Dust in the Wind

Ecclesiastes 1:1-18
Ash Wednesday
February 14, 2024
William G. Carter

The words of the Teacher, the son of David, king in Jerusalem. Vanity of vanities, says the Teacher, vanity of vanities! All is vanity. What do people gain from all the toil at which they toil under the sun?

A generation goes, and a generation comes, but the earth remains forever. The sun rises and the sun goes down, and hurries to the place where it rises. The wind blows to the south, and goes around to the north; round and round goes the wind, and on its circuits the wind returns. All streams run to the sea, but the sea is not full; to the place where the streams flow, there they continue to flow. All things are wearisome; more than one can express; the eye is not satisfied with seeing, or the ear filled with hearing.

 

What has been is what will be, and what has been done is what will be done; there is nothing new under the sun. Is there a thing of which it is said, “See, this is new”? It has already been, in the ages before us. The people of long ago are not remembered, nor will there be any remembrance of people yet to come by those who come after them.

 

I, the Teacher, when king over Israel in Jerusalem, applied my mind to seek and to search out by wisdom all that is done under heaven; it is an unhappy business that God has given to human beings to be busy with. I saw all the deeds that are done under the sun; and see, all is vanity and a chasing after wind. What is crooked cannot be made straight, and what is lacking cannot be counted. I said to myself, “I have acquired great wisdom, surpassing all who were over Jerusalem before me; and my mind has had great experience of wisdom and knowledge.” And I applied my mind to know wisdom and to know madness and folly. I perceived that this also is but a chasing after wind. For in much wisdom is much vexation, and those who increase knowledge increase sorrow.

 To the reading of the text, I add two more lines from elsewhere in the book. From chapter three, “All go to one place; all are from the dust, and all turn to dust again” (3:20) and another verse from chapter 12, “The dust returns to the earth as it was, and the breath returns to God who gave it.” (12:7)

 

Texts like that remind me of a song, a song that hit the charts when I was eighteen years old. The band that performed it had a hit, and they were coming to play a concert in the hockey arena in Binghamton. I snared two tickets, one of them for a beautiful young lass. I offered to pick her up in my parent’s Dodge. We would sit in arena seats and listen to a band called Kansas. They would sing to us their classic song, “All we are is dust in the wind.”

It’s a classic rock ballad with a lyrical violin solo and haunting lyric:

I close my eyes. Only for a moment and the moment’s gone.

All my dreams pass before my eyes, a curiosity.

Dust in the wind. All they are is dust in the wind.

 

Same old song. Just a drop of water in an endless sea.

All we do. Crumbles to the ground though we refuse to see.

Dust in the wind. All we are is dust in the wind.

What a strange song for teenagers to swoon to. Back then, we believed we were made of rubber, able to bounce forward as well as bounce back. If there was trouble, they were certain they could get through it. If there was pain, the assumption was they could remain unscathed. The future was wide open. Things were looking up.

Yet the rock and roll arenas were filled with teens holding cigarette lighters in the air, singing along with Kansas, “All we are is dust in the wind.”  Maybe they knew the truth, that life is fragile. Sometimes there is a car crash on prom night. Everybody wakes up from the illusion that life goes on forever, especially for those who push it to the limit. The dream passes before our eyes.

Or you discover you are not a big deal, not anymore, if you ever were. On the first day of the 100-level introductory course at the university, four hundred people are crammed in the lecture hall. It is a far cry from the twenty-four in A.P science in high school. The professor says, “If you can’t find a seat, don’t worry. In two weeks, a third of your classmates will have dropped the course.” Here is the truth: you are a drop of water in an endless sea.

The wise people who put Ecclesiastes in the Bible did so for a reason. They know what we know, that try as we might, we are not as important as we believe ourselves to be. Life doesn’t always turn out as we hope. Things break, people break, plans are scattered. If we live an honest and introspective life, we end up with more questions than answers. So, the Preacher declares, “This is the way it is. I don’t want you to be deceived.”

We don’t know much about the so-called Preacher who composes this book. He claims to be wealthy. He declares himself a worldly success. This anonymous writer describes himself as King Solomon, who lived hundreds of years before him. The Preacher has the palace, the pleasures, the riches, and the concubines.

Yet he doesn’t have it all. He says, “I have wisdom.” And he says, “I don’t have wisdom.” That’s the paradox. He can’t make sense of it all. Probably composing this meditation at the end of his life, the Preacher faces clear limits on what he has done, what he can still do, and what he can understand. He knows his life has an expiration date. “The dust returns to the earth as it was, and the breath returns to God who gave it.” (12:7)

Or as we say in church and synagogue, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

Today, as the first day of Lent collides with Valentine’s Day, many have chuckled at the weird intersection. I sent out a picture in last week’s church e-mail, of ashes placed on somebody’s forehead in the shape of a heart. Others have pointed out it’s impossible to spell “valentine” without spelling “Lent” in the middle of the word. And today, two of you sent me the same poem for these intersecting holidays. It reads, “Roses are red / Ashes are grey / We’re all going to die / Happy Valentine’s Day.”

That might be a little too honest, yet this is the truth. There are limits to our lives. Whether we perceive it or not, the eternal God puts a parenthesis before us and after us. When our days conclude, there will be a dash between two dates. The Preacher says, “A generation goes, a generation comes, the earth continues on.” True enough.

