When Heaven Was Shaken

Luke 21:25-36
Advent 1
November 28, 2021

“There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on the earth distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves. People will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world, for the powers of the heavens will be shaken. Then they will see ‘the Son of Man coming in a cloud’ with power and great glory. Now when these things begin to take place, stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near.”

Then he told them a parable: “Look at the fig tree and all the trees; as soon as they sprout leaves you can see for yourselves and know that summer is already near. So also, when you see these things taking place, you know that the kingdom of God is near. Truly I tell you, this generation will not pass away until all things have taken place. Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away.

“Be on guard so that your hearts are not weighed down with dissipation and drunkenness and the worries of this life, and that day catch you unexpectedly, like a trap. For it will come upon all who live on the face of the whole earth. Be alert at all times, praying that you may have the strength to escape all these things that will take place, and to stand before the Son of Man.”


The pumpkin pie is barely cold, and Jesus speaks of the end of the world. Once again, the calendars collide.

I hope you had a good Thanksgiving. On the cusp of winter, we pause and give thanks for all the blessings received from the hand of God. The past year had its challenges, but we have gotten through it. So we gathered at abundant tables, sliced up the feast, and celebrated all the goodness we have tasted. The main course for the meal is gratitude: gratitude for a generous God, a saving God, a most gracious God.

And yet, Jesus says, “Keep your eye on the sky. The end is near.”

It’s a hard Sunday to preach. If I had my druthers, we’d have another slice of pie and sing a few more verses of “Now Thank We All Our God.” Gratitude is a virtue, the well-spring of love and generosity. We love and give because God has loved and provided for us. One Thursday a year is a good beginning for counting our many blessings - family, friends, meaningful work, warm home, reliable resources, and so much more.

Gratitude looks backward. We survey what we’ve received. We give thanks for what we’ve experienced.

And yet, the Voice of Advent interrupts and points us to the sky ahead. “Signs in sun and moon and stars… the heavens will be shaken.” Friday night, heaven shook a bit when we returned my mother to her home. The snow dust came tumbling down. It’s a sign of things to come.

Beyond the return of snow, there are perpetual signs of trouble. Jesus assumes we will always endure “distress among the nations,” that the sea will roar, and people will be afraid. Distress is what drives the daily news. There’s always something to panic about. The Lord is not surprised by that. In his own day, there were earthquakes, famines, and the occasional deadly pestilence. Nations were always clashing their swords against one another.

And in his Advent Voice, Jesus declares the day is coming when all of that will be over. No more swords, no more danger, no more violence. He speaks with the Old Testament prophets, pointing ahead to an event they called “The Day of the Lord.” They were convinced that human history is going somewhere. The seasons may cycle around, the years may slumber on, but one day it will no longer be the same old thing. The hidden Dominion of peace and justice that Christ came to inaugurate will be revealed. All shall see it. It will be obvious and all-encompassing. In the words of the prophet Isaiah, “All flesh shall see the glory of God.” Or as the Lord himself quotes the prophet Daniel, “They shall see the Son of Man coming in power and great glory.” It’s going to be big.

The problem, which Jesus highlights so clearly in our text, is that too many of those covered with flesh have stopped hoping, or working, or preparing the way for the Son of Man to come.

I was telling a couple of my Bible study groups the same old joke that I’m fond of telling every time Advent rolls around. If you’ve heard it, just nod your heads and groan. It’s a joke drawn from the days when the Pope of Rome was Italian, not an Argentinian.

It seems one day in the Vatican, somebody looked out the window. He gasped, called out, and pointed. Everybody in the office gathered around to see Jesus was drawing near on the clouds. It was the big day, the Promised Day, the Day of the Lord. One of the archbishops said, “Get the Pope. Bring him here.”

The Pope arrived, looked outside. Indeed, it was a most glorious sight. He said, “It’s the Lord, coming just as he promised.” And one of them said, “Holy Father, what should we do?” And the Pope said, “Look-a busy!”

Martin Luther would have smiled at that. He famously exclaimed, “When the Lord returns, may he find me at my plow, working in the fields.” In other words, not standing around or twiddling the thumbs or wearing a white robe of celibacy – but at work, tending to the daily chores, anticipating his return by doing what normally needs to get done.

What’s curious in today’s text is neither the Pope’s advice, nor Luther’s retort, seems to have characterized the believers in Luke’s church. As Luke reports the words of Christ, they sting: “Be on guard so that your hearts are not weighed down with dissipation and drunkenness and the worries of this life…”

Now, we know what drunkenness is. What’s “dissipation”? In the Greek language, “dissipation” is another word for “hangover.” So, we wonder what was going on in Luke’s congregation: “Be on guard so that your hearts are nor weighed down with hangovers and drunkenness.” Oh my. Were they going back for refills on the communion wine? Passing around another kind of spirit? Hmm, I wonder.

