Letting Go 8/30/1992

William A. Ritter

Nardin Park United Methodist Church, Farmington Hills, MI

Ruth 1:6-18

A couple of weeks ago, when I was cross-checking calendars with my running partner, Dick Cheatham, I reminded him that I would have to miss our next scheduled workout, given the trip that Kris and I were making to take Julie to Duke. This was not unfamiliar conversational terrain between Dick and myself. As good friends do, we had discussed both the facts of the move and the feelings surrounding the move. Which is, perhaps, what led Dick to remark, as a parting word:

I hope you do better than I did when Diane and I took Chrystal to Michigan State. I kissed her goodbye, turned my back, bit my lip, and cried all the way home. But since Chrystal’s dorm was in East Lansing and our home (at that time) was in Brighton, “all the way home” only represented 30 minutes of tears. If you cry all the way home from Duke, you’ll be red-eyed for 12 hours and become something of a public menace on the highways.

I am here to report that I did nothing of the kind. Kris and I took her … unloaded her … spent a couple of days with her … oriented her … kissed her goodbye … and drove away. In the immediate aftermath there were a couple of sniffles and some long, introspective silences. Then the two of us engaged in an extensive rehash of three very tightly-scheduled and emotionally-laden days. I don’t know everything Kris may have been thinking. But I was certain that I was doing well. That was Friday morning.

Much of Friday afternoon was spent driving through the residual rain squalls of Hurricane Andrew. It was tense driving … tough driving … white-knuckled, rigid-necked, through the mountains driving. Then (somewhere around Pittsburgh) when the heavens finally decided to stop weeping, I started. Which launched Kris. And for the next 30 minutes, there was little either of us could say that made it any easier, or any better. So we just held hands or touched each other’s leg, doing anything to make a connection, and (secondarily) to make it down the highway.

All in all, Julie couldn’t be happier with her choice. And we couldn’t be happier for her. After a Thursday filled with separate orientation activities for parents and freshmen, and after her first full night in the dorm, we picked her up for one final breakfast at our hotel. She was operating on four hours of sleep, having socialized with newly made friends until 3:00 in the morning. Still, she was vibrantly awake, bubbling over about her classes, her classmates, her room, and everything from the way the place looked to the way the place felt. “This is even better that I expected,” she pronounced. “This feels exactly like where I should be.”

Which makes it easy for us to be happy for her … and easier to leave her. A tone of work went into the making of this decision, and early confirmation of its rightness, however premature, felt good. May future pulse-takings be so healthy and feel so fine. It could have been so much worse, and then our sadness would have had a real “bite” to it.

As it was, a tear or two was as predictable as it was explainable. She is our last kid. She is a “neat” kid. And 700 miles is not an easily-negotiable distance for any kid. She has not only gone away, but she has gone a very long way away. Whatever else Duke may be, it is not a “commuter college” for people who live in Michigan.

As parents go, Kris and I may be an overly sentimental pair. Although I think not. More honest about our emotions, perhaps, but not more emotional. I think that such things really are “big deals” for a lot of you. And unless I miss my bet, a number of you are going to tell me so at the close of the hour.

In the orientation session for parents, we heard from three different speakers, with each speaker (strangely enough) zeroing in on the issue of “separation anxiety.” Not class schedules. Not dormitory regulations. Not grading procedures, health services or financial aid. But separation anxiety. “This is a major transition,” we were told. “It is hard for them. It is equally hard for you.” Such was the tone of the messages. And I thought to myself: “How perceptive. Howright on.” Because this was what we all were dealing with. Not with, “Where can my kid stash their bicycle?” or “How does my kid get a lock on her closet?” But: “How am I going to leave my kid here and go home … when I am not all that certain I am ready to leave my kid here or go home?” As to what the kids may have been thinking (listening to similar presentations elsewhere) heaven only knows. But given my ability to read crowds, it was clear that the people speaking to us were touching all the right buttons and hitting all the right nerves.

Not that they did it without humor. Separation anxiety can be pretty heavy stuff, unbroken by levity. One speaker told us that she knew why God created adolescence: “So that when our kids are ready to go to college, we are ready to have them go.” Other speakers listed some of the immediate “pluses” we would experience, especially if we were saying goodbye to the last one. Such pluses included no more MTV … fewer wet towels one the bathroom floor … the possibility of refrigerated leftovers actually being left over … and the sheer delight of hearing the phone ring and knowing that possibly, just possibly, it might be for you.

We were reminded that, as parents, we were still very much needed. We would get urgent phone calls of three distinct types.

• requests for sustenance: “I have overspent my Duke account and have less than $20 in my checkbook.”

• requests for encouragement: “I have never had less than a “B” in my life, and now I haven’t gotten above a “C” on my last three papers.”

• requests for advice: “I’ve forgotten everything I ever knew about washing underwear. Tell me again, where is it you’re supposed to insert the quarter?”

Therefore, Kris and I have little doubt we will be needed, valued, and that our parenting chores are far from finished. Yet, there was also a little doubt in either of our minds that the single most important parenting chore we could do at that particular moment was to go home … without trying to fix, correct, amend, or teach one more thing. “Just go home,” making as small a deal out of the whole matter as possible. Not because going home is really a “small deal.” But because going home is such an incredibly “big deal” that it is (for many) almost too hot to handle and too close to touch.

Julie is one of those rare kids who talks about everything and anything with us. Yet even she said: “We’ll be okay, as long as nobody tries to make any speeches.” So none of us did. Kris spent the final pre-departure days helping Julie assemble her stuff. And at Julie’s request, I took her to the Whitney for a final daddy-daughter lunch. (Seven years earlier, Bill’s choice had been the London Chop House. Whatever else my kids may lack, you can’t say they don’t have class.) But there were no speeches. Had she asked me, I simply would have said: “Julie, whether by planning, providence or accident, you seem to have stumbled on an amazingly successful formula for living your life. Don’t abandon it now.” And I believe she’s heard that … and that she knows that … without my needing to put it in a final speech at all.