The Gospel would add one thing more. We are dust, yes. But we are God’s dust. We are breathed alive by the same Spirit Set before the One who is the Alpha and the Omega, the first and last, the beginning and the end, our days are remarkably short. Yet our days are known. We are known.

Tonight, we come with all our limitations, mortally aware of our finitude, and what we receive is the mark of the cross. For we belong to God through the love of Jesus Christ. Even if we know the hard truth that none of us will understand it all or get everything done, we can trust the holy God that gathers us here, holds us for a while, and embraces us forever. In life and death, we belong to God. That is all we need to remember. And it is enough.

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

Bright Jesus

Mark 9:2-9
Mardi Gras / Transfiguration
February 11, 2024

William G. Carter  

Six days later, Jesus took with him Peter and James and John, and led them up a high mountain apart, by themselves. And he was transfigured before them, and his clothes became dazzling white, such as no one on earth could bleach them. And there appeared to them Elijah with Moses, who were talking with Jesus. Then Peter said to Jesus, “Rabbi, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.” He did not know what to say, for they were terrified. Then a cloud overshadowed them, and from the cloud there came a voice, “This is my Son, the Beloved; listen to him!” Suddenly when they looked around, they saw no one with them any more, but only Jesus. As they were coming down the mountain, he ordered them to tell no one about what they had seen, until after the Son of Man had risen from the dead.


I’m in church, so it’s time to confess. I have been preaching the Gospel for thirty-nine years, yet I’ve never been able to wrangle this text. It is wild. It is unmanageable. It is so big that it cannot be reduced to a simple lesson. What should we do with it?

Jesus climbs a high mountain with the three boys in his inner circle. At the top of the hill, he begins to shine. It was more than the glistening perspiration on his brow. Jesus lit up like a solar flare. Peter, James, and John froze with their eyes wide open. They never saw anything like that back in their hometown of Capernaum.

They knew Jesus, walked with Jesus, ate with Jesus. Never seen him catch fire before! It was such a strange moment, the Gospel writers had to invent a word to describe it: “transfiguration.” Mark turns it into a verb, saying Jesus was transfigured, and never quite explaining what that means. Did he change into something else? Or, in the words of the poet Madeleine L’Engle, did they see him the way he was, the way he always was? Your guess is as good as mine.

It's a moment when the distinction between past, present, and future collapses. Moses and Elijah appear suddenly. They had been gone for centuries, but here they were, completely alive. Matthew says they were “chatting” with Jesus. Moses, the greatest teacher of God’s Law, and Elijah, the greatest prophet in Israel’s memory speak with Jesus as if they were contemporaries.

And then the moment is gone. It would not be captured or reduced. What we have here is an insight into the nature of spiritual experiences. The insight is this: they come and go. Peter, James, and John see something about Jesus. They hear the Big Voice. Everything is changed. Then it’s back to normal. Well, almost. It’s a new normal, a normal punctured by a heavenly intrusion.

Do we have these experiences, you and me? Seeing Jesus burst into flame? Not likely. At least, not on the top of a mountain in Palestine. But what about a moment of insight? A flash of awareness? A sudden awakening? A burst of holiness? These moments can come. They probably do come – and we shrug them off. Sometimes they get through our defenses, though, and they change everything.

In November, I was invited to a church meeting in Louisville, Kentucky. Since I had been elected the moderator of our local presbytery, somebody figured they should teach me how to moderate. It was a short conference. I have friends who would be there. I was glad to go.

We gathered in the national office of the Presbyterians on the Ohio River. When the opening night reception was over, I decided to stretch my legs. The hotel was just a few blocks away. It was a warm night. So, I took a stroll around the city. There’s an enclosed street mall on South 4th Street, between Liberty Street and Muhammad Ali Boulevard. All the hipsters were hanging out at the Maker’s Mark lounge, the Grolsch microbrewery, and Guy Fieri’s Smokehouse. All those revelers were feeling no pain.

Suddenly, in the midst of all that revelry, I saw it. It’s a street sign that I’ve seen before. On one side, it honors Thomas Merton, the well-published monk who lived in a monastery about an hour south of Louisville. He often went into the city for errands and medical appointments. Frequently, he slipped into a jazz club on Washington Street and enjoyed the music. Merton was a big jazz lover. One side of the sign pays him homage.

It's the other side of the sign that knocks me out. It says, “A Revelation: Merton has a sudden insight at this corner March 18, 1856, that led him to redefine his monastic identity with greater involvement in social justice issues. He was “suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that I loved all these people…’ He found them ‘walking around shining like the sun.’”

Another holy moment. He was in a city, not on a mountain. He didn’t see Jesus beaming bright, but for the moment, the people in front of him were “shining like the sun.” Merton knew he loved them as God loved them. Just as the friends who saw Jesus heard God say, “This is my Son, the Beloved.” It was love that set him and them ablaze.

And what do we do with moments like these? For Merton, it signaled that prayer must be joined with action, all in the name of love. He took a stand for voting rights, protested wars that he believed were unjust, and worked to promote understanding between people of differing faiths. It was all about love embodied in shining glory.