Luke also reports the story of Pentecost, as told in his second volume, the Book of Acts. In that account, Simon Peter stands up to preach after the miracle of speech and understanding. He addresses the people who had gathered for the Pentecost holiday and says, “These people are not drunk as you suppose, rather they are intoxicated by the Holy Spirit.” But by all appearances, it looked otherwise.

I don't want to make too much of this. There are some churches who make a lot of noise about the consumption of alcohol. One of our choir members grew up in a Kansas City church where the pastor gave an annual temperance sermon. This was the expectation. He told me the story over a glass of wine in his home.

Other churches take a more modest approach, declaring “all things in moderation.” They point out there was wine at the last supper, and the apostle Paul advised, “A little wine is good for the stomach” (1 Tim. 5:23). But he does say, “A little wine.” In Luke’s day, it seems there were more than a few who were tipping a few too many glasses. “Dissipation” was the word he used. It was a distraction from the coming of Christ, a distraction that some had a tough time overcoming. “Be on guard,” he says. Watch out.

And then there’s that other phrase: “Be on guard that your hearts are not weighted down … with the worries of this life.” If you have worries, you might be seeking a distraction. However, if you lean back to get the full sweep of the Gospel of Luke, “worries of this life” are the distractions.

Like that day in the home of two sisters, Mary and Martha. Martha bustled around, preparing dinner, while Mary sat and listened to Jesus teach. Finally Martha built up enough steam to explode, “Teacher, don’t you care that Mary has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her to help me.”

What does he say to her? “Martha, Martha, you are distracted by the worries of this life” (10:42). Same words.

Or that other day, when he told the crowd a story: “A farmer went out to sow a field. He threw the seed all over the field … Some grew among thorns, and the thorns grew with it and choked it.” Afterward, the twelve disciples said, “Tell us what that one’s about.”

How did he explain it? “As for what fell among thorns, these are the ones who hear (my Word), but as they go on their way, they are choked by the worries and riches and pleasures of life.” (8:14). Same exact words.

I’m reminded of the blooper that somebody saw in a worship bulletin: “Don’t let worry kill you; let the church help.” Kind of a double entendre, don’t you think? It’s true – some churches will add to your worries. They pile on the fears.

But what does Jesus say? Stand tall. Lift your heads. Be on guard. Stay awake – and pray. This is his invitation to pray with our eyes open. To pay attention to the signs of the times and the distractions in our lives – and to look beyond them to the coming of the Lord. He is coming to help, to finish, and save. We will be gathered up, not left on our own.

How does he say it? “Your redemption is drawing near.” The Christ is coming. This is the hope at the heart of Advent. And it’s precious, good news.

In fact, that news is so good that, when I get home today, I’m going to have another piece of pie.

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

The Parentheses

Revelation 1:4-8
Christ the King
November 21, 2021

John to the seven churches that are in Asia: Grace to you and peace from him who is and who was and who is to come, and from the seven spirits who are before his throne, and from Jesus Christ, the faithful witness, the firstborn of the dead, and the ruler of the kings of the earth. To him who loves us and freed us from our sins by his blood, and made us to be a kingdom, priests serving his God and Father, to him be glory and dominion forever and ever. Amen. Look! He is coming with the clouds; every eye will see him, even those who pierced him; and on his account all the tribes of the earth will wail. So it is to be. Amen. “I am the Alpha and the Omega,” says the Lord God, who is and who was and who is to come, the Almighty.


I’m glad that Andy Kepler is the liturgist today. Thirteen years ago, I traveled with Andy and Donna to a Greek island named Patmos. When you get off the boat, you proceed up the mountain on a long, winding road. You will pass a few cafes, a series of whitewashed Orthodox churches, and a couple of monasteries. On the hill you find the Cave of the Apocalypse. A priest will meet you, hand you a brochure, and point you down a series of narrow steps.

You descend inside a small stone dome. The aroma of beeswax and incense mingle in the air. Icons lean against the wall. Then your eyes notice a large diagonal crack in the cave wall. According to tradition, this is where the prophet John heard the Voice of the Risen Christ. When the Lord spoke, tradition says it cracked the wall.

This was the spot where John had a series of visions that comprise the Book of Revelation. This final book of the Bible is stuffed full of fantastic visions. He can picture strange beasts and hear warnings of woe. He finds himself surrounded by the heavenly choir. They are singing Easter hymns at the top of their heavenly voices. This is a dazzling book, bewildering to many, intoxicating to others. The Book of Revelation tends to divide the Christian house – either you avoid it like one of its plagues or it’s the only thing you read.

Yet the singular message is clear: God rules over all. Jesus Christ is king.

The book was composed as a circular letter, sent to seven churches in uncertain and dangerous times. The original name of the document is the "Apocalypse," which means a disclosure. In the Bible, an apocalypse is a moment when God pulls back the curtain that hides heaven from earth. The Revelation offers glimpses of a holy reality which is normally hid from human eyes.

Today we hear a voice from heaven announcing, "I am the Alpha and the Omega." That unusual expression appears three times in the final book of the Bible. Each time the voice speaks, we learn something about God that is crucial to our faith and life.

