Returning to the First Love (Ephesus)

Revelation 2:1-7
Trinity Sunday
May 26, 2024
William G. Carter

No doubt somebody twitched when I announced the text comes from Book of Revelation. Revelation is an unusual book. When we open this book, we see visions and nightmares. We hear choirs of angels and bubbling bowls of wrath. For some, it is a document that spurs speculation on the future. For others, this is a lens to understand the Roman Empire at the time the book was written.

What becomes clear today is that Revelation resembles most of the New Testament in that the whole book is an epistle. It was a circular letter sent to seven ancient congregations. Each of the seven churches got the whole book. Each of them received a specific letter intended just for them. As we work through those seven letters over the next seven weeks, we will be listening to somebody else’s mail.

The first of those letters sounded like this:

 

“To the angel of the church in Ephesus write: These are the words of him who holds the seven stars in his right hand, who walks among the seven golden lampstands: “I know your works, your toil, and your patient endurance. I know that you cannot tolerate evildoers; you have tested those who claim to be apostles but are not, and have found them to be false. I also know that you are enduring patiently and bearing up for the sake of my name, and that you have not grown weary. But I have this against you, that you have abandoned the love you had at first. Remember then from what you have fallen; repent, and do the works you did at first. If not, I will come to you and remove your lampstand from its place, unless you repent. Yet this is to your credit: you hate the works of the Nicolaitans, which I also hate. Let anyone who has an ear listen to what the Spirit is saying to the churches. To everyone who conquers, I will give permission to eat from the tree of life that is in the paradise of God.”

That is the letter. I try to imagine how it was received. The congregation had been around for forty, maybe fifty years. Chances are, it was ridiculously small, especially compared to the grandeur of Ephesus. Ephesus was a major port city on the Aegean Sea, on the western shore of what is now called the country of Turkey. It was a massive city, a crossroads of commerce and transportation. It was also a destination, for it was the home of the Temple of Diana, one of the seven wonders of the ancient world. The Roman Empire determined Ephesus as one of the three great cities of the empire, after Rome and Alexandria. And there was this little Christian congregation in the city.

Imagine the excitement when somebody announced, “We have big news today. Our church has received a letter.”

Who wrote it? Was it the apostle Paul? Someone replied, “I hope not. Last time Paul was here, he stirred up a lot of trouble. Besides, he went off to Rome and we never heard from him again. That was twenty-five years ago.”

Was it Mary, the mother of Jesus? Did she write the letter? A member of the prayer group said, “No, she was here for a while, at least I heard she was here. Didn’t she pass away?” Another added, “I don’t know whatever happened to her. It’s like she slipped off to heaven.”

Another said, “I bet it was written from John. Remember John? He used to be our preacher. Then the Roman soldiers came and took him away. I heard he was being held on an island somewhere.” One of the old-timers said, “Let me see the letter for a second. I never learned to read, but I could recognize John’s handwriting.”

“Just a minute,” said another, snatching the parchment away. “Yes, that’s his handwriting. I would recognize it anywhere. John wrote this down.” As he scanned the document, his countenance changed.

“What is it?” they asked. “Is the letter from John? We haven’t heard from him in some time. Did he write something for us?” And the last man said, “John wrote it, but this letter is not from him. It’s not from Mary. It’s not from Paul. This letter… is from… Jesus.”

Now, that is something. Who has ever gotten a letter from Jesus? But there it was, in ink on the papyrus. And he continued, “To the angel of the church in Ephesus write: These are the words of him who holds the seven stars in his right hand, who walks among the seven golden lampstands.” Yes, that’s Jesus, their Lord and ours. He holds the Light. He walks among the Light. He gives the Light. And he dictated the correspondence while John wrote it down.

Those are the preliminaries. But what does the letter say? If Jesus Christ, Risen Lord of the Universe, were to compose a note to your congregation, what would he say?

Fortunately, there are plenty of positive comments. “You are a hard-working group of people,” he says. You put in the time. You extend the extra effort. You labor long and hard, and your effort shows. You are patient, too, not expecting flashy and superficial results, but taking steady and incremental steps to further the Gospel. This is a church that endures, a church that sticks around, not some fly-by-night stage show with a lot of razzamatazz.”

Not only that, but it is also a church with a high level of expectations. No room for evildoers in the Ephesus congregation. Get your name in the police blotter of the newspaper, and they will toss you out. Post something rude, offensive, or discriminatory on the Ephesus website, and the leaders of the congregation will call you in and dress you down.

It reminds me of the meeting minutes that I read from the last church I served. One of their members had been observed on a long moral slide. Folks in town had been whispering, then murmuring, then complaining. The church elders called him in. They sat and glowered at him, while they made him stand and face the accusations. He has shown up intoxicated, and those old Welsh elders let him have it. “You are banned from this church building,” they decreed, “until you get your life together.” The old coot who told me the story exclaimed, “That’s when church was church. It counted for something.”

We could almost hear the Word of Christ to Ephesus, who says, “You do not tolerate evildoers. You test the hypocrites and determine the fakes.”

But then, the Risen Christ says, “Yet I have this against you…” And all the oxygen leaves the room. The Christ who affirms their strengths also sees their weaknesses. Or at least, this one overriding weakness: “I have this against you, that you abandoned the love you had at first.” Whew… Apparently that church was so good at being good that they turned their back on the glue that held them together: the love of Christ for them, the love they had for Jesus, and the love they used to have for one another.

Were they efficient? Absolutely. Regularly updated their manual of operations. Did they make an impact in the wider community? Despite the size of that opulent city, everybody knew about that little church. Everybody knew about the Jesus that they worshiped. Did they resist the indifference of the wider community? Did they hold fast to what they believed? Did they confess that Christ is risen, and God is rescuing the world that is beloved of heaven? Of course they did.

