The Bigger They Are… 10/18/1998

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scriptures: I Samuel 17:1-11, 31-40, 48-51

Last Wednesday evening, shortly after darkness descended on the cradle of the Confederacy, the San Diego Padres (great name….“Padres”) adjourned to the clubhouse to celebrate their first National League Pennant in fourteen years, having just achieved it by dispatching the talent-loaded, heavily-favored and seemingly-all-but-invincible Atlanta Braves. Directly ahead, however, waited an even more ominous foe, the Bronx Bombers from the Big Apple (which sounds a whole lot better than merely saying “The New York Yankees”).

But if they were frightened, the Padres weren’t showing it. For in addition to momentum and Tony Gwynn, they had biblical precedent on their side, which surfaced in the words of their champagne-soaked president, Larry Lucchino. Said Larry (from beneath a shower of bubbly): “We feel a little like David going in, ready to sling a few stones at Goliath.”

Well, as a lifelong student of The Book, I appreciated his reference. And as a lifelong hater of the Yankees, I hope he’s right. So let the stones fly. Let the Giant fall. And let the San Diegoans, who already enjoy the best weather in North America, have (at long last) a championship to go along with it.

Interesting, isn’t it, that a baseball executive can evoke images of David and Goliath and all of us know what he is talking about. Jews know. Christians know. Agnostics know. Illiterates know. For the story transcends its setting and transplants a culture which is ignorant of….and (in some cases) hostile to….its origin. Which gives me pause when I consider that I have never preached it. But, better late than never.

The story is a heroic tale, featuring an underdog (who is as unlikely as he is undersized), going up against a foe (who is as fearsome as he is formidable). No way can the underdog win. Except he does. Which doesn’t happen very often. After all, the surest way to go broke is to buck the odds rather than bet them. But when the mini rise up to smite the mighty, how sweet it is.

The story, of course, comes out of Israel in that period where the issue was nothing less than the creation of a monarchy. “Can we find a king? Can we stand a king, once we find him? And if we find a king we can stand, can the king stand?” As you know, there were only three great kings of the monarchy….Saul, David and Solomon. And this is the story of how public sentiment began to slip away from Saul and swing toward David.

For Saul was up against it. Or, more to the point, Saul was up against the Philistines. There they were….fourteen miles west of Bethlehem….poised on one hill. And there Saul’s troops were…. looking across a valley….trembling on another hill. Whereupon a very large warrior emerged from the ranks of the Philistines and shouted across the valley:

Look, let’s save a whole lot of time and spare a whole lot of blood. Let’s go man-to-man instead of army-to-army. I’ll come from this side. You send someone from your side. We’ll meet in the middle. One of us dies. One of us lives. And the winner takes it all.

Which sounded good, until Saul’s army looked more closely at “Mr. Big Mouth.” Which wasn’t his name, of course. His name was Goliath. And he was one big dude. How big? Well, it’s hard to say. Biblical measurements (at least in this narrative) are far from precise. They range from cubits (which represent the distance between the elbow and the tip of the index finger), to spans (which represent the distance between the thumb and the little finger of the extended palm). Depending upon who’s doing the measuring, cubits and spans vary greatly. I’ll go into that more fully on Wednesday night. But for now, let the record show that Goliath had girth to match his mouth. I’ve got a trio of commentaries on my desk that put him at 9’6”. And I’ve got a fourth commentary on my desk that puts him at 6’9”. Ironically, I think the latter commentary is correct….which puts Goliath in the same league with Grant Hill (albeit a bigger, meaner, and better padded 6’9” than Grant Hill).

Much of the padding was body armor, which (if we translate the word “shekels” correctly) weighed in at 125 pounds, 15 ounces. But who’s counting? What is important about the description of Goliath’s armor is not how thickly it covered how much, but what it failed to cover at all. Meaning that the one part of Goliath’s body lacking armor was his forehead. But the text doesn’t tell you that. You have to read between the lines to figure it out.

But on with the story. Goliath thundered. Saul’s army trembled. And everybody tried to figure out how to keep from volunteering or getting volunteered. You know how that works. Lots of you are masters at it. But then David saved everybody’s day (and everybody’s hide) by saying: “David, here….reporting for duty.” Which blew everybody away. Because he wasn’t very old. He wasn’t very big. He wasn’t very experienced. And he wasn’t even a member of the regular army. What he was, was a lute-playing, lullaby-singing shepherd….whose only previous military experience was as a sandwich carrier and message bearer (linking his daddy at home with his brothers at the front).

“You are just a lad,” Saul said (when David volunteered). And, indeed, he was. Which troubled Saul. And which embarrassed Goliath, once he saw who Saul was sending. I mean, if you are figuring to kill somebody, it kind of taints your victory if the kill comes too quickly….or too easily. After all, if all that stood between the Yankees and a World Series title were the Tigers, they might not even show up.

But Goliath showed up….insulted everybody in sight (including David, Saul, Israel and Israel’s God)….and then waited for his opponent. Who came, in time. But when David arrived, he came totally without soldier suit, spear, sword, snub-nosed revolver, or sub-machine gun….because (well, we will return to that in a moment). But he did have a slingshot, five smooth stones and a good aim. Which he used to stun the Giant….knocking him down….knocking him out….but not necessarily knocking him dead. Which shows how much you know (or don’t know) about the story. David didn’t kill Goliath with a slingshot. David killed Goliath with a sword. What he did with his sword is called decapitation. Which was not very nice. But which was very final. Ironically, in the original version of the Jack and the Beanstalk tale, the Giant did not die when Jack cut the beanstalk out from under him, but when Jack cut his head clean off him.

