Meeting the Lord in the Dining Room: 1. The Guest List

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

February 18, 2001

Scripture: Luke 14:12-24

Over the years, some of the best times I ever had in church started in the kitchen. Then again, some of the worst times I ever had in church also started in the kitchen. People can become quite impassioned about church kitchens….what’s made there….who works there….who’s in control there (that’s a big issue)….who cleans up there. Colin Morris used to say that the devil always enters the church through the choir. Maybe so. But were someone to take Colin out back (to the place where they keep the steam table and the dishwasher), I’ll bet he’d change his tune.

And it’s always been that way. Turn the pages of the Bible (especially the New Testament) and you’ll find that someone always seems to be cooking, eating, or squabbling about cooking and eating. So much so that one can correctly identify the dining room as a primary location for playing out life’s daily dramas of sin and grace. Which we know to be true in our lives as well.

There isn’t a person in this room who can’t remember the ecstasy of a good family meal….and the agony of a bad one. People decry the fact that families seldom sit down to break bread with each other. But sometimes it’s easier not to….and terribly painful when you have to. A minister friend of mine had an adolescent daughter who refused to join the rest of the family at the table for a period of two years. Two whole years. And there were people who said: “Well, you just need to make her.” But if you have ever eaten at a table with somebody who doesn’t want to be there….or has come under some kind of duress….you don’t need a theologian to describe “hell” for you. You’ve experienced it.

In my long-ago-remembered childhood, I recall some wonderful family meals where everybody conversed freely and lingered endlessly. And I recall some awful meals where, from beginning to end, nobody said a word. Not a single, solitary word. After ten minutes of that kind of silence, you can hear the sound a fork makes as it slices through a mound of mashed potatoes.

From the beginning, the Church of Jesus Christ has worried about what you eat….how much you eat….when and where you eat it….and who you eat it with. Biblically speaking, far more stories take place in the dining room than in the bedroom. But you’d never know it by listening to most preachers. Which is why, over my next few sermons, I am going to correct that imbalance. Except I am not going to start with menus or manners….feasting or fasting….or even quality or quantity (gluttony is still one of the seven deadly sins, isn’t it?). No, I am going to start with table mates, honing in on the question of who eats with whom….or who refuses to eat with whom.

Yes, let’s start there (with someone who won’t come to the table). Let’s talk about someone who won’t sit down to supper, even though he has every reason to be hungry after working all day…. working every day….working in the field….without prior complaint….because that’s what good, obedient sons of the father do. Work hard, I mean. They get their hands dirty. But they keep their mouths shut and their noses clean. That’s what good, obedient sons of the father do.

Which wasn’t the path his little brother took. But why do I need to tell you? You know the story, either because you’ve read it….or because you’ve lived it. Little brother takes off. Little brother screws up. Little brother slinks home, lower than a snake’s belly. And daddy throws him a party. In fact, he slaughters the fatted calf. We’re talking prime rib, here. But his older brother doesn’t have to be told what’s cooking. His older brother can smell what’s cooking. And it doesn’t smell quite right. Not because of bad beef….but because of bad blood (between the brothers, I mean). So when his daddy says to his very good, older boy: “Food’s ready….table’s set….wine’s poured….better get washed up….we’re counting on you to make a toast,” his older son says:

            I’m not coming. I’ll see the cook. Maybe I’ll get myself a bologna sandwich to take back to my room. But I’m not sitting down with my brother. I resent him. And I resent you for giving in to him. So go ahead and start without me. Finish without me, too.

Which I assume they did. I mean, you can’t force people to come, can you? Well, can you?

Jesus, it appears, will eat with anybody. One recalls that crook in Jericho, hiding in a tree. Jesus called him down by saying: “It’s lunchtime and I’m coming over.” And wasn’t that on the front page of the National Enquirer by two o’clock that afternoon? Zacchaeus was the crook’s name. Which we have for the record. What we do not have for the record are the names of those other “tax collectors and sinners” he ate with….including the not-so-veiled inference that there might have been a few hookers mingled amongst the sinners. Tax collectors and hookers. What do they have in common? They each sin with their figures, don’t you see. But Jesus ate with them. Or so his critics charged.

Which was not very smart. I mean, I don’t eat with such folks (at least knowingly). I’m no dummy. I understand what the words “guilt by association” mean. People see you in the wrong place, with the wrong people, and they begin to get the wrong idea. Before you know it, you’ve lost it. Public confidence, I mean. Why, it can suck the future right out of your ministry. Jesus should have been more careful.

