Kindred Companions, in memory of the Rev. Virginia Miner

Psalm 133

John 15:12-17

A Song of Ascents.

¹             How very good and pleasant it is when kindred live together in unity!

²             It is like the precious oil on the head,

               running down upon the beard, on the beard of Aaron,

               running down over the collar of his robes.

³             It is like the dew of Hermon, which falls on the mountains of Zion.

               For there the LORD ordained his blessing, life forevermore.

This sermon is one that Virginia Miner had heard some years ago - and was requested by her to be shared at her memorial service. It has been revised gently, and was preached at her funeral on March 4, 2018 in Scranton, PA.

How good it is. “How very good and pleasant it is when kindred live together in unity!” Once in a while, it’s comforting to have a Bible passage that you immediately understand. There aren’t a lot of difficult words to look up in the dictionary. No mind-numbing theological concepts to pin down. This psalm proclaims it is a beautiful thing when people get along.

The poet offers two ancient illustrations to tickle the senses. When people live in peace, what is it like? It is like the oil of an abundant blessing, spilling all over your cheeks and dribbling into your beard. Ever the feminist, I'm sure Virginia would have rolled the eyes at that one.

So what is it like? How shall we describe it when everybody gets along? It’s like the morning dew falling on the mountains, watering the thirsty soil, and dribbling down to fill the stream. We don’t ask for the dew; it falls from heaven like a gift – just like the oil of that blessing. And that’s how it feels to find that there are people in your life who have been given to you as a gift.

That’s the heart of what the Psalmist sings. It doesn’t matter if you translate the first verse literally; in Hebrew, it reads, “How pleasing is the dwelling of siblings together.” Or you can generalize and expand it; as Stephen Mitchell translates the thought: “How wonderful it is to live in harmony with all people.”[1] Either way the meaning is clear: it is a holy gift to have companions. It is a blessing from God to have people who share your life. It is good and pleasant to have sisters, brothers, friends, living together in peace. How good it is.

So, for a few minutes, I want you to think of a face. Who is the first person that comes to mind, when you think of good and pleasant company?

In one of his books, writer Frederick Buechner describes his first real friend:

Like me, he was kind of oddball – plump and not very tall then with braces on his teeth and glasses that kept slipping down the short bridge of his nose and a rather sarcastic, sophisticated way of speaking that tended to put people off – and for that reason, as well as for the reason that he was a good deal brighter than most of us, including me, boys tended to make his life miserable. But it was Jimmy who became my first great friend, and it was through coming to know him that I discovered that perhaps I was not, as I had always suspected, alone in the universe and the only one of my kind. He was another who saw the world enough as I saw it to make me believe that maybe it was the way the world actually was.[2]

How good it is, to have a friend like that – somebody who sees the same world that you see. Can you see a face? Can you see the face of some kindred soul?

Sometimes we discover them out of shared interests or experience. We didn’t choose these people, but suddenly we discover they are there. C.S. Lewis says friendship happens when two or more people discover they have something in common. Up until that point, each of them believes she or he is alone, bearing some unique treasure or burden. Then comes the discovery, says Lewis, and friendship begins when one of them says, “What? You too? I thought I was the only one.”[3]

How good it is to discover we are not alone! That we are never alone. That even if we talk to ourselves and live by ourselves, we are always part of a larger company. Surely that’s what the Psalmist is singing about.

And it resonates with the Last Supper promises of Jesus. He calls us "friends" and invites us to love and lay down our lives for one another. That’s the promise the Psalmist is claiming. If you love God, if you honor God, if you move as a lifelong pilgrim toward God, you can look around and see people that God has appointed to join you on the journey. They will enrich your spirit and enlarge your world, and they are a blessing that may surprise you. Can you see a face? Can you think of a name?

I think of Virginia. As far as I can remember, we met thirty-seven years ago. It was a presbytery meeting in the western Catskill Mountains. I was there to testify that I had heard God calling me toward ministry. About a hundred people sat on hard wooden pews and listened to my story. God’s voice had spoken in a whisper, and I did what I could to amplify what I had heard.

The church people were either bemused or astonished enough to allow me to explore all of this further. But from the vantage point of decades of Christian experience, the most important moment was when a thin lady with brown hair and glasses sauntered up and introduced herself. She was a couple years older than me. She was already a student at the seminary to which I planned to apply. And she said she was serving as an intern in a church not far from where I grew up; if I had any questions about what lay ahead, I could ask. We smiled quietly at one another, stood awkwardly for another minute, and that was that.

