Message In a Bottle

Dr. William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church

Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Luke 15

What an exciting new venture this is. I can’t help but be thrilled with the number of people who have gathered. For some of you, this is your first time in this church. For others, this is your second or third service of the day. As for me, it’s my fourth. But who’s counting? Besides, what a day it has been.

Looking around the sanctuary, I don’t see many of you who were here at 8:15 this morning. Which means that you missed Russ Ives’ wonderful solo. Russ sang “If With All Your Hearts, Ye Truly Seek Me” from Mendelssohn’s Elijah. And Russ has seldom sounded better. But he had a great song to start with. Rumor has it that Karl Barth once identified Mozart as the person he most hoped to see in heaven. But I trust that in some corner of the life that is to come, God has made some room for Mendelssohn.

If you go down Woodward Avenue to Metropolitan United Methodist Church, you will see the words Russ sang stenciled high above the altar. The only problem is, the letters all run together. No spacing separates them.

IfwithallyourheartsyetrulyseekmeyeshalleversurelyfindmethussaithyourGod.

I am not sure why it was done that way. But, sooner or later, most people catch on.

The idea behind the text is that, at some time or another, most of us will go looking for God. Not that we will do it continuously….or devotedly. But, at some point in time, the quest will capture and consume us. It will take some to mountaintops and others to monasteries. Still others of us will go to places where human need is raw, the better that we might find God in the faces of our hurting neighbors.

But I want to suggest something of a counter movement….that God goes looking, too. Moments ago I read a trio of texts. All of them describe a seeking God. In the first text, Adam is hiding from God in the garden. Leading God to ask: “Where are you?” Unless I am mistaken, it is the first question God poses in the Bible. He wants to know where Adam is.

The second text quotes the psalmist:

            Where can I go from your spirit?

            Where can I flee from your presence?

            If I ascend to heaven, you are there.

            If I make my bed in Sheol, you are there.

            If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea,

            Even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me.

Imagine that. Wherever we go, God will find us. Making our bed in Sheol is a “death image.” So is “taking the wings of the morning and dwelling in the uttermost parts of the sea.” What is the psalmist saying? He is suggesting that even if we die, God will hunt us down.

Then I read a couple of stories from Luke 15. I could have read them all, but a little taste is enough. A shepherd loses a sheep and goes looking for it. A lady loses a coin and does the same. And, in a story I didn’t read, a boy leaves home and heads for parts unknown. But his father never turns off the porch light, even as we picture him standing in the doorway scanning the horizon for a familiar face.

The connecting thread seems to be obvious. Things get lost. People get lost. And God organizes a search party. Even when we are indifferent….or downright hostile….to discovery.

Hiding is sometimes deliberate. We wander off intentionally. I don’t know if kids play Hide and Seek anymore, but I played it every night. Somebody was chosen to be “it.” He then buried his face in the big maple tree and counted to a hundred by fives. Then he cried: “Here I come, ready or not.” And we were always ready. Meaning that we were well hidden.

I don’t remember all the variations of the game that followed. Either he found us, or we somehow “got in free.” But I once got to thinking: “What if I hide so well that people stop looking?” What if I am still hiding when everybody else quits and goes home? Or quits to play baseball? Or starts a new game without me? I picture myself wondering: “Aren’t you going to look anymore?” Leading me to ponder the possibility that human beings crave discovery.

But hiding is sometimes inadvertent. We don’t plan to hide. We just wander off. Still, God looks for us, even when we are unaware that we have wandered.

John Wesley called this “prevenient grace.” In theological terminology, it means: “What God does for me, prior to my awareness.” Let me illustrate. Picture taking your kid to the state fair…. to a giant amusement park….or to a shopping mall. All of a sudden, you become aware of the fact that your kid is no longer by your side, but has wandered off. At first, you do a quiet little search. You go up one aisle….down another. But when your ever-widening circles fail to lead to discovery, you panic. Your search becomes sweaty and emotional. You make inquiries. You enlist allies. You have them page your kid over the loud speaker.

