Is Your Home Childproof? 12/24/2001

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Christmas Eve, 2001

If I am not mistaken, it was the late E. Stanley Jones who told of an elementary-age schoolboy who was sent back to America by his missionary father because the education he could get in a boarding school here would be far superior to the education he could get in a village school there. The boy accepted the logic behind his return to the States and, separated from his family, actually did quite well. Until Christmastime. Hearing reports that the boy was nursing a pretty good case of pre-holiday blues, the headmaster paid a visit to his room. Before leaving, he asked if there was one thing, more than any other, that he would like for Christmas. Whereupon the boy, looking at the photograph of his father hanging on the wall above his bed, said: “All I want is for my father to step out of that frame.”

Well, that kid has plenty of company. For many of you would say the same thing to a photograph that hangs on one of your walls, or sits on one of your tables. “If only, just for one night, you could step out of that frame.” I know I have pictures like that at my house, along with wishes like that in my heart. And so do you. I know you do.

I suppose it would be simple to suggest that Christmas Eve is the night our heavenly Father stepped out of the frame….the better to meet and greet us in the flesh. For isn’t that what John (who wasn’t into nativities) said about the Word….that it became flesh and dwelt among us….full of grace….full of truth….sufficient so that we could see it….and in seeing it, experience a small splash of its glory?

People had been on God’s case for a long time to step out of the frame. And, insofar as I can discern it, we are on it still (God’s case, I mean). “Make thyself plain,” is one way of putting it….not “plain” as in “bland,” but “plain” as in “clear.”

The problem, however, is that there is no clear consensus about which God….and which frame. Some want a Father who is a fighter. Others want a Father who is a forgiver. Still others, a Father who is a befriender. And nobody would turn their back upon a Father who is a lover. Although, now that I say it, I’m not all that sure.

Trying (as I get paid to do) to put my finger on the pulse of this particular year, I think I know the kind of Father we are looking for….the kind of Incarnation we want. I think the One we want to see step from the frame is a Father who looks like an ice hockey linesman. You know who I mean. I’m talking about the guy in the striped shirt….no name on his back….who skates in and around play (more or less anonymously)…. blowing the whistle when anyone ventures off-side….signaling infractions when rules are flagrantly violated….and occasionally jumping into the fray and breaking up fights. A hockey linesman knows that fights are inevitable….that they are part of the game (sometimes, the greater part of the game, as in Johnny Carson’s old joke about going to Madison Square Garden for a prize fight, only to see a hockey game break out). But the linesman waits for just the right moment in a fight and then skates in….separating the combatants….hauling this one off that one….doing whatever needs to be done to restore a bit of order.

I suppose that this hockey image surfaced in my head because my daughter….my sweet, serene daughter….my Harvard-matriculating daughter….my corporate-bound, turn-the-recession-around-overnight-once-I-graduate daughter….called earlier in the fall to announce that she had joined the Harvard Business School women’s hockey team. Not because she’d ever played hockey before. Not because she’d ever worn a pair of hockey skates before. And not because she’d taken many twirls around a frozen pond before. So why did she do it? Because, like the mountain (I guess), it was there. Now, every time I talk to her, instead of inquiring about her grades, I ask about her teeth.

She claims that girls’ games have rules against body checking. But what I want to know is whether they also have rules against boarding, tripping, spearing, slashing, or otherwise….in any way….for any reason….at any time….disfiguring my daughter’s pretty face. Lacking such rules, I guess I’ll just have to trust the linesman.

Oh, if only God would step out of history’s frame tonight….strong of hand….swift of skate…. striped of shirt….and roll through Bethlehem (and every town and village within 90 miles). That way, God could sort out the mayhem….separating this one from that one….pulling that one off this one….sending everybody to their respective benches, locker rooms or bedrooms (maybe even without supper)….handing out penalties where appropriate (don’t they sometimes call the penalty box, “The Sin Bin”?)….two minutes for spearing….five minutes for fighting….eight minutes for grenade throwing….eleven minutes for settlement leveling….twenty-three minutes for suicide bombing….complete with game misconducts for the recalcitrant and unrepentant…. and maybe even life misconducts for those who not only inflict pain and sorrow, but sneer and laugh while others suffer and die.

I’m not necessarily proud of this feeling or comfortable with this longing, but there are times when virtues like peace, harmony, justice and righteousness seem so far in the distance, that the restoration of order seems like a wondrous gift, indeed. As every policeman who has ever responded to a domestic violence call knows, you can’t work things out until you first calm things down.

But when God steps out of Bethlehem’s frame….now as well as then….he is neither swift of step nor striped of shirt. He does not skate from the womb or the frame. He restores nothing. He penalizes no one. For he comes as a baby. That’s right, a baby. Love is a baby, tonight….who, in his infancy, will ask more of us than he will bring to us. For, in the short run, we will have to take care of him….he, who in the eternal scheme of things, was born to take care of us.