Little did I know that God would keep putting her in my life for the next thirty-seven years. I finished college, was accepted at the seminary, and began to study. One day at the beginning of my senior year, Virginia reappeared. The two year internship was over, and she was returning with the great wisdom of parish life, which she would apply to her remaining academic studies. This continued to be a theme for our friendship; whenever one of us read a book or got a half-cocked idea, the other one of us was there to yank the hot air balloon back down to earth. If the truth be told, she was usually the one yanking the chain.

We had a lot in common: both of us were first-born children, always assuming others were lining up behind us. Both of us were raised by smart parents in small towns who pushed us to reach beyond our upbringings. Both of us grew up in Sunday Schools and sanctuaries, and both of our families were the last to leave coffee hour in our churches. Both of us believed that, even though congregations have the potential to drive us crazy, they really are the focal points for living out the Christian life.  For us, “solitary Christian” is a contradiction in terms.

It was a strange and wonderful friendship that we have shared. It wasn't constant or invasive. There have been occasional gaps. Yet we were seatmates in airplanes and automobiles, logging thousands of miles in travel to church meetings and groups. Sometimes we talked the whole way, and sometimes we were mute for long stretches - - either way we put in a lot of miles.

As with any good friendship, we endured one another’s suffering – she journeyed through breast cancer, while I am a divorce survivor. We gasped at one other’s pain, but neither of us ever intruded or hovered. Each of us emerged through the necessary therapies. We wept, laughed, and even yelled at one another. We shared struggles, rolled our eyeballs at our foibles, offered the occasional corrective word, and mutually agreed on how much we would suffer fools. At the heart of it all was a profound mutual respect.

At points, we have found ourselves under one another’s leadership. When I was elected to the board of a national conference center, they asked, "Do you know any female clergy with a passion for justice and peace issues?" Well, who else but Virginia? She resisted and said, “I’m getting chemotherapy,” to which I retorted, “I will hold the bucket.” It stopped her short and she agreed to serve, which she did with distinction.

When I asked her church’s organist to marry me, we naturally asked Virginia to conduct the wedding, although that meant I had to endure her premarital counseling and grant her the creative control over the marriage service.

Of course, I had my way to get even. One Sunday when I was on vacation, I sneaked onto her organ bench and improvised a jazz prelude. And then I sat with a cup of coffee and tried to read a book during her sermon; dang, if she didn’t keep interrupting me with her good words!

Here’s the thing: neither of us ever to be so close. Early on, we might have voted one another, “Least Likely to Ever Be My Friend.” She had plenty of occasions to vote me off the island - - but God kept us in a friendship which grew for nearly forty years. I almost can’t imagine living my Christian faith without her companionship, except that I’m sure I will continue to hear her voice. How good it is…

“How very good and pleasant it is when kindred live together in unity!”

I know what the Psalmist is singing about, don’t you? There are people that God puts into our lives as a sheer gift. Their presence is a deep blessing. They enrich us. They call our attention to matters otherwise neglected. They raise our sights toward visions too great for our imagination.

And they make clear two truths about the Christian life. First, that our faith in Jesus is not a bunch of abstract ideas but a reality that is always embodied: the Word takes flesh in our commitments, in the ways we spend our time, money, and talents. And second, our life-in-Christ is best lived out in the company of friends. They are witnesses to what is true and eternal.

Virginia and I shared a favorite novel, John Irving’s A Prayer for Owen Meany. The one thing I did that she never forgave is that I skipped ahead to read the ending, which, if you read the book, is a really good ending. (What can I say? I got bored.)

But it’s the beginning of the book that I hold in my heart. That’s where the narrator says,

I am doomed to remember a boy with a wrecked voice – not because of his voice, or because he was the smallest person I ever knew . . . but because he is the reason I believe in God; I am a Christian because of Owen Meany… I skip a Sunday service now and then; I make no claims to be especially pious; I have a church rummage faith – the kind that needs patching up every weekend. What faith I have I owe to Owen Meany, a boy I grew up with. It is Owen who made me a believer.[4]

How good it is to have a kindred companion like that! Can you think of a face? Can you find the margin of your worship bulletin and write down a name? No matter what happens, hold on to that name. That person has revealed Christ to you.

Do you know what I’m going to write? “I am a Christian because of Virginia Miner.” How about you?

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

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[1] Stephen Mitchell, A Book of Psalms: Selected and Adapted from the Hebrew (New York: HarperCollins, Publishers, 1993) 73.

[2] Frederick Buechner, The Sacred Journey (New York: HarperCollins Publishers, 1982) 70.

[3] C. S. Lewis, The Four Loves (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc., 1960) 96.

