Let's Pretend 12/23/2001

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scriptures: Romans 13:11-14 and Galatians 3:23-29

As you can tell by reading the last two covers of Steeple Notes, I have gotten a lot of mileage out of the time I spent in our sanctuary (earlier in December) with 120 second graders from West Maple Elementary School. It was amazing how well it went. Sixty Minutes is one thing when Leslie Stahl and Mike Wallace do it for adults on a Sunday. Sixty minutes is very much another thing when Doris Hall and I do it for 120 seven year olds on a Wednesday. But you would be amazed to read the thank you letters I received….not only as to how well second graders can write, but as to how well second graders can think.

They loved the visit (“Best field trip ever,” many said). And to think, Doris and I didn’t even have a fire truck to show off. They especially liked the windows (which they could see)….the organ (which they could hear)….and the mock baptism (which they could imagine).

Several kids were concerned about our Angel Tree program, where we purchase and deliver presents for over 300 children of prisoners. One letter writer named Eliot was especially “sad” for what he called “the kids in the Angel Tree,” because they had no parents. While Sydnee Cohen (I think it’s a girl Sydnee, not a boy Sidney) thanked me for telling about the birth of Jesus, before adding: “I always wondered why Santa was a part of it because he had nothing to do with it.” But my favorite letter came from a lad who wrote:

            Dr. Ritter, thank you.

            What does it feel like to be a minister?

            I know I feel better every time I think about you.

            My mind feels better.

            Thanks very much.

            Just to remind you, I’m Jewish.

                                    Love, Jared

In point of fact, all three letters I quoted were written by kids who are Jewish. That’s because Jewish kids constitute a statistical majority of the second graders at West Maple Elementary. Which, however, did not stop several of them from wanting to participate in our annual reenactment of the nativity at 5:30 on Christmas Eve. They wanted to know how you got parts…. if kids who didn’t come to this church could have parts….who, on our staff, assigned the parts…. what you were allowed to wear if you got a part….and were there enough costumes for all the kids who wanted parts.

Finally, one little girl laid it right on the table when she said: “What if you’re Jewish? Can you still have a part?” I tried to answer her as delicately as I could….wanting to be welcoming….but not wanting to start a bigger conversation than I was prepared to finish. Certainly, being Jewish was no hindrance to Mary and Joseph. Nor was it an issue for anyone else who wandered by the barn, save for the kings (wise men, astrologers, whatever), given that neither Persia (then) nor Iraq (now) was awash in synagogues.

But none of this concerned these kids. Religious distinctions were not divisive issues for the second graders of West Maple, in spite of Jared’s need to remind me that, though he loved me and his mind felt better when he thought about me, he was not me, nor was he like me. Thus explaining his sign-off: “Just to remind you, I’m Jewish.”

What many of these kids thought was that it would be “fun” to be in a play….“fun” to get dressed up in costumes as a part of the play….and “fun” to be with other kids in this particular play, given that it is not every day you can find a children’s theater production with room for everything from angels to animals. “What fun,” someone said. And, if the truth be told, “what fun” it often is.

I remember, several years back, when debates over public nativities raged across the land. Could a town erect a “stable scene” on the front lawn of city hall? Could Christian images be displayed on village greens or in urban parks? What kinds of music could be played over what kinds of loud speakers in December? For a while, it seemed as if everybody was either in court or on their way to court. To be sure, we still see a bit of that. But precious little, compared to 15 years ago.

At that time, I remember reading an essay by the late Meg Greenfield on the back page of Newsweek magazine. Every other week, Meg shared that “bully pulpit” with George Will, numbering the two of them among America’s most influential voices. Meg Greenfield was Jewish. And in response to all of the public nativity court cases, she wrote some incredibly interesting things. She noted that to whatever degree Jews opposed nativity scenes on public land, or sought to moderate Christmas images in the marketplace, such opposition had less to do with sectarian grumpiness than with sectarian envy. She was even so bold to say that many in the Jewish community….especially many children in the Jewish community….wished they had what we have. “The public enchantment of your story does not so much offend us as attract us,” Meg said. Few Jews would want to see it gone. The primary goal is to see it contained, so that the most impressionable members of the Jewish community (namely, the children) do not get the idea that the Christian story is the only story there is….the only story that matters….or the only story the town (or state) endorses.