So there you have it. A story for the ages. And a story for the sages. Was it true? Sort of. But who requires absolute accuracy? Still, for the historical purists among us, it is twice suggested (II Samuel 21:19 and I Chronicles 20:5) that a Jewish warrior named Elhanan (one of David’s heroes) slew Goliath. Which means that there were either multiple Goliaths (which was unlikely), or that David’s tribal name was Elhanan (again, unlikely), or that followers of David may have borrowed a story belonging to another Jewish warrior and applied it, retroactively, to their king (considerably more likely).

But don’t get all worked up about that. Israel certainly didn’t. While he was still a young man, David looked heroic and performed heroically. So whether he did this deed….or someone else did this deed….once the deed was done it seemed David-like. And so it has been attributed to him ever since.

What interests me today is neither the “who” of the story, nor the “how” of the story, but the meaning of the story. Which changes, I think, from place to place and from people to people. So what I want to do in the time remaining is address a trio of questions:

            1. Why does Israel love this story?

            2. Why do children love this story?

            3. Why might you love this story?

Israel loves this story because it depicts her experience as a nation. Israel, the underdog. Israel, the undersized. Israel, the nation which has no business being here, but is. Meaning that Israel must have been watched over….or watched out for. By God. Or by somebody. Time after time, Israel was broken into….broken up….broken off….broken in pieces. The quintessential Israeli question begins: “How close did we come to not being here?”  And the answer always begins: “Well let me tell you a story.”

Just when we thought there was no hope (and no way), God delivered us from the deluge….from the famine….from the Pharaoh….from the waters of the sea and the sands of the Sinai….from the Canaanites, the Ammonites, the Jebusites, the Hittites, and the Girgishites….from the giants….from the Germans….and from the Jordanians. Against all odds, God made a way for us through the waters (and through the wall) so that we might claim, conquer, inhabit and rule a good land…. a broad land….a land flowing with milk and honey (albeit the only piece of land in the entire Middle East with nary a hint of oil beneath it).

But we almost blew it….almost lost it….almost forgot it….almost turned our back on it….almost had it taken away from us. Which would have happened, were it not for a slew of unlikely heroes, including a man on Social Security named Abraham, a man on the lam from the law named Moses, or a man one step removed from puberty named David.

You get the picture? Of course you get the picture. Israel loves this story because Israel has lived this story. And lives it still….to this very day. What is impossible for Israel to conceive (in 1998) is that, to many parts of the world, Israel is beginning to look more-and-more like Goliath and less-and-less like David.

In a related passage we will examine Wednesday night, Israel is out wandering in the desert. As a people, she has not yet reached the Promised Land. But she is close….close enough to send spies. Which she does. And the spies come back, saying: “Wow, it’s wonderful there. It’s fruitful there. Grapes grow as big as watermelons there. But don’t get your hopes up, ‘cause we’ll never be able to go there. For the land is full of giants. Compared to them, we look like grasshoppers” (Numbers 13:33). At least that’s what ten of them said. But two others issued a minority report, saying (in effect): “Grasshoppers or not, we’ve got a chance.” Which they did. Which they took. And which paid off.

So much for Israel. Let’s turn to the kids. Why do kids love stories like this one….featuring great big giants and little boys who fell them? Because kids live this story, too….that’s why. To be a kid is to live in a land of giants. Kids walk around undersized, trying to fill roles that are too big for them (in a world that is too big for them).

In that vein, I love the little subtlety in the story wherein David tries to walk in Saul’s armor. But he can’t. The stuff is too big and too cumbersome. The suit doesn’t fit him….because the responsibility doesn’t fit him. And notice what David says next. He doesn’t say: “I am too small.” Instead, he says: “I have never practiced”….meaning: “I have no experience at this.” Which is lovely, don’t you see? Because who among us has not, on occasion, been thrust into a role for which we have had no experience. It’s happened to me. And every time it happens, I find myself saying: “What am I doing here? I don’t belong here. Nothing I’ve ever done….ever tried….ever learned….has equipped me to be here.” Which is when I either run like holy hell or pray to holy heaven (which is what David did….at least as I read it).

Even though I am 58 years old, there is still a child in me that feels like a pigmy in a giant-infested world. To this day, I have occasional nightmares which find me waking in a cold sweat because of a great weight sitting on my chest….which I cannot outrun, overthrow, shake off or otherwise subdue. There are giants in my life. And not all of them are friendly. Which brings the matter home to those of us who are neither children nor Israelis, but adults (more or less). What does this little tale have to do with us? I suspect it depends on where we place ourselves in the story.

Some of us identify with Goliath. At least we should. For most of us are “the giant” in somebody else’s world….to whom we seem bigger than life and more ominous than death. We are oversized. They are undersized. Our desires control their destinies. Our actions shape their futures. Our words manipulate their emotions. When we smile, they sing. When we frown, they tremble. When we jerk, they dance. When we sneeze, they run for cover.

It both surprises and undoes me whenever I discover that somebody is afraid of me. Because I don’t have it in me to hurt a fly. But it doesn’t have to “be in me”….you see….if it’s in them. Sometimes people create Goliaths where none exist, and I become the product of their imagination.

Last Wednesday night, I had dinner in Colorado Springs with a colleague from Texas. In the fourth year of his present assignment, he still feels uncomfortable….uneasy….unable to change anything. He believes that little will improve (in his church) until he preaches three funerals…. for three men….all of them, over the age of 75….and each of them named Goliath. They’re out there. Or at least he thinks they’re out there.

Which means that he identifies with David. As others of us do. Undersized. Underarmed. Yet finding a way to use some unique gift.…some unrecognized talent….some “fruit of the spirit”…. to level the playing field. If I can’t subdue you with five smooth stones, perhaps I can subdue you with five stunning sermons (or with something else that I can sling under your skin or into your heart). If I can’t outbox you, outlast you, outshout you or outspend you, maybe I can outlove you….which is how several of my heroes have brought giants to their knees.