Simon Peter found that out the hard way when he went to that home over on the coast near Caesarea where he preached to a bunch of people who weren’t Jewish. Which was not an issue. What was an issue was the fact that he stayed for supper after preaching. Which became a problem when he got back to Jerusalem and regrouped with other leaders of the church….who were (at that time) still very much enmeshed in synagogue life (Jewish life, if you will). They said to Peter: “Did you preach to those people?” And Peter admitted that he did. So then they said: “We also heard you stayed for supper.” To which Peter said: “Well, yes I did.” For which he got called on the carpet, royally. Chewed out, thoroughly. Not for preaching, but for eating.

Worse yet was the time Peter and Paul were together in Antioch. Peter was eating with some Gentile Christians that day, too. Suddenly, some Jewish Christians came in from Jerusalem, spotted Peter at a table full of Gentiles, and went over and whispered something in his ear. Peter listened. Then he got up and moved. Making Paul livid. So he let Peter have it, right there. Blistered him good. Both barrels. And while I don’t know everything Paul said, buried in his speech were these words: “If you have to have separate tables, it’s not church anymore.”

Of course, the problem with that is, once you open things up, you never know who you’re going to get. Why, pretty much anybody could come. You might get 4,000 one day….5,000 the next. And when you get crowds like that, how are you ever going to check credentials? I mean, you can’t. So Jesus didn’t. “Sit down,” he said. “Space yourselves out, so that the people bringing the fish course and the people bringing the bread course can circulate among you and pass between you. We’ll feed you. The only thing you need to be is hungry.”

Then Jesus told that famous story of a man who gave a great banquet. Invited many. Then he sent a message to the invitees saying: “Soup’s on.” You know what happened next. Everybody begged off at the last minute. “Can’t come,” they said. “Sorry,” they added. “Don’t take it personally,” they appealed. Good excuses, they offered. “New field….gotta inspect it. New livestock….gotta inspect them. New wife….gotta” (you get the picture).

So the banquet giver says to the servant: “Hit the trails. Beat the bushes. Turn over the rocks. Whoever crawls out, bring ‘em in. Don’t quit till I tell you.” And he hasn’t quit yet. How do I know that? Because I’m that servant, don’t you see. Although some days, I’m the guy crawling out from under the rock.

Assuming that this “banquet story” is another one of those “Jews versus Gentiles” disputes, we need to remember that the Jews were the A list and the Gentiles were the B list. People who know about such things tell me that most classy wedding receptions have an A list and a B list. The bride’s family starts off by inviting everybody on the A list. But since there’s a formula that says 25 percent of the people you invite won’t come, they start back-filling from the B list as notices of regret begin to appear. Which means that if your friend gets invited to a wedding reception four weeks before you do, you are probably on the B list. But since none of us are Jewish….or have ever been Jewish….we are all on the B list. Which means that we all take our place in the story as the Johnny-come-latelies.

As I’ve told you before, I could never work for one of those outfits which would require me to check tickets at the table. I could never ask anybody if they were a member, attender, tither, giver, or even a properly repentant sinner. I could never put a wrap on the bread or a lid on the cup. As concerns the sacrament, I’ll pray over it….I’ll offer it….from time to time, I’ll even try to explain it. But I won’t police it. All you need to be is hungry and thirsty enough to come get it. And I’ll be darned if I’ll stand in judgment of that.

But, hey, if you don’t like that, I’ll cut you a deal. I’ll exclude from the table all those whom Jesus excluded from the table. Except I can never quite figure out who those were. When I look at the last dinner party he hosted, I don’t come away with many clues. I mean, check out the guest list that night.

·         You’ve got Thomas at the table who, less than a few days later, growled: “I don’t believe in the resurrection.”

·         You’ve got Peter at the table who, less than a few hours later, said: “Jesus? Don’t know him. Haven’t met him. Never laid eyes on the guy in my life.”

·         You’ve got James and John (the “Thunder boys”) at the table who are already on record as having said: “We want to cozy up on either side of you, Jesus. We want to make sure that when you hit it big….and you will hit it big….we will hit it big with you. By the way, we got this idea from our mama, Mrs. Thunder.”

·         And you’ve got Judas who, when he left the table, said to the enemy: “Slip me a thirty and I’ll finger my meal ticket.”