If you don’t believe Meg has a point, ask yourself: “When was the last time your child or grandchild ever clamored to play Ahasuerus, Mordecai or Queen Esther in a local Purim pageant, or one of the Hasmonean brothers in a Hanukkah festival?” The fact that many of you don’t have the faintest idea what those names represent probably proves Meg’s point. At least she made sense to me. And it is my guess that the kind of moderate thinking she represented led to fewer court cases and greater civic sensitivity on the part of everybody. But implicit in her remarks was the reminder to us….in the Christian community…. that our story is alluring, and (when visually enacted or depicted) does capture the imagination, even as it touches the heart.

And so we put ourselves into it. In some cases, we even throw ourselves into it. Designing sets. Sewing costumes. Learning lines. Playing roles. Every year we do a mini-pageant at 5:30 on Christmas Eve with (and largely for) children. Every three years we also do a musical pageant in early December with (and largely for) adults. The king I never got to be as a child in Detroit, I have portrayed three times as an adult here in Birmingham….even to the point of being allowed to sing. What’s more, church after church now does a greater or lesser version of a production known as “Journey to Bethlehem.” Still other congregations place beautiful manger scenes on their front lawns. And a few, like the Baptists downtown, go all out and stage live nativities under the shadow of Jacobson’s, where the sheep are the only ones who get to wear their winter coats as costumes. One advantage possessed by the original Mary was that she was in less danger than her Birmingham Baptist counterpart of freezing to death.

C. S. Lewis (who took many of us closer to the heart of thoughtful Christianity than anyone in the last century) reminds us that there is more here than meets the eye. Something extremely important is going on in the midst of all this set-building, costume-sewing, line-learning and history-reenacting that consumes us each December. In short, we play the part in order that we might become the part. In a marvelous essay entitled “Let’s Pretend,” Lewis talks about “the good side of pretending.” To be sure, he says, there is a bad kind of pretense, where the goal is to deceive, defraud or misrepresent the self as something one is not. If, on the street corner, I pretend to help you, thereby gaining your confidence so that I will be able to rob you, that is the worst kind of pretending. Picture yourself standing at an ATM machine, having difficulty with the peculiar configuration of slots and buttons. Suddenly someone comes up behind you, senses your confusion, guides you carefully through the proper procedures, and then runs off with your money, once it slides from the slot. Clearly, an evil pretender.

And then there’s that poor chap who got to coach the Notre Dame football team for a grand total of five days, until someone higher up in the university discovered great pretension in his resume, suggesting achievements he’d rarely had at places he’d barely been. Oops….another great pretender found and foiled. And every pastor can tell stories of some lay person who amassed great power in the church by pretending to be a great giver to the church, but whose check (at the end of the day) never matched his “cheek” (as they say). And, at the most relational level, how many marriages suffer from one spouse or the other pretending everything is all right, when it isn’t and hasn’t been for a long time? To be sure, a lot of pretending is bad.

But not all. Some pretending, rather than misrepresenting the real thing, moves you toward the real thing. C. S. Lewis suggests that careful attention be paid to the games children play…. pretending to do this and that….pretending to be this and that. Important stuff is going on in those games. Life is being tried on for size in those games. I asked Mary Feldmaier if this is true (given that Mary spends almost all of her staff time with children five years of age and younger). “Of course it’s true,” Mary said. “Play is children’s work. Pretending is never merely make believe.”

I have a friend in the ministry who, at five years old, used to line up all of his stuffed animals in rows and preach to them. All the while I was dressing up as a cowboy. Which explains nothing, unless you want to start playing with the word “round up.” Although it does help me understand why one of my favorite movies of all time is Billy Crystal’s City Slickers.

Shifting gears, I have long noted that brides seldom cry in the act of repeating their vows, while grooms often do. Which is, I think, explainable by the fact that brides have pretended to be brides….dreamed about being brides….dressed up as brides….and watched 428 episodes of Wedding Story….since they were five years old. Grooms don’t have the faintest idea what Wedding Story is. Nor have they pretended to be grooms or even thought much about being grooms until 20 minutes before the ceremony. So when the groom opens his mouth to say, “I, Fred, take thee Ethel,” the enormity of it hits him right between the eyes….or, more to the point, right behind the eyes, where the tear ducts are located. Pretending, done right, is part of the preparing.

Christmas is the prime moment when both full-blown and closet Christians are invited to enact the story they tell….the better that they might grow into the story they tell. Because the ultimate pretense (as the apostle Paul reminds us) is not putting on the costumes of those who surrounded Christ, but “putting on Christ.” What John calls “being born again,” Paul calls “putting on Christ.” Several times, Paul alludes to that image. In Bible-speak, this is the ultimate in dress-up language. For, as a careful analysis of the Pauline epistles will demonstrate, every time Paul talks about putting on Christ, he also suggests that we are being “re-clothed.”

