On Preaching to a Bunch of Latter-day Baptists 12/5/1999

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture:  Matthew 11:2-11

Introductory Note: The sermon owes a debt of gratitude to Barbara Brown Taylor and her treatment of John the Baptist in an incredible book, God in Pain.

I am not a lectionary preacher, meaning that I do not follow a list of pre-assigned texts, Sunday by Sunday. Instead, I choose and preach my own. But I am cognizant of what the lectionary says, and why the lectionary says it. Which is why very few congregations ever get to Bethlehem without passing through the land (or should we say “the waters”) of John the Baptist. Because the lectionary requires it, don’t you see?

To be sure, John and Jesus don’t “gather at the river” until both are grown men. But wiser heads than mine have decreed that while Bethlehem was the beginning of Jesus’ life, the River Jordan was the beginning of Jesus’ ministry. So if we are going to await him in Advent….and receive him at Christmas….perhaps we had better prepare our hearts to receive all of him, meaning who he was early, and who he was late. And who better to deliver the “get ready” speech than John the Baptist, even if it be 30 years out of sequence?

You and I have spoken of John before. That’s because every three years or so, I tell myself: “If the lectionary demands it, I ought to preach it.” But it’s never easy. Because John is never easy. Preaching John the Baptist at Christmastime is not like sliding a hot knife through butter. No, preaching John at Christmastime is like dragging fingernails across a chalkboard, or forcing a reluctant patient to take a huge pill without first dissolving it in applesauce.

A colleague writes: “To me, John the Baptist has always seemed like the Doberman pinscher of the Gospel.” In the lectionary, John always appears right before Christmas, when no one’s defenses are up. Here we are, trying to get to Bethlehem….not hurrying….but maintaining a steady pace. Yet while still separated from the stable by several blocks….several dark blocks…. we hear this “GRRROW-ROW-ROWL.” And notice that a big old dog with a spiky collar has got us by the ankle. “Repent,” the big dog says, “for the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand.” And before he lets go of our leg, our heads are pounding with images of “vipers, axes and unquenchable fire.” When all we wanted was to get to the church in time to sing “O Holy Night.”

Yet there is no getting around John. Every gospel writer introduces Jesus by introducing John. Which means that this Doberman is (in some way or another) God’s idea….and that this messenger may also be (in some way or another) God’s idea. John is like the guard dog who tests all who think they want to take the plunge by growling: “Are you ready to take the plunge?”

By “ready,” John means “repentant.” That’s John’s business. Repentance! Begging us to change our ways in preparation for an audience with God….and willing to scare us half to death (if that’s what it will take) to wake us up and see that we are sleepwalking through our lives, confusing our ways with God’s ways, while accumulating sin like an empty house accumulates dust. And, to the degree that we are willing, John says: “I’ll hose you down.” Meaning that if we come out of our comas long enough to see what is wrong….and say so out loud….then John will wash it all away.

The way most of us were taught it, repentance means owning up to how rotten we are, and saying out loud (if only in the shower) that we are selfish, sinful, deeply defective human beings who grieve the heart of God….and that we are very, very sorry about it.

But then Jesus comes along….in response to the same message (and the same messenger)….and says: “Baptize me.” To which John says: “Well, I never….I mean, I can’t….I mean, isn’t this somehow backwards?….I shouldn’t be baptizing you….You should be baptizing me.”

I mean, John was so sure….then. So certain….then. So clear about who Jesus was….then. “I am not even fit to shine your shoes….or lace them up,” John said to Jesus….then. Did you ever have your shoes shined at the airport? There you sit in that big, elevated chair (way up high)….so that down below, someone can go to work with brush and cloth, wax and paste. While you are up there, reading or sleeping, somebody is removing the crud through which you have walked, while shining the leather so that when you look at the ground, you can see your face.

I don’t know about you, but I never have my shoes shined at the airport. I can’t place myself in one of those seats so that the shiner can do his thing. I can take my shoes off and hand them to somebody for shining. But I can’t sit there, towering above them while they do it.

So John is saying to Jesus: “I am not worthy to shine your shoes, yet you come to me for baptism.” To which Jesus says, in effect: “Just do it.” That’s how sure John was then. About Jesus, I mean.

But then is not now….at least the “now” of Matthew 11. Months have passed. We are nowhere near a river. John is in jail. And he sends “his people” to see Jesus. I bet you didn’t know John had “people.” But he did. Even then, John was a big deal. John’s people come to Jesus with a question: “Are you the one who is to come, or should we wait for somebody else?”

What’s going on here? Where is the old John….the early John….the convinced and utterly certain John….who was there at the riverside saying: “I know who you are.” Why is John asking such a thing? Has his memory failed? Or did somebody get to John? Sure, something got to John. But it was not an individual. It was life. Which is what gets to us all from time to time.

John is in jail, remember. Put there by Herod. Not for preaching on street corners without a license. Not for entering rivers without showering. John is in jail for disapproving of Herod’s marriage to his brother’s wife….whose daughter will soon ask for John’s head on a platter (a silver platter) and get it. But if God’s Kingdom really was around the corner….and if Jesus really was the one to launch it (as John told everybody he would be)….why was he (John) in hotter water now than the water into which he pushed Jesus, just months earlier?