But I have noticed something about life. I have noticed the most precious things tend to require the most cautious handling and the most delicate care. Babies come into the world with “special handling” stickers attached. As do marriages….friendships….congregations….not to mention truces, cease-fires, coalition governments and dreams (especially dreams). In a world where people continually drop the ball, we had better not drop the baby.

For to all who would receive the baby….welcome the baby….hold the baby….open their hearts to the baby…. amazing things can happen. After more than a quarter century of no babies on my side of the family, my niece Lauren was born last year at Christmastime. This week, she turned one. We spent last night together at a family dinner. Now concerning my extended family, you need to know that Norman Rockwell never knocked on our door and suggested painting us for posterity. So watching a one-year-old draw us close to her….and (in the process) draw us closer to each other…..I was freshly impressed with how much one so new can do. But then, God has known this all along.

Not everybody welcomes children. It is a common practice for adults….especially for adults who have a lot of nice things and want to protect them….to childproof their homes, making sure that visiting children can’t touch anything of value. Leading Don Rush, a columnist out of Florida, to write: “My wife and I childproofed our home three years ago, and they’re still getting in.” As will this one, my friends. You can count on it. For whatever else Christmas is, it is the story of a child who will not be denied.

* * * * *

Christmas Eve – 2001. Like the song will soon remind us, the night is silent now….especially (and sadly) in Bethlehem, where the silence has nothing to do with reverence and everything to do with fear. Which does not mean that Jesus cannot be born there, but that only those who have no choice but to live there will welcome him there. Which is all right….maybe even good…. because if healing should start and metastasize from anywhere, maybe it should start and metastasize from Bethlehem.

Fewer of us are flying high this Christmas. And those of us who are, are being forced to shed our shoes at the airport. But, as with most things, there’s biblical precedent for that, too. Thanks be to God, we are grounded in faith, although we have rediscovered that holding fast to one religion gives no mandate to wipe out all the others.

As for me and mine, life is good….church is good….we are good. To be able to work in a place where we are wanted, needed and valued is a blessing that many covet, but few receive. At the end of the working day, the sweat of my labor is still sweet to the taste, leaving me wanting more.

In a little while, we shall sing the last song here….turn off the last light here….and wend our way home from here. To where at least this gentleman will “rest ye merry” with two of the loveliest women God ever granted to share road and load. Together, we shall butter a little bread and sip a little soup….well, not just any bread or any soup, so much as baguette and bisque….oh, all right, lobster bisque, if you must know. Then, looking at the pictures on our mantle, we shall think about the one who we would call forth from his frame. But then we will cherish what we have and whose we are. By which time it will already be dawn somewhere in the world. Like, maybe Bethlehem. Merry Christmas, dear ones. Merry Christmas.

Hook, Line and Sinker 10/28/2001

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: John 21:1-17

When last we gathered at this way station in the wilderness, I told you that, in preparation for this trio of sermons, I had learned more than I ever wanted to know about fishing in the Bible. This research included the four primary ways fish were caught in the pages of scripture….or, more to the point, in the waters of Israel.

What was caught was primarily perch, carp, bream, and the sweet (albeit bony) little St. Peters fish, which everyone, once in a lifetime, must eat with a plateful of fries in a little outdoor café in the lakeside village of Tiberias. What was caught but not kept was a garbage fish known as the sheet fish, along with eels and a few other unscaled water animals which the Jews (according to Leviticus 11:9-12) considered “unclean.”

Most of these fish were hauled overland to Jerusalem (70 miles from Galilean fishing ports, 40 miles from Mediterranean fishing ports) where they were brought to the markets of the old walled city, entering through the Fish Gate of the second Temple. All of this, mind you, before the days of refrigerated trucks.

As to how biblical fish were caught, most of them were netted. Some fishermen preferred to cast their nets while other fishermen preferred to drag them. Hand casting was done from the shore. You simply folded the net loosely over your arm, waded slightly into the water, whirled the loose end skillfully over your head, and then released. Done correctly, the net would unwind and fall like a tent, with weights pulling it to the bottom. This effectively trapped any fish upon which it fell. Picture throwing a lasso….which cowboys can do in their sleep, but I could never master as a kid….and you have some idea of the principle involved.

Drag netting, to the contrary, required at least one boat, and most often two. This method utilized a bigger net, but it also covered a wider area. In addition to weights to drag it down, a drag net also required floaters to keep it up. Clearly, many of the disciples were familiar with both kinds of netting. When Jesus met some of them along the shore of the Sea of Galilee, they were casting. In this story, they were dragging. Man, were they dragging.

A third method involved a hook attached to a line. Both “hooks” and “lines” are mentioned in scripture. But no pole is mentioned in scripture. So one either assumes a pole, or speculates that a line was dropped from the hand (which sounded stupid to me, until many of you confessed that that was how you began your early fishing career as children). Perhaps you will remember that when Jesus needed a coin to pay the half-shekel Temple tax, he had Peter hook a fish. Whereupon he pulled a coin from its mouth and asked Peter whose image was on it…. occasioning the famous line about “rendering unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and unto God the things that are God’s.”

