Staying Awake for Christmas

Romans 13:11-14
Advent 1
11/27/22
William G. Carter

Besides this, you know what time it is, how it is now the moment for you to wake from sleep. For salvation is nearer to us now than when we became believers; the night is far gone, the day is near. Let us then lay aside the works of darkness and put on the armor of light; let us live honorably as in the day, not in reveling and drunkenness, not in debauchery and licentiousness, not in quarreling and jealousy. Instead, put on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make no provision for the flesh, to gratify its desires.

Here's a moment that you might have experienced, but probably won’t admit. You’re behind the wheel of a car. It’s a dark night in late November. You have miles to go. You’ve been traveling over the river and through the woods. Or you might be headed home. But you’ve been on the road for a while. Your brain is weary. The possibility of danger is high.

At any moment Bambi and the family could wander onto the road. If the night is frosty and the pavement is damp, the next curve may reveal a patch of ice. Something behind you might distract you – the kids might be arguing. An unmapped pothole could lie waiting to bite a chunk out of your front right tire. Yet the greatest danger of all is falling asleep.

Now, you’re not going to admit that to anybody. Not here, not in church. But I will admit it to you. If the day has been long, if the soul is tired, if the eyelids are heavy, you could be in big trouble. One bob of the head could land you into a ditch. A simple lapse in vigilance might deploy an airbag. Don’t tell me if this has ever happened to you. If it’s a familiar experience, just nod your head.

On the way to-or-from Thanksgiving dinner at Grandma’s, my father tried valiantly to stay awake. It was a six-hour trip. We always arrived in one piece, so I can assume he was successful. Sometimes he nursed coffee from a stainless-steel thermos. Once he ignited a cherry-flavored cigar (which wasn’t a good idea, especially with three of four kids prone to carsickness). Mom, in the backseat, might start leading a song.

If desperate, Dad would roll down the window. The blast of frigid air shocked all of us out of slumber. Whatever it took, he pressed to keep his eyes open. He knew what could happen if he didn’t.

Now, what does all of this have to do with the first Sunday of Advent, you might ask? Everything. Saint Paul writes to the saints in Rome to say, “Keep your eyes peeled. Don’t fall asleep.” He hasn’t met those people, but by chapter thirteen they are well acquainted. He has sent them the thickest letter in the New Testament. Not only the longest, but the thickest, for Saint Paul has rolled out the entire Christian Gospel, and then some:

All have sinned and fallen off God’s wagon. We have no excuse.

For all of us sinners, Christ died to bridge the gap between us and God.

In the power of his resurrection, he has freed us from sin and death.

Nothing shall separate us from this love of God.

The entire creation of God shall be redeemed.

All we need do is trust this is true.

Now, that’s the short version of the letter to the Romans. The hidden transformation of the cosmos begins with a crucifixion and an empty tomb. God is working it out even now. The final moment is close at hand.

And today Paul adds, “Don’t miss it.” Don’t miss what God has done in Jesus. Don’t miss what God is doing in the Spirit of Jesus. And for heaven’s sake, don’t miss the moment when the whole thing is finished. He has to say this because it is possible to miss it. There is the constant temptation to “fall asleep.”

Now, he’s not talking about the “sleep” of death. Occasionally he uses that euphemism to describe what happens when people slip away for the last time. They “fall asleep” (koimao) in the Lord, and he keeps them until the great and final day of resurrection.

But that’s not the word he uses for sleep here. No, he speaks an unusual word, a subtle word.

The word is “hypnos.” Sounds like “hypnotize.” It’s the kind of sleep we can fall into with our eyes wide open.

How many times was I driving the car, and I didn’t fall asleep, I didn’t nod off, but for the life of me, I couldn’t remember the last ten miles? Do you know what I’m talking about? That’s what Saint Paul is talking about  

It’s that drowsiness of spirit, that numbness of the heart, that chilling of perception, that glancing but not paying attention. And Paul says, “Wake up!” (I’ve always wanted to say that in a sermon.) God’s activity is right at hand. Don’t miss it. Don’t nod off 

He’s speaking of a certain kind of slumber. It’s hypnotic, like losing count of road signs, or watching a silver watch swing back and forth and back and forth and back and… And he spotlights three general ways that this hypnotic slumber can overtake us: reveling and drunkenness, debauchery and licentiousness, quarreling and jealousy. (I’ve always wanted to say some of those words in a sermon, too.)

• Reveling and drunkenness – to use the Scranton euphemism, the Saint Patrick’s Day parade. Partying is just another word for over-consumption.

• Debauchery and licentiousness – I don’t have a Scranton euphemism for those, but they involve a kind of consumption as well. It’s possible to reduce another human being to something to be consumed.

• Quarreling and jealousy – no euphemism necessary. Just imagine a family Thanksgiving dinner conversation that goes off the rails. What’s the worst that can happen. Simply this: loved ones can consume one another.

These are nighttime activities, says the apostle, dangers that frequently happen after dark. If we are not careful, if we don’t use some restraint, if we don’t train ourselves to hold back, our natural impulses can take over. We consume – and end up consumed by our consumption.

Please note: Paul is not wagging his finger but offering a warning. And he’s giving his advice to Christian people, to those who know Jesus is alive – yet live in a world hellbent on gobbling up everything and everybody in sight.

The context of his words intrigues me. How many good Christian people have already overspent for Christmas?

It’s so easy to do. Point and click; you don’t even feel the pain. And speaking of overconsumption, I’ve just had two enormous family meals in the past three days. It’s good to be thankful – but gratitude came awfully close to gluttony. No wonder I’ve been terribly sleepy since Thursday afternoon.

