Counting Our Days

Psalm 90
November 19, 2023
William G. Carter

 

The story is told of a young boy who dreamed of going into outer space. When he was little, his dad bought him a toy rocket. From that moment, his imagination took over. The countdown would begin, “Ten-nine-eight-seven-six-five-four-three-two-one.” And he would hurl that rocket into the air.

The dream stayed with him. He leaned forward in science class. The possibility of zero gravity excited him. He investigated what kind of foods he could eat in outer space.

And the adults who encouraged his interest were curious. What’s the attraction to becoming an astronaut? Do you want to explore new worlds? Colonize Mars? Go where no one has gone before? One day, at age twelve, he replied. “I want to fly into eternity. Infinity and beyond!”

He had a point. There are no clocks in outer space, just revolving planets that rotate around the sun. The universe seems endless, with no obvious limits, no schedules, no deadlines. After you launch, you just float on forever.

One day, a well-intentioned adult pointed out, “Space may go on forever, but you won’t. You have sixty, seventy, maybe eighty years to go.” When the truth of that sank in, he landed with a thud. There is eternity, call it God’s infinity. Compared to that, our lives are short.

This is the truth of Psalm 90. We have an everlasting God, a God who was there before there was a beginning. Before the mountains, before the earth, before the whole universe was sung into being, God was. As a wise old Episcopalian priest once said to me, “God is prior.” That is, before it all. This eternal God shall also outlast us.

 As for each of us, we have an expiration date. Don’t know when it is, but this is a certainty. Sorry to bring that up, to puncture the illusion of an unlimited life span, but everything ends. Everything except God.

The poet who put together Psalm 90 knows this. Perhaps she was a philosopher, watching the rise and fall of one person after another. Maybe she observed a sunset like the one we watched on Thursday afternoon, a sherbet-colored sky streaked with red, orange, and purple, and then decided there was beauty before us, there will be beauty after us, and that kind of eternity will outlive us all. Maybe that gives you comfort. Or maybe you want to push against it.

The psalmist pushes a bit. Three times, we hear about the “anger and wrath” of God. This is not a scare tactic. The poet is not trying to frighten us, like those fire and brimstone preachers in other churches and previous generations. No, the “anger and wrath” in this psalm sound more like a recognition that sooner or later, life gets hard.

All those iniquities over the years, those secret things that twisted us out of shape, they are exposed in God’s searing light. The effects of aging, the aches and pains, that touch of arthritis that I now have in my right hand – it’s ouch and sigh.

Blame Adam and Eve if you wish. Our primeval parents lived in an eternal Garden until they committed an act of independence. With that, God put limits on our lives. We had to live with the passing of four seasons, the cycles of the moon, the creation of the sundial, the calendar, the clock, the wristwatch, and a thousand handheld devices that shackle us. Our sense of time is merely a subdivision of eternity. Even if we could blast off into eternal space, at some moment, we would run out of time.

The last time I preached on this psalm was 2008, fifteen years ago. Back then, I mentioned a website that a friend recommended. It is www.deathclock.com. I don’t recommend it. It’s billed as “the internet’s friendly reminder that life is slipping away.” If you type in your birthdate, gender, weight, and emotional mood, it will calculate how long you have left.

In 2008, the death clock told me that I will last until 2033, just ten years from now. Pretty ominous if you ask me. So, the other day, I tried it again and it said, “October 24, 2032.” Uh oh – I lost a year. And on a whim, I tried a second time. This time, it said, “November 14, 2047.” Wow – I picked up fifteen years! Then I realized I’ve given my birthdate to a computer server in China. Twice, in fact. And some stupid website cannot tell me how long I have left.

But if only we knew. If only.

When our men’s group gathered last Thursday to reflect on the psalm for today, I considered showing them a portion of one of my favorite movies but decided against it. It’s a film called About Schmidt. Jack Nicholson plays Warren Schmidt, a man whose dreams for retirement are interrupted. His wife dies unexpectedly. She left him with a Winnebago he didn’t want. Their daughter is marrying an idiot. Not what he expected for his autumn years!

And Schmidt, of all people, knows life is short. As he explains,

I was an actuary at Woodmen of the World Insurance Company. If I’m given a man’s age, race, profession, place of residence, marital status, and medical history, I can calculate with great probability how long that man will live. In my own case, now that my wife has died there is a 73% chance I will die within nine years, provided that I do not remarry. All I know is I’ve got to make the best of whatever time I have left. Life is short, and I can’t afford to waste another minute.

 In the very next scene, Schmidt is taking a snooze in his Lazy Boy recliner.

The Bible scholars say this passage reminds us that God is God. God is not arbitrary. God is not mean. God does not dish out absurdity or meaninglessness. But neither will anybody ever step on God’s toes. There are limits to what we can and cannot accomplish in this life. There is only so much that we can get done in one day. Even if God loves us, one scholar reminds us, “Death is the final and ultimate ‘no’ that cancels any pretension to autonomy from the human side.”[1]           

We cannot finish our own lives. We may not finish all the projects around the house. That’s what Psalm 90 says in five or six different ways. This is not intended as good news. It’s simply the news of how things are. There are limits to our ability. No matter how capable we are, we cannot do it all. No matter how good we try to be, there are limits which are established beyond our control. No matter how much time we think we have, we will not have enough. Either that, or we get bored with the time we have. Or end up taking a nap while the world carries on.

This psalm, with the collection of the psalms, lies under the category of biblical wisdom. It lies beside the wisecracking book of Proverbs, the sardonic book of Ecclesiastes, the passion of the Song of Solomon, and the head-scratching mysteries of the book of Job. All of them are unified in the truth that God is greater than we are – God is a whole lot smarter, God is more elusive, God is more loving or more faithful, or – in this case – God has longevity that we don’t have.