[4] John Irving, A Prayer for Owen Meany (New York: Ballantine Books, 1990) 3.

Foolish Wisdom, Weak Power

1 Corinthians 1:18-25

Lent 3

March 4, 2018

William G. Carter

For the message about the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God. For it is written, ‘I will destroy the wisdom of the wise, and the discernment of the discerning I will thwart.’ Where is the one who is wise? Where is the scribe? Where is the debater of this age? Has not God made foolish the wisdom of the world? For since, in the wisdom of God, the world did not know God through wisdom, God decided, through the foolishness of our proclamation, to save those who believe. For Jews demand signs and Greeks desire wisdom, but we proclaim Christ crucified, a stumbling-block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles, but to those who are the called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God. For God’s foolishness is wiser than human wisdom, and God’s weakness is stronger than human strength.

Years ago, a church in New England observed its 300^th anniversary. The well-starched congregation set about to celebrate in fine style. They scheduled special speakers, had a big party, and, as you might expect, dug into their own history.

It’s amazing what you can discover when you poke around in your own archives. According to the local historian of that church, the sanctuary had extensive repairs in the year 1831. When the building was shored up, they added a steeple with a bell. Then something extraordinary happened. The historian writes: “When the steeple was added, one agile Lyman Woodard stood on his head in the belfry with his feet toward heaven.”

These days, nobody knows who Lyman Woodard was. There are no other stories about him, no other reports of curious behavior. All that exists is that he stood on his head. The act was counter to New England prudence and practicality. It was a crazy, goofy thing to do. And it was curious enough to be written down in perpetuity for the local church’s archives.

But for anybody who has really received the Christian faith, it wasn’t curious at all. There’s something about our faith that seems upside down.

In the history books of Israel, there are accounts of the younger son being chosen before the older brother. Or the last brother in line, the little one, selected to rule over the others. Or, in the words of the prophet Micah, “From you, O little town of Bethlehem, insignificant and almost forgotten, will come the Messiah.”

When Jesus arrives, he continues the upside-down nature of faith. In his stories as in his teachings, the last becomes first and the first is last. The weak are strong, and the powerful are removed from their thrones.  

And as the apostle Paul reflects to the early Christian believers, the wisdom of God looks like foolishness to the world. The weakness of Christ is our strength.

He’s speaking specifically of the cross. Paul is aware the power of the cross is completely upside down to the average person who doesn’t know anything else about it.

I’m not sure what the people of Corinth knew about crucifixion. The only crucifixions that I’ve heard about were in ancient Israel. The Roman Empire executed those who were deemed troublemakers in the most brutal and public way. They rounded up the thieves, the abusers, and the insurrectionists. After roughing them up in broad daylight, they nailed them to wood and hung them by the highways. The message was clear: “Don’t let this happen to you.” The empire thought they needed to do that in Israel.

In the Greek city of Corinth, across the Mediterranean Sea, we don’t know how many troublemakers ended up on crosses. Corinth was a wealthy city, a seaport for global commerce, a crossroads for ideas. It was cosmopolitan enough to generally synch with the rest of the empire.

And here comes Paul, speaking of Jesus as the savior of the world. What was the evidence of his power? What strength did he reveal? Paul says, “He was put to death on a tree.” It’s upside down.

Jesus doesn’t come from the planet Krypton, strong and mighty, with incredible powers. He was a first century woodcutter. He blended in so thoroughly that his own brothers thought he lost his mind when he began to preach and heal (Mark 3). It’s true that he got his orders from somewhere else, but arguably any other Jew could have gotten the same orders if they paid attention to their own Bible.

What distinguishes Jesus, especially for Paul, is his death. He believes in the resurrection, too; he has encountered the Risen Christ. Yet when Paul speaks of death and resurrection, he frequently condenses the whole three-day Christian Passover by saying, “We preach Christ crucified.” That, for him and for us, is the power of God.

It’s worth pondering: how is this power? How is the cross the power of God?

Maybe it only makes sense when you’re standing on your head. Christians profess Jesus is the Savior of the world, that he is the Son of God. But he wasn’t born in a big city. His Nazareth parents were so poor they couldn’t afford a lamb when they took him to the temple to be circumcised; in fact, they had a purchase a couple of birds as an alternative. One of the first potential followers of Jesus made fun of his hometown. And he died young, very young, in the most shameful way in his culture.

If he was indeed the Son of God, then he intentionally had to hold back on his power. He couldn’t show it all at once, not to mere mortals, at least, because it would have blown all the circuits and burned out the fuse box. Like God speaking to Moses, “If you were to see me face to face, you would be incinerated.”