So if at that table….on that night….you’ve got a hard-headed non-believer, a gutless wonder, a pair of mother-driven posers and a government snitch, you tell me who I should keep out.

* * * * *

I love Fred Craddock stories and I haven’t told you one in a long time. So here goes.

A few years back, Fred was invited to lead some kind of preaching mission in Winnipeg (Friday night….Saturday morning….Saturday evening….twice on Sunday….you know the drill). When he finished Friday night, he noticed that it was spitting snow. His host told him not to worry, given that it was only mid-October. “Good,” said Fred, “because all I brought from Atlanta was this little, thin jacket.”

Fred went to bed. But when he got up the next morning, he couldn’t open the door for all the white stuff that was piled against it. Snow driving. Wind howling. Temperature falling. Phone ringing. It was the host calling Fred’s motel room.

            I hate to tell you this, but we’re going to have to cancel this morning’s session. Can’t tell about the evening. But things look pretty bad. Nobody saw this coming. City’s not ready. Plows, not ready. Crews, not ready. Nothing’s ready. Worse yet, nothing’s open. In fact, I’m stuck in my driveway, meaning that I can’t come down to fetch you. So I don’t know what you are going to do about breakfast. But I do have an idea. If you can make it out of your room, walk down to the corner….turn right….go one block….turn right again….and you should be standing within shouting distance of the bus station. There’s a little café in there. And if any place is gonna be open, it’s gonna be open.

So Fred curses his luck, zips up his jacket, busts out his door, and goes in search of the little café. Two rights. Bus station. There it is. Wonder of wonders, it’s open. But it’s also crowded. It seems as if every stranded soul in the universe is crammed inside.

There is no place to sit. But some guy slides down the bench and makes room for Fred to squeeze in. Waiter comes over….big burly guy….non-shaven….wearing half the kitchen on his apron. “Whatcha want?” he snarls. “Can I see a menu?” Fred asks. “Don’t need no menu,” the waiter answers. “Didn’t get no deliveries this morning. All we got is soup.” “Well then,” says Fred, “soup it is. I like a little breakfast soup from time to time.”

So the soup comes in a rather tallish mug. Looks awful. Shade of gray. Color of a mouse. Fred half-wonders if that’s what it could be….cream of mouse. So he doesn’t eat it. But he does use the mug as a stove….cupping his fingers around it….warming them on it.

Which is when the door opens once more. Wind howls. Cold surges. “Shut the blankety-blank door,” someone shouts. Lady enters. Thin coat. No hat. Ice crystals in her hair and eyebrows. Maybe 40. Painfully skinny.

“Whatcha want?” shouts the guy with the greasy apron. “I’ll just have a glass of water,” she answers. “Look lady,” he says. “We’re crowded in here. We don’t give no glasses of water. Either you order something or you leave.”

Well, it quickly becomes apparent that she isn’t able to buy something. So she rebuttons her coat and commences to leave. Whereupon a funny thing happens. One by one, everybody at her table gets up to leave, too. Followed by others….at other tables. Even Fred (who still hasn’t touched his soup) gets up to leave.

“All right….all right,” says the soup master. “She can stay.” And he brings her a bowl of soup. With order restored, Fred turns to his table mate and says: “Who is she? She must be somebody important.” To which the guy says: “Never saw her before in my life. But I kinda figure if she’s not welcome, ain’t nobody welcome.”

Which pretty much settled the matter, to the point where all you could hear (for the next few minutes) were soup spoons clinking against the sides of the mugs. Even Fred broke down and ate his soup. Which wasn’t half bad, really. Some might even call it tasty.

Later on, he still couldn’t shake the taste….as if he’d had it before. But what was it? He couldn’t remember. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember. Then it hit him. Strangest thing, really. That cream of mouse soup tasted, for all the world, like bread and wine. That was it….for all the world like bread and wine.

Tell me you get the point.

Contradicting the Burger King Mentality 8/12/2001

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Philippians 2:1-8

Hold the pickles, hold the lettuce,

Special orders don’t upset us.

All we ask is that you let us

Serve it your way.

Funny that I can still sing it, given that I never eat it. I am talking Burger King here, where the song goes down easier than the food….at least for me. But, then, I am a slow food kind of guy. If I want a really great burger, I’ll twiddle my thumbs at the Red Coat, giving Mark Brown all the time in the world to prepare it.