The problem seems to be that perfection has become more important than connection. As someone observes,

Christ was annoyed because the church has developed some sort of ‘works litmus test’ to determine which efforts were worthy and which were not…Preoccupation with the work of love for the lordship of Christ overwhelmed an allegiance to the first love they had one demonstrated toward each other. In the same way that a healthy sell can metastasize into a cancerous one, their commendable insight degenerated into discrimination… Once known as a loving community, they had suddenly become a policing one. Ephesian faith had become a matter of Ephesian quality control. Assessment became more important than love.[1]  

How does this happen? How does a community constituted by love lose its love? Good question. All I know, all we know, is that it can happen.

All of us remember what it is like to fall in love. There was that moment when the sparks flew, the pulse quickened, the breathing paused. All you could do is think about this incredibly attractive soul that God had created just for you. The flowers bloomed, the clouds parted, the birds sang. You did whatever you could to make yourself available to appear when that person appeared. You rearranged your life and made yourself available.

Sadly, that hot fire of passion can sometimes turn cold. Maybe there was a betrayal or breach of trust. Or a huge mistake that could not be corrected. Perhaps it wasn’t a crisis so much a sequence of small decisions that frosted the heart and made everything practical. Rather than give yourself away, you hold something back. Rather than share you negotiate. Instead of asking what you might do, you consider what you must do. What are my duties? What are my obligations?

And when the relationship gets to that point, it’s a short distance before you reduce it all to a transaction. What must I do to get something out of it? This is what the risen Christ calls out in the Ephesian church, that they have abandoned love, pushed away from love, whether it’s love for Christ or love for one another. In this letter, Jesus doesn’t specify. He simply asks, “Where’s the love?”

That’s a fair question. During his days on earth, the Gospel stories portray Jesus as a deeply attractive person. The fishermen dropped their nets to follow him. A sick woman pushed through a crowd to touch him. Some tore the roof off a house to get to him. All the apostles couldn’t stop talking about Jesus, just like the newly engaged couple can’t stop telling their friends about the one who wants to claim them.

Yet, as somebody notes, “Before the New Testament was even done being written, the church's wild desire for Christ had become domesticated and organized duties had to be assigned. Arguments and conflicts had to be negotiated. Now, the Christians were doing their work, and the risen Christ affirms that ‘You’re hard at work, I understand your toil.’ The Christians were ensuring that the mission of the church would go forward. The church was even continuing to grow, but some couldn't remember, ‘Why are we working so hard? Why are we so committed?’”[2]

So, Jesus writes a letter to say, “Remember me? Remember how much I love all of you? Remember how I showed you how to love one another? This is the heart of everything I am and everything I call you to be. Remember how love is the glue that holds heaven to earth. Remember that love of God plus love of neighbor is our one holy mission.”

I was wondering, on the day when we ordain and install our church officers, what I might say as a matter of charge to them as they begin their work. We are constitutionally bound, as some of you know, to ask them a checklist of questions. They are not open-ended questions. There is only one right answer to each of the questions. If you listen carefully, I will feed them all the correct answers. Presbyterians make good Ephesians. We want them to get it right.

But really, what do we really want from elders, deacons, and pastors? The same thing we want from one another: to love their church, to love their neighborhood, and most of all, to love the Lord their God with all their heart, soul, mind, and strength. That is the invitation of Jesus. It is all we expect.

If I were ever invited to rewrite the ordination questions, which I’ll never be invited to do, I would replace them all with a single question: What will you do to keep the love alive?

Let anyone who has an ear to hear listen to what the Spirit is saying to the churches.

 

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

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[1] Brian K. Blount, Revelation: A Commentary (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009) p. 57.

[2] As said so well by Craig Barnes in his sermon, “Your First Love,” preached at the Presbyterian Church of Chestnut Hill, Philadelphia, PA, 12 May 2024.

Who's Next?

Acts 1:15-26
Easter 7
May 12, 2024
William G. Carter

Here is a page out the scrapbook of the early church. The author of the Gospel of Luke uses it to begin his second book. Volume One tells the story of Jesus, from the shepherds at the manger to the angels at the empty tomb. Volume Two picks up where Volume One leaves off, with Jesus going up to heaven and the disciples wondering, “Now what?”

All the razzle-dazzle is over. Crucifixion is over, Easter is in the rear-view mirror, Jesus is out of sight. It’s back to business. They return to the familiar upper room. Mary, his mother, is with them. They pray. They shared meals together, and then Simon Peter banged the table with his goblet and began to speak.

“I know we are all missing Jesus,” he said, “but we are missing more than that. Judas Iscariot leaves behind an empty chair. What he did was terrible, and that sad episode has shaken us all. But it’s time to move on. There’s a verse in Psalm 109 – ‘Let someone take his place of leadership’ (109:8).” The room buzzed; people nodded their heads.

It was the first significant decision before a church that had no visible Lord. So how did they handle it? I’ll tell you how they handled it: they formed a committee.

Oh, I know. Luke says nothing about a committee. Let me assure you: that was an inadvertent omission. I mean, you know they must have formed a committee. They had one hundred twenty voices, each chiming in. That's a lot of advice and confusion. I don’t know how you get a large group of people to agree on anything, especially if they are nominating candidates for office.

So, they handed the work over to a committee, somewhere between verse 22 and verse 23. They appointed eight committee members, gave two ground rules. The first: the nominee must have followed Jesus for at least three years; no fly-by-nighters in their leadership. The second: need a decision by tomorrow morning. So, they put on the coffee pot, elected a moderator, and began their work. From the beginning, there was no small debate. No sooner had they started, and hands shot into the air.