Eventually, you are successful. You hug your kid. Then you scold your kid. But your kid gives you the dumbest look in the world, followed by the question: “What’s all the fuss about?” Your kid didn’t even know he was lost. But there’s nothing unusual about that. Most of us don’t.

But the Bible seems to suggest that whether our hiding be deliberate or inadvertent, God is a relentless seeker (“Here I come, ready or not”). God will stop at nothing till we are found.

* * * * *

Picture, if you will, an island. The island is relatively large, but not so large so as to be inaccessible to all who dwell there. Meaning that everybody on the island has the possibility of knowing everybody else on the island. Not everybody does, of course. But everybody could.

The island, itself, is both balmy and breezy. Some describe it as “pleasant.” Others hold out for the word “idyllic.”

Stories suggest that people first came to the island following a series of shipwrecks. But, if true, they happened a long time ago. Nobody remembers (or talks about) them very much.

Life on the island is both predictable and comfortable. Early settlers took pains to civilize things. And classify things. Meaning that all the birds were named….as were the fish and animals. Trees, too. A system of transmitting information was established so that young minds could be trained. Thus, the island had education. When disputes arose (as will happen from time to time), a process was devised so that they might be resolved. Hence, the island had adjudication. And there was a “fun side” to life on the island, as evidenced by parties, parades and even an occasional holiday. Meaning that the island knew celebration. All told, a pretty nice place to live.

One day, while walking the beach, a man spotted a bottle. Uncorking it, he removed a piece of paper on which he found the words “Help is coming.” Not quite understanding what he had read, he said nothing to anybody and threw the bottle back into the sea.

Another day, while walking the same beach, the same man spotted a second bottle. This time the message read: “Help will arrive soon.” Puzzled, he confided in a friend.

Over time, more bottles washed up on the sand. Not all at once. And not every day. But enough, so that others began looking for them. While the messages varied from bottle to bottle, there was a common thread connecting them. Included were these:

            “Help left yesterday.”

            “Help is never far away.”

On the surface, the messages seemed absurd. People on the island didn’t really need help. But, over time, strange things began to happen. As word got around, more people began to gather on the beach. While they didn’t have a word to describe what they were feeling, there was a “curiosity” they hadn’t felt before….a curiosity about life beyond the island. They began to wonder what was out there….who was out there….and why “out there” cared about “here.”

All of which led to a collective musing….not about “what we got”….but about “what we ain’t got.” They began to wonder what they were missing. Was there something they needed that they didn’t have? They began to feel less than complete.

Over time, things became ritualized. While people still walked the beach looking for bottles at odd times of the day and night, others began to gather on a weekly basis. Some in the morning. Some at night. Upon gathering to look for new messages, they found it comforting to reread the old ones. All of which led to a camaraderie (of sorts) that was deeper than any they had previously experienced. Meaning that they began to support each other….look after each other….mutually encourage each other.

They began to feel good about the fact that the world was larger than they had imagined it to be. And the place where they lived began to feel less and less like an “I land.”

Some, of course, didn’t have any of these feelings. They paid little attention to the messages. Instead, they satisfied themselves by studying every detail of the bottles that brought them.

* * * * *

My friends, Russ is right. Seekers abound. Most mornings (and some evenings) on the “I land,” there are people who gather on the beach to look for bottles, read messages and encourage each other. Fortunately, bottle sightings are still frequent. And messages aren’t really that hard to find. In fact, one washed up yesterday. Unrolling it….and reading it….it had the feel of a lyric:

            You’ll never know just how much I love you.          

            You’ll never know just how much I care.

            And if I tried, I still couldn’t hide my love for you.

            You ought to know, for haven’t I told you so,

                        A million or more times….

Note:  This message was delivered at our first-ever “Sunday Night Alive” service. This represents a new venture for First Church and offers a fourth worship option each Sunday, featuring a more “contemporary” format.

