By Hook or By Net

Mark 1:16-20
January 14, 2024
Epiphany 2
William G. Carter

Now after John was arrested, Jesus came to Galilee, proclaiming the good news of God, and saying, “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news.”

As Jesus passed along the Sea of Galilee, he saw Simon and his brother Andrew casting a net into the sea—for they were fishermen. And Jesus said to them, “Follow me and I will make you fish for people.” And immediately they left their nets and followed him. As he went a little farther, he saw James son of Zebedee and his brother John, who were in their boat mending the nets. Immediately he called them; and they left their father Zebedee in the boat with the hired men, and followed him.

 

This is recruiting season for a lot of colleges. Some of our high school graduates are signing up for the schools that they will attend next fall. If your family has ever been part of that process, you know there is some negotiating that goes on. How much do they want you? What kind of scholarship money are they going to offer? How many A.P. credits can you take with you? What else will sweeten the deal? 

I have a friend in Georgia. Her son just decided to sign on to play football at a small college in South Carolina. They are knocking down tuition by $25,000 a year. And they gave him a free t-shirt. I think he should have held out for a coffee mug too, but he seemed happy with the deal.

This is also a recruiting season for a lot of churches. Not merely for members – a congregation like ours is always looking for members - but for leaders. Once we get through Christmas, our Nominating Team begins its search for elders and deacons. I will not admit to any kinds of deals that they will offer, although we do give away free cups of coffee. No mugs, but coffee. And the search begins today. The team will find the best leaders they can find.

When we hear the familiar Gospel story of Jesus selecting the first members of his team, we tend to classify it as that kind of experience. That he’s going along the north shore of the Sea of Galilee on a recruiting tour. He is looking for his disciples. He starts with Simon and Andres, then James and John, and says, “Come and follow me.” Then with a delightful little word play, he says to the fishermen, “From now on, you will be fishing for people.” In his breathless fashion, Mark says they dropped everything. Immediately they followed him.

Most of us wonder why there isn’t more to the story. They dropped everything? Went immediately? Didn’t they ask where he was headed? What he was going to do? Was this a career change or just a temporary modification? Were they traveling far? Could they return to sleep in their own beds, at least some of the time? A couple of paragraphs later, we learn Simon had a mother-in-law, so he must have had a wife. Could he bring her along? What if they had kids? None of these questions are ever answered.

Along the way, I recall a couple of teachers who attempted to fill in the gaps. One of them said, “It was the sound of his voice. When Jesus made his offer, all four of them knew this was too good a situation to pass up. Of course, they left immediately.” Even James and John left old man Zebedee to finish counting the fish and mending the nets.”

Another teacher told us, “It was the twinkle in his eye. Jesus was full of light, life, and joy. They responded as any of us would. Wouldn’t you?” Well, we would like to think so. Except Mark tells us none of this. Jesus doesn’t say anything about the benefits of following him, heavenly or otherwise. He never sweetens the deal because he never makes a deal. And it is too early in the story for him to warn those four of potential dangers. “Follow me,” he says. And they go.

We can speculate about this all we want, but Mark has already told us what he wants us to know. It was in the account from last week. God ripped open the sky. The protective dome above our heads has been breached. The Spirit came down and landed on Jesus. He began to preach, “Time is up. It’s time for God rule over everything. Stop what you were doing and make the change.”

We can’t overestimate the significance of what this means. God has come. God is here. That closed system of “same old, same old” has been invaded by holiness. If illness is sweeping like a pestilence across the land, God doesn’t want that. Jesus will heal, not by waving his hands with some blanket magic spell, but by taking folks seriously one at a time. It is long work, hard work, important work. And it breaks the news that God is here.

Or those who talk in tight circles, surrounding themselves with people who agree with them, never challenged to look deeper or love wider, Jesus comes preaching a God who is not confined to our opinions. God didn’t stay up in heaven, where it was safe for him and boring for us. God came down.

“Think of it this way,” he said. “God’s dominion is like a little bitty seed. It grows mysteriously. Somehow he becomes the biggest of all the bushes.” (He doesn’t say oak trees, but scrub bushes.) And I’ll bet he was smiling at Simon, Andrew, James, and John when he said it. His words blew open all expectations, because his words didn’t originate from the north shore of the Sea of Galilee. They came down low from somewhere a good bit higher.

It's a new day, he said. The rightful Ruler is back in charge. The world will be reminded that it is cherished. Hard-working fishermen are God’s Beloved. The poor are God’s royalty. It’s time to say it. It’s time to show it. “Come, follow me.”

From what I can tell, this was the plot of God’s Gospel. Mark does not say much more. He shows us. In chapter one, Jesus is off like a rocket. Going here, going there, hardly taking a breath or stopping for a sandwich. There is work to do. There are words to speak. And if you want to see who he is, if you want to learn what God cares about, get in step, and follow wherever he goes.

It is striking how direct all of this is. Over the years, the church has tried to reduce the Gospel to a sales plan. Three easy steps to salvation, four spiritual laws, a sinner’s prayer to mimic, and then the Circus Tent where the traveling evangelist makes the pitch. There’s none of this in the Gospel of Mark; Jesus is too busy. He’s too busy loving and healing and feeding and confronting and forgiving, to say nothing of shouting at terrible wind storms to knock it off.

