On Playing in the Fairway 10/11/1998

First United Methodist Church

Birmingham, Michigan

Scriptures: Proverbs 3:11-12, Galatians 6:1-5, Ephesians 4:15-16

Let me begin by confessing that I once lost my sole on the golf course. Fortunately, my shoe manufacturer gave me a full refund.

Having just returned from Scotland, many of you have asked about my golf game. In fact, many of you asked about my golf game before I went to Scotland. As your final words to me, at least 50 of you said: “Hit ‘em straight.”

Actually, I did play twice….which, given the raindrops, was no small achievement. Both courses were links courses (meaning that they are laid out along the sea). Both courses were historic courses, meaning that I was taking divots from hallowed ground. No, I didn’t get on the old course at St. Andrews. But I did get on the old courses at Prestwick and Crail. And I would have played the queen’s course at Balmoral, had not the rain turned it into a quagmire.

Golf is a hobby for many, a sport for some, and an addiction for a few. Into the latter category falls a man I heard about recently. It seems he teed his ball on the sixth hole of his favorite course, hooked his drive terribly, and ended up in an unplayable position. Between where his ball landed and the green began was a barn….a rather large barn. But his wife, playing with him, assessed his predicament and then suggested:

Look, why don’t you go for it? You’ll never hit it over the barn, but you might be able to hit through it.  I’ll open the barn’s front door. Then I’ll walk through and open the barn’s back door. When I wave, you take out a two iron, smack it hard, keep it low, and you may luck out.

So she proceeded to open the barn’s front door, walked through and opened the barn’s rear door, and then gave a wave, indicating that the time had come to hit. Seeing the signal, he took out a two iron, rocketed a shot through the barn doors, and hit his wife upside the head, killing her instantly.

Three years later, while playing with a friend, he hooked the same drive on the same hole, landing in virtually the same spot. Upon surveying the predicament, his friend said:

Look, why don’t you go for it? This barn has two doors. I’ll open the front. Then I’ll walk through and open the back. When you see me wave, take out a two iron and whack it with everything you’ve got.

“No way,” said the golfer. “The last time I tried that on this hole, I took a six.”

Someday, someone will explain to me why so many stories about golf are also stories about death. I can think of at least three classic jokes that combine the two. Rather than tell them, I’ll simply call them to mind by reciting the punch lines:

The good news is that there are great golf courses in heaven. The bad news is that you have a tee time on Monday morning.

Why wouldn’t I interrupt my round to pay my last respects? After all, she gave me the best 30 years of my life.

(And who can forget the immortal:) “I’ll tell you why it took me eight hours to play 18 holes. I had to hit the ball and drag Fred….hit the ball and drag Fred.”

Humor has a way of illuminating a lot of things, not the least of which is the way we tend to get our priorities all screwed up, playing away at “life’s little games” while life’s most significant relationships take it in the head. Such is not my primary point this morning. But if it happens to fit your particular situation, feel free to use it as you like.

Instead, I want you to note that this story could never have been told, had not the golfer strayed from the fairway. But being aware of the fact that there are a few non-golfers among us, I suppose a brief definition of a“fairway” might be in order. When you hit a golf ball, the fairway is where you want your ball to land. The grass is shorter there. The ground is smoother there. And the route to the hole is less encumbered there. Should your ball stray outside the fairway, I suppose it could be said that you have found the “foulway.” And while there is no such word as “foulway” (at least until now), it pretty well sums up the problem. In golfing’s lexicon, straying from the fairway (interesting choice of verb….“straying”) lands you in the “rough,” which (on more difficult courses) is often described as being “unforgiving.” And upon reaching the rough, three ponderables come into play….all of them bad. You may not be able to find your ball. You may find it, but not be able to hit it. Or you may be forced to take a penalty.

Sometimes even worse things happen. I once hit a shot through some lady’s kitchen window at 7:30 in the morning. She was nice enough to bring the ball out to me….in her nightgown. And seeing that she was already out in the yard returning my ball, she struck up a conversation so as to learn a little more about me….such as my address, my phone number, and the name of my insurance agent.

As I have suggested on other occasions, I believe that God created people who can hit the ball a long way, and people who can hit the ball a straight way. Alas, those are seldom the same people. Which turns “fairways” into “foreign countries” for those who have the strength to put plenty of postage on the ball, but can never seem to guide it to the right address.

That very problem once caught up with me at Wabeek Country Club, when (playing as somebody’s guest) I lofted a five iron majestically into the heavens, whereupon it cleared the green….cleared the fringe….cleared the rough….and landed in somebody’s back yard. That somebody was named “Lou Whitaker.” And having heard for years that the term “Sweet Lou” was coined to describe his agility around second base rather than his disposition around strangers, I tiptoed into his yard….picked up my ball….and tiptoed out. Even though I had a shot. I mean, I really did.

By now you have probably surmised that I am playing with the word “fairway” as something of a moral metaphor for lives that do not stray into the rough or land out of bounds. But in life, as in golf, such is easier said than done….and maybe unaccomplishable, apart from a little help from one’s friends.

This is best illustrated by one last golf story, this one concerning a great golfer (Arnold Palmer) playing in an even greater golf tournament (the Masters at Augusta National). How sweet it would be to find myself in Augusta some April, as was a ministerial colleague of mine a few years ago. And it is his account that I share with you now. It seems that he chose to follow Palmer, joining the gallery that was known, in those days, as “Arnie’s Army.” On the 13th hole, Palmer shanked one down along the edge of the creek bed. Let my friend tell it from here:

When I saw where Arnie’s ball landed, I said to myself: “No way will he be able to recover for par.” So turning to the person next to me, I decided to play strategist: “What Arnie needs to do,” I said, “is to play it safe, chip out to the fairway and settle for a bogey. Because if he tries a long iron out of that lie, either he won’t get it out, or he’ll hit it flat and wind up out-of-bounds on the other side.” This observation caused the guy standing next to me to say: “That just shows how much you know. This must be your first trip to the Masters.” Then he went on to add: “What Palmer is really going to do is hit the ball as hard as he can. And he won’t go out of bounds, because he’s going to hit the ball straight at the gallery.”

Which is exactly what Palmer did. He slashed the ball straight at the crowd, where somebody who loved him a whole lot more than I did got in front of the ball and let it hit him. There followed a bit of kicking and scuffling. And when the ball stopped, it was right back on the fairway. Whereupon the person standing next to me turned and said: “As long as there’s a crowd at Augusta National, Arnold Palmer will never hit if out of bounds at the Masters.”

What a wonderful story. It makes me wish I could play with a gallery like that. Heck, it makes me wish I could live with a gallery like that….a gallery filled with people who would love me enough so that they would do everything in their power to keep my life from going out of bounds. Lots of lives do….go out of bounds, that is. And few there are who seem to notice or care.