After all, the Messiah was supposed to change things. He was supposed to burn all the human trash of the world. He was supposed to take an ax to the dead wood of the world. He was supposed to take a gleaming pitchfork and separate the wheat from the chaff in the world. And he was supposed to clean the world up, so that men like Herod were no longer in power and men like John were no longer in prison. But he hadn’t. And, perhaps, couldn’t.

In a moving and brooding book (The Last Temptation of Christ), Nikos Kazantzakis paints a picture of Jesus and John that is hard to forget. They are sitting high above the Jordan, where they have been arguing (all night) about what to do with the world. John’s face is hard, and (from time to time) his arms go up and down as if he were actually chopping something. Jesus’ face (by contrast) is tame and hesitant….eyes full of compassion.

“Isn’t love enough?” he asks John.

“No,” John answers angrily. “The tree is rotten. God called me and gave me the ax, which I placed at the roots of the tree. Having done my duty, I now ask that you do yours. Take the ax and strike.”

To which Jesus responds: “If I were fire, I would burn. If I were a woodcutter, I would strike. But I am a heart, and so I love.”

Had such a conversation actually occurred, I am not certain how John might have taken it. Or how you might take it. For there are latter-day Baptists among us….even now….who once numbered ourselves among the certain, but now number ourselves among the disillusioned. Why? Because life has ground us down, that’s why. And the deliverer didn’t deliver….at least with the immediacy of the tooth fairy. I mean, when life kicks us in the teeth, she shows up with a quarter. That very night.

I don’t know where life may be defeating you this Advent. I don’t know how Jesus may be disappointing you this Advent. But I would suggest to you….this Advent….that any disillusionment you feel may not necessarily be a bad thing. For what is disillusionment if not, literally, the loss of an illusion? And, in the long run, it is never a bad thing to lose the lies we have mistaken for the truth.

            Did Jesus fail to come when you rubbed the lantern?  Then perhaps Jesus is not a genie.

            Did Jesus fail to punish your enemies?   Then perhaps Jesus is not a cop.

            Did Jesus fail to make everything run smoothly?  Then perhaps Jesus is not a mechanic.

Over and over again, our disappointments draw us deeper and deeper into who Jesus really is….and what Jesus really does.

* * * * *

“Are you the right guy,” John’s people ask, “or should we look for somebody else?” Which sounds like a “yes” or “no” question if I ever heard one. Except that Jesus, upon hearing it, answers neither “yes” nor “no.” Instead, he says: “Go and tell John what you see and hear.”

·         Blind people seeing.

·         Lame people walking.

·         Deaf people hearing.

·         Dead people reviving.

·         And poor people hearing news that, for a change, doesn’t depress the daylights out of them.

Which, you could say, is no proof of Messiahship that you ever heard. Unless, that is, you are blind….lame….deaf….poor….or dead. In which case, I think you’d probably be impressed. Maybe even convinced.

On a First Name Basis 10/31/199

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture:  I John 4:13-16, Romans 8:26-27, Galatians 5:22-26

Several years ago, I preached a sermon from this pulpit entitled “Confessions of a Reluctant Hugger.” In it, I identified a pair of competing needs that most of us have, naming them (for purposes of recall) “skin hunger” and “space hunger.” Simply put, there are times when we have a very strong need to be touched. And there are times when we need everyone to remain at arm’s length. Now comes anthropologist Edward T. Hall, with the results of his pioneering study on “The Effects of Distance in Relationships.” He suggests each of us operates in four zones, but may differ as to how comfortable we are in each.

The first is the “Public Zone.” This is the distance at which preachers, teachers and other lecturers stand in relation to their audience. The public zone is in effect when there is a distance of 12 feet (or more) between speaker and listener. Which explains why the front row (directly in front of the pulpit) is the hardest pew for ushers to fill….even when the sanctuary is crowded to the point of overflowing.

Next is the “Social Zone.” This is the distance we want to stand apart from each other in normal, small group conversation. Meetings and interviews occur in the social zone, where the comfortable distance ranges from 4 to 12 feet.

The “Personal Zone” is the distance we define when we come within normal touching range of another individual. This zone ranges from 18 inches (on the narrow side) to 4 feet (on the wide side). People often protect their personal zones by placing handbags, coats or other barriers between themselves and others. One problem with going to a college football game….especially at the University of Michigan….is that one’s personal zone is breached by total strangers, given the miniscule number of inches allocated to each $35 seat. And it also explains why some of you feel uncomfortable on Easter Sunday, when the ushers try to pile the maximum number of bodies into each and every pew. I am convinced that one reason some of you will do anything possible to maintain your seat on the aisle has nothing to do with your desire to make a quick exit, so much as your desire to keep at least one side free from “space invaders.”

Finally, we have the “Intimate Zone” which is the distance we use for embracing. Most of us allow no one but family members and very close friends into this zone. For most North Americans and Western Europeans, any invasion by strangers into the intimate zone causes irritation, anxiety or fear. We don’t like being crowded. And all of us know at least one individual who, quite uninvited, regularly violates our space.

In a similar vein, there are as many different degrees of “knowing” as there are of “touching.” We know someone by reputation. We know someone else by report. We know people through mutual acquaintances. Or by formal introduction. Sometimes we presume too much knowledge, saying, “Oh, I know you” or “Of course we know each other,” when what we mean is: “I think we were introduced at a wedding reception back in September (or was it October) of ’94.”