The first insight is a simple observation about language. When God announces, "I am the Alpha and Omega," all the fraternity boys sit up straight in their pews. God connects to two letters from the Greek alphabet. In a Bible full of words, God says, “I am revealed in human alphabets.” Letters combine into words. Words are spoken. God's speech makes a world. That is how it was in the beginning, and how it shall be in God's new creation. The Creator’s primary tools are words. Whenever God speaks, something happens.

Reflecting on his life, the author Frederick Buechner affirms how the power of God creates each new day. It is a creative, holy force expressed through words. As Buechner writes,

Darkness was upon the face of the deep, and God said, "Let there be light." Darkness laps at my sleeping face like a tide, and God says, "Let there be Buechner." Why not? Out of the primeval chaos of sleep (God) calls me to be a life again . . . To wake up is to be given back your life again. To wake up is to be given back the world again and of all possible worlds this world . . . Waking into the new day, we are all of us Adam (and Eve) on the morning of creation, and the world is ours to name. Out of many fragments we are called to put back together a self again.[1]

Every morning, the word that puts us back together is the same word that spoke the world into being. If God has been around since the first day of creation, God has seen it all, heard it all, and spoken it all. God does not speak any new words.

As scholars point out, there is no new word spoken in the book of Revelation. In the 404 verses of this book, there are 518 allusions to earlier passages of scripture.[2] The prophet John points to the books of Exodus, Daniel, Zechariah, and the Psalms, among others. John does not simply string together words from other books. He points to the one Word that holds together all other words. Beginning on the first page of Genesis, God speaks a lot of words. By the time we get to the book of Revelation, only one Word captures all God has to say, and that is the Word made flesh, Jesus Christ. As one of our confessions declares, Jesus Christ is "the one Word of God which we have to hear and which we have to trust and obey in life and in death."[3]

Yet there’s something more. Alpha and Omega are more than mere letters in the alphabet; they are the first and last letters. No sooner does God say, "I am the Alpha and the Omega," then a voice in a vision goes on to say, "I am the first and the last" (Revelation 1:17, 22:13). It echoes a passage from the prophet Isaiah's poetry where God says, "I am the first and the last" (Isaiah 44:6). The point is simply this: God alone speaks the first and last words on human life. No other person, power, or principality can say what God alone can say.

We are created by the Word of God and re-created each day. And the Word claims us as well. I think of that every time we stand over there at the baptismal font. If baptism is merely water, it’s an excellent bath. That’s why somebody once told me to splash a lot of water – it is a symbol of the washing away of sin.

But words surround the washing. Remember some of them? Turn from the ways of sin, turn to God. Who is your Lord and Savior? Will you be his disciple? Will you hold these promises in covenantal trust until the little shaver can confirm them at his confirmation? At the heart of the paragraphs and promises, what does it all mean? That we belong to God. No matter what happens, no matter how far we wander, no matter who we discover ourselves to me – before everything else, after everything else, God is our Sovereign Lord.

His sovereignty rules over all tenses – past, present, future. Or rather, “who is, who was, who is to come” - present, past, and future. God will say it a second time, "I am the Alpha and the Omega, the first and the last" (Revelation 22:13). The faithful church lives in this promise. While Revelation is full of unsettling visions and disturbing pictures, the first word is identical to the last word. The beginning and the end are the same.

As the writer addresses this book to the church, he greets them by saying, "Grace to you, and peace from him who is, and who was, and who is to come" (Revelation 1:4). As the book ends, the last words are, "The grace of the Lord Jesus be with all the saints." In between there is much in this book that unsettles a sensitive stomach. But the first word and the last word are the same . . . and the word is grace. It is a word that God alone can say.

Like all the words God speaks, grace is the word that describes how God is relentlessly inclined in our favor. According to our text, Jesus is the "faithful witness" who points to the truth of God's love. He is "the firstborn of the dead," who opens the way of resurrection. Jesus is ruler over the earth's royalty, exalted as King of kings and Lord of lords. He is "the One who loves us," and "the One who sets us free by his blood." He is coming so that every eye will see him.

And the work of grace is not finished yet. We live in a world enchanted by its own destruction. Yet for a few moments this morning the curtain is drawn back, and we catch a glimpse of how God pursues us through the love of Jesus Christ. Thanks to such grace, we belong to a God who has set us free and will never let us go.

Yet one thing more must be said. God speaks the first word, "I am the Alpha and the Omega," and promises to make all things new. God alone speaks the last word, which is a surprisingly gracious word. The third time God says, "I am the Alpha and the Omega," he affirms, "I am the beginning and the end" (Revelation 22:13, 21:6). This is our greatest hope: that God will be both our source and our destination. Through the grace of Christ our king, we trust the God who gave us birth will complete and finish our lives.

Daily crises can blur our vision. When caught up in illness or trouble, we may forget the One who made us. When a kid gets arrested for shooting a military-grade rifle, we wonder, "What's this world coming to?" Listen: every day is full of enough hassles and horrors to shake up the strongest soul. Each one of us needs a place to stand and a promise to hold.