For Jesus, the transfiguration was a turning point in his story. It is the hinge upon which the door opens between his work in Galilee to make his way to the cross. Up north in Galilee, Jesus gave himself to healing, teaching, and casting out evil spirits. When he steps off the mountain, he will move toward Jerusalem. There he will give himself in the ultimate sacrifice to set people free from all that enslaves them. For God loved him – and God loved all people – and glory shines brightest in the work of self-giving love.

According to the records that I can find, we have had an annual Mardi Gras service for a dozen years or so. Maybe to you it seems longer. Nobody resisted when I first suggested the idea. It’s a last gasp of joy before the hard work of Lent. It’s a nice break from the winter blahs. Truth be told, the Dixieland music is shaped a lot like our church hymns. In fact, it sounds like what would happen if the choir director had too much caffeine.

I think it’s time that I confess why I cooked up the idea: because I had run out of ideas for talking about the Transfiguration. The event comes around every year on the church calendar. I didn’t know what to say about it. But after a dozen years in, it hangs together a good bit better than I thought it would. We are halfway between Christmas and Easter. The joy of the Nativity now moves toward Cross and Resurrection.

All of it is glued together by this account of a spiritual experience. We didn’t dream it up. Just as we cannot create those moments when they come. Sometimes the Holy Spirit finds us. The lights go on. The glory shines. Something in our souls wakes up. In the ancient words of the psalms, “Steadfast love and faithfulness meet, righteousness and peace kiss one another” (Psalm 85:10).

To make sense of all this, I turn again to Thomas Merton, the Trappist monk and jazz lover. Merton would understand that the Transfiguration of Jesus and our own spiritual experiences dwell together under a huge umbrella that he called “contemplation.” What did he mean by the word contemplation? Here’s what he wrote:

(Contemplation is) life itself, fully awake, fully active, fully aware that it is alive. It is spiritual wonder. It is spontaneous awe at the sacredness of life, of being. It is gratitude for life, for awareness, and for being. It is a vivid realization of the fact that life and being in us proceed from an invisible, transcendent, and infinitely abundant Source. Contemplation is, above all, awareness of the reality of that Source.[1]

What’s he talking about? That God can sneak up on us in silence. Or God can dance with us in jazz. We are not abandoned or cast off. We are beloved, holy beloved. And that love calls us to wake up. To engage. To sink deeply in the work God gives us to do while we keep breathing and dancing. The invitation is for us to come alive, completely alive.

And when the lights go on, even if only to flicker for a moment, there’s nothing in heaven or earth that can take that away, for it is a reminder the Holy One is with us, we are loved, and there is work to do..


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

-------------------------------

[1] Thomas Merton, New Seeds for Contemplation (New York: New Directions Publishing Corporation, 1971) pp. 1–2.

Won’t Stay in His Lane

Mark 1:40-45
February 4, 2024

William G. Carter  

A leper came to him begging him, and kneeling he said to him, “If you choose, you can make me clean.” Moved with pity, Jesus stretched out his hand and touched him, and said to him, “I do choose. Be made clean!” Immediately the leprosy left him, and he was made clean. After sternly warning him he sent him away at once, saying to him, “See that you say nothing to anyone; but go, show yourself to the priest, and offer for your cleansing what Moses commanded, as a testimony to them.” But he went out and began to proclaim it freely, and to spread the word, so that Jesus could no longer go into a town openly, but stayed out in the country; and people came to him from every quarter.

My friend’s name was Tony. We met on the school bus. I think it was second grade. The big yellow bus picked up me and my sister first. We bounced down about a quarter mile, then took the sharp left turn onto Bodle Hill Road. From there, it was a straight shot to our elementary school.

Tony stood at the last stop before the school. We were the same age, same grade, same homeroom. There were differences. He was short and Italian. I grew too fast for my blue jeans and a Celt. Tony loved to play sports. I was usually the last to get picked for the kickball team. He was a Lutheran; one day, he was carrying a Bible to school and showed me the pictures between Old and New Testaments. I said I was a Presbyterian, and confessed we didn’t have a lot of pictures in our Bibles.

The friendship continued for a while. There’s a snapshot of the two of us standing on the sidewalk outside my parent’s house. We were getting ready for our first Boy Scout camp out. Big grins on our faces, boots laced up, backpacks loaded with candy bars. The truck dropped us off at the edge of the forest. As we hiked in, my long legs carrying me faster than his, another Scout a few years older came alongside and said something just loud enough for me to hear. He said, “How come you’re bunking with that kid? Doesn’t the smell turn your stomach?”

He didn’t say this to be mean. He was being descriptive. Tony’s body had a strong odor. Sometimes it was stronger than others. I had tried to ignore it because he was my friend. We liked the same baseball team. We got along easily. He was often at my side in Scout meetings, and sometimes took pity on me and picked me for his kickball team.

That was the moment I realized that Tony stood by my side because nobody else ever stood by his side. It probably had to do with the odor. The odor came from a terrible rash that covered the back of his neck. I am no dermatologist and can’t tell you what it was. Yet it persisted. It was there for years. People stayed away from him. And at this point in my ministerial career, I would declare if Tony had lived in the first century, he would have been diagnosed with leprosy.