We know faces. We know names. And, if we’re lucky, we know which goes with which. We know family members, who we address with tender titles like “Mom,” “Dad,” “Sis” or “Grandpop.” And we know friends, who we feel comfortable calling by their first names, like “Ricky,” “Lucy,” “Fred” and “Ethel.” Yet there is often one who we know with an intimacy that exceeds all others, for it is a “knowing” that involves body as well as mind.

I think I was a fifth grade Sunday school student at old Westlawn Church in Detroit when the teacher read (from the book of Genesis): “And Adam knew Eve, his wife….” At which point Tommy Teeter elbowed me in the ribs and said (in a stage whisper, loud enough for all but the teacher to hear): “You know what that means, don’t you, Ritter?” Which I did. Except I didn’t want the teacher to know I did. And for years after that, any time a girl’s name would come up in conversation (and some guy would say that he knew her), someone else would be sure to add: “You mean in the biblical sense?” I suppose it was a good thing our Sunday school teachers never knew of our ability to twist and abuse God’s holy word in such spurious ways.

But, as you will note from our fall campaign literature (which is hanging from banners, printed on decals, and replicated in free-flowing script that will be increasingly hard to avoid before November 14), we are encouraged to “know the Spirit,” with the implication being that one is encouraged to “know” the Spirit in the biblical sense….as an intimate insider (rather than as an intellectual observer).

Whatever else this sermon is, it is not a theological treatment of the work of the Holy Spirit. I’ve done that. Neither is it an answer to the institutional question: “How do you measure a Spirit filled church?” I’ve done that, too. Instead, this is about the Spirit of God, alive in you…. living….breathing….supporting….sustaining….sighing….wrestling….goading….directing.

Which is something, I believe, that can be known and named. Some years ago, the United Methodist Church attempted to rally the troops around a campaign entitled “Catch the Spirit.” It had a nice ring to it. And it had a million dollar ad campaign underneath it. But it never really caught on. And I think I know why. It had nothing to do with the word “Spirit.” But it had everything to do with the word “catch.” For it implied that the Spirit was….in reference to the self….both elsewhere and external. The Spirit was either somewhere you weren’t, or something you weren’t. Meaning that you had to find it….snatch it….grab it….capture it. And failing to do any of the above, we had to drum it into you.

I have been to a lot of football games in my life where I felt downright sorry for the cheerleaders. I mean, there they were, dancing on their feet, windmilling their arms and screaming out their lungs. And there we were, sitting like “bleacher potatoes,” with our arms folded, tongues stilled and posteriors parked….glaring at them (as if to say): “Just try and make me feel it, or shout it.” To be sure, I’ve been in the bleachers when it all came together and we all came to our feet. But, more often than not, I’ve been there when it didn’t. And we didn’t.

As a kid, there were things I would have given my eye teeth to catch….like screaming line drives hit directly over my head. And there were things I would have given my eye teeth to avoid catching…. like the measles that were going around my school or the intestinal flu that was running through my family.

Is God’s Holy Spirit like that….something that I’ve got to run from when I don’t want it, or run toward when I do? If so, what would it take to catch it? Would a better glove help? A deeper net? A bigger basket? An antenna in my yard? A “dish” on my rooftop? My problem, you see, is with the word “catch.” It puts the Spirit in a dodging and elusive light….like a firefly, and me with a mason jar.

I know that scripture contributes to this perception….especially when Jesus says to Nicodemus (concerning the Spirit): “It’s hard to pin down, Nick. It blows where it will.” Which I take as a warning against locking in too early….with too much rigidity….on too much certainty. What Jesus was trying to do for Nicodemus was light a fire under an old man who was saying (in effect) that he’d seen it all, done it all, and knew it all. Where such is the case….as with many churches I know….the blowing of the Spirit can sometimes lead to “a whole lot of shakin’ goin’ on.”

But the more I read about the Holy Spirit, it would seem that the Spirit is not something to catch, so much as someone to know….intimately (as I said earlier), as “in the biblical sense.” Notice that I did not say “ecstatically” (although Pentecostals tend to read it that way). I said “intimately.” And don’t be afraid of that word. Let me remind you of what you just sang, mere moments ago.

            Teach me to love thee as thine angels love,

            One Holy passion filling all my frame,

            The kindling of the heaven-descended Dove,

            My heart an altar, and thy love the flame.

I don’t want to push this too far. Neither do I wish to precipitate a discussion of the Holy Spirit’s gender. But, throughout the history of the church, there have been those who have viewed the Holy Spirit as feminine….the softer “yin” to the Creator’s “yang.” I really don’t know about that. But, as a guy, it is sometimes tantalizing to think of the Holy Spirit as a female who has been a part of your life for a long time….seemingly forever….whose presence is always assumed, but seldom courted. The one who loved us, long before we ever thought to love her.

Now there’s a lot wrong with that metaphor, given that it won’t solve every puzzle or fit every life. But before you discard it outright, notice how many times the word “indwelling” appears with the word “Spirit”….as in “been there all along, doing whatever it takes, for as long as it takes.” To accomplish what? To create passion….and to establish a connection between creator and created (or between God and his own). As I John says: “By this, we know that we abide in God, and He in us, because he has given us of his own Spirit.” Which merely builds on what Paul said to the church in Rome (3:24) when he wrote: “When we cry Abba Father (“Abba” literally meaning “Daddy”), it is the Spirit bearing witness with our spirit that we are children of God.”

