Catching the Wave 9/13/1998

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

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

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

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

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

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

His reply was an emphatic: “No!”

“Would you do it again?”

Again, an emphatic: “No!”

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

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

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

3001 by 2001

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

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

1.      That sermon launched a church-wide conversation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who Wants to Work? 8/30/1998

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            Is it 5:00?

            Is it Friday afternoon?

            Is it Friday at sundown?

            Is it age 65?

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

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

Rescue the Perishing or Why Would Anyone Preach a Good Friday Sermon In the Middle of August? 8/16/1998

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: I Corinthians 1:18-25

Rescue the perishing, care for the dying,

Snatch them in pity from sin and the grave;

Weep o’er the erring one, lift up the fallen,

Tell them of Jesus, the mighty to save.     - United Methodist Hymnal, #591

I want you to humor me for several minutes by pretending that you are consultants….theological consultants….for a short film that is presently being made. The purpose of the film? To depict what God has done for the world in Jesus Christ. But since this film is being produced for an audience that knows relatively little (if anything) about Jesus Christ, we are going to come at the audience through the back door. Therefore, we are not going to shoot it in Israel (or anyplace that looks even remotely like Israel). We are going to shoot it on a beach….in Southern California. And we are not going to shoot it with an actor who looks like Jesus (or anyone who looks even remotely like Jesus….“Send the fake beard and bathrobe back to the costume shop, Harry”). We are going to shoot this film with a lifeguard as a stand-in for Jesus. That’s right, a lifeguard….late twenties….early thirties….blond….muscled….tan….like on Baywatch….that kind of lifeguard.

But there’s a problem, you see. A script problem. Not because there isn’t one. But because there is one too many. Meaning that there are two. And the director can’t tell which one to use. Which is why a team of theological consultants needs to be called in (at the rate of $500 a day plus expenses….thank you very much). And that’s us, don’t you see? Because we know about such things.

The first script starts with rolling credits, even as the camera pans a crowded beach on a Friday afternoon. Make it a Friday afternoon in April (mid to early April). Sun shining. Music blaring. Volleyballs flying. Acres of young, throbbing life recreating. But, as the credits fade, we see that not everything on that beach is quite so perfect as it seems. Because a change in the surf is forcing the lifeguard to order all of the swimmers out of the water. In fact, we see him descending from his tower and posting “No Swimming” signs all along the water’s edge. About which everybody complains….but with which everybody complies. Out of the water they come in twos, threes, fours-and-mores….heading for their blankets, their boom boxes, their lemonade (or whatever). After all, there are other things you can do on a California beach until the surf subsides. So why tempt fate?

Suddenly, however, the mellow mood subsides. Everybody turns toward the sea….first scanning….then screaming. The object of all this attention being a teenage girl 100 yards off shore….bobbing….weaving….surfacing….disappearing….frantically struggling (for balance…. air….life….whatever). Clearly, the girl is catching the crowd’s attention. And the crowd is catching the lifeguard’s attention (who has just re-ascended his tower, after posting his signs of warning).

So down the ladder he comes. Out to the water he runs. To the side of the girl he swims. Deftly reaching her in the nick of time, he corrals her limp and lifeless body, tows her to shore and administers cardio-pulmonary response. All the while the camera pans the crowd, the better to cinematically record the collective anxiety that can be seen on their faces and read on their lips:

            “My God, is it going to work?”

            “Did he reach her in time?”

            “How did a day that started out so wonderful, go so wrong?”

            “Does anybody know who she is?”

But it is going to work. And he does get there in time. The girl revives. A film crew arrives. And there is wonderful footage on the 6:00 news, including interviews with everybody but the lifeguard. The comments, considered collectively, are both perceptive and diverse. Some sing praises to the lifeguard for his heroic behavior. Some cast dispersions on the girl for her less-than-cautious approach to wind, waves and water. Some suggest that her plight should be an object lesson to others who play fast and loose with the rules. While others rededicate themselves, in the spirit of the afternoon’s rescue, to keeping a watchful eye on others who may be similarly sinking….at sea, or anywhere else for that matter. But all agree that they have been privy to something special….something very special, indeed.

That’s one script. But like I said, there are two. So let’s move quickly to the second. Same beach. Same Friday. Same crowd. Same lifeguard. Only this time, for cinematic variety, we start with the lifeguard walking up and down the beach, issuing verbal warnings and waving groups of swimmers out of the water. One girl challenges his authority to do so, telling him what a party pooper he is, given that this is the very last day of her very short vacation. To which he simply says: “Better luck next time. It’s just not safe.”