But most days, none of this fits. I am neither Goliath nor David….neither giant nor hero. Who am I? I am a buck private in Saul’s army, cowering on yonder hill….hoping that it won’t be me….knowing why it can’t be me….slipping deeper into the crowd….all the while saying: “Would that there was someone who would go in my place….fight in my place….and (if need be) die in my place.” Which sounds cowardly, I know. But it’s also honest….and Christian.

For there was one, wasn’t there, who once went forth for me….lonesomely (as the song says) into that valley, where the shadow is longer than that cast by Goliath, or by Grant Hill for that matter. He, too, went without arms or armor, while I watched from the safety of an adjacent hill.

And he emerged victorious, although I scarcely knew it at the time. Or understand it, even now. But had he not gone where he went….had he not done what he did….I’d still be camped with the cowards, sleeping with the grasshoppers….with the giants calling out during the day, and crushing me by night.

Note:  Readers of the text may quarrel with my assertion that Goliath died from decapitation (by a sword) rather than concussion (by a stone). After all, verse 50 of chapter 17 suggests that the stone was sufficient, even though verse 51 adds: “Then David ran and stood over the Philistine, and took his sword and drew it out of its sheath and killed him.” The issue is resolvable only when one understands that there were two narratives stitched together to form the present story….one early and one late. The early narrative includes verses 1-11, verses 32-40, verses 42-48a, verse 49, and verses 51-54. Later additions include verses 12-31, verse 41, verse 48b, verse 50, and verses 55-58. Most everyone agrees that verse 50 (supporting death by stoning) belongs with the latter source….meaning that death by decapitation was clearly the position of the earlier narrative.

The Near Edge of God 12/13/1998

First United Methodist Church

Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: John 1:1-3, 14

When I was three years old, I used to think that the true measure of things was how big they were in comparison to how big I was. There were Billy-sized things. And there were bigger things. But when I was three, almost everything fell into the category of “bigger things.”  Most everything was huge when I was small, but seems to have shrunk, now that I have become huge.

Whenever I go back to the house in which I previously lived….the school in which I previously studied….the fields in which I previously played….and the woods in which I previously roamed….I am amazed at how common, how ordinary, and (yes) how tiny they seem compared to the way I remember them. I find myself wondering: “How did it happen that (after I left it) they came along and downsized my entire neighborhood?”

But it wasn’t just my neighborhood, don’t you see? The world got smaller as Billy got bigger. When I wasn’t allowed to cross the street, there was no end of mystery about what was on the other side. Much of which has now disappeared, given the number of times I have crossed the Atlantic. Albion (on the day I went there to start college….which, ironically, was the first time I ever laid eyes upon the place) might just as easily have been the end of the universe. Given a car and a map, I was far from certain that I would have known how to get home to Detroit. Which changed quickly….not because Albion moved, but because I did.

When first I sang, “Twinkle, twinkle, little star, how I wonder what you are,” I really did wonder. And still do….sort of. But an introductory course on astronomy (coupled with seven Star Trek movies) have reduced my reverence. And every time I tilt back my head and belt, “O Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder, consider all the worlds thy hands have made,” it occurs to me how little I consider such things at all. Until people I respect say: “Hey, take a look at this. It’s going to blow your mind.” So once in awhile I do. And once in awhile it does.

Just the other day, while reading to keep ahead of my Wednesday morning study group, I stumbled upon Leonard Sweet telling me that physicists are currently dismantling every boundary that separates us from the universe, meaning that we are learning more….drawing closer….and sensing connections that we never saw before. But the more we learn, the less we seem to know. For each step of science opens the door to several hundred miles of history. Speaking of the inability of science to measure the “blackness” of matter in space, University of Washington astrophysicist, Bruce Margon, confesses: “It’s a fairly embarrassing situation to admit that we can’t find 90 percent of the universe.” Which I can’t comprehend. Here I am, worrying about a clothes dryer that eats every seventh sock. And there he is, looking for 90 percent of the universe. (“Now slow down, Bruce. Think of where you last saw it.”)

We live in a galaxy so big, that a light ray (traveling at the rate of 186,000 miles per second) takes 100,000 years to go from one side of the galaxy to the other. And how many galaxies did God create? More than one, they tell me. But I’ve never seen ‘em. Which is not God’s fault….that I haven’t seen ‘em, I mean. Physicist Charles Misner believes this is why Albert Einstein had so little use for the church (even though he said a lot of things that seemed friendly to religion). He must have listened to preachers like me….talking about subjects like God….and figured that he (Einstein) had seen far more majesty than I’d ever imagined.

Still, there is Sweet’s suggestion that the old distinctions between out-there and in-here are breaking down…..meaning that we are connected to the totality of the universe (including the 90 percent of it we can’t find) in more ways than we previously expected, and that we are connected to the God of the universe in more ways than we previously believed.

Let me try and explain, knowing that in doing so, I am skating at the naked edge of my knowledge zone, and (quite possibly) your comfort zone. It all has to do with what the scientists call “Chaos Theory”…..which is anything but what the name would seem to suggest. So work with me, here.

Until very recently, we believed in a world that could be understood and managed. In fact, we believed that way since 1686 when Sir Isaac Newton wrote a startling book entitled Principia. In that book, Newton suggested that the earth circled the sun (rather than vice versa), and that the atom was the basic building block of the universe. He also suggested that the solar system worked like a vast machine, operating on a series of fixed laws. He summed up these laws in four relatively simple algebraic formulas, thereby putting the question of “how things worked” to bed, where it stayed nicely tucked in for some 300 years.

But now Newton’s model has come apart….the covers have become untucked….and mystery is once again loose in the cosmos. With the work being done in quantum physics, we are discovering a sub-atomic world that does not behave (at all) in the ways that Newton said it did. Things are impossible to pin down, what with particles turning into waves and waves turning into particles. Things that have shape and mass one minute, become pure energy the next. And nobody knows when such changes will occur….and why.