Instead of reducing the kingdom of God to a marketing plan with carrot-on-the-stick benefits, the world would be better off if we would go with Jesus where he goes, join him in doing what he does, and learn to care about the people and situations that he cares about. Because that is his demand – Follow me! It is not an invitation. It’s a requirement.

I used to think it was an invitation. Soft music, hum all eighty-five verses of “Just As I Am,” the buses will wait, counselors are standing by, please welcome Jesus into your heart. Then I read the text again: Follow me! He is yelling, not pleading. He’s insisting, not suggesting. This is the Gospel of Mark. Jesus never whispers in the Gospel of Mark. He lays out the moment and requires a decision on where he has taken you and what he has shown you.

And it is all rooted in that vision from the day of his baptism: the heavens are torn; God comes upon Jesus and all that is beloved of heaven. Time to recognize that God rules over all. Not sometime later, but today. Not back in the golden days, but mysteriously right here, right now. There is no need to put it off until another day. Right now.

The signs are all around us. There is a man I know, an hour from here. This may be his last day on the planet. A few months ago, when they told him it was stage four cancer, he was quiet for a little while. Then he said, “Let’s take it on.” They did, but the illness progressed. So, he was quiet again, then decided to sell his truck and give the money to his grandchildren toward their college debts.

His family gathered again and again, and every time they came, he told them he loved them. They asked, “Daddy, is there anything we can do for you?” He said, “Take me to church on Christmas Eve. I want to praise our savior before I meet him.” And they did. Why wait? Even in his last days, he is following Jesus. Testifying to something that the powers of death cannot take away.

Or there’s that young student. She’s really something. Raised in privilege, good grades, good looks, never challenged to stretch far because everything came easily. Then she went with friends to join a high school club, only to discover that her neighborhood had strangers, and the next town over was taking in refugees from a far-off land. At the time, she heard some horrific comments on television about immigrants. It did not jibe with her experience. Something didn’t seem right.

She dug in, met more of the strangers, befriended them, stood up for them, ate with them. While in high school, she asked her church if she could invite over a hundred or so new friends from Africa for a Thanksgiving feast. And why not? Her career ambition: to become an immigration attorney to advocate for the newcomers who have no other home. All because she heard some hate speech and decided, “This isn’t right.” And God got through to her.

If we start following Jesus, there is no assurance it will be easy. Or that everything will unfold according to our plans. Or even that the way will be clear. Many times, it isn’t. Yet the one promise Jesus makes is that we will be changed. “Follow me,” he says, “and I will make you fish for people.” Note: he is not asking our permission. He’s not saying, “If you follow, I’ll put fish in your net, and you can sell them and make a lot of money.” Rather, he declares we will be transformed, specifically for the sake of other people.

That is the centrifugal power of the Gospel. Jesus is in the Center. As we orbit around him, we are compelled outward toward others. The Christian communities that flourish are those that keep Jesus in the center and extend themselves to others outside. Those that dwindle often are concerned only with themselves – bake sales to keep the lights on, chains across the parking lot to keep the teenagers out, and somebody barking, “Hey, you’re sitting in my pew.” No, no, no – it is about others. It’s always about others. This is one of the fundamental changes that comes by following Jesus. He was always focused on others, which is why God sent him to us.

“Follow me,” he says, “and I will make you fish for other people.” With this declaration, the mission is underway. As far as anybody can tell, it is not over. It’s never over. This sermon is hereby over, yet the mission of God goes on.

 

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

Thrown into the Wilderness

Mark 1:9-15
January 7, 2023
Baptism of the Lord
William G. Carter

In those days Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan. And just as he was coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending like a dove on him. And a voice came from heaven, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.” And the Spirit immediately drove him out into the wilderness. He was in the wilderness forty days, tempted by Satan; and he was with the wild beasts; and the angels waited on him.

Now after John was arrested, Jesus came to Galilee, proclaiming the good news of God, and saying, “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news.”


I hope you didn’t blink during the reading of the text. A lot happens in seven short verses. Jesus walks eighty miles to the Jordan River, John baptizes Jesus, God reveals the identity of Jesus, the Spirit descends upon him, Satan tempts him, angels wait on him, John is arrested, and Jesus begins to preach.

In breathless fashion, Mark introduces the Main Character of his story. In seven verses, we make a round trip from Galilee to the Jordan River, and back to the province of Galilee, and we go by way of forty days in the wilderness. When Jesus arrives home, he begins to preach, “God’s dominion is at hand.”

That's the Good News of the Gospel of Mark, announced on page 1. The signs of God's presence are inescapable. The sky is ripped open, presumably by somebody on the other side. The Spirit swoops down. The Voice that spoke the world into being begins to speak to Jesus: "You are my Son, the Beloved." No doubt about it: God has broken in.