So, Christ holds back. Elsewhere Paul says, Jesus “emptied himself,” that he chose to be a servant, that he gave himself for the life of the world, that he did not come to intimidate or compel, but to invite, to converse, to develop a relationship with us over time. If we were to see who he is, all at once, it would be too much.

But we see enough of who he is, it awakens us to the true shape of grace.

Let me say it straight: we killed the Son of God, and God didn’t kill us. That’s the heart of the Good News; everything else is commentary. We crucified Jesus and he didn’t strike back. He came back, but he didn’t strike back. That teaches us that justice is not about retaliation. Some might choose revenge; but God refrains…in mercy.

Now there are some people who look at the cross and come up with elaborate theories about what happened in God’s heart and mind. I’ll simply say there has always been a lot of speculation, as if a preacher could know the heart and mind of God.

For instance: some might declare how God is furious at the world because of all its sin. So, God demands payment for trespassing on God’s holy turf. And seeing as no mere mortal could pay for all the world’s sin, God sends his own Son to be the scapegoat, to bear the punishment that we deserve – just like an Old Testament sacrificial lamb. Jesus takes our place, and he gets what we deserve, and that after Jesus is killed, God is happy again. And if you grew up chewing on the book of Leviticus, I suppose you might come to that conclusion.

But let me point out the obvious: that we are the ones who put Jesus on the cross. People just like us schemed, maneuvered, condemned, and took up the hammer and nails.

Some speculate the cross was God’s will, that it happened because God wanted it to happen, or God allowed it to happen, or something like that. True enough, the cross of the Christ was the inevitable clash between heaven and earth. But this the heart of the Gospel: heaven decided not to punish earth for our sin of sins.

Salvation comes, but not from an angry God who balances the cosmic books by killing off his own Son. Salvation comes from a God of mercy who chooses to forgive the worst thing we could ever do. This God decides punishment is not the way to win over a consistently clueless human race. This God sends Jesus back (with scars) to preach peace between enemies, to proclaim a wider inclusion of who actually belongs to God, and to invite those who trust the Good News to advance this mercy as the primary act of divine justice.

The cross reveals the deep wisdom that God is not interested in obliteration. God’s heart is all about search and rescue. This is the shape of grace. And it’s best understood by those who need the grace.

Remember the stories of Jesus. Over and over, who are the ones who come to him? The little ones, like the children and those who become children all over again. Who else approaches him? The hurting ones, those with weary bones and broken hearts. Or the ones who are so weak that their friends must open a hole in the roof and lower them down. And don’t forget those who are possessed by evil and wish to be free. They come, they see Jesus, they find release.

Conversely, who are the ones who miss out on Jesus? The list includes those who think they’re in charge of the world, or the powerful and the well-connected, or the experts in religion who have God figured out and therefore dismissed… and don’t forget that one poor man who was so rich and had so many possessions that he just can’t unhook from all he has to travel with Jesus.

Here is the larger truth: God shows divine favor most clearly, not when we are strong, not when we are wise, but when we have the greatest need. The wisdom that the world dismisses as foolishness is found in the first and greatest Beatitude: “blessed are the poor in spirit.” Notice who it says: not the rich and famous, not the tall and suave, not the strong and self-assured – but those who actually need God. They are the ones who discover that God is on the cross – and that God is also with them, in the ongoing work of saving them and the world.

I have reached an age where I have begun burying some of my friends. One of them will be remembered this afternoon at a funeral downtown. Of all the words of tribute offered in her memory, one of the elders of her church said it best: “Virginia led us without ever raising her voice.” She never needed to shout or dominate to invite people to walk in God’s way. How humble, how Christ-like!

But I think of another preacher, Julie Ruth Harley. She was serving a church in suburban Chicago when she was diagnosed with ALS, that fearsome disease that eventually took her life. The final sermon she preached was on Christmas Eve. She spoke from a wheelchair, and she was thinking about Jesus. Listen:

What are we to make of this God, who comes to us, swaddled and helpless, lying in a manger? Isn’t this the last place we would expect to find God? I’ve thought about God in a new way during the last several weeks since I learned I have ALS, or Lou Gehrig’s disease. My body is rapidly regressing, and I am beginning to take on the characteristics of a small child.

Why does God choose vulnerability rather than strength? Why does God choose dependence rather than autonomy? Why does God choose to come as a child who cannot walk or talk? I have come to the conclusion that the Word becomes flesh in a body like mine, which is so weak it must be rolled to this church in a wheelchair.