“There is a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing.” So said a wise old biblical sage writing under the pen name “Ecclesiastes.” If you stretch that a bit, I suppose it also means that for every time of holding close, there is also a time of letting go. Among the many things love does, love releases. Virtually every Sunday morning, given the location of my office, I see a parent struggling with what it means to walk away from a screaming, clinging toddler in the nursery. And while I know how hard that is, I also know how necessary that is. I also know that the same scene sometimes repeats itself at the other end of life’s spectrum.  I see love occasionally expressed in the words of one family member saying to another: “I am going to miss you terribly, but it’s ok for you to go.” Lots of people simply are unable to die until they’ve been given permission. Love releases.

Earlier, I read to you a portion of Ruth’s story. It’s one part of the Old Testament that most people can manage, which is probably why it’s one part of the Old Testament that most people love. But when you look at it, it is just as much Naomi’s story as it is Ruth’s. Naomi is a Jew, married to Elimelech, another Jew. They have a pair of sons. The sons grow up. A famine hits the land. Naomi, her husband, and her two sons move to Moab … a foreign country. Moab has food. Moab has jobs. Moab also has women. Each of Naomi’s sons marry Moabite women. One marries Orpah (that’s Orpha, not Oprah). The other marries Ruth. Then things take a turn for the worse. Naomi’s husband dies, followed by the death of each of her sons. Just like that. All the men are gone. Naomi is left with a pair of foreign women for daughter-in-laws. Naomi decides to go back to Israel. But realizing that Israel is no place for a pair of young, attractive, non-Jewish widows, Naomi tells them: “Split. Make your home here. Stay with your own people. I’m going home. To be with my people. Your chances of finding husbands in Israel are two … slim and none. You’ll do better here. People know you here. People worship like you do, here. Even if I get married … get pregnant … and get two more sons … by the time they’ll be grown up, you’ll have callouses on your hope chests.”

To which Orpah says: “Makes sense to me. Here, let me kiss you good-bye, mommy-in-law dearest.” And to which Ruth says (while clinging fervently to Naomi):

Entreat me not to leave thee,

For whether thou goest, I will go.

Whither thou lodgest, I will lodge,

They people will be my people,

And thy God, my God.

Now everybody loves those lines, especially when they read them (as I just did) from the stilted prose of the King James Version of the Bible. And everybody, upon reading them, looks at Ruth and says: “What devotion. What love. What fidelity to Naomi. And she’s not even her daughter, save by marriage.”

But Naomi, however grateful she may be for Ruth’s companionship, realizes that this is not as it should be. Ruth should have a life of her own … lived on her own … in response to commitments made on her own. So, in the part of the story nobody ever quotes, Naomi orchestrates a scenario wherein Ruth meets a rich, eligible, Jewish bachelor, whereupon she marries him and bears his children (one of whom becomes the grandfather of King David). In an even less quoted part of the story, Naomi teaches Ruth some tactics in the gentle art of flirtation (in reality, the gentle art of seduction) so as to insure that Ruth will get her man.

It appears that the Jews have preserved this story for a whole host of reasons, including whatever light is may have shed on the changing practice of interfaith marriage. After all, if King David’s great-grandmother was a foreigner … and a seducer of David’s great-grandfather (who, incidentally, was half in the bag when Ruth first came to lie at his feet) … it shoots a pretty big hole in the notion of ethnic superiority and racial purity on the part of the Jewish people. Right?

But not to be lost is this elemental understanding of Naomi, who (in effect) says to Ruth: “As much as I love you … and as much as I need you … you need to be on with your life. And if you will not take that step on your own (however admirable your devotion may be), I will have to take it for you.” Which is what Naomi did (perhaps to her own short-term detriment, but to the long-term betterment of Ruth).

Love lets go. And it sometimes falls to those of us who are older to instigate the release. Not to be overlooked (in life) is the subtle ministry of the gentle nudge.

I am sure this was painful for Naomi, not solely because of what she may have feared for Ruth, but because of what she may have feared for herself. Separation anxiety is always harder on the one doing the releasing than it is on the one being released. Which is another new truth I discovered over the course of the last five days. When Naomi said to Ruth, “Don’t look to my womb to produce you a new husband,” what she was really saying was:

Time marches on.

Human beings get older.

I’m getting older.

And some things will never be the same again.

I know the feeling. During the last few of my child-raising years, people have said to me: “Treasure these days with your kids. They go by so incredibly quickly.” I always listened and nodded, figuring that what they meant was that kids get old before you know it. It never occurred to me that what they meant was that I would get old before I knew it. A few minutes before we left home last Tuesday (practical parent that I am), I decided to walk through the entire house in search of potentially forgotten items. In the basement, I found a portable electric fan. Necessity! In the basement, I also found a child’s table and chairs along with several Barbies. No longer necessities! I remembered buying every last one of them and felt suddenly sad. It also took me a few minutes to come up from the basement.

I am going to be all right. We are going to be all right. I say “we” because that’s where it rests now … with the two of us. Which may be why Kris and I felt a need to touch each other a lot on the way home (especially during that period where we couldn’t say anything without breaking into tears). A line from an old Sonny Bono song kept creeping into consciousness … “Just you and me, babe.”

And Julie will be all right, too … although I can’t ensure, determine or guarantee that. Would that I could. Would that I could have done it for Bill. But I can’t now. And couldn’t then.

So all I can do is trust. Trust who she is … what Kris has done … what I have done … what others have done … and what God will do. But even trust has its risks.

I prayed to God and said: “Don’t let her fall, God. Don’t let her fail. Don’t let her meet up with anyone who’ll abuse her, hurt her, or disappoint her. She is my little girl. Do you know what it feels like to be a father?”

And God, who still occasionally speaks with a hint of a Jewish accent, said: “Do I know vat it means to be a father? You got a minute? Sit down … let me tell you about my

boy …”

It's Three O'Clock In the Morning 10/24/1993

Dr. William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Matthew 14:22-33

It's 3:00 in the morning,

We've danced the whole night through.