Another swimmer pauses to ask why he and his friends can’t just stay in the shallow part (so that the whole afternoon won’t be ruined). But all the lifeguard says is: “You can’t, because I said you can’t. So move it.” And when a third swimmer complains that she thought it was a free country, the word comes back from the lifeguard: “Not on my beach, it’s not.”

But all of this bickering is interrupted by the aforementioned shouting and screaming. The object being the teenage girl who is struggling and sinking. Up she comes. Under she goes. Head bobbing. Arms flailing.

Cut to the lifeguard. See him run. See him dive. See him swim. Harder and harder. Faster and faster. At last, he reaches her. Grabs for her. Has her. Loses her. Suddenly, it appears as if they are both in trouble. The same undertow that is sucking her under is sucking him under. In fact, we actually lose sight of him on our screen before we lose sight of her. Then she, too, disappears from our sight, never to return.

Now the music turns somber. The cinematographer shadows out the sun. And we see nothing on the screen but surging swales and circling seagulls. Then we cut back to the crowd on the beach, pausing, again, to look at the faces and listen to the voices.

            “What’s happening?” cries one.

            “I can’t see them,” cries another.

            “Do you think they’ve both drowned?” cries a third.

“It’s terrible,” cries a fourth, even while adding: “How can God just stand by and let people die like that?”

But while the crowd is still murmuring (as crowds at such moments are wont to do), the camera pans back to the now-empty tower of the lifeguard, slowly moving from sand to seat. Up the ladder goes the lens, one rung at a time. And when it zooms in on the place where the lifeguard had been sitting (not all that many minutes ago), there is a close-up of a clipboard (on which is written):

            “It’s o.k. Trust me. She is safe in my death.”

* * * * *

As theological consultants, it is our job to choose one script over another. But the sole criterion for choosing is not which script we like better, but which script more fittingly resonates with the New Testament, as it attempts to answer the critical question: “What, precisely, is it that God has done for the world in Jesus Christ?”

Now I am not going to break you into groups and have you discuss this among yourselves. And I am not going to embarrass you by asking for a public showing of hands. Besides, most of you already know the right answer (to whatever degree there might be a “right answer”). That’s because you have been preached to by good preachers. And that’s because you have studied under good teachers. So you know that the best answer is the second script, even though your heart is not with your head on this one. Because if you went to see this movie….about this lifeguard….on this beach….you’d want to see the first version and not the second. And then you’d want to stop for a Sanders hot fudge sundae on the way home (assuming you could still find anyplace that sold Sanders hot fudge sundaes anymore)….proving (once again) just how far away from home some of us have already come.

And it’s all right if you prefer the first ending. Because I prefer it too. I mean, it’s got a lot to like. It’s heroic. And it’s happy. Mission impossible becomes mission accomplished. What’s more, it’s more than mildly miraculous. And which of us does not want to believe in miracles? Truth be told, was a more honest word ever spoken about religious skepticism than the word, “Nobody believes in miracles until he….or she….desperately needs one.”

I mean, this first script will preach. And has. Over and over again. For it says wonderful things about Jesus (who is all things….and who can do all things). A storm-stilling Jesus. A tide-turning Jesus. A search-and-rescue Jesus. A miracle-working Jesus. In short, a sight-restoring, demon-exorcising, crowd-feeding, water-converting, dead-raising Jesus….who will go to no end on behalf of those who have sinned, slummed or swum too far…. even beyond the limits that the lifeguard said were safe, sane and secure. That’ll preach. Because I have preached it. And will preach it again.

And you can build a marvelous ecclesiology around it (“ecclesiology” meaning “a theology of the church”). You can preach that first script and close each sermon with the admonition:

Go thou and do likewise. Seek out everybody….but especially those who are going down for the count. Bring ‘em in. And if you can’t bring ‘em in, keep ‘em afloat. Feed ‘em. Clothe ‘em. Hold ‘em. House ‘em. Enroll ‘em in swim classes. Set up floating medical units, wherever the undertow is the greatest and the shore is farthest away. And have the ushers take up collections on the beach, gathering anything that might be useful….including dollars. That way, you will never have to say to the King: “When did we see you flailing in the water and not come to your aid?”