Mark will let me have it my way, even though he lacks a song that tells me so. Burger King does….have a song, I mean. Which was a master stroke of advertising when it first hit the radio. For it told me that I, the customer, was king. It told me that my wants were their marching orders. And it told me that everything they cooked could be customized….leading the competition to claim that not only could it be customized, but super-sized. Whatever will the fast food people do for me next?

I am not belittling any of this. Customers are important and businesses ought to make us feel that way. Every one of us can name eight or ten places where they make us feel like they are doing us a favor by taking our money. Such places are uncompromising and uncomfortable. Which is why we don’t like them and try to steer clear of them. For we are spoiled. We have come to expect it “our way.” If you don’t believe that, think of how you felt the last time you looked at a menu and saw the phrase “no substitutions allowed.”

I have discovered, however, that where food selection is concerned, my way is not always a good way. Some years ago, I told you of my general disdain for salad bars. Why? Because I make a lousy salad, that’s why. I see a table filled with things I like, and I want to throw them all on my plate. If there are 23 kinds of lettuce, why not a few leaves of each? If I can’t decide between oil and vinegar and creamy garlic, why not a dollop of both? Crumbled eggs, grated cheese, fako baco, croutons, peanuts, pine nuts, wheat germ and garbanzo beans….sure. And the result is never very good. Better that somebody with talent should make my salad.

In case you are wondering, I am not much better at buffets. As is the case in other areas of my life, buffet tables offer too many choices. All of them are tempting. But when piled high on a plate (that, in my hand, always turns out to be too small), they are not all that satisfying. Buffet lines exist to please the glutton in me, never the gourmet in me. My way is seldom the stellar way. Which is why I love those all-too-rare occasions when I am taken in hand by a really good waiter in a really good restaurant….a waiter who leads me through the menu, and guides (not forces, but guides) me down a path that will both stretch and satisfy me. If you have never had that kind of waiter, or enjoyed that kind of experience, I can only urge you to seek it….and, upon finding it, be open to it.

This being a car town, we are all talking about General Motors’ recent announcement that Bob Lutz is coming aboard (at age 69) to put his distinctive touch on GM’s automotive styling. Everybody is talking about Lutz, to the degree that if printer’s ink translates into dollars (and I think it does), then the entire three years of Bob’s salary have already been underwritten. I mean, I read all those stories (word for word) and I am far from what you would call a “car guy.”

But it was in reading the stories that I learned that Bob Lutz once wrote a book detailing his seven principles of corporate leadership….one of which (get this) is that “the customer is not always right.” Which sounds like heresy, given the incredible amount of money most companies spend trying to figure out what the customer wants….and how that differs today from what the customer wanted yesterday, or thinks he or she might conceivably want tomorrow.

So I sought one of Bob’s colleagues and said: “Explain this ‘customer is not always right’ thing.” Which was how I learned about focus groups and the roles they play in automotive styling. A focus group is a randomly-selected collection of people who are shown….and then asked to react to….potential styling changes. It’s not that Bob Lutz is against focus groups. He knows you need them. And he knows you ought to listen to them. But it is Bob’s belief that while focus groups should inform styling, they should never dictate styling. Why? Because most people….in most such situations….respond favorably to what strikes them as familiar, while responding critically to what strikes them as strange. In other words, when the pressure is on, people lean toward what they know and return to where they’ve been.

So, in life (as well as the auto industry), who moves people along? Interesting question! A trusted advisor….perhaps. Someone who wears well, but is not afraid to push the envelope…. perhaps. Someone who listens carefully, but leads confidently….perhaps. Someone who meets you where you are, accepts you as you are, but is not afraid to point out that where you are is a far cry from where you could yet go….perhaps. And if any of that tips off the conclusion of this sermon….well, so be it.

But let me build to that point slowly. Let’s start with weddings. “It’s my day and I can have whatever I want,” said a recent bride to me. Not that I was about to fight her. Nobody wins that fight. Life is too short for that fight. So I seldom wage it. Did once. Don’t anymore. I suppose I could challenge her on the question of whose wedding it is. I mean, it’s his too, isn’t it? It’s been fascinating to see how many grooms really do “give a rip” and get into it….the planning, I mean. And there are other people whose day it is, as well. To say that those people don’t have feelings is insensitive. And to say that those feelings are irrelevant is stupid….not to mention, immature.

But I never say so in so many words. I say so gently. Like I said, I’m not there to fight people. I’m there to help people. Which is true of Doris, the other ministers on the staff, our wonderful cadre of wedding coordinators, and my secretary (Janet Smylie) through whom every bride and groom must pass before reaching a preacher. We’re good. Everybody says we’re good. And we’re also caring. People say that, too.