Harvard theologian Harvey Cox often talks about the demise of what was formerly known as “town morality.” Let’s say you were a kid growing up in a small town where people shopped at your dad’s store, got their hair done in your Aunt Flo’s salon, or sang in the Presbyterian church choir where your mom was the organist. Townspeople knew your people. And they knew you. They knew your face. They knew your voice. They especially knew your car. If you drove it a little too fast, somebody knew that. And if you parked it on a lookout over town (to the point of steaming up the windshield), somebody knew that, too. And if you pushed the limits of propriety a bit too far….and a bit too often….somebody would hear about it. Which means that sooner or later, you’d hear about it. So you kind of watched things, because you knew (in the back of your mind) that you were being watched.

Which is not all bad. And, to the degree that such social networks no longer operate like they used to, that’s not all good. Consider preachers’ kids. Everybody knows who they are….which can be stressful. But everybody also cares who they are….which can be helpful. Why must we always assume that living “under scrutiny” is a terrible thing?

Today, “town morality” is largely dead. People move around. People live more privately. People live in multiple circles which seldom intersect. People seek anonymity. Therefore, nobody watches them. But the flip side is that nobody watches out for them. Morality has become privatized. The business of staying “in bounds” is largely a personal business….which makes it harder.

The other day, in a cluster of male friends, the conversation turned to a particular group of establishments across the river in Windsor. These establishments are widely known for the fact that there are more women who dance on the tables than there are who wait on them. In the middle of the conversation, someone turned to me andsaid: “Have you ever been over to one of those joints?” And I said: “Just as soon as I’d walk in the door, I’d run into a bunch of my parishioners at a table in the corner.” Which was an interesting response on my part. For while there are a whole lot of other reasons….and better reasons….as to why I’m not a “regular” at Jason’s, it is interesting that I cited you (my parishioners) as being an important component in my decision-making process. For your opinions matter to me….as do your expectations. And while I don’t necessarily feel bound by them, my natural inclination is to pay close attention to them.

This is why people seek anonymity whenever they feel inclined to deviate from the norm. “I’ll go where nobody knows me.” After all, the prodigal didn’t take his share of the money and split for a “far country” just because the rate of monetary exchange would be more favorable, once he crossed the border. To the contrary, the words “far country” constitute a biblical euphemism for a place where ordinary constraints that govern human behavior no longer apply.

Isn’t this why most school districts have distanced themselves from those exotic trips….such as Caribbean cruises….taken by high school seniors? There’s a reason school administrators have soured on such ventures. As one superintendent once said to me (very much off the record): “Some of what we’ve learned is pretty awful.” Which is not meant to indict any specific kid, or any cluster of kids. But it is to acknowledge that one of the reasons 17-year-olds like to sail beyond the three-mile limit is that open water feels (for all the world) like a moral twilight zone….where everything that matters….and everyone who matters….can be temporarily put on hold.

I was on one of those four day cruises, four years ago. It was about the time that several seniors were celebrating “spring break.” Many of them did not even see dinner on the first night. Which was the direct result of too many rum punches between shoving off from shore at 1:00 and sitting down to supper at 7:00.

Comedian Billy Crystal pointed to the same “suspension of responsibility” in his marvelous film on male bonding known as City Slickers. In one especially poignant scene he put the question to several friends: “If the opportunity ever presented itself, and you could be 100 percent certain (absolutely guaranteed) that nobody would ever find out, would you consider cheating on your wife?” And I suspect that every single man, at one time or another, has at least pondered that question.

Part of what supports us in our moral decision-making is that others will find out….and we value what they think. What’s more, we count on their thinking to help us frame and fashion our decisions. We have always found it hard to be “good” in a vacuum. It is abundantly clear to me that whenever the church has been most true to its New Testament calling, it has been the kind of community that helps keep its members from slipping out of bounds. “Gently reprove one another,” Paul said to the Galatians. “Speak the truth to one another in love,” he urged the Ephesians. “Accept discipline as reflective of God’s love,” the people were told in the letter to the Hebrews.

Which was probably as hard to do then as it is now. For we are afraid to intrude upon another’s space. We are afraid to violate another’s freedom. We are afraid of appearing intolerant in an overly-indulgent age. All of which are valid fears. But if we constantly act as if the things people do don’t matter, people will begin to get the idea that they don’t matter. “The Lord reproves those he loves,” says Proverbs 3:11, followed by: “The Lord admonishes those in whom he delights.” I remember an athletically inclined friend of mine saying: “The worst day of my football career was the day I realized that the coach was no longer chewing my tail. Because that’s the day I realized I was pretty much superfluous to the team, and that there were no further plans to play me in any game that mattered.” Do you think that Weight Watchers has mastered the art of addressing people in a manner that "speaks the truth in love?” You betcha. Alcoholics Anonymous? You better believe it. And what do you think a teenager is doing when that teen quietly takes the car keys away from a friend? Or when an adult, without great fanfare, raises a truth that everyone else is about to trample?

I promised myself that I would not wallow in the reams of material recently released by the grand jury in Washington, concerning who touched who, where, in the intimate recesses of the White House. And, for the most part, I have kept that promise. But all of us are forced to swim in a river of information that has exceeded its banks and permeated the neighborhoods. Which means that there is no avoiding the particulars. And one of the particulars that concerns me is the number of people who knew about the President’s behavior, but said nothing to the President. One might have hoped for a critical question or two….a raised issue or two….a pointed conversation or two (initiated out of a concern for the man, the marriage, the office or the intern). But it seems that such never happened. Which is understandable, I suppose. But sad….so incredibly sad.

How do we help each other stay in-bounds? That question haunts me more and more as boundaries seem to matter less and less. As questions go, I’ll lay it on your hearts as I close with a story of one of the angriest ladies I ever met. She was a minister’s wife, well known to many of us. What was also known to many of us was the fact that her husband (who had been our colleague and friend for 20 years) was openly involved with another woman….herself, a church professional. Their affair had been going on for a number of years. People had seen them. People had talked to them. People had talked about them. And the body of talk had reached the highest levels of the church.

Finally, it all broke open. And the wife (having known nothing previously) found out. What she also found out was how long everybody else had been in on the secret. Which made her feel like a fool, in addition to feeling like a victim.

To virtually anybody and everybody, her anger boiled over in the form of three questions.

1.      If you knew, why didn’t you talk to the Bishop?

(And the answer was, “Because we didn’t want the responsibility of his career on our hands.”)

2.      If you knew, why didn’t you talk to me?

      (And the answer was, “Because we didn’t want to hurt you.”)

Which inevitably led to question three:

3.      If you knew, why didn’t you talk to him?

(And, sad to say, for that question, none of us had an answer.)