Don Juel was a New Testament scholar. He wrote a lot of books on the Gospel of Mark, so someone thought he might be qualified to lead a Bible study with Junior High kids. He told them to open their Bibles to the first chapter of Mark, and they read this story. Dr. Juel began to tell those sleepy-eyed students how this passage can help us understand prayer. "The heavens have been parted," he said, "and so whenever we say something to God, God will hear us."

Suddenly a young student who had said a word throughout the class, began to challenge him. “That's not what the passage means,” he said. “It isn't that we have access to God, it's that God has access to us. The protection is gone. God is here among us, on the loose.”

Dr. Juel said, "The moment the words were out of his mouth, I knew he was right - - and something invaded my imagination that has reshaped my experience of Mark’s Gospel, the Christian message, God, and the world. A curtain has been torn, never to be repaired. I find myself dangerously vulnerable to the presence of God[1]

God is at hand. Advent is over, so I don't have to say, "God is on the way." And the Christmas decorations are coming down, so I cannot point to the Christ candle and merely say, "Jesus has been born." The Gospel of Mark wants us to see something else. The sky had been ripped open. It has not been stitched back together. The dome between heaven and earth has been breached.

We often hear this Bible story in the season of Lent, especially if we hear the variations that come in the books of Matthew or Luke. In those books, Jesus encounters three representative temptations. Use your power for your own self-interest, turn stones into bread. Win over the crowds by having the angels catch you when you swan dive from the tower of the temple. Kneel before the Accuser so you can gain the power and glory without going through the suffering on the cross. Those are sinister temptations. They come at the point of his strength. You see, temptation does not merely attack us at a point of weakness. If you or I had the power to turn stones to bread, we’d be tempted to use that power for ourselves.

But Mark has something else to tell us. There’s something else he wants us to see. Mark sees the power of God slicing through the clouds and falling like a dove on Jesus. Like a dove, not a hawk. It is real power, legitimate power, heavenly power – and it comes down here to make a difference. And if that Holy Spirit Dove power has come to make a difference, it is going to run up against some opposition. That’s what Mark wants us to see.

This will be one of the great themes of Mark’s book. The power of God has come upon Jesus – and there’s another player on the field. Call it “Satan,” call it “evil,” call it “hardened privilege,” call it “the status quo,” call it “the way things are always done around here,” call it whatever you want – Jesus comes to make a transformative difference for the Kingdom of God, so he’s going to get some pushback. As we move through Mark’s book this winter, this summer, and through the fall, we’re going to see that again and again.

To use Mark’s language, “the Strong Man of God has come to plunder the house of evil,”[2] and the house of evil isn’t going to like it. Not one bit. And all of this is announced today, as the sky is ripped open from the other side, the Voice says, “You’re my Beloved,” and the Holy Spirit Power descended like a dove – and hurls Jesus into the wilderness.

That’s the verb Mark uses: the Spirit hurls him, throws him, propels him. It is an intentional word, an aggressive word. In fact, that is the same verb for those occasions later in the Gospel story when Jesus “casts out” the demonic powers that harm human life. There is a good bit of force in that verb. The Spirit casts him into the wilderness and he is tested.

I’ve often wondered about this. Is this like the internship where the boss throws the young hotshot into a tangled situation and says, “Let’s see what you are made of.” Could be, don’t know. God says, “You’re my Son. You please me.” And what now? Will we throw him into the deep end and see if he can swim? Mark says there were wild beasts there.

When my older daughter was little, I took her to a wildlife preserve in Florida where she met her first alligator. It was feeding time. She looked at the big teeth. That snapper was fierce. We were impressed. In the noon sun at Sanibel Island, we stood a hundred feet away and took our safe photos. We could do that behind a fence, at high noon, on dry ground. I wouldn’t be interested in meeting that gator in a warm pool at midnight.

Why would the Spirit, God’s Own Spirit, throw Jesus into a treacherous situation? The land around the lower part of the Jordan River is barren and dry. There’s no food. Precious little drinking water. It’s near the lowest altitude on the planet. People would wander out there and get lost. Or worse.

In September 1969, the Most Rev. James Pike, former Episcopal bishop of California rented a car from Bethlehem of Judea and drove south of Jericho toward that wilderness. The road was washed out, so he and his wife had to turn around. The tires got stuck in a rut. They didn’t know what to do. They thought they knew way back to Jericho, so they started to climb the canyon walls.

Soon Bishop Pike fell exhausted. His wife Diana found some shade for him, declaring, “I’m getting us some help.” Fourteen hours later, she stumbled out of the desert, got some help, and led them back to her vehicle. But alas, her husband had wandered off. After three days of 100-degree heat, the search was called off. Somebody found his body two days after that.[3] There was evidence he had grown delirious and confused. Cast into the wilderness, and the wilderness won.

What does Mark want us to see when he says, “The Spirit of God cast Jesus into the wilderness”? Forty days is a long time to ramble around a place like that, especially if there are wild beasts out there, to say nothing of Satan. Certainly, Mark wants us to take stock of the angels. He says there were angels out there, taking care of him. It’s the only time angels appear in his book.[4]

We are to see that Jesus had heavenly help, especially under such dire circumstances. Since heaven has been ripped open, the angels could come freely at the direction of God. They could help Jesus. Mark wants to know that, too. There is a cosmic battle going on, good against evil. Jesus has been thrown into it and has been provided the support he needed. If you’re going up against Satan and the wild beasts, and the Holy Spirit has come upon you like a gentle dove, you may need to backup.