“Sunday Night Alive” sermons may differ somewhat in style from those preached on Sunday morning. They are delivered from notes rather than a manuscript….and from a platform rather than a pulpit. Over time, a comfortable pattern will surely emerge.

For my story about the island, I am indebted to a wonderful book by Eugene Peterson entitled Working the Angles: The Shape of Pastoral Integrity.

On Running Afoul of the Dress Code

Dr. William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church

Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture:  Matthew 22:11-14

Along about 9:00 last night, I gave semi-serious consideration to wearing my tux for these Ash Wednesday services of worship. Just as quickly, I discarded the idea, given that it might be perceived as frivolous. And whatever else Ash Wednesday is about, it is certainly not frivolous.

At issue in this morning’s text is “wedding attire” (and what is “appropriate” for such an occasion). I don’t suppose there is anyone here who hasn’t been invited to a wedding….attended a wedding….or pondered what to wear to a wedding. As a veteran of 1600 weddings, I have seen it all. I’ve seen weddings where all the guests came formally attired. And I’ve seen weddings where everybody stopped one step short of “beach apparel.” As concerns male options, I’ve seen men in tuxes….dark suits…..sport coats….slacks and shirts with open collars…..khakis and sweaters….even cowboy boots and jean jackets. On the other side of the gender gap, I’ve seen women in evening dresses…..glitzy dresses….cocktail dresses….party dresses….shirtwaist dresses….power suits….slacks and blouses….even halters and shorts. No rule governs every occasion. I’ve long been told that women who attend a wedding should never dress in a manner that upstages the bride. If I could add one additional rule, it would concern the revealing of too much skin. But that’s a personal prejudice.

Most every location has a dress code. Sometimes the code is written. Sometimes unwritten. Sometimes the rules are formally stated. Other times, informally implied. Every one of us has gone to eat in an establishment that posts: “No Shoes. No Shirt. No Service.” There can be no mistaking where the management stands. By contrast, I belong to a club where I can’t walk through the lobby without a tie. Were you to ask where it says that, I couldn’t point to a sign. One is just supposed to know such things.

Actually, this text about the wedding guest who was inappropriately clad follows a more familiar story of Jesus, that of the wedding banquet itself. You remember it. The king sends out a raft of invitations. But the recipients send their regrets. Each would appear to have a good reason. But none is willing to come. Which angers the king. So he asks his messenger to beat the bushes. “Go get anybody….from anywhere….by any means.” So they do. And all of the second wave shows up.

Which sounds like the gospel we know.

            Round ‘em up.

            Reel ‘em in.

            Take ‘em all.

One even pictures Doris Hall in the banquet hall, quietly playing “Just As I Am.”

But suddenly comes this jarring note. It strikes the ear like the sound of a dinner fork in the garbage disposal. Walking among the guests, the king finds a man with no wedding garment on. “How did you get in here?” the king asks. Whereupon the bouncers are called and the man is thrown out. Way out. Out of the hall. Out into the “outer darkness.”

What’s this about, anyway? Surely, this is not about ties….tails….tuxedos. Surely this is not about protocols…..proprieties….performance expectations. After all, if God’s grace does not come in response to good works, surely it can’t come in response to fine dress. This is harsh…. judgmental….un-Jesus-like. But it is very Matthew-like. Matthew’s gospel presents difficulties not found elsewhere. Matthew’s gospel yields images of judgment that cannot be found elsewhere. Whenever we hear words like “weeping,” “wailing,” “gnashing of teeth,” and “outer darkness,” we can assume that we are reading Matthew.

But back to the story. The evictee was speechless. Wouldn’t you be? I mean, did you ever get thrown out of any place….especially a place where Doris Hall was playing “Just As I Am” as you walked in the door? How can we make sense of this?

I’m not entirely sure. But thanks to Richard Hays, I think I have a clue. Richard Hays teaches ethics at Duke. Five weeks ago, I sat in his class entitled “Preaching New Testament Ethics.” Discussing this story of the “wedding garment,” Hays said the following:

While God’s message extends far more widely than any of us think, guests who accept God’s gracious invitation must not assume that being invited is an invitation to laxity.