Finally, the Bible also speaks of spearing or harpooning, which the Jews learned in Egypt. This generally occurred at night, with flaming torches held over the stern of the boat so that the fish, drawn by the light, would swim within arm’s length (the better to ensure that spearing did not lead to drowning).

I explained all this to Roger Wittrup in the narthex last Sunday. In addition to being a world-class forensic psychologist, Roger is also an avid fisherman. What’s more, he is absolutely certain that heaven will be crisscrossed by trout streams (much to the chagrin of the golfers). Who knows, he may be right. But when I explained the four biblical methodologies of fishing (cast-netting, drag-netting, hooking and harpooning), Roger said: “And, of course, dynamiting.”

What Roger was referencing, of course, was an old wives' tale I once told, some 20 years ago, in a sermon. I’ll give you the short form. A salty veteran takes a rookie fishing….motors to a remote corner of the lake….kills the motor….reaches into his tackle box….pulls out a stick of dynamite….lights it….throws it….waits for the explosion to stun a slew of fish….then scoops them into the boat when they float to the surface. In response to which, the rookie objects…. loudly….strenuously….keeps at it….won’t stop it. So the veteran reaches into his tackle box a second time….lights a second stick of dynamite….hands it to the rookie and says: “Are you gonna complain or are you gonna fish?”

My trouble began when I personalized the story, telling it as if it were true. I told it as if I, the newly-arrived preacher, was the rookie in the boat. What’s worse, I told it as if Ralph McCubbin (a long-time church member, local undertaker, and inveterate fisherman) was the fellow with the explosives in his tackle box. There must have been 500 people who heard me tell it. And there must have been 400 people who “got it” upon hearing it. But the other 100 took it as gospel. They thought that Ralph….their dear friend and beloved undertaker….really did take the new preacher out to fish with dynamite. And a few of them let him have it. I mean, he heard it about it for weeks….in a couple of cases, for years. It got so bad that I actually preached a disclaimer sermon. Thankfully, it didn’t hurt our friendship. For 20 years we chuckled over it. Then Ralph died a couple of weeks back. His wife wanted me to tell that story at the funeral. Which didn’t work out. But it did bring it all back (in a bittersweet sort of way).

Last week I turned our text in the direction of catching fish. This week I want to turn it in the direction of being fish. I want to talk about what it’s like to be caught and landed….hooked, if you will.

In the first campaign mailing, you received a fish hook (albeit a fish hook with its point clipped for safety’s sake). Then you read these words that followed:

Did you ever stop to ponder

What it was that brought you here

What hooked you on First Church, Birmingham?

            Was it family tradition

            The invitation of a friend

            Was it worship, or music, or something more

            Or was it simply faith?

And what is it that brings you back, time and again?

We are all lured by many things in life.

How wonderful for each of us that this place

             and God’s grace has caught us.

I love that. I only wish I’d written it. I didn’t. Lindsay Hinz did. But it’s great theology, don’t you see. And true to life, don’t you see.

Start with the “true to life” part. Some days it seems as if everybody wants to hook you, or….in that strangest of euphemisms….wants to “get their hooks into you.” Sometimes they dangle and dance colorful “flies” before your eyes. Other times they go right for your unprotected flesh with something sharp and pointed.

Advertisers are brilliant….simply brilliant….at this. I can’t believe how good they are. In fact, I envy how good they are. But preachers do the same thing. Given the world you live in, I know that many of you won’t give me 22 minutes of focused attention. And some of you who will, can’t. So I have to hook you early in the sermon. I have to make you care about what I am going to say. I can do it by asking a question you can’t answer, unfolding a mystery you can’t solve, posing a paradox you can’t bring together, or inviting you on a journey you can’t see the end of, but are willing to take because it seems intriguing. Or I can tell you a story that gets a little bit close….sometimes a little bit too close.…to where you live. In the old days, preachers hooked you by starting each sermon with a joke. But you got wise. You stayed awake through the punch line before mentally going to sleep.

There are lots of lures in the world. Nice ones from lovers (“Why don’t you come closer?”). Dangerous ones from drug dealers (“Hey kid, want to try something cool?”). There are few places where any of us swim free. Not that we want to, mind you. I think most of us want to be caught. Somebody once crooned about courtship: “A man chases a woman until she catches him” (even though it sometimes works the other way). While somebody else explains an activity or cause that has changed his or her life by saying: “I don’t know how I got started. I just got caught up in it.”

Remember, I said that while Lindsay’s words were true to life, I also said that they were good theology. Why? Because people of faith are often caught up before they sign up. Chris Hall’s little song (which we have adopted for the campaign) is so instructive here. How does it begin? I’ll tell you how it begins. “It’s all about who is the fish and who is the fisherman….” Maybe….just maybe….you and I are the fish.

So who is the fisherman? You know darn well who is the fisherman. In this story, he’s the only one not in the boat….the only one not trying to shake off a night’s worth of failure….the only one who’s not empty of net, empty of heart, empty of hand and empty of hope. The man on the shore, I mean. Jesus, I mean. The man who (when Peter hears John say: “It’s the Lord”) causes Peter to vacate the boat….half swimming….half running….looking every bit as clumsy as I do when I try to run in the water.