But here’s what I believe Mark also wants us to see: the baptism is only the beginning. When somebody is baptized, they are not finished. They are only beginning a journey. The message at the baptism of Jesus is an analogy of God’s message at our baptisms, namely, we are God’s Beloved children. God’s good pleasure, his grace, is sufficient to claim us as his own. But we still have a way to go. A long way.

The baptized life is a life of continuing formation. Let’s not forget that. The Holy Spirit calls us to keep working out the implications of God’s hand on our lives. For Jesus, it was quite dramatic. Forty days in the desert. Seeking clarity to discern a temptation and avoid it. Asking for strength when thrown into a wilderness situation. Imagine – and it should not be hard – being stuck in a snowstorm for days and nights, with no power. After a few days, you would discover what you’re made of. And you also might discover where your help is coming from.

So, welcome to a year with the Gospel of Mark. Jesus goes immediately here, and immediately there, all the time casting out demons and preaching that everything belongs to God. Those who encountered him found him to be both comforting and disruptive, which is the way the Gospel works. God ripped open the sky and has come in Jesus of Nazareth. The tired old status quo has broken. It’s time for everything to change.

And God’s good story goes on.

---

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

[1] Donald H. Juel, “Your Word is Truth: Some Reflections on a Hard Saying, Princeton Seminary Bulletin XVII/1 (February 1996) 20-22.

[2] From the enigmatic parable of Mark 3:27.

[3] The sad story is told online at https://www.itsgila.com/headlinersbishoppike.htm

[4] Angels are mentioned a few times in Mark’s Gospel. This is the only time they appear. 

When Consolation Finds Us

When Consolation Finds Us
Luke 2:25-35
Christmas 1
December 31, 2023
William G. Carter

The Christmas Story does not begin with shepherds in the fields and a baby in a manger. The Christmas Story begins in the temple.

This is a Jewish story, so it begins with characters right out of the Jewish Bible. There is a priest, a prophet, an old woman, and an old man. The priest is Zechariah, who serves in the temple. He represents the worship life of Israel, the atonement sacrifices, the holy days, and the singing of the Psalms. The prophet is a woman named Anna. Like the prophets of Israel, Anna speaks when the Spirit falls upon her. The old woman is Elizabeth, who is Zechariah’s wife. Luke says she is barren, unable to bear a child, until like Old Sarah, God gives her a future.

And then there is Simeon. He has a small but important part in the Christmas pageant. Listen to his story:

Now there was a man in Jerusalem whose name was Simeon; this man was righteous and devout, looking forward to the consolation of Israel, and the Holy Spirit rested on him. It had been revealed to him by the Holy Spirit that he would not see death before he had seen the Lord’s Messiah. Guided by the Spirit, Simeon came into the temple; and when the parents brought in the child Jesus, to do for him what was customary under the law, Simeon took him in his arms and praised God, saying,

“Master, now you are dismissing your servant in peace, according to your word; for my eyes have seen your salvation, 31which you have prepared in the presence of all peoples, a light for revelation to the Gentiles and for glory to your people Israel.”

And the child’s father and mother were amazed at what was being said about him. Then Simeon blessed them and said to his mother Mary, “This child is destined for the falling and the rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be opposed so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed - and a sword will pierce your own soul too.”

Luke goes to great lengths to remind us that Christmas does not happen out of the blue. Christmas comes out of the faith of Israel. Simeon was an old man with an ancient religion. He kept the faith, offered the prayers, and clung to his hopes. He was an exemplary believer, deemed righteous and devout. Every time somebody opened the temple door, there he was.

We know people like that. No need to mention any names, but we know who they are. Every spiritual community has such people. They attend every worship service and sing every hymn. They go to Bible studies and offer their talents. They give generously and pray fervently. They make sure the lights are turned on, and worship services stay on schedule, and tables are set up for the next potluck dinner. They call me at home to say, “Someone left the doors unlocked.” We know these people. Some of us are these people.

Simeon stands among them. He hopes, believes and shows up – yet he has never been allowed to see if any of it is actually true. He has always been a believer. He trusts God made a people and given them instructions on how to live. Simeon believes in the covenant, the commandments, and the call to show concern for the poor and needy.

Yet he is still looking for something. Luke calls it “consolation.” Another translation calls it “the comforting.”[1] And what is this consolation, this comfort? Simply this: that everything he’s heard will turn out to be true. There is a God who will make good on his promises.

I remember the small news item from September 2006. Three Jewish rabbis were ordained. I remember because that didn’t seem like a big deal. Rabbis get ordained all the time, right? Except happened in Germany, the first ordination since the Gestapo shut down the rabbinical schools in 1942.[2] 200,000 German Jews were among the six million people who were killed during the Holocaust. Their leaders were the best educated and most progressive in the world. Hitler stopped all that; and sixty-four years later, God started it up again.