Some days all we can do is hang on by our fingernails, and trust the One "who is, who was, who is to come." We hope for God and remember God. We remember God's saving history and hope for God's final victory. As one of the great hymns of the church sings the essence of faith,

Through many dangers, toils, and snares, I have already come;
'Tis grace has led me safe thus far, and grace will lead me home.

I remember the story of Joachim Jeremias, the German New Testament scholar of the last century. He was the son of a Lutheran missionary in Jerusalem. Hitler came to power, and the relationship between the German people and the Jewish people became hostile and painful. After the Holocaust, Jeremias wished to return to Israel. He wanted to see if anybody remembered him as a young person, and could say to him, "Joachim, we forgive you."

He said, "I knocked on door after door. I couldn't find anybody. Finally a man opened the door. I remembered him, he remembered me. The man said, "Please come in. It is good are here. We are celebrating the feast of tabernacles. Come into our back yard."

The family had erected a tabernacle of brush. The family tradition was to enter through a small door and recount the stories of Israel's life in the wilderness. Professor Jeremias noticed a little piece of paper clipped to one side of the doorway, and another piece of paper clipped to the other side. Jeremias asked his host, "What is written on the papers?"

The man sighed and said, "That is a summary of Psalm 139: 'Where can I go from your spirit? Or where can I flee from your presence? If I ascend to heaven, you are there; if I make my bed in Sheol, you are there. If I take the wings of the morning and settle at the farthest limits of the sea, even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me fast'" (139:7-10).

Jeremias said, "I’m not following you." The man said, "Well, that word on the left is 'from God.' This word on the right is 'to God.' In between, we live from God . . . to God."[4]

This is the parentheses around my life and your life. We live "from God to God." Our destination is to return to our Source. We will return to the God from whom all things were made. In between, we have a promise to claim. We belong to God, the Alpha and the Omega, the first and the last, the beginning and the end.

And before the beginning, after the ending, and all the time between, Jesus Christ rules over all.


(c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved.
//
[1] Frederick Buechner, The Alphabet of Grace (New York: The Seabury Press, 1970) 21-22.
[2] Eugene H. Peterson, Reversed Thunder: The Revelation of John and the Praying Imagination (San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1988) 22-23.
[3] Barmen Confession
[4] Thanks to Fred B. Craddock for the story.

Generous to a Fault?

Mark 12:38-44
November 7, 2021

William G. Carter  

As he taught, he said, “Beware of the scribes, who like to walk around in long robes, and to be greeted with respect in the marketplaces, and to have the best seats in the synagogues and places of honor at banquets! They devour widows’ houses and for the sake of appearance say long prayers. They will receive the greater condemnation.”

He sat down opposite the treasury and watched the crowd putting money into the treasury. Many rich people put in large sums. A poor widow came and put in two small copper coins, which are worth a penny. Then he called his disciples and said to them, “Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury. For all of them have contributed out of their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on.”


It's a story we can remember or imagine. Everyone gathers for the birthday party. As the family sings, the little boy leans forward. He blows out five candles on the cake. Everybody cheers. Then a mountain of gifts appears, and the little guy’s eyes open wide. As he rips into the wrapping paper, Grandma realizes most of the packages have come from a single source – from Aunt Kathy. “Kathy,” she whispers later, “you spent too much.”

Or it’s Christmas week, and the new fiancée has arrived at the future in laws. He cuddles by the fire with his beloved. Enjoys the conversation with her family. When it’s his turn, he opens a package to discover a sweater and tries it on. It’s a perfect fit. Then he says, “Here’s a little something for you,” as the rest of her family smiles. She opens a small package and pulls out a key ring. He points and says, “Look out there!” It’s a brand-new Mustang, candy apple red.

As everybody drops their jaws, she says to him, “You shouldn’t have.” He begins to reply, and she cuts him off. “No, really, you shouldn’t have. It’s too much.”

Sometimes generosity might seem to go too far. A gift can exceed the situation. If it’s a moment when we are trading gifts, there’s always someone who exceeds the limit. (I’m thinking of one of my family members; it’s not her.) But somebody does this. Maybe it’s you. And we need not diagnose this psychologically. True giving is not always a power trip, much less a competitive game. No, it’s an expression of the heart.

I found this. I thought of you. I made a sacrifice because I wanted to.

And if the gift is extraordinary, a person’s character is revealed in how they receive or reject the gift.

Of all the low points of my moral life, the lowest came on my 23rd birthday. My college girlfriend showed up at the graduate school I was attending. She extended her arms with a package, to which I said something stupid: “Oh, is that for me?” She rolled her eyes, waited for me to take it. Pulling off the paper, I was stunned to discover a sound system for my car. I listen to a lot of music in the car. She knew that, wanted me to have it.

And I confess to you, I was angry. “You spent too much. You can’t afford this. What are you thinking? Take it back. I can’t accept this.” She started to cry. I didn’t know she had been saving for it, that she took on an extra part-time job to pay for it. In my arrogance, in my inability to see the depth of her sacrifice, I demolished her heart. It was a frosty night. Bitterly cold.