It's that insight that gets echoed in the strange Second Letter of Peter, one of the other texts for today. An early apostle reflects on the final coming of Christ, that great day when history will end, when all things will be caught up in the glory of God. It’s going to be a big moment, the greatest of all – but it’s taking a while. It’s taking a long while.

So, Peter draws on the language of our psalm by saying, “Don’t forget that, with the Lord one day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like one day.” God is not being slow, he says. God’s showing you some patience. God is giving you some time to shape up and come to your senses. (2 Peter 3:8-15)  

This is the beginning of wisdom, what the psalmist calls “a heart full of wisdom,” or simply “a wise heart.” In the words of one scholar, "A wise heart does not refer to knowledge, skill, technique, or the capacity to control. Instead, it seems to mean the capacity to submit, relinquish, and acknowledge the decisive impingement of Yahweh on one's life."[2]

God will outlive us. Ultimately God will win…over everything. One way to gain this wise heart is to lean back into God’s everlasting arms and try to get the biggest picture possible - - to see as God sees, over vast spans of time. To be patient, as God is infinitely patient. To affirm that life happens to us, through us, and in spite of us. To declare there is nothing separates us from the steadfast love of the Lord. To hold fast to such truths is to develop a wise heart.

It is of great comfort to remember God does not wear a wristwatch. God is eternal, standing outside of human time, while mysteriously entering our time with the grace of Jesus Christ. From moment to moment, we catch glimpses of how God is inclined to help us when we can’t help ourselves, and that’s how God will save us. To some extent, we are always up against the wall and our own failings are obvious. But God holds the ability to finish what we cannot.

In my journal, I’ve copied and re-copied some words by the theologian Reinhold Niebuhr. They give me perspective, and they go like this:

• Nothing that is worth doing can be achieved in our lifetime; therefore, we are saved by hope.
• Nothing which is true or beautiful or good makes complete sense in any immediate context of history; therefore, we must be saved by faith.
• Nothing we do, however virtuous, can be accomplished alone; therefore, we are saved by love.
• No virtuous act is quite as virtuous from the standpoint of our friend or foe as it is from our standpoint. Therefore, we must be saved by the final form of love which is forgiveness.”[3]

Our time is short. But God’s time is eternal. And the best way to number our days is to make them count. To do something important with whatever time we have left.

And so, I charge you to help a child reach for the stars. Enjoy a sherbet-colored sunset. Plant a sequoia. Write the next great American novel. Forgive the lingering grudge. Feed the hungry. Empty your pockets for somebody else’s children. Take a stand against wastefulness. Show strangers they are worthy of your respect. Tell those who circle around you that you love them. Make the most of what you have left, because, eternally speaking, time is short.

Most of all, don’t sweat the small stuff and don’t sweat the big stuff, for God’s steadfast love endures forever.

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

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[1] James L. Mays, Psalms, Interpretation (Louisville: John Knox, 1004) 292.

[2] Walter Brueggemann, The Message of the Psalms (Minneapolis: Augsburg) 111.

 

[3] Reinhold Niebuhr, The Irony of American History (New York: Charles Scribner’s sons, 1952) 63.

Can't Hide These Things

Psalm 78

William G. Carter

                   In case you’ve forgotten the heart of that long psalm, it’s in the opening verses: “Give ear, O my people, to my teaching; incline your ears to the words of my mouth. I will open my mouth in a parable; I will utter dark sayings from of old, things that we have heard and known, that our ancestors have told us.”

            Some people call this “the Christian Education” psalm, and for good reason. It speaks of teaching. It speaks of the faithful tradition of education. A wise teacher speaks to the covenant community and says, “Listen up!” Class is in session. It’s time to learn. The teacher says, “I’m going to reach back and grab the truth from our past, and I’m going to bring right here and give it to our future.” That’s the theme for today.

            Those of you who teach children will find yourself affirmed, for the Teacher says, “We will tell God’s glorious deeds to the coming generation; we will not hide them from our children.” Those of you who work with older adults can affirm that our future is shaped by our memory. The teaching ministry is narrated right here in Psalm 78. And the word for today is “remember.”

            What do you remember? Can you remember Egypt? The Passover? The wandering in the desert? The entry into Promised Land? Can you remember Bethlehem? Jerusalem? Antioch and Rome?  And just for a moment, can you remember those who taught you about these things?

            One Sunday some time back, I preached in my home church in upstate New York. Just like old times back in seminary. It was right after Christmas and the minister was off doing something important (I think it was a New York Giants game). In a smooth move, he invited the hometown boy to return and preach to his family and their friends.

            While the choir was warming up, I peeked into the Christian Education classrooms.  Somebody had painted over that old mural of the feeding of the five thousand – yet the story still lingers in me. I can still remember the face of Jesus.

            As I came around the corner with my pulpit gown over my arm, there was Bonnie Ballard, my second grade Sunday School teacher. She exclaimed, “It’s little Billy Carter.” I assured her that neither is true. Years ago, Miss Ballard made me memorize three psalms, nine Beatitudes, and the Lord’s Prayer. She taught me that Presbyterians don’t “trespass,” they fall into debt. She picked me to play Joseph in the Christmas pageant because I was prematurely tall and it didn’t require speaking a lot of lines. And I tell you, she was one bewildered saint when God grabbed a hold of me and sent me off to serve the church. Imagine the shock – one of your students might become a teacher!

            I’ll bet you’re here today, in no small part, because somebody like you taught somebody like you. They reached into the past to grab the riches of our heritage, and they offered them as gifts to fund your heart and mind. Can you remember?

            I will never forget the memories from that visit. There I was, in the same room where I was confirmed and ordained. The green stained glass gave the air an underwater glow, as if all were submerged in the baptismal font. All around the walls of the sanctuary were large stone plaques, remembering saints who endured long church meetings. Back on the right was a huge piece of marble naming the ancient minister that received my parents into the membership. He served as pastor for thirty-seven years, and his successor told us in Confirmation Class that the Old Duffer might actually be buried behind it.