I thought I was glorifying God when I was at the height of my physical powers – competing in a triathlon or hiking up a mountain. But perhaps the message of Christmas is that God is glorified just as fully when I allow others to take care of me.[1]

Do you hear the mercy? She didn’t have to be strong, because she is saved by a Savior who is stronger than her. And the evidence of that Savior’s strength was in his vulnerability.

This is a deep mystery. The Savior of the World would be the One on the cross. Does that make any sense to you? I hope so. And if not, you may need to stand on your head.

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

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[1] http://www.oakpark.com/News/Articles/1-8-2013/Finding-strength-in-vulnerability/

Handed Over for Our Trespasses...

Romans 4:22-5:11

February 25, 2018

Lent 2

William G. Carter

For while we were still weak, at the right time Christ died for the ungodly. Indeed, rarely will anyone die for a righteous person—though perhaps for a good person someone might actually dare to die. But God proves his love for us in that while we still were sinners Christ died for us. Much more surely then, now that we have been justified by his blood, will we be saved through him from the wrath of God. For if while we were enemies, we were reconciled to God through the death of his Son, much more surely, having been reconciled, will we be saved by his life. But more than that, we even boast in God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have now received reconciliation.

Once in a while, we hear about somebody who dies a noble death. Of all the stories from Parkland, Florida, last week, the most compelling is the story of Scott Beigel. Scott was a geography teacher at Stoneman Douglas high school. When the shooting started, he unlocked a door to let in some students, so they could hide from the gunman, Nikolas Cruz.

“We thought our teacher was behind us,” said one of the students, “but he wasn’t. He was in the doorway and the door was still open. The shooter probably didn’t know we were in there. If he had come into the room, I probably wouldn’t be alive. Mr. Beigel saved my life.”

It was a courageous, virtuous act. Scott Beigel died shielding his students from gunfire. As one of his friends said, “He made the ultimate sacrifice to do what he so often did – make the lives of other people better.”[1]

His death was tragic, premature, unexpected, and above all, noble. Maybe you and I would have the same courage if the situation required it. Scott died for his students.

But here the question nobody wants to ask: who died for the shooter? Did anybody die to save him? In the text, the apostle Paul gives his answer: “Jesus died for the shooter.”

Take a breath, and let that sink in. That disgruntled young man had been expelled from the school. He plotted an attack when it was least expected. All the sidewalk psychologists want to diagnose his mental state or delve into his anger issues. There is nothing honorable or human in what he did.

His violent act has stirred up a necessary backlash against unnecessary weapons. A movement of students has risen up against the gun lobby and the politicians they have purchased. And who knows? Maybe this will finally be the singular event that turns the tide against the persistent violence in places that we expect to be safe. We can hope so.

Yet in the meantime, the apostle Paul speaks about the noble death of Jesus, and the implications are bracing. As someone paraphrases his words in Romans 5, “We can understand someone dying for a person worth dying for, and we can understand how someone good and noble could inspire us to selfless sacrifice. But God put his love on the line for us by offering his Son in sacrificial death while we were of no use whatever to him.”[2]

That is a harsh assessment of the human condition: people who are “no use to God.” Whom would that include? Those who gun down innocent teens and teachers are no use to God. Neither are those who offer thoughts and prayers with no action. They are “no use” to God. And yet, and this is the Gospel for today, Jesus dies for them.

It is an outrageous claim to make because it lies at the heart of the Gospel. Jesus dies for the ungodly.

I wonder sometimes if Paul is speaking first-hand about his own experience. In his letters, he doesn’t say much about his own story. If we want to hear more of that, we have to read about it in the Book of Acts. In the book of Acts, Luke writes about Paul persecuting the church. He was pulling the Christians out of their churches and ordering their deaths. He thought he was doing God a favor and saving the world from those heretics. In truth, he was “no use” to God. Ungodly.

And then, one day, on the road to Damascus, the Risen Christ appeared to him in a vision and knocked him off his high horse. “Why do you persecute me?” he asked. And Paul had no good answer. It was a holy intervention, a conversion moment, a second chance – and it totally turned Paul around. As he reports what the Christians now said, “The one who formerly was persecuting us is now proclaiming the faith he once tried to destroy.” (Galatians 1:23).

Oh yes, I think that when Paul writes his words in Romans 5, he’s not far from remembering his own story. Do you know I think that? Because nobody who has had such a major turnaround in his life is going to forget what he was – in light of what he is now. It’s impossible to forget about “before” when you’re living in the “after.” A true conversion, an authentic turnaround, is going to keep you humble.