But the story still sounds harsh. Or it did, until I realized that….as with any good thing….it is possible to abuse grace. Which brings me to an old seminary friend from Amery, Wisconsin. Prior to deciding for the ministry, this friend lived a somewhat free-and-easy life (if you know what I mean). One night he got talking about the annual revival that took place in Amery. Same format every year. Instead of a tent, everybody went down to the football field. Somewhere out around the 50 yard line stood the evangelist and the choir. When it came time for the altar call, people streamed down from the bleachers and out onto the field. Said my friend:

The thing I remember most about the revival was that every night my girlfriend and I would come down from the bleachers to get saved. Then, when they turned out the lights and everybody went home, we’d go down under the bleachers and give ourselves fresh reason to get saved the next night.

If you think about that long enough, I think you’ll agree that it’s possible to abuse grace. Or, as Hays put it: “Guests who accept God’s gracious invitation must not assume that being invited is an invitation to laxity.”

Some years ago, a group of us were invited to tour one of those Salvation Army-type shelters in the bowels of an eastern city. You know the kind of place I’m talking about. They opened the doors and everybody came in. Whereupon they sobered ‘em up….cleaned ‘em up….fed ‘em up….and prayed ‘em up. But they didn’t let just anyone stay the night. You had to cut a deal. You had to agree (I think, in writing) that you would not spit….swear….drink….fight….or steal some other guy’s stuff while he slept. And you had to go to the nightly chapel service.

I remember someone asking: “Isn’t this a little bit harsh?” And I remember the host answering: “They can come in, but they’ve got to follow the rules.”

Lent is a good time to preach such a message. For Lent is not only about invitations to answer. Lent is about disciplines to undertake and work to do. Historically, Lent has generated daily “job descriptions” for Christians. Give up this. Take on that. I used to minimize that. But I don’t anymore. I think that “doing something” for Lent is exceedingly important.

Guests who accept God’s gracious invitation must not assume that being invited is an invitation to laxity.

My friends, the table is prepared. At which Jesus invites the needy….and feeds the hungry. But Jesus gives no encouragement to the sloppy. At least, not so as I can tell.

Living With Weeds

Dr. William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church

Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Matthew 13:24-30

One of the benefits of having a “brown thumb” is that nobody asks me to work in the garden. They don’t want to risk it. After all, there’s no telling what I might do if left unattended. My lack of knowledge makes me a liability where gardening is concerned. I don’t know weeds from annuals. I don’t know weeds from perennials. I don’t even know weeds from vegetables. When Kris says, “Why don’t you go out and do some weeding?”, I respond: “Of course. But you’ll have to stand right beside me.” More often than not, she says: “Never mind. I’ll do it myself.”

Not that I am totally ignorant. I can identify some weeds. And there are several varieties I positively hate. Crabgrass would top the list. I can’t stand the stuff. Dandelions, too….although I loved them as a kid. I remember picking them and taking them to my teacher. Once or twice, I even took them to a girl in my class. Now, when I see dandelions, all I can think about is what they are doing to my lawn. And then there are those weeds with sharp, thorn-like prickers. You can’t pull them. You have to dig them. I can’t find anything good to say about them.

But I recently gained a new appreciation for weeds. Kris and I were at the Community House for the annual antique show. We wandered from room to room, looking at all the furniture and jewelry. Suddenly we were in a basement room looking at art. I was thumbing through a bin of “horticultural engravings.” They were extremely old….and beautifully rendered. They were also incredibly expensive. I didn’t find one priced less than $500. And most were well above that. “What do you call these?” I asked my wife. “Botanicals,” she answered. “They’re weeds,” I said. “So what’s your point?” she countered.