            Halfway back, center left, my family sat in the same familiar pew. That’s where my Dad croaked out his favorite hymn, “Holy, Holy, Holy,” until the words began to sink in. A few minutes into the sermon, the four of us kids would start to fidget, so he would start a roll of Wintergreen Lifesavers down the pew. Sunday after Sunday he kept doing that until the words of those sermons began to make sense. You know, over the years I’ve heard people brag about their salvation moments. As for me, I got saved through Lifesavers.

            It reminds me of what John Calvin said about his own Christian formation in a passage that I’ve never been able to find: “The moment of my conversion was the moment that I became teachable.” If Calvin didn’t say it, he should have.

            All of this, I tell you, is a parable. Can you remember?

            There is much that the Teacher remembers. Psalm 78 is not all pleasant and joyful. Oh no. If we reach back into the past, we have to deal with the things we’ve done, or the things we’ve left undone. We have to face all those devices and desires in our twisted hearts.

            Psalm 78 remembers a lot of honest stories. It does not whitewash the truth. The Teacher of the poem keeps asking, “Do you remember where we’ve come from? And do you remember the fine mess that we fell into?” The Psalmist offers one story after another of how God did something good, and people of faith goofed it up.

            The Teacher says, “Do you remember how we were in the desert? The sun was pounding down, we were walking around without water, we were complaining about the heat, we were wondering how we were going to make it. And God said, ‘Whack that rock with a stick, and I’ll give you living water.” That’s what Moses did – but we complained about it.

            And the Teacher says, “Can you remember where we were before the desert? We were slaves in a foreign land. We were down in Egypt, forced to produce for Old Pharoah. Pharoah was a nasty taskmaster. He demanded bricks from us until God stepped in. God poured blood in the river, sent frogs and flies, struck the first-born down, until Pharoah said, “Yes, you can go.”

            And the very minute we became free, we began acting like we were the center of the universe, and it made God angry.

            Oh yes, we look back and remember. And some of what we see is painfully honest.

            A friend suggested David McCullough’s book on the Johnstown Flood. For those of you who may not know the details, two thousand people died in 1889. The Johnstown Flood was one of the greatest natural disasters in this country. I didn’t realize until I read the book that it was caused by God and the Presbyterians.

            For God’s part, God sent a lot of rain. As for the Presbyterians, they were people like Andrew Carnegie, Andrew Mellon, and Henry Clay Frick – wealthy industrialists who made millions on steel and railroads. They built a hunting camp about fifteen miles up the hill from Johnstown. When summer came, it was a great place to escape from the stress of their mansions in Pittsburgh. However, they didn’t pay attention to the quality of the dam that created their fishing lake. They ignored every warning that the dam wasn’t safe. And after God sent all the rain, and the dam burst, and the flood roared down the hill, those rich old Covenanters said, “Maybe we should start summering in the Adirondacks, or in Paris.”

            As David McCullough reminds us, “There is a danger in assuming that because people are in positions of responsibility they are necessarily behaving responsibly.” 

            O people of faith, are you willing to remember? Are we willing to look honestly at the human condition? Can we be transparent enough to confess where we’ve wandered? Only then can we also confess the hope that God has planted within our souls.

            Scholars tell us this is a salvation history psalm. With apologies to the scholars, so what? So what does it matter that we classify this as a “salvation history psalm”? That is a worthless piece of information until we realize that we are the ones with that history. We share the narrative of God’s persistence. We hold a sacred story of how God has stuck with us – even though God could have chosen people far more faithful and better tempered.

            Like that lady who was sitting next to me in the movie theater. The film was “Dream Girls.” I was watching the movie like a dull Scot, chomping on popcorn, and going “hmm” every time we heard a good song. Not her; she was in constant dialogue with the plot; if you saw the movie, you know what I mean. It was like we were in her African American church on Sunday morning, and my friend was letting the preacher knew right where she was.

            At one point in the movie, as the band manager from Detroit was starting to get too big from his britches, my friend murmured out, “Now, don’t you forget where you came from.” That was the best part of a really good movie. It summed up the plot pretty well.

            So where do the people of God come from? We come from the steadfast mercy of God. Don’t ever forget this. Don’t forget God makes each one of us, and calls us precious. Don’t forget that, in the language of the psalm, God “snorts with indignation” when we forget where we’re from. Don’t forget that God gives us this day our daily bread, even as we keep testing and pushing up against such generosity. And whatever else, don’t forget that God stays with us through every wrong turn on a bumpy road.

            If you listen to Psalm 78, it sounds like God has had plenty of reasons to dump this unfaithful people, but God will not do it. God stays faithful, because a promise is a promise, a covenant is a covenant. God stays with us - - and that is the great parable. That’s the hidden mystery of how a holy God keeps bending down toward people with bloody hands and dirty fingernails. It has less to do with our behavior, and more to do with God’s character. Infinitely more.

            “Listen,” says the Teacher, “and I will open my mouth in a parable. I will utter things we have heard and known which we will not hide from our children.”

            I give thanks to God for people like you. Your ministry shapes people to get ready for God. You equip people to apprehend the Holy Presence. You school them in God’s perseverance. In fact, much of your work is a parable of the perseverance of God.

            They warned me about him. He was a handful in Sunday School. Actually, more like two handfuls. All I know was he was late for his own wedding rehearsal, sauntering toward the sanctuary, an unlit cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth. Suddenly he saw a project still hanging from his days in Mrs. Diven’s fourth grade class. “Hey, I made that paper cross!” he said, the cigarette tumbling and rolling across the narthex. Who knows what stories you have been planted in many a restless heart? And someday those seeds will take root, and someone will remember about God. Listen, listen - this is the parable.