Which does not mean that, upon leaving this morning, we are going to issue every one of you a costume at the door. You’re smarter than that. That’s why I like preaching to you. As a congregation, you’ve long since removed the braces from your brains. You know that “putting on Christ” has less to do with bathrobes than with behaviors….“behaviors” meaning acting different as an entrée to being different. If, indeed, you find that you are a little better in December…. kinder in December….more open-handed, open-minded and open-hearted in December….and more hospitable, charitable and reconciling in December….it is not so much a seasonal aberration or temporary pretension, as a possible indicator of who you are on your way to becoming….if you would only just go with it longer and further than you have ever gone with it before.

What might “putting on Christ” look like for you? Darned if I know. I don’t really know you that well. The Bible offers a few clues. Maybe it looks like turning the second cheek, offering the second garment, walking the second mile, or forgiving someone the 491st time (70 times 7 plus 1). Maybe it looks like turning on a porch light for the wayward kid, digging up the back forty for a missing pearl, reinvesting and doubling whatever gift God gave you that you buried in a box decades ago, or even cracking the seal on a bottle of much-too-expensive perfume, the better to adorn the face or feet of one you love. Those are just a few biblical things you might do if you want to “put on Christ.”

But I do need to warn you (given that everything comes with a warning label these days). If you do that stuff….any of that stuff….for very often.…or for very long….people are going to wonder about you. And some may even come right out and ask you: “What’s gotten into you?” Which isn’t correctly phrased, don’t you know….given that the question should read not “what,” but “who.”

It's About Time 12/2/2001

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

December 24, 2001

Scripture: Romans 13:8-14

If you remember nothing else from this morning, remember this. Advent is the church’s way of telling time, counting the weeks to Christmas by candles rather than calendars. Yesterday, the paper boy (at least I think he’s a boy although, truth be told, I’ve never seen him) dropped two plastic bags on my driveway sometime between 5:00 and 6:00 in the morning. The first bag, light as a feather, contained a few pages of news and sports. The second, which required a forklift to bring it into my study, contained 492 advertising brochures featuring all the stuff I might purchase for my nearest and dearest this Christmas. Those brochures will tell me….day by day….how short the time is for buying gifts. These candles will tell me….week by week….how close I am coming to getting a gift.

But before you count forward four weeks to see when this new Advent will end, I would have you count backward by 52 weeks to see how the old Advent began. We were here, you know…. lighting candle number one, you know….hearing a special Advent cantata, you know….same old, same old, you know….been there, done that, you know….isn’t it nice that some things never change, you know….except, that is, when you and I are the ones who never change, you know.

Advents come. Advents go. Most of us get older.  But not necessarily better. So I ask you: “Are you any better than you were at this time last year?” Which is not the way the politicians frame the question. Instead, the politicians say: “Are you any better off than you were at this time last year?” And the only way to answer the politician’s question is with a trip to the counting house. So many stocks. So many bonds. So much money in the bank. So much equity in the house. And I suppose there are some among us….even in a recession….who are able to say, “Well, yes, I probably am better off than I was last year.” Which is nice. But are you any better than you were last year? Which is not so much a counting house question as a conscience one.

Allow me the liberty of assuming that, for many of you, the answer is: “No, not really….at least, not noticeably.” For despite a culture of self esteem that tells us that even the shabbiest of lives (and the crudest of drawings) are worth posting on refrigerator doors for all to see and cheer…. “Oh, isn’t that lovely, Mary”….most of us know that we have been less than roaring successes in the faith and life department and that there is more than a little room for self improvement.

We were talking about this a couple of Wednesdays back in my men’s group that meets at the crack of dawn. There must have been 50 guys in the circle. And there was something in the pages we were reading from C. S. Lewis that prompted me to ask: “How many of you guys think that, at this point in your life, you are about as good as you are ever going to get?” Which prompted a little hemming and hawing over what I meant by “good.” But once we zeroed in on the ethical side of “good” rather than the athletic, economic or physical side of “good,” there wasn’t one guy who was willing to say he had reached his peak. Meaning that all conceded room for improvement….and that they expected to make that improvement. There wasn’t an ounce of smugness or complacency in the bunch. Which there could have been. I mean, we’ve got some age on us.  Some of us are in our forties. But some of us are in our eighties. And every last one of us has already made the clubhouse turn and is playing life’s back nine. You’d think self satisfaction would have surfaced in some. But no. Everybody in the room figured they still have a ways to go….that perfection is still out in front of them….or, as Ed Adams put it: “Why else would we drag ourselves down here at 6:30 in the morning?”