End of scene. Cut to the next scene. We’re a little further up the shore now. What I want you to see is the fire….the charcoal fire….over which Jesus is grilling fish. Jesus is getting ready to feed somebody. But what’s new about that? Always did. Still does.

But don’t let this lonely little detail slip by….about it being a “charcoal” fire, I mean. So what’s the big deal about Jesus grilling Peter’s breakfast over a charcoal fire? Think. Think hard. Surely you remember. It was a charcoal fire that was warming the soldiers outside of Caiaphas’ palace the night that Jesus was arrested and brought to trial. I am talking about the same charcoal fire across which the soldiers squinted and spotted Peter in the dark. Yes, the same charcoal fire over which, three times, they asked Peter: “Are you not one of this man’s disciples?” To which Peter said: “No….no….for the third time, No.” And for the rest of his life, a charcoal fire would be Peter’s symbol of shame (as if we all didn’t have one….a symbol of shame, I mean).

Yet there is Jesus cooking fish over a charcoal fire, saying: “Come and have breakfast.” That’s all he said. All he needed to say. I could preach a thousand sermons on forgiveness and none of them would be as eloquent as Jesus saying those words over that fire.

But the story is not over yet. They eat….scrape the plates….throw the dirty napkins into the fire….pour a second cup of coffee (decaf for Peter, who’s already fidgety enough). Jesus looks at Peter. “Do you love me?” he asks. Peter says: “Yes.” “Feed my lambs,” Jesus says.

Second time: “Simon, son of John, do you love me?” “Yes, Lord, you know that I love you,” says Peter. “Tend my sheep,” says Jesus.

Third time: “Simon, son of John, do you love me?” Now Peter is hurt….angry….agitated…. clearly out of sorts by the probing intensity of the grilling. Jesus will not let Peter off the hook. Why? Because unless Peter and Jesus get into it….or down to it….Peter’s never going to get past it….or move beyond it. It’s always going to be between them. It’s always going to get in the way.

“Yes, Lord….you know it all….you know everything….you know as much as I do….more than I can hide from you….you know who I am….what I did….how I feel about it….and how desperately I love you in spite of it.” And Jesus simply said: “Feed my sheep.” Which, translated, means: “Peter, you’ve got your old job back.”

You have probably figured out by now that Ithink this story….written as it is….placed where it is….is about the church. The fish are those who need hooking. The sheep are those who need feeding. And Peter is the one who needs healing….along with a job.

So, who are we?

           Are we fish?

                        Are we sheep?

                                    Are we Peter?

I think that’s something you need to figure out for yourself. If not right now, at least after breakfast.

            “It’s all about who is the fish and who is the fisherman.”

Go Fish 10/21/2001

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

October 21, 2001

Scripture: John 21:1-8

I just spent 72 hours in Indianapolis, touching base and trading war stories, while talking through the agony and ecstasy of ministry with 25 colleagues who serve United Methodist churches of a similar size to this one. This is as close as I come to people who understand what I do. Which is why I move heaven and earth to participate when the invitation comes around. We change our location yearly. Last year, Dallas. This year, Indianapolis. Next year, Fort Lauderdale. The year after that, here. The long of it is that we range wide. The short of it is that we dig deep. I never fail to learn new facts or hear great lines….like the one from the lips of my friend who began his time of sharing by saying: “I am in my 18th year of a church that has grown beyond me.”

Not all the stories are successes. Preachers are a lot like pitchers. None of us wins twenty, annually. Our group helps put the bad years into perspective. Especially when there’s no time for other remedies….like fishing. It surprised me to learn how many of my colleagues fish. Especially since I don’t. One, who is about to retire in January, said: “My only plan, so far, involves fishing in the Sierra Nevada Mountains.” Another, limited by a blood clot that put her in the hospital on Good Friday and kept her off her feet for several months, said: “I am still not one hundred percent, but I did go trout fishing last week.” While a third, clearly overstressed by the problems of a new appointment, sighed heavily and said: “One day I woke up and realized I hadn’t been fishing in two summers.”

For these three (and others), fishing is a blend of relaxation and therapy. It’s neither for me. Or hasn’t been, thus far. But you already know that, given my confession in Steeple Notes that while I eat fish, I don’t catch fish (save for a 13-pound king salmon, first time out, which enabled me to retire undefeated).

Jerry Patterson read my account and brought me a small part of his recent catch. What you see in my hand is the skull of a piranha. Jerry and Liz flew to Peru, took a trip down the Amazon, and caught their limit (if there really is a limit on Peru piranha). Then they ate them. Which surprised me, given that I tend to associate “piranha” with the word “danger,” rather than the word “dinner.” Piranha are attack fish, killer fish, flesh-eating fish. Concerning them, if a cow should wade into a river and meet up with a school of them, that cow would be a pile of bones in a matter of minutes.