Ah yes, there are bits and pieces of the gospel in the first script. There are a ton of sermons in the first script. And there is enough work in the first script to keep the church busy every-which-way from Sunday….in addition to Sunday.

But the heart of the gospel is in the second ending. Which nobody preaches much at all. Because it’s less than happy. And less than heroic. What’s more, it doesn’t offer much of an action plan for the church. I mean, all it does is answer the question: “What has God done for the world in Christ (that the world, by the sum total of its own efforts, cannot do for itself)?”

Go back to the first script….the lifeguard-saves-her-in-the-nick-of-time script. Which is a good thing. And a happy thing. But not necessarily a lasting thing. Concerning it, we can’t say “all’s well that ends well”….because we have no guarantee that anything will really “end well.” I mean, the next day things go back to normal. The crowd goes home, forgetting its earlier resolve to swim safer….drive safer….live safer….or love safer, for that matter. And the lifeguard goes back to chatting up girls while trying to properly apply his sunscreen. And the girl doesn’t automatically live happily ever after, either. Sure, she is saved from death by drowning on a sunny Friday afternoon. But she is not necessarily saved from the future possibility of a failed romance….a dead-end marriage….men in bars, who say one thing, yet do another thing….not to mention migraines, muscle spasms, cramps, cancer, bad hair days….or, to clinch my point, from the absolute certainty of her own death on the Friday afternoon following her 81st birthday.

Even the miracles of Jesus don’t “fix things” finally. Not even a bevy of blind folks seeing, lame folks walking and crazy folks thinking, along with three dead bodies raised, two group feedings, and one spectacular production of 180 gallons of wine for wedding guests who are already three sheets gone to the wind….no, none of these things constitutes a program for fixing up history. Most of the blind of Jesus’ day remained blind. Whatever fixed 10 lepers had no positive effect on the other 10,000. Lazarus rose, only to die again. And 180 gallons later, one presumes that any wedding guests still standing were forced to turn to apple juice, coffee or skim milk.

But if you read the gospels carefully (especially the gospel of John), such miracles were never meant to be Jesus’ program for fixing up history….but merely “signs” of his program for fixing up history….which program (when it was finally revealed) turned out to be nothing less than Jesus dying in history and rising beyond it. Meaning that the same Jesus who cannot fix everything can, at least, fix the one thing that matters ultimately.

Which, too, will preach. Except nobody preaches it much….except on Good Friday….when nobody comes to listen. Which is also when (in the spirit of Christian neighborliness) we rotate the service from sanctuary to sanctuary, so that even if some of us have something to say, it’s only one year out of four that we get a chance to say it….and maybe, then, in the 2:30 time slot when everybody’s gone home.

So what is the Good Friday message? Well, what did the clipboard say?

            “It’s o.k. Trust me. She is safe in my death.”

And what did Paul say?

            For Jews demand signs and Greeks demand wisdom. But we preach Christ crucified. For the foolishness of God is wiser than men, and the weakness of God is stronger than men.

Last Wednesday morning (along about 7:00) I read to my study group these words from Peter Gomes:

The reason that the dying sometimes ask to see the cross before they die is to be reminded that Jesus has been where they are now and that, by his grace, they are about to go where he is. They know that death was as real to Jesus as it is to them. They know that he was not rescued in the nick of time. And they know that they will not be rescued in the nick of time, either. They know that when his hour came, he had to meet it….that there was no way out….and that what was true for him will soon be true for them. But they know that while there is no way out, there is a way through.

                        Hold thou the cross before my closing eyes,

                        Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies,

                        Heaven’s morning breaks and earth’s vain shadows flee,

                        In life, in death, O Lord abide with me.

The other night….on the patio….along about 10:30….fountain splashing….candles flickering…. stars shining….plates and glasses empty….bellies full….hearts as one….Kris said: “It really doesn’t get much better than this.” And she was right, of course. For the time being.

Note:  This sermon owes a tremendous debt to the creative suggestion of Robert Farrar Capon and his new book, The Foolishness of Preaching: Proclaiming the Gospel Against the Wisdom of the World. The quote from Peter Gomes is taken from his chapter on “The Bible and Suffering” which can be found in The Good Book.

What If? 10/7/2001

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Matthew 26:26-29

I have a friend who was once invited to a little rural church to speak. Because of a terrible rainstorm, they cancelled the service, notifying everybody by telephone. But because my friend wasn’t reachable by phone, the notification missed him. So he drove out into the boondocks of Oklahoma, slipping and sliding along the muddy roads. Two of the men thought about the fact that the guest preacher might not know they wouldn’t be “having church,” so they went to the sanctuary to wait for him, just in case he showed up. Which he did, finding them seated at the table down front….the one that had the words “In Remembrance of Me” carved into the facing….and they were playing cards.