The moderator recognizes member number three. "Yes sir. I've been thinking about this, and we need a young person. When I look around and see how old the apostles are, it bothers me. Look at Matthew, James, and Bartholomew! Each of them has one sandal in the tar pit. It’s time to get the next generation involved. God knows, I'm no spring chicken. That's what I wanted to say."

Member number two. "I'm Bob, from Bethany. I have a bakery. I saw a lot of Jesus that last week. We should pick someone with thick skin. No matter what they do, church leaders always get hammered with criticism. We can't choose someone who takes everything personally."

Member number six. "I beg to differ with Bethany Bob the Baker. Sure, there's criticism, but must we nominate some insensitive fool? Jesus cared for the weak and vulnerable, and so must we. There is no room in the church for someone who bulldozes over other people's feelings. I don’t want a leader like that."

Member number seven. "As usual, I'm the only woman on this committee. Jesus always cared about women. He treated us like real human beings. Mary, Joanna, and the others raised money for his journeys. I think we have an excellent opportunity to take a prophetic stand. Let's elect a woman to be the next apostle! Thank you."

Member number eight. "I'm from here in Jerusalem. I wasn't happy with Jesus' choices either. I want to choose someone to be proud of, someone who can stand before the crowds and preach with a silver tongue. Personally, I'm tired of those foul-mouthed fishermen from Galilee. They are sloppy, smell of tilapia, and have no class."

Member number five. "I've been sitting here listening to all of you rattle on. None of you are facing facts. We should sign up the first sucker we can find. This is a big job we want them to do. The less we tell them, the better. Jesus never told the twelve what they were getting into. Why should we? Let’s be practical. No one is going to take the job if they discover how much it involves. Wake up, people! We are trying to fill a slot."

The committee worked through the night. They argued. They drank coffee. When Peter arrived in the morning, the committee said, “We have two candidates, Joseph Barsabbas with four votes, and Matthias with four votes. The vote is locked. How about if we have thirteen apostles instead of twelve? There is plenty of work to do."

"No,” said Peter, “that can't be. Jesus picked twelve. There are twelve tribes of Israel. Twelve is the number, no more, no less."

The moderator said, “We did what we could. We have two candidates for one position. We are unable to decide. Something else must be done." With that, what follows may be the oddest scene in the entire New Testament. The whole church prays, hands over the whole matter to God. Then Luke says they cast lots and Matthias is chosen.

Wait a second. The nominating committee had worked carefully. They had reviewed every possible option. The lives of two men were at stake. The future of the Jesus Movement was at stake. Yet when the committee reaches a stalemate, the situation is simply tossed into God’s lap. Whatever will be, will be. Is that how the story goes?

Perhaps, but perhaps not. For one thing, the committee did its work. They weren’t looking for anybody. They were looking for a witness to the resurrection of Jesus, searching for someone who knows Christ is alive. It couldn’t be just anybody to fill the empty chair. It had to be the right person.

That’s what our own nominating team has been doing. These days, when we look for an elder or deacon, our nominating team asks first, “What does the church need to get done?” The next question follows logically: “Who would be the best person to do that kind of work?” When they ask those kinds of questions, they begin to sense whom God is calling to the role of leadership. people. And it’s far more satisfying and affirming for the people we ask.

So, the early church gave some prayerful thought about who their leaders could be. It wasn’t sloppy or quick. They didn’t hand off the task to a headhunting firm and say, “Get us an apostle.” No, they looked around the room – who has the ability? Who could do the work? And they came up with two names: Joseph, who some called Barsabbas, and others called Justus; he must have been widely known by a lot of people; and Matthias, about whom we don’t know very much at all.

They came up with two, two possibilities for one position, because it’s generally true that two or more people can do the job that somebody must do. To decide which one, they “cast lots.”

What does that mean? At various times in history, to cast lots was to put several stones in a small cup. The stones would be marked or colored. The cup would be shaken until one of the stones would jump out. It was widely believed this was a fair way to decide, like flipping a quarter and calling heads or tails. As the book of Proverbs said, “Casting the lot puts an end to disputes and decides between powerful contenders” (18:18).

More than that, it leaves the matter in God’s hands. The church has done its part in discerning the right people. Ultimately the final decision is God’s decision – so it is possible to say, the first little stone to pop out of the cup is the stone God selects. So, the church could declare, “The Lord chose Matthias from the two that we carefully selected.”

It is a different way of thinking about decisions than the world does. Imagine if we were to spend more time identifying on who is the best person for the good of the whole group, the leader that God would choose?

How is it that God makes choices untainted by manipulative hands? The story from the early church suggests that the church folks did the upfront work, but they all agreed to hand it over to God. What an amazing thing: a blend of human discernment and Divine selection, if that’s indeed what it is.

I have a friend who grew up as a Mennonite in Lancaster County. She told me her father was chosen as a minister by casting lots. The last minister moved on. The people looked around the church, took notice who was there, who was paying attention to the sermons, who was living the Christian life, and who was available. They saw a few possibilities, took stock of the consensus of the group, wrote the candidates’ names on slips of paper, and placed the slips in a Bible. Sylvia’s father was one of the names written down.

The whole congregation knelt in silent prayer. After a few minutes, the Bible was shaken. The first name to fall out was God's choice as their next minister. It was Sylvia’s father. “I accept this as the will of God,” he said with a shaky voice, and everybody applauded. Then the congregation passed the plate and collected enough money to send him to Bible school, so he would have some idea what he was doing.

Human discernment and Divine decision – that’s what we seek in the Christian church. Last week, I spent some time with a friend from South Carolina. She’s up for election as the moderator of our church’s General Assembly. Someone tapped her on the shoulder and said, “You would be a wonderful leader for us.” He shrugged it off with the usual denials: “I’m not qualified. I’m an African American woman. I’m the associate pastor of a church and my head of staff doesn’t want me gone.”