But back to our story. A landowner sows good seed in his field. His enemy sows bad seed. Which can happen, I suppose. I heard tell of a fraternity prank that involved “bad seed.” On “Fraternity Row” at a southern university, there was a great rivalry between two of the houses. At one fraternity house, a new lawn was being prepared. Topsoil had been brought in. Seed had been laid down. But late one night, members of the rival fraternity threw kudzu seeds in the cultivated plot. Which may not mean much to you who have lived your life in the North. But a Southerner would understand the implications of such an act.

Kudzu was brought to this country in 1876 to decorate the Japanese pavilion at the Philadelphia Centennial Exposition. As an exotic import, it became popular as a shade plant, and was seen as a God-given solution to the soil-erosion problem, following the Great Depression. Between 1935 and 1942, government nurseries produced 84 million kudzu seedlings, planting them wherever they would grow. By 1943, there was a Kudzu Club of America with 20,000 members and an annual “Kudzu Queen.”

So what’s the problem? I’ll tell you the problem. Kudzu is a vine with phenomenal growth. Twelve inches in 24 hours is not unusual. And 50 feet in a single growing season is well within the norm. People in the South have a saying: “If you’re gonna plant kudzu, drop it and run.” Which explains why some have called it “the vine that ate the South.” It can cover anything and choke everything. It can twine itself around fruit trees until it kills the entire orchard. It can strip the gears of farm machinery. And railroad engineers have even accused it of causing trains to slip off the tracks. Which is why the USDA (United States Department of Agriculture) eventually demoted kudzu to “weed status”….with the definition of a weed being “any plant that does more harm than good.”

The weeds in Matthew’s little parable are “darnel.” If you grew up reading the King James Version of the Bible, you call them “tares.” If you spend your days immersed in botany books, you call them “lolium termulentum.” Just so you’ll know. They are members of the wheat family. They look like wheat. They hide out in wheat. But they are poisonous in the end, capable of causing blindness….even death….if too many of their little black seeds end up in the bread dough.

But back to our story. This is a judgment parable. Matthew is big on judgment parables. Matthew is big on judgment language. Whenever you read words like “weeping….wailing….gnashing of teeth….outer darkness….consuming fire”….you can pretty much figure you are reading from the book of Matthew. But, in this parable, it is clear that judgment is God’s business. Meaning that it is not our business. We are not the sower in the story. We are not the judge in the story. We are not even the seeds in the story.

Who are we in the story? We are the would-be “helpful servants”….that’s who we are. And you will remember that the helpful servants approach the owner of the field, having noted the weeds growing in the wheat, and suggest that they go out and do a little culling. Instead, they are told to keep their hands off. “Let the weeds grow along with the wheat,” the owner says. Then he adds: “I’ll take care of things at the harvest.”

So who are the “helpful servants?” I think the “helpful servants” are the church….meaning us. We are the ones who want to sift, sort and separate. We are the ones who want to thin the house. Turn us loose with our shovels and machetes….not to mention our wonderful bottles of Round-Up….and there’s no telling what (or who) we will chop down, pull up, or spray into oblivion.

Picture me as the “helpful servant.” Picture me going through your yard with my handy clippers and trowel. Better yet, picture me going through Christ’s church.

            Weed.                             Wheat.

            Weed.                             Wheat.

            Weed, Weed, Weed.       Wheat, Wheat, Wheat.

            All weeds in this pew.   All wheat in that pew.

Which I could do. Except that I wouldn’t know where to start. But that doesn’t stop my colleagues. I have colleagues who think they know exactly where to start.

            This one goes.                That one stays.

            This group’s all right.    That group we can do without.

I have colleagues who continually want to cull the field, making decisions on the basis of belief….behavior….even baptism. As many of you know, my wife is into genealogy. She’s traced portions of her family back over 500 years. Just a few months ago, we learned that she had a relative who was burned at the stake in Switzerland. Why? Because he had the wrong understanding of baptism, that’s why. They weeded him out. Then they burned him up.