Sometimes it’s hard to keep a clear-eyed view on what to do and how to live in a world like this. I think of all the movies that entertained us while pushing the limits. Some of you are old enough to remember Days of Wine and Roses or The Graduate. I asked my kids. They chuckled and said The Hangover. As for me and my generation, we bought tickets to see Animal House and watched it more than once.

We live in a culture that lacks restraint. And to be fair, it’s always been that way – and always will be. It was certainly that way in the Roman Empire of the apostle Paul. So he says, “Stay awake.” Don’t grouse or give in. Don’t boycott or sneak in the side door. No, here’s what you do: keep your eyes open.

Open for what? Open to God’s continuing work to forgive and not destroy, to love and not quarrel, to honor and not demean, to live without embarrassment as if you are standing in bright sunshine and not the shadows of night. Paul says to the Christian people, “You belong to the daylight, not the darkness. Live with honor.” This is how we stay awake. This is how we watch for God’s redemption of a hungry, overconsuming world.

I have a dear friend who took a fulltime teaching job at a Presbyterian seminary a few years ago. At the HR office, she was given a stack of paperwork to sign. There was the salary contact, a personnel policy, parking pass, and assorted agreements. Then they gave her one more piece of paper: the comportment policy. Know what that is? It was an agreement to live your life in such a way that it never becomes a scandal for the school where she would teach. They don’t want to see your name in the police blotter, nor hear it whispered in the rumor mill. 

I said, “I’ve never heard of such a thing. What’s that all about?” She said, “My supervisor never wants to see behavior from me that distracts our school from its mission.” The littlest incident can have enormous consequences. And it could become a distraction, originating from a subtle form of hypnosis, which becomes a falling asleep.

It gave me something to think about that, considering the advice offered by the apostle Paul. How can we live in ways that honor the Lord our God? How can we honor the people around us, refusing to demean or dismiss them? How can we show enough restraint to keep from embarrassing ourselves, always living honorably?

These are open questions with no simple answers. But they are essential questions as we begin the season of Advent. We prepare for the fullness of Light that has been ignited by the coming of Jesus Christ into our world. Though dimly seen by many, his light grows brighter. And his light will increase until it floods all the shadows. All things shall be seen for what they are.

So what I say, I say to all: stay awake.

 

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

In the Center

Colossians 1:11-20
Christ the King
November 20, 2022

Willia, G. Carter

 

May you be made strong with all the strength that comes from his glorious power, and may you be prepared to endure everything with patience, while joyfully giving thanks to the Father, who has enabled you to share in the inheritance of the saints in the light. 

 

He has rescued us from the power of darkness

and transferred us into the kingdom of his beloved Son, 

in whom we have redemption, the forgiveness of sins. 

He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation; 

for in him all things in heaven and on earth were created,

things visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or powers—

all things have been created through him and for him. 

He himself is before all things, and in him all things hold together. 

He is the head of the body, the church;

he is the beginning, the firstborn from the dead, so that he might come to have first place in everything. 

For in him all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell, 

and through him God was pleased to reconcile to himself all things,

whether on earth or in heaven, by making peace through the blood of his cross.

Today, at long last, is the day of confirmation. Six young adults will stand soon and profess their Christian faith, confirming the promises that their parents made at their baptism. I was trying to remember my confirmation class. That was a long time ago, shortly after the Ice Age thawed and the last pterodactyl took its final breath. Can anybody older than me remember what you had to learn?

My father grew up as a Methodist. I don’t know if his church ever required him to learn anything. He merely had to endure the minister. When there was a pause in the action, Dad said, “I believe,” and that was sufficient. They let him in the church, and that’s when the true learning began.

My mother was a different story. She was nurtured as a Presbyterian. Mom recalls having to memorize the Westminster Shorter Catechism, a document from 1647. The catechism is shaped by 107 questions and 107 answers. The questions are tough, and the answers are not “yes” or “no.” It was a lot to learn, and she had a tough instructor. He wouldn’t let the class fudge a single word in each prescribed answer. And when she could recite the whole thing, they let her in. 

What do I remember about my confirmation class? Not much. I remember an endless series of Saturday morning classes, perhaps two hours long. We met in a large room because there were a lot of us there. The teachers handed out textbooks to a room full of seventh graders. Then they proceeded to read the textbook to us.

Not the most engaging way to teach. Occasionally, the teachers asked us to find a Bible verse and read it. But I can’t recall if the verse was ever explained.

After long series of Saturdays, they told us we were ready. The boys were instructed to wear neckties (clip-on ties were acceptable). The girls were told to wear dresses. At the appropriate moment, we were paraded in front of the congregation. Maybe the pastor asked us some questions, just like I will ask our class in a little bit; I don’t remember. Maybe there was a prayer; I can’t recall.

What I do remember is something Gordy Christiansen said to me while we stood in line to get a piece of cake. He was an old dude, probably in his late forties. Had a twinkle in his eye, always quick with something to say. He asked me about the classes, and I don’t know what I said. He put his hand on my shoulder, looked me in the eye, and said, “Billy, if you forget everything else, don’t forget Jesus. Jesus is in the center of it all.”

All these years later, that’s the one thing I remember from my confirmation class. And it was good advice.

The apostle Paul and his young friend Timothy wrote the text for today. They sent it in a letter to a small, struggling church in a land we now call Turkey. The city of Colossae was once bright and opulent, but the years had not been kind. The economy was shaky, the smart kids had left town, and the best years of that city were behind them.