It's 3:00 in the morning,

Just being here with you.

Some of you will recognize the lyric.... and the sermon title.... as coming from a song of another era. I can't remember all the words. And I can't quite finish the tune. But the image sticks. 3:00 in the morning...  late time.... good time.... dancin' time.... romancin' time.... arm in arm time.... cheek to cheek time.... stars in the eyes time.... I could have danced all night time. I've been there. So have you. How sweet it was. And is. And could yet be again.

But when most people think about 3:00 in the morning, they are not thinking about the best of times, but the worst of times. 3:00 in the morning is an hour often associated with insomniacs, worry warts and social deviants. If you can't sleep, 3:00 in the morning is the worst of all times to be tossing and turning. If someone isn't home by 3:00 in the morning, it becomes floor- pacing time. If the telephone rings at 3:00 in the morning, it's palm-sweating time. If people are out in the street, running around at 3:00 in the morning, it's safe to assume that (for some of them) it's up-to-no-good-time. And 3:00 in the morning is no time to be awakened by that quartet of disturbing sounds which include rumbling stomachs, dripping faucets, crying babies, and four-legged furry things crawling in the walls. In short, 3:00 in the morning is a terrible time to be sleepless.... a terrible time to be sick.... a terrible time to be lost.... and a terrible time to be in danger.

In our text of the morning, it is 3:00 in the morning.... on the sea.... in a boat.... in a storm.... with things not altogether comfortable for the friends of Jesus who find themselves there. We know the hour, given that the text indicates it is the fourth watch of the night. The night is defined as beginning at 6:00 p.m. and concluding at 6:00 am. Romans divided the night into four watches of three hours each. Therefore, reckoning by Roman time, it is now the beginning of the fourth watch, or 3:00 a.m.

The sea is actually a large lake. Galilee is its name. Eight miles is its width. Fourteen miles is its length. It is configured not unlike Crystal Lake near Frankfort. But it is a lot rougher, given the manner in which wind currents from the Jordanian plain occasionally, and quite dramatically, buffet  its surface. If you want to paint a picture of rolling waves and contrary waves, defying even the best efforts of arm-weary oarsmen to hold a boat on course, paint away. Throw in some rain, if you like. A little sleet, if you like. No stars, if you like. Men retching over the side, if you like. Feel free. Matthew won't object. But don't put down your brush without finding some way to paint fear in the eyes (so obvious that you can see it), or fear in the throat (so obvious that you can taste it). Then you will have a picture that is worthy of the story and the scene.

Then ask yourself: "Why are these men in this predicament?" For if you read the story, you will recall that they are out in the storm because that's precisely where Jesus sent them. Verse 22 (with which the story begins) reads: "Then Jesus made the disciples get into the boat and precede him to the other side, while he, after dismissing the crowds, went up into the mountains to pray."

Don't let that slip by. Jesus sent them out there. "Made them go," says the text. Actually, the word "compelled" is an even better translation, as in: "Jesus compelled the disciples to get into the boat and precede him to the other side."

Sometimes it is the obedient church that experiences the storm. Sometimes it is the obedient Christians who, in response to the leading of Christ, find themselves in the deepest waters and the most troubled seas. Sometimes it seems as if Jesus has no concern for the climate he is sending us into, but is only concerned with the climate of the souls who are being sent. A good Jewish mother would say: "Surely you're not going out on a night like this." My mother used to say that. And she wasn't even Jewish. But Jesus was no Jewish mother, believing (as it seems he did) that storm centers, rather than safe harbors, are where his followers ought to be.

Harold Bales, who was appointed to serve venerable old First United Methodist Church in downtown Charlotte, North Carolina, found himself in something of a storm center when he launched several outreach programs to the poor, who inhabited the fast-changing neighborhood around First Church's building. One day, Harold was confronted by one of his better-dressed, better- educated, and better-cultured members who had just passed several street people in the corridor of "her church."

"What in the world are you doing?" she asked her pastor, making obvious
reference to the very-dissimilar people she had just passed in the hall.

"I am trying to save people from Hell," replied Harold.

"Oh," she answered. "That's good. We should be trying to save them."

"Not them," Harold said. "Us. I'm trying to save us from Hell."

And whatever you believe about divine judgment and whether there is any such "hellish" dwelling place for the repose of the damned, you get Harold's point. We Christians will be judged by what we do when things are difficult, rather than on the basis of what we do when things are easy. What's more, he is suggesting that faith will be measured (and often discovered) when, as the hymn writer says, "The storms of life are raging," rather than on those nights when we listen to our mothers and refuse to venture out, for fear that it might rain.

But back to our story. It's still 3:00 in the morning....in a storm....on the sea....once upon a time. Or maybe not-so-very-once-upon-a-time. For many of you, this is last night's story. Tonight's story. Or tomorrow night's story.

For some, it is 3:00 in the morning economically. There is not a day goes by when I do not read about people who are out of work. But it is becoming an all-too-common experience to have firsthand encounters (in this very congregation) with friends who are out of work. And what about all those kids... including many of your kids.... who are fast coming to the ends of their academic careers and wondering whether there will be work for the looking.

And painting with a broader brush, aren't some of you beginning to worry that it is pressing on towards 3:00 in the morning as concerns the future of school-finance reform, not to mention health care reform. More and more, these fragile (but oh so necessary systems) seem to resemble those old cars we used to dismantle as teenagers.... always promising anybody and everybody that we could get them back in running order before somebody in the family needed to drive them, yet never really knowing if we could or would.

For others, it's 3:00 in the morning emotionally. Bruised and battered.., downed and defeated.... guilty and grieving.... use whatever brace of adjectives you like. And when you're feeling such things, it's always worse in the middle of the night. That's because at 3:00 there is no light by which to put things into perspective, and very few people to whom pieces of burden can be given.