And You Think You’ve Got Marital Problems 9/20/1998

First United Methodist Church

Birmingham, Michigan

Scriptures: Hosea 1:2-8, 2:1-4, 14-16; Luke 11:5-13

Given the recent “rush to confession” by public figures of all types and stripes, I suppose it is high time for me to acknowledge that I have placed the same wedding ring on the hands of several different women. I am talking about this ring….my ring….which, as late as last Friday evening, was off my finger and on the finger of another. Which does not make me a bigamist…. or a serial monogamist….but simply a quick thinking (and even quicker acting) preacher.

The explanation is really quite simple. When you marry as many people as I do, sometimes you need to come to their rescue. Like when the maid of honor or the best man forgets the ring, can’t find the ring, or drops the ring between the back of the church and the front of the church. I know that sounds stupid. But nervous people do stupid things. And my job is to minimize the effects of the problem. Which I accomplish by removing my ring and giving it to whoever needs one. It works every time. And I’ve gotten it back every time. So far.

As confessions go, I realize that the one I just made is small potatoes. But I really can’t produce anything that could be published under the heading of “spicy and salacious.” So if you read today’s title and came to hear about my marital problems, I’ll have to disappoint. And if you read today’s title and came to hear about the Clinton’s marital problems, I’ll have to disappoint further. As concerns mine, there’s really nothing to talk about. And as concerns Bill and Hillary….well….I’m not on the list of high profile clergy types (like Jesse Jackson and Tony Campolo) summoned to the White House for intimate pastoral conversation. Not that I’d tell you if I were.

Instead, I rise to talk about Hosea’s marital problems which (as you will see in a moment) were even more painful and public than Sweet William’s. And you will have to take my word for it that I picked this morning’s subject, date and title, at least 30 days before the Starr Report became public. Perhaps I was being prophetic. Which Hosea certainly was.

For he was a prophet….in Israel….in the 8th century BC. Next to Elijah, Hosea is my favorite prophet. For he called it as he saw it….he told it as he lived it….and he was not at all bashful about his belief that God was deeply enmeshed in both the telling and the living.

But first we need to back up and remind ourselves of why prophets arose in Israel in the first place. Which can be explained by the fact that there was a covenant in Israel in the first place. The covenant was between God and the people. But the people kept forgetting it….and breaking it. The covenant was not unlike a deal (of sorts), wherein God said: “Look, here’s what I am going to do for you. I am going to rescue you from bondage. I am going to lead you where you need to go. I am going to help you settle and structure your life once you get there. And I am going to see to it that your children prosper and multiply from generation to generation.” Then God added: “Your part of the deal is to believe and behave” (which is biblical shorthand for saying: “Honor my claim and obey my law.”).

Mark Trotter points out that the contribution of the Hebrew prophets was enormous. For it was the prophets who first defined man’s relationship to God by moral acts (such as ethical conduct), rather than by religious acts (such as sacrificial offerings). Recall Hosea’s 8th century contemporary….the prophet Amos….who thundered: “I hate, I despise your feasts. I take no delight in your solemn assemblies. But let justice roll down like waters and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.”

Which explains why the prophets were always trying to get people to repent and clean up their acts. Which probably wasn’t any more popular then than now. Most of us don’t like the word “repentance.” Because saying “I’m sorry”….meaning “I’m sorry”….and turning away from the acts that forced the “I’m sorry” in the first place, are not things that are fun to do. But what repentance means is that life can be better than it is now, and there are things we can do….and should do….to make it better.

Most other Middle Eastern religions (at the time of the prophets) did not take history or morality seriously. They did not believe that human beings could influence things for the better (by acting better), or for the worse (by acting worse). They were nature religions. God was the God of nature, not the God of history. Things that were important in nature religions were the rhythms of the seasons and the cycles of sun and moon, seed time and harvest, fertility and infertility, along with deluge and drought. And since human beings couldn’t do much about any of that stuff….I mean, who could make it rain if it hadn’t rained in weeks?….it was assumed in the “nature religions” that only God could improve things. So if you needed rain….if you needed a good harvest….if you needed fertile fields….then you made sacrifices to God. You offered God grain, meat and (in some cases) even children. But then God spoke through his prophets and said: “I hate and despise your sacrifices. Stop offering me these dumb things and start doing the things I tell you to do, and you’ll see how much better things will get in your world.”

It was a hard message. And a blunt message. But it was also a moderately hopeful message. For in castigating the people for bad choices…and urging them toward good choices….the prophets were saying that choice makes a difference. Meaning, by implication, that we can make a difference. It’s not just the moon and the stars. It’s us. So the prophets said: “Shape up, lest there be consequences to your behavior that you won’t want to live with. Which there will be. And it will be your own damn fault.”

Which was, in a nutshell, the prophetic message in Israel. At least it was the prophetic message before Hosea. Prior to Hosea, the covenant (the “deal” between God and his people) was pretty much like a contract. If one party violated it, it was off (as in void….finished…. flushed….done deal). The offended party (God) could take his marbles and go home. But to Hosea….and, subsequently, through Hosea….came the radically amazing notion that even should Israel break the deal, God would hang in there anyway.

Where did Hosea come up with such an idea? Through his own painful marital experience, that’s where. He married an unfaithful woman. There are several interpretations as to how this happened (including the possibility that God told him to marry such a woman). At any rate, her name was Gomer. How’s that for a name? I have a good friend in the ministry whose name is Hosea. But I don’t have any friends (male or female) named Gomer. Yet that was her name. But that wasn’t half of it. For Gomer was a whore. The Bible doesn’t sugar coat it. It says so right up front. At one point it says that she “played the whore,” meaning that she might not have been a card-carrying hooker. For there was, at that time, a class of vocational prostitutes who hung out in Caananite temples. That way, if you went to the temple to pray for a fertile field, you could involve yourself (ritualistically) with a fertile woman. We don’t really know if Gomer was one of these. Maybe she just acted like one of these.

But Hosea married her and she had three children. Chapter One suggests they were Hosea’s children. Chapter Two suggests they may have been other men’s children. But whether or not Hosea conceived them, we know that Hosea named them. For each name was symbolic. And each name revealed the disintegrating nature of Hosea’s marriage to Gomer, while also revealing the disintegrating nature of God’s “marriage” to Israel.

The first son, Hosea named Jezreel. This was probably a variation on the name of the nation (“Jezreel” – “Israel”). The second child, a little girl, Hosea named Lo-Ruhamah. This meant: “I will no longer have pity.” Then followed a third child, a little boy. And Hosea named him Lo-Ammi, meaning: “You are not my people and I am not your God.”