But none of that matters to Paul. He wants to confer a holy blessing. “May you be made strong,” he says. “May you be prepared to endure everything with patience,” he says. “Keep thanking God for all things,” he adds, “for God has made it possible for you to share what all the saints have shared.”

These are gracious words, words of encouragement, the kind of general words that you offer to people that you haven’t yet met. As far as we know, Paul had never been to that town, much yet to that church. So he says, “Be strong, keep enduring, be thankful,” when suddenly he starts talking about Jesus. And he says a mouthful. He doesn’t know these people – but they have Jesus in common. With this, he’s off and running.

He is the image of the invisible God.

The One through whom all things were created, the Beloved Son, the Savior who rescued us.

All of God fills all of him.

He has reconciled us to the Father, making peace through the blood of his Cross.

He is firstborn from the dead. He comes first in everything.

Now, we don’t know if he has said all these things before. There’s a good chance he is quoting an ancient hymn to Christ, something the church members would have known. Or perhaps, as somebody said in a Bible study this week, this might have been an early statement of what the Christians preached and what they believed. Like an early Apostles’ Creed. Might be, but we don’t know.

But here’s what we do know: Paul and Timothy have an enormous view of Jesus. They don’t mention that he was an itinerant teacher. They don’t allude any of the parables he taught that we’ve been studying this fall. They don’t refer to his miracles or his healings or humble birth or his mother. All they can see is his size!

The Jesus that they perceive is more than the Galilean Carpenter who cracked a few jokes and collected some fishermen who never understood what he was talking about. Oh no - they see a Lord who is working in “all things.” They may have seen him as a first-century peasant, but his resurrection has revealed how big he is. This comes up six times:  

• “all things” are created in Christ
• “all things” are created for Christ
• “all things” are created through Christ
• “all things” are created after Christ
• “all things” hold together in Christ
• “all things” are reconciled to God through Christ

To quote Gordy Christiansen, “If you forget everything else, don’t forget Jesus. Jesus is in the center of it all.” He is at the heart of everything we trust and do, the center of all that we teach and sing.

When we work for justice, it’s because it is his justice. When we feed the hungry, it’s because the hungry are his people. When we call out public lies, it’s because he is the standard of all Truth. When we confront personal grievances, it’s because his forgiveness cancels everything that would separate us from God and one another.

Jesus is not that personal good luck charm to make you happy, or that free get-out-of-jail-or-hell card that you have but others do not. He is so much greater than that. He is Lord and Savior of the totality of existence, what many have called the Cosmic Christ. He is the One “through whom all things hold together,” which means his grace is the glue of the universe. He’s that big. He stands in the center.

Now, I wonder what they thought in Colossae, that small, rusty city that received this letter. Probably the same thing they think in Clarks Summit in 2022. We think about a lot of things – the Penn State game, the oak leaves in our rain gutters, whether to put snow tires on the car, and how glad we are not to live in Buffalo.

One mother is worrying that her kid might get the answers wrong in the confirmation ceremony (the Catholics call this a sacrament, you know!). Somebody else just realized he didn’t blow out a candle before he came to church. Another person must reschedule a flight through Charlotte to visit to Dad for Thanksgiving.

Meanwhile, somebody around here may have covid and doesn’t know it yet. A Volvo has been parked in, so the owner must stick around for the confirmation reception. There’s not enough dip for the crudité tray downstairs. The Finance Committee wonders if next year’s pledges will keep us afloat. These are the things we think about.

To which Paul and Timothy declare, “Take a breath. Chill out. Hush your heart. Jesus is Lord, the Lord of all.” We are here because he has created us for himself. Everything we fuss about is held only by his grace. We are forgiven because all things are forgiven; I checked the text, and it does say, “all things.” And it’s pretty sweet to breathe and realize that we loved, and rescued, and saved, and commissioned to do good things, all because Jesus gave his life for us, and now gives his life to us. Pretty sweet, indeed.

This is what salvation feels like - and reconciliation, and redemption, and all the rest of those ten cent words. It is the deep assurance that all is well with God, so all things will be well with us. All things. All of them.

Christ Jesus stands in the center, right where he has always stood. He turns to you with shining eyes, and once again he says, “Do not be afraid, little flock, for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.” (Luke 12:32)

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

Living the Dream

Isaiah 65:17-25
November 13, 2022

23rd Sunday of Pentecost.

For I am about to create new heavens and a new earth; the former things shall not be remembered or come to mind. But be glad and rejoice forever in what I am creating; for I am about to create Jerusalem as a joy, and its people as a delight. I will rejoice in Jerusalem, and delight in my people; no more shall the sound of weeping be heard in it, or the cry of distress. No more shall there be in it an infant that lives but a few days, or an old person who does not live out a lifetime; for one who dies at a hundred years will be considered a youth, and one who falls short of a hundred will be considered accursed. They shall build houses and inhabit them; they shall plant vineyards and eat their fruit. They shall not build and another inhabit; they shall not plant and another eat; for like the days of a tree shall the days of my people be, and my chosen shall long enjoy the work of their hands. They shall not labor in vain, or bear children for calamity; for they shall be offspring blessed by the Lord— and their descendants as well. Before they call I will answer, while they are yet speaking I will hear. The wolf and the lamb shall feed together, the lion shall eat straw like the ox; but the serpent—its food shall be dust! They shall not hurt or destroy on all my holy mountain, says the Lord.