If there is any reason for God to be confident that He will one day have his way with us….and looking at it from my perspective, I can’t figure out why God didn’t go to be treated for depression years ago….God’s confidence (I think) rests solely in this. God has an agent working undercover….on the inside….who regards no case as hopeless, and no mission as impossible.

People sometimes say to me: “So you think there’s hope for me yet?” To which sheer honesty would lead me to answer: “By my reckoning, no.” But I never say that. Not simply because I am polite. But because things don’t rest on my reckoning. My evaluation is not the last word on your prospects. The elevator of my hope does not always go all the way to your basement. But God’s does. And when the doors open on the bottom floor, I think it is the Holy Spirit who gets on….not off. In fact, it is probably the Holy Spirit who called for the elevator in the first place. For the Spirit has been down there all along….doing subterranean work.

Don’t ask me to describe the work. Only you can do that. Sometimes the Holy Spirit works nights, moonlighting as a world class wrestler….Hulk Hogan in heavenly haberdashery. I have known people who the Holy Spirit has taken to the mat. And pinned….till they cried, “Uncle.” Or till they cried, “Bless me.” Or till they just plain cried. When you find yourself moved to tears about the plight of your life, the people of your life, or the pure unadulterated pleasure of your life, look for the Spirit.

I resonate to the image of the Holy Spirit as a world class wrestler. I was recently talking with a fellow who is trying to come to terms with the faith intellectually. He wants it to make sense in his head. But when he talks about religious ideas, his arms move. He looks like somebody who is sparring and circling….making and breaking wrestling holds. What’s that all about? Could it be the Spirit?

Sometimes the Spirit works days as a translator. A couple weeks back, an 83-year-old man called me up and asked me to come see him. He said he had something important to discuss with me. When I got to his room, he dismissed his caregiver. Then, without even a moment’s worth of small talk, he said: “Bill, I can’t pray. It’s all blocked up. I try, but nothing comes.” I didn’t comment on his imagery. I knew what he was saying. I asked him if he didn’t think God would look upon his sending for me as an act of prayerful longing. But that idea didn’t compute. So I reminded him of Paul’s word (again, to the Romans): “That the Spirit helps us in our weakness. For when we cannot pray as we want or ought, the Spirit steps in and sighs on our behalf, too deep for words.” Meaning that when you can’t even voice a prayer, the Spirit says: “I’ll take over and make some sounds that God will be able to understand.”

And sometimes the Spirit is like a cat burglar, casing the basement of your soul, having gained entry through the only window you forgot to lock before nightfall. Then the Spirit goes to work, nudging you toward something you need to do….someone you need to see….or some door you need to walk through.

One of the reasons I am in this line of work is because a bunch of elderly ladies (in my boyhood church) kept saying to me: “I bet you’re going to be a minister someday.” And the reason they kept saying that is because every time they were at the church, I was at the church. And they figured the only reason some kid would behave in such a delightful….albeit abnormal….way, is because God had fingered him. Early on. Eventually, I figured they knew something I didn’t.

But the first time I told this to the Board of Ministry examiners (that a bunch of little old ladies had called me to preach), fifty percent of the clergy at the table said: “That can’t be a call to ministry.” While the other fifty percent said: “Oh, yes it can.” So for the next several minutes, I simply sat back and let them go at each other. The bottom line is, I’m here. In part, because that old cat burglar of a Spirit found a weak point in my adolescent resistance….little old ladies.

I don’t know how it is for you. But if I get you alone in my office….and get you talking about what’s really going on in your life….we’ll find the Spirit’s disguise. And we’ll uncover the Spirit’s work. I just know we will. Then I’ll tell you to go with it….move with it….dance and swing with it….ebb and flow with it….anything but deny it….or sit on it. For, as our other campaign text says: “If we live by the Spirit, let us also walk by the Spirit.”

I suppose it is possible that, to some folks, at some times….especially when they are frenzied, frazzled and flying about with no focus, no anchor and no strength….the Spirit may indeed say: “There, there now. Calm down. Cool off. Take your ease. Make some tea. Settle and sit. Let go. Let somebody else. Let God.” Yes, the Spirit may say that. But I would be one surprised preacher if that were the last word the Spirit had to say. Really surprised if that would be the last word the Spirit had to say.

I remember reading about the Rolls Royce Company at the time they were said to make, without equivocation, the world’s best motor car. In that article, someone actually asked the president if any of his cars ever broke down. To which he replied: “My dear man, a Rolls Royce never breaks down….although it may temporarily fail to proceed.”

My friends, I think I know you well enough to know that few of you are broken down. But I also know you well enough to know that many of you are failing to proceed. About which there is relatively little I can do. Except to help you discern the Spirit in your life….by asking questions, issuing challenges, opening windows, opening wounds, and then giving you avenues by which to express whatever God is laying on your heart to do. For God’s work at Birmingham First is taking place in you. I’m just here to steer the ship. But I can’t begin to tell you where all the power is coming from.

A guy stopped by my office this Friday afternoon. He told me he had a joke for me. It concerned the pastor who stood before his congregation and said: “Concerning the fall campaign, I’ve got good news and bad news. The good news is that this church has more money than it knows what to do with. The bad news is, it’s in your pockets.” To which I said: “So, what’s the joke?”