Talk about how tough it is to be a preacher’s kid. Look how tough it was to be a prophet’s kid. A prophet’s kid had to walk around like a billboard, even to the point of being saddled with a name that sounded like a sermon. Imagine Hosea’s little boy going to school….first day….teacher’s calling the roll. “What’s your name, little boy?” “My name is ‘You are not my people and I am not your God.’” I mean, it could turn you into a dropout….from kindergarten.

I figured that Matt Hook….lover of scripture that he is….would give his kids names that sounded like messages from God, once he and Leigh started having children. And when they named their firstborn “Hunter,” I said: “Ah, that’s from the Cain and Abel story in Genesis 4. I get it.” So when Jillianne was born, I figured they’d call her “Gatherer.” But they didn’t. And then they completely missed the boat with Graham and Joy. Think of the Hosea-like possibilities. They could have called Graham “The Lord’s wrath is rising.” And they could have named Joy: “You’re all headed for Hell in a handbasket.” Maybe next time.

At any rate, Gomer (the mother of these kids) was unfaithful to Hosea. She was unfaithful openly. She was unfaithful shamefully. She was unfaithful repeatedly. He pleaded with her. He had the kids plead with her. He exposed and shamed her. He punished and banished her. But he could not completely forget her. Or forsake her. So he pursued her. He wooed her. And then came those beautiful words at the end of the second chapter:

            But look, I am going to seduce her

            And lead her into the wilderness and speak to her heart.

            There I shall give her back her vineyards

            And make of the valley of Achor a door of hope.

            Then she will respond as when she was young.

            And when that day comes, (she) will call me “my husband.”

Which sounds as if they are going back to the place of their courtship, doesn’t it? Back where love began….back where promises were made….back where the future was ripe with hope. Which is what couples do, isn’t it….when trouble comes, and (hopefully) goes. Couples go back to some special place….where they met….where they courted…..where they proposed….or where they honeymooned. They go back to remember and renew. They go back to start over where they started once. People do it all the time.

But note the identity of the lover in the words I just read. The words of wooing sound like Hosea. But the wooer is God and the wooee is Israel. And the place to which Israel is being drawn (or seduced) is the wilderness, where (once upon a time) it was just God and his people.

What is Hosea saying? Hosea is saying: “If you welsh on the deal (the covenant), you will have to pay the consequences. Which means that you will lose your comfortable life. But you will not lose God. For God will be true to his beloved.”

This is one of those “how much more” narratives for which the Bible is famous. For when we read that Hosea stood by….waited for….and sought-to-be-one with his wandering woman, the Bible is saying: “How much more will God stand by….wait for….and seek-to-be-one with you?”

Which leads us from Old Testament to New, and from prophet to parable. In Luke’s little story (11:5-13), a neighbor comes to the door at midnight. Banging on the door, he wakes up the man of the house, crying: “Give me some bread. I’ve had somebody come to visit me and my cupboard is bare.” Which doesn’t exactly please the householder who says: “Hey, it’s midnight. The kids are asleep. The wife’s asleep. I’m asleep. You’re waking up half the town. Go away.” But the neighbor persists. And the text reads: “Because of the knocker’s importunity (which is a five dollar word for ‘making a pest out of himself’), the householder gets up, comes downstairs, opens the door, and gives him three loaves of Jewish rye. Point being: if a sleeping neighbor will eventually open the door to a boorish pest, how much more will God stand ready to open the door to you?”

And why will God do that? Because that’s who God is. And that’s what God does. Let me illustrate. I recently became aware of someone who works for the phone company in the area of customer complaints. Hers is a tough job. I wouldn’t have it. For she must represent the policies of the company, while attempting to be sympathetic to the predicaments of the customer. One day a lady called, professing grave problems with her phone service. My friend said that while it was a bad problem, it did not fall within the guidelines of things customarily handled by the company. In other words, it was the customer’s problem, not hers. But the customer….a widow….living alone….on a fixed income….persisted.

My friend said: “During the conversation, the lady said something that really got through to me.” She said: “I’ve always loved and respected the phone company. Since I was a little girl coming home to an empty house, my mother always said: ‘If I’m not home and you ever have a problem, just call the operator at the telephone company and she will help.’”

My friend said: “At that moment a light went on in my brain. For I realized that this was not merely a dispute over money and service, but a discussion about the character of the company. What kind of company were we? Were we still a company that cared….a company that could be trusted….and a company that valued a long-term relationship with its customer?” And when my friend reframed the question that way, she figured out a way to solve the caller’s problem. Leading me to ask: “How much more will your Heavenly Father do to affirm the long-term relationship He has with you?”

I think you know the answer to that. The Gospel says that God will do anything….and stop at nothing….to woo and win this whore-like bride of a church that never tires of finding lovers with which to go asunder. And you know what that means. As does Greg Jones.

Greg Jones is the new Dean of the Divinity School of Duke University. Recently, he attended an Annual Conference of the United Methodist Church. That Conference, like so many church bodies today, was torn apart by the controversies that divide our church and our nation. At the opening session of the Conference, a spotlight was fixed on a stained glass window that was set in a frame on the stage. Shortly after the opening hymn, someone rose from his seat in the auditorium and threw a brick through that window, shattering it into a thousand pieces. Then followed a time of confession with each worshiper confessing his or her own brokenness.

The next night, as they returned to the auditorium for worship, they were given a fragment of that stained glass. During the service there was an offering. Baskets were passed. Everyone was encouraged to put their piece into the basket. The baskets were then taken up to the altar and poured into a metal pan. When the last basket was emptied, a cloth behind the altar dropped, and there was a cross made of pieces of fragmented stained glass.

Like I said….whatever it takes. That’s what God will do. Whatever it takes.

Note: I am deeply indebted to Mark Trotter (First UMC San Diego) for suggestion of theme and for his helpful understanding of the prophetic role in the light of “nature religion.” The juxtaposition of the Hosea texts with the story of the neighbor who knocked at midnight was suggested by the common lectionary. Will Willimon (Pulpit Resource) suggested the “how much more” theme, in the light of the story of the lady who worked for the phone company.

Catching the Wave 9/13/1998

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Isaiah 51:15, John 4:31-38

Several years ago, I came across an incredible story. Then in April it showed up again in a sermon by Brian Bauknight who preaches to a congregation in the suburbs of Pittsburgh. I have been assured that it is true, even though it has a certain absurd quality to it. It is the story of a 33-year-old truck driver from Los Angeles, a man named Larry Walters. Larry lived in one of those neighborhoods where all of the houses look alike and where all the yards are surrounded by chain link fences. Every Saturday afternoon, Larry had a ritual. He would sit in a lawn chair, consume a six pack of beer, and relax for a couple of hours. Then one Saturday Larry got a bright idea….most likely after consuming the six pack. He decided he would tie some helium balloons to his lawn chair and float himself several feet above his neighbors’ yards.