Yet she prayed about it, while others affirmed her. Finally, she said, “I’ll throw my hat into the ring. Let’s see what God does with this.” The election is about eight weeks away. We’ll see what happens. God is not anxious about it. We can trust God will raise up the right people to lead Christ’s church.

Maybe the selection of Matthias isn’t so unusual after all. He was not picked as one of the original twelve, but he was the next one that God wanted. He didn’t have to campaign to get the position, because he knew the decision wasn’t ultimately up to him. And when he was selected, he did not gloat or boast or strut around like a champion – no, he got to work for the people of God.

You know, there are these moments in our lives, yours and mine, when the stars align, when the angels sing, when the heart is confirmed, and it is as clear as anything is clear that God is ruling over us. There are moments, even seasons, when the work we do feels like the work that God wants to get done. Praise God for when those moments come, because they declare that every one of us has a purpose, that every one of us has something we can do for God and his rule over earth.

As for the other moments, the moments when the vision is foggy, and the way is not clear. Even then, God leads us through. In fact, I’ll never forget one of the best things one of our church members ever said to me. We were talking about leadership and the lights went on in her eyes. And she said, “Rev. Bill, what you’re saying is this: we are the only people that God has to use.” Uh huh, that’s right. We are the ones.

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

A Severe Mercy

John 15:1-8
Easter 5
April 28, 2024
William G. Carter

“I am the true vine, and my Father is the vinegrower. He removes every branch in me that bears no fruit. Every branch that bears fruit he prunes to make it bear more fruit. You have already been cleansed by the word that I have spoken to you. Abide in me as I abide in you. Just as the branch cannot bear fruit by itself unless it abides in the vine, neither can you unless you abide in me. I am the vine, you are the branches. Those who abide in me and I in them bear much fruit, because apart from me you can do nothing. Whoever does not abide in me is thrown away like a branch and withers; such branches are gathered, thrown into the fire, and burned. If you abide in me, and my words abide in you, ask for whatever you wish, and it will be done for you. My Father is glorified by this, that you bear much fruit and become my disciples.”


I love this passage. It comes up with regularity at the communion table. As Jesus prepares to depart his disciples, he speaks in a figure of speech: “I am the Vine, you all are the branches.”

This is how he speaks of our relationship with him. It is Christ who sustains us and gives us life, and I take that to mean “the Risen Christ.” This is a text that only makes sense after Easter, as Jesus is raised and available to all. He is our Life, the Life of God given for us. When we eat the bread and drink the cup, we receive Christ through our own imperfect faith. The life that goes out through the Vine is extended to all the branches.

And this is how he speaks of our relationship with one another. The branches are connected through the Vine. The same mercy Christ showed in the flesh when he was among us is the mercy we show to one another. We refuse to take advantage of those to whom we are connected. We will not insult, abuse, or refuse to forgive, for we are connected through Christ, who holds us in the love of God. This love is patient and kind, never insisting on its own way. Such love bears all things, hopes all things, and endures all things. It never ends.

Mmm… it would be enough to simply pause and take all this in. Feels good, doesn’t it? Just breathe in the warm glow of God’s Spirit and know that we are loved.

The only problem is that’s only the first half of the passage. The second half is troubling. God loves the Vineyard,[1] but some branches wither and die. Some branches are gathered as kindling for the fireplace. Some branches have borne no fruit. They are no good to anybody.

Jesus is the Real Vine, but his Father is the Vine Dresser. And do you know what the Vine Dresser does? He goes after the Vine with a big, hooked knife.

Picture a gardener trimming a rose bush at this time of year. She snips the bush and trims all the dead stalks. She cut it down to almost nothing. Lean forward and you might hear the rose bush cry out, “Ouch! That hurts!” Of course it does. It always hurts when something alive is trimmed back. Jesus invites us to think of God as the One doing the trimming. Can you picture that?

Picture the little church by the crossroads. The country cemetery out back has many more occupants than the pews. Once the building was filled with the sound of activity. They never had a lot of people, but there was a season when they flourished: Bible study, hymn singing, community meals for the neighborhood. Then the community changed. People moved off the dairy farms that circled the little church. The new highway directed newcomers in another direction. The day came when the few remaining leaders said, “We can’t do this anymore.”

They decided to have one last reunion, deciding to invite everybody back one last time, plan for a final worship service, and then they would call a realtor. A small crowd sang, “O God, Our Help in Ages Past, Our Hope for Years to Come.”

The guest preacher gave the final benediction and said, “Let’s have one last potluck meal.” They shuffled out, but one woman wouldn’t budge. She didn’t want to leave. Closing that church felt just like dying. Ouch! The knife hurts. My question: was that the knife of God?

I know there are some people who believe that faith is supposed to make you successful, that every year will bring an increase, that we will continue endlessly to reach further and stretch taller. In rational moments, we know that isn’t true. A text like this offers a corrective. “My Father is the Vine Dresser,” says Jesus. You know what that means? He cuts away every branch that bears no fruit. And he cuts every branch that does bear fruit, to prune it, to make it bear more fruit. The branches that bear fruit, the branches that bear no fruit – both experience the knife of God.

When Jesus says this, he is playing with the verbs. In Greek, the word for "cutting" has the same root as the word for "pruning." They sound the same. "Every branch that bears no fruit, airei (he cuts away). Every branch that does bear fruit, athairei (he prunes)." Airei, he cuts. Athairei, he prunes. They sound the same. They look the same. And, the truth is, cutting or pruning, the experience feels the same.

It is hard to enjoy this text. It speaks of a hard truth, which is why we avoid it. We really don’t want anybody to cut us or trim us. We certainly don’t want to be hemmed in, much less criticized. There is the illusion that maybe we ought to let things slide, leave things alone, let everything work it out over time, when it really needs a necessary pruning.