Just ask the person you know, the person who is so much more than the person they used to be. What happened? What turned you around? Then settle down and listen to a long story.

A lot of Presbyterians struggle to tell stories like that. They are respectable folk, for the most part: teachers, attorneys, business folk. They may have flirted with a little sin, but they haven’t got into a lot of trouble.

Well, maybe. One of your children was telling me how she fell into a heroin addiction. “The white powder became more important than life itself,” she said. “It never occurred to me until later that I had become just like my dad, except his drug of choice was vodka. He hated himself for it. I hated myself too, and never thought I’d break free of my slavery to the needle.” It was her second attempt at rehab where a hard-as-nails counselor broke through the fog, and the young woman said, “It was the first time in years that it occurred to me that I was worthy of love.”

These days, she’s in a church some Sundays. She says the best part is not the sermon, not the music, not even the people – but looking up at a cross and remembering who loves her most. “God proves his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.”

And I looked up the word. The word is “us,” as in “all of us,” as in “nobody is excluded, because ‘us’ means ‘all of us.’” Even the ungodly, especially the ungodly, even the shooter in Parkland, Florida; whether he knows it or not, Christ died for him, too. Would somebody tell him that, please? That’s the Gospel.

Left to our own devices, I suppose we would opt for punishment. Or retaliation. Or obliteration. Or giving an Uzi to the art teachers and the lady in the office who sniffs the white-out when nobody is looking. I mean, talk about the ungodly!

Have you noticed? The God of the Gospel is not in the punishment business. God is in the salvation business, the salvage operation business, the turning-from-darkness and turning-to-light business.

When the Temple leaders get Jesus condemned on trumped-up charges, God does not strike them down. When Pontius Pilate orders the crucifixion, God does not retaliate. When the soldiers drive spikes into the wrists and ankles of his Son, God does not mow them down with bigger weapons. That would be perpetuating the sickness of violence, and it would be ungodly.

No, God shows divine love for us, in that while we are at our worst, Christ dies to forgive our worst. God cancels the sin in order to win us back. And it’s up to us, beloved church, to do two things: to announce this Gospel to the world, and to let God win us back. Because Christ dies to cancel our sins too. He calls us to turn from the ways of death to start living his life.

One of my favorite writers, the Episcopalian Robert Capon, said this about Paul’s words:

The Gospel is not some self-improvement scheme devised by a God who holds back on us till he sees the improvements. Above all, Jesus wants to make sure we understand he doesn't care a fig about our precious results. It doesn't even make a difference to him if we're solid brass [jerks], because "while we were still sinners, Christ died for the ungodly." By the mystery of the Incarnation, he has included everybody, from Aalborg to ZZwickendorf. He's had you home free from the start, no matter what you've done; all you have to do is believe him. Therefore, God isn't fair: if he were fair, we'd all be in the soup. God is good: crazy, stark-staring-bonkers good.[3]

That’s good news. It’s the best news there is.

Billy Graham died this week at his home in Montreat, North Carolina. There was nothing particularly admirable about his death; he was ninety-nine years old and worn out, but there was plenty to admire about his life. Whatever else we could say about him, he consistently preached the Gospel of forgiveness, the Gospel of God’s second chance.

Sometime in the 1970’s, a woman named Velma Barfield fed her North Carolina preacher husband some tapioca laced with ant poison. It did him in. When the state medical examiner suspected foul play, they dug up the man’s body. The sheriff supervising the investigation was asked if an autopsy would confirm the murder. Apparently, he said, “All I know is there ain’t an ant within a mile of this cemetery.

It turned out Velma murdered a lot of people, some by poison, others by arson. She was easily convicted and ordered to be executed. While some protested the death penalty, Billy Graham’s wife Ruth began writing letters with Velma on death row. The conversation went deeper, Velma repented, asked Christ into her heart, and was redeemed.

With that, Ruth Graham began to plead with the governor, a Methodist, to spare Velma. Billy Graham took up the cause, as well, and the appeals went all the way to the Supreme Court. But nothing changed. The governor refused, leading someone to quip, “the governor was a liberal; he believed in equal rights for women more than he believed in the God of the Second Chance.”[4]

After her death, Billy Graham led a prayer meeting at the prison where she had been held. He praised her for the big impact she made on inmates’ lives before her execution. “She worked tirelessly to help other prisoners turn their lives around,” he said. Someone else added, “Everybody talks about rehabilitation, but here’s a woman who looked at her life and helped others.”

So, what do you think? Did she get off easy? Of course she did. She believed Jesus died to cancel her sin, our sin, all sin.

And I believe it too. How about you?

