First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan
Scripture: John 3:16-21 December 21, 1997
Hudson. Mrs. Bridges. And Rose….dear, sweet Rose. I don’t know when I saw them last. And I don’t know where I might see them still. For they were characters, you know. Television characters. British television characters. They came into our home (weekly, as I remember it), through a vehicle known as Masterpiece Theater and a series of dramatic episodes known as Upstairs, Downstairs.
My wife loved them before I did….these characters, I mean. Initially, I found them stiff and slightly stuffy (which came naturally, given that they were very formal servants in a very formal house). But, over time, they grew on me….in a quiet sort of way. As I remember it, they knew their place. And they seldom stepped outside it….or above it. For they were the “downstairs” half of Upstairs, Downstairs. They were the servants who answered the doors and tended the tables, while honoring every request of the master and mistress, promptly and without complaint.
Ironically, I couldn’t remember any of the names of the “upstairs people.” So I had to call Martha Ehlers who researched them for me. It seems that the “upstairs people” went by the name of Bellamy. But without Martha’s help, I wouldn’t have remembered that. All Iremember is Hudson, Mrs. Bridges and dear, sweet Rose. That’s because the script writer gave me a closer look at life below, than of life above. In addition to seeing what a “proper” lot they were, I also got to see what a “human” lot they were. Not that the upstairs people ever saw as much of them as I did. Because the upstairs people didn’t really want to look. And the downstairs people didn’t really want to let them. The implication being that life downstairs was somehow common and (in an understated, British kind of way) a tad vulgar.
Which is the way we tend to think about things when the word “down” is attached to them…. somewhere between the ordinary and the vulgar. After all, who wants to look at the “downside” of things….or experience a “downer.” Who wants to slide “down hill,” to the point of being “down and out,” “down in the dumps,” or “down in the gutter.” And who wants to be on the scene, or in the ring, when an opponent decides to forego the rules of sporting conduct and get “down and dirty.”
If, as Christina Rosetti suggests, love came “down” at Christmas, it came in the general direction of a world which is (on its best days) a tad above ordinary, and (on its worst days) several miles below vulgar. No wonder Arlo Guthrie once said: “The world has shown me what it has to offer, leading me to believe that while it might be a nice place to visit, I wouldn’t want to live there.”
But the radical fact of the Christmas gospel is that God chose to come down here….and live down here….even though we didn’t have the guest room ready or the porch light on. Heck, we didn’t even have the guest room cleaned or the porch light wired. And we had two weeks of dirty laundry piled high on the hide-a-bed. But, then, that’s one of the reasons He came….this God of ours. Because of our dirty laundry and the height of the pile.
Which means that his coming could have been a frightening prospect. Why else would He come down, unless He had a bone to pick with us. Last Christmas eve, I spoke of the “sleepovers” I remembered from my pre-adolescent and early-teen years. There we’d be….ten 12 year olds, or was it twelve 10 years olds….on somebody’s family room floor, zipped into our sleeping bags. There we’d be, carrying on a bit too long….carrying on a bit too loudly…. carrying things a bit too far. There we’d be, telling jokes to each other….throwing things at each other….making weird noises in the dark with our bodies. When the father of the house would come to the edge of the landing and shout: “This is my last warning. Either you guys knock it off, or there’s gonna be hell to pay. So don’t make me come down there.”
Which is usually all it took. Because we took him at his word. And while we weren’t sure what “hell to pay” might look like….or who (for that matter) would have to “pay” it….we sure as heaven didn’t want to find out. So we didn’t give him any further reason to come “down there.”
I suppose we were more quickly “cowed” than are today’s kids. I am not sure that today’s 12 year olds frighten all that easily. Nor am I sure than any of us do. Still, if the threat be loud enough….or if the “doom” be sure enough….maybe intimidation still works. During a particularly violent thunderstorm, a little kid said to his mother: “Mommy, will you please sleep with me tonight?” To which his mother said: “Honey, I can’t. I have to sleep with Daddy.” Which was followed by a shaky little voice, saying: “The big sissy.”
Well, some threats make sissies of us all. The assigned lectionary text for the second Sunday of Advent (which I didn’t read because the choir sang Messiah that Sunday, and because I’m not a lectionary preacher to begin with) began: “You brood of vipers. Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come?” Who said that? John the Baptist said that. And who wrote it down? Luke wrote it down….less than one flimsy page from all this wonderful talk about mangers, angels, and things equally beatific.