A man on a stool hears the bartender announce: "Last call." As he pushes his glass toward one final refill, he is heard to say: "I came in here to drown my sorrows, only to discover that they've learned how to swim." It calls to mind that wonderful word- picture in the novel Hotel New Hampshire. "Sorrow" is the name of the old family dog that dies. Not quite knowing what to do with the carcass, they row out from shore and (in a comic parody of a burial at sea) throw him overboard. The next morning, one of the family's children stumbles over the old dead dog while searching for shells on the beach. Which causes him to come home and announce over a breakfast of pancakes and sausage: "Guess what? Sorrow floats." Indeed it does.

For still others, it's 3:00 in the morning ethically. Have you discovered that people don't always exhibit the clearest thinking, or make the best choices, when the rest of the world is sleeping? The anonymity of the post-midnight hours covers a multitude of sins. In the middle of the night, people feel cut off from the normal moral framework in which they live out their daylight hours, to the degree that anything desirable becomes acceptable, and anything rationalizable becomes justifiable. At 3:00 in the morning, our guard is down, and most of us can talk ourselves into almost anything. Temptation is incredibly nocturnal.

I see that as of the very-late-hours of Friday night.... or the wee-small-hours of Saturday morning....William Kennedy Smith is in trouble again. One wonders when Billy will ever learn one of life's elemental lessons: namely, if you can't leave a place sober, at least leave it early.

My favorite 3:00 in the morning song speaks to the ease with which moral compromises are made at that hour. It's a little but of a country-western song which, if it wasn't sung by Crystal Gayle, should'a been. Most of you will remember the lyric, even if I pick it up in the middle:

I don't care what's right or wrong,

I don't try to understand.

Let the devil take tomorrow,

                             For tonight I need a friend.

Yesterday is come and gone,

And tomorrow's out of sight,

And I hate to be alone,

Help me make it through the night.

And then there are those who fear that it is 3:00 in the morning ecclesiastically. These are the people who look at our denomination and argue that it will not come out of the storm intact... that numbers are statistically down.... that influence is significantly down.... and that faith is watered down. Many of you are here this morning as refugees of other religious institutions which, when you left, were more into survival than they were into ministry. And you are so glad to be here (in this place) that you could spit gold nickels while singing the doxology. Yet the fears that you first learned in other old familiar places, rise up to haunt you:

What if the same thing happens here?
 

What if we, too, fall on hard times?
 

What if present leadership fails us?
 

What is present leadership deserts us?

When I read our long-range planning document, prepared just a year or so before my appointment here, in a listing of responses to the question, "Name the overriding issue facing First Church in the '90's," at least one of you said: "Survival."

I don't know what time it is for you, this particular October morning. But I am willing to bet that I have hit one of your vulnerable spots somewhere in the last few minutes. I think that most of you know what 3:00 in the morning looks like for you.... feels like for you.... and when it was that such a moment last occurred in your life.

For that's when religion became more than an academic exercise, because that's when Jesus Christ became someone you hungered-after in your heart, rather than merely speculated-upon in your head. For the bottom line of the religious quest.... your religious quest.... my religious quest.... every religious quest.... is the raw edge of human need.

On an all-night flight from Melbourne, Australia to Athens, Greece, a professor of hydrology from India struck up a theological debate with Robert Fulghum (whose chief claim to fame has been a book telling us about all the really important stuff we learned in kindergarten). What was on the professor's mind was God. Specifically, he was troubled by why there are so many different names for God.... books about God.... routes to God.... and why one group of God's followers will gladly kill another group of God's followers, in the belief that they are somehow better serving or pleasing God.

Slowly the professor moved to the window and pointed down to the Indian Ocean, over which they were flying at that particular moment. Being a professor of hydrology, he began to speak of water. 

Water is everywhere (he said). Water is in all living things. We cannot be separated from it. No water, no life. Period. It comes in many forms: liquid, vapor, ice, snow, fog, rain, hail. But whatever the form, it's still water.

Human beings give this stuff many names in many languages. But it's crazy to argue over what its true name is. Call it what you will, it makes no difference to the water. It is what it is.

Human beings drink water from many vessels: cups, glasses, jugs, skins of animals, their own hands, whatever. But to argue over what container is proper for water is crazy.

Similarly, while some like it hot, some cold, some iced, some fizzed, some mixed with coffee, tea, scotch, whatever, it still doesn't change the nature of the water.

Never mind the name. Never mind the cup. Never mind the mix. These are not important. What is important is the one thing we have in common. Namely, thirst.

And that's what 3:00 in the morning is all about. Thirst! Whether you're tossing on a bed or tossing in a boat. Whether the storm is without or the storm is within. Whether you're rowing like hell, or toward it. The only thing that will satisfy is the one who, in our tradition, is called "Living Water." Which is precisely what we get.... or who we get....if our story is to be believed. For, in the fourth watch of the night, when everything seemed contrary, Jesus came to them, walking on the sea. Don't ask how. That's an unanswerable question. It's also the wrong question.

That whole debate (about how Jesus could possibly walk upon the water) misses the point of the story. I think the miracle has less to do with a Jesus who comes by impossible means, than with the Jesus who comes at impossible times. When it is darkest, he comes. When we are weariest, he comes. When the sea is so wide and our boat is so small.... when we are a day late and a dollar short.... or a month late and a rent payment short.... when the storms of life are raging.... when we're up a creek with no paddle, and our arms are too tired to hold a paddle if we had one.... when it's too dark to see by.... or (worse yet) when it's too dark to hope by.... Jesus comes 'round.

I don't know many composers of church music personally, but one with whom I have had a chance to break more than an occasional crust of bread is Walter Schurr. He has written so many beautiful things.... some of them intricate.... some of them complex.... all of them melodic. But none more elemental than a little spiritual he wrote (for 3:00-in-the-morning people), that I first heard seven years ago.

Jesus, won't you come by here, Jesus, won't you come by here, Jesus,  won't  you  come  by  here.

Now is the needin' time, Now is the needin' time, Now  is  the  needin'  time.