Did you see the footnote at the bottom of the Bible page? “The terms leper and leprosy can refer to several diseases.” All of them were visible on the skin. Each was inexplicable, happening without prediction or cause. The effects were disfiguring. They held the threat of contagion. Neighbors were frightened. Families were separated, all because of an unknown disease.

A thousand years before Jesus, Moses had laid down the law. If you are bored next week after the football season concludes, you can read all of that in the 13th and 14th chapters of Leviticus. We learn a lot of things: leprosy was a catch-all word for skin infections, ulcers, psoriasis, eczema, dermatitis, and what we now call “Hansen’s Disease.” Leviticus declares they are signs of impurity. You are considered unclean. You are cast out of the community, forced into isolation, and segregated to live with strangers with whom you have absolutely nothing in common except the same diagnosis. Leviticus also says, that in ancient days, the religious leaders were the gatekeepers for health or sickness. They alone could declare someone was getting well. Or they could say, “Go away, you smell.” “Go away, your appearance scares us.” Go away, we don’t want to catch what you have.”

We don’t have to survey our recent past to see what the threat of contagion will do. We know the stories of loved ones separated from us by covid-19. These days, they might be banished to the guest room. Before the vaccines were created, they may have spent weeks in the hospital. And it’s only the latest of a litany of diseases through the ages. Each illness invades a human body, often unrelated to prior behavior.

In prior days, it was presumed you got sick because you did something wrong, the same way some parents exhorted their kids to zip up their winter coats, so they didn’t catch a cold. I think of the old fable of Job, the tragic man who lost it all. In his misery, three friends descended on him to say, “What did you do wrong, to end up so low?” Or as the twelve disciples asked Jesus about a man born blind: did he sin or did his parents sin? What went wrong with him?

But listen to what the man with leprosy says to Jesus: “If you will, you can make me clean.” He responds, “I will.” Not merely, “I can,” but “I will.” Because it is God’s will. God wants us to be healed, restored, purified, and uninvaded by disease. That is the holy will of God. Jesus comes to make known the will of God. Sometimes we call him “the Great Physician,” not only because he healed so many people in first-century Palestine, but because he is the patron of every physician, nurse, PA, psychologist, dietician, and dermatologist who works out rhe healing work of God. Wellness is God’s will. God doesn’t want us to be sick, much less separated by our sickness.

But there are some curious details in the healing story for today, details that suggest even more about the will of God. Here’s one: Jesus isn’t very happy about the situation. There’s a variant manuscript, early in New Testament days, suggesting that he healed the man out of “anger,” not “compassion.” That’s also mentioned in the footnotes. “Anger” is a curious motivation for healing somebody.

It gets clearer a verse or two later when Mark says, “he sternly warned” the man. That’s another moment where the English translation vastly softens what Mark is saying. No, it was harsher than a “stern warning.” Jesus was “boiling with indignation.” Why?

The scholar Ched Myers reads the text closely. He finds a hint that the man with the disease already been to see the priest, that he has made the three-day trek from the outskirts of Capernaum to Jerusalem, that he tried to get an audience with one of the holy men, that he was refused and sent away. So here he is, denied the health care that his own scriptures promised, and all he can do in desperation is to throw himself at the feet of Jesus. Jesus sees all of this, and he “snorts with rage.”

As Jesus heals the man, he judges a religious system that was spiritually bankrupt. The leaders professed to love God and love neighbor, but the truth is, they ignore God and push away neighbor. It’s as if, in the parlance of our own day, the religious establishment off and says, “You’re on your own, so handle your own medical care.” Something like having to wait three months after a heart attack to get a cardiologist appointment.

Jesus will not let this stand. He heals the man with the disease and says, “Go back down there to Jerusalem, show yourself to that priest, and demand he restores you to complete fellowship.” Why? Jesus says, “Let this be your testimony to them.” OR to put it another way, let this be a testimony against them.

A second detail: the man doesn’t go. Doesn’t feel he needs to go. Sure, Jesus is honoring the old rules in Leviticus 13 and 14, saying, “Show your body to the priest. Get your card punched. Get the official release.” Yet why does he need to be seen by a priest when he has been seen by Jesus. Jesus has made him well, and therefore clean. He has been restored.

In effect, Jesus is far better than a cumbersome system of health care that has no regard for the sick. An unconcerned system sends the unhealthy back out to the waiting room to say, “Let us know if you’re feeling better.” By contrast, Jesus affirms the person is more valuable than any broken system. He makes it known there is no illness that separates the person from the love of God.

And then, this third and most inflammatory detail: how does Jesus heal the man? By his powerful word, of course, and through his holy intention, “I will” – and also by his touch. He touches the man with the skin disease. He clasps him with his hands. He attaches himself to him. He risks catching what that guy had. He takes on systemic impurity to release a man from systemic impurity.

Which is to say, he steps over the old rules of Leviticus:

He steps over the invisible barrier between illness and wellness.
He steps over the wall between sterility and infection.
He steps over the fear that separates clean and unclean.
He steps over the distinction of religious hierarchy and neighborly care.
He steps over the division between religious rules and the power of God.
He steps over the breach between hopeless despair and the possibility of health.
He steps over the separation between isolation and connection.