All this bears on how I hear the story of the widow who donates her last two coins to the Jerusalem Temple. It is an astonishing gift. Quantitatively, not much money. Two lepta – two copper coins – barely enough to buy bread. But qualitatively, it’s a fortune. And it’s an act of faith. She will have to trust God to deliver the next meal. Or rely on the mercy of strangers. Yet she gives it. She gives it all.

And Jesus says, “Look at that!” That's all he says - "Look at that!"

Notice what he doesn’t do. He doesn’t go over there and scold her. No, he perceives that selfless generosity is her motivation. She opens herself to great vulnerability. She gives herself away. He understands that, especially a couple of days before his own crucifixion. He’s going to give himself away, too, in an enormously powerful act of vulnerability. He respects what she is doing. Her self-giving resonates with his divine heart.

Notice that he doesn’t go over there and reward her, either. These days, when people hit us up for donations, they often offer something in return. Then we get the little slip declaring the subtracted value of the gift. It misses the point – if you’re giving, you’re giving, not getting.

Like my friends who run an arts center up in the hills. They do a $10,000 raffle. Tickets are a hundred bucks, and they sell only five hundred of them. “You could win the top ten-thousand-dollar prize!” It appeals to our greed, which has a way of canceling any feelings of generosity. So I put a hundred dollars in an envelope and send it to them anonymously, because I want them to have the money. I don’t need to “get” anything in return. I believe in what they’re doing. I want them to succeed.

So this story of the woman who gives it all is handled with restraint. Jesus honors her, without ever getting her name and recording it for future generations of stewardship sermons. And the fact that he honors her is something his own disciples won’t understand.

According to Mark’s Gospel, in a matter of hours, Jesus and the twelve will eating at a house up the hill in Bethany. And another woman will appear, break open a jar of expensive perfumed oil, and pour it on his forehead. It’s expensive. It costs about ten months’ wages – just calculate that. And the twelve men explode! “Why is she wasting this? Why is she releasing it into the air? Why didn’t she sell it and feed the poor?”

Jesus says, “Leave her alone. Get off her case. She has done a beautiful thing.” They don’t get it. That’s because the men in the Gospel of Mark usually don’t understand – but the women do. The women give of themselves generously, without fear or calculation. They give because giving is one of the holiest things we can do.

Ever think about that? We open our hands and we let it go. We offer our very living without any desire to manipulate or control. We give because we were created to give, not to keep. We give because we love. We give because we hope. We give because we are free.

It is an extraordinary story. There is no moral to the story, but there is an example: this selfless woman. And in the example is the invitation: we can be like her. In our generosity, we can be like Jesus.

It’s the story that gathers us around this Table, where we learn through broken bread and blood-red wine that Jesus has given everything to ransom us from the powers of evil. That’s how this Gospel describes what he has done (10:45). He has given his life to set us free. He has totally set us free.

What an extraordinary gift! What are you going to do with it?

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

The Question That Keeps Coming Up

Mark 12:28-34
October 31, 2021

This fall, we have traveled in the company of the twelve disciples. They have been taught one lesson after another, lessons that we have overheard as we reflect on what kind of Christians we will be. They have been moving toward Jerusalem, and now they are there. So we listen in again:

One of the scribes came near and heard them disputing with one another, and seeing that he answered them well, he asked him, “Which commandment is the first of all?” Jesus answered, “The first is, ‘Hear, O Israel: the Lord our God, the Lord is one; you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind, and with all your strength.’ The second is this, ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ There is no other commandment greater than these.”

Then the scribe said to him, “You are right, Teacher; you have truly said that ‘he is one, and besides him there is no other’; and ‘to love him with all the heart, and with all the understanding, and with all the strength,’ and ‘to love one’s neighbor as oneself,’ —this is much more important than all whole burnt offerings and sacrifices.” When Jesus saw that he answered wisely, he said to him, “You are not far from the kingdom of God.” After that no one dared to ask him any question.


The scribe asked a single question. "Which is the first commandment? The number one spiritual obligation?" Jesus gives two answers, "Love God. Love people."

Mark says his response shut down the interrogation. Nobody dared ask him any more questions. Who can blame them? Jesus gave an irrefutable answer. What is the summary of our religion? What comes first?

Jesus says, “Love God.” Love the Lord with everything you are and all that you have. And without so much as taking a breath, he tags on a second commandment, from Leviticus 19, “You shall love the neighbor as much as you love yourself.” It is a stunning answer and cannot be argued against.

Those who teach the faith will sub-divide the Ten Commandments this way. The first four commandments are about loving God: no other gods, no attempts to capture God in an image, no misuse of God’s name, remember your creation and redemption by saving a complete day for God every week. Love God!

The remaining six commandments constitute loving the neighbor. Honor your parents, for they are your closest neighbors. Don’t take your neighbor’s life, don’t take your neighbor’s spouse, don’t take your neighbor’s stuff. Don’t lie or distort the truth about your neighbor. Don’t desire anything your neighbor possesses.