            Every time we gather is an opportunity for us to remember. It calls us to recall how our story has been shaped by God’s story. That’s our parable to pass along. I pray that this week, you will listen to the past as it speaks to our future. I pray that your memory will be renewed until it deepens the faith of the church. Can you remember how God gave us what we needed? Can you recall how God raised his voice? Can you remember how God abides in thick and thin? We are called to remember because memory is the textbook of grace.

            It is good for all of us to be here. Let us not take this gift for granted. We are here because God has been faithful. So faithful, that someone hands us the broken bread and says, “This is my life, given for you.” And then he hands us the cup, speaking the words, “All sins are forgiven in my blood.” Do you remember? 

            Of course you do. You remember our common human weakness and God’s continuing mercy. You remember - because you’ve been baptized to remember.

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

Learning the Secret

Philippians 4:10-20
October 29, 2023

William G. Carter

I rejoice in the Lord greatly that now at last you have revived your concern for me; indeed, you were concerned for me, but had no opportunity to show it. Not that I am referring to being in need; for I have learned to be content with whatever I have. I know what it is to have little, and I know what it is to have plenty. In any and all circumstances I have learned the secret of being well-fed and of going hungry, of having plenty and of being in need. I can do all things through him who strengthens me. In any case, it was kind of you to share my distress. You Philippians indeed know that in the early days of the gospel, when I left Macedonia, no church shared with me in the matter of giving and receiving, except you alone. For even when I was in Thessalonica, you sent me help for my needs more than once. Not that I seek the gift, but I seek the profit that accumulates to your account. I have been paid in full and have more than enough; I am fully satisfied, now that I have received from Epaphroditus the gifts you sent, a fragrant offering, a sacrifice acceptable and pleasing to God. And my God will fully satisfy every need of yours according to his riches in glory in Christ Jesus.  To our God and Father be glory forever and ever. Amen.

 

This fall, we have been working our way through Paul's letter to the Philippians. Today we get to the purpose for writing the letter. This is a thank you note – with a very long introduction. It’s taken a while for him to get to this. I don’t know why it takes so long to get to writing a thank you, but I will confess that it usually takes me far too long to acknowledge a gift.

Today that’s what we hear Paul doing. The Philippians sent him a large sum of money. It was delivered by Epaphroditus, who risked his life to get it to the apostle. And Paul wants to write to his donors to acknowledge the gift. But it’s a most unusual note. For one thing, it’s too long. A thank you note should be brief. Like this:

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Carter, Lucinda and I want to thank you for the toaster oven.

Of the seven toaster ovens we received at our wedding, we like yours most of all.

We appreciate your generosity. Sincerely yours, Mark.

Now, that's long enough. The note doesn't need to say anything more. They got the gift. That’s enough. But listen to Paul's letter. He goes on for two whole pages of stationery. And the tone is all wrong. He says, "I rejoice in the Lord that you finally revived your concern for me.” You thought of my again…finally. That word "finally" is harsh.

Fortunately, the ink is still wet, so Paul eases his tone. "Well, I knew you were concerned, but you didn't have an opportunity to show it. Yet I don't really need the gift," he continues. "I've learned to be content in every way." (This is supposed to be a thank-you note, if you missed that.

"I don't sit around my prison cell waiting for care packages to arrive. I know how to get by on very little. I know how to receive an abundance. Christ gives me the strength to handle whatever happens. Nevertheless, you were the only ones who remembered me. Of course, I didn't ask for the gift. (He doesn't back off, does he!) Even though I received it, you didn't really give it to me, you gave it to God."

Now what kind of note is this? If this is how the apostle says thank you, it’s no wonder why the Christians in Philippi were the only ones who ever sent him a gift. Most of the time Paul wouldn’t let anybody put a few dollars in his pocket. He told the church in Corinth, "I preach free of charge." That's not something I'd say. I have groceries to buy, a mortgage to pay, and obligations to meet. But that’s what Paul said to that other church.[1] But the church in Philippi was different. He thought of them as partners in the Gospel.

Even so, he seems awkward as he acknowledges the gift. He's not entirely comfortable. "No other church shared in the matter of giving and receiving," he says. "But I didn't seek the gift. I have more than enough. Yet your gift is a fragrant offering." Can you feel his awkwardness? Gifts can make us uncomfortable.

Years ago, I clipped an article by a man who wrote about his memories of Christmas. As a child, he began planning for the holiday in February. He scribbled out the next year's wish list before the winter snow melted off the ground. Each year he listed a full page of toys which he wanted more than anything else. Then he waited impatiently. When Christmas finally came, his joy erupted. Packages were ripped open. Wrapping paper and bows went flying in delight. What killed his happiness, he says, was the presence of his mother. She insisted he write thank-you notes for every gift received. As he put it,

Every present under our Christmas tree was just the visible tip of an iceberg of obligation. My mother tracked each package as meticulously as a U.P.S. driver, and her master list haunted my siblings and me for the rest of winter vacation. Bells would be ringing, snow would be falling, our friends would be sliding down our street on brand-new Flexible Flyers - and my sister, my brother, and I would be bent over tear-spattered sheets of stationery, whimpering.[2]

Receiving a gift can be an awkward moment because it is a significant moment. In the language of the New Testament, the occasion is so profound that the same word is used for both the giving and the receiving of a gift. The word is charis, which is usually translated "grace." The word can be translated as "gift." It can also be translated as "thanks." It doesn't matter if it's being given (gift) or being received (thanks). The whole exchange happens equally between the one who gives and the one who receives. At its best, both giver and receiver are marked by the same graciousness. 

There is no human occasion that more clearly reveals what God is doing in our hearts than the giving and the receiving of a gift. It is a tender moment. It is a demanding moment. It is a revelatory moment. That is, the way we receive a gift reveals who we are and what we're made of.

Now, there's no evidence that Paul was ungrateful. To the contrary, he told the Philippian people, "I thank my God whenever I think of you." (1:3) And he meant it. This is the most affectionate document in the whole New Testament. It could be that Paul is nervous how the gift may damage their relationship. Gifts can do that! Some gifts are given in such a way that they ruin the very thing they wish to establish.