Which makes it hard to predict anything in the universe. Or study anything in the universe. In fact, the very act of attempting to study a particle, changes it (meaning that scientists can no longer stand outside of anything and observe it). Because the very particles and waves that are responding to each other, will end up responding to the watcher as well.

Picture a teacher saying to her class (at the beginning of the morning): “Class, that big guy sitting in the back corner is from the Board of Education. He has come to observe us today. But we will just go on with our work like we always do. So forget he’s here and open your books to page 132.” But they won’t “forget he’s here.” And very little will “go on like it always does.” Because his presence will have changed everything, don’t you see? I suppose he could observe the class through a two-way mirror so that nobody in the room would be able to see him. But the quantum physicists tell us that, in the universe, there is no two-way mirror behind which to hide. So every act of trying to chart something, changes it. Which means that everything reacts to everything else, and there is no such thing as pure scientific activity.

What this also means is that it is no longer helpful to think of the world as a machine. For machines are full of little parts….all doing what they were made to do….always have done…. always will do….until they wear out and (in order to keep the machine running) someone replaces the worn out part with another, to do exactly the same thing. Which is how machines work. But not universes.

A better image for the universe is that of a living body, in which no part operates independently from the rest, and where every change in one part of the body is noted, recorded, and adapted to by changes in every other part of the body.

For those of you who don’t like physics, consider economics. It used to be said….and probably still is….that every time Tokyo catches a cold, Wall Street sneezes. Which occurs not only because we are world-connected economically, but because we are world-connected informationally. Wall Street knows (or learns) of Tokyo’s troubles, almost instantaneously. And you and I understand the role of technology in the information-sharing process….meaning that we know how we know.

But when such connections are spotted in the universe, we don’t know how we know. A few of you may be familiar with the “butterfly effect,” first brought to our attention in 1961 by a research meteorologist named Edward Lorenz. Interested in why he could not come up with foolproof weather forecasts, he found that every weather pattern is acutely sensitive to conditions present at its creation. Meaning that when a butterfly beats its wings in Beijing, it affects the weather (weeks later) here in Birmingham. We are that connected.

But that’s not all. We have found that two particles separated by whole galaxies (you remember that I said there are more than one) seem to know what each other is doing. Change the spin on one, and the other reverses its spin….wherever it is….at the same instant. We don’t know how it knows to do that, since it happens faster than the speed of light. It probably has something to do with what is now being called “Field Theory,” which is more than I can explain and more than you need to consider (given my sense that your eyes are moments removed from glazing over).

All of this is related to what we call “Chaos Theory.” Which is a term I have recoiled against for years, because it sounded like reality was random, purposeless and wildly-out-of-control (all of which seem like synonyms for Godless). Perhaps “chaos” is a bad choice of words, but it doesn’t mean what it sounds like. It simply means that the universe is a giant web. Any place you touch it, everything else will feel it. All is connected. Meaning that we are all connected. And while there is an ultimate order to the chaos (in the sense of boundaries beyond which the web will not go and patterns to which the web will inevitably return), within the web, everything is alive, acting, adapting, participating, exchanging, relating, giving and taking, impacting and sharing.

So what? So plenty. But I will settle for raising a pair of implications in the time I have left. First, I would suggest that God is bigger than we ever thought God to be. And that God is more intimate than we ever thought him to be.

Let’s start with “bigger.” Much of the church’s theology has contented itself with declarations “of the wonderful works that God has done.” But can we declare what God has done, without shutting down a consideration of what God may do next? Chaos Theory is incredibly alive. Meaning that, within certain prescribed boundaries, every part of God’s web tingles….whether we be the tingler….or God. Which is most biblical, although we tend to gloss over such texts as Isaiah 43:18-19: “Do not remember the former things. I am about to do a new thing. Now it springs forth. Do you not perceive it?”

All of which means that while we should love God, praise God, adore and revere God, we should not sit too comfortably in the saddle of familiarity with God….assuming that we know everything there is to know about God. Almost everybody who is anybody in theology is now talking about “the re-enchantment of the universe.” But the theologians did not invent this term. They borrowed it from the scientists. What does it mean? It means that the scientists and the theologians are presiding over a rebirth of mystery, wonder and awe. Science has been humbled, learning that it does not know….cannot predict….and therefore is no longer able to dominate the universe, as was once thought possible. Dominion belongs to God alone.

Which leads Barbara Brown Taylor to suggest that perhaps (just perhaps) some of us have gotten a little too chummy with God. Tune in many sermons on Sunday morning and you will hear preachers speaking of God as they would a pet lion: “Oh, he was fierce once, but there is nothing to be afraid of now. You can climb up on his back if you want to. We’ve had all his teeth and claws pulled.”

Now, I am not suggesting that we should necessarily fear God (although the Bible is not afraid to offer that admonition). But I am suggesting that we should respect God. When a sailboat skipper tells me that he is doing this or that….or not doing this or that….because of the healthy respect he has for Lake Michigan, he is not saying that sailing is no longer fulfilling or fun. Indeed, he may believe that he is never happier, more alive, or at greater peace, than when he is five miles out on the open water. But by “respecting the lake,” he is acknowledging that the waters are cold, deep, challenging and (from time to time) utterly unpredictable. As a seasoned sailor, what he knows is wonderful. But he does not know it all. And what he does not know could change his life in an instant. Sailing begins in reverence. As does theology.

But if theology begins in reverence, it ends in intimacy. If, indeed, everything in the universe relates to (and is affected by) everything else….if, indeed, God is both the spinner of the web and the tingler of the web….if, indeed, it is impossible to know how any one thing works, but only that all things are connected….doesn’t it stand to reason that God (himself, herself, Godself) would want to be known in the most intimate, web-tingling, life-touching way possible?