* * * * *

Know the Spirit. Keep the Promise.

About That Messy Business in the Temple 4/2/1999

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Matthew 21:12-17

Note:  This message was delivered at First Baptist Church, Birmingham as part of a community-wide Good Friday service. The three-hour format was divided into six segments, with each segment’s message highlighting a different event that took place during Holy Week. The assignment for the 12:30 segment was to address Matthew’s description of the “cleansing of the Temple.”

* * * * *

Interesting, isn’t it, that we’re still talking about the Temple after all these years? I mean, it hasn’t stood since 70 AD. But as a memory for some….and as a dream for others….it looms larger in its non-existence than it ever did when it was here.

I have been there, you know. Four times now. And I could take you, anytime you’d like to go. Not that we’d see all that much….of the original, that is. That’s because there’s but one wall left….a part of a wall, really. Called the Western Wall or the Wailing Wall, it is an incredibly holy sight (even for a non-Jew). I have never failed to approach it without going all the way to the stones themselves, pressing my forehead against the rock in a posture of prayer. And I’ve yet to go to the Wall without taking a few slips of paper from people back in the States…. prayer requests was what they were….to slip between the cracks until God read them or the rains destroyed them.

If you’re a man, you can’t go to the Wall bareheaded. Even Christian men need yarmulkes. Which few have. So they supply you with a cardboard version, free of charge. Which never fits very well. And which never stays on your head very long. But every one of my male friends who has been to the Wall has a picture of himself in a yarmulke, somewhere in a drawer or a scrapbook. I could show you mine. But I trust you won’t ask.

The first time I went to the Wall, I was privileged to witness a bar mitzvah. For there can be no more holy experience for a young Israeli Jew than to be bar mitzvahed in the old city, in the shadow of the Western Wall. There we were, under sunny skies. The young boy was reading from the scroll. The rabbis were standing around him. His father was standing beside him. His brothers and his uncles were standing behind him. There were cousins there….neighbors there….friends of the family there….and me, I was there too. The only thing that distinguished us was our gender. Every last one of us was male. As I remember it, the boy had a mother….some sisters….several aunts….and a passel of girl cousins. But they weren’t as close as I was. They were in the general vicinity. But they were standing beyond a fence. Where they had access to the Wall….on their side. But only on their side. Ancient traditions run deep. Along with ancient divisions.

Why am I telling you this? Because you need to know something about divisions in the Temple, then as well as now. When we talk about Jesus chasing the money changers from the Temple, we not only need to know what he did, but where he did it. And why. Which means that a little stage-setting would seem to be in order.

The Temple, you see, was not one space, but many. Picture it as a series of ascending courtyards. Your first entry was into the outer courtyard….the place that was called the Court of the Gentiles. You could be admitted there….because anybody could be admitted there. But if you were a Gentile….which virtually all of you are….you could not go beyond there. For it was “death” for a Gentile to penetrate further.

Next came the Court of the Women, entered by the arch that they called the Beautiful Gate. Any Israelite could go there. This was followed by the Court of the Israelites, entered by Nicanor’s Gate (a gate of Corinthian bronze which required 20 men to open and shut it). It was in this court that the people assembled for Temple services. Lastly, came the Court of the Priests, into which only the priests might enter. There could be found the great altar of the burnt-offering….the lesser altar of the incense-offering….the seven-branched lamp stand….and the table of the shew bread. It was at the back of the Court of the Priests that the Holy of Holies stood, accessible only to the High Priest, and only once a year. To enter the Holy of Holies was to approach the very throne of God. Which is why legend has it that more than one rabbi attached a rope to his ankle before passing through the veil, thus ensuring that (should he be struck dead by the power of God while praying) his colleagues would be able to pull him out without endangering themselves.

So when Jesus went into the Temple for purposes of “cleansing,” where did he go? Not to the Holy of Holies. Not to the Court of the Priests. Not to the Court of the Israelites. Not even to the Court of the Women. Jesus went into the outer court…the Court of the Gentiles.

And when did he go there? Well, it depends on which Gospel you read. John would have you believe that he went following his temptation in the wilderness….as the very first act of his public ministry. John was probably wrong. But John had good literary reasons for playing fast and loose with history. In today’s texts….Matthew’s text….it is suggested that Jesus entered the Court of the Gentiles on Sunday….Palm Sunday….presumably later in the afternoon. In Mark’s text, Jesus enters on Monday, presumably in the morning (having paid a brief visit….a scouting visit?….the previous afternoon). For reasons too complex to go into here, I like Mark’s chronology. Therefore, let’s assume it’s Monday.

But I’m not quite arranging the stage. First, you need to know something about money changers. They were extremely visible. For they were extremely necessary. Every Jew, you see, had to pay a temple tax of a half sheckel. That tax had to be paid near to the Passover time. About a month before Passover, booths were set up in various towns and villages and the tax could be paid there. But after a certain date, it could only be paid in the Temple. What’s more, it had to be paid in a certain currency. It could not be paid in ingot silver, but only in stamped silver. It could not be paid in coins of inferior alloy or coins which had been clipped. It could be paid in Galilean half sheckels, but Tyrian currency was preferred.