But recall the Messiah performance of two Sundays ago. Remember Matt’s solo? We were about ten minutes into the performance. Suddenly Matt Hook stood up to sing. Did you hear the words that came out of his mouth? “And who shall abide the day of his coming….and who shall stand when he appeareth.” That’s a heavy question. But none of us felt its full weight. That’s because we know Matt….we like Matt….and Matt sang it so beautifully. Besides, Matt’s wife is pregnant and we’re all excited about a Christmas baby being born to a staff member. But the words that Matt sang had the potential to scare the daylights out of us. Just like John the Baptist’s words calling us “a brood of vipers” and talking about “fleeing the wrath to come.”
Do you remember the good news/bad news humor of a decade ago? Especially the one about the phone call to the Pope? The operator says to the Pope: “I’ve got good news and bad news. Which do you want first?” The Pope says: “I’ll take the good news.” In response to which the operator announces: “Jesus has returned to earth and I’ve got him on the other end of my line.” To which the Pope says: “Where could the bad news be in that?” Leading the operator to say: “The call is coming from Salt Lake City.”
But that’s not the best one. Try this on for size. A phone call comes to the Pope. The operator tells him that she’s got good news and bad news. He asks to hear the good news first. She says: “Jesus has come to earth and I’ve got him on the other end of my line.” The Pope asks: “Where could the bad news be in that?” To which the operator responds: “He sounds madder than hell.”
We can’t avoid this message in Advent. For the lectionary brings it back every year in the person of John the Baptist. And the ironic thing is not that John talks about “the wrath to come,” but that (in doing so) John would have us believe that he is preaching “good news.”
I mean, who taught John to preach? Didn’t anybody ever tell John about the need to make “emotional contact” with his audience….winning their confidence….gaining their trust….that kind of thing? I’m amazed that more people didn’t turn him off. I mean, people aren’t exactly breaking down the doors of churches to hear more about hell….especially on the Sunday before Christmas.
Still, as Jim Kay points out from no less a perch than his professorship at Princeton, there are a lot of people who consider it “good news” to hear bad news….even at Christmas….figuring (as they do) that the bad news will only be “bad” for persons other than themselves. Because Christians are not immune from taking pleasure at the thought of others “getting smoked.” “See you in hell,” says Clint Eastwood, as he shoots Gene Hackman, the crooked lawman, in an unforgettable movie entitled Unforgiven. And it was hard not to cheer. For hell is precisely what Hackman deserved. And unless you are a better person than me, you probably have a short list of people who, in your less-than-saintly reveries, you would like to see “get it” in the end.
Which they will….of course….“get it in the end,” I mean. Except that if Christ has his way with them, the “it” that they “get” may not be the “it” that we want them to “get”….or expect them to “get”….but may be a more promising “it” than they (or we) have any earthly reason to expect.
The world is full of scumbags, not the least of which is the girlfriend of the prisoner who took the “Angel Tree” gifts we bought for the prisoner’s two-year-old kid and sold them. Which, if true, really curdles the cream in my Christmas coffee. But the more some of us thought about it, the more we wondered what the real story was….and, if true, what the real motive was….and whether there was any way to redeem the situation.…or redeem the “scumbag.” Which was, of course, when we stopped thinking like ordinary people and began thinking like Jesus.
Listen to our text:
For God so loved the world, He gave his only Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have eternal life. For God sent his Son not into the world to condemn the world, but that the world, through Him, might be saved.
Which pretty much settles the question of divine intent, does it not?
That’s John 3:16, you know. Memorized it as a kid, I did. Which, if I had to get a gold star for something, I’m glad it was for that. Now, every time I go to a football game, I see somebody waving a placard advertising John 3:16. They are trying to catch the eye of the crowd or the eye of the camera. And I think to myself: Isn’t it interesting that my attention is being drawn (at that very moment) to a Savior who has no intention of kicking the “living bejeebers” out of anybody….when, down on the field, are 22 guys whose primary intention (at that very moment) is to kick the “living bejeebers” out of everybody.
But, as the text points out, condemnation is not something that Jesus comes to bring to anybody. Rather, it is something we bring upon ourselves when we choose to walk away from what is being offered. Which is an option, of course. God can bring us bread, but we don’t have to break it. And God can bring us love, but we don’t have to take it. We can turn our back on it. We can walk away from it. We can say “Thanks, but no thanks” to it. As to whether we can “hold out” for the entirety of eternity, the house divides. But the question is, why would we? Even for a day? Unless, of course, we continue to mistrust God’s motive.
If that be the case, let me remind you of something. Let me remind you that God does not come “down” because of his propensity to go slumming….or even our propensity to go sinning. It is not the worst in us that brings Him, but the best in us. Which sometimes God alone can see, long after we have become blind to it, compromised it away, or hidden it from sight.