Somebody interviewed an old man who spent four years hiding beneath a staircase in the 1940’s. He said, “I never thought we would see new rabbis in my lifetime. I was tempted to give up on God.”

How do anyone keep faith for sixty-four years of deprivation – or much longer? I think of Simeon all those years ago. In his day, there was no Hitler, but there was a King Herod. In the middle of Herod’s rule, along came the Romans. Historically speaking, his faith was live in a compromised environment. He breathed in a politically charged atmosphere. Yet Simeon kept going to the temple, studying the scripture, and praying for “consolation.”

Most of the Bible is a prayer for consolation. Ever notice that? There were very few periods in the Bible books that were settled or peaceful. Faith survives in the middle of turmoil. Hundreds of years before, Luke’s favorite prophet, the prophet Isaiah, cried out, “Comfort, comfort, my people. Say to Israel that her warfare is over, that she is done paying for her sins.” Those are wonderful words, so beautifully set to music in Handel’s Messiah. By the time Simeon came along, those words had been in the air for hundreds of years with precious little comfort.

All of this begs the question for us, namely: when will our consolation find us? When will the comfort come? If we keep going to church, year after year, will we see pay-off? If we keep praying while life gets shaken, when will our prayers be answered? Where is the assurance that the Temple where we’ve worshiped will continue to be a beacon for the community? That the future will unfold according to God’s grace? When will we gain the assurance that the very things that we want to believe really are true?

Simeon’s story points us to two complimentary answers. The first is the presence of the Holy Spirit. No surprise there. Luke is always talking about the Holy Spirit. Nine times in the Christmas story, including three times in today’s story, we hear about the Holy Spirit. The Holy Spirit is what prompted Mary to sing to God. The Holy Spirit offered messages to Zechariah and Elizabeth. The Holy Spirit whispers to Simeon, “Hang in there; you’re going to see the very thing you are hoping for.”

Think of it this way: the Holy Spirit is just enough of the presence of God that you want even more of the presence of God. The Holy Spirit is what creates a spiritual hunger inside every one of us. The Holy Spirit is what brought all of us back to church after all the candles are extinguished.

Have you ever thought of God that way? That God can create within us a hunger for something deeper? Not necessarily something more – here in the suburbs, we’re tempted to think it’s always about something more – no, not something more, something deeper. Our lives can have such a deeper purpose, a deeper grounding, a deeper confidence. The hunger for these spiritual riches comes from God. When God gets inside us somewhere – that’s the Holy Spirit. It’s the Spirit that pushes Simeon into the temple, and it’s the Spirit that whispers to him, “You’re going to see what I have promised that you’ll see.”

And then he sees the real consolation: Simeon sees Jesus. That’s the second answer. Simeon wobbles right up to the young couple with the bundle in their arms. He croaks out, “Let me see his face.” He pulls back that little blue blanket, sees a little tiny baby, and he looks into the eyes of the One through whom all things were made. The Holy Spirit fills him once again, and Simeon starts to sing:

Master, now you are dismissing your servant in peace, according to your word;
for my eyes have seen your salvation,
which you have prepared in the presence of all peoples,
a light for revelation to the Gentiles and for glory to your people Israel.

Let’s call this the “take me home” moment. It’s that rare moment when we see something so special, something so beautiful and amazing, that God could take us home right then and there.

One of my friends is a Catholic priest. The day he was ordained, people were shaking his hand. Suddenly he saw a nun that he’d known ever since he was a wild child in parochial school. She was tiny, barely came up to his waist, but she stretched up and wrapped her hands on his face, and said, “Tommy, I’m so proud of you that I could die right now” Or to put it another, “Take me home, Lord, it doesn’t get any better than this!”

Simeon looked into the eyes of little Jesus, and he knew his whole life had prepared him for this moment. He knew that, even though this weary old world is in a mess most of the time, everything is going to turn out OK. He knew “the hopes and fears of all the years” would be most deeply met in this one, little Child. And he also knew that this little Savior would save us all, but only after going through a battle of his own.

“Mary, your son will expose people for what they are,” said Simeon, “and some will oppose him, and it will pierce your soul.” Welcome to the world that you made, little Jesus. It’s a world where the crèche is never far from the cross. Yet in crèche and cross, God shows us how far he will go to save the world. He will give himself to a people who reject him, that even in the means of his ultimate rejection they might be saved.

The writer Philip Yancey has this to say:

In the birth stories of Luke and Matthew, only one person seems to grasp the mysterious nature of what God has set in motion: the old man Simeon, who recognized the baby as the Messiah, instinctively understood that conflict would surely follow… Somehow Simeon senses that though on the surface little had changed – the autocrat Herod still ruled, Roman troops were still stringing up patriots, Jerusalem still overflowed with beggars – underneath everything had changed. A new force had arrived to undermine the world’s powers.[3]

This Christmas, I don’t know what you were looking for, or if you were even looking for anything. It could be that you are content with all the hustle, bustle, and noise. Or you simply tried to get through it all as quickly and inexpensively as possible. Or you enjoyed the lights and decorations, but the rest of it only in small doses.