During the 8:15 service, Lucille Zube saw my piranha skull and raced home, returning with a stuffed piranha mounted on a plaque. Who knows where this will end. But both versions feature sharp teeth….which (no doubt) once were deadly. Jerry says that piranha range from six to ten inches in length and come in one of two primary colors….some scarlet….others gray. Sort of like Ohio State. But Jerry says that the taste is decent, albeit bland. Again, sort of like Ohio State. But enough of that.

What we have before us for not one, not two, but three Sunday mornings, is a fishing story. In preparing for these sermons, I have learned more about fish and fishing in the Bible than I thought was available to know. And before I’m done, you’ll learn a ton of it. I know what kinds of fish were caught. I know where they were caught. I know how they were caught (four primary methods….stay tuned next week). And I know what the catching (or the non-catching) of fish symbolized. But the most important thing to know at the outset is that, in Bible times, fishing was neither for sport nor therapy. People fished to eat. Or they fished in order to sell the catch, the better to feed the family. Fishing was equated with surviving in the same way that working is equated with living.

Clearly, some of the disciples were fishermen. How many, nobody knows. In this story, seven are out there. Five are named. There’s Peter, Thomas, Nathanael, Zebedee’s boys (Jimmy and John). But that’s only five. Two are not named. So who could they be? Darned if I know. Unless, just possibly, you and me. Don’t discount that. John never wrote a story that didn’t turn out to be more than what it seemed.

So there they were….in the boat….at night….all night. They were not all that far from shore, really. Later in the story, the distance from shore is pegged at 100 yards (picture a football field). Maybe they were fishing further, earlier. Maybe not. Dragnet fishing, which was the method they were employing, often involved a pair of boats and a spotter….an on-shore spotter….who could sometimes detect fish movements not visible nearer the boat (where the waters were churning). Thus it would not be uncommon, at least during daylight hours, for a spotter on shore to direct those in the boats to move their nets from hither to yon (or from yon to hither).

But, for the moment, methodology is secondary. What is primary is failure. The text tells us that we (remember, you and I are in the boat) fished all night and caught nothing. Seven of us went 0-for-the-evening. Zip. Zilch. Skunked. Whitewashed. Nixed. Nada. Nary a nibble. And, as Robert Lovette notes: “This little story of night fishing is as old as time itself. For while the disciples used all their expertise, all their talent and all their know-how, absolutely nothing happened.” Which sounds like a page from the diary of every pastor I know.

Which is not a throw-away line, but one on which the story pivots. A moment ago, I told you that the Gospel of John never tells a purely straight story. Which does not mean that John’s stories lie. What it means is that John’s stories are true on more than one level. Which means that there is simple truth there, but there is also truth you will neither see (nor “get”) unless you peel the story like an onion. And, as with peeling onions, when you get to the “sweet stuff” in John, it can sometimes make you cry.

Moments ago, I said that fishing (in the Bible) is synonymous with working. But for the purposes of this story, you need to expand your understanding of the word “working.” John is not talking about “earning a living” here. John is talking about “performing a ministry” here. For purposes of this story, fishing is a euphemism for the work Jesus has given the disciples to do….trained the disciples to do….indeed, called the disciples to do. In this story, fishing is not the disciples’ way of blowing off work (as in “let’s call in sick and go fishing”), but is the disciples’ way of going to work. Fishing is preaching, teaching and reaching. Fishing is casting out the Word and hauling in the hearers. Fishing is trolling for Jews and Gentiles….men and women….insiders and outsiders….the lost and those who are too dumb to know they are lost. What this story means to say is that the disciples went out to do the work of Jesus….and couldn’t get it done. Which wasn’t from lack of effort. They worked all night and nothing happened.

What does that mean? It means there are times when effort alone won’t do it. You’ve heard it said that success is one part inspiration and two parts perspiration. Which is true. Very little, in the way of success, ever comes to the lazy. But sweat, alone, doesn’t necessarily do it either. For example, did you know that studies of pastors who are in trouble in their churches report that those pastors (on average) work 25 percent harder than their colleagues. Which is nice. But at the end of the day….or at the end of their stay….guarantees nothing.

What’s more, if there was ever a time when the disciples should have been successful, it was then. I mean, notice when this little fishing expedition takes place. Right after the Resurrection, that’s when it takes place. And if there was ever a time when the disciples of Jesus should have been able to notch things “onward and upward for Jesus,” it should have been right after the Resurrection. I can’t think of anything more motivational than a resurrection. I mean, if the board chairman of your company were to suddenly rise from the dead, I think most of your salespeople would exceed their quotas for at least a couple of weeks. But even a resurrection didn’t seem to help these guys.

I ask you, can you imagine a young pastor (or maybe a second-career pastor) giving the old life up….leaving the old life behind….selling bits and pieces of the old life (like your drum set, Bruce) to pay the bills….spending three years in seminary to prepare for the new life….and then failing, upon finally arriving, to please anybody in his or her first appointment? Can you imagine that? I hope you can imagine that. Because it happens. It happens.