Man Overboard 10/31/1993

Dr. William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Matthew 14:22-33

Let me redraw, from memory, a cartoon from some years ago. Picture an executive office, high atop an urban skyscraper. Picture a magnificent desk, as polished as it is huge, complete with a C.E.O. type seated behind it. Standing before the desk, picture a plain man dressed in work clothes, obviously representative of a menial employee in the organization. Then picture that man saying to his boss: "If it's any comfort, sir, it's lonely at the bottom too."

If we didn't know it before, we should surely know it now: no matter who you are.... no matter where you are.... no matter what you are... life can be both low and lonely. "Low," because the bottom has a way of failing out.  And "lonely," because people have a way of falling away.

Last week, in our initial foray into this dramatic story of storm and sea, we talked about why it always seems darker at 3:00 in the morning than at any other time of the day or night. Several of you were kind enough to say that I had correctly captured your feelings associated with that hour, intimating that as a result of having been there once or twice, you remembered it well. One of you went so far as to research a couple of literary allusions to this biblical reference, especially F. Scott Fitzgerald's recollection that 3:00 in the morning and "the dark night of the soul" is one and the same thing. I like that, given my desire to have you understand that the 3:00 image in this story is not solely about how dark it can get outside, but how dark it can get inside. So let me take you back to Galilee (the sea, that is).....and the storm which, when last we left it, was battering boats and trying souls in the wee small hours of the morning.

As you will remember, last Sunday's sermon ended with Jesus walking toward the weary crew, high-stepping it across the waves. How? That's anybody's guess. But that's not the issue. You're not supposed to get all strung out over the question of "could he or couldn't he" (walk the waves, that is). The message of that part of the story is not that Jesus comes by impossible means, but that Jesus comes at impossible times. Jesus has this way of showing up (the story seems to say) just when you think that nobody can.... or will.

At any rate, the boat people see him coming. Or, to be more specific, they see someone.... or something.... coming. They are terrified. "It's a ghost," they say, crying out in fear. How strange, says Fred Craddock, that the Savior should seem like a spook. Perhaps it was the downpour.  Perhaps, the delirium. It wouldn't be the first time that, in the middle of a crisis (or in the middle of the night), someone couldn't see or think straight.

Or perhaps they saw in him, not the harbinger of help, but the visitation of death. I can understand that. People sometimes view me that way. I will be talking with "good" church people (like you) about some unchurched people (known to you). The latter are temporarily sick and in the hospital. That seems to concern you. Thinking that you are fishing for my offer to make a visit, I express a willingness to trek to the hospital. At first, you accept my generous offer. Then you think better of it. To be sure, you'd like me to go. But you are worried that were I to go (meaning that if a minister were suddenly to show up), the patient would think he was dying. And you're probably right. Some people think that way. "If a minister comes 'round, I must be in a really bad way. There must be something that somebody isn't telling me. He wouldn't be coming in, if I wasn't checking out."  And so I stay away, lest my help be misperceived as doom. Jesus reads that fear and decides to address it. "Don't be afraid," he says. "Courage, it is I." Which should have done it. But it didn't. For the next sentence out of Peter's mouth betrays how deep his suspicion really is. "Lord," Peter says, "If it is you, tell me to come to you across the water.”

I love that line, probably because (for so many years) I missed its meaning completely. Think, for a moment, about how you would identify your friend from an impostor, especially if it was too dark to see clearly and too stormy to hear accurately. You would probably look for something in the message itself that would seem consistent-with, and typical-of, the kind of thing your friend might say to you.  So it is with Peter. Confronted with the possibility that what he is seeing might be both ghostly and ghastly, Peter is not about to trust a simple: "Courage, 'tis me." Instead, he says: "Lord, I'll know it's you if you ask me to come to you across the water." In reality, I think Peter is thinking something like this:

The Lord I know.... indeed the only Lord I have ever known.... is the one who asks more of me than anybody ever asked of me before. So if this is really the Lord (who has come at this impossible time), I'm going to know it by the fact that I'll be invited to respond in an equally impossible way. If it's really Jesus, he is going to step-into-the-breach by asking me to step-up-to the test.

That's just his way. That's always been his way. That's his trademark. If it's really Jesus (and not some ghostly apparition or figment of my imagination), the next word out of his mouth is going to be: "Peter, come."

My friends, that's how you know the real Jesus from the fakes. And that's how you tell the real Christian church from all of the ones that use the name and put a cross on the roof, but bear no resemblance to the real thing.

I know that the world doesn't lack for institutions claiming to be the "one true church." Customarily, they stake their claim on the fact that they hold one particular belief, affirm one peculiar doctrine, or baptize in one certain way. But if there is any institution even remotely on the right road to the truth about Jesus Christ, It is going to be that institution which (in the name of Jesus) asks more of you than it offers to give to you.

It is so tempting for the church of Jesus Christ to ride out the storms of our day by hunkering down with a good book and reading it in the fiery glow that is generated by friends who are tried, true and compatible. But that's not the church of the New Testament. Over the last several years, I have attended any number of "church growth" seminars, all of them purporting to know the secret of getting "baby boomers" to join up and become members. The theory is advanced that "boomers are consumers" who "shop" for churches like they shop for anything else. They like quality.... expect quality.... demand quality.... and (if attracted) are even willing to pay for quality.  Music is important to them; it had better be good. Children are important to them; there had better be plenty of activities for them (and not in the basement, either). Given some other things that are important to them, there had better be seminars for growth, groups for friends, and parking that rivals the mall for ease and convenience. And woe be unto the church that doesn't realize that, for 'boomers," the crib nursery has replaced the ladies' parlor as the room that is second in importance, only to the sanctuary.

I understand that. I have modified much of my ministry to accommodate that. What's more, I have learned that it's not just "boomers" who are demanding greater and greater degrees of excellence in every facet of the church's life. It's everybody from little kids to the rocking chair set. The things against which the church must compete for the attention and assets of its members are so slick and professional that we have to offer twice as much, and do it twice as well, just to keep up.