“What in the world are you doing?” my friend asked.

They said: “We’re just playing a little poker, waiting for you to come.”

“On that table?” my friend said.

“Well,” said one of them, “the way I look at it, a table’s a table’s a table.”

To which my friend said: “No it isn’t. No it isn’t. At least, not for me.”

Some tables have an importance, far beyond their size, shape or construction. I’ll bet a lot of you can still remember the dining room table in the home of your childhood….and may still have the dining room table from the home of your childhood. Or your grandmother’s table. Or the first kitchen table you bought because, if you were going to be married and start sleeping over, you had to have some place to eat breakfast.

My 27-year-old, single, male nephew recently extracted his grandmother’s table from our basement. I’m not sure why he wanted it. It’s not a young man’s table. It’s not mod or stylish, sleek or trim. It’s not a Friday night, gather your buddies, drink beer and play poker till 3:00 a.m. table. And it’s not like my nephew can’t afford a table. He can afford any table he wants. So why his grandmother’s table? You know the answer as well as I do.

 As I said last Maundy Thursday, tables are symbols of our civility. More than any other piece of furniture, they suggest how far we have come as a culture, a people or a family. Listen to the phrase: “If we can just get everyone to the table.” Do you hear the hope in that? Sure you do….whether the issue be carving a turkey or signing a treaty.

This is Table Day in the life of Christendom. Second only to Maundy Thursday, this is the penultimate Table Day in the life of the Christian church. Because, on this day, we break the bread and lift the cup together….all across the world….in solidarity, if not perfect unity. Broken though we may be….by everything from time zones to ideologies….on this one day, the table (and the cloth that covers it) are seamless.

Holy Communion! Why do we do it? Lots of reasons….some of which we, in the Christian church, still fight over. How do we do it? Lots of ways….some of which we, in the Christian church, still fight over. Does it always lead to a powerful religious experience? Probably not. On those perfunctory, mechanical, how-long-is-this-going-to-take (and how-soon-can-I-get-out-of- here) days, I suppose the most that might be said is that, upon rising from the table, we will have remembered Jesus. But on those days when the membrane that separates things temporal from things eternal, things seen from things unseen, is stretched a little thinner than usual….or maybe even splits for just a crack….the best that might be said is that, upon rising from the table, we have experienced Jesus.

“Do this and I’ll be there,” he said. Which is sometimes called “the Doctrine of Real Presence.” And while most of us don’t go as far down that road as the Roman Catholics do (literal body, literal blood, in a holy and mystical form of cannibalism), I have yet to meet a Christian who professes a “Doctrine of Real Absence.” Which is to say that Jesus is here somehow, some way, somewhere….in this moment….at this table….through this act. We do this with him.

And with each other. “Drink ye all of this,” was the way the preacher put it when I was a boy. Which did not mean “all of the liquid” but “all of the people.” I got it backwards in those days. When I was a child, I equated the preacher with my mother: “Finish your juice. Drink it all. Don’t leave any in the bottom of the glass….the bottom of the cup….the bottom of the chalice.”

But the preacher was not my mother. And Jesus is not my mother. The words “drink ye all” relate to the people around, not the contents within. I am talking about people I can’t necessarily name, but people I must try to visualize.

There was once a preacher who went back to his boyhood church….a little congregation, scarcely bigger than the proverbial church in the wildwood….where he was surprised to discover that they had acquired a sanctuary full of beautiful new windows. They were stained glass.… leaded…. brilliantly colored. He couldn’t figure how they could afford it. But that wasn’t all he couldn’t figure. He began reading the names (the dedications in the windows), failing to recognize a single name. And he was reared there. So he asked the pastor if the dedications represented people who joined up since he left.

“No,” said the pastor. “A church in St. Louis ordered these windows from Italy, and when they got them, they didn’t fit. So they put an advertisement in a church paper saying they would sell them cheap to any church willing to give them a home.”

When asked about the unfamiliar names etched into the windows, the pastor said: “Well, the Board discussed that and decided against coloring them out”….adding that, “It’s good for our little church to realize there are some Christian people besides us.”