It should be noted that Larry was a truck driver, not an engineer. Therefore, he was unsure of how many balloons it might take to elevate him above the rooftops. So he purchased 45 weather balloons and filled them with helium. Then he packed some sandwiches and a six pack of beer, adding a BB gun so he could shoot out one or more balloons if he got too high. Then, with the help of neighbors, he tied the balloons to the lawn chair.

At the appropriate signal, the neighbors let go. Larry immediately shot up 11,000 feet. He was so frightened that he never got a chance to shoot any of the balloons with his gun. He was too busy holding onto the lawn chair. Providentially, he was spotted by the pilot of a DC 10, coming into Los Angeles International Airport. The pilot radioed the tower that there was a man in a lawn chair at 11,000 feet, and that he had a gun. Planes were immediately rerouted around the area where Larry was floating. Rescue craft were then sent up and eventually got him down.

He was immediately surrounded by reporters asking him: “Were you scared?”

His reply was an emphatic: “No!”

“Would you do it again?”

Again, an emphatic: “No!”

Which led to a third question: “Why did you do it in the first place?”

To which Larry replied: “Well, you can’t just sit there.”

And he’s right, you know. You can’t. Which can be taken as a warning to individuals. But which should also be taken as a warning to institutions. Which is why last year….on this day….from this place….to this church….I issued a challenge. It came in the form of a goal. A growth goal. A membership goal:

3001 by 2001

In that sermon, I gave a lot of “whys” and a few “hows.” I talked about “slippage” in mainline denominations….in our denomination….in other large Birmingham area churches….and in our church. Then I dared to suggest that this was unacceptable to God, and should not be acceptable to us.

But I don’t want to dwell on that message today. If you missed it….forgot it….or heard it, but didn’t quite get it….you can find copies in the narthex under the title “Bugles In the Afternoon.” Take it home and read it. That way, I can focus on the things that have happened since.

1.      That sermon launched a church-wide conversation.

2.      That conversation led to a unanimous endorsement of the goal at last December’s Charge Conference.

3.      That endorsement mandated the formation of a task force in January….17 members….meeting monthly.

4.      That task force studied a number of things including scripture, history, demographics and other churches.

5.      Eventually, the task force was split down the middle, with one group working on what George Bush used to call “the vision thing.”

6.      Simultaneously, the second group farmed itself out to the Membership and Evangelism Work Area, helping to create a strategic action plan for evangelism.

7.      Collectively, we ignited a “jump start” for Pentecost, pitching a tent on the front lawn and receiving 80 new adult members in the sanctuary.

8.      And in one year (September–September) we raised our membership from 2652 to 2789 (up from 2477 in 1992).

In short, “this old ark’s a moverin’,” as the song lyric says. But there are lingering questions that remain in many of your minds….questions of quantity versus quality, statistics versus spirit, and figures versus faith. Even though I said in last year’s sermon:

Some will say: “Ritter, the goal should be spiritual, not statistical….missional, not institutional. It should be about making disciples, deepening faith, serving the world….that sort of thing.” I couldn’t agree more. But I contend that we will not grow if we do not do these things, and we will not deserve to grow if we fail in any of these things. There is a lot of hunger out there. People are seeking to understand their lives and to give their lives away. And they will gravitate to any church which helps them do both….at a level that is deep rather than shallow, in response to a imperative that is stringent rather than soft.

For I have never bought the argument that, where churches are concerned, small is automatically pure. Most growing churches I have seen have also been giving churches, searching churches, and serving churches. While most downsizing churches have been (for the sake of their survival) naval-gazing churches.

But for those who missed it then….and, perhaps, even now….let me be clear. This goal is about depth as well as breadth. And this goal has as much to do with commitment as it has to do with membership.

Toward that end, we have added Carl Price to an already talented staff. And Carl is about to launch six new Disciple Bible Study groups which will involve nearly 100 people.

Toward that end, we have hired Dick Cheatham (for 12 weeks out of the year), who will help us erase the scandal of marrying people we haven’t properly prepared for marriage, while helping us study our natures, our personal gifts and the meaning of our most important relationships.

And toward that end, the University of Life has now become year-round rather than three weeks in January, along with burgeoning opportunities for adults, youth and children (exemplified by nearly 300 kids at this year’s Vacation Bible School, and a spectacular Youth Encounter Weekend which is going on, at this very moment, with over 100 teens).

But let me back away and frame the issue of deepening commitment differently. Let me introduce to you what I call the “five constituencies of First Church”….each beginning with the letter “C” (community, crowd, congregation, committed, and core).

Community….the out-there-somewhere people. These are the unchurched or the casually churched.…the used to be’s, or never were’s. Some of whom are openly hostile to the faith. Others of whom are quietly indifferent to the faith. Still, we will serve them….in large part by opening our doors to them. We will meet them when times are hard (through programs related to hunger, hopelessness, addiction and divorce, not to overlook grief and funerals….meaning that we will bury them). And we will meet them when times are happy (as when they come to hear a concert, see a play, shop for rummage, or march to the altar….meaning that in addition to burying them, we will also marry them). We probably won’t beat down their doors. But we will make sure that our doors are visibly and comfortably open.

Crowd….the occasionally-here people….the Christmas, Easter, and when-the-kids-need-a-little-water-on-their-heads people. Those in “the crowd” may consist of members or non-members…. believers or non-believers. Do they truly worship on the occasions when they’re here? Darned if I know. But they can watch the rest of us worship. Who knows, it may be contagious. As concerns this group, we will make room for them….and encourage them….but will probably not set our entire agenda around them. Hopefully, something will strike them and they will take a step or two in the direction of greater involvement.

Congregation….the names-on-the-roll people. These are the folks who show up more often and eventually “join the church.” Quite apart from the question of what they believe (which can be worked on), they are united in a desire to belong (which can be rejoiced in). They could be doing more, much more. They probably aren’t. But if faith is a “road trip,” these folks are ripe for movement (if we can convert them from marking time to march time).

Committed….the serious-about-their-faith people. These are folk who are growing, learning, praying and making steady progress toward tithing. If asked, they are likely to define the word “church,” not by where it is they go, but by what it is they do. While we can certainly do a lot for these people, we can do even more with them. Obviously, there is a need to move more congregants to (and through) this circle.

Core….the committed-to-finding-their-ministry people. One thing unites them. Whatever be their talent, they have identified it and matched it to a need. It may be teaching or singing. It may be counseling or cleaning. It may be filling communion cups (or baking communion bread). But concerning each and every ministry of the church, these are those who say: “If it’s going to be, it’s up to me.” Praise God for the core.