But there really is something very important at the heart of this holiday. Call it a Holy Spirit Hunch. That little baby boy in Jerusalem started something. He keeps sending his Holy Spirit and we find ourselves hungry for something more than tinsel and artificial light. His Spirit pushes us to stand in places that we would not have noticed the truth if we had not been pushed.

The Holy Spirit that opened Simeon’s eyes and loosened his tongue is the same Spirit that compels us to look more deeply and sing more boldly. And the same Spirit comes to give us a glimpse of Jesus, to show us the world is held securely in his wounded hands. Whether we are ready to depart the world or ready to dig in, his saving work continues. It will be a light for revelation, a glory for his people. And this is our consolation.


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

[1] according to Young’s Literal Translation

[2] From Yahoo News, 14 September 2006.

[3] Quoted in “The Visited Planet,” Watch for the Light, pp. 260-1.

Made Visible

Made Visible
John 1:1-18
Christmas Eve
December 24, 2023

This is the best night of the year. It is an amazing evening, with all that it awakens within us. The pervasive darkness is pierced by a thousand lights. The beauty of this sanctuary counters the fierceness of the weather. The music we make bubbles with joy. And then there’s that X Factor. Call it “community,” “friendship,” or “homecoming” – whatever it is, it is captured in that New Testament word “koinonia,” which simply means we are here together.

What inspires our celebration is the announcement of a baby’s birth. In the words of the prophet, “A child has been born for us; a son is given to us.” This birth sparks everything. A brand-new child can do that. I think of a dozen different fathers I have known, shaken to the core when a child is first placed into their arms. One spoke for all when he blurted out, “I didn’t know I could love anybody so much as when I first saw my baby.”

No doubt Mary and Joseph melted when Jesus arrived. During that pregnancy, so much was demanded of them: nutrition, good health, protection, emotional stability, and a whole lot of waiting. To make matters worse, a foreign emperor’s decree had inconvenienced the family. The young couple had to travel ninety miles from Nazareth to Bethlehem, walking on foot for four or five days. When they arrived at Joseph’s ancestral home, there was no place to stay. The child was born in a borrowed room. With no available cradle, his mother placed him in a feeding trough. It was a challenging situation.

Despite it all, there was delight, joy, and deep gratitude - because every birth is a miracle. Not just that birth, but every birth. When a child comes to us, it prompts a hallelujah. It’s big news, the best news. “Unto us a child is born!” That is true every time a baby comes.

Yet in the Christmas birth there’s something else afoot. Mary, Joseph, and those around them wouldn’t know the full importance of Jesus’ birth for another thirty years. It will take even longer for people to wrap their brains around what happened. Ninety years after Christmas, the Gospel of John put it in the ancient poem that I have just read. Here is what he says: the Child born in Bethlehem is the sign that God is in love with the world.

Now, John tells us this because it is not obvious. Walk outside on a clear December night. The stars twinkle. The frigid air is bracing. See your breath, then trace a meteor as it falls across the night sky. It is a stunning sight, reminding you how small you are. You are alive to see it, even though that meteor’s been traveling a lot longer than you or I have been taking breaths.

The view is stunning. The sky is overwhelming. But there’s no evidence of love. Physics, yes. Mystery, to be sure. You can assume it had to originate from somewhere, that it didn’t happen by accident. But you don’t know how, where, or Who. You don’t know why. And the ancient poet declares, “In the beginning, there was a Word, a breath, a logic and intention.” Everything emerges from that Word that none of us ever heard.

The Poet tells us that same Word, breath, logic, and intention created life. Life ignited light, and light and life pervade all things. The Light sings joy into the universe. It fuels wisdom and intelligence. Light keeps shining, regardless of the darkness that attempts to snuff it out. Where does all of this come from? The Poet says, “God.” God is the Source. But what do we know about God? What kind of God is out there? We can never be sure…

… until the Child Jesus is born, until he grows up and matures, until that Mysterious Word speaks in him. Then things begin to happen. Broken people get mended. Hungry souls are fed. Injustices are untangled. Truth fractures all the lies. Grace cancels violence. The darkness cannot handle this. It conspires to silence him. Yet Jesus comes back. The light shines. Life abounds. He is with us. He is still here.

Those awakened by Jesus have always been the keepers of Christmas. They look upon this night to see a birth, and they see more than a birth. They recognize Christmas as the beginning of a rescue. It is a salvage operation, a mission from heaven to earth. The world has always seen glimpses that the God unseen by human eyes is up to something. The coming of Jesus makes it clear. God is deeply in love with the entire world. That’s why the angels are rejoicing. That is why we are singing. God so loved the world that God gave us Jesus.

One of my greatest memories of this church family is a night when we went into New York City. We heard Dave Brubeck, the renowned jazz pianist, was performing his Christmas cantata at Fifth Avenue Presbyterian Church. Enough of us were interested to fill a bus. But then the 9-11 attack happened. Everything was shaken, but we still wanted to go.

One of our church friends was a commercial pilot who lost colleagues in the attack. He told us that before he became a pilot, he had worked as a firefighter in Hell’s Kitchen. Members of his hose company were killed when the first tower fell. So, we wondered out loud: how could we show the survivors some love? How could we make that journey to the city redemptive?