Well, it’s good for all of us….even here, where there’s a lot of us. Could I but scan the table this morning, I’d see people I’ve supped with from the Upper Room in Jerusalem to a jungle room in Costa Rica. And that’s just for starters. I’ve got family breaking bread this morning in Prague, in London, all over Israel, all over Great Britain, down South, up North, in tens of towns and hundreds of churches.

As many of you know, I am not terribly domestic. But one of my jobs at the parsonage is to put the extra leaves in the dining room table at holiday time. We store them behind the winter coats in the first floor closet. But my whole house….which is a wonderful house.…wouldn’t be able to hold all the leaves required, were all of my friends in Christ to show up on the same day. And those are only the friends I know.

One of them wrote me Friday from a little town on the Sussex coast of England. I haven’t seen her for over 20 years. I served her church for a summer once. She has sent me a Christmas card every year since. This letter, occasioned by something other than Christmas, begins:

            Following the travesty in your country on September 11, I just wanted to tell you that you are all being held in our prayers….mine personally….and those of my church, my prayer cell, and my house group.

And the rest of the page is filled with handwritten prayers. The last concludes with her personal reflection on Psalm 46. You know Psalm 46. At least you know the following lines:

            God is our hope and strength, a very present help in time of trouble.

            Therefore, we will not fear, though the earth be moved.

To which she adds: “The earth has moved. Please, God, help us.” Isn’t it amazing how endearing we Americans have become to the rest of the world in the face of our suffering?

We come to this table with him. We come to this table with each other. And, in ways I can’t begin to explain, we come to this table with those who have taken an earlier bus to Glory. They are not here, some of them. They should be. They were here once. They are not here now. And there are days when their absence speaks as eloquently as did their presence. But just as there are empty places at our table (where they have been, but are not now), I think there are empty places at their table (where we are going, but are not yet).

While raising the cup, Jesus said to his disciples: “This is the last time I shall drink with you here. But the day shall come when I shall drink with you there” (the operative words in that sentence being “with you”). Meaning that the Sacrament is given by Jesus to tide us over, to see us through, to keep us keeping on….until we shall be one with Jesus….one with each other…. and one with those who, as the poet says, “we have loved long since, yet lost a while.” Or, as we shall soon sing:

            Feast after feast thus comes and passes by,

            And passing, points to the glad feast above.

They were one with us in life. They remain one with us in death. And quite apart from the fact that their future may one day be ours, our fight (in the present moment) continues to be theirs. As Colin Morris loves to say: “We must not, in assessing our strength, ignore those regiments camped over the hill.” For as we shall soon hear in the Great Thanksgiving, we are joined with “all the company of heaven.” My friends, we are incredibly well supported.

Do me a favor as we close. Picture, in your mind’s eye, a piece of paper. Picture also a pen. Now picture yourself making a list….a list of names. It is a list you are going to add to from time to time and keep with you over time….even if you have to leave everything else behind (car, boat, books, furniture, computer, whatever). In fact, when your life is ended and you have to leave the earth, take it with you (your list, I mean).

Now I know, I know, I know. When you get to the gate, Peter’s going to say: “Look, you know the rules. You went into the world with nothing, you’ve got to come out of it with nothing. So what’s that in your hand?”

And you’ll say: “Well, it’s just a list.”

“A list?”

“Yes, just a list with some names.”

“So let me see it.”

“Well, it’s just the names of folks who helped me….people who, if it weren’t for them, I’d have never made it.”

To which Peter will say (again): “I want to see it.”

So you’ll give it to him. And he’ll smile and say: “I know ‘em all. In fact, on my way to the gate, it seems like I passed ‘em all. They were painting a great, big sign to hang over the street. I didn’t see it real close, but it looked (for all the world) like they were fixin’ to write WELCOME HOME.”

My friends, what if you could see even a fraction of all those people at the table? And what if you could see Jesus at the table? Would it make your life any easier….your road any smoother…. your landings any softer? Maybe. Maybe not. But I guarantee you this. You would not be lonely. Or hungry.

Note: In preparing this meditation for World Communion Sunday, I hauled out no small number of “heavy hitters” in my dugout of supporters. They include Colin Morris, Barbara Brown Taylor, Fred Craddock and William Barclay. The letter from England came from Frances Nightingale who is a member of the Rustington Methodist Church on the West Sussex coast. I served the Rustington church on a pastoral exchange in 1975 and later hosted a youth orchestra conducted by her husband, Peter, in 1980.