And isn’t it possible that if the body (rather than the machine) is now the paradigm by which we understand the universe, doesn’t it stand to reason that God would want to become a body….so that through that relationship we might become somebody (and, collectively, God’s body). For this, in all of its mystery, is what the church means by the word “incarnation.”

* * * * *

Oh, God is so big. And yet God is so near.

Go back to the sea. I’ve told you this before, but let me tell you again. The first time I saw the sea, I didn’t so much see it as hear it. And it scared me half to death. I was eight or nine and on a vacation trip with my parents. Late at night, we reached the New England shore with no place to lay our weary heads. No reservations had been made….with mother and father carping at each other about whose fault that was. “No Vacancy” signs (in blinking red neon) dotted every hamlet of the landscape. No moon. No stars. Just the sound of wave after wave smacking the seawall, to the point of spraying the windshield. And although the sea was just being the sea….being true to its nature….doing what seas do….I was very much afraid.

Then in 1981….July….Honolulu.…Waikiki Beach….Kris and I took a taxi to a wonderful restaurant at the base of Diamond Head, where we ate our fill, spent our wad, foreswore the taxi and walked home along the shore. Taking off our shoes, we danced the line where the water quietly kissed the sand (except for those moments, of course, when we stopped to quietly kiss each other). And we were thankful that the sea….also true to its nature….was making itself known to us in this way.

* * * * *

In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God. And the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things were made through him. And, apart from him, was not anything made that was made.

And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us. Full of grace. Full of truth. And we beheld….not comprehended, beheld….his glory.

Note:  I am indebted to Leonard Sweet’s book The Jesus Prescription for a Healthy Life and Barbara Brown Taylor’s essay “Preaching Into the Next Millennium,” found in a collection of essays entitled Exilic Preaching: Testimony for Christian Exiles in an Increasingly Hostile Culture.

In a post-sermon conversation with Bob Pierce, I learned that, as a result of the Hubble space telescope, astronomers now estimate the number of galaxies in the universe to be at least 50 billion (and, with some 200 billion stars, the Milky Way is pretty much “an average player” as galaxies go). Larger galaxies are said to contain a trillion or more stars. Not that I’ve counted them.

Were You Born in a Barn? 12/24/1998

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Christmas Eve, 1998

Earlier this December, a preacher from “way up north” was traveling “way down south,” when he stopped for lunch at an out-of-the-way diner. Mounting a stool at the counter, and anticipating his first forkful of ham and redeye gravy, he summoned the waitress and asked if she could answer a question about the nativity set out front….which, he said, was lovely….just lovely…. save for one small thing. “What’s that?” she said (rocking back on her heels). “Well,” he began, “I just found myself wondering why your wise men….which look splendid on their camels, don’t you know….are all wearing firemen’s hats.”

“That’s because the wise men were firemen,” she answered.

“Were not,” he said.

“Were so,” she responded.

“Prove it,” he challenged.

“I will,” she countered.

Whereupon she took a well-thumbed Bible from under the counter….muttered something about “Yankees knowing nothing about the Word of God”….thumbed until she came to the second chapter of Matthew….announced, “It says so right here”….and proceeded to read: “And in those days, three wise men came from afar.”

Well, maybe they did. The Bible doesn’t say where their trip originated. From the East, says the book. From the Orient, says the carol. From Persia, says modern scholarship (meaning Iraq…. according to today’s atlas….and, if true, isn’t that just shot through and dripping with irony).

I once had a friend who said (concerning the three kings) that they came in a Honda….because the Bible says that “they were of one accord.” But when I looked it up, it was the disciples who were “of one accord” (Acts 1:14)….meaning that it was they who traveled by Honda, if anybody traveled by Honda.

But I find myself less interested in where the kings (wise men, magi, Iraqi astrologers, whatever) came from, as where they went. Meaning Bethlehem. Or, more to the point, to a barn in Bethlehem….at least a place with animals in Bethlehem.

Like I said a few weeks ago, I know next-to-nothing about animals, and (therefore) next-to-nothing about barns. But I do remember my father asking me, from time to time, if I was born in one. I figured if anybody should know, he should know. I mean, he was there, wasn’t he?

I wasn’t far into my childhood before I learned that when my father said, “Were you born in a barn,” he wasn’t referring to the place I was delivered, so much as the door I’d left opened. Which is why his rebuke, voiced in its entirety, read: “Shut the door. Were you born in a barn?”

Just so you will know, I wasn’t. And Jesus probably wasn’t either. Biblical scholar, Kenneth Bailey, points out that the word in our Bible translated as “inn,” is (in the original Greek) “kataluma.” Which does not mean “inn”….or “hotel”….so much as it means “guest room.” In the typical Mid-Eastern home, there is a room designated for out-of-town visitors….the “kataluma”….or the “guest room.” So the place where Mary and Joseph took respite probably wasn’t an inn at all, but a private home (perhaps even the home of a relative).

But with the “kataluma” (guest room) already filled….by Uncle Oscar and Aunt Mildred from Dubuque, most likely….Mary and Joseph were given the next best place in the house to stay, which was probably the outer room (front room) of the house. It was to this room that livestock were brought on winter nights, only to be ushered out in the morning so as to allow for other family activities. Those of you who go to sleep, this Christmas Eve, on somebody’s hide-a-bed….because Uncle Oscar and Aunt Mildred beat you to the queen-sized bed in the kataluma….will know whereof I speak.

But if there were animals there, it probably felt like a barn. So a barn, we’ll let it be. Why? Because it will preach better that way. That’s why.

If this child is a gift from God….and if this child (in ways you can’t begin to imagine and I can’t begin to explain) somehow is God….I suppose it can be said that God was born in a barn. Which sounds appropriate, given that God’s first appearance to humankind was in a garden. Now, 1200 pages later, God’s come indoors.