But we will try to steer you (to the degree that you let us). We will try to steer you around things that won’t work, toward things that will work. We will also try to steer you between things that might work independent of each other, but won’t work together. And if you go to the mat with us, we’ll probably concede. Who knows, you may be right. But you may also be sorry.

The same thing is true in designing worship. Testing the house is in. Market surveys are in. What do you want to sing? How do you want to sing it? What do you want to hear? How often do you want to hear it? How long do you want the preacher to speak? Where do you want the preacher to stand? What do you want the preacher to wear? Tell us what you think. Tell us what smoothes you and what ruffles you. We’d be fools not to ask. And we’d be greater fools not to listen. But if that’s all we do, you’ll be sorry. Because we do know a smidgen more than you do.

The year was 1970. It was my second year in a church on my own. I’d begun well. But I was still feeling my way….wanting to please, if you will. I was meeting with the Pastor Parish Relations Committee. Those are my bosses. They asked what new wrinkles I was planning for the coming year. I told them that one thing I planned to do was survey the congregation, the better to find out what kinds of sermons they wanted to hear. Oh, they thought that was wonderful. It showed open-mindedness, pastoral awareness, sensitivity to the market. At least that’s what they said. Except for Don Lobb. Don sat there frowning. Leading me to say: “What’s wrong, Don? You look like something is bothering you.” Which was when he said to me: “Bill, you are my pastor. I count on you to tell me what you think I need to hear.” Which I’ve never forgotten. And which is why, lo these many years later, I have yet to take my first survey (even though I have honored numerous requests).

Which brings me to Stanley Hauerwas. Stan is (recognizably) the most respected teacher of theology and ethics in the land. Notre Dame had him. Now Duke’s got him. Riding out of Texas, Stan was something of a rebellious Methodist. I have known Stan since we were green-as-grass divinity students at Yale. Stan knew he was good, then. And he knows he is good now. What’s more, he is anything but bashful about letting you know it.

His opening lecture in whatever divinity school class he happens to be teaching (especially if it is a first year class), always involves some form of the claim: “I don’t want you to think for yourselves. I want you to think like me.” Which he says mostly for shock value. For down the road, Stan has no interest in creating clones of himself. Perfect imitation will not flatter him. But he understands that, at the outset, he knows a lot more than his students know. And he believes that theology is a craft best learned by putting oneself under the authority of a master of the tradition. Which means that, in the short run, Stan has to separate his students from the notion that anybody’s ideas are as good as anybody else’s….and that their ideas (at this early stage of development) are as good as his. For they aren’t. Not that they won’t be some day. But they aren’t now. Which may sound arrogant. But when students get to know him, they find that underneath the arrogance is a rather humble fellow. Says Stan: “The first task of teaching is to attack the student’s illusion of individual sovereignty.” Translated, that means that the first task of teaching is to attack the illusion that the student (as customer) is always right.

So where is the humility in that? Well, there is something else Stan knows that tempers even his supreme self-confidence. Stan knows that, as a Christian, what is on your mind is always subservient to who is in your mind. Paul wrote to the Philippians: “Let this same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus.”

And what kind of “mind” was that, Paul? Well, says Paul, I am talking about the mind of a man who, “though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself….taking the form of a servant….and humbled himself….becoming obedient to the point of death….even death upon a cross.”

The ironic thing is that Paul probably didn’t write those words, but (rather) quoted them. Those words most likely came from an early congregational hymn or credal statement (already in existence), making those words one of the earliest forms of Christian teaching that we know. Which is why we ought to pay close attention to the verbs….verbs like “emptied,” “humbled,” “becoming obedient.” Those are not easy verbs to swallow. Or to showcase.

There is a tension that runs right up the gut of Christianity….a tension not easily resolved. On the one hand, Christianity values the individual….exalts the individual….almost pedestals the individual. Matt Hook is fond of saying: “God loves you as if there were no other. God’s love for you is so great that it feels as if you are the beneficiary of all of it….as if there were no one else in the world for God to love, and you are getting it all.”

But, on the other hand, Christianity says that there are lots of other people in the world and that God loves them every bit as much as he loves you. And while, in his love, God singles you out….he singles you out for service, subservience, and perhaps even for suffering. Do you feel that tension? You’d better. Because if you don’t, you don’t understand the faith.