I served on a community task force one time, not here, somewhere else. None of our groups are like this. We had a man who couldn’t keep quiet. Always the expert on everything. Always the critic to point out what everybody else was doing beneath his standard. The chair of the group never did anything about it and figured it would work itself out. Well, it did. People got tired of the loudmouth blathering on and stopped trying to speak. Others refused to volunteer, saying, “Why bother?” One by one, everybody drifted away. Finally, only the loudmouth was left, so he went home.

Talk about fruitless – have you ever been involved in something that just doesn’t bear any fruit?

When John Calvin comments on this verse, he says the crop needs “incessant culture.” That is, it needs continuing care from the Vine Dresser. God expresses love by staying involved with the crop, trimming here, cutting there, all to make the Vine abound in fruit. The picture of God here is not an absentee landowner, but an attentive farmer, constantly involved, regularly paying attention, knowing right where to cut and when. Calvin says we need this; otherwise “our flesh abounds in superfluities and destructive vices.” So, we need to be pruned, which is what the living God will do, provided we are still alive and connected to Christ.

There are people who understand this. Some of them gather here every morning of the week. They unlock the door and let themselves in, and they talk about how alcohol has been ruining their lives. Under the influence, they had smashed cars, demolished relationships, lost their jobs, even got arrested. Every one of them comes here because they got in trouble with alcohol.

Here is what one of them said to me: “God had to slap me awake. I had lost everything – my wife, my kids, my house – and then I came here and realized God still had a hold of me. I had everything taken away, but God still had me.” He said, “Man, it hurt to realize the truth, but that’s when life began to turn around. It was God’s doing.”

Jesus is telling us we cannot grow if we don’t allow God to trim away. We cannot live abundantly unless we are regularly pruned. As the gardener did surgery on the rose bush, she pointed to all the new shoots of life down below. “If I don’t cut the winter burn away, the new blooms won’t have a chance.” There is a lot of human wisdom in horticulture.

“I am the Vine, you are the branches, and my Father is the Vine dresser.” It is a promise to all who are connected to Jesus Christ. Life comes with a good bit of trimming. Growth comes when we let God trim away the old stuff, the futile stuff, the extraneous stuff.

So, what needs to go? Sometimes, it is a closely held belief, or a proposition we have trusted, or a practice we have clung to. I think of the other text that our women’s group was studying last week. It’s the account of the apostle Philip out on the Christian frontier. He meets a eunuch from Ethiopia, reading out of the prophet Isaiah, and wondering how it applies to him. He is an Ethiopian, so he doesn’t look like Philip. He is a eunuch, a sexual minority, so the book of Deuteronomy (23:1) doesn’t want him around. And he is a Gentile – three strikes!

… except that God is working in his life, and he wishes to be baptized. If God has said “yes,” who is Philip to say no? So, Philip baptizes him as a Christ follower, and then he must go back and explain to the Jerusalem church why he has done a pastoral act for a person that, up until now, the Old Testament excluded. Do you think that was easy? Philip must let go of a long-held belief because the Spirit of God said, “Go talk to that man.”

Sometimes what needs to be trimmed away are the dreams we carry around in our imagination. If I take the promotion, I can make more money, I can move up the ladder, I can better myself. Perhaps, but if you take the promotion, it might destroy your family life. What will you do? Could it be that our vain dreams must be pruned for something else to grow?

Or what else? Is it the persistent grudge that we hold against the person we once loved? Or is it a form of pride that has overgrown the garden and chokes out the good crop? Or it is something even more sinister, like the long-established patterns of hatred or indifference?

What is it that needs to be pruned? For those who abide in Christ, it will anything that keeps us from growing in Christ. That’s the promise of the Gospel in this text. God will come to those who are committed, to those who are connected to Christ, and God will keep working to make them more like Jesus.

What might God want to do in you? Consider this to be Christ’s invitation for you to grow and flourish. Maybe it’s time to undergo that change that you haven’t had the courage to make. Maybe it is time to commit to whatever you have been postponing. Maybe it is time to ask God to trim away the persistent sin or the self-destructive impulse. Maybe it is time to stop hating and start giving. Maybe it’s time to ask the Lord to crucify your pride and to welcome God’s cleansing, renewing love. I certainly have my issues. Maybe you have yours.

The one thing I know is that if we stay connected Jesus, we will be changed, and it will be for a greater good than mere self-improvement. It will be for the glory of God that we flourish and bear fruit. And we will have to let go of all the vain things that charm us most, if only because they simply aren’t very fruitful in God’s vineyard.

It reminds me of how someone once commented on another of the teachings of Jesus. I love this line. Someone said, “It is possible for the camel to go through the eye of the needle. All things are possible with God. The camel can go through the eye of the needle. But it’s extremely hard on the camel.”[2]

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

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[1] Undoubtedly Jesus remembers the “Song of the Vineyard” in Isaiah 5. And he speaks frequently of “vineyards,” especially in the Gospel of Matthew.

[2] Attributed to C.S. Lewis, but he probably didn’t say it.

Laying It Down for One Another

1 John 3:18-24
Easter 4
April 21, 2024

William G. Carter

We know love by this, that he laid down his life for us—and we ought to lay down our lives for one another. How does God’s love abide in anyone who has the world’s goods and sees a brother or sister in need and yet refuses help? Little children, let us love, not in word or speech, but in truth and action. And by this we will know that we are from the truth and will reassure our hearts before him whenever our hearts condemn us; for God is greater than our hearts, and he knows everything. Beloved, if our hearts do not condemn us, we have boldness before God; and we receive from him whatever we ask, because we obey his commandments and do what pleases him.

 

And this is his commandment, that we should believe in the name of his Son Jesus Christ and love one another, just as he has commanded us. All who obey his commandments abide in him, and he abides in them. And by this we know that he abides in us, by the Spirit that he has given us.