And could it be that God….growing out of his desire to tinker with creation on a daily basis….might be more at home in a barn than anyplace else? For God is more farmer than field general….more farmer than watchmaker….more farmer than (say) artist, architect, or even astrophysicist….more farmer (certainly) than Supreme Court judge or slum landlord.

            For what does a farmer do?

                        He does his chores, that’s what he does.

And when does a farmer do them?

                        He does them daily, that’s when he does them.

            And what happens when the farmer misses a few days?

                        Things go to hell in a hand basket, that’s what happens.

Farmers not only sow it and reap it, farmers also have to keep after it, stay on top of it, and seldom (if ever) get to leave it....especially if the “it” is not corn and carrots, but cows and chickens. Farming is daily work. Barns are symbols of where such work is done. Chores are the nature of that work. And we are God’s chores.

As for barn doors being open, I suppose that such is a good thing. For it means that anybody can come there. And it means that everybody belongs there. Which includes both shepherds and kings….who can be readily distinguished by their feet. That’s because kings ride about the “stuff” of earth, while shepherds walk through it. But it doesn’t matter in a barn. Because everything smells a little bit in a barn. Sort of like in here….if the unperfumed truth be told.

In this December’s issue of New York Magazine, there is a half-page ad for Marble Collegiate Church….Norman Vincent Peale’s old church…..where (as they proclaim) “good things happen.” And what do they say in their Christmas Eve ad? They say, in big block letters:
“WE DON’T ASK IF YOU’VE BEEN NAUGHTY OR NICE.” Well, neither do I. Because I already know, don’t you see. I already know.

And God doesn’t care. At least for tonight.

Marilyn Monroe has become a pop icon of our time. Arthur Miller, in his autobiography Timebends, tells of his marriage to her. During the filming of The Misfits, Miller watched Marilyn descend into the depths of depression and despair. Fearing for her life, he watched her estrangement, her paranoia and her increasing dependence on barbiturates. One evening, after a doctor had been persuaded to give Marilyn yet another shot, she was sleeping. Arthur Miller stood watching her, reflecting:

I found myself straining to imagine miracles. What if she were to wake and I were able to say: “God loves you, darling.” And what if she were able to believe it? How I wish I still had my religion and she, hers.

I don’t know what brought you here tonight….or how you got from home to church. I only hope that you are “straining to imagine miracles.” For it is nothing less than the miracle Arthur wanted for Marilyn that I proclaim to you in the midst of the Christmas Eve darkness.

Remember the kid who was afraid to go from the house to the barn at night because, as he put it, “it was so dark.” So his daddy handed him a lantern. But the kid said: “Even with this light in my hand, I can’t see the barn.” So his daddy said: “You don’t have to see the barn right now. Just walk to the end of your light.”

Well, you’ve come to the barn. And we’ve handed you a light. Maybe not all the light you wanted. But all the light you need.

And maybe you don’t need much. Maybe you are among those who swallowed a Franklin Planner for breakfast and have the next 20 years of your life all planned out. Hey, that’s great…. smart….and very resourceful.

But maybe you are here tonight, not knowing where you are going to be 20 months, 20 days or 20 hours from now….not knowing whether you’re going to have a job, a spouse, a happy home, or any home (for that matter). Things change so fast, don’t you know. At 7:30 this morning, I was in line for croissants and brioche at the Petit Prince Bakery. The lady in front of me spotted a lady in back of me. “It’s been forever since I’ve seen you,” she said. “How are you?” “I’m homeless,” said her friend. “I’ve been out of my house since December 7 when a tree fell on our roof.” Now I know there is a mild incongruity between “being homeless” and standing in line at the most expensive French bakery in Birmingham. Still, on the morning of December 7, there was no entry in her Franklin Planner that said: “Roof caves in.”

Nor in yours. So what I want you to do this night is take as much light as you can grab….from this old barn of a place….and from this old farmer of a God….and then walk to the end of it. Knowing that it will be enough….even more than enough….for the living of your days.

* * * * *

Christmas Eve, 1998….“chilling the body, but not the soul.” For along about 1:00 this morning, the house waits….the fire waits….the lobster bisque waits….the chilled shrimp waits….the presents wait….the peace waits….and two wonderful women wait.

Life is not meager. Love is not wanting. Friends are not scarce. Memories are still mixed (most of them sweet, but some of them, incredibly sad….given that a full table does not always disguise an empty chair).

But you still come. Words still come. The Word still comes. And with it, the fire.

For I was born in a barn, don’t you see? And I have yet to reach the end of its light. So Merry Christmas. And peace to all who are within the house.

Note:  Let me share my appreciation with Lloyd Heussner for passing along the ad from New York Magazine featuring Marble Collegiate Church.

Somewhere Between Great Lakes Crossing and the Plains of Bethlehem 12/20/1998

First United Methodist Church

Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Psalm 34:8, John 1:43-46

Let’s start with a word about economies and how they change, or birthday cakes and how they evolve. Back in the days of the agrarian economy (when most of us lived on farms or depended upon those who did), mothers made birthday cakes from scratch, mixing farm commodities like flour, sugar, butter and eggs, that together cost mere dimes.

As the farms gave way to the factories….and as the agrarian economy gave way to the Industrial Revolution….moms paid a dollar or two to Betty Crocker for birthday cake ingredients that were already pre-mixed and pre-boxed.

Later, when the service economy took its place alongside of the industrial economy, busy moms ordered cakes from the bakery or the grocery store, which (at $10 or $15 a pop) cost ten times as much as the ingredients that Betty Crocker provided.

Now, in the time-starved nineties, moms no longer bake the cake or even buy it and bring it home. Instead, they are likely to spend $100 or more to “out source” the entire event to McDonald’s, Chuck E. Cheese’s, or some other entertainment emporium that will stage a memorable event for kids (and probably throw in the cake for free).