When I was a kid, I went to camp every summer. More to the point, I went to church camp every summer. And every summer there was a craft shop, where it seemed as if I was continuously being encouraged to make something….ranging from leather bookmarks to plywood Bible stands….into which I would carve or burn the words: “God first. Others second. Self third.” I’ve probably still got camp crafts with such sentiments displayed.

Which does not mean I am without needs. Nor does it mean that my needs are not important. But to the degree that I have also wood-burned those words into my soul, I know that my needs are neither primary nor secondary, but tertiary (God first. Others second. Self third.). Not that my life always reflects that sequence. But I believe it. I really do.

I talked about weddings earlier. I love most of them. Really, I do. Most Saturdays, people rise to the occasion. They show up. They shape up. They shine up. But there is the occasional wedding where someone is about to go into a snit, raise a ruckus, or make a scene. Some eight-year-old kid doesn’t like the suit. Some photographer doesn’t like the rules. Some mother doesn’t like her ex-husband’s new honey seated behind her. Some bridesmaid doesn’t like the shoes. Or some groomsman doesn’t like the fact that we won’t let him drink beer in the bathroom before the festivities. Which is when the emergent “grumpy old man” in me takes over. I want to shake them by the throat and say: “Look, get with the program. This isn’t about you.”

Truth be told, I think that about some of you, sometimes.

Still, more truth be told, I figure that God….and, occasionally, some of you….think that about me.

Lord have mercy.

Bowling Alone, Praying Together 10/24/2001

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Oct 24, 2001

Scripture: Hebrews 12:14-13:2

While driving home with my wife on Friday night, it occurred to me that this is the only church I have ever served without its own bowling league….or, at the very least, its own bowling team. Not that I ever bowled in any church’s league or on any church’s team. I haven’t rolled a bowling ball in 15 years. Not that I can’t. It’s just that I don’t. I don’t own a bowling ball, bowling shoes, a bowling glove or a bowling shirt. If put on the spot, I can knock down a few pins. I can also tell a strike from a spare, keep an accurate score card, and spout a bit of bowling jargon. But the alley I know best was the one that ran behind my house in my youth. And, since the days of my youth, I’ve converted far more sinners than splits (especially 7-10 splits).

As a non-bowler, I have company….but not a lot. As of late as last year, there were over 91 million bowlers in America….maybe the most ever.  But what is surprising is that the proportion of those 91 million Americans who bowl in leagues has declined by almost 75 percent since the 1960s.

Who says so? Robert Putnam says so. And who is Robert Putnam? Robert Putnam is the Dillon Professor of International Affairs at Harvard, who, in January of 1995, published an article entitled “Bowling Alone: America’s Declining Social Capital.” When the article appeared in the Journal of Democracy, it caused something of a stir, academically. Now that Putnam has followed with his book, Bowling Alone (released just last year), his thesis has pushed a hot button, popularly.

Why? Because the decline in league bowling is but one small symptom of what Putnam calls the collapse of American community over the last four decades. As a nation of individuals, we are doing as much as we ever did….probably more. But we are doing it with each other less and less. Especially when it comes to joining up with each other in more-or-less formal organizations to do whatever we more-or-less like to do.

Membership in civic and fraternal organizations is down, down, down. Rotary clubs, along with the Lions, the Elks, the Optimists, the Knights of Columbus, PTA, the Masons, the Shrine, the Star, and the Rainbow Girls all decry a lack of recruits, affiliates, novitiates, brothers, sisters, sign-on-the-dotted-line members or ready volunteers. What’s more, the Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, labor unions and ethnic clusterings all tell the same story. One of our members used to own a marvelous athletic complex adjacent to the State Fair known as Softball City. There were diamonds everywhere and league games every hour of the day and night. He sold it a couple years back. Unable to fill it up, he could no longer make it pay.

If this were anecdotal evidence (a story here, a story there), it would be one thing. But this is researched and documented evidence. Putnam is a thorough fellow. There are nearly a hundred graphs and charts in his book. As with any social theorist, he has his detractors. But all of them concede that he has done his homework.

Civic disengagement is his theme. He says that we have been disengaging ourselves from each other (evidenced by the breaking of organizational ties) for over 30 years. And he argues that it is more than a mere coincidence that, over the same period, we have seen other forms of civic disengagement such as declining percentages of people who vote in an election, sign a petition, serve on a committee, write a letter to a politician or take the time to attend a public meeting.