Have you ever read the book Spoon River Anthology, by Edgar Lee Masters? It's a book of epitaphs from the people of the fictional town of Spoon River, Illinois. From the grave, the townspeople tell the truth about their lives. One woman, Constance Hately, reveals why her two adopted nieces grew up to despise her.

 

You praise my self-sacrifice, Spoon River,

In rearing Irene and Mary, Orphans of my older sister!

And you censure Irene and Mary for their contempt for me!

But praise not my self-sacrifice, and censure not their contempt;

I reared them, I cared for them, true enough! - -

But I poisoned my benefactions with constant reminders of their dependence.[3]

Aunt Constance said, "Girls, I took you in when your mother died. I never want you to forget it. As long as you live beneath my roof, as long as you sit at my table, I want you to remember that your very lives depend on me." Year after year, they grew to detest her . . . because of what she provided for them and how it was given.

All the more remarkable, then, that Paul thanks them for the gift, yet refuses to orbit around their generosity.

He says, "I know how to have a lot. I know how to have a little. In every occasion I have learned how to be content. I have been initiated into the secret." That's an unusual phrase: "I have been initiated into the secret." Paul doesn't explain it. He keeps it a secret. Yet I’ll bet some of us will understand what he's talking about.

Did you ever notice how some people never ask for a gift, and when they receive one, they are absolutely delighted and strangely free? And others receive a gift, and they are unsatisfied? The first group of people knows the secret, while the second group doesn't have a clue.

Did you ever notice how some people can give and give and give, and when somebody gives them something, it fills them with abundant joy? And then there are others who constantly give and give and give. Yet if someone should ever try to give them something, the giver is pushed away. Do you know why that happens? It's because they do not know the secret.

Any guess what the secret is? Paul never says, but I have a hunch. And if you promise to keep it a secret, I'll tell you what I think it is. It’s the secret that sets us free from having to possess a lot of things. It’s the secret that sets us free to receive a lot of things. It works both ways. In fact, I have met people who know their Bibles, yet totally miss the secret. Do you know what it is?

It’s the fundamental secret of the Christian life, the only secret that really matters, the one true piece of evidence that signifies that God in Christ is transforming your life. Here it is. The fundamental secret of the Christian life is gratitude. An attitude of gratitude.

"I can have a lot, or I can have a little. Either way, I'm grateful."

"I can receive the money, or I can live without the money. Either way, I'm grateful."

"I can appreciate the way you share my difficulties, or I can be content by myself.

  However life turns, my heart is full of gratitude. Christ is sufficient. " 

That's the secret. It’s rooted in our experience of the greater generosity of God. Anybody who knows it, embraces it, lives it, is free. Absolutely free.

Back in the heyday of the Reformation, the Geneva Catechism asked the question, "Should we be grateful to other people when they perform some service for us?" The answer: "Of course we should, precisely because God honors them by channeling through their hands the good things that flow to us from the inexhaustible fountain of his generosity. In this way he puts us in their debt, and he wants us to acknowledge it. Anyone, therefore, who does not show gratitude to other people betrays ingratitude to God as well."[4]

God has so arranged the world that we depend upon the gifts of others for our daily survival. Every breath of life, every heartbeat, every conscious thought is a gift. Every person we meet, every friend we make, every relationship that warms the heart and challenges the soul is a gift. Every opportunity to work, every meaningful task, every dollar earned is a gift. And the final work of God is not merely to fill our lives with good things, but to teach us to receive all things with gratitude.

 So let me say it: I am grateful for all of you. You make our ministry possible. Your sharing in the Gospel commitment moves mountains and nourishes bellies. You show the love to Christ in the commitments that you make and the songs that you sing. Most of all, God shows the generosity of heaven through you. I am grateful for your faith, your hope, and your love. So, I’ll never tire of saying thank you.

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

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[1] 1 Corinthians 9:14-18.

[2] David Owen, "No Thanks," The New Yorker 18 December 1995: 128.

[3] Edgar Lee Masters, Spoon River Anthology (New York: Signet Classic, 1992) 10.

[4] Quoted in B. A. Gerrish, Grace and Gratitude (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1993) 45.

We Go High

Philippians 4:1-9
October 22, 2023
William G. Carter

Therefore, my brothers and sisters, whom I love and long for, my joy and crown, stand firm in the Lord in this way, my beloved. I urge Euodia and I urge Syntyche to be of the same mind in the Lord. Yes, and I ask you also, my loyal companion, help these women, for they have struggled beside me in the work of the gospel, together with Clement and the rest of my co-workers, whose names are in the book of life.

 

Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near. Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

 

Finally, beloved, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. Keep on doing the things that you have learned and received and heard and seen in me, and the God of peace will be with you.

Some of us are old enough to remember camp songs. I have never forgotten one. We gathered round the campfire as our song leader strummed three enthusiastic chords on the guitar. That’s all the song required. He paused and pointed a finger at one of the kids and said, "What are you thinking about?"      

"I'm thinking about school." So, they sang, "Thinking about school, school, school. Thinking about school, school, school..."

"How about you?" he said, pointing to a young lady. She blushed and said, "I'm thinking about boys." So, they sang, "Thinking about boys, boys, boys. Thinking about boys, boys, boys..."

"What about you?" as he pointed to somebody else. “Basketball." They sang, "Thinking about basketball, basketball, basketball . . ." That was the point of the song. Whatever was on their minds provided what they began to sing about.

Today we hear the apostle Paul break into singing. We know what's on his mind. He taps his tin cup on the bars of his prison cell and sings, "Thinking about joy, joy, joy. Thinking about joy, joy, joy...” Or to put it in his words, “Rejoice in the Lord always; again I say, Rejoice!"