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

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[1] http://www.miamiherald.com/news/local/community/broward/article200747874.html

[2] Romans 5:8, in Eugene Peterson, The Message

[3] Robert Farrar Capon, The Mystery of Christ & Why We Don't Get It (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1993) 90-91.

[4] Drawn from Will Willimon's reminiscince, at https://willwillimon.wordpress.com/2018/02/22/memories-of-billy-graham

To Bring You to God

1 Peter 3:13-22

Lent 1

February 18, 2018

William G. Carter

Now who will harm you if you are eager to do what is good? But even if you do suffer for doing what is right, you are blessed. Do not fear what they fear, and do not be intimidated, but in your hearts sanctify Christ as Lord. Always be ready to make your defense to anyone who demands from you an accounting for the hope that is in you; yet do it with gentleness and reverence. Keep your conscience clear, so that, when you are maligned, those who abuse you for your good conduct in Christ may be put to shame. For it is better to suffer for doing good, if suffering should be God’s will, than to suffer for doing evil.

For Christ also suffered for sins once for all, the righteous for the unrighteous, in order to bring you to God. He was put to death in the flesh, but made alive in the spirit, in which also he went and made a proclamation to the spirits in prison, who in former times did not obey, when God waited patiently in the days of Noah, during the building of the ark, in which a few, that is, eight persons, were saved through water. And baptism, which this prefigured, now saves you—not as a removal of dirt from the body, but as an appeal to God for a good conscience, through the resurrection of Jesus Christ, who has gone into heaven and is at the right hand of God, with angels, authorities, and powers made subject to him.

The story is told of a young child going into a church for the first time. He was seven or eight years old. It was a Roman Catholic sanctuary, classic and ornate. The pews were hand carved, with fine detailing added by an artist’s paintbrush. The walls were lined with stained glass windows. With sunlight streaming in, the room was ablaze with color.

The air held traces of incense, lingering after a worship service held an hour before. It was the reminder of a heavy perfume, suggesting this was a special place, detached from the rest of the world. It seemed a room drenched in prayer. He paused for just a moment to take it all in. His head lifted toward the ceiling as he sniffed in all the prayers.

Just then, he noticed, high above his head, a figure on a cross. The eyes were closed, the head tilted, the mouth twisted. The little boy let out a gasp. It was frightening. He saw the nails and the crown of thorns. The pain of the figure on the cross was obvious.

And to no one in particular, he exclaimed, “He looks like he is having a really bad day.” Then he added, “So what did he do wrong?”

There’s a lot of theology in a young child’s comment, especially if they come to the church and see such a sight for the very first time. At the center of all Christian worship is a cross. The cross was the instrument of capital execution, state-sanctioned death. And in most of the churches in the world, if there is a cross, there is probably a figure on it.

I once asked a group of teenagers, “Why do you suppose we don’t have a body on our cross?” They looked at me blankly until one of them said, “Because we’re in denial.” There’s a lot of good theology in a teenager’s comment too. We can declare we have not figure up there because he is risen, and that’s true enough. But we can’t have a resurrection if nobody has died. And Jesus of Nazareth died.

The scripture readings this Lent will keep us focused on that. There is no rushing to Easter, not this year. Some of the readings that we will hear over the next six weeks will come from Jesus himself, as he looks ahead to what will be handed to him. And in the Bible, the words of Jesus are written down, thirty, fifty, sixty years after them, so the church has collected the words that they believe are most important for understanding the death of Jesus.

Other words, like the words we heard from First Peter, are words that come directly from the church. The early Christian leaders had some time to reflect on this particular death. How is it, that God could send his Son to the world, and the world would execute him? How could God become that vulnerable? How could we be that evil? These are mysteries that we never outrun.

The young boy looks upon the crucified figure of Jesus for the first time and blurts out, “He looks like he is having a really bad day.” There’s no joking about that. Crucifixion was a brutal business. The hammer and the nails went through flesh and bone. The soldiers whipped him with cruelty. And the custom was to display the crucifixions by the busiest highways, to warn others what would happen to them if they did something wrong. This was standard practice in the Roman Empire.

This is a hard thing to face. Maybe that teenager was right, too. We would rather not look upon a savage, sadistic act. Perhaps it is a form of denial, an emotional cushion to numb the hard reality of how Jesus actually died.

On the day before one more gunman shot up a school with a military weapon, the coroner of Clark County, Nevada, released the autopsy results of the fifty-eight people who were shot at the country music concert in Las Vegas. I will spare you the details; I glanced at twenty-three of them before I had to change the page.