But I still believe (deep in my heart and soul) that people want to be stretched as well as massaged, challenged as well as coddled, and confronted repeatedly with the biblical paradox that says you've got to invest in order to enjoy, serve in order to live, and give whole big chunks of yourself away if you ever expect to come upon a self worth finding.

Instinctively, I think we know this.... that the only Christ worth heeding and the only church worth joining is one that says: "Get over the side. Get your feet wet. Do what you don't think you can do. Go where you don't think you can go. And give what you don't think you can give."

So, you see, I don't apologize for the fact that we ask a lot of you.... and from you.... here at Birmingham First. I don't apologize for the fact that before next October rolls around, we are going to ask you to teach in a second Sunday School at the 11:00 hour, or take a leadership role in other growing programs. I don't apologize for the fact that, even as we speak, members of the Nominating Committee are buzzing some of your phone lines, asking you do accept positions in our church's officiary. I don't apologize for the fact that we ask some of you to perform great music, others of you to prepare hearty meals, while asking still others to pray for the sickly, visit the elderly, carry food to the hungry, repair flood damage in the valley, shelter the homeless occasionally, or lay down on a table and bleed into a plastic bag annually. Nor do I apologize for the fact that we sometimes ask some of you to head for the hills (as in Appalachia), or down to the Corridor (as in Cass), or, at the very least, dig a little deeper into your pocket in order to support those who do. And I am certainly not going to apologize for being the point man who asks you to step up to the financial challenges that this year's campaign will articulate.

Every non-Birmingham person I met last spring said: "Congratulations on your appointment; you're going to a great church." And every Birmingham insider I met last spring said: "Congratulations on your appointment: you're coming to a great church." And every one of you I have met (at every meeting I have attended since June 27) has done nothing to diminish the idea that I have arrived at a great church. But when I sift through reams of data about attendance and stewardship patterns.... pledge profiles and giving tables.... it is hard to escape the fact that this "great church" is also a slightly complacent church. To be sure, from out front it's hardly noticeable. But I guarantee you, if our response to this year's appeal continues the pattern of slippage evidenced in the responses to recent year's appeals; there will be little choice but to take the kinds of steps that will be noticeable. ... and perhaps even painful.

But it doesn't have to be that way. In Christ, we can summon the will. And in the mountains of written Information being shared with you, can be found the way. What's more, virtually very conversation I have with you reveals a sense of readiness on your part.... even a hunger.... to get on with whatever God has in store for us next. Stormy though it may be, and tired though we may be, I sense a collective readiness to hear the Gospel.

"Get out of the boat," Jesus said to Peter. And Peter must have said something like this to himself:

Hey, I've heard this before. I've done this before. And it worked before. Granted, my boat was tied up to the shore before. There was no storm before. And it wasn't the middle of the night before. But if it's really Jesus....given that I have already left my boat and followed Him once....why should I let a little deep water stop me now?

And with that, Peter was over the side. I like that in Peter.  Heck, I like that in anybody. There are those who test the waters, a toe at a time. And there are those who jump right in. In a world filled with the former, I find that I increasingly relish the latter.

To be sure, there is always a time for prudence.... for caution.... for calculation. And there are people who are good at such things. I have always tried to keep a number of prudent folk around me. We have done some "careful work" together. But it has only been when I have widened the circle around me to include a few first-out-of-the-boat people, that "careful work" has occasionally become "great work," and church maintenance has begun to feel like Christian ministry.

Of late, I have taken to sharing with a few of my friends the highest compliment that I can possibly pay them. I tell them that, were I ever to find myself in great distress (or great trouble) and had but 20 cents and the opportunity to make one phone call, that I could (and would) call them. For I know that they would come first and ask questions later. They would come, whether I needed a lift or a loan.... a friend or a witness. I know that I could ring up their boat and it wouldn't matter as to the lateness of the hour or the severity of the storm. They would have one leg over the side while their hand would still be warm on the receiver. What is amazing is how many people I truly feel that way about. And what it equally amazing is that every one of those people is someone I met in church.

All of us know people like that. And, to some degree, all of us are people like that. There is not a one of us who wouldn't step out for somebody, or step up to something. None of us is so fat and sassy.... so lazy and lethargic.... so content and comfortable.... that we would rot in the boat forever. The question is; "How wet will we get for what, and how far will we go for whom?"

The danger, of course, is that we will hear the summons and wait to see what everybody else does first. Like a group of junior high girls trying to decide whether to attend some 8th grade dance, the church of Jesus Christ is often filled with people looking quizzically at each other, saying: "I'll go if you'll go.... I'll do what you'll do.... but let's not try anything until we're sure that we are all in this together." In this church, it often takes the form of people saying: "What we have to do is get more money out of all those people who don't give us anything." Which is not a bad idea, but which sounds (each time I hear it) less like your suggestion of how to proceed congregationally, and more like your deflection of whatever it is you are being asked to do personally.

Notice that our story is not about a request for everybody in the boat to swim two or three strokes for Jesus, but for one particular individual to step out into the fray in response to Jesus. And make no mistake about it, this story is not told for the benefit of the rest of the people in the boat. This story is told for you.

As I wrote in this week's Steeple Notes, this trio of sermons owes its inspiration to an anonymous admirer of our former Bishop, Judy Craig. One day he gave her a lapel badge which read: 'WALKING ON WATER IS A PART OF MY JOB DESCRIPTION." My friends,

That’s not only funny,
             that's not only true,

                      that's not only mandatory,

                               that's possible!

0, Ye of Little Faith 11/14/1993

Dr. William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham,Michigan

Scripture: Matthew 14:22-33
 

Two weeks ago Sunday afternoon, Kris and I opened our living room to host the reunion of our most recent trip to Israel. People came from any number of places, complete with stories to tell, pictures to pass and memories to rekindle. Also present was our Jewish travel agent, who (over the course of arranging our last couple of trips) has moved from the category of "consultant" to the status of "friend." It was she who asked the assembled tour members for their most vivid memories. For some, it was the Mount of Olives. For others, the manger of Bethlehem. Several responded to the communion experience at the Garden Tomb. One man said," Masada." Another, "the Temple of Karnak" in Egypt. But by far the greatest number sited experiences on or around the Sea of Galilee.