This is one of striking details of his letter to the Philippians, Paul keeps talking, singing, and thinking about joy. It happens at least 12 times in the four short chapters of this document. Joy bubbles out of his soul, despite his circumstances.

And there are plenty of circumstances. Most likely, he's an old man near the end of his travels. He is a prisoner of the Empire, deprived of basic necessities, and separated from those he loved. There is troubling news from the small congregation that he loved so deeply. In his absence, rival evangelists had invaded the church. “Beware of those dogs,” he says. Not only that, but there’s also an argument in fellowship hall between Euodia and Syntyche, whoever they were. 

Yet rather abruptly Paul interrupts himself to sing, "Rejoice in the Lord always; again I say, Rejoice!"

We cannot escape the extraordinary character of the author of this letter. Pondering the uncertainty of his future, he speaks of freedom: "I can die, I can live, I can see you or stay away: yet in all circumstances, I am free." Addressing the cracks in the church’s unity, he quotes an old hymn: "Set your minds on Christ Jesus, who emptied himself for others." Last week, we heard Paul offer to scrap his own resume. "I'm willing to lose it all," he said, "if I might be found in Christ Jesus."

This is a most uncommon human being. He sings about joy. He encourages gentleness. He says, "Don't worry." Then he offers a benediction: "May the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, guard your feelings and your thoughts in Christ Jesus."

It would be sufficient to stop there, don't you think? Except Paul is a preacher. He has more to say, even after the benediction. No sooner does he say "Amen," than he goes on to say what's really on his mind... because he wants it to be on our minds, too. Let me paraphrase what he says:

Can you think of anything truthful? Anything honest?

Can you recall what is righteous? Remember what is pure?

Do you have a sense of what is lovely or reputable?

Can you imagine a virtuous action? Can you think of a good deed?

If so, wrap your brain around these things!"

At first, this sounds like a healthy dose of positive thinking. Look on the bright side. Keep your chin up. Turn that frown upside down - and all those familiar cliches. You can probably think of a few more. It’s a well-worn strategy to counter the negativity, and there’s so much of that. That toxic cloud can roll into any situation.

Somebody told me about going to a family reunion, the first reunion in a dozen years. The meal was tasty and a little bit fattening. The conversation was full of memories and laughter. But then the conversation moved on to the front porch and the family began to play a game. Bob said the game was called, “Ain’t it awful?” Maybe you’ve been privy to the game. It’s played by reciting a series of questions:

"Ain't it awful about Cousin Tom?"

"Ain't it awful about the steel plant closing down?"

“Ain’t it awful our new car turned out to be a lemon?”

Twenty minutes of that and all the pleasant feelings of the reunion had been snuffed out. “Ain’t it awful.” This is what was on their minds. Not the joy of being together, not the memories they shared, not the hopes common to every breathing soul, but a well-worn list of grumbles. Awful, indeed. 

When Paul addresses the Philippians, it sounds like he’s pointing over their heads, as if to say, “Look up!” He could complain as loudly as anyone but chooses not to do so. He could write to say, “Here in prison, the food is lousy, the bed is hard, the guards are brutal, the rules are oppressive, the people in charge are non-responsive. Ain’t it awful?” But he doesn’t go there. At least, not in this letter.

Some students of this letter believe Paul is appealing to the intellectual heritage of his listeners. If you’re from Philippi, you are ankle deep in the thinking of the great Greek philosophers. Plato, Aristotle, and the rest spent a lot of mental energy exploring the great virtues of the universe. “The truth is always dangling above our heads,” said Plato. Down here, all we see are dull shadows and thin representations. But if we pursue the truth, the real truth, it can free us from the mortal ills that come from being human.

No doubt, then, if a few of the Macedonian minds in Philippi nodded in agreement when the apostle appeals to the true, the honorable, the just and pure. “Isn’t that the intellectual quest for all of us?” they said. Don’t invest in the illusions of this shadow world. Look beyond them. Penetrate through them. Pursue the wisdom hidden from casual observers. Search for the truth.

Noble thoughts, to be sure. Except that the truth is precisely that the food is lousy, the bed is hard, the guards are brutal, and all the rest. And there’s precious little in Paul’s present circumstances that could be construed as commendable, excellent, or worthy of praise. Philosophical thinking can ease human pain only so much. I can say that with authenticity since I was a philosophy major in college. Plato was no help when I had a roommate who snored. Aristotle taught me nothing to improve my undergraduate love life.  

Certainly, Paul is raising his sights. At the end of each of his letters, he loves to give advice. That’s what he is doing here in chapter four. Earlier in the letter, he told his friends, “Don’t worry about me.” In the middle of the letter, he said, “Think about others, and not only about yourselves.” As he begins to sum up his thoughts, he reveals his own deep spiritual training. He won’t be sidetracked by the small stuff or the temporary difficulties. He will stay focused on the matters that count most.

This is good advice. What are you thinking about these days? Whatever occupies our spirits will shape who we are. If we lose a day watching mindless television shows, it does something to us – it takes something away. If we’re constantly tapping our phones, we risk losing connections to those at the dinner table. If all we do is worry, worry will shrink us.

By contrast, I remember a remarkable Presbyterian who brewed a cup of coffee and memorized three psalms every morning. That was his breakfast. That was his spiritual discipline. And he explained, “If I ever lose my memory, I want something else to be there.” A deep reservoir of scripture filled his mind.

Sometimes it happens by repetition without us realizing. The father of a friend did lose his memory. Alzheimer’s Disease erased his mental blackboard. But when the carolers came by at Christmas, he knew all the words to every carol and sang along. They had been engraved upon his soul by way of his mind.

His mind. Did you notice that Paul is always talking about the mind? He encourages his friends to “have the same mind.” He says his opponents “set their minds on earthly things.” Most important, Paul says, “Have the mind of Christ.” And that gives me a hunch about what is most on his own mind. What matters most to Paul is not Paul. As distracting as they might be, he is not fretting over his troubles. As much as he loves the Philippians, his favorite church, he does not think obsessively about them.