It turns out that Brubeck’s Christmas music set the context for our day-long pilgrimage. It was a major production: big choir, jazz ensemble, and a mariachi band. Next the end of the performance, he put the Christmas message in 5/4 time. The words go like this:

   God’s love made visible, incomprehensible! Christ is invincible! His love shall reign.
   From love so bountiful, blessings uncountable. Make death surmountable.
   His love shall reign!  (c. Derry Music)

God’s love made visible. That is the point of Christmas. The Invisible God reveals how much this world is loved. It is a Word announced, not just to us, but to everyone. It’s a Word – the Word - not merely for those we know, but for strangers, too. Jesus has been sent into this world. He began to save us by loving us. When darkness conspired against him, he came back. Then he sent his Very Presence, his Breathing Spirit to us so that we would continue to show God’s love and make it visible.

We are loved. Every last one of us. That is truth and grace. It is light and life. It is God’s love enfleshed in Jesus. As we carried seventy-five homemade pies to the 9-11 first responders, we broke into song, “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” We sang to them, and they sang to us. That’s the way love flows, from heaven to earth, from Jesus through us.

There wasn’t a dry eye in that fire station. Just peace, joy, and a whole lot of love. And that’s what God intended from the beginning.

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

Not Me, It's Him

John 1:6-8, 19-28
Advent 3
December 17, 2023
William G. Carter

There was a man sent from God, whose name was John. He came as a witness to testify to the light, so that all might believe through him. He himself was not the light, but he came to testify to the light.

This is the testimony given by John when the Jews sent priests and Levites from Jerusalem to ask him, “Who are you?” He confessed and did not deny it, but confessed, “I am not the Messiah.” And they asked him, “What then? Are you Elijah?” He said, “I am not.” “Are you the prophet?” He answered, “No.” Then they said to him, “Who are you? Let us have an answer for those who sent us. What do you say about yourself?” He said, “I am the voice of one crying out in the wilderness, ‘Make straight the way of the Lord,’” as the prophet Isaiah said. Now they had been sent from the Pharisees. They asked him, “Why then are you baptizing if you are neither the Messiah, nor Elijah, nor the prophet?” John answered them, “I baptize with water. Among you stands one whom you do not know, the one who is coming after me; I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandal.” This took place in Bethany across the Jordan where John was baptizing.

One of my favorite holiday greeting cards features a photograph of a burly character dressed in ragged clothing. His unruly hair is out to here. His countenance is fierce. There is a snarl on his face. Beneath is the caption in bold letters: Happy Advent, You Brood of Vipers.

It is John the Baptist, of course. He is a recurring figure in our December preparations for Christmas. While we plan to burn the yule log, he declares, “The fire is coming for us all.” If we sing “Deck the Halls” as we put of the Christmas tree, John shouts, “Already there is an axe at the root of that tree.” And if we have spent considerable time developing a wish list, we hear John say, “Whoever has two coats must share with the person who has none.”

John bears the mantle of moral advisor and religious truth teller. And he comes back every year. Church folks who want a holly, jolly Christmas have generally learned to avoid him. Those who don’t go to church anymore don’t miss him. If the general public knows anything about John, they dismiss him as a precursor of Ebenezer Scrooge. He shows up one Sunday morning a year, maybe two. For a lot of people, that is just enough.

Yet the Bible is fascinated with John the Baptist. The Gospels tell us he showed up in the wilderness, the symbolic place where Israel had been tested. John spoke of hope and dressed in memory. The dominion of God is coming, contrary to the cruelty of the Roman empire. That was the hope. He wore animal skins and lived on the periphery, just like the ancient seers. That was the memory. And in John, two grand traditions of Jewish faith were united. His father was a priest, and he was a prophet. He was both the insider and the outsider, rolled into one.

And the crowds went to see him. All the accounts agree on that. People left bread in the oven, shops unattended, to go and see the spectacle. They left their villages. They left their cities. As we heard this morning, they even left their temple. We know it had to be a big deal because priests and Levites, who made their living within organized religion, went out to the river to see what was going on. They went to John and said, “Who are you?” Who indeed.

The first century historian Josephus confirms all of this. Writing around 95 AD, he said the memories about John the Baptist were strong. “John was a pious man,” he writes, “bidding the Jews to practice virtue and exercise righteousness toward each other and piety toward God.” He wrote this sixty-years after John’s death.

And if you remember the story of John’s brutal death, how Herod Agrippa had him beheaded after he had been called out for his sins, you will understand the popular tradition that arose after his demise. As Josephus wrote, “The Jews believe that the destruction that overtook (Herod’s) army came as a punishment for Herod, God wishing to do him harm.”[1] Herod assassinated John; God demolished Herod’s army. That was the well-told rationale sixty-five years later.

John was a significant figure. So much so that Jesus once said, “Truly I tell you, among those born of women, no one has arisen greater that John the Baptist.”[2] He was a big deal, a hero, a first-century celebrity. No one like him.

So, the Temple establishment in Jerusalem sent out an investigative team to ask, “Who are you?” Well, he’s John. “Yes, but who are you? What’s your deal?” And he said, “I’m not the Messiah.” If you think he is the Messiah, it’s not him.