When I told someone about the text that I selected, he sniffed and dismissed it saying, “Isaiah 65 smells of funeral lilies.” I have to agree; this ancient poem resides on the Top Ten list of readings for a memorial service. It ranks up there with the 23rd Psalm, the 21st chapter of Revelation, and the promise from Jesus to “let not your hearts be troubled.” And if I’m honest, someday far in the future, I want someone to read it at my funeral.

Yet I don’t think for a minute that this is a poem about death. Isaiah gives us a vision for life.

It comes near the end of his collection of writings, after many chapters full of pain. Suddenly there is the promise of healing and restoration. God describes a flourishing life for all. If there was trouble, it’s interrupted by joy. If there was despair, the burden has been taken away. If anybody was robbed of life, life is given back – with abundance.

For the first time in the Bible, Isaiah offers the vision of new heavens and a new earth. Why are they new? Because the old ones are worn out. The Creator of all things promises a new creation. It’s a preview for the season of Advent, which begins for us in a few weeks. More than that, it’s the promise of a new life that is an alternative to the life we have known. Imagine a world, says the prophet, where everything connects, like a puzzle where all the pieces fit.

With vivid colors, Isaiah paints a picture where heaven and earth are one. No more weeping or distress. Life will never be cut short. People will live out the full length of their days. There will be continuity between human dreams and their fulfillment. Families will build houses and live in them. Farmers will plant vineyards and taste the wine. Every worker will enjoy their daily labor, and every soul will be thoroughly alive. That’s the picture.

At the center is an astonishing vision of peace: predators do not consume, and the prey doesn’t hide or run away. The wolf and lamb coexist. The ravenous lion has become a vegetarian and steps up to the feed bin next to the ox. Imagine this, says the prophet Isaiah. Imagine a life where everything fits.

This is what God dreams for the world. This is the dream that God implants in the imagination of the prophet Isaiah. This is the dream that emerges to be written down in the Bible, where it is waiting to be rediscovered by every generation and lived with fresh energy.

It is a powerful dream, because it is an alternative to most of the stories that actually appear in the Bible. God created a new earth once before, and by page three in the book of Genesis, Cain has risen up against his brother Abel. Not long after that, Pharoah enslaves a whole race of people as his work force.

God comes again to break Israel out of slavery, offering a number of commandments to guide the nation’s life – commandments that are regularly broken. The people cry out for a leader, a good leader. Soon, most of their kings (and a few of their queens) are maneuvering and manipulating their way to greater power, climbing over whoever is in the way.

We can’t ever dismiss the Bible as a book of fairy tales. No, it offers honest observations about the human animal. We live in a world where good work is met with resistance and the innocent are crucified.

And we are reminded of the recurring problem with the human race: God implants within us a dream of peace, yet we keep choosing something less than the dream. We don’t need to blame the devil or anybody else for this. No, we are the ones who choose. Every day some people are demeaned as something less than the image of God that they bear. The weak are plundered, often to increase the profits of the arrogant. Those who are deemed different are dismissed. And everybody is shouting over one another.

This is why so many of us regard the Bible as truth: it tells the truth about real people.

Yet the Bible also speaks the truth about God. We live because God is patient, “slow to anger and abounding with steadfast love.” And every day, we have the opportunity to live out the dream that God has for us. Imagine the wolf and the lamb feeding together. Nobody gets hurt. On God’s holy hill, there is no destruction, only peace. And God speaks up to make the promise, “I will rejoice and delight in my people.”

One of the reasons why some of us listen to sermons is to catch a glimpse of this grand vision. We connect to one another in faith communities to amplify this dream, which has been planted in our hearts and minds. Left to our own devices, we would merely slide back into the mud and muck of chaos, and act like wild animals. All progress would be lost. Yet Isaiah 65 says there is an alternative.

The alternative is peace – peace within ourselves, peace between one another. The Hebrew Bible calls it “shalom.” Shalom is the balance between all the forces of life. Shalom holds the continuity between past and present. Shalom is a life lived without aggression or its ensuing damage. We can welcome one another as neighbors, and not competitors. We can live in harmony with everybody we meet. This is God’s dream, and it is given to us. We can work on it now or wait until God makes it happen. Either way, it comes as a gift from a new heaven for a new earth.

One summer day, I hopped the bus to New York City with one of our daughters. She was a college student, studying art, and we wanted to visit a few galleries. It turned out to be a major disappointment. The Metropolitan Museum was closed, the Frick collection was shut down, and the Guggenheim was undergoing renovations.

Every few steps, we heard another siren in the distance. By the Central Park boat pond, a little kid was screaming at his mother. A couple of panhandlers tried to shake us down. We were just about ready to call it a day when suddenly we stepped into a quiet grove of elm trees. Three paths intersected in the shape of a teardrop. Before us was a mosaic of black and white stones, covered with bouquets of flowers.

To our surprise, we had come upon the memorial to the songwriter John Lennon. It’s right there by 72nd Street, right across from the apartment building where he had lived. In the center of the mosaic is the title of one of his most famous songs, “Imagine.”

You probably know that song. Lennon sang of a world as Isaiah saw it: a globe without borders, a world without greed or aggression, a community of living beings dwelling together in peace. Right across the street is where an assassin took Lennon’s life one night when he returned from a recording session. We paused, drew our breath at the pain of the memory.

But there, in that mosaic, is the invitation that remains: imagine. It is a holy invitation.

It leads me to make a modest proposal – that we live the dream that God has for us all. That we live as generously and graciously as Jesus. That we set a high standard of how to respect one another, serve one another, and love one another. It’s not enough to have the dream; it must also take flesh in what we do with our lives.