Today is “Good Shepherd Sunday.” That’s the nickname for the Sunday four weeks after Easter. The church leans in to consider the care and guidance of the Lord. Scripture lessons are selected because they resonate with the theme. 

You could have guessed the Psalm: “The Lord is my shepherd.” That ancient poem is engraved on a lot of our hearts. Even though few of us have ever kept sheep or encountered a sheep herder, we can understand what a shepherd does. He provides safety for the flock. He leads the sheep to abundant pastures where they will find plenty to eat. If the animals steer off course or nimble themselves out of bounds, he takes the shepherd’s staff and gives them a tap on the hindquarters to keep them from going further astray.

It’s a glimpse of the kind of God we have discovered. God provided. God guides. God knows where the green pastures and still waters are. God steers us where we most need to go. The shepherd embodies goodness and mercy.

Not only that, but God also stays with us, no matter what happens. The presence of goodness accompanies us even if the path is steep and the way is hard. In his little book on the 23^rd Psalm, Rabbi Harold Kushner reminded us:

To say, ‘the Lord is my shepherd’ is to say that we live in an unpredictable, often terrifying world, ever mindful of all the bad things that might happen to us and to those around us. …But despite it all, we can get up every morning to face the world because we know there is Someone in that world who cares about us and tries to keep us safe. To philosophers and theologians, God may be the First Cause, the Unmoved Mover. But to people like us, what is most important about God is that He is the Presence that makes the world seem less frightening.

As Kushner says, “The primary message of the Twenty-third Psalm is not that bad things will never happen to us. It is that we do not have to face bad things alone, ‘for Thou art with me.”[1]

Jesus knew these words, of course. He knew the psalms, prayed the psalms, recited the psalms. So much so that they shaped his perception of his own identity. For Good Shepherd Sunday, we overhear his words as recorded in the tenth chapter of John: “I am the Good Shepherd. I know my own and they know me.” There is a connection between Jesus and his flock. They recognize his voice. He calls them by name.

And he cares about them – actively, aggressively, faithfully. “I’m not a hired hand,” he says. “I don’t quit my job and run away at the first sign of trouble. If a wolf approaches, snarling, licking his chops in hunger, the hired hand disappears, saving his own skin. But not the Good Shepherd. He stands his ground on behalf of the sheep.

It’s like that moment in C.S. Lewis’ little book, The Screwtape Letters. In those imaginary letters, a senior devil gives advice to a junior devil on the subtleties and best practices for tempting people. The goal, he counsels, is not wickedness but indifference. The point is not to convince them to do evil, but to convince them to do nothing at all. Keep the prospect comfortable. Don’t let him think about anything of importance. Encourage him to make plans for lunch.

Then comes the definitive job description: “I, the devil, will always see to it that there are bad people. Your job, my dear Wormwood, is to provide me with the people who do not care.”[2] Jesus says there are plenty of those. Their care is only a day job, a part-time gig. They are in it only for the money. But the Good Shepherd? His duty defines who he is. His compassion compels him to care.

Speaking of himself, Jesus says, “The Good Shepherd lays down his life for the sheep.” He must have meant it, because he says it five times in that brief passage we heard from the Gospel of John. This “laying down” is intentional. It’s his choice. It’s his purpose. Jesus reveals something essential about God. God comes to us with self-giving love, never playing it safe, never holding back, always more concerned about the flock than his own personal safety.

Some years ago, one of my friends told me about the memoir of Ivan Doig, called, “This House of Sky: Landscapes of a Western Mind.” Doig grew up on a sheep farm on the Montana plains, the only child of a widowed ranch foreman. He recalled a time when an unreasonably cold July rainstorm threatened to wipe out his father’s entire flock of newly shorn sheep. In frantic desperation, Ivan, his father, his grandmother, and the sheep dogs did everything they could to round up the terrified animals and head them toward a ravine.

“In a cold driving rain” (he writes), “hundreds of trapped ewes would destroy themselves” and trample their own lambs. Even worse, the prairie wind could blast open the gate and release the huge flock into unprotected territory. Doig writes:

 

What we faced, if we could not bring the band under control, was a rapid, steady push toward the steady devastation of our sheep – they were aimed like an avalanche to the cliffs. One way alone offered any chance: try to funnel them along the bottom of the single big coulee. To do so we would have to fight the sheep sideways along the punishing storm. And so, we fought, running, raging, hurling the dogs and ourselves at the waves of sheep, flogging with the gunny sacks, shaking the wire rings of cans. We were like skirmishers against a running army.[3]

Nothing sweet or docile about those shepherds! They did everything possible to stop the stampede and corral them to safety. It was only after the incident that Ivan realized he could have lost his life while saving the animals.

“I lay down my life,” says Jesus the Good Shepherd. “Nobody makes me do it. Nobody pays me to do it. I lay it down for others because that’s who I am.”

Just a few chapters later, Simon Peter bursts with bravado, “Lord, I will lay down my life for you!” Jesus turns to look at him. “Really, Peter? Are you going to lay your life for me? Truly I tell you, you’re going to chicken out and run away before the rooster crows.”[4] And that’s exactly what happened. Not Peter’s best moment, nor ours. Yet it distinguishes who Jesus is and what he has done, for Peter and for the rest of us.

“For this reason, the Father loves me,” says Jesus, “because I lay down my life in order to take it up again. No one takes it from me, but I lay it down of my own accord. I have power to lay it down, and I have power to take it up again. I have received this command from my Father.”[5]

Now, these are the days after Easter. He’s talking about his death and resurrection. Laying it down, taking it up again. As the Gospel of John remembers these words, maybe as long as sixty years after Jesus said them, he recognizes that this has been the shape of Christ’s entire ministry.