The function of the money changers was to change unsuitable currency into proper currency. For this, a small fee was charged. Which was certainly understandable. And for pilgrims…. flocking to Jerusalem from distant places….exceedingly helpful. The surplus charge was called the Qolbin. Call it “profit.” Or call it a “handling fee.” At issue was not the existence of the handling fee…. but the amount. Quite frankly, some of the handlers took advantage of the time.…the place….the season….and the opportunity….to gouge the masses. All of you have heard the phrase “What the traffic will bear.” And in the Court of the Gentiles at Passover time, the traffic bore plenty.

The selling of doves was another matter. For most visits to the Temple, some kind of offering wasexpected. Doves, for example, were necessary when a woman came for purification after childbirth (which is why Mary and Joseph brought a couple of young pigeons with the baby Jesus, “at the time of her purification”). It was easy enough to buy animals for sacrifice outside the Temple. But any animal offered for sacrifice must be without blemish. Believe it or not, there were official animal inspectors at the courtyard gates. And it was not uncommon for inspectors to be “on the take”….so that they would reject animals purchased elsewhere, thereby forcing persons to the stalls within the Temple itself.

No great harm would have been done if the prices inside the Temple matched the prices outside the Temple. But the price could double, once you passed through the Temple gates. Once more, the opportunity for “rip offs” was magnified. And the fact that abuses had gone on for years did not excuse them in anybody’s eyes….especially Jesus’.

Which is why he reacted as he did. He was not against the practice of money changing or animal selling, per se. What he was against was the greed that gouged those who were simply trying to comply with Temple expectations, the better to perform proper worship. As to what kind of ruckus was caused, one can only imagine. I’ve seen a lot of paintings which suggest swirls of commotion….birds flying everywhere….coins rolling everywhere….people running everywhere ….along with much noise and public consternation. As to whether he upset the entire multitude, who can say? But he upset the people of vested interest….who, as it turned out, were people who were willing to make their displeasure known.

* * * * *

What does all this mean? I’m not entirely sure. But let me offer a trio of suggestions.

First, it depicts Jesus in an exceedingly angry state. Which is strange to see. But which is also good to see. Because I am no stranger to anger. And neither are you. Which means that Jesus is like me. Occasionally. Sort of.

The only difference being that the things that irritate Jesus are not necessarily the things that irritate me. Which may mean that, as irritations go, I ought to elevate mine. Because I certainly wouldn’t want Jesus to lower his.

Second, there is this sharply drawn line between “a house of prayer and a den of robbers.” Which is sometimes overplayed by purists. I mean, we’re never going to separate commerce from the church completely. On any given Sunday morning at First Methodist, you can leave the sanctuary and buy and sell anything in Fellowship Hall. We sell tickets to dinners. We sell silent auction items for the Endowment Fund. We sell baked goods at the Hunger Table. We sell garden produce for urban missions. We sell sponsorships for walkers and fasters. We sell bricks for the courtyard and flowers for the memorial garden. We sell citrus fruit for choir robes. And, at certain seasons of the year, we let the Boy Scouts sell Christmas wreaths and the Girl Scouts sell cookies. When you walk into Fellowship Hall, it can feel like an old-world bazaar. And every few weeks, someone is sure to tell me that I should “do something about the money changers in the Temple.”

But I never have. I have yet to crack the whip. And I have yet to overturn my first table. Not because I have sold out to the market place. But because I understand the text. Some things exist for the legitimate convenience of the parishioners. Which was true in Jesus’ day. And which is true in ours.

But, as a pastor, I must always keep my eye out for excesses….for manipulations….and for corruptions of a good thing. If somebody comes to church to see God….and whatever they experience distorts God….where is there left to go? I do not know the location of the line that separates the holy from the common. But I hope I can still recognize the line that separates the holy from the profane. On the day when such is no longer the case, I trust that someone will tell me that it’s time to sit down (until I regain my sight).

Finally, I would raise this little matter of four words that Matthew drops from the text. When you read the story in Mark’s gospel, the sentence reads: “My house shall be called a house of prayer for all the nations.” For some reason, Matthew has dropped “for all the nations.” But it is ironic, is it not, that all of this exploitation was taking place in the only section of the Temple where non-Jews could worship. Meaning that the people who were most inconvenienced by the presence of the predators were those who were furthest from the faith and relative novices to its practices.

In our day….and in this community….I keep hearing that certain churches are promoting themselves as being “user friendly” to those who have been “turned off” by other congregations ….other denominations….other preachers. And I find myself pondering: “How did this come to be? Why did these people get so angry? Did I do that? Or did I stand by while others did that?”

I don’t know if I did or not. But something happened in that “outer courtyard” of my church…. when they came and did not stay….sought and did not find….hurt and were not helped….or worshiped and went away disenchanted. Not one iota of which was intentional. Surely, nothing I did turned them off. But do I know that for sure?

* * * * *

Finally, I keep coming back to this thing about “robbers” in the Lord’s house. Which surely there were….surely there are….and surely I have been. But the only saving grace for that horrible thought, is that it was but a matter of days before another robber hung on a cross….adjacent to Jesus….and received the promise of Paradise.