Which is to say, Jesus refuses to stay in his lane and merely be a nice preacher. Mark said this was going to happen. On the very first day, the sky was ripped open from the other side. God came down in power, like a dove that settled on Jesus, this Jesus, who works tirelessly to claim this world as God’s dominion. Some think God is staying up in heaven. Some believe God ought to stay up in heaven. Some think God is never coming down. But what do you do if you discover Jesus has really come – and God is here?

You live. That’s what you do. You live as if God rules heaven and earth. Like my old friend Tony. He’s gone now. He slipped away two years ago from a long bout of cancer. That illness did not keep him from returning from high school reunions, where he was affirmed as the kindest person in our reunion class. I do not grieve but celebrate how a childhood illness cracked opened his own heart in compassion. Tony kept going to his Lutheran churches wherever he lived. He served as a youth group leader, and a volunteer visitor to men in prison. He trained as a Stephen Minister to visit the sick and troubled of the congregations to which he belonged.

Obviously, he kept reading that Bible that he sneaked onto the school bus and looked at more than the pictures. His faith completed him as a human being. And he lived that chapter where it is written that nothing shall separate from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. Nothing, not illness, not persecution, not anything at all.

Such is the will of the God who, in the fullest sense, wants us to be well. Thanks be to Christ, who reaches out to us.


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

Tempted By Success

Mark 1:29-39
January 28, 2024

4th Epiphany

William G. Carter

As soon as they left the synagogue, they entered the house of Simon and Andrew, with James and John. Now Simon’s mother-in-law was in bed with a fever, and they told him about her at once. He came and took her by the hand and lifted her up. Then the fever left her, and she began to serve them.

That evening, at sundown, they brought to him all who were sick or possessed with demons. And the whole city was gathered around the door. And he cured many who were sick with various diseases, and cast out many demons; and he would not permit the demons to speak, because they knew him.

In the morning, while it was still very dark, he got up and went out to a deserted place, and there he prayed. And Simon and his companions hunted for him. When they found him, they said to him, “Everyone is searching for you.” He answered, “Let us go on to the neighboring towns, so that I may proclaim the message there also; for that is what I came out to do.” And he went throughout Galilee, proclaiming the message in their synagogues and casting out demons.


There’s a woman who said, “I think it would be good to get away for a while.” It had been a busy stretch: the holidays and their exhausting routines, demands of family, expectations at work. A few friends who were going through troubles of their own. So, she did what a lot of people do when life closes in: she contacted the travel agent. Picture that big poster of the teal water, the white sandy beach, the bright orange sun. It is a long way from here. That is a significant part of the appeal.

For those who can afford it, and for some who cannot, there is nothing like a getaway.

As some of you know, I once belonged to a study group with a dozen other preachers. It disbanded in 2020, two months before the pandemic hit. If that group had kept going, we would have been in a beach town in Florida, just about the time Pennsylvania temperatures dropped down to five degrees. This year, a couple of us were reminiscing through text messages: “It’s Sunday, we would have been in the karaoke joint beneath the palm trees.” “It’s Tuesday, time for breakfast on the pier.” “It is Thursday. Wish we were getting crepes and eggs.”

To quote the late poet Jimmy Buffett, the “change in latitudes” really did create “changes in attitudes.”

There’s nothing new about it. Sixty-five years ago, Frank Sinatra was crooning an old song by Matt Dennis:

Let's take a boat to Bermuda
Let's take a plane to Saint Paul.
Let's take a kayak to Quincy or Nyack,
Let's get away from it all.

Let's take a trip in a trailer
No need to come back at all.
Let's take a powder to Boston for chowder,
Let's get away from it all.[1]

The Gospel of Mark tells us that Jesus got away from it all. The story we heard today is one of three specific occasions that are worthy of mention in this Gospel. The third occasion was in the Garden of Gethsemane, as Jesus wrestled with the demands of the cross. The second occasion was immediately after feeding five thousand people in a place near Capernaum. Then there’s the occasion, which occurs after a very full day of work.

Jesus has been preaching and teaching and driving out the demons. He is so successful that anybody with any problems takes notice. As the Sabbath day concludes, they swarm around him, asking for help. He heals as many as he can, working late into the night. The next morning, he gets up before dawn, and he gets away from it all.

Most of us know how that is. You don’t have to be a healer like Jesus to feel some of that pressure. Maybe you are a mom, the kids always want something from you, including that big baby you’re married to who has a head cold. Or maybe you’re in business, the reports are due, the boss is insistent, and the whole machine will not let up on its demands. Or maybe you are sandwiched between grown kids and aging parents, and you’re feeling squeezed by needs and expectations.

Or maybe you are just plain tired. I don’t know if you realized that is a spiritual diagnosis, but it is. There’s a New Testament church that got a letter, the “Letter to the Hebrews.” The writer says, “Lift your drooping hands, strengthen your weak knees, and make straight paths for your feet.” It sounds that church is tired, so tired that some of them are skipping out of worship.[2] Imagine that.