He set aside his rightful glory with the Father to come down here.

He emptied himself into acts of service, healing the sick, welcoming the outcast.

He told the truth about the grace of God, even if people couldn’t comprehend it.

He knelt on the last evening of his life and washed the dirty feet of his friends.

Then he went out, carrying his own cross, giving his life to take away the sins of the world.

Then he took up his life again and breathed his Spirit upon us.

One act after another, he laid down his life. For us, for Simon Peter, for Pontius Pilate, for all.

Then he said, “There is no greater love than to lay down one’s life for one’s friends. You are my friends if you love one another.” With this, his self-giving life is turned into Gospel ethics. For in the third text for today, a preacher from the early church tells it to us straight:

 

We know love by this, that he laid down his life for us—and we ought to lay down our lives for one another. How does God’s love abide in anyone who has the world’s goods and sees a brother or sister in need and yet refuses help? Little children, let us love, not in word or speech, but in truth and action. 

We continue the good news of Easter by doing what Jesus has done. We give ourselves to the needs of the world, beginning with the needs of the neighborhood. We refuse to sit on our hands when children are hungry. We don’t walk away when others have no place safe to sleep. We puncture the all-too-present temptation to indifference. We leave behind our own comfort when others have needs.

And I have to say, this has been our growing edge. A church like this, with such talented people, in the middle of a community of education and affluence, it would be very easy for us to sit in a circle and smile at one another. Yet there’s a constant nudge – call it an Easter nudge – to open our hands to others, all in the name of Jesus, whose hands were opened – and wounded – on account of us. We lay down our lives for one another. Let that be the motto for these days after Easter, because all our days are lived after Easter.

So, what are we going to do? Stitch quilts for the homeless. Collect groceries for the hungry. Sit with the sick. Make banquets for the bereaved. Deliver supper to those home from surgery. Phone those who are left out and overlooked. Muck out the houses of those who were flooded. Prepare turkey sandwiches for anybody who need one. Raise a lot of money for a teen homeless shelter, perhaps befriend the kids and affirm their value. It’s called laying down our lives, laying down our lives in the name of Jesus. That’s our mission.

In fact, let me tell you a story. I stopped in a little place to buy a sandwich. I was wearing a coat and tie, and most men don’t do that. The guy behind the counter looked me over, then said, “What do you do?” I’m a pastor. 

“Where’s your church?” Up on the hill. 

“Oh, is that a church?” Yes. 

“What’s it called?” It’s the Presbyterian church. 

He paused, looked at me, and said, “Oh, that’s the church that does stuff for other people.” Not bad.

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

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[1] Harold S. Kushner, The Lord is My Shepherd, Healing Wisdom of the Twenty-Third Psalm (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2003) 15.

[2] As reported by Rev. Roger Howard, in a paper presented to the Homiletical Feast for May 14, 2000.

[3] Ivan Doig, This House of Sky: Landscapes of a Western Mind (New York: Harcourt, Brace, Jovanovich, 1978) 217ff.

[4] John 13:37-38.

[5] John 10:17-18.

Any Donkey Can Preach

Numbers 22:22-31
Holy Humor Sunday
April 7, 2024

William G. Carter  

God’s anger was kindled because (Balaam) was going, and the angel of the Lord took his stand in the road as his adversary. Now he was riding on the donkey, and his two servants were with him. The donkey saw the angel of the Lord standing in the road, with a drawn sword in his hand; so, the donkey turned off the road, and went into the field; and Balaam struck the donkey, to turn it back onto the road. 

 

Then the angel of the Lord stood in a narrow path between the vineyards, with a wall on either side. When the donkey saw the angel of the Lord, it scraped against the wall, and scraped Balaam’s foot against the wall; so he struck it again. Then the angel of the Lord went ahead, and stood in a narrow place, where there was no way to turn either to the right or to the left. When the donkey saw the angel of the Lord, it lay down under Balaam; and Balaam’s anger was kindled, and he struck the donkey with his staff. 

 

Then the Lord opened the mouth of the donkey, and it said to Balaam, “What have I done to you, that you have struck me these three times?” Balaam said to the donkey, “Because you have made a fool of me! I wish I had a sword in my hand! I would kill you right now!” But the donkey said to Balaam, “Am I not your donkey, which you have ridden all your life to this day? Have I been in the habit of treating you this way?” And he said, “No.” Then the Lord opened the eyes of Balaam, and he saw the angel of the Lord standing in the road, with his drawn sword in his hand; and he bowed down, falling on his face. 

Have you ever heard of this one? It is the story of a talking donkey! It is one of the wildest tales of the Jewish Bible. A Gentile prophet named Balaam is riding his animal along. The donkey sees a fierce angel ahead and turns off the road. Balaam whips the donkey. And God gives the gift of speech to the donkey. It’s in the Book.

Animals don’t speak in the Bible. There’s a talking snake in the Garden of Eden, sly and sneaky, cursed to slither on the ground after leading Adam and Eve astray. But that happened a long time ago in a land far away. Balaam’s donkey is a different case, empowered under stress.

Those of us who spend time with animals can pick up their ability to communicate. There’s a cat lover that insists her felines speak telepathically. Don’t know if that is true, but I’ve noticed many cats play mind games. Some of you know there are two springer spaniels in our home; they tell us clearly what they want. Pippa is the older one, clearly more dominant. Oakley is younger, a big galoot. He will often appear to tell, “Pippa says it’s time to go outside.” After a quick jaunt, he appears at the back door to say, “Pippa wants us to come in now.” Half an hour later, they are at it again.

A young woman says her favorite conversationalist is her goldfish. Every available moment, she’s staring into the goldfish’s eye. Ask what she’s doing; the answer: “Picking up messages.” In the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, there is somebody who claims to be a horse whisperer. I don’t doubt it. For those with ears to hear, our animals communicate.