Which brings me to Sister Helen of Morris, Minnesota, and the very first class she ever taught at St. Mary’s School. Third grade. Thirty-four kids. All of them special. But none so much as Mark Eklund….a kid with a happy-to-be-alive attitude that made even his occasional mischievousness, delightful. The only problem was, Mark was one of those kids who talked incessantly. So she corrected him, just as incessantly. And every time she did, he apologized (saying): “Thank you for correcting me, Sister.” Which sounds somewhat snide but, coming from Mark’s lips, was really rather sincere. But let her tell it:
One morning my patience was growing thin and I made a rookie teacher’s mistake. I said: “Mark, if you say one more word, I’m going to have to tape your mouth shut.”
Sure enough, it wasn’t 20 seconds later that Mark blurted out his next word. The rest of the class pointed it out, forcing me to make good on my threat. So with two strips of masking tape, I made an X over Mark’s mouth and walked back to my desk. Which was when I looked at him, only to have him wink at me. I started to laugh. And then the rest of the class started to laugh. So with everybody laughing (and finally cheering), I walked back to Mark’s desk and removed the tape. Whereupon the first words out of his mouth were: “Thank you for correcting me, Sister.”
At the end of the year, Mark moved on to fourth grade. I moved up to junior high math. And before I knew it, I had him again. But since the work was more difficult, he didn’t talk nearly as much in the ninth grade as he had in the third.
One Friday, things just didn’t feel right. We had worked on a new concept all week, and I sensed that the students were frustrated with themselves and edgy with one another. Things in the classroom were turning ugly. So I told everybody to close their books so that I could give them an altogether new assignment. I asked them to list the names of the other students in the room on alternate lines of a page, leaving a space between each name. Then I told them to think of the nicest thing they could say about each of their classmates and write it under the name. It took the remainder of the period for them to finish the assignment. And as Mark handed me his paper, he said: “Thank you for teaching me, Sister. Have a good weekend.”
On Saturday, I wrote the name of each student on a separate sheet of paper. Underneath the name, I listed all of the nice things that had been written about that student. On Monday I returned the lists. Which brought smiles back to the classroom. But once Monday’s class was over, no one ever mentioned them again.
That group moved on. As did I. Several years later, upon returning from vacation, my parents met me at the airport. As we were driving home, Mother asked the usual questions about my trip, the weather, and experiences in general. There followed a lull in the conversation, whereupon Mother gave Dad a sideways glance, leading him to clear his throat as he usually did before saying something important. “The Eklunds called last night,” he began. “Really,” I said. “I haven’t heard from them in years. Did they say how Mark was?”
My father responded quietly: “Mark was killed in Vietnam,” he said. “The funeral is tomorrow, and his parents would like you to attend.”
To this day, I can still point to the exact spot on I-494 where Dad told me about Mark. I had never seen a serviceman in a military coffin before. Mark looked so handsome and mature. But all I could think at that moment was: “Mark, I would give all the masking tape in the world, if only you would talk to me now.”
The church was packed with Mark’s friends. Someone sang “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” The pastor said the usual prayers. The bugler played taps. And everybody took one last walk by the casket, sprinkling it with holy water. I was the last to do so. As I passed by, one of the pallbearers in a soldier suit said: “Were you Mark’s teacher?” When I nodded in the affirmative, he added: “Mark talked about you a lot.”
Following the funeral, most of Mark’s former classmates headed to Charlie’s farmhouse for lunch. Mark’s parents were there, obviously waiting for me. “We want to show you something,” his father said, taking a wallet out of his pocket. “They found this on Mark when he was killed. We thought you might recognize it.”
Opening the billfold, he carefully removed a worn piece of notebook paper that had been folded and refolded many times. I knew without looking that the paper was the one on which I had listed all of the good things that Mark’s ninth grade classmates had said about him. “Thank you so much for doing that,” Mark’s mother said. “As you can see, Mark treasured it.”
Mark’s classmates started to gather around us. Charlie smiled rather sheepishly and said: “I still have my list. It’s in the top drawer of my desk at home.” Which led his wife to say: “That’s only because I wouldn’t let him paste it in our wedding album.”
“I have mine too,” Marilyn said. “It’s in my diary.”
Then Vicki, another classmate, reached into her pocketbook and showed her worn and frazzled list to the group. “I carry this with me at all times,” Vicki said, without batting an eyelash. “I think we all saved our lists.”
Why does God come down?
To shut us up?
No.
To shut us out?
No.
Instead, I think God comes down to remind us of how wonderfully we were made and how passionately we are loved.
My friends, isn’t it amazing what belief can do?
Not ours in God.
But God’s in us.
Note: I am indebted to Dr. James Kay for his recent Advent editorial in The Christian Century. I also owe a debt of gratitude to David Mosser (my colleague in Graham, Texas) for Sister Helen’s story, and to Rodney Wilmoth (my colleague in Minneapolis, Minnesota) for his story of the boy in the storm.