There it is: love God, love your neighbor. As the scribe babbles back in astonishment, if we keep these, our lives will be greater than trying to earn our way into God’s good graces by lighting a candle, sacrificing a sheep, smoking up some incense, writing a check, or sitting in a long meeting. God looks upon the heart, the soul, the mind, the strength. What God is looking for is any evidence of love, extended simultaneously in two directions: love returned to God, who is the source of love, the essence of love; and love extended to the neighbor.

The scribe who intended to interrogate Jesus said, “You are right, Teacher.” And then Jesus said something a bit quizzical, “You’re not far from the kingdom of God.”

I have always pictured him saying that with a smirk on his face. “You’re not far.” How are is ‘not far’? Would the scribe be a little bit closer if he hadn’t tried to pile on with the Pharisees, Sadducees, Herodians, and all the other opponents who pounced on Jesus during that final week in Jerusalem? Would he have been closer to the kingdom if he weren’t a scribe?

After all, immediately following this account, Jesus poked fun at the scribes and the flattened way they interpreted the scriptures. Mark says the crowd loved it. Then he warned about the scribes, “They prance around line long robes, claim good seats at banquets, and then fleece the widow’s estates.” As they practiced faith, there was not much love of neighbor, and more love for themselves than for God.

The lesson is it’s possible to quote the Bible, then get it wrong. You can agree, “Love God, love neighbor,” and never actually love anybody. You can be a professional religious dignitary who understands that love draws us closer to God and God’s rule over our lives. Yet in your life, something else takes precedence.

The Gospel of Mark highlights the inconsistency. Flip a couple pages forward, and we see the scribes in the inner sanctum of religious professionals when Jesus is arrested and condemned (15:1). The scribes stand in the mob that hand over Jesus to Pontius Pilate. The scribes stand among those who mock the Christ when he is on the cross (15:31). It’s one thing to know God teaches us to love; it’s another thing to love.

The distance between is “not far.”

To focus the question for us: whom do you love – and whom do you find difficult to love? Loving God may sound difficult because, at least on the surface, nobody can see God. Through the ages, some people have heard God speak. They have written down what they’ve heard in the Bible. If they keep the teaching, it is a way to love the Lord. If they show up regularly in the places where God continues to speak, it is another way to love the Lord.

But I remember a lady with purple eyes. When I was a kid, they looked purple to me. She could comprehend what God is all about. See an acorn, she said, “God is making another tree.” If you were feeling down, she would slide over by you, put her arm around you, and say, “God is with us.” In church, if she knew the hymn, she would lose herself in singing. She emptied her whole soul to the God she could not see.

That’s when I ever understood we can love the God who stays out of sight. We can give ourselves to God and God’s purposes. If we can do this, we are close to the kingdom.

And you would think it’s so much easier to love one another, whom we can see. Right? Here they are, standing in front of us, available for us to love. That’s easy, right? It’s not easy at all. People have warts, and opinions, and differences. They say things that disturb us. They toss over the things that we treasure.

And should we think for a minute that it’s easier to love the God we cannot see than to love the person we can see, we have the reformer Dorothy Day who held both together. She said, “I really only love God as much as I love the person I love the least.”

One of the clearest examples emerged after the horrific shooting of the Tree of Life synagogue in Pittsburgh three years ago. They wheeled the gunman into Allegheny General Hospital. He had been wounded in the gun fight after the massacre. When they brought him in, he was still yelling anti-Semitic curses. Then a man in a white coat approached him and said, “I’m Dr. Jeffrey Cohen. I’m here to take care of you.” He was president of the hospital.

As Dr. Cohen later explained, “We are here to take care of sick people. We’re not here to judge. We’re not here to ask, ‘Do you have insurance?’ We’re here to take care of people who need our help.” As someone noted, “It is a stark reminder that there is something more powerful than caring for one’s own.” It was a radical demonstration of humanity.

A person of insatiable curiosity, the doctor took a special interest in the shooter, a 46-year-old high school dropout who had few friends. He perceived someone incapable of generating his own hate and so absorbing it from others. Without dismissing what the gunman did, Dr. Cohen said, “He’s just a guy. He’s not the face of evil. Once he was a child and people looked at him with all the hope in the world. Now, he’s someone all alone and all he hears is the noise in his head all the time.”

An FBI agent watched how Dr. Cohen greeted the gunman, how he sat down next to him, how he talked to him and tried to understand him, and then how he handed him off to the medical team to dress his wounds. The agent said, “I don’t think I could have done what you just did.” Dr. Cohen nodded in understanding; and he did it anyway.[1]

And where did Dr. Cohen learn this? At the Tree of Life synagogue where he is a member. He lives across the street from the sanctuary, in the same neighborhood where Mister Rogers once lived. When he heard the gunfire from his house, he left immediately for the hospital, knowing someone needed help.