The news reporters had this to say:

Shying away from that truth has only helped perpetuate a status quo in which many people have decided there’s nothing we can do to limit either the scope or the frequency of these tragedies. If that’s the path we continue to take, we should at least be willing to face up to the raw brutality of the incidents that we have accepted as an unavoidable feature of American life.[1]

Violence is real. Jesus died in an act of violence. And in light of the resurrection, the church had to think about the violence. First Peter is one response, a partial response, to some of the first century thinking about the violent death of Jesus. Perhaps it’s best focused by the second comment of the little boy who went into the church for the first time: “What did he do wrong?”

The answer – you know the answer – is Jesus did nothing wrong. In fact, he suffered because he did everything right. He came with healing in his touch and was confronted by illness of body and spirit. He came speaking peace on his tongue and was met with hatred. He came with kindness in his heart and was subjected to cruelty. He came with forgiveness in his spirit and was attacked by evil. He acted graciously, in accordance with the grace of God, and that is what got him killed.

Welcome to a world that rejects the God who made the world and loves. That’s one good reason why Jesus is on the cross.   

In chapter three of Peter’s first letter, we hear that, just because we belong to God in Christ, it doesn’t mean we are exempt from the same things that happened to Christ. In fact, we should not be surprised if the world that rejected Jesus should also reject us. We should expect the world to slap us because it slapped Jesus first.

Peter sprinkles the passage with one-liners of encouragement:

·         If you suffer for doing what it right, you are blessed

·         Do not fear what the world fears, and do not be intimidated

·         Give an account of the hope that is in your heart

·         Keep a clear conscience, so when you’re maligned, your abusers will be shamed

·         If, by God’s will, you suffer for doing good, that is far better than suffering for doing evil.

Above all, says the writer, remember Jesus. Look to Jesus. He did nothing wrong – the righteous man was killed by the unrighteous, which is to say Jesus suffered because of our sins. What did in Jesus? All the murderous tendencies of the world. For centuries, God tried to steer us, correct us, teach us, coach us – and it didn’t do any good. That’s why Jesus died.

Peter says, “If the world is beating you up for being a Christian, remember the world first beat up your Christ.” And if you are having a really bad day, remember Jesus had a really Bad Friday.

I think it’s helpful to remember how nasty the world can be. Certainly, we are capable of making our own messes – that’s for sure. Left to our own devices, it’s amazing how much trouble we can find. One thing about being in the suburbs, we are so sneaky about it. There’s a lot more money, influence, and weight to throw around. And none of it makes anybody’s life any better. We just think it does, and that is part of sin’s delusion.

And if you try to live a good life, the world will come back swinging. No good deed goes unpunished. Simply know this in advance, says Peter. Remember how the world treated Jesus.

But let’s keep thinking on Jesus. He comes to earth, and that means he is vulnerable: subject to limitations of time, restricted to wherever he happens to be, limited in his power to how he is received by others. For God to come to Earth in Jesus means that God chose to be vulnerable.

Do we realize what this means? In choosing to be vulnerable, to be completely with us in every way, God chooses to accept and receive us as we are. If we are savage and violent, God decides the abysmal quality of our character is not a deal-breaker for his relationship to us. If we are weak and broken-hearted, God comes alongside us to share and what it means to be human. If we are indifferent, God is still there, waiting us out.

I think this is why Peter can say, “Christ died in order to bring us to God.” Jesus brings us alongside God in every way. That is good news and it resonates most deeply with those who have a pack of troubles of their own. Nothing will separate them from God anymore, not their sin, not their weakness, not their pain and grief.

Where there was division, there is union. Where there was estrangement, there is forgiveness. Where our spirits are fractured, and our bones broken, there is healing. The promise of the Gospel is that Jesus brings us to God.

For here is the thing to remember: his death counted for something. Not only his good life, but his good death. Something happened in the heart of God when Jesus was crucified. Peter does not spell out. He hints at it in a few ways – the righteous died for the unrighteous, Jesus suffered once for all. Somehow the brutal violence of the cross cancelled the power of violence. God decides to cancel the punishment we deserve, decides to release it, forgive it, let it go. He looks at the perfect, sinless Christ and how he is rejected. Then God says, “That’s it. I’ve had it. No more am I going to allow human sin affect my love for my own world!”

That’s the miracle of the Gospel. Somewhere in the heart of God, sin is cancelled. Forgiveness is declared. God declares a definitive word on the world’s abuse – the cross of Jesus is to be the conclusion of it all. Cancelled, forgiven, reconciled - period. It is finished.

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

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[1] Read the horrible report at http://bit.ly/2o7VulX