Is There Life After High School? 6/13/1999

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture:  I Corinthians 1: 18-31, John 6: 1-14

I do not know when life begins.  I think it was George Burns who, one day, put down his cigar long enough to suggest that life begins at eighty.  I think it was Art Linkletter, among others, who argued that life begins at forty.  There are a lot of kids who think that life begins when they get out of the house, andmore than a few parents who agree with them.  And I have a good friend who contends that life begins when the last kid leaves home and the dog dies. Which explains why, when his youngest son graduated from high school, I suggested that somebody ought to sniff Chipper’s dog dish from time to time.

Seriously, let me begin with an apology for the “cute-sy” nature of my sermon title. The implied question is rhetorical. It is also dumb. Of course there is life after high school. There is also life after college. There is life after graduate school. There is even life after ordination. There is life after thirty. There is life after forty. And, God be praised, there is even life after fifty-eight. 

But my title does have something behind it. Life’s major transitions always have a hint of death in them. Before one can graduate to something, one must graduate from something. And where there are separations, there are bound to be separation anxieties. For every graduate who shouts: “I can’t wait to get out of here,” or “Free at last,” there is another graduate who says (so that no one can hear): “I am afraid to leave.” More often than not, those feelings reside in the same person. My son’s high school class President, a lovely girl named Dawn Sherman, said, in the midst of a marvelous graduation speech: “Do you realize that tonight is the very last time we will ever all be together again?” And the sound of 325 people sucking in their breath at the same time, spoke with an eloquence that more than matched her words.

To be sure, there is life after high school. But there is just enough death in the transition, so as to make whatever comes nextlook a little bit like being reborn. The whole business of graduation is powerful and promising. But it ismore than a little bit painful.

And what is ityou are graduating to? There are some who would say that you are graduating to the “real world.” But I would suggest that such thinking is fraudulent and badly in need of correction. Allow me to volunteer for the job of Corrections Officer.

The “real world”  is not out there!  If it is, what does that have to say about your world? Are you living in a fantasy world? A play world? A preparatory world? There are few things I like less about the ministry than the suggestion that members of the clergy have no working knowledge of the “real world.” And you, dear graduates, should be no less offended at such a suggestion than I.

To graduate from high school means, among other things, that many of you have already:

·         coped with the divorce, or severe discord in the marriage of your parents.

·         watched an ambulance pull up to your high school and haul off one of your friends.

·         watched them close your school….or conduct a day’s worth of classes under armed guards….because one of your classmates phoned in a threat to blow it up or shoot it up.

·         found at least two jobs….quit at least one job….and groused about the wages you received at all of them.

·         experienced your first (ever) brush with failure or rejection.

·         confronted the blunt edge of your own limitations.

·         didn’t get the grade you wanted….the part you wanted….the letter of acceptance you wanted….the date you wanted….or the position on the team you wanted.

·         broken a law, gotten a ticket or crunched a fender.

·         caused someone close to you to cry, curse, or wring their hands.

·         been forced to make some rather personal decisions (under the influence of some very powerful pressures) about whether you would drink too much, go too far or stoop too low….only to discover that destiny (as a teenager) often turns on what you uncap, uncork, or unzip.

If those things don’t constitute slices of the real world, I don’t know what the “real world” looks like. So, if someone tells you that you are not a part of the real world yet, what they mean is that you are not fully earning your way. Which is probably true. But it carries with it the extremely dangerous assumption, that the only thing separating you from the real world is money and the fact that you are not making very much of it. As assumptions go, that is not a very good one to get trapped into believing. For it implies that retirees, housewives, and others who are not a part of the full-time work force, are also without a position in the real world. But that is another sermon, and in order to hear it you will have to come back another day.

Whether or not you are making any money, you are learning a great deal. And you must have gotten to be halfway decent at it, oryou would not be graduating. So do not let anyone disparage that (either graduating or learning). I issue that as a warning. For I fear that serious learning is somewhat under fire these days, especially if there does not appear to be an obvious and immediate connection between serious learning and financial benefits to be gained therefrom.

Much of Christianity (which certainly ought to know better) has climbed onto this rolling train of anti-intellectualism. This has become attractive to some Christians, because the faith they preach cannot stand the scrutiny of too-scholarly a glance. And they know it. “Don’t go to school,” some churches tell their would-be pastors. “It’ll only ruin you.” And I can understand how learning can get a bad press. After all, the Apostle Paul reminds us that knowledge is one of the things that will pass away, while love is one of the things that will abide. Elsewhere in his letter to the Corinthians, Paul suggests that“God has made foolish the wisdom of the world.” It is Paul’s way of telling us that knowledge is not God, and that reason has its limits. After all, if you dissect a frog, you will have a great deal of information on how frogs are put together. But you won’t have a frog anymore. And if you subject your faith to too much dissection, you might not have a faith anymore. Or so the argument goes. 

Paul, of course, is talking about one particular group of Greek-Christians who are much into mind games. He is talking about people who claim they can think their way propositionally, step by logical step, to God. But Paul saysit won’t work. Logic can lead you a lot of places. But logic will never lead you, no matter how carefully crafted it may be, to a God who loves.  Although a cross will.