“Welcome to the experience economy.” Which is not so much my greeting as that of Joseph Pine and James Gilmore, who are the co-authors of a book entitled Every Business a Stage: Why Customers Now Want Experiences. Truth be told, I haven’t read their book. But, thanks to Bill Burnett, I did read their article in the Harvard Business Review published in July of this year. And they make an interesting case. They suggest that from now on, leading-edge companies will find that the next competitive battleground lies, not in providing goods or services, but in staging experiences. Unless companies want to fall by the wayside, they will be compelled to upgrade their offerings to this newest stage of consumer gratification.

But how does an experience differ from a service….and how do you sell it? Some of you remember the old television series, Taxi, and a rather sleazy character named Jim Ignatowski (who sometimes went by the title Rev. Jim). One day, Jim decided to become the best taxi driver in New York. So he served sandwiches and beverages to his passengers, conducted guided tours of Manhattan, and even sang Frank Sinatra tunes while cruising the city. By engaging his riders in a way that turned an ordinary cab ride into a memorable event, Jim gave them something decidedly extra for their money. His customers responded by giving bigger tips. And a few even asked him to drive around the block one more time, the better to prolong the enjoyment.

Now all kinds of businesses are trying to get in on the act. Earlier this fall, I told you of my invitation to attend the grand opening of the Kroger store in downtown Birmingham. As one who seldom frequents such places, I declined. But then I began to understand that I had missed something. So I went to see for myself. And what I discovered was that this was “not my father’s grocery store.” It engaged all of my senses. There were things to look at….things to smell…. things to taste. There were things to stretch my imagination, from seaweed to sushi. And while I haven’t been back many times since, the Kroger people have broken through my earlier barriers, thus guaranteeing return visits at some time in the future.

Or consider movie theaters. I used to fork over my money and sit down to see a film. But now the owner of the Star Theater complex in Southfield suggests that “it should be worth the price of the movie just to enter his building.” Which is why the Star Theater annually charges its 3 million customers a 25 percent higher admission than the local competitor down the street, because of the fun-house experience it provides. And with 65,000 square feet of restaurants and stores being added to the complex, it is not inconceivable that Star will charge us to walk through the front door, whether we ever see a movie or not.

Which brings me to Great Lakes Crossing. Some of you wondered about its inclusion in this morning’s title. Actually, when I selected the title, I’d never been to the mall. I feel about outlet malls pretty much as I feel about grocery stores….maybe even worse. But I kept hearing those advertisements promising “eye-popping, heart-stopping, jaw-dropping shopping.” And I kept reading about traffic jams at the Joslyn Road exit, not to mention five hour waits at some of the mall’s more popular restaurants.

So last Thursday night, I took a little field trip. In the company of my wife (a seasoned shopper), I actually spent two hours in the place. Not that my heart stopped, mind you. In fact, I was rather disappointed. To be sure, the place was big. There was a food court “half the size of Utah.” And there were 204 places that would have been glad to take my money, had I chosen to part with any. But half of the shops, I’d never heard of. And the biggest discounts were clearly reserved for the least popular items. I did take a closer look at a place called Neiman Marcus’ Last Call (which sounded like a title chosen by a bartender rather than a retailer). And it looked like the sale of a bunch of stuff that nobody else had wanted. Which didn’t do much for making me want it, either.

The restaurants were cool. There was a place with the word “Alcatraz” in its title, offering me the opportunity to bite a burger behind bars. But having spent quite a bit of time in prison the last few weeks, that was the last thing I wanted to do. So Kris and I tried the Rainforest Café….where it really does rain….right beside you….all the time. I didn’t stay long enough for mold to grow on my sport coat. But the food was decent. And there were animated animals, ranging from elephants to crocodiles. Which were fun the first time. And my grandchildren might like them a second time….if and when I ever have grandchildren. But I passed on buying a T-shirt. And probably won’t go back anytime in the near future. It’s a mall, for crying out loud. Although others would call it “the wave of the future.”

Notice that in my mild critique of Great Lakes Crossing, I said less about my shopping than about my experience. Which didn’t match the hype….or my expectation. Had I actually bought something and saved several dollars in the process, I might have come home thrilled. But I did not go there to purchase a product. Nor was I invited there to purchase a product. I was invited to participate in a pleasure. Which did beat cleaning the leaves out of the gutter. But not by a lot.

Still, this “enchantment with experience” intrigues me, given the degree to which I find it impacting the church. Increasingly, people come not just to “get something” or “give something,” but to “experience something.” For years, people who studied the church market (the better to instruct marketing dummies like me), said that what people wanted from the church were a wider-range and better-quality of goods and services. Sunday schools for the small ones. Youth groups for the growing (and, potentially, straying ones). Choirs (vocal, bell, handchime, instrumental, folk, soft rock and praise) for the musical ones. Teams for the athletic ones. Support groups for the troubled ones. Growth groups for the searching ones. Social groups for the gregarious ones. Work projects for the handsy ones. Day trips for the antsy ones. And seminars for the studious ones. Every year….more. Every year….better.

Which was a message I heard. But now, I am told, there is another shift. One which is more subtle….less specific….harder to classify….harder, still, to satisfy. People are now coming “to experience something.” And when they do, they are not altogether sure what it was. But they announce a willingness to come back (as they tell me), because they liked the “feel” of the place. Which puts a lot of pressure, don’t you see, on those of us responsible for creating the “feel” of the place….given that we don’t fully understand this phenomenon, and don’t agree 100 percent among ourselves about what a fitting and proper church of Jesus Christ ought to “feel like” in the first place.

But there is one thing I do know. This business of “experiencing church” is never more pronounced than at Christmastime….when people who seldom darken our doors suddenly find themselves streaming through them. Which is fine by me. You will never hear this preacher decrying (or denying) the “C and E crowd,” or the “twicesters” as some of my colleagues call them. Because I, for one, can’t always tell the mildly curious from the deeply devout. And even religious voyeurs, peering through the Christmas Eve darkness from the shadowed corners of the balcony, would appear to be looking for something. Although I doubt that many of them understand the nature of their search, or the depth of their need to be here.