Five C’s. Five circles. Five constituencies. Which would seem to suggest five strategies. Jesus, himself, acknowledged differing levels of commitment, tailoring his work to each. To Peter and Andrew at the outset, he said: “Come and see” (as in “check it out”). To Peter and Andrew three years later, he said: “Take up your cross if you would be my disciples.” Jesus didn’t use the same approach with everybody. Instead, he welcomed the community, fed the crowd, gathered the congregation, challenged the committed and discipled the core (which may have been as few as 12, or as many as 70….although some of you don’t like it when I use numbers).

So what are we about? All of the above. That’s what I think we’re about. Which may be a stretch. For while it does not imply being all things to all people, it certainly suggests the need to be a lot of things to many people. And that’s hard to do.

Lyle Schaller talks of the difficulty of being a “Saturday Evening Post church.” Which needs a bit of explaining. Once upon a time, America’s major magazines were general audience magazines, meaning that each issue had something for every taste. There were stories. There were features. There was news and sports. There was fashion stuff and kid’s stuff. There was a humor page. And there was generally a serialized novel. These magazines had names and logos that were recognizable in every living room. You had your Look. You had your Life. You had your Colliers. And you had your Saturday Evening Post.

Now you don’t have any of them. What you have is niche magazines for narrow markets. You have 10 different magazines for boaters. And the same is true for knitters, auto racers and gun collectors. As concerns teenage girls, there are three entirely unique and different magazines. One is for girls 12-14. One is for girls 15 and 16. And as for the magazine Seventeen, that pretty much speaks for itself.

But we are a Saturday Evening Post church….meaning something for everybody….in a world that no longer has a Saturday Evening Post. Like I said, it’s a stretch sometimes.

But let’s add two other considerations before putting this thing to bed. First, my role in all of this. What is it? I suppose I’m a mixture of catalyst, coach, communicator and cheerleader. One thing I must not be, however, is a wet blanket….as in a “dampener of spirits” (human and Holy). Like physicians, preachers should first “do no harm.” But you’d be surprised how many preachers kill the very churches they are appointed to serve.

Which explains, in a perverse way, why I like the story of the preacher who went to the bedside of a seriously ill parishioner named Fred, only to have the patient (in the process of his visit) begin coughing, choking and gasping for air. While thrashing wildly about, Fred reached for a pencil, grabbed a pad, scribbled a message, handed it to the preacher, and died. His preacher folded the message and slipped it in his pocket. Four days later, while conducting Fred’s funeral, he remembered he was wearing the same suit he had worn to the hospital that fateful day. Feeling in his coat pocket for Fred’s last words, he told those gathered for the service of this little epistle…. saying that while he had neglected to read it at the time, he was sure that Fred would want it read now. So opening the paper and speaking without thinking, he read Fred’s last words to the assembled mourners: “Pastor, you’re standing on my oxygen tube.”

Which is the last thing in the world I want to do, here or anywhere. I think most of you know that. And I think most of you trust that. But there’s still a few of you who, while claiming to like what you’ve seen, remain nervous about what you haven’t seen. You are afraid that I have a secret card hidden up my sleeve, just waiting for some unsuspecting moment to lay it on you. Relax. I don’t. What you see is who I am. What you see is what you get. What you see is all there is. Change, when it comes, will come as it has already come…in ways more evolutionary than revolutionary….and more likely by addition than by subtraction.

In fact, some of my more effective efforts hardly even show. Every other place I’ve been, we’ve built a building. Here, we are refurbishing one (from the inside out). In the last five years, we have replaced 153 windows, an air conditioning system and an outdated boiler. All the second floor classrooms are new, with plans to follow suit on the first floor next summer. In the midst of it all, there have been upgrades to the parking lot, the landscaping, the Media Center, the Children’s Chapel, the Wright and Thomas Parlors, along with the computer network. And as of last Wednesday night’s Trustee meeting, you can add an elevator, a handicap restroom, and some hallway reconstruction outside the narthex (the better to get you in and out of the sanctuary without being trampled).

Throw in $750,000 for endowment (in less than three years) and you’ve got a cool $2.1 million…. with no special appeal….no capital campaign….and no per-member assessments. But in those same five years, outreach giving (beyond our doors) has exceeded that figure by 20 percent. As well it should. And as well it will.

But my role pales before God’s role in all of this. Because this is God’s piece of work….both by holding up a yardstick while offering up the Spirit. As concerns the yardstick, consider the measurement of fruitfulness. God expects us to bear fruit.

·         “You did not choose me; I chose you, and appointed you to bear fruit.” (John 15:16)

·         “We pray this in order that you may please the Lord in every way, bearing fruit in every good work.” (Col. 1:10)

·         “This is to my Father’s glory, that you bear much fruit. In this way you will show yourselves to be my disciples.” (John 15:8)

·         “Therefore I tell you the Kingdom of God will be taken away from you and given to a people who will produce….(you guessed it)….fruit.” (Matt. 21:19)

Fifty-five times the Bible speaks of “fruit”….alternating between “fruit” as the numerical growth of the church and “fruit” as the byproduct of a committed spirit.

But God’s yardstick can be met by the church, because God’s Spirit is offered to the church. Only God can make the church grow (I Cor. 3:6). “Only God can churn up the sea so that its waves roar” (Isaiah 51:15). So what’s that about?

The title of today’s sermon is “Catching the Wave.” It comes, of course, from the sport of surfing. About which I know nothing. But every good surfer knows that the one thing he or she cannot do is create a wave. The best that he or she can do is get in position to catch one, once it appears. A lot of books on church growth fall into the “how to build a wave” category. Which can’t be done. Waves are not built by churches. Waves are ridden by churches. God sends them. We ride them. That’s how it works.

Now I will concede that not every time is a propitious time for every church. And not every place is a propitious place for every church. But, if I read it right, this is a propitious time and place for this church. If I can mix a metaphor, the fields are ripe unto harvest (John 4:35) and we are seeing wave after wave of people who are suddenly and strangely receptive to the Gospel.

But you can’t surf without a board. And you can’t surf unless you wade into the water with your board. And you can’t surf if you turn your back on the waves that are rolling, because they don’t resemble the waves that used to be.

But let’s get out of the water and dry off, just long enough for this. My friend, Rod Wilmoth, who preaches at Hennepin Avenue UMC in Minneapolis, tells about the day he went walking in Cincinnati in search of a Methodist church he knew to hold great historic significance. After walking several blocks, he found it. It was set off by a wrought iron fence. But where grass had once grown, there was nothing but dirt. And the doors, which featured gray peeling paint, had clearly seen better days. What’s more, the doors were locked. Just about the time Rod turned to leave, a man dressed in an outfit that resembled the doors came around the corner and said: “What do you want?” He turned out to be the church sexton. So Rod explained that he was a United Methodist preacher who hoped he might see the church. The sexton snarled, “It’s locked,” before adding: “Well, if somebody sent you to see it, I guess I can unlock it and let you in.” But let Rod finish the story.