They asked again, “Who are you? Are you Elijah?” That was a loaded question, too. Elijah was the greatest of Israel’s prophets. He never died. He was swept up into heaven by a chariot of fire. The last book of the Jewish scriptures, the sermons of the prophet Malachi, suggested Elijah would come again before the great and terrible day of the Lord. “Are you Elijah?” they asked. John replied, “I am not.”

So, they tried again. “Who are you? Are you the prophet?” Which prophet? Know what they were referring to? Well, in the final speeches of Moses, in the 18^th chapter of Deuteronomy, Moses predicted the coming of a great prophet. He or she will speak with the power and authority of the Lord. They said, “Are you that prophet?” John said, “No way. Not me. You have the wrong guy.”

Well then, who are you? To which John replied, “I am a Bible verse.” Say what? “Yes, Isaiah, chapter 40, verse 3. I am the voice of one crying out in the wilderness, make straight the way of the Lord. That’s me. Get rid of the speed bumps. Fill in the potholes. Make the road smooth so that God can get to you. I am not the Word; I am simply a voice. Not the voice, but a voice.” And they still do not understand. He is not Messiah, Elijah, or the great unnamed prophet. He is only a mouth, attached to a guy who splashes a lot of water.

It is worth asking why the Gospel of John tells the story this way. This is one of John the Baptist’s big scenes in the Fourth Gospel and then he is dismissed. And from what we can tell, this was a necessary distinction that the Gospel writer believed that he had to make. John the Baptist is not the One we are waiting for.

Did you know that over twenty years after this episode, long after Jesus went into heaven, the apostle Paul went to the big city of Ephesus. A major city of the Empire. And when he arrived, he found some believers who worshiped the work of John the Baptist. They were imitating his message, declaring “The Messiah is coming; repent and be baptized.”

The apostle Paul said, “Whoa, Nelly! Hang on. Why are you saying the Messiah is coming?” They said, “We follow John, and John said the Messiah is coming.” To which Paul said, “Got news for you. He is already here.”[3] He is? Is the Messiah already here? This is a matter of some dispute.

Did you know there is still a small sect of believers called the Mandeans? There are about a hundred thousand of the Mandeans around the world, many in the fertile crescent living in Iraq and Iran. They believe John the Baptist was the final and ultimate prophet of God, and that all life is divided between light and darkness. John points to the light, they believe, and they undergo repeated baptisms to purge their sin and prepare for the Messiah.

It could be the gospel of John knew about groups like these. So, he makes the distinction and puts the message on John’s lips: “I’m not the one. I’m not the Messiah. I’m merely the voice.” We can be sympathetic, I think, because there is always enough misery in the world to tempt us to believe the Messiah has not come. Read the news, see the horrors and the distortions every day, and faith has real challenges.

Yet listen to what John the Baptist also testifies: “Among you stands one whom you do not know, the one who is coming after me; I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandal.” That is, the One we await is already here. We do not see him, not clearly, not yet. We know him, but we don’t always know him. And this is one of the grand messages of the Gospel of John: Jesus, the life-giving Word of God, has come into the world.

He came to his own, and they did not see him. A few did, but not everybody. And one person at a time began to perceive the truth. He is here, he knows me, he knows what I have done and what I have said. He knows my struggles, because in coming to us, he has taken on the struggles and limits of being human like us. And wherever he goes, whenever he speaks, life happens in surprising ways.

Those with damaged legs begin to dance. Those with confused minds can understand. Those who feel abandoned are accompanied. Those who die enter into life. Those who are hungry are fed. Those who have lost everything are found. Light and life to all he brings. That is the truth that confirms that the One we await is already among us.

So, the message of John the Baptist is simply this: keep looking, keep listening, keep scanning for the Life of the One we cannot completely see. For he is here. Like John, we testify to what we see and hear.

A couple of weeks ago, I had a conversation with two young friends on a Saturday morning. It was the day we had a team here to decorate the sanctuary. Someone discovered a few creche scenes in the attic, and I decided we would put one of them in the entryway, by the door from the street.

It took some doing. Who knows how long that creche had been in the attic? It was covered with dirt and dust, but it is a barn after all. I called over my two young helpers, thinking this was an opportunity to retell the Christmas story as we put the figures in place. One figure at a time, they helped me place Mary and Joseph, the shepherds, and the wise man, then all the friendly beasts. If you take a moment to look at it next time you pass, take note that everybody, even the camel, is looking at the baby Jesus.

Normally hidden from us, blending in for over thirty years, not looking like anything more than a wood cutter’s son. Yet he is in the center of it all. He invites our attention. Even if we cannot see him, we can keep looking for him. And sometimes, a star will blink, a soul will be mended, a hungry stomach will be filled, a hope will be renewed.

That’s when John the Baptist gets it right. For he says, “It’s not about me. It’s all about him.” And it is.

 

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

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[1] Josephus, Antiquities XVIII, v. 2, quoted in the Interpreter’s Dictionary of the Bible, p. 939.

[2] Matthew 11:11

[3] Acts 19:1-10