As for me, I don’t always know whether I am weed or wheat. Wasn’t it Alexander Solzhenitsyn who said: “If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds, and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being.” Which, I suppose, includes my heart. For all I know, I may even be the weed in somebody else’s garden. Perhaps in your garden.

Once or twice a year, I tilt my head back and sing those wonderful words of Fanny Crosby about “vile offenders.” I am not sure I always believe myself to be a “vile offender.” I mean, I don’t have a long history of black deeds. One reason I could never make it as a tent evangelist is that I don’t have a “sordid past” to describe in graphic detail….meaning that “meeting Jesus” did not force me into an “about face,” so much as a slight “veering to the right.” But when I read the Apostle Paul, it forces me to look in the mirror and acknowledge some measure of offense, “vile” or no. With Paul, “if I say I have no sin, I deceive myself.” Seedy and weedy….that’s me.

But I don’t always know whether you are weed or wheat, either. I used to think I knew. There was a time in my life when I was less reticent to make judgments. I remember shouting at the younger brother of my best friend: “Pat Max, you are rotten to the core.” I can’t remember what he did that made me feel it….or say it. And his brother (my friend) never let anybody forget it. His brother would walk around saying: “My brother’s rotten to the core. Ritter says so. And everybody knows Ritter’s gonna be a preacher.” Today, Pat Max is an upstanding citizen and a successful attorney. Don’t make anything out of that. Just accept it as an admission that I was wrong.

And there’s a third thing I don’t know. I don’t know what God can do with weeds (or wheat) on the way to the harvest. I mean, if we believe that grace is as amazing as we sing it to be, then what we see in the morning is not necessarily what we are going to see at night….what we see in the springtime is not necessarily what we are going to see in the fall….and what we see in the beginning is not necessarily what we are going to see in the end (when God gets done working in the garden).

I look around and notice that you are a pretty weedy lot. I hope that doesn’t surprise you. I mean, you didn’t think you were a field of “American Beauties,” did you? And even if you did, I suspect the film of the same name shot that designation full of holes. But don’t worry about whether I find you weedy. You have no fear from me. Thanks to this parable, God has taken the shovel and machete out of my hand.

Toward that end, let me recast the parable (courtesy of the wonderfully innovative work of Barbara Brown Taylor).

One afternoon in the middle of the growing season, a bunch of farm hands decided to surprise their boss and weed his favorite wheat field. No sooner had they begun to work, however, than they began to argue….about which of the wheat-looking things were weeds. Did the Queen Anne’s lace, for example, pose a real threat to the wheat, or could it stay for decoration? And the blackberries? After all, they were weeds. But they would be ripe in a week or two. And the honeysuckle….it seemed a shame to pull up anything that smelled so sweet.

About the time they had gotten around to debating the purple asters, the boss showed up and ordered them out of his field. Dejected, they did as they were told. Back at the barn, he took their machetes away from them, poured them some lemonade, and made them sit down where they could watch the way the light moved across the field. At first, all they could see were the weeds and what a messy field it was….and what a discredit to their profession. But as the summer wore on, they marveled at the profusion of growth. Tall wheat surrounded by tall goldenrod, accented by a mixture of ragweed and brown-eyed Susans. Even the poison ivy flourished beside the Cherokee roses. It was a mess. But a glorious mess. And when it had all bloomed and ripened, the reapers came.

Carefully….gently….expertly….they gathered the wheat and made the rest into bricks for the oven where the bread was baked. And the fire the weeds made was excellent. And the flour the wheat made was excellent. And when the owner called them together….farm hands, reapers, along with all the neighbors….and broke bread with them (bread that was the final distillation of that messy, gorgeous, mixed up field), they all agreed that it was like no bread they had ever tasted before. And that it was very, very good.

Let those who have ears….and half a brain….hear and consider.

Note: My treatment of this parable was inspired by Episcopal priest and professor, Barbara Brown Taylor. The final recasting of the parable is drawn from her sermon on The Protestant Hour, delivered in 1990.