So on that cheerful note, I was led into the church. It was the dreariest thing I had ever seen. I said: “Who comes here on Sunday morning?” He said: “Hardly anybody. If it wasn’t for visitors, we wouldn’t have anybody at all.” But then he took me downstairs where we rambled around. Finally showing a little animation, he said: “If you have a minute, I’d like to show you something. Just stay right here.”

He walked down a corridor and vanished into the darkness. Pretty soon a light came on and I could see him standing at the entrance to some kind of tunnel. He motioned for me to come. I walked to the end of the hallway and stepped into the tunnel. The concrete ended and I was standing on dirt. Once I got accustomed to my surroundings, I could see that the walls were also dirt. But the ceiling was reinforced concrete. Then the sexton asked: “Do you know where you are right now?” To which I said: “No sir, I don’t.” He said: “You’re standing in the old church cemetery.” Sure enough, I looked around and saw the indentations in the walls where the caskets had been. Then he explained: “A few years ago the city made us get off-street parking. We didn’t have any place to do it except behind the church….and that was the cemetery. So we removed all the caskets, poured reinforced concrete, and that’s our parking lot above your head.” Then, with great excitement, he walked over to the wall and his hand disappeared in one of those long, dark recesses. When it reappeared, he was holding the remains of a human leg bone. Walking up to me and holding it in front of my face, he said: “Isn’t this the most exciting thing you have ever seen?”

Well, I hope not. I pray not. And I will work to high heaven to make sure that, in this church, it is not. But how about you? What excites you? Is it the bleached bones of yesterday….the lawn chairs and six packs of Saturday….or the Spirit-cresting waters of the present day?

Get on board, my friends. This old ark’s a moverin’. And the surf’s up.

Note:  The concept of “five constituencies” is drawn from Rick Warren’s book on Saddleback Community Church entitled The Purpose Driven Church. If memory serves me correct, the phrase “If it’s going to be, it’s up to me” was coined by Robert Schuller. Lyle Schaller discusses the concept of the Saturday Evening Post Church in many of his writings. And I am indebted to my wife, Kristine, and my good friend, Ann Windley, for finding old issues of America’s general audience publications. As for Rod Wilmoth and Brian Bauknight, they are esteemed colleagues holding down great pulpits. As is the case with Errol Smith, who made sure that I had Brian’s story available to me.

Who Wants to Work? 8/30/1998

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scriptures: Genesis 3:17-19, Genesis 1:28-2:3, Proverbs 22:29

Earlier this summer, while hitting a little white ball around a great green field with Jay Hook, I fell into conversation with another Methodist member of the foursome….a young fellow who hails from Pensacola, Florida. My friend, Henry Roberts, preaches at First Methodist in Pensacola, so you can imagine my delight in finding that Henry was my golfing partner’s preacher.

This fellow got to talking about his five-year-old son and something that happened at this year’s Vacation Bible School. Apparently, each child was to bring a certain amount of money each day for poor people in Africa. So the boy’s mother gave him a dollar each morning to contribute to the offering. At the end of the week….while cleaning out her son’s pockets before washing his pants….she extracted five dollar bills, wadded up amongst the trivia little boys tend to carry. Upon being confronted, he admitted that these were the same dollars that were supposed to go to the poor people. But when asked why he didn’t put them in the basket, he replied: “If they need money so badly, let them work for it like my daddy does.”

I suppose that might be called “a teachable moment.” Which is what it became. And his father thinks….or at least hopes….that his son now has a broader view of mission, and a more charitable view of need, than before their conversation took place. But the boy did not come up with that idea all by himself. He was reflecting a cultural assumption (or question) that is not all that uncommon….and not entirely wrong.

Most of you know that one of the things at my disposal as your pastor is a small discretionary fund. I have had one in each of the churches I have served. It is not available to me personally. It is only available to me pastorally. I don’t suppose that this surprises you….although several things about it might surprise you. The number of people who need to draw upon it (both internally and externally) might surprise you. The stories told by many of the “street people” who come through the door might surprise you. And the number of people who regularly work “the church circuit” might surprise you.

And you might also be surprised by the number of able-bodied young men who come by. They are always in a bad way, economically. But they always have a fresh pack of cigarettes in their pocket….along with a Methodist somewhere in their family….often a Methodist preacher (back home, somewhere). And most of these able-bodied men claim that they are willing to do a little work in return for whatever cash I might give them (“Got any odd jobs, Reverend? I can do most anything.”).

In the old days, I never had any “odd jobs.” But then I got smarter. I began keeping a few “odd job” ideas in mind, the better to test the seriousness of such requests. In a previous church, we always had a huge pile of wood chips on the back forty. So I would point out the pile….point out the shovel….point out the wheelbarrow…. point out a section of the building in need of wood chip cover….and then propose a decent hourly wage. And with God as my witness, I am here to tell you that not one single wood chip was ever moved by any of those seekers after cash. There was always some reason they wanted to do it, but couldn’t. At least right then. But they’d certainly come back tomorrow….if I paid them today. A few of the excuses I believed. Most I disregarded. But I was left to conclude that the major issue for a number of these folk was that “work was simply not their thing.”

A few years ago, I did a wedding with Father Bill Cunningham of Focus Hope. All of us remember Bill as a delightful Irish priest. I know I enjoyed every occasion that brought the two of us together. At this particular wedding, we both attended the reception. At that time, Bill launched an animated defense of one of his favorite themes, job training programs. As you know, most of his effort at Focus Hope moved in this direction, because (as Bill put it):

It’s a new ballgame out there. We’re seeing something we’ve never seen before. There are parts of the city that more closely resemble a Third World country than an American city. One of the symptoms is that we are seeing families now into a third generation of permanent joblessness. And it is not primarily a question of jobs being available. It’s a question of knowing the first thing about how to get one….do one….keep one….or even want one.

But, let me hasten to add, that this creeping malaise in the “work ethic” is not limited to people south of Eight Mile Road, or to those on the low end of the hourly wage scale. In a recent conversation with a high-level managerial type, he said: “I just can’t abide, let alone understand, the management people who work for me who simply put in their hours, do half the job of which they’re capable, and then act as if they are doing me and the company a colossal favor.” To which a recent United Methodist District Superintendent added: “One of the things that surprised me in this job was that when a church became dissatisfied with its preacher, it seldom had anything to do with something he or she did, but rather with the list of tasks that he or she didn’t do.”

Now it strikes me as odd that, in a world where there are many who work too little, there are others who work too much. There are couch potatoes. And there are workaholics. There are people who don’t know the first thing about work. And there are people who don’t know that there is anything else besides work. Both are diseases. And both are spiritual.