The first Christians forged the church by living like Jesus as best they could. They didn’t take any orders from the Roman empire. They lived the Isaiah 65 dream. People outside their circle were drawn inside it. They caught a glimpse of how all of us can take part in God’s shalom. Even the fiercest critics looked at the church and said, “See how much they love one another.”

What if the people in your community could say the same thing about you? What if each of us could treat one another with such respect and compassion that our neighbors said, “We want to be part of a group like that?” Now that would be living the dream.

Maybe it starts with small, steady steps that benefit the lives of others, like taking a meal to the woman who just came home from surgery. Or introducing ourselves to the neighbors whose names we do not know. Or reading a story to a child. Or listening to the stories of those older than ourselves. Or planting a grove of trees that could outlive us. Or offering a safe haven to someone in danger.

Shalom always begins by offering an act of kindness. I think of the woman who heard a strange noise in her neighborhood. It had been a difficult week in her town, an election week, full of all the political bluster of November. A loud noise erupted outside her home, and she went to see what it was. It was a man with a leaf blower working his way down her street. He doesn’t live nearby, but he was clearing all the leaves from everybody’s yards.

Somebody asked, “Why are you doing this?” He replied, “It’s been a difficult week, and this is a way to offer some goodness and blessing.”

Imagine that. Imagine shalom.

Let us pray.

Holy and loving God, do not allow us to be so consumed by the aggressions of this world that we cease to see what you imagine for us all. Implant within us a vision of your peace and well-being. And make that vision so attractive, enticing, and beautiful that we will work for it until the day when you make all things new. We pray this in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.

 

© William G. Carter. All rights reserved.

As recorded on Day 1. 

Link: https://day1.org/weekly-broadcast/6352a6926615fbf67d000085/bill-carter-living-the-dream 

The Wee Little Thief?

Luke 19:1-10
October 30, 2022
William G. Carter

Jesus entered Jericho and was passing through it. A man was there named Zacchaeus; he was a chief tax collector and was rich. He was trying to see who Jesus was, but on account of the crowd he could not, because he was short in stature. So he ran ahead and climbed a sycamore tree to see him, because he was going to pass that way. When Jesus came to the place, he looked up and said to him, “Zacchaeus, hurry and come down; for I must stay at your house today.” So he hurried down and was happy to welcome him. All who saw it began to grumble and said, “He has gone to be the guest of one who is a sinner.” Zacchaeus stood there and said to the Lord, “Look, half of my possessions, Lord, I will give to the poor; and if I have defrauded anyone of anything, I will pay back four times as much.” Then Jesus said to him, “Today salvation has come to this house, because he too is a son of Abraham. For the Son of Man came to seek out and to save the lost.”

 

We have a tax collector in our congregation, as well as a couple of retired IRS agents. I haven’t asked any of them what they make of these New Testament tax collectors. There was the one in the parable last week, beating his chest and calling himself a wretched sinner. In the Gospel of Luke, there are a number of other tax collectors, not merely as characters in stories, but real people who were drawn to Jesus, ate meals with him, and even befriended him.

And then there’s Zacchaeus, the most famous tax collector of them all. Luke calls him a “chief tax collector.” That means the Roman empire had given him the franchise in the oasis city of Jericho. That was a big deal for such a short little guy. As I understand it, he had to front the money and pay off Rome. Then he employed a number of neighborhood tax collectors to collect what he needed and charge whatever more they could get. He was the Big Cheese in a first century pyramid scheme with political overtones. He got his cut first and made a lot of money. It was a filthy business, prone to corruption.

How curious that Zacchaeus and all the other tax collectors in the Gospel would want to see Jesus! What could he offer to them?

As I mentioned last week, tax collection was considered a despised trade in the first century. The Purity Police up in the Jerusalem Temple wanted nothing to do with the people who practiced that trade. Tax collectors were considered collaborators with the Romans. The neighbors hated them, often muttering threats beneath their breath. The empire’s army provided minimal protection for them since the taxes collected paid for the soldiers to occupy the town. And it wasn’t safe for a tax collector to be out in the open.

So that’s why Zacchaeus hides in a tree. He wants to see Jesus, but he doesn’t want anybody to see him. And it doesn’t work. We don’t know how the scheme falls apart. Maybe his foot slipped. Or a child spotted him. Perhaps the big leafy branches weren’t wide enough to hide him. But somewhere between verse four and verse five, he is outed. The crowd has him right where they want him.

Imagine the curses, the condemnations, and the slurs. They have treed the fox and there’s nowhere for him to go. He is exposed, unguarded, and vulnerable. The crowd circled that tree. Zacchaeus doesn’t dare come down. It will not do any good to climb higher. He is a goner.

To the tax collector’s surprise, Jesus calls out to him, “Zacchaeus, come down from that tree. I am under obligation to stay at your house.” This is the point at which the whole story turns. The chief tax collector climbs down. He welcomes Jesus and says, “Yes, yes, you must come to my home.” And the crowd that hated Zacchaeus now spews their venom on Jesus. The Bible verse says, “they murmured.” That’s an overly polite translation. Snarled is more like it.  

But don’t lose sight of what Jesus has just done. At risk to his own life, Jesus rescues a tax collector. He shields this man, a chief tax collector, from certain doom. The Lord is not merely imposing on the rich man’s hospitality. He is saving his life. The storyteller says Zacchaeus welcomes the Lord “joyfully.” There’s more to this story than everything we heard in Vacation Bible School. It’s a bit more complicated – it’s a rescue story.