Part of the disciples’ problem is that Jesus wasn’t with them in the boat. Resurrected….yes. Readily available….no. “We can’t do it without the Lord,” I suppose they said. “Things were fine while he was here. But he’s no longer here,” they said. And you and I know what that is like, don’t we? Because we each have someone in our life we can’t function without. Someone dies….and we can’t do it. Someone splits….and we can’t do it. Someone retires….and we can’t do it. “It isn’t like it was,” we say. Which is true. And which can be immobilizing.

This family once had resources. This marriage once had resources. This church once had resources. This boat (in which we are presently bobbing) once had resources. But not anymore. Not anymore. They up and left…leaving us empty-handed.

All of us have versions of what psychotherapists call “the unpreparedness dream.” We are supposed to do something important, but we are not ready. Many such dreams involve high school. It is the day of the big test. But we have never been to class. We can’t find the room. We didn’t study. Or we can’t find our pencil.

Over the years, I have told you various versions of my unpreparedness dream….one of which, interestingly enough, involves baseball. It’s early spring. It’s Florida….Lakeland, Florida. It’s the training camp of the Tigers. Suddenly, Phil Garner spots me in the stands (where I am really quite comfortable). But he comes to the railing and calls me down, saying: “Ritter, it’s time to see what you can do.” So I am sent to third base. Which is fine (I like third base). Except, I have no glove. So I tell Phil. But Phil doesn’t hear. So I tell Shane Halter (who slides over from third to short to make room for me). Shane doesn’t care, either. Nobody cares. Nobody, except the members of the opposition who are now pointing at the gloveless third baseman and chortling with glee. Which is when I wake up and do not go back to sleep. And which is when I notice I am drenched in sweat. What does the dream say? Simply this. That in this, the ninth inning of my ministry, I still occasionally fear that I am being sent out there empty-handed.

Except I’m not. Nor are you. Nor are we as a church. Follow the text carefully. In the dim, half-light of dawn….silhouetted against the shoreline where fear and fatigue meet….Jesus meets us. And it is daybreak, whether the clock says so or not. For there is one kind of daybreak when the sun comes up. But there is another kind of daybreak when the Son comes in.

And he speaks to us now as he spoke to us then. And what he says is: “Drop your nets one more time. Switch sides (meaning change tactics, methinks). But do the same thing you have been doing, with the same equipment you have been using.” Which is not what I would expect him to say, given that it sounds, for all the world, like “keep on keeping on.” But what it says is this: “Here, in this boat….on this sea….using this equipment….making this effort….acknowledging his presence….obeying his command….we can be successful.” We do not need to wait for better nights, stronger nets, wiser heads or other Lords to do the work. The resources are available.

Sometimes they do not seem to be in-hand. But they are very much at-hand. The more astute of you have already observed that the title of this sermon (“Go Fish”) is also the title of a card game played by very small children. It is a game where each player tries to make matches. And if, in the hand you are dealt, there are no cards that match, you have to seek the cards that match. First from another player….as in, “Have you any _____?” If the answer is yes, the card is given. If the answer is no, the other player says: “Go fish”….meaning dip into the pile lying on the table. Which usually, over time, will offer up anything that is needed. All the missing pieces are available….across the table, around the table, or on the table.

There are a million versions of my closing story. This is mine. Jesus dies, rises, goes to heaven, and meets an angel who knew him when. Whereupon the conversation (beginning with the angel) goes something like this.

“Jesus, long time no see. Where have you been?”

“Here and there upon the earth.”

“Doing what?”

“This and that, as directed by my Father.”

“Was it a good work?”

“Not only a good work, but a life saving work.”

“Was it a hard work?”

“I guess you could say that, given that it cost me my life.”

“After you retired?”

“No, shortly after I started.”

“Was it your work alone?”

“No, I shared it with a few friends.”

“What will become of your work now that you are gone?”

“I left it in the hands of my friends.”

“And if they fail?”

“I have no other plans.”

Note:  This message was the first of three sermons preached in conjunction with our fall stewardship campaign entitled “Not Without You.” All the campaign images grow out of this text from John 21. The campaign logo is as follows:

First, Do No Harm 6/10/2001

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

June 10, 2001

Scripture:  John 18:12-27

Note:  The following sermon was preached at all four services on Sunday, June 10. At the 9:30 service, it was heavily slanted toward graduates. At the 11:00 and 5:00 services, it was directed toward confirmands. First Church was privileged to confirm a total of 74 sixth graders at the aforementioned services. For purposes of consolidation, the Confirmation version of the sermon is reprinted here.

The Sermon

Isn’t it one of the ironies of the summer driving season, that just as gasoline is becoming more affordable, our roads are becoming less negotiable. Or, as they say about Michigan, we have but two seasons….winter and road construction. I can’t drive anywhere without having my progress slowed by signs that read: “UNDER CONSTRUCTION.” But not every such sign is out there to read. Some of them are in here to wear.