His earlier work (on political and economic development in Italy) reported a similar finding. He noted that the most progressive communities in Italy all had something in common. Each of them had a community choral society. People that sang together (at least once weekly) apparently did lots of other wonderful things….community benefiting things….together as well. Just as there is “economic capital” you build up for yourself and the culture by buying bonds or banking assets, there is “social capital” you build up for yourself and the culture by forming bridge clubs or joining bowling leagues.

Stick with the bowlers for a minute (and trust me, this really is going somewhere important). Obviously, the fact that people are not bowling in leagues does not mean they are bowling singularly. They may be out there with their kids, their neighbors, their co-workers, or any number of folk. But they are not there with the same folk every time. Neither do they bowl at the same time every week. Which worries the people who run bowling alleys (or “centers,” as they now want to be called). For while there are enough occasional bowlers to fill the lanes on good nights, it is the leagues that buy 75 percent of the beer and pizza. And, as any owner will tell you, the money is not in lane fees or shoe rentals. The money is in the beer and pizza.

But the proprietor is not Putnam’s concern. Neither is it mine. Instead, Putnam worries about what the loss of a league does to the individual bowler on the one hand, and to the republic on the other. Start with the republic. When you participate in a bowling league (interacting with the same people week after week), you practice the virtues and skills that are prerequisite for a democracy. You learn to show up on time, do your part, carry your end and root for your teammates. You also learn to operate in a framework where rules must be followed, traditions honored, sportsmanship exhibited and accurate scores kept. Moreover, someone on the team has to send the notices, order the shirts, keep the records and know whose birthday comes when. All of which are associational skills.

But such leagues (just like church choirs, community bands and neighborhood pinochle groups) also provide settings in which members can talk about their shared interests. Sure, you could call a talk show….wait 30 minutes….blow off steam for 30 seconds….then do it again in 30 days. But no one holds you accountable for things you say on a phone-in talk show. Nor do they know you well enough to understand “where you’re coming from.” But when you sound off to your bowling team, they are going to understand you some weeks and challenge you other weeks…. because they see you every week. Which means that (over time) they are going to alternately love you and put it to you in ways that will not happen with people you see less frequently.

What groups are Americans still joining in great numbers? Americans are still joining self-help groups such as Alcoholics Anonymous, Weight Watchers International or Recovery. And Americans are joining cause-related groups like the National Rifle Association, the Sierra Club or the Right to Life Caucus. But most people leave self-help groups when they get what they came for….thinner, saner, soberer. And, as concerns the cause-related groups, the most that 95 percent of the members ever do is write a yearly check and skim-read a monthly newsletter.

We could talk about why this has taken place and whether it’s a good thing or a bad thing. But you can do that on your own. Instead, I give you what follows….in part, because it will transition me from social analysis to sermon and get me closer to where I want to take you.

Putnam observes (correctly, I think) that one major difference separating Americans raised during the Great Depression and World War II from those coming of age in the ‘60s and later, is that the younger group has lacked “great collective events” to bolster their civic identities. Unlike the Depression and World War II, the defining movements in American life over the last 35 years (the Cold War, the drug war, Vietnam, civil rights, the feminist movement) were most notable for their divisiveness. Instead of reaffirming commonly-held values, they often pitted sharply divergent norms against one another. Which created conflict....bred distrust….and caused us to move (often unconsciously) further away from each other. “Don’t get too familiar,” we seemed to say. And if you do, don’t do it too often. Jump in (by all means), but leave yourself room (and time) to jump back out.

I do not believe we are going to recreate the 50s all over again. But could it be….could it conceivably be….that September 11 (and everything since) have given us a “great collective event” that has brought us closer together than it has split us apart? Not that we are of one mind about it. Or about anything. But something has cut across the things that divide us, putting us in touch with other things (deeper things….half-forgotten things….almost buried things) that unite us. To the degree that we are again becoming more intentionally associational as a result.

More to the point, is it likely that some are going to come to a place like this….a church like this….for regular dosages of the same serum they sought as a one-time antidote to that crisis of the spirit we know as Terrible Tuesday? The crisis came on 9/11. We collectively called 911. And the Church of Jesus Christ responded. But before any response was made, the call was made. Something in us said: “Call here….try here….come here.” Like the prodigal in the far country, we knew where home was. What’s more, we knew that there would be a light there….people there….prayers and pray-ers there….a story (into which to fit this story) there…. and a presence there (that, if it couldn’t completely secure us, could demonstrably strengthen us).