But this Bible story almost sounds like one of the collected accounts of Dr. Dolittle. Remember him? That was the fictional British physician who claimed to talk with the animals.

In case, let’s explore this Bible story which one Princeton scholar calls, “the funniest in the Old Testament.”[1] It comes from the wilderness stories after Moses led the Israelites out of Egypt. They were making their way through Moab, somewhere east of the Dead Sea. Someone told King Balak that there were a gazillion Israelites trudging across his land. He got nervous. He said, “They will overwhelm me as an ox licks up the grass of the field. So, he sent for a world-renowned prophet named Balaam to come and help him out.

Balaam lived far off, near the River Euphrates. It was a great distance away. But he was famous. And he was expensive. King Balak sent a lot of money and said, “I want to buy a prophet who has the power to curse these trespassing Israelites.” I guess it was a lot of money because he got Balaam’s attention. He sent his messengers and told them to say, “These people are swarming me, so come and curse them. Folks say when you curse somebody, they stay cursed – and that’s what I need you to do.”

Balaam says, “Let me sleep on the matter and give you God’s answer in the morning.” During the night, God said, “Don’t you curse my people! They are blessed.” So, after his first cup of coffee, Balaam said, “Emissaries, go home.” They depart, return a long distance back to Moab, and report to their king.

King Balak tried again. He sent higher ranking officials across the land, sending piles of money, declaring he would pay anything to have the Israelites cursed. Again, Balaam says he will sleep on it. He adds, “I cannot do what the Lord doesn’t want me to do.” That night, God says to Balaam, “If they have come to summon you, get up and go with them, but don’t say anything other than what I say.” In the morning, Balaam gets out of bed, saddles the donkey, and sets off with the nobles of Moab.

But then we have a problem. According to the story, God gets angry. God blows a gasket. Was there a change of the Divine Mind? Did Balaam garble the Holy Message from Headquarters. It’s not real clear, but one scholar points out that Balaam the Gentile Prophet stepped over a little bitty word in God’s Message. The word was “if.” “If they have come to summon you…” As the scholar points out, there’s no real summons. Balaam just goes. He follows the money.

This detail was not lost on the early church. The apostles talked about Balaam as a bad example. The consensus was he was consumed by greed. In the Second Letter of Peter, Balaam “loved the wages of doing wrong.”[2] According to the letter of Jude, he “committed error for the sake of gain.”[3] Even in the Book of Revelation, Balaam taught King Balak to lead the people of Israel to moral and spiritual destruction.[4] Was he a bad dude? Perhaps. At least he was tainted, compromised, and a good bit suspect.

And that brings us to the comedy of the story. Here he is, the world-famous Gentile prophet, and he’s riding a donkey across the sands of Mesopotamia. Not an expensive, big white horse, but a farm animal. Clip, clop, hoppity hop, the guy who supposedly can make his curses stick. God is annoyed at him. God is going to stop him.

We are told that God sends an angel to block the road. The angel stands there with a big sharp sword. The donkey sees the angel swinging a sword and veers off the road. Balaam hits the donkey rather severely, then steers the beast back onto the road. The angel comes again, this time blocking a narrow passage through a vineyard. The donkey veers again, crushing Balaam’s foot. That provokes the Gentile prophet to whack him again. Then the angel appeared a third time, causing the donkey to drop to the ground. Balaam loses his cool and beats the donkey severely.

This is when God gives speech to the donkey. The donkey says, “What do you think you are doing? You’ve hit me three times.” Balaam says, “Well, you are messing with me! If I had a sword, I would stick it in your side.” The donkey spoke up again and said, “Haven’t I been good to you before? Can’t I be trusted? Have I ever done anything like this to you?” And Balaam must admit, “No.”

That is when God opened Balaam’s sight. He sees the angel and falls face-first into the dirt. The angel of the Lord said, “Why are you beating up the donkey? Knock it off. I stand against you because your way is perverse.” Balaam grovels, repents, says, “If you wish, I will turn around and go home.” And the angel said, “You can go with these men, but only say the words that I give you to say.”

Finally, the world-famous curser Balaam meets King Balak out in the boundary country. Balak is accustomed to people coming whenever he calls on them – especially if he throws money at them. But Balaam says, “So here I am. But am I able to say any fool thing? I can say only the Word that God puts in my mouth.”

Well, this is the story. It is an odd one, and it goes on a good bit more. And what in the world is the point of all that? Does anybody want to offer insight?

   Chris: “I think it means Don’t Beat Up Your Animals.”

Yes, that’s always a good idea. Cruelty is always wrong. Always. But what else does the story say?

   Chris: “Grace thinks that it says, ‘Some animals are more obedient than humans.’”

Well, that’s certainly true. Dogs and donkeys, to be sure. Maybe not cats.

   Chris: “Judy has a cat. Sometimes her cat sees things that mere humans cannot see.”

Not only do cats have nine lives. They have a sixth sense. Animals probably see angels better than the rest of us. And there is more Mystery around us than what our human eyes see or perceive.

But there’s one more thing that we haven’t said yet. This story is all about the power of words. The power to bless or curse. The power to speak the truth to power – or simply speak the truth to say, ‘Hey, there’s an angel standing in the middle of our street.” The power to speak on behalf of God, for the benefit of God’s own people.

    Chris: “So there’s one more thing that the story tells us.”

What’s that?

   Chris and Friends: “Thanks to the power of God, any donkey can preach!”

True enough. Thanks be to God.

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

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[1] Katherine Doob Sakenfeld, Numbers: Journeying with God (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1995) 124.

[2] 2 Peter 2:15.

[3] Jude 1:11.

[4] Revelation 2:14.