No, he has already told us: Christ Jesus is of “surpassing value.” There’s nobody more important than him. He is the One who is true, honorable, just, pure, pleasing, commendable, excellent, and worthy of praise. This is the One who did not regard equality with God as something be exploited, but emptied himself in service, giving himself for world in need. This is how Jesus thought. How he still thinks. There isn’t anything more excellent than that. Paul says, “If there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.” They will sustain your joy.

My first trip to Scranton was in the fall of 1986. The Presbyterians gathered in a big church downtown to welcome the Rev. Benjamin Weir as their guest. Ben and his wife Carol had served as mission workers in Lebanon. One day in Beirut, Ben was abducted by terrorists and kept in captivity. He was held as a prisoner for 16 months. Just like the apostle Paul.

We strained forward to listen to his story. At first, he admitted his fear, even his despair. Yet he held onto a verse from the book of Proverbs: “Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not rely on your own insight. In all your ways acknowledge (the Lord) and he will make straight your paths (3:5-6).” The more he recited that verse, the more he noticed in his cell.

• The chain that bound him to the radiator was a reminder that he was bound to Christ.
• The light bulb on a strand of wire resembled Michelangelo’s painting in the Sistine Chapel, of God reaching out to spark Adam with life.
• Two electrical outlets with plastic covers reminded him of the ears of God who hears our cries.
• Three pegs on the wall recalled the Holy Trinity.
• The French doors in his room were full of slats, almost too many to count, resembled the cloud of witnesses, those saints both living and dead who knew the faithfulness of God first-hand.

 On and on, his imagination kept spinning as he looked around the room, correlating common things with the virtues of a God who loves us. Sixteen months later, Ben Weir emerged mentally intact, spiritually fit, emotionally grounded. A reporter asked, "Rev. Weir, how did you survive sixteen months of captivity without falling apart?

 Ben answered, "I guess it depends on what you spend your days thinking about."

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

Who Do You Think You Are?

Philippians 3:4(b)-14
October 15, 2023
William G. Carter

If anyone else has reason to be confident in the flesh, I have more: circumcised on the eighth day, a member of the people of Israel, of the tribe of Benjamin, a Hebrew born of Hebrews; as to the law, a Pharisee; as to zeal, a persecutor of the church; as to righteousness under the law, blameless. Yet whatever gains I had, these I have come to regard as loss because of Christ. More than that, I regard everything as loss because of the surpassing value of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For his sake I have suffered the loss of all things, and I regard them as rubbish, in order that I may gain Christ and be found in him, not having a righteousness of my own that comes from the law, but one that comes through faith in Christ, the righteousness from God based on faith. I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the sharing of his sufferings by becoming like him in his death, if somehow I may attain the resurrection from the dead. Not that I have already obtained this or have already reached the goal; but I press on to make it my own, because Christ Jesus has made me his own. Beloved, I do not consider that I have made it my own; but this one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the heavenly call of God in Christ Jesus.

Back in junior high school, the English teacher offered advice about writing. She said, "When you compose a paragraph, never use the word 'I' more than once." It's bad form. It leads to sloppy syntax. Most of all, it puts you in the center of attention, which is a problematic place to be. These days, this is counter-cultural counsel. In so many places around the neighborhood, there is an overemphasis on me, myself, and I. 

The advice about writing paragraphs was amplified when it came to personal correspondence. "When you write a letter,” she said, “never use the word 'I' more than once in the entire letter." You are corresponding. It’s two-sided communication, and your side must not come off as overbearing. When people open a letter from you, they don’t want to read, "I did this, I did that, I vacationed here, I ate a fabulous meal there.” This might be good advice if any of us compose a letter for the holidays, namely, “Don’t write the kind of Christmas letter that you wouldn’t want to receive. Me, myself, and I. It’s bad form.

The Apostle Paul didn't have Mrs. Davis for 8th grade English class. If he did, he wouldn't have written the paragraph we have heard today. Every sentence begins with the word "I. "I have confidence. I have more. I have gains. I have losses. I have suffered. I want to know. I press on." Every sentence, the I’s have it. If we didn't know better, Paul wants the spotlight on him.

Like the story that a preaching professor tells. After visiting a church to preach a sermon, he was chatting in the back of the sanctuary with a few people. A deacon was tidying up the pews. Her son was playing around her. He ran up and down the aisles, then around the chancel. Then he climbed up in the pulpit and - BOOM - discovered the microphone was still on. "Hey everybody!" he yelled. "I'm the preacher! Look at me! Look at me!" Somebody murmured to my friend, "I think we’ve heard that sermon before."

Paul says, "I have confidence. I have gains. I have losses." Look at me! And what do we see? Three things.

We see a man born with a lot of privileges, first off. He has been born into the chosen people of God. He didn’t choose his birthright. It was given to him as a gift. “Let me tell you about them,” he said. Born into the twelfth tribe of Israel, the tribe of Benjamin. His blood is one hundred percent Hebrew. Circumcised on the eighth day, received into the covenant as every Jewish son. He didn’t choose that, either. It was a gift, as any of us who are born with privileges.

Second, he has plenty of accomplishments. “Let me tell you about all the things I’ve gotten done in my life.” Went to the academy to study Scripture, memorized all the parts that a faithful believer needs to know. Taught to interpret the Bible, and defend the truth, and teach others how to live by the Word of God. “I spent a lot of time engraving the commandments of God onto my soul. I expended even more energy getting those commandments embodied in the way I live.” Paul says, “In every conceivable way, I have lived by the Book.”

He has privileges, first, and accomplishments, second. And third, do you know what those privileges and accomplishments are worth? Absolutely nothing. “Look at my garbage can,” he tells us. “I’ve thrown my privileges away. My accomplishments smell like the stuff you scrape from the bottom of your shoes.” It’s all gone. It has no value. Paul says, “I’ve thrown it all away”.   