I have friends, made across the years, who have never been active in any church. And I have other friends who, in the years we were together, were more active in a church than they are now. From time to time, they call the switchboard, ask the secretary what time our services are, inquire as to whether I am preaching, and then show up. After the service they greet me at the door, test my memory for names, hug me (while mumbling into the padded shoulder of my robe about “how long it’s been”), and then (almost to a person) say: “We just had to come and get ourselves a fix.”

Which is a fascinating choice of words, given that “fix” is an image drawn directly from the drug culture. What are they saying? Are they coming here to shoot up….turn on….get high? And if so, on what? On me? Or you? Possibly the choir? Perchance the scenery? Maybe on what we mix and bottle here? Or could it be something else….something bigger than anything “we” do here? I certainly hope that whatever it is, we haven’t cut or cheapened it in the delivery. After all, if Jesus’ self-authenticating miracle in the gospel of John was to change water into wine, I’d hate to have it said of me that I got it nicely changed back again.

But to my friends who come for a “fix,” I find myself wanting to say: “Stick around. For this is one place where an overdose is permissible and addiction is downright desirable.”

Pardon the crudeness of my images, but I’m aiming at something here. After 37 years, I am kinda “bullish” on this church thing. I think the Bible is, too. We’re giving them away today….Bibles, I mean. I hope our kids read them. I hope you all read them. Because if you read big whole chunks at a time….not just little snippets, a story here, a story there, a couple of verses marked out with a little lacy bookmark crocheted in the form of a cross….I mean, if you really read it like you might read a novel so as to get caught up in its sweep, you are going to find that the Bible doesn’t spend 20 pages (tops) talking about private and solitary journeys of faith. In the Bible, faith journeys are corporate journeys….the nation of Israel first, the emerging Church of Jesus Christ, second. To be sure, we may meet Jesus one-on-one. But we walk the life of faith together.

Three nights after the attack on the World Trade Center (at a hastily-convened dinner party), one of you raised a glass to toast nine of us, saying something to this effect: “I’ve watched all the TV I can watch alone. I’ve absorbed all the reality I can absorb alone. All I can say is that I’m glad you were available on such short notice, because I need to be with friends like you.” And looking around, I realized that the ten of us were “church.” And hearing the emotion in his words (he who isn’t usually given to such emotion), I realized that this was church. By contrast, I broke bread with three couples in 36 hours, in northern Michigan, just two days ago. And, concerning the world situation, all of them said: “We feel incredibly safe up here. But we feel terribly isolated.”

Oh yes, my friends, we need to be together. We need to be together in the Lord. And, in the spirit of “Hospitality Sunday,” we need a few who will greet us in the name of the Lord. So volunteer, will you? We need people who will say to us: “Come on in. Take offyour hat. Stay a while. We’ve been waiting all morning for you. The preacher’s been sweating all Saturday night for you. The choir members have spent Wednesday or Thursday evening practicing their little lungs out for you. There isn’t a better place in the world for you to be than here. And there isn’t a better time for you to be here than now.”

Last Sunday I had to leave this sanctuary without shaking hands at 12:00 because I had to board a plane at ten minutes past one to fly to Raleigh-Durham. It was my first flight since….well, you know when. It wasn’t as bad as I feared. I mean, they had lots of greeters at the airport. Some with uniforms. Others with guns. A few with those wands they use to feel you up electronically. Then, with the TV monitor announcing that we had just commenced bombing Afghanistan, I boarded the plane.

            Greeters at the airport.

            Greeters at the church.

I suppose there are jobs just waiting to be had at the doors to a 747, just as there are jobs waiting to be had at the doors to the Church of Jesus Christ. I’ve gotta tell you, the pay’s better at the airport. But you tell me. Which job would you rather have?

Note:  Both Robert Putnam’s article (1995) and his book (2000) are readily locatable through normal channels (including the Internet). Suffice it to say, it is hard to pick up a book on present-day congregational life without hearing Putnam quoted. As for the sermon itself, it was initially requested as part of an effort to increase our congregational consciousness in the area of “Hospitality Ministry” (hence, the text) and to increase the number of persons volunteering to be greeters. Somewhere along the line, it took a wide turn into a sermon on the communal nature of the Christian life. Which either reflects sloppy discipline on the part of the preacher or overpowering evidences of the Holy Spirit in the process of sermon preparation. Hopefully, the latter.