You shall love God with heart, soul, mind, and surgery. You shall love the neighbor, made in God’s image. If we do not love, as Cohen loves, as Christ loves, we remain captives to the power of death.

Where do we learn this? In the church, just like the synagogue. I don’t know anywhere else where the lesson is being taught. There is so much noise in the air. People demanding to be heard above everybody else. So many voices that are arrogant, boastful, arrogant, and rude, insisting on their own way, rejoicing in wrongdoing. The choice we face is love or death, exemplified in Jesus, who learned it from Moses.

This is why the church is so important. Here is where we are taught to love God and love one another. And not merely as a concept or an idea – but as a live-giving, life-saving practice. If we don’t give ourselves to Someone or Something greater than ourselves, life grows cold, love grows stingy. We fall into isolation, never tasting joy, drifting without purpose, cut off from the very gifts that God provides for our well-being.

One of my spiritual teachers is a short nun, advanced in years. The great teachers can say it with simplicity, and she says, “True spirituality is always directed toward somebody else.” The choices are simple, too. You can direct it toward God or direct it toward neighbor, but it is always expressed in acts of love.

So hear again, O Israel, the central invitation of the faith we share: You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your soul, all your mind, and all your strength; and you shall love your neighbor as yourself. There is not greater word than this.

And for all who love, you’re not far from the kingdom. In fact, you’re very close.


(c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved.
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[1] Eli Rosenberg, “I’m Doctor Cohen,” Washington Post, October 30, 2018. https://wapo.st/2EU31zP

Sometimes We See

Mark 10:46-52
October 24, 2021

William G. Carter  

They came to Jericho. As he and his disciples and a large crowd were leaving Jericho, Bartimaeus son of Timaeus, a blind beggar, was sitting by the roadside. When he heard that it was Jesus of Nazareth, he began to shout out and say, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!” Many sternly ordered him to be quiet, but he cried out even more loudly, “Son of David, have mercy on me!” Jesus stood still and said, “Call him here.” And they called the blind man, saying to him, “Take heart; get up, he is calling you.” So throwing off his cloak, he sprang up and came to Jesus. Then Jesus said to him, “What do you want me to do for you?” The blind man said to him, “My teacher, let me see again.” Jesus said to him, “Go; your faith has made you well.” Immediately he regained his sight and followed him on the way.


One of the ways for us to understand Jesus is remember how that Mark understands him. In this Gospel, Jesus is a healer who restored human life to its original shape.

• A man who was banished because of a skin disease is healed and restored to the community (1:42).
• The woman who bled so much she was considered perpetually unclean is healed and restored to her family (5:34).
• The young man who was driven out of his skull by voices he could not control is now seated, dressed, and in his right mind. (5:15)

This is the work of God through Jesus. He heals. He restores. And in this work, he embodies an ancient poem of the prophet Isaiah.

Strengthen the weak hands, make firm the feeble knees.
Say to those who are of a fearful heart, “Be strong, do not fear!
Here is your God … he will come and save you.
Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and ears of the deaf unstopped.
Then the lame shall leap like a deer, and the tongue of the speechless sing for joy. (35:3-6)

Sounds like the script of the Gospel of Mark. That man who couldn’t speak now speaks. The one who couldn’t walk jumped up from his sickbed. The one who could not hear is opened up. And today, the sightless man can now see.

He has a name: Bartimaeus. He has a place: on the road leading out of Jericho. He has become a fixture there, spreading out his cloak to collect the coins of those who take pity on him. Sitting in the dust in a high traffic area, somehow robbed of sight, everybody knew who he was. By the sound of it, if he discovered who you were, Bartimaeus was a relentless beggar.

At least, that’s how he gets the attention of the Messiah. “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me! Jesus, Son of David, over here. I’m over here. Have mercy on me. Son of David, I’m talking to you. I’m right here. Have mercy on me.” And Jesus, true to form, invites him forward and gives him sight.

Twice there is a hint that is an act of restoration. Bartimaeus doesn’t only ask for sight. He says, “Give me my sight again.” When Jesus makes that happen, Mark says, “He regained his sight.” Not only did he get it; he got it back.

A good friend was nervous before cataract surgery. I said, “I’m sure it’s going to be fine.” “Maybe so,” she replied, “but I hope nothing goes wrong. I don’t like anybody messing with my eyes.” A week later, here he comes, an aura of brightness around her. I didn’t need to ask how it went. She told me, “I had no idea how much I was missing.” There’s a grateful woman. She decided to celebrate by driving to the library to check out a few books. In regular print, too!

At the humanitarian level, what Jesus did for Bartimaeus was a gift. Pure gift. In the words of the favorite hymn, “Was blind, but now I see.” But this is the Gospel of Mark. The more we look at this story, the more we begin to perceive.

Here’s something to notice: the man takes the initiative to be healed. He is not passive. He does not sit and wait. He is not content to beg. When he hears that the One Person who can do something for him is available, he calls out. Does what he can to get his attention. Raises his voice. And he makes a specific request: give me my sight back.

