeper, to walk the extra mile. As he quotes Jesus, “Many will show up and say, ‘Lord, Lord, Lord, don’t you remember me?’” And he will reply, “Go away, I never knew you.”

It is in this context that we hear the teaching for today. Jesus says, “If you call somebody an idiot, you could go to hell. If you insult a brother or sister, even if you get angry with them, you will have to answer for your actions at the highest level.”

Now, he is not saying, “Don’t get angry.” Anger is a very human emotion. Conflict happens all the time. What matters is what you do with the anger. Not that you swallow it and give yourself cramps, and not that dismiss it and pretend it doesn’t exist, but that you process it, that you work it through, and do so in ways that does not destroy another person.

I ordered a couple of sandwiches last night from Jersey Mike’s. We were kicking around the house in comfortable clothes, so I called in a Number 11 for my wife and a Number 42 for myself. I went over to pick them up so we could eat at home. When I returned, I discovered they made a change on my wife’s order. Worse than that, the onions and peppers that I usually expect on my chicken cheese steak were not there. I ordered them, but they weren’t there.

It was annoying. Seventeen bucks for two sandwiches and not what we wanted. So what do you do? I suppose you could get in the car, drive back over there, call somebody a name. But what would that solve?

Or you could get in the car, drive over there, demand they make the sandwiches again and get them right. But we were hungry enough to eat what we had already received, and not interested in eating any more.

So I took a breath, groaned to myself, and went online to express my concern. I typed in the computer, “Hey, you let us down.” Then I assured them that someday I will return and order more sandwiches. After all, we’re talking about sandwiches. Pretty good sandwiches, too, even when they aren’t perfect. What would it help if I went over there and called somebody a name?

The clue here is the word “brother,” “brother or sister.” This is a family text, an internal text, a church text. Church is the community where we are called to work things out, to live above our differences, to practice the truth of reconciliation. At the center of it all is Jesus Christ, who forgives each of us and calls upon us to forgive one another.

That’s how the German theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer calls us to understand our life together. Christ is at the center of it all. All of us stand around him as forgiven sinners. As Bonhoeffer notes, my brothers and sisters are those who have been redeemed by Christ, delivered from their sin, and called to faith and eternal life. Our community with one another consists solely of what Christ has done to both of us.[1]

It is through Christ that we have the miracle of living in communion with one another. It is a delight for those can receive it.

Yet there’s the rub. The New Testament may declare that “Christ breaks down the wall of hostility.” In a heavenly sense, that’s true. Given the power of the cross, there is absolutely no reason for us to be hostile to one another. Christ forgives sin. Yet it’s often difficult to believe that. Even in church, the community that gathers around Christ. Especially in Christ.

Years ago, I remember meeting a woman who has the same last name as a man I had met. “Oh,” I asked, “are you related to him?” She said, “Used to be.” From then commenced a little weekly game. He would arrive and sit with his girlfriend, holding hands, sharing a hymnal. The ex-wife would arrive a few minutes later, sit across the aisle about two rows behind, and glare at them through the whole service.  Those were the days before we added the “passing the peace” to the worship service. Not sure if it would have worked, anyway.

 It's hard work to stay angry. You have to keep nursing the grudge, stirring the resentment, and in the end, it comes to no good. I like how Frederick Buechner gives it a delicious description:  

Of the Seven Deadly Sins, anger is possibly the most fun. To lick your wounds, to smack your lips over grievances long past, to roll over your tongue the prospect of bitter confrontations still to come, to savor to the last toothsome morsel both the pain you are given and the pain you are giving back -- in many ways it is a feast fit for a king. The chief drawback is that what you are wolfing down is yourself. The skeleton at the feast is you.[2]

Over the years, I have discovered something: people drift away from church. Not merely from boredom or relocation, but from something far more sinister. The cause usually isn’t the minister (I used to fear that it was). No, they don’t always have a problem with me; they have a problem with somebody else.

A harsh word is spoken. Or affirmation is withheld. Perhaps it happens in the hallway or during a potluck supper. I’ve heard it can even happen at a committee meeting. It might be so small that nobody else notices, but it’s not small. Then it takes on additional weight. It becomes heavy. Then it’s even heavier. Pretty soon, there is lost sleep, tossing and turning, and finally the resolution: I will have no more of this.

And the easiest way to address it is to refuse to address it. To back away. To avoid any further pain. And when somebody pulls back, stops coming, and the church is big enough that nobody notices right away, it can be weeks, months, even years, before somebody says, “Whatever happened to those people who once were here? What were their names?”

So, it is within the church family, to those whom Jesus calls “brothers and sisters,” that he offers his most demanding word: “When you are offering your gift at the altar, if you remember that your brother or sister has something against you, leave your gift there before the altar and go; first be reconciled to your brother or sister, and then come and offer your gift.” 