At Duke Chapel, they have already announced (well in advance) that the ushers will close the doors to the 11:00 p.m. service after 1700 persons have been admitted to the sanctuary. This is in response to a would-be congregant (last year) who berated the head usher, screaming: “This is Christmas Eve. You’ve got to let me in. I’ve got my rights. You can’t keep me outta church on Christmas Eve.” I doubt that anybody (usher….preacher….screamer) fully understood what lay behind his behavior….or his need. All I know is that when you are hungry….and somebody tells you there is a two hour wait at the restaurant….more than your stomach will growl.

But (on Christmas Eve) hungry for what? I’m not always sure. Certainly for something old. An old story. Several old songs. An old face. An old faith. Certainly, an old feeling (“I came Christmas Eve, and got that old feeling”). And perhaps (just perhaps) an old assurance….that the timeless verities we trumpet at Christmas (sometimes to the point of spirit-numbing banality) are still verities (meaning still “true”). I’m talking about things like peace, love and joy….light in the dark places….highways in the crooked places….songs in the silent places….those sorts of things. Christmas Eve is the one time of year when the sheep come to be fed yesterday’s food….having remembered that it filled them once….desperately hoping against hope that it will fill them again. And in a world where cruise missiles are falling, impeachment votes are flying, and Marcy Devernay’s list of 20,000 names is longer than Santa Claus’, who can blame them.

But in addition to being hungry for something old, I think they (and we) are also hungry for something deep….perhaps too deep for human telling. I’m talking about a mystery that cannot be explained, so much as entered into (which is another word for “experienced”….which is another word for “felt”). Unlike the late Joe Friday of the L.A.P.D., people come on Christmas Eve wanting more than “just the facts.”

It took me awhile to learn it….but learn it I did….that nobody comes to church on Christmas Eve for an explanation of the incarnation. And when, in a darkened sanctuary we sing “Round yon virgin, mother and child,” no one is interested in debating gynecology or paternity (not that such subjects aren’t important….but, at that moment, hardly appropriate). Whenever people tell me they’re having a hard time “getting Christmas,” they are not talking about a problem with the intellect, but a problem with the emotions.

So what is this mystery that the church would have us enter? Namely, that God has not, will not, and perhaps (if God be true to God’s nature) cannot abandon history. God is not an absentee landlord who lets the old place run down because he doesn’t live there anymore…..doesn’t go there anymore….and doesn’t care what happens there anymore. Rather, God is a stakeholder in history….in humanity….and in the happenings of ordinary human beings like you and me. If Easter is about a God who comes back to collect us at life’s end, then Christmas is about a God who comes to “comfort us” in life’s middle.

How can this be? Well….come and see! That’s the answer of the carols. That’s the answer of the gospels. That’s the answer of the shepherds. That’s the answer of the angels. That’s the answer of the star. And that’s the answer of pretty much everybody in the Gospel of John….from Philip speaking to Nathanael….from the eleven speaking to Thomas….from the blind guy speaking to the Pharisees….and from a five-times-married lady speaking to a bunch of guys who used to pick her up at a local watering hole. Come and see. “O taste and see how gracious the Lord is” (Psalm 34:8). Meaning, move in….draw near….come close….open up….drink it in (first with your eyes, then with your heart).

And how might one do that? Well, it depends on whether you are a kid or a parent. If you are a kid, all it takes is putting on a costume. I mean, which one of us (at least one time in our lives) didn’t don a bathrobe, lace up some sandals, put a crook in our hands or attach some wings to our back, and stand around some straw-filled box with a plastic baby in it. Most of the really good Christmas stories have to do with something silly or sublime that once happened when a bunch of neophyte munchkins answered a casting call for a script that began: “Now the birth of Jesus Christ took place in this way.”

In fact, Sue Ives tells me that 105 kids have signed up to take part in our 4:30 p.m. reenactment on Christmas Eve….meaning that we truly will have a host of angels and (perchance) an entire brigade of kings. We could, I suppose, have multiple Marys. But Kate Wilcox tells me we have but one Mary suit. And we wouldn’t want to open ourselves to the promulgation of a new (and potentially deceiving) doctrine….namely, group childbirth.

But, if there is no costume that fits you and no pageant that requires you, let me invite you to get in touch….not with a childhood memory….but with a parental one. I want you to remember the first time somebody gave you a baby to hold. Your baby to hold. How shriveled it looked. How small it appeared. How fragile it seemed. How proud, excited, humbled, dumbstruck and frightened you felt. Perhaps even to the point of resolving (as one father did) that: “I had better clean up my act and become somebody….because she is somebody.”

What if, on a night of great solemnity, you were to draw nigh to some simple nativity, only to have Mary call you over….with a name….with a nod….or maybe with but the merest movement of a finger, and say: “Yes, Ron, you….why don’t you hold the baby….just for a moment. Because it is your child, you know.”

What would it feel like to hold that much of God’s future for the world….and that much of God’s faith in you….in your very own hands?

Should Mary make the offer, don’t deny it. And, for God’s sake, don’t drop it. For, as Sister Mary Corita once said: “Be, of love, a little more careful than of anything.”

Note: I am indebted to Bill Burnett for sharing the article by Joseph Pine and James Gilmore entitled “Every Business a Stage: Why Customers Now Want Experiences.” Look for it in the July-August issue of Harvard Business Review. I am equally indebted to Peter Gomes and his perceptive understanding of the Christmas Eve congregation, which can be found in his newest work, The Good Book, in a chapter entitled “The Bible and Mystery.” And for those not familiar with Oakland County politics, Marcy Devernay is a highly-publicized provider of female escorts whose “black book” allegedly contains the names of some 20,000 citizens (many of them prominent).