In the story we’ve heard today, it sounds like we have a glimpse of the human side of Jesus: he’s tired, he’s worn out, he’s taking some time for prayer. As somebody describes the scene,

Jesus knew that he needed help. He knew that he could not live in this world without God. If he was forever going to be giving out, he must sometimes be taking in. If he was going to spend himself for others, he must spend time spiritually refreshing himself. Jesus knew that it was not humanly possible to accomplish all that he needed to accomplish every day of his life in his own strength alone. He also knew that he didn't have to. Not when the all-powerful, all-knowing, all-wise God, his loving Father was ever present, ready to provide, whatever he needed, whenever he needed it, however he needed it. All he had to do was ask. The Bible says we have not because we ask not. If we ask, we will receive.[3]

I think that preacher is on to something. That is why this scene from Jesus’ life is more than an escape. It is more substantial than a quick trip away.

Did you ever notice that a vacation can be exhausting? It takes a lot of work to get away from our work. Some of us struggle to know how to relax. For others, it is difficult to sit and be quiet, and for others, they go on their getaway and take everything with them: all the noise, all the commotion, all the music, all the clothing, all the stuff. They pack all their burdens in their suitcases and drag them along. (I’m the only one who does this, right?) Sometimes we need to take a vacation after we return from the vacation.

All our activity can wear us out, unless we learn how to be still, and to receive. This is a primary spiritual practice: hushing before God, praying to God, receiving from God. It is simple, really. You just have to do it. And you do not have to go away far. As Jesus will teach us, “Whenever you pray, go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you.”[4] Go to the secret place, the quiet place, the deserted place - - and pray. In a noise-drenched, fast-paced, achievement-oriented, commotion-filled world, there is no better advice.

But there is something else about this story that is helpful to remember. Do you remember how Mark describes the location where Jesus goes? He calls it “a deserted place.” The word in Greek is heramos, which is translated “deserted place,” “lonely place,” “wilderness,” or “desert.” According to the text, Jesus has been there before. John the Baptist was preaching in the heramos. Jesus went to hear him in the heramos. After Jesus was baptized by John, the Holy Spirit threw him into the heramos. And out there, in the heramos, he dealt with big decisions about what God wanted him to do. The Tempter tried to steer him away from necessary things.

So, after a busy day, after working late into the night, where does Jesus go when he gets up in the morning? Into the heramos. Because when the sun comes up, he will be tested. In fact, which is exactly what happens. The Voice of temptation comes in the voice of Simon Peter: “Hey, where have you been? Everybody is looking for you!” Do you hear that? “Hey Jesus, last night you really wowed them – everybody is hunting for you!” In that moment, there was no greater temptation for Jesus than to listen to the voice of popularity.

After a night like that, if he were to stay in Capernaum, he could settle down and enjoy the adoration of his neighbors. Everybody could start thinking of him as the local Medicine Man. He could heal the physicians, teach the rabbis, and put the funeral directors out of business. That sounds tempting. Everybody could like you. You wouldn’t have to spread the Word and start a movement; you could simply stay where everybody liked you.

Simon Peter hunts for Jesus and says, “Hey, you really impressed them. Everybody is hunting for you.” And that’s why Jesus gives his unusual reply: “Let’s get moving then. There are a lot of places where I need to preach and heal.” He has discerned the work of God is not about winning popularity contests. It is about getting on with the challenges God has set before him. He worked that through in the heramos.

It strikes me that this kind of prayerful clarity is rare. He goes to a quiet place, and his prayer is for a purpose. It is not merely for spiritual refreshment, but for guidance and direction. It’s not merely filling the tank but steering the car. “God, why am I here?” Not merely asking what others expect of me or reflecting on what I want to do. It’s asking: What does God put before me today?

In 1939, the theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer slipped out of his home country of Germany. Storm clouds were forming. Hitler was amassing an army and planning a war. Bonhoeffer had academic friends in New York. They said, “Come here and teach. Escape the insanity. You have been here before; you know it’s safe.” So, he went. He was a pacifist. He had no time for Hitler’s goose-stepping soldiers or antisemitic hatred.

Yet after a brief getaway in Manhattan, something did not seem right. There was an international catastrophe forming at home. He was retreating from it, even for the best of reasons. As he wrote to one of his colleagues,

I have made a mistake in coming to America. I must live through this difficult period of our national history with the Christian people of Germany. I have no right to participate in the reconstruction of Christian life in Germany after the war if I do not share the trials of this time with my people.[5]

His mind resolute, he returned home and quietly engaged in the struggle that he knew he needed to do.

I am reminded of how the way of Jesus runs counter to so many messages of our time. When the world pushes a getaway on us, they encourage us to run three steps ahead of responsibility, or to spend a lot of money, or to drink more Margaritas than we really need. We turn on the football games, eat our chicken wings, and are tempted to forget how many people go hungry in our rich nation. That is what our getaway culture wants us to avoid. Avoid reality.

Yet the discipleship way is a different way. We can enjoy a good football game or save for a fun vacation, but we are always called upon to love God and neighbor 24-7. And nowhere in the Bible does it declare that we can put our affluence at the expense of other people’s well-being. Jesus came preaching, “This is God’s world. The dominion of God is right here.” And he worked tirelessly to make the world a healthier, safer, and holier place.

“Let’s get moving again,” he says to Simon and the others, “for that is what I have come to do.”