And then it gets even more complicated. What happens next? The chief tax collector for the city of Jericho, the very rich man, stands to announce, “Half of my riches belong to the poor.” And then he goes on to say, “If there is the slightest chance that I have ever cheated anyone, I will pay them back fourfold.”

Now, let’s pause here for a second. A rescue story becomes a generosity story. Jesus saves a short man from an angry crowd – and the short man uses his money for financial justice. Let’s hold on here. What’s going on?

I have a half dozen other Zacchaeus sermons in my file cabinet. In previous efforts, I’ve claimed there must have been something in that table conversation in the short man’s house that transformed him. We can assume that, but the text doesn’t say that.

In one of my previous sermons, I imagined that Jesus looked into the tax collector’s eyes and let him know he was loved. And suddenly, magically, the cold heart of Zacchaeus melted, and he changed his ways. That’s a pleasant thought, kind of an Ebenezer Scrooge sort of plot, and we’d all like to believe that, too. But the text doesn’t say that, either.

No, my friend Jim the retired preacher cut to the chase last Sunday in our coffee hour. “Are you preaching again on Zacchaeus on the 30^th?” Yes sir, I am. And he said, “Ever notice that when Zacchaeus stands up to talk about his generosity and his commitment to justice, he speaks in the present tense?” I give half of my riches to the poor. If I ever cheated anyone, I repay them. He may be making the decision then and there – or he might already be giving away half of what he has to those who need it and making amends for any past corruptions.

Whatever the case, it’s a remarkable story. Because however the city of Jericho regarded Zacchaeus before, he is a different man. It could have been because Jesus saved his skin. Or it could have been that he was already living a righteous life with his money. Either way, he’s not what everybody perceived of a chief tax collector. Something more is going on.

What is it? Good question. I’ve long been curious what it takes to create generosity. Why do some people give away a high proportion of what they have to the needy while others hold back and play it safe?  

Certainly for a man like Zacchaeus, in (shall we say) a “high income bracket,” he could give away a lot of money and still have more than his neighbors. As an imaginary character on a TV show put it, “What’s a hundred million dollars when you have two hundred million?” And I must confess, “I have no idea.” That’s a lot of dough. And Zacchaeus gives it away. Half of what he has. Not three percent, not ten percent, but fifty percent. To lift up the poor.

Please notice: Jesus does not lay a guilt trip on Zacchaeus. He doesn’t appeal to his conscience. Nor does he ask him for a donation. There’s no evidence in the story that the Lord confronts the rich man’s greed or calls him to repentance. No, not at all. We can read that into the story, but none of that is really there.  

And neither does Jesus address with Zacchaeus the dark side of what affluence can do. Over on my bookshelf is a volume by two ethics professors, Bruce Birch and Larry Rasmussen. They wrote a book titled, The Predicament of the Prosperous. It’s a good book, a thick book, a worthy read. One of the takeaways is a line I will never forget: “The quality of life actually decreases with the increase of material abundance and indulgence.”[1] That is, the more you have, the more danger you’re in. Ouch!

I had that conversation with one of our church members just yesterday. The purpose of life is not to acquire as much as we can. The purpose of life is to participate in the life around us on this planet. We are woven into a vast, interconnected network of living. One of the temptations of having as much money as Zacchaeus is the temptation to let your affluence isolate you from others. To separate you from others. To protect you from the real needs that other people have. And we know this to be true.

A wise old duffer was asked by his socially climbing daughter if he was going to install a security system to guard his property and all that he had. “Of course not,” he said. “If somebody breaks in here to take something, they probably need it more than I do.” She looked at him, incredulous. “But Daddy,” she protested, “you’ve earned what you have. It’s yours.” To which he retorted, “I already have too much, and it would relieve me of the burden of finding a way to unload it. You don’t think I’m going to leave all to you, do you?” Now, there’s an honest man.

To whom does Zacchaeus give half of his riches? To the poor, that is, to the destitute. To those who beg. To those who buy their expired canned vegetables in the dollar store. Again, we don’t know how he goes about it. He’s a first century dude; it’s not like he could write a check or put it on his AmEx card. And there many ways when we want to help somebody, and try to help somebody, and how we do it robs them of their dignity.

Some of us were down in Haiti years ago and saw a man in Port-au-Prince coming toward us with a t-shirt printed in English. There was an arrow pointing down, with the words printed, “Got one in the oven.” I’m certain he spoke Creole, not English, and had no idea what he was wearing. We discovered that some of our castoff clothing that doesn’t resell in American thrift shops gets dumped on the docks of that city. The poor scramble to find something they can wear. And this is demeaning.

So how does Zacchaeus donate to the poor? We have no idea. Yet he pledges to do so. It’s going to be a journey. He commits himself to it. Something has punctured the protective bubble around his assets. Something empowers him to relinquish his grip. In the presence of Jesus, he affirms he is on a journey to generosity, something that the people of Jericho could never have imagined. Is he going to quit his work as a chief tax collector? No, it doesn’t say that. He’s already living a very complicated life. He’s accustomed to the complications of having a lot of money.

But the story reveals he is generous. Profoundly, deeply generous. In the end, I think we know why. It’s because Jesus has saved his life. Jesus has risked his own life to save the life of Zacchaeus. And that profound act of unexpected grace creates more grace. That’s how generosity works. When we start giving, more giving is created. When we commit to sharing, our hearts are enlarged. Generosity is an ever-deepening invitation to participate in the needs of the world, to the glory of God. And it’s an invitation that I make to you.