But why wear a sign that reads: “UNDER CONSTRUCTION”? Because you are very much a work in progress. You are full of pride and potholes. But stay with the “under construction” image for a minute. Most such signs come with miles attached. They suggest that a particular road is going to be under construction for two miles….four miles….sometimes even seven miles. So how long are you going to be “under construction?”

If you are talking about the maturity of your body, I suppose the answer is eight or nine years. By that time, you’ll be 21. And I am told that by the age of 21, your body will be as good as it’s every going to get. You’ll still be generating brain cells until 21. After that, they’ll start to die. Pleasant thought, isn’t it?

And if you are talking about the maturity of your mind, a different set of figures apply. It will be six years before you graduate from high school…..ten years before you graduate from college…. twelve years before you finish a master’s….and minimum of fifteen years before you earn a Ph.D. True, you may not be going that far. But if you are, you are going to be “under construction” for a long time.

But if you are talking your maturity as a Christian, how long will it take? Well, I’ve got news for you. You are going to be “under construction” forever. Come September, I’ll be 61 years old. I am still trying to learn what it means to be a Christian, and to live what it means to be a Christian.

Sitting behind you (in this very sanctuary) are a lot of people who have some age on them. Some of them are a little older. A lot of them are a whole lot older. I would guess that at least fifty percent of them understand what I am telling you. They are the ones wearing “under construction” signs. But the rest of them don’t have the faintest idea what I am talking about. As Christians, they think they’re finished. What’s worse, they think that God is finished with them. Color them “silly.”

So what does one say to a group of“still under construction Christians”? Well, one usually offers a mighty challenge. Most Confirmation sermons are a variation on the “believe it and live it” theme. Reduced to their essence, they sound something like this.

            Stay with the church.

            Stay with Jesus.

            Serve the church.

            Serve Jesus.

            Honor the church.

            Honor Jesus.

            Clean up the world through the church.

            Clean up the world with Jesus.

Heck, most of you still have trouble cleaning your room. So I won’t embarrass any of you by asking: “How many of you made your bed before coming to church today?” Although the answer would be illuminating.

I am going to surprise you. Instead of starting with a big challenge this morning, I am going to start with a small one. Do no harm! You heard me. Do no harm!

I didn’t think that up by myself. It’s the first item in the physician’s credo. Before doctors go out to do their thing among the sick and the dying, someone tells them: “There’s a lot of healing you can do….should do….are trained to do….no doubt will do. But first, don’t make things worse.” That’s good advice.

For most of your growing-up life, there weren’t a lot of things you could do. You lacked power. You lacked opportunity. But along about this time in your life, most of you have discovered that you have an incredible ability to do harm….to hurt….to destroy….to inflict pain. What do I mean? I’ll tell you what I mean.

Early on, you learned you could harm your stuff. When you were a little kid, you got mad at yourself. You got mad at your friends. Or you got mad at your parents. Then you went upstairs and trashed your room (tearing things….breaking things….mashing, mangling and mutilating things), only to discover that once you felt better, your stuff was still busted up.

More recently, you have learned that you can harm yourself.

            By what you eat….or don’t

                        exercise….or don’t

                        ingest, imbibe, inhale….or don’t.

You can hurt yourself in ways that show right away. And you can hurt yourself in ways that may not show for years. But you can screw up your life royally. Which is something that, until a few months ago, probably never occurred to you (and may not have occurred to you yet, given that some of you are a bit more dense than others).

You can harm your stuff. You can harm your body. And you can harm others. You can kill a German Shepherd puppy, like those kids did down in Ecorse the other day. There they were, playing beside the train tracks. They had a puppy. They had a train track. And they found themselves wondering what would happen if you tied the puppy to the train track….just before a train came. Would you believe it? Trains slice German Shepherds in half. Amazing.

But while most of you will never kill a puppy, you will kill a friendship. In fact, you have probably already done that. At least once. Which hurts. You better believe it hurts. There’s lots of ways to kill a friendship. Some of them are verbal. You may still have a relatively weak body, but you have an incredibly strong tongue. You have the capacity to cut people down….cut people up….cut people to ribbons….slice and dice people until you reduce them to tears. I once heard it said of a demure little girl: “She may be tiny, but boy does she have a mouth on her.” The author of the book of James says that “death and life are in the power of the tongue.” He’s right, of course. And all of you know it.

Everybody is talking these days about bullies. You have probably already met kids who used their mouths to be bullies. But chances are, you may have already used your mouth to be a bully, too. And didn’t even know it.

What am I saying? I am saying that you can cause pain. To which I would say: “Don’t!” The world doesn’t need any more pain. As the world’s pain goes, Jesus came to heal it (and said that we ought to do so, too). So first….for God’s sake….don’t contribute to it.

Let me tell you a story. It’s a very personal story. In fact, I told it to a group of people like you, five or six years ago. But you were in the second grade then. So I doubt you heard it.

It’s a story that made a big impact on my life. It took place when I was 13, sometime during the autumn after I was confirmed. A lady moved into a house on Northlawn (four blocks from my house on Wisconsin). She was a single lady….although she did have a kid. The kid could have been as young as 15.…or as old as 25. I couldn’t tell. That’s because her kid had a big body but a slow head. So it’s hard to tell (from a distance) exactly how old he was.