I have previously addressed myself to the over-workers of the world, for they are the people I know best. Notice that while I called them “over-workers,” I did not call them “over-worked.” For to say that we are over-worked is to say that we are victims. And to say that we are victims, is to say that we are without choice. And to say that we are without choice is not only the first step on the road to despair….but is also patently ridiculous. But having said that before, I will refrain from saying it again. Besides, I have very little stomach for addressing my own sins.

I am concerned with those who have seemingly chosen shortcuts on the way to a work ethic. Not long ago, I got in a very heated argument with a colleague about a particular “Jobs Corp” program for youth. Now, mind you, I have probably supported more social betterment programs proposed by politicians, than anybody here in this room. But suddenly I found myself rocked back on my heels. For my colleague was arguing that unemployed youth shouldn’t be expected to sign up for make-work labor, unless it provided a certain level of “meaning.” To which he added: “What kind of meaningful work is it to cut grass along the freeway?”

I suppose he struck a nerve, given that I once fantasized that I might like to spend a summer mowing grass along the freeway. Which, I acknowledge, might get monotonous. But the last time I looked, grass only grows out-of-doors….in warm weather. And, if nothing else, such a job would teach you how to get to work on time….stay the full day….and run a piece of mechanical equipment. And every grass cutting crew has got to have a section leader….a foreman….a truck driver….or someone to do repairs on the mower. Meaning that, in time, that person could be you….as much as it could be anybody.

Besides, “meaning” is a funny thing. Is “meaning” a byproduct of the job? Or is “meaning” something you bring to the job? Clearly, some jobs are likely to be more meaningful than others. I doubt that assembly line work is terribly meaningful. I think that my job is extremely meaningful. But there are people who do my job and hate it. Finding “meaning” means just what it says….finding it. Which implies a search….and a searcher. So there is always a subjective element present, which is a fancy way of saying that “meaning” is never solely in the job’s description….or in the job’s compensation (although I am not arguing in favor of dull jobs….or low paying ones).

But let me tip my hat, right now, by making the radical suggestion that work is its own meaning (quite apart from the kind of work it is, and the pay that comes from doing it). Dorothee Soelle….a remarkable German theologian….contends that there are two things we must master on the way to maturity. We must learn to work. And we must learn to love. In other words, we must master the issue of industry. And we must master the issue of intimacy. She even goes on to suggest that the truly mature person both loves to work and works at love.

She is right. As well she should be. For she is borrowing from two rather unique sources…. Sigmund Freud and the Bible. But let’s leave Freud alone and proceed to the Bible.

Strangely enough, the oldest word in the Bible (concerning work) is a negative word. It dates from 950 BC and the earlier of the Bible’s two creation narratives. I’m talking about Genesis 2. That’s the story that has God walking around in the garden, hollowing out rivers, fashioning Adam from a dustball and Eve from Adam’s rib. And this very early stratum of stories (2950 years old) also includes the Garden of Eden story….complete with a serpent, an apple, and an act of punishment. Concerning the latter, the punishment reads:

Accursed be the soil because of you. With suffering you shall get your food from it. You shall have sweat on your brow every day of your life, until you return to the soil, from whence you came.

What is the punishment saying? It is saying that work is a curse….and that the curse is rooted in our sinfulness. We are condemned by God to work, and that work will be sweaty and hard.

But how many times have I tried to teach you that the stories of Genesis are not chronological? They are layered into position over a period of 500 years. And so it is that Chapter 1 of Genesis dates from 450 BC….meaning that it is 500 years closer to us than Chapter 2 of Genesis. I know that’s hard to believe, but trust me. Which means that the creation story of Chapter 1 (the story where God does things day by day….light first….humans last….with all of the creation initiated by speech rather than by hand) is considerably more sophisticated and stylized than the material in Chapters 2 and 3.

And notice that the view of work in Chapter 1 differs from the view of work in Chapter 3. Work is not toil. Work is not a curse. Work is not a punishment for sin. Work is what humankind is created to do. We are supposed to fill the earth….till the earth….care for the earth….and manage everything in it. We are supposed to be attentive to the earth. And we are supposed to be productive in the earth.

In fact, in Genesis 1, there is a rhythm to each and every day of creation. And what is that rhythm? Work and rest….work and rest….work and rest. That’s the rhythm. What’s more, everything about it is said to be “good.” It is as if….given 500 years to think about it….the Jewish mind wanted to correct itself on whether work was a curse or a blessing. And it chose “blessing.”

We could spend all day with that idea. But drop it, the better that we might jump to the Reformers. I’m talking about Luther, Calvin, and (in latter days) even Wesley. It is from this era that we received the notion of the “Protestant work ethic.” It is not by accident that Western Europe became highly economically developed in the 16th century and also became Protestant at the same time. Recall that Ben Franklin, in his autobiography, remembered a Bible verse ground into his head repeatedly by his Calvinist father. That verse being Proverbs 22:29: “Seeest thou a man diligent in his labors. He shall stand before kings.”

And it is no secret that in the mid-1700s, Methodists in England were persecuted by Anglicans, not because of their religious defection from the mother church, but because Methodists were religiously inspired to work longer and harder than their Anglican neighbors. In many cases, Methodists were beaten, blacklisted, and often had their tools broken by their non-Methodist comrades.

“Honor your secular calling,” the Reformers said. “Fulfill your daily tasks with cheer and diligence.” Also peculiar to the Reformation was the admonishment: “Never be idle.” For many, the wasting of time was both the first and the deadliest of sins. Where do you think the phrase “idle hands are the devil’s playmate,” came from? And note the number of sermons delivered by the Reformers on the parable of the talents (complete with its condemnation of the one-talent man who buried what he was given, thus turning his back on the opportunity to make it grow).

And it was out of the Reformation that this idea was pushed to its ridiculous extreme, voiced by some of the Puritans in their utter distrust of anything that looked too much like pleasure and too little like effort. But they did reclaim the corrected Hebrew notion, namely that we were created to work, rather than cursed to work.

What does this mean? It means that work….biblically understood….is not a means to an end, but an end in itself. A job may be one means of working. But a job is surely not the only means of working. Which is certainly good news for those who are retired.

We used to sing an old hymn which is no longer in our hymnal. Much to my regret. So I’ll have to recall it for you, rather than sing it with you. The first line reads: “Work, for the night is coming.” And the last line reads: “When man’s work is done.”

But when is that….when man’s work is done, that is?

            Is it 5:00?

            Is it Friday afternoon?

            Is it Friday at sundown?

            Is it age 65?

If you know the hymn, you know that it is none of the above. Man’s work is done at night. But, in this instance, night has nothing to do with sundown….and everything to do with shutdown. For “night” is a symbol for dying.

Which, I suppose means: “Work ‘til you drop.” But that doesn’t sound terribly appealing. So a better way of saying it might be: “To work is to live.”