But having spoken his piece about the folly of worshipping knowledge, Paul is not saying we ought to be fools. Neither is he writing a brief in defense of stupidity. For the human mind is a wonderful thing. I would submit that the human mind may be the most indisputable proof that a Divine Mind is guiding the unfolding process of creation. As Harold Kushner writes, “When you realize that human beings are born weaker, slower, more naked (in terms of protective body hair) and ever-so-much more vulnerable than most other creatures, you come to understand that apart from our intellect….and the ability to apply it….we wouldn’t be able to survive at all.” Or, as my late Aunt Marion used to say to people in perilous predicaments: “You dumb cluck….why don’t you use the brains God gave you?” Now I doubt that my Aunt Marion ever went to church a Sunday in her life. But, at that point, she was a pretty fair theologian.

But enough, dear graduates, from the soapbox. Let me turn, in closing, to a different matter.  Allow me to ask what you are going to do with all this present and future learning. I am talking “vocation” here. Not vacation (as in chilling out….kicking back….blowing the summer off…. sleeping ‘til noon), but vocation (as in what are you going to do with your life, most days, from nine o’clock to five). 

Vocation is a fancy word I use to describe “the work I do.” But what I would have you remember is that the linguistic root of “vocation” is “vocare.” Which is not so much the work I do, as the call I answer. 

For I still believe that God calls people. I believe he calls them to do all kinds of things. And while I don’t have time this morning to flush out all of the ways that works, I do have some “feel” for how it works in my business….the ministry business.

God nudges people in all kinds of ways. Come fall, both Pam Beedle-Gee and Sarah Moore are heading for seminary. Pam is going to Garrett. Sarah is going to Duke. Sarah is young….just starting out. Pam’s young at heart….but (as years go) has already circled life’s track a few times.  In Sarah’s case, God used some great experiences working with our youth group to divert herfrom the world of architecture. In Pam’s case, God used some great experiences in Girl Scouts, in Bible study, and as a two-year member of our Costa Rica work team to convince her and John (in Abraham-like fashion) to put the house up….load the wagon up….get her hopes up….and head (three or four years down the road) for some church’s pulpit.

And time would fail me, were I to tell you Todd Query’s story. Todd is heading down the home stretch, meaning that he will soon complete his final year at Methesco (in Delaware, Ohio) and wait to see what God will do with him next. Todd’s story is different. But then, every story is different. Especially Elmer’s. Having just finished his career in seminary, Elmer will start his career in ministry a couple of weeks from now. The church is in Croswell. Where I hope they are patient. Because Elmer is still getting his English whipped into shape. Elmer was born in Honduras with incredible health problems. More than once, he was written off as dead. But, as he puts it: “My mother’s faith in the Divine Doctor established my life.” After graduating from college in Honduras with a degree in Elementary Education, Elmer taught for awhile. But political instability in his country led him to set out for America. He landed in Texas….as an “illegal.” So he flew to New York City….as an “illegal.” The person he stayed with in New York finally said he couldn’t put him up any more. So Elmer went to the bus station, plunked all the money he had on the counter, and said: “Where go?” The agent on the other side of the counter counted all Elmer’s money, consulted his book of fares and said: “Detroit.”

Arriving here, he sat down on a bench until someone said: “Where are you going?”
“Detroit,” Elmer answered. “You’re in Detroit,” the man said, and pointed him in the general direction of Vernor Highway. Which was how it came to pass that Elmer Armijo wandered into our Methodist Church in Mexican Village….the one we call El Buen Pastor (the Good Shepherd)….and which is where he met Reverend Saul Trinidad, whose first words to him (in Spanish) were: “Brother, are you hungry?” 

Eventually, Elmer landed a place to live, a place to work, a green card to make him legal, and a set of friends to make him loved. All of which came through the church….where he worshipped….where he worked….and where God found him (not that God had ever lost him) and tabbed him for ministry. Now, years later, he has jumped through all the hoops, cut through all the tape, passed through all the classes, and (a few week’s back) when Elmer said, “Where go?”, the Bishop said: “Croswell.”

I don’t know what you are being called to. I don’t know what is going on inside of you at this present moment of your life. I don’t know what is cracking loose in you…. or comfortably congealing in you.  I don’t know what major idea is playing with you…. toying with you…. or drumming its fingers for attention on the armorplate that covers the soft underbelly of your soul.  But I do know that whatever that idea is, you had better listen to it.

Permit me to return, once again, to the vocation I know best. And if you will be so kind,      permit me to be momentarily crude in order to make a more lasting point. Allow me to quote for you, Rev. Tex Sample, who has done so much to touch my heart. Said Tex: “The call to the ministry is a lot like the feeling you get when you are about to throw up. You know you can put it off for a while….but sooner or later….”

My friends, there are many magnesias that will coat your call, so that it cannot be heard or heeded. Throw them away. Then ask yourself: “What is it that I have to keep swallowing back, lest it bubble up to the place where I can no longer ignore it.” For as crude as that image is memorable, there is one place where it breaks down. For the true calls of God (to ministry….or to anything else) tend to bubble up as joy.

I once had a friend who had reached a crossroads in her life. This way or that? This job or that?  And I couldn’t make her decision for her. Nor was she asking me to. What I did was help her to listen to herself….to what she was saying about both alternatives. Or, more to the point, to the way she was saying it. For no matter how logically she tried to present both opportunities, there was an unmistakable bubble of joy that accompanied her telling of the one, that I found impossible to trace in her telling of the other.

So, my graduating friends, listen to your stomachs. Then listen to your joy. Because somewhere between nausea and laughter, you may hear something you can put off for awhile. But sooner or later….