Which was where I was when I last worked with this little slice of biblical material. I was preaching on the open deck of a boat, in the middle of the Galilean Lake. With the engines killed, the seagulls swirling, and the waves lapping counterpoint to my words, I told this story. In reality, I tried to place my listeners into the midst of this story. Which worked.... sort of.... except for two things. Instead of being 3:00 in the morning, it was 3:00 in the afternoon. And instead of being storm-driven and tempest-tossed, the sea was as calm as glass. So my listeners had to pretend that it was dark.... pretend that it was stormy.... pretend that their arms were weary.... and pretend that their stomachs were queasy. Which probably wasn't all that hard, given that life occasionally feels that way.

Then they had to pretend (at least to the degree that they wanted to "feel" the story) that Jesus had just called one of them over the rail, literally commanding that the boat be abandoned for a walk on the wet side. As pretentions go, this was considerably harder.  Because seldom, in real life, does anyone act that way. Which is understandable. I think that most of us identify more readily with life's storms and stresses, than with the possibility of walking through, over or around them.

Three weeks ago, in the first of these sermons, I talked about what it sometimes feels like at 3:00 in the morning. I also talked about what it might feel like to see Jesus walking toward your boat in the midst of a storm. You liked that sermon. A lot. Then two weeks ago, I talked about Peter leaving the boat and walking toward Jesus. You liked that sermon too.  But maybe a little less. Still, it was the second sermon which inspired a note describing a personal reaction to Peter's vacating what little security the boat afforded, for the risky business of sallying-forth into waters that were murky and deep. The note read: 'When I think of the fear Peter must have felt, I am convinced that he must have had a tremendous amount of faith.... more than most of us have.... and certainly more than I have."

That's our problem with the text, isn't it? It's not that we are all hung up on the quasi-miraculous nature of the story. We aren't gathered in corners of the sanctuary, debating the kinds of issues that would excite a Baptist.... namely issues of miracle versus natural law (as in wondering how an object denser than water can remain atop the water without the aid of surfboards, jet skis, water wings or other flotation devices). We know that this text is not primarily about a one-time freakish occurrence of nature. This text is about answering a call from Jesus (which can come at any time), and remaining faithful to that call when it is late instead of early, dark instead of light, and perilous instead of promising. This text is about letting go of an old security (which is about to get swamped anyway), for a new possibility (which, when we first hear it, is as frightening as it is compelling). For we know that the Christ who comes toward us, is probably going to expect some reciprocal movement from us.

So Peter gets out of the boat. Which is nothing new. He did it a couple of years earlier. That was when Jesus said to him: 'Why not beach your boat, stay on land for a while, and join me in fishing for a different kind of catch?" And if you don't think that Peter's earlier decision (in its own way) was risky, when was the last time you gave up a relatively secure occupation in obedience to what you perceived to be a higher calling?

Now Peter is out of the boat.... again. And this time the water is deeper and the hour is darker. There he goes.  Can you see him?  I don't want you to miss this.  Up and over.  First one leg. Two legs.  One step. Two steps.  Then next steps.  Followed by more steps.  For God's sake, he's actually doing it. Let there be no question about his motivation. Neither let there be any question about his progress. Walk on through the wind, Peter, walk on through the rain, though your dreams be tossed and blown.  Walk on, good friend, with hope in your heart....

I'm not being melodramatic here. I'm simply trying to show you that Peter starts well. And while his jaunt is dramatic, it is not abnormal. Jesus invites. Peter executes. It is the most natural thing in the world. It is well within Peter's capacity to do what Jesus asks. We mess up the story royally when we assume that water-walking is the aberration and that sinking is the expectation. Most of us get it backwards. When Peter sinks, we say: "Of course." But we are supposed to say, "Of course," when Peter is still striding across the waters. Ah, yes. Peter starts well.  And nothing could be more natural than that.  Nothing.

Ever since Robert Fulghum wrote a book entitled "All I Really Needed To Know, I Learned In Kindergarten," he has been in great demand as a public speaker, especially in schools.  Ironically, most of his invitations have come from kindergartens or colleges. He readily visits both, finding that (in many respects) the difference is only one of scale. It would seem that a school, is a school, is a school. The most visible disparity, he says, is in the self-image of the students.

Ask a Kindergarten class, "how many of you can draw?" And all hands shoot up. Yes, of course we can draw....all of us. What can you draw? Anything! How about a dog eating a fire truck in the jungle? Sure! How big do you want the dog?

How many of you can sing? All hands go up. Of course we sing! What can you sing? Anything! What if you don't know the words? No problem, we'll make them up as we go along. So shall we sing? Why not!

How many of you dance? Unanimous again. What kind of music do you like to dance to? Any kind! Let's dance! Sure, why not?

Do you like to act in plays? Yes! Do you play musical instruments? Yes! Do you write poetry? Yes! We're learning that stuff now.

Their answer is "Yes"! Over and over again. Kindergarten children are confident in spirit, infinite in resources, and eager to learn. Everything is still possible. 

Try those same questions on a college audience. A small percentage of the students will raise their hands when asked if they draw, dance, sing, paint, or play an instrument. Not infrequently, those who do raise their hands will qualify their response with any number of limitations. "I only play piano.... I only draw horses.... I only dance to rock and roll.... I only sing in the shower." When asked the reasons for the limitations, college students answer that they do not have talent... are not majoring in the subject... have not done any of these things since the third grade.... or are embarrassed for others to see them try.

 What went wrong between kindergarten and college?

What happened to: "Yes, of course I can?"

We all started well when we were young. It was easier then. Obstacles were smaller then. Storms were either brief or non- existent then. Alas, not everybody finishes well. To which Peter can certainly attest. For just when it seems that nothing can stop him, our text suggest that Peter stopped himself. He read too many negative signals and believed every last one of them. He looked at how dark it was.... how deep it was.... how windy it was.... how raw and cutting it was. None of which was new information. But suddenly he felt cause to say: "I am beyond my limit. I am over my head. I am out of my league. I am no match for this." And suddenly, he wasn't.