I didn’t know anybody in my neighborhood….or among my friends….who knew this lady or her kid. And I didn’t know anybody in my neighborhood….or among my friends…..who liked this lady or her kid. So why in the world did we dislike a lady (and a kid) who we didn’t even know? Because she was not of our color, don’t you see. In fact, these were the first people, not of our color, to move into our neighborhood. Which bothered a lot of the adults. So it bothered a lot of my friends.

But it gets worse. My friends were all planning to go over there….after school….after paper routes….after supper….after dark….to make things just a bit uncomfortable for this lady. The plan was that we would mill around….call names….throw stones….hurl some rotten fruit…. write nasty things on the sidewalk….that sort of thing. Everybody I knew was planning to go. Everybody I knew figured that I was going to go. Which led to a dilemma.

On the one hand, I knew it was wrong. I knew it was hurtful. I knew it was not behavior worthy of a kid who had just been confirmed the year before. On the other hand, I knew I wanted to be with my friends. I knew I wanted to be like my friends. And, more important still, I knew I wanted to be liked by my friends.

I would like to tell you that I told my friends:

            I can’t go….this is wrong.

            I can’t go….this is unchristian.

            I can’t go….this is not what a confirmed member of the Church of Jesus Christ would do.

            I can’t go….I don’t want to add any more pain to what this woman and her kid have already experienced.

But I am embarrassed, almost to tears, to tell you that I didn’t say any of those things to my friends. I believed those things. But I didn’t say them. But I also didn’t go. The conversation that afternoon at school went something like this:

“Hey, Ritter, are we going to see you over on Northlawn tonight?”

“No,” I said.

“Why not,” they said.

That’s when my moment came. That’s when I could have taken my stand. That’s when I could have made my witness. That’s when I could have honored my Lord. That’s when I could have expressed my faith. But I didn’t do any of those things. Instead, I said:

            Because my old lady won’t let me out after supper.

Now, you need to know, I never called my mother “my old lady” except for that one time. And the fact is, I could have gone out after supper anytime I wanted to. I was a good kid. I was also a responsible kid. My mother would have believed anything I told her. But I blamed my unwillingness to go on “my old lady” rather than on my relationship with Jesus Christ. Because my friends would buy that.

In the years since, I have spent my entire life telling “the old, old story of Jesus and his love.” I am not bashful about telling it. I tell it in public, in front of hundreds of people. I tell it out loud, into a finely-tuned microphone. I print it on colored paper. I record it on cassette tapes. I send it out over the World Wide Web. But when I was 13….in the company of my friends….I did not tell it then.

But do not lose sight of this. On that night (when I was 13), I did not go with my friends to that house on Northlawn. I stayed home. Which made nothing better. But which made nothing worse. First, do no harm. More than that, I hope you’ll do. But at least that, you must do.

In time, Jesus will ask for a deeper commitment. If you don’t believe me, ask my esteemed colleague who writes:

            I was in graduate school at Vanderbilt. I had left my wife and our young children back in my little parish and had moved into a tiny room in Nashville to prepare for those terrible comprehensive exams. “Comps” are killers for a Ph.D. student. I mean, they can make or break you. And I was studying for a Ph.D. in New Testament.

            I would go, every night (along about 11:30 or 12:00) to a little all-night diner. No tables. Just stools. Where I would have a grilled cheese sandwich and a cup of coffee….to get me away from my studies. Every night, same time. Every night, same order. It got so that when I came through the door, I didn’t even need to say anything, but what the counter man would start grilling the cheese and pouring the coffee. Then I’d join the others of the night, hovering over my coffee, thinking about what possible questions my New Testament doctoral committee could ask on my oral exams.

            Which is when I noticed a man who was there when I went in, but had not yet been waited on. I’d been waited on….even had a refill. As had the others. Finally, the counter man went over to the man and said: “What do you want?” As I remember, he was an old, gray-haired black man. I didn’t hear the rest of the conversation. All I knew was that the counter man went back to the grill, scooped up a little dark patty from the back of the grill, and slapped it on a piece of bread. No pepper. No salt. No ketchup or mustard. No pickle or onion. No lettuce. No tomato. Not even a napkin. Then he handed it to the man in exchange for some money. Whereupon the man went out the side door (by the garbage cans) and sat down on the curb. And in the shadow of the 18-wheelers of the night, with salt and pepper from the street to season his meat….he commenced to eat his sandwich.

            To which I said nothing. I did not protest or witness to the cook. I did not go out and sit beside the man at the curb. I did not note the irony of it all to the people sitting beside me. I did not do anything. Because I was thinking about the questions coming up on the New Testament, don’t you see.

            So after a little while, I paid my bill….went back up the hill….back to my room….back to my studies….and walked right past the rooster (who looked, for all the world, like he was getting ready to crow).

Note:  I am indebted to Fred Craddock for the wonderful story at the conclusion of the sermon.