For the Gospel of Mark, the man shows more than chutzpah. He professes his faith. And it’s more than merely calling out, “Jesus, Jesus, Son of David.” It’s putting the request right there and trusting it will be met. Bartimaeus turns to Jesus who can heal – and he participates in his own healing.

How different this is, say, than the pew sitters in the synagogue at Nazareth. Jesus went back there, to his hometown, to preach and teach. It seems the press releases were more impressive than the results. The people yawned, and said, “He was supposed to be something special. But we know who this is – it’s Mary’s kid, the carpenter. His brothers and sisters are our neighbors. Big deal.”

And the Gospel says, “He could not do a single deed of power there. He was stunned at their unbelief.” By contrast, Bartimaeus says, “I want your help, Jesus. I want to get healed.” That’s what did the trick – he believed.

Here’s a second thing to see: there is more going on than eyesight. When Jesus calls him forward, he throws off his cloak. That is, he leaves behind the money that people have tossed to him out of pity. He leaves behind the money – and his one possession, his cloak. How different that is from the rich man who knelt before Jesus to ask, “What must I do to gain eternal life?” He could not leave behind his money, or his many possessions. But Bartimaeus could.

In the same way, Jesus asked him, “What do you want me to do for you?” It’s the same exact question he asked in the story we heard last week, which is immediately before this one. He said to James and John, “What do you want me to do for you?” Remember what they said? They wanted status. Bartimaeus wants vision. His request is honored. Theirs is not. Because there is a world of difference between those two requests.

Bartimaeus is willing to give up everything to see. He doesn’t care about the financial gain. He doesn’t care about exaltation, self-promotion, and getting his name tweeted ten million times. What he wants is infinitely greater: vision, depth perception, the ability to perceive color, and absolute, complete clarity. No visual distractions for him. No optical illusions. To see is so much more than merely looking.

One more thing to watch for: vision comes with a cost. When we see clearly, we must do something with what we’ve seen. Sight is the invitation to engage. When Bartimaeus gets his vision back, he sees Jesus – and he “followed him on the way.” In the Gospel of Mark, that’s code language for the road to the cross, the highway of self-sacrifice. He sees Jesus, he sees what lies ahead if he follows Jesus, and he sees the mission that the Christ has come to inaugurate. He chooses to engage.

It is a remarkable move. In my experience, it’s rare. Bartimaeus moves from beggar to disciple. He never steps off to the side to watch.

It’s like that silly old joke I remember from childhood. Somebody asked the comedian Flip Wilson about his religion. “Oh, haven’t you heard?” He said, “I’m a Jehovah’s Bystander.” A what? Never heard of that. To which Wilson replied, “They asked me to be a Witness, but I didn’t want to get involved.”

You know, it’s quite easy to watch and not see. We watch the neighbors on our streets, but do we know their names? We observe the person at the store, struggling to reach something on the top shelf, but do we ever ask if we can help. We look at the names in the newspaper, some of them going through great trouble, but it might never occur to us to pick up the phone and ask if they are OK. It’s easier to watch than it is to see.

The sermons this fall focus on the question of what kind of Christians we are going to be – what kind of church we will be – particularly in the ongoing disruption of this pandemic. The story of Bartimaeus offers an invitation for all of us to see. To perceive and not merely observe. Should we ever pray to Christ, “Lord, let me see,” it’s kind of like praying to learn patience – these are two prayers that are always answered. If we want to learn patience, he will teach us that. And if we want to see, it could profoundly change our perception.

We’ve been blessed to have Glynis Johns to speak here a few times. A brilliant young scholar, she is the founder of the Black Scranton project. Her research into the city’s history has uncovered the rich and vital history of African Americans that has been (shall we say?) “out of sight” for too many of us. She sees so clearly that she is fearless.

Just the other day, she had the opportunity to chat with the President of the United States when he was in town. She said, “Mr. President, you’ve been telling people there were no Black folks in Scranton when you were growing up. Here, let me help expand your view.” I guess he had not seen them, just as I haven’t – and many of us have not. We cannot love as neighbor those we cannot see.

In the past couple of years, that same request, “Lord, let me see,” has become one of my prayers. And it has been a challenge, especially regarding race. Thanks to some of you, I’ve been reading a number of books on Honest American History, which I define as the kind of American history that many Americans don’t want to ‘fess up to admit. So much of the resistance is rooted in willful blindness, in deciding not to have your eyes opened. And it reinforces the lie that some people are better than others, which is simply not true.

All of us have our hurts, just as all of us have our blind spots. So if we pray like Bartimaeus, “Lord, let me see,” it challenges us to embark in unexamined territory. We will become more attentive to the real damages that we have done to one another, and others have done unto us. This is the first step to undertaking the work of healing. And I see that healing as one more dimension to the restorative work of Christ.

The good news is that the same Jesus who opened the eyes of Bartimaeus is the living Christ who offers to open ours. He is alive and very much at work. And he wishes us to be well. Trusting in him is what promises to restore the world as it was created to be. The journey begins with the simple prayer, “Lord, let me see.”


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