Now, pause here a second and ask with me, what’s going on in this man? Perhaps it’s the fact he currently resides in a prison. Paul the Privileged Achiever is now the grizzled old man in Cell Block C. Stripped of his scholar’s robe, he wears the striped tunic of a convict. In addition to that Star of David he wore so proudly around his neck, there are shackles on his legs that are chained to the wall. What do all the privileges and accomplishments matter when you are a guest in the emperor’s dungeon? Not very much.

…Except he says he threw it all away. He regards his assets as “rubbish.” Hmm. Perhaps you noticed that I skipped over a description of one of his “accomplishments.” He puts it this way, “as to my zeal, I was a persecutor of the church.” That is, “I thought I was doing the right thing, and I was wrong.”   

This is the terrible truth of the man which lies close to all his bravado. Paul the Over Achiever and Super Believer had grown furious with some of his fellow Jews. They said the Messiah had come; he did not believe it. They said this man Jesus had been crucified; Paul knew what it says in his Bible, that anyone hung up on a tree is cursed by God. They said this cursed Jesus was alive again, and Paul said that cannot happen. With the conviction that came from his privileges and accomplishments, he decided to get rid of these Jesus Believers once and for all. Wipe them off the face of the earth!

You may remember what happened. Riding his way to the pogrom, a Bright Light blinded him. And the Bright Light spoke to say, “I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting.” Suddenly, all that Paul believed that he was, all that Paul had given years to accomplish, all of that did not matter very much. “I regard it all as loss,” he says, “in order that Christ Jesus would find me.” Lost and found.

I don’t know if you’ve ever lost it all. Or ever lost a good bit of what you had. It is not a pleasant experience. Those of us who have been through it say it tastes like chewing on charcoal. Everything you presumed, gone. Everything you worked for, falling through your fingers. Everything you thought was right, interrupted. Everything you believed was your strength, doesn’t count for much anymore. The loss can be traumatic.

Yet for Paul, this was the beginning of wisdom, holy wisdom. In losing everything, he found Christ. Or better stated, Christ found him. This is the truth of the Gospel: when everything you have is swept off the table, Jesus Christ is still there for you. With searing honesty, you can confess it’s not about the blessings and advantages that came from my birth; it’s about the holy and generous life to which Christ calls me. It’s not about the greatness of my personal achievements; it’s about the saving love of Christ who does for us what we cannot. He redeems us, a technical term referring to buying someone out of their slavery. In this case, slavery to themselves.

So, when Paul says to the Philippians, “I – I – I, he’s really saying Christ, Christ, Christ.” The overachiever gives up and lets God forgive him. That’s how can say, “Look at my incredible zeal – I was persecuting the church of God.” He puts it right out there, a continuing confession of how wrong he was, and how gracious God is. He comes to the conviction that what matters is not who we are, nor what we've done. No, what matters is the far-surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus rules over us with hands once punctured by our own nails.

That's the essence of the Gospel, of course, but it's still a tough pill to swallow. This is a high achievement town, full of generally good-hearted people who work hard and reach high. We push our children to do well, to step up, to climb the ladder. If they stumble or fall, we feel embarrassed and suffer in silence. I can’t count how many kids soar out of here, only to have their wax wings melt, perhaps transfer to a much lesser school, slip out of contact for a while, or worse.

Some time back, I reconnected with one of our confirmation graduates and asked, “What have you been up to?” She said, “Got out of rehab about six months ago. Opiates, needles.” Last thing I expected her to say, so I tried to shift gears quickly. She stopped me and said, “No, it’s OK, Rev. Really, it’s OK. I hit bottom, and for the first time in ten years, I got real. Couldn’t have gotten through it without Jesus and his grace.”

I paused, didn’t know what to say. I never do. She touched my arm. “For me, it’s day by day. Every day. And I feel alive like I didn’t before.” Now, there’s somebody who was lost but is found.

Charles Cousar, who taught New Testament at Columbia Seminary, says we are close to the true shape of the Christian life. When Paul says, “I want to know Christ,” Dr. Cousar says this is not a matter of acquiring information or developing a particular mindset. It’s not developing an imaginary friendship, nor engaging in a mystical vision, nor an ability to recount a lot of Bible stories. To “know Christ” is to affirm our whole lives are shaped by death and resurrection.[1] We lose what we once believed was our greatest strength. We gain in Christ what we can never achieve by ourselves. We die to our passions, our urges, our obsessions. We are raised by his grace.

It’s just like the early church and how they practiced the sacrament of baptism. Those baptized went down into the water, literally buried in the water. Then they were lifted up, reborn, renewed, and dressed in a new white gown to show that the powers of death had no dominion over them. Death and resurrection. Knowing Christ. It is the great mystery of our lives, lives that are woven by grace to the eternal life of Jesus.

Last year, we lost Frederick Buechner, the great spiritual writer. Long before his twilight years, he told us about his understanding of Christian experience: 

We find by losing. We hold fast by letting go. We become something new by ceasing to be something old. This seems to be close to the heart of the mystery. I know no more now than I ever did about the far side of death as the last letting-go of all, but I begin to know that I do not need to know and that I do not need to be afraid of not knowing. God knows. That is all that matters. Out of Nothing God creates Something. Out of the End (God) creates the Beginning … All's lost. All's found.[2]

“I want to know this,” says Paul. “I have lost what I once treasured and gained even more. I’ve had a taste of all of it, but not quite the whole thing. So, I press on. And the one thing I know: I make Christ Jesus my own because he has claimed me as his own.”

Who did I think I am? Can’t remember. Now I belong to Christ.

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

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[1] Charles B. Cousar, A Theology of the Cross (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1990) 160-161.

[2] Frederick Buechner, "All's Lost - All's Found," A Room Called Remember (San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1984) 189-90.