So, the Gospel text today calls us in two complimentary directions: be still and get to work. Listen to God and care for others. Pray in such a way that our souls are replenished and engage the pain of the neighborhood. It is both-and, a rhythm of spiritual depth and social justice. In the name of Jesus, they belong together.

There is a balance between what we do and what we refrain from doing. Hard work invites us to rest our bodies and tend our souls. Prayerful silence clarifies our purpose and reanimates our efforts. The spiritual life is an engaged life, rooted in God and directed toward others.

So, take advantage of our prayer time today. Lean back into the arms of a God who offers to restore our souls. Listen for the whispers of grace, and trust God will equip you for every challenge. And after you say Amen, open your eyes and look around. We are called to serve a world of need. That is why God granted that moment of prayer and rest. And when you get right to the heart of it, selfless service to others is the reason we are here.


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

---

[1] “Let’s Get Away from It All,” Matt Dennis and Tom Adair

[2] Hebrews 12:12-13. See also Hebrews 10:25.

[3] Cynthia Hale, “Early Morning Rendezvous,” http://www.csec.org/csec/sermon/hale_4420.htm

[4] Matthew 6:6

[5] Letter to Reinhold Niebuhr, quoted in Eberhard Bethge, Dietrich Bonhoeffer: Man of Vision, Man of Courage (New York: Harper & Row, Publishers, 1970) 559.

Not As the Scribes

Mark 1:21-28
Epiphany 3
January 21, 2024
William G. Carter

They went to Capernaum; and when the sabbath came, he entered the synagogue and taught. They were astounded at his teaching, for he taught them as one having authority, and not as the scribes. Just then there was in their synagogue a man with an unclean spirit, and he cried out, “What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth? Have you come to destroy us? I know who you are, the Holy One of God.” But Jesus rebuked him, saying, “Be silent, and come out of him!” And the unclean spirit, convulsing him and crying with a loud voice, came out of him. They were all amazed, and they kept on asking one another, “What is this? A new teaching—with authority! He commands even the unclean spirits, and they obey him.” At once his fame began to spread throughout the surrounding region of Galilee.

 

Years ago, when I was on vacation, I visited a church without telling anybody who I was. It is my habit to worship whether I’m working or not, so I slipped in the back and sat down. After a brief prayer to prepare my heart, I opened my eyes and looked around. I observed activities that I never see when I am upfront.

Some slipped in late, others slipped out early. Some paid attention, a teenager spent the hour tapping his phone, and one of the choir members took a nap. A note was passed, a few words whispered. Candy was unwrapped, cough drops were shared. The organist began a hymn at a sprightly tempo, the congregation did their best to slow her down. I do have to say the preacher started with a lot of energy, but twenty minutes later, he was running on fumes. It was quite the education.

So, when I hear today’s account of a worship service in the seaside village of Capernaum, I can’t help but wonder what everybody noticed. It was the first time Mark tells us that Jesus spoke in public. He has been baptized. He’s been tested. He snatched two fishermen out of their boat, and two more after that. When the weekend comes, he stepped into the village synagogue.

Every eye was on him, as he stepped up to the podium. He was in holy space. It was the Sabbath, holy time. Although Mark does not mention it, no doubt Jesus opened the ancient scroll to the text for the day, put it into the air, and then sat in the teacher’s seat. Everybody leaned forward, and he was good. Really good. The audience began to nod in agreement. They were awakened by his insight. Somebody said, “He didn’t download that sermon from the internet.” Another said, “Yes, isn’t it refreshing that he’s not reading us a book report on Leviticus?” Not like the scribes! 

No, the lesson was fresh. The speaker was energized. Since he was new, no doubt he spoke his signature sermon, that God’s kingdom has come close, that God is the rightful ruler over all things, that God rules over our hearts, our minds, our lives, our community, our world. Just then, someone over here stood and started to scream at him. Jesus raised his voice. The man tried to out-shout him. “I know who you are, Jesus of Nazareth. What have you come to do? Have you come to destroy us?”

Suddenly, that pleasant sermon, with all its power and authority, was interrupted. And I am wondering what the people there were thinking, what they were feeling. Has this happened before? Was this man subject to temper tantrums? Was he unstable? Did something set him off? Had something gotten into him? That’s how they would have diagnosed him in the first century: “he had an unclean spirit.” Something got into him. What was it? They didn’t wonder about it. They just knew. Something possessed him. For the moment, maybe longer, it held the rest of them hostage.

It can happen. It does happen. Maybe there is a person who gets too big for their britches, and the rest of the congregation allows it to happen. Power is lodged unofficially in someone accustomed to calling the shots. Then the new preacher comes to town and there is a showdown. It can happen.

It happened not far from here. The new preacher came, got the lay of the land, peeked into all the locked closets, mapped out the territory. Then, one Sunday, she stood to say, “There’s no way we will ever balance our budget by selling Welsh cookies.” It got very quiet. Then the murmurs ensued. Threats were uttered. Ultimatums were made. A line was drawn in the sand. The preacher stuck to her guns. The treasurer quit, in a most public display of anger. The murmurs got louder. The preacher moved on. The Sunday after she left, the treasurer came back and was re-elected. Cookies were sold again. And it came to pass that the church ran out of money, shut down operations, and sold the building. Nobody thanked the preacher for telling the truth.