I invite you to support the work of God. If there is any way that God in Christ has found you, find a way to share it. If the Risen Christ has invited himself into your life, pass it along for others. If there is any way you’ve discovered yourself rescued or redeemed, make the same happen for others. Generosity is an essential discipline as we follow Jesus. And it’s so good for the soul! The more we give, the more joy we create for others.

And in our generosity, the Spirit of God is working in the world.   

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

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[1] Bruce C. Birch and Larry Rasmussen, The Predicament of the Prosperous (Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1978) 27.

The Pretentious Holy Man

Luke 18:9-14
Ordinary 30
October 23, 2022

William G. Carter  

Jesus also told this parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous and regarded others with contempt: “Two men went up to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector. The Pharisee, standing by himself, was praying thus, ‘God, I thank you that I am not like other people: thieves, rogues, adulterers, or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week; I give a tenth of all my income.’ But the tax collector, standing far off, would not even look up to heaven, but was beating his breast and saying, ‘God, be merciful to me, a sinner!’ I tell you, this man went down to his home justified rather than the other; for all who exalt themselves will be humbled, but all who humble themselves will be exalted.”

This is the kind of story we could expect to hear in the Gospel of Luke. Even if we were casually listening or not paying close attention, we would have heard three clues.

First, Luke never misses an opportunity to kick a Pharisee. The Pharisees were religious leaders in the time of Jesus. They were lay people, not clergy. They knew their Bible. They were the backbone of the movement to develop synagogues around the country. The Pharisees desired to apply the teachings of God to all of daily life, including matters of social justice. They were generous and faithful. And Luke, the Gospel writer, likes to give them a little kick. Not all of them, but a lot of them.

They questioned the ability of Jesus to forgive sins (5:21). They grumbled about his dinner companions (5:30). They criticized his observance of the Sabbath (6:2). They sat on the edge of their seats, ready to pounce on him (6:7). They didn’t believe Jesus had a strict enough morality (7:39). They complained he didn’t wash his hands before dinner (11:38). According to Luke, the Pharisees were always nitpicking at Jesus – and they were hypocrites (12:1). Luke says a few Pharisees were friendly (13:31), but all of them were greedy (16:14).

We hear his bias. So it’s no surprise to hear him recount a parable about an arrogant Pharisee. The holy man brags about his holiness. He separates himself to keep himself pure. It seems that, in all his superiority, he is in deep spiritual trouble. This is Gospel of Luke.

The second clue that it’s a Luke story comes in the tagline at the end: “all who exalt themselves will be humbled, all who humble themselves will be exalted.” Now, Jesus has said that before, back in chapter 14, as he watched the maneuvering for good seats at a banquet (14:11). His lesson was ignored, for the Pharisees soon grumbled again how Jesus kept company with sinners.  

In a broader sense, this is a Gospel where everything gets turned on its head. Mother Mary says the arrogant will be pulled off their thrones and the lowly will be lifted up. The first will be last and the last will become first. Jesus preaches, “Blessed are the poor, woe to the rich.” (6:17-26). The least among you is the greatest (9:48). And he himself becomes the greatest parable of reversal: the innocent One crucified between two thieves is raised up as Lord of all.

Luke offers a Gospel where all the values of this world are flipped upside down. So we have the parable of a pious Pharisee, praying in the Temple, who is demoted as a bad example, and the pitiful tax collector who will not make eye contact with God who is saved by grace. Hear the scheme? Humbled, now exalted. This is Luke’s book, so this is Luke’s story.

The third clue is somewhat more subtle. But once we see it, it’s very clear. So let me back up and say a bit more about the Pharisee. By all estimation, he leads a moral life. He knows the commandments and all that they instruct us not to do. Thou shalt not steal. Check! Thou shalt not commit adultery. Check!  Thou shalt not covet all the money that the tax collector has grabbed. Double check!

And his actions could be considered admirable. The Bible teaches him to fast from his meals for every holy day. He goes the extra mile and fasts twice a week. The Bible calls him to tithe, to donate ten percent of all the produce from his land. He gives a whole lot more – ten percent of everything he owns is given to God and God’s temple. (I want his phone number. It’s stewardship time and I’d love to put him in touch with our finance committee.)

As someone notes, "He is the faithful, dependable type (of person) who pays the salaries of ministers so they can preach on the parable of the Pharisee and the tax collector."[1] No doubt he’s a regular in worship. He goes to the temple all the time.

Yet for all his otherwise admirable qualities, something is off kilter. Some would say it’s his sense of superiority, or his arrogance, or his pretense. Others would say it’s his not-so-subtle nastiness; he really didn’t need to put down the tax collector in his prayer. Others would indicate that his prayer is skewed; he begins by thanking God and proceeds to talk about himself: how good he is, how holy he is, how much better he is than everybody else.” And yes, all of that’s true. But none of these are the critical flaw. They are merely symptoms of a greater issue.

The real issue comes into focus when we turn to look at the tax collector. He’s not standing up front. He’s way in the back. I understand that’s where all the sinners are. As someone once said, they want to be in the presence of God but not too close.

And he calls himself a sinner. “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.” That word “sinner” signifies somebody wicked. He has not made a simple mistake or two. He has wandered away from the commandments of God. He didn’t bother to try to keep them.

If you remember anything about New Testament tax collectors, they were Jews – fellow Jews – who collaborated with occupying empire of Rome. They collected the taxes that paid for the Roman army to occupy the land. And they were empowered to collect as much money as they could get, giving to Caesar what “belonged” to Caesar and keeping the rest for themselves.