In this morning's Steeple Notes I alluded to water skiing. It is not something I do well. But I have done it. I can do it. And, about the time that Bill and Julie indicate an interest in sending me off to the farm, I will probably feel some compulsion to do it again. Just to make a point. My last time out.... or up.... was to impress a couple of women (my wife and my daughter). It was the year of my 50th birthday. The boat was piloted by a friend. I think it was a battleship. Anyway, I made it most of the way around the lake, until I though to myself: "Wait a minute; I can't really be doing this." Which, of course, was exactly the wrong thing to think. Because the minute I thought I couldn't be doing this, I wasn't.

This happens to all of us. Suddenly we find ourselves.... much to our surprise.... doing improbable things, In unlikely ways, at the most demanding times. Then we say: "This can't be me." And suddenly it isn't.  Which is when things fall apart. We fall down, just when we were up. We fall apart, just when we were holding it together. And we take a fall, just when we were making nice forward progress.

All of which happens because we look at the wrong signs. Or we look in the wrong directions. I hate heights. I don't like ladders. I have no small number of horror stories about climbing. All of them include memories of much tentativeness, terror and teeth-clenching. Don't ever look for me to re-roof the parsonage. But if the stakes were high enough.... or if the need was great enough.... I know that I could climb a ladder tomorrow. I would never look down. I would never look back. I would never look to either side. For diverting my focus would almost certainly undermine my progress. Where ladders are concerned, the moment I stop looking up is the moment I stop going up.

Life is no different. You have to figure out what to do with your eyes. For there is plenty of negativity to look back upon. There are plenty of reasons for falling, failing, or not starting at all.  What's more, we don't have to look very far outside the self to find those reasons.  Everyone of us is carrying baggage from the past that is sufficient to sink us.

The problem with being a Christian is not that life is dark and stormy. The problem with being a Christian is that we are suspended between a pair of mixed signals.... one of which is a storm-shadowed Christ saying, "Come," and the other of which is a contrary wind screaming, "No way." But I would contend that Christ is every bit the wind's equal, and that others have found it so.

So if you want to believe that nobody knows the trouble you've seen, don't read biographies. Because if you do,  you'll read about people who have known what you've seen, and worse.

And if you want to believe that you can't overcome whatever it is that is overcoming you, then don't turn your head from side to side in this sanctuary. Because if you do, you will see people who have faced worse, and kept going.

And if you want to believe that this is a time of peril, danger, lawlessness, laziness, depression, recession, addiction or affliction (unlike any that has gone before), then don't read history. Because if you read history, you are going to discover that worse times have existed and been surmounted.

To be sure, there is misery in the world. There is pain in your life. There is struggle all around. Stormy things that have happened to you which have crushed your dreams, wounded your heart and slowed your progress. Those things have made you unhappy. They have also made you tentative, fearful and dubious. That's understandable. If you didn't feel that way, something would be wrong with you. But there is still one thing that you have to decide. Which signals are going to command your attention? Are you going to sink under the weight of injustices done to you and grievances collected on account? Or are you going to take Christ at His word when he says that you not only have a future, but a way to get there?

But what if you sink? Well, if you sink, you sink. The story seems to suggest that sinking is regrettable, but understandable. Peter sinks. It earns him a rebuke. He is chided for his "little faith." Actually, the literal translation would suggest that he is chided for "incomplete faith," or ''half faith." But don't miss this. Peter's faith-failure is not a failure to hear Jesus.... not a failure to heed Jesus.... not a failure to put it on the line for Jesus. Rather, it is a failure to believe that he (Peter) could finish what he started for Jesus.

Over the last trio of weeks I have been using these sermons as a stewardship theme.... believing that this text, in this hour, could very well be the appointed word for this congregation. And I suppose that some of you have wondered: "Where does Ritter see us in this little tale? Does he really think that we are cowering in the bow of the boat, trying hard not to hear Jesus, and trying harder still to avoid attempting anything difficult for Jesus?"

Well, if that's what you figured, you are wrong. I don't see you that way at all. Instead, I see you as someone who (at some time in your life).... maybe a year ago.... five years ago.... fifty years ago.... or just last Sunday.... took a very real step forward for Jesus. All I am trying to do with this final sermon is to get you to take another one.... the better to turn your first step into a two-step.

Early in the sermon, I said that the world misses the point of this text when it greets Peter's sinking with a collective, "Of course....what could one reasonably expect?" Obviously, Jesus expected much more, which is why sinking drew a rebuke from the lips of the Lord.

But I would not want to close this sermon (or this series) without the subtle grace note of the text itself. For along with the rebuke, sinking also draws a rescue. For, as the text adds: "Jesus immediately reached out His hand to Peter and caught him." That, too, is the Gospel. It is preserved in a slice of ancient hymnody. I enter it in the middle (and invite those of you who know it to join along with me).

Still the Master of my fate,
heard my despairing cry,
From the waters lifted me,
now safe am I.

Love lifted me.

Love lifted me.

When nothing else could help,

Love lifted me.

Editor's note:

This trio of sermons, based on Matthew 14:22-33, were delivered as part of a stewardship emphasis at First United Methodist Church in Birmingham entitled "Water Walkers." Inspiration for the series was drawn from a sermon preached, years earlier, at First United Methodist Church in Evanston, Illinois by Dr. Neal Fisher, President of Garrett-Evangelical Theological Seminary. Some of the material for these three sermons originally appeared in a single sermon entitled, "Savior By Stormlight" which was subsequently quoted by Maxie Dunnam in his book: 'That's What The Man Said." Robert Fulghum's account of speaking to kindergarten children and college students first appeared in his book entitled: "Uh-Oh." The concluding thoughts about not reading biographies or looking at one's neighbors in the sanctuary come from the fertile mind of Mark Trotter and were also collected in the aforementioned book by Maxie Dunnam.