I had to read it a second time to be sure it says what it says. I wanted it to say, “If you have something against somebody else, go and make it right. Set them free and make it right.” But that’s not what it says. Jesus says, “If someone has something against you, you go to them. You take the initiative. Even if you are falsely charged, even if you are fairly accused, nevertheless, you must be the peacemaker.” Oh my, now that is going the extra mile!

Jesus is pushing us out of any complacency. He is pushing us beyond indifference, pushing us beyond self-righteousness. Since Christ has forgiven each of us, we are not free to say, “Well, she has a problem with me, and that’s her problem,” and then we write it off. Oh no. We are called to bridge the gap that we ourselves may have caused. And that’s hard work.

“Go,” says Jesus. “Even if you are in a worship service and it’s time to make your offering.” There’s something more important, he says, than making that offering.

Obviously, Jesus never served on a finance committee. Nor was he a pastor. A couple of years ago, somebody recommended we have a fire drill on a Sunday morning. I suggested a Tuesday morning, when nobody was here, and John and I could go out to Starbucks, but no, it had to be on a Sunday morning when the room was full.

OK, but when? Someone said, “How about we have the fire drill in the middle of the sermon?” Somebody else piped up, “How about in the beginning of the sermon?” I said, “Now, wait; if you are going to do this, give me enough notice so I don’t bother to write a new sermon.”

Then someone else said, “Wait, we are thinking about this all wrong. If we’re going to have a fire drill, whatever you do, have it after the offering. Not before!” Why? Because we should never miss the opportunity to take up an offering.

And Jesus says there’s something even more important than that: it’s making peace with somebody who has something against you. It’s working through the differences between us, since the work of Christ on the cross has already justified all of us in the sight of God. Now it’s up to us what that means for one another, for in the kingdom of heaven, relationships are as important as prayer.

So the word of Jesus still stands: “When you are offering your gift at the altar, if you remember that your brother or sister has something against you, leave your gift there and go; first be reconciled to your brother or sister, and then come and offer your gift.” There is something more important than that gift, and that is the hard-earned gift of peace between us.

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

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[1] Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Life Together (New York: Harper and Row, 1954) p. 25.

[2] Frederick Buechner, Wishful Thinking (New York: Harper and Row, 1973)

Treasure in the Trash Heap

Matthew 5:1-12

1 Corinthians 1:18-31

Ordinary 4

February 2, 2020

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. (Matt. 5:3)

Consider your own call, brothers and sisters: not many of you were wise by human standards, not many were powerful, not many were of noble birth. But God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise; God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong; God chose what is low and despised in the world, things that are not, to reduce to nothing things that are, so that no one might boast in the presence of God. (1 Cor. 1:26-29)

Here is a little story, overheard from the check-out line of a large store. Two people were in line. The first was paying for his purchases and took notice of the next person behind him. It was someone well-known in the community, somebody often interviewed by television reporters and regularly quoted in the newspaper.

The first person recognizes this public official. It isn’t long before he starts fawning all over him. “Good to see you. I didn’t know you shopped here. I was glad to hear your recent statement on the news.” So on and so forth.

The public leader changes the subject. It was Christmas time, so he comments about the beauty of the season. The lights are impressive. The music is uplifting. The religious message is timely. So the first person says, “I couldn’t agree with you more. In fact, you should come to my church. We have a lot of important people at our church.”

That is the sum and substance of the conversation.  

I do not presume to know which church was being marketed, but I find that a most curious description. It’s a church with “a lot of important people.” The assumption is some people are important and some are not, but if they are important, they go to that church.

I can’t say if the description is true. Who is important? Who is not?

Years ago, a seminary professor named Ben Johnson visited a church and stuck around for a potluck meal. He was standing in line with a paper plate, and somebody comes up and says, “Are you Newt Gingrich?” He said, “No, I’m not.” The other person spun around and walked away. Ben said, “I guess you have to be Newt Gingrich in order to have anybody pay attention to you in this church.”

The man said, “We have a lot of important people in our church.” Is that true? Some of us would say, “Everybody is important!” and we want to believe that is true. Everybody here has value as a child of God. Everyone has inestimable worth.

But if everybody is important, that’s like saying nobody is important. Like the fourth grader complained to his mother after the sports banquet, “I got a trophy and I’m the worst player on the team.” In such a situation, the trophy doesn’t count for much.

Leave it to the apostle Paul to flip the whole thing on its head. “Look around your church,” he says to Corinthians. “Not many of you are very smart, not many are rich, not many are well connected.” (Thanks, Paul; you know how to win friends and influence people. Pretty soon, you expect him to say, “And you’re ugly too.”)