The late great German scholar Joachim Jeremias uncovered first-century lists of those who engaged in despised lists, so that when children grew up, parents could tell them what not to do. These people were not permitted inside the Jerusalem temple. And who made the list? "Gamblers, usurers, pigeon-trainers, shepherds, and tax collectors."[2] 

So what does it mean, “two people went up to the temple to pray…” and one of them was a tax collector? He is not welcome there. What kind of person is this? Slipping in the side door, hunkering down in the shadows, trying not to be seen, avoiding human contact, averting his eyes, calling out the words of Psalm 51, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.” What does he think he’s doing?

In his study of the parables, Ken Bailey tells us what he’s doing. He’s doing what hundreds of other people are doing at the same time. He has come to the temple for the daily sacrifice. Twice a day, at dawn and at three in the afternoon, the priest on duty at the Jerusalem temple would sacrifice a lamb to atone for the sins of the people. It was a big deal. There was liturgy, there were drums and chants, there was a blazing fire, and a good bit of blood. Then the priest would go into the chamber marked “Holy of Holies” to light incense and pray that God accepted the sacrifice. That’s why the tax collector is there. That’s why the Pharisee is there. That’s why the crowd is there.

Bailey says what the tax collector’s prayer is really saying is this: “God, let my sins be forgiven. Let my guilt be taken away. Let that sacrifice for everybody’s sins also work for me.” And Jesus says his prayer is granted.

Now, why is his prayer granted? Because it is a prayer of repentance. This is the third and greatest clue that this story is given to us by the Gospel of Luke – because Luke is all about repentance. In Luke’s book, Jesus is always teaching repentance, about coming home to God, about returning from our empty wanderings, about waking up our souls from their dullness, about standing before God with nothing in our hands – our hearts cracked open, our spirits hungry to be me.

Earlier this fall, we heard Jesus tell the parable about the one sheep who wanders away. Remember that one? He “nibbled himself lost,” as someone describes it. The shepherd – the Good Shepherd – goes after him. He leaves behind the ninety-nine other sheep to search for the lost one. When he finds it, he carries it back on his shoulders and throw a party for the village. You’ve heard that one.

But don’t forget the zinger that Jesus tacks on the end of that story. He says something that applies directly for the parable for today. “Even so,” he says, “there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner that repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who need no repentance.” (15:7)

“One sinner” – there’s that word again. “Ninety-nine righteous persons” – just like that Pharisee.

Now, I know, I know. This is just a parable. And the two characters are caricatures. They are made of cardboard, overdrawn to make a point. And I confess to you, in the sight of God, that there are days when I am uncomfortably familiar with that Pharisee. I think highly of myself. I’m proud of my moral achievement (at least, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it). I don’t veer off course very often. Granted, I rarely fast from any meals, which you’ll be able to tell if I turn sideways. But let me tell you I have already gone to the church’s website and increased my electronic pledge by ten percent; that will begin this Tuesday. Why wait until January? And please notice: just like the Pharisee, I have a really nice robe.

But do I need God? That’s the issue. I tell it to you straight: there are moments while the rest of you are praying the prayer of confession on Sunday, and I am bored. I look over that prayer (which by the way, I selected). I look over that prayer and say to myself, “Oh, I didn’t do any of these bad things this week.” And when that happens, when I wake up and catch myself in that posture, that is the moment when my soul faces its greatest peril. I do need God, every hour of every day. But there are moments, some of them long moments, when I forget.

It reminds me of a book title from way back in the 1970’s. Written by Will Willimon, retired United Methodist bishop who never had an unpublished thought, the book is called, The Gospel for the Person Who Has Everything. As I recall, it’s an extremely thin book. There’s not much content, and that is another parable. Because if you think you have it all, you certainly don’t need God. If you alone are the source of your own good news, you have no room for the good news of Jesus Christ.

So I’m chewing on the parable for today, resembling the Pharisee, punctured by tax collector. And of all the details that I learned in my study of the text this week, one specific fact sticks with me. It’s where Ken Bailey, the Bible scholar, says the Jerusalem Temple held sacrifices for sin twice a day, at dawn and at three p.m. Three p.m.? And then I remember another lamb of God, an innocent man, crucified between two thieves, giving his life as a sacrifice to take away the sins of the world. Remember the time of day when he died? 3:00 in the afternoon.

So here’s another parable. In a certain church on the first Sunday of the month, the faithful Presbyterians gathered for worship. They sang the hymns, listened to the sermon, prayed the prayers, passed the offering plate, and then they had the Lord’s Supper. “This is my body broken for you… This is the cup of salvation, poured out for you.” They do this regularly. Same crowd, same day. They stood to sing, get the benediction, and leave.

Except on that day, a stranger didn’t stand for the final hymn. Those around him stood, but he stayed hunkered over in a pew near the back. While everybody else sang, he seemed to be murmuring something. It seemed disturbing for the regulars around him, and they left. When the minister came in from shaking hands at the door, he recognized the stranger as a man who had recently been released from prison. The case had been all over the news. He had done some terrible things, served his time, and today, somehow, he had found his way to the back of that church.

He was still leaning over, eyes closed, murmuring words the preacher could now hear, “again, again.” All this time, he was still holding the piece of bread and the cup of wine. Suddenly he opened his eyes, ate the bread, drank the cup. With moist eyes, he slowly stood up and pulled on his jacket.

He turned to see the minister, who asked him, “Is everything alright?” The man replied, “Beginning again. I’m beginning again.”

And that man went home, at peace with God.

 

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

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[1] Fred B. Craddock, Luke: Interpretation (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 1990) 211.

[2] Joachim Jeremias, Jerusalem in the Time of Jesus (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1969) 304.