Well, one function of Advent is to tell us that we still have time. To be sure, we need to look at all that we have not done and all that we have not been. But we need not beat ourselves up over what we see. Instead, we need to learn from what we see, the better to move beyond what we see. Advent’s primary message is not about failure. Advent’s primary message is about expectation. But when we talk about expectation, we are talking not only about waiting for Jesus, but about tidying up the house so Jesus will have a place to come to that reflects a modicum of prior effort on our part.

Paul uses this marvelous metaphor in his letter to the church at Rome, suggesting that the believers there “wake up.” He didn’t say “and smell the coffee,” although that is exactly what he meant. “Wake up,” said Paul, “for salvation is nearer to you now than when you first believed.” And while you could read this as Paul’s announcement that Jesus was going to return to earth any day now (which, I am certain, is exactly how the Roman Christians read it), 2000 years forces us to admit that it is not so much the Second Coming that is at issue, as the third, fourth, fifth and even sixth coming of a Lord who keeps coming at you….inviting you to be more than you were and do more than you’ve done. “This Advent could be your Advent,” Paul’s “wake up” language screams. “This time could be your time.”

It is interesting that Paul surrounds his wake-up call with a laundry list of ethical expectations, all of them incredibly worldly. You’ll find them in the 13th chapter of Romans. I didn’t read them. But you can. Listen to a few of them. Obey laws. Pay taxes. Be good citizens. Love your neighbors. Keep the commandments. Clean up your rooms. Clean up your acts. Stop quarreling with each other. Stop being jealous of each other. Live like people who have seen a little light, rather than as moral moles who have burrowed deeper and deeper into the darkness. “It’s about time,” Paul says. “And you have time,” the church says.

Christianity is not one of those “one strike and you’re out” religions. In the spelling bees of my childhood, anytime I made a mistake, I had to sit down. Another year with no brand new, cellophane wrapped Webster’s Intercollegiate Dictionary for Billy Ritter.

That’s not Christianity. Christianity is closer to the “if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again” message of my mother, my violin teacher and my basketball coach. The only thing that requires absolute success on the initial attempt is skydiving. But in most every other area of life, Advent invites you back to the drawing board….rescuing you from resignation, delivering you from despair. The light that illumines the world’s darkness is once again swinging your way. And you can move to meet it, no matter how many times you have shuttered yourself against it. God wants you to get it right. God desires your success, not your failure. God rejoices in your accomplishments, not your frustrations. God envisions time working for you, not against you.

I love reading the sermons of Peter Gomes. Since 1970, Peter (as George Buttrick’s successor) has been preacher to the Memorial Church at Harvard. Publicly describing himself as a short, fat, black man who garbs himself as a High-Church Anglican bishop and who writes the kind of eloquent, reasonable sentences one would expect of an Honorary Fellow of Emmanuel College, Cambridge (England), Peter can’t hide the fact that his roots first germinated in thick, juicy Baptist soil. About which he writes:

In my own over-heated youth in the Baptist church, no service was complete without an invitation (at the close of the service) to come down front. Often, this invitation was understood to be a referendum on the sermon and how much energy the preacher had expended to get people forward. I was a tough customer on those occasions and prided myself on resisting the entreaties of the best evangelists. Once, at a youth rally in Tremont Temple, the invitation came and, during the singing of the hymn, we were all invited to come forward.  Nearly a third of the people did, but not I. The preacher wasn’t satisfied. So he told some awful stories about people who had hesitated and, on the way home from the service, had a terrible automobile accident. Then he called for more to come forward. And more did. But not I. Beside me sat a fellow youth along with his mother, who glared at me and then pinched her son’s arm until the flesh turned red. So up he went. But not I. Finally, there was just a handful of us left in the pews….only six wouldn’t go….and the pressure was really on.

That had not been an invitation. That had been an intimidation. And I would not have it. The implication was: “Come, because you are afraid of what will happen if you don’t,” not “Come, because you want to see what will happen if you do.”

I suppose it’s possible that you could leave the sanctuary, shake my hand, sip your coffee, start walking across Maple Road, only to get yourself leveled….flatter than a pancake….by an out-of control tomato truck. But the odds are against it. Which is why, as a preacher, I prefer to refocus my energy. My biggest concern this Advent is not what will happen to you if you die. My biggest concern is what will happen to you if you don’t.

Note: With appreciation to Peter Gomes for inspiration and enlightenment.

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.”