Scholars think the Corinthian church was small, maybe fifty or sixty souls. It was a mixed bag, Jews and Greeks who didn’t normally spend time together. People from different stations in life, and if the rest of the rest of the correspondence is any indication, a gathering of unfinished saints. Very unfinished. Not an expert in the bunch.

Yet his point is this: the only important one is Jesus. He is the Lord. He is the Savior. He is the One who gathers the church around him. It has nothing to do with how attractive we are. He doesn’t go after the high and mighty or the rich and famous. He goes after the people who need him.

In fact, says Paul, look at how Jesus the Lord becomes the Savior: by dying. Not merely by dying, but by dying as a convicted criminal of the empire. He is a loser who loses everything – and that is his saving power. It doesn’t make any sense to those who spend all their time, energy, and money on climbing to the top of the heap. But to those who know what it’s like to be rescued, it is the most powerful gift of their lives.

Are there any important people here today? It doesn’t matter. In the kingdom of God, ego and accomplishment don’t count for much. A long list of items on your C.V. simply says you’ve been busy, perhaps preoccupied. If you climb to the top of the heap, you may discover it’s only a heap. If you soar too closely to the sun, your wax wings melt. That’s the truth about being human. And it’s an important lesson to remember. No one is exempt.

About twenty years ago, some friends and I collaborated on a book. We are thrilled to collect some sermons and get it published. Our editor was one of the outstanding preachers in the world. When he was done polishing our work, every one of the contributors sounded great. One friend said, “I can’t wait to put this on my resume and get a better job.” Another wanted to wave it in front of his detractors and say, “See? I’m better than you thought I was.” It was a wonderful book. We sold twenty or twenty-five copies. It felt like a big accomplishment.

So imagine my delight, when returning from a church meeting in Harrisburg, I stopped by a Christian bookstore and there it was – our book! Right in the front of the store! Above it, a big sign: BARGAIN BIN. 90% OFF. ALL SALES FINAL. GET IT OUT OF HERE. A friend said, “We’ve been marked down.”

It's humbling. All of us are going to get marked down. Maybe not today, but some day. All the things we’ve done, discounted, perhaps by age or weakness or the passing of time. The apostle Paul is absolutely correct: if you are going to boast about anything, boast about God. Brag about the mercy of Jesus. Don’t swagger about like a rooster to show off how wonderful you are, because sooner or later your feathers might fall off. Your beak might crack.

Back in the days when I was even more full of myself than I am today, it was easy to shrug off this spiritual truth. I’d race by those texts that say, “God saves those who can’t save themselves.” Or maybe it would be a Sunday in church, and we would read through the Beatitudes of Jesus, all the listings of “blessed are those,” and try to ignore what it implies.

 Ever notice who Jesus pronounces as blessed?  The poor in spirit, the grieving, the meek, the hungry, the kind, the pure, the peacemakers, and those who get beaten up for doing what’s right. Not a lot of winners on that list! Not many high achievers.

As time goes by, sooner or later we discover we are on that list. It has nothing to do with our strength, nothing to do with our ability. Instead the life of the kingdom of heaven is all about God’s strength and our availability. Jesus seems to offer no blessing for those who are self-assured, mighty, or arrogant. To be quite blunt about it, heaven promises no blessing for those who have no need for God.

But for those who can be vulnerable, for those who will not put up a bulwark of defenses, for those who come open-handed and broken-hearted, Jesus says, “Blessed are you.” Blessed are all of you. Not because of who you are, not because of what you’ve accomplished, but because of the gracious Christ who offers the blessing.

Sometimes God shows us the blessing. I spent forty-five minutes on Friday with a woman who may be dying soon. When I walked into the hospital room, I didn’t know what to expect. What I received was forty-five minutes of laughter, fond memories, good conversation, and then the best part of all: “Tell everybody how grateful I am for their friendship and love over many, many years. It hasn’t always been an easy life, but it’s been a good life. Very, very good.” I said, “Can I tell them that?” She said, “Tell them that. Tell them how grateful I am.”

And Jesus said, “Blessed are you.” His blessing always exceeds our need.

Are there any important people here today? Ah, who cares. Jesus never talks that way. No, Jesus seems only to be interested in loving the people who need to be loved, in lifting off the burdens that push people down, and in healing what we make available to be healed. Quite literally, he is dying to bring us alive. And the fullness of his life is the stuff of our blessing.

This doesn’t make sense to the self-sufficient. It is frequently dismissed by all who labor to be impressive. But for those who can receive bread they did not bake, for those willing to taste the cup of mercy, for those who were lost that God has now found, this is precious Good News. It is the mystery at the heart of the Gospel.

In the kingdom of heaven, there is something so much better than being important. That “something” is being found by the Lord, the Lord whose blessing always exceeds our need.

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