There are unseen forces that can infect any of us, especially when we are a group or a community. Mark calls it “an unclean spirit.” Please understand that is a first century diagnosis. And it is a little spooky: the man with the unclean spirit knows the preacher’s name. “I know who you are, Jesus of Nazareth.” Who told him that? And he perceives a deep threat: “Have you come out to destroy us?” Who’s the “us”? The empire of demons? The congregation? The status quo? All three, probably. It is often easy to identify the troublemaker. It is a lot harder to identify those who are enabling the situation, saying nothing, or putting up with the trouble or quietly acquiescing to the way things have always been.

In our day, one of the most sinister evils is the spirit of addiction. Starts with pleasure, enjoyment, a little lift to get us through the day. It is not illegal. I have the freedom to decide for myself. Don’t get on my case. I know when to stop. On it goes. Then energy is redirected. Money is reappropriated. A new refrigerator is bought just for the beer. The bourbon’s hidden in the laundry basket. Denials cover up lies. There are irrational outbursts. I can stop tomorrow. And it’s not a “thing.” It’s a spirit. It’s invisible. It takes over. It feeds on its own obsession until somebody has the courage to say stop. They will be confronted by the words, “Have you come out to destroy us?”

Get a sense of what happened in the synagogue of Capernaum? It sounds pleasant when the preacher declares, “God rules over everything and everybody.” Yet when the light goes on, and it really is “everything and everybody,” we should expect some opposition. This forms the plot to the Gospel of Mark. Jesus is the Strong Man of God. He comes to make a constructive difference in the world – and the world strikes back. Jesus keeps going and is met with resistance. Mark wants us to know that, if you announce the love and power of God, somebody will push back and say no.

It reminds me of an unusual tale in the eighth chapter of this book. The people in a village bring a beggar who cannot see. Jesus lays hands on him to heal his sight, then asks, “Can you see anything?” The man says, “I see people. At least I think they are people. They look like trees walking.” So, Jesus must try again. Only then can the man see. (Mark 8:22-26).

Why does he have to give him a double-whammy of a healing? Because all the illnesses of this world are deeply entrenched: not just blindness of every variety, but poverty, hunger, homelessness, trauma, mental illness, abuse, violence, and our addiction to self-destruction. Jesus comes to tackle them all, for he came preaching, “This is God’s beloved world. You are God’s beloved people. God has come to rule over everything and everybody.” Even after the powers of evil conspired to put Jesus on the cross, he came back. And he is still busy.

Mark is the Gospel of God’s Mission. When Jesus is raised from the dead, the angel tells the women, “You will see him back in Galilee.” Where does Galilee begin? In the synagogue in Capernaum, as he commands an evil presence to be muzzled, and throws him out of that community. The congregation responds, “What is this? A new teaching?” Yes. They – and we – are being instructed that God wants this world to be well. God wants all the broken people mended. God wants all the broken systems dismantled and rebuilt. And our mission is to join Christ in his mission.

Now, there’s no assurance this will be easy. The work requires persistence, patience, and prayer. Like the year after some of our teenagers went off to fix homes in a poverty-stricken area. The first year, they went to a mountain hollow. They rebuilt porches, replaced rooftops, dug drainage ditches, cleaned up garbage, and made new friends. When they returned after a week, they said, “We are tired, but it’s a good tired.” We smiled and nodded.

So, when the prospect came of returning the next summer to the same region, they shouted, “Yes! Let’s do it.” They couldn’t wait to return and see what they had done the previous year. Alas, when the vans rolled back into town, some of those porches were broken again, the same rooftops needed repair, the ditches were clogged, and garbage was blowing down the road.

One of the kids said, “I don’t want to come back here again. In fact, I’m not sure I want to do this anymore.” We understand the sentiment, don’t we? But I think we can also understand the need, the ongoing need. And Jesus Christ comes into Galilee to address the need. He keeps working. And he calls us to follow him and join in the work. We cannot fix the world by waving our hands and offering a plastic prayer. Nor should we be enticed to believe that, since we have healed one person, now the work is done.

On the first day that Mark reports, Jesus goes into the holy space of worship. It is the holy day of Sabbath. He speaks the holy word, that God rules over all things – and he is resisted by someone who asks, “Have you come to destroy us?” What is the answer? Jesus comes to muzzle evil, to keep it from speaking and propagating. He comes to throw out whatever destructive force oppresses that poor soul and scares the congregation. He comes to heal, not destroy. To restore, not to ignore. To lift up, not trample down. To love through speech and action. To make a constructive difference, to the glory of God who comes to rule over all.

This will not happen easily or quickly, for him or for us. The Gospel of Mark knows this. This is the world that God has made, and this is the world that pushes God away. We are creatures made in God’s image, too often twisted in upon ourselves. No matter how much we resist our own well-being, Jesus comes to make us well. All of us, and all things. That is God’s will for the world

Do you know why this is? Because Jesus is the Holy One of God. He comes in the power of the kingdom, a power described so well by the Harlem poet Zora Neale Hurston. She put it this way, “Love makes your soul crawl out from its hiding place.” It is the love of Christ that calls all things into God’s healing, restoring light. It is the love of Christ for you. For all.

 

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