Were You Born in a Barn? 12/24/1998

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Christmas Eve, 1998

Earlier this December, a preacher from “way up north” was traveling “way down south,” when he stopped for lunch at an out-of-the-way diner. Mounting a stool at the counter, and anticipating his first forkful of ham and redeye gravy, he summoned the waitress and asked if she could answer a question about the nativity set out front….which, he said, was lovely….just lovely…. save for one small thing. “What’s that?” she said (rocking back on her heels). “Well,” he began, “I just found myself wondering why your wise men….which look splendid on their camels, don’t you know….are all wearing firemen’s hats.”

“That’s because the wise men were firemen,” she answered.

“Were not,” he said.

“Were so,” she responded.

“Prove it,” he challenged.

“I will,” she countered.

Whereupon she took a well-thumbed Bible from under the counter….muttered something about “Yankees knowing nothing about the Word of God”….thumbed until she came to the second chapter of Matthew….announced, “It says so right here”….and proceeded to read: “And in those days, three wise men came from afar.”

Well, maybe they did. The Bible doesn’t say where their trip originated. From the East, says the book. From the Orient, says the carol. From Persia, says modern scholarship (meaning Iraq…. according to today’s atlas….and, if true, isn’t that just shot through and dripping with irony).

I once had a friend who said (concerning the three kings) that they came in a Honda….because the Bible says that “they were of one accord.” But when I looked it up, it was the disciples who were “of one accord” (Acts 1:14)….meaning that it was they who traveled by Honda, if anybody traveled by Honda.

But I find myself less interested in where the kings (wise men, magi, Iraqi astrologers, whatever) came from, as where they went. Meaning Bethlehem. Or, more to the point, to a barn in Bethlehem….at least a place with animals in Bethlehem.

Like I said a few weeks ago, I know next-to-nothing about animals, and (therefore) next-to-nothing about barns. But I do remember my father asking me, from time to time, if I was born in one. I figured if anybody should know, he should know. I mean, he was there, wasn’t he?

I wasn’t far into my childhood before I learned that when my father said, “Were you born in a barn,” he wasn’t referring to the place I was delivered, so much as the door I’d left opened. Which is why his rebuke, voiced in its entirety, read: “Shut the door. Were you born in a barn?”

Just so you will know, I wasn’t. And Jesus probably wasn’t either. Biblical scholar, Kenneth Bailey, points out that the word in our Bible translated as “inn,” is (in the original Greek) “kataluma.” Which does not mean “inn”….or “hotel”….so much as it means “guest room.” In the typical Mid-Eastern home, there is a room designated for out-of-town visitors….the “kataluma”….or the “guest room.” So the place where Mary and Joseph took respite probably wasn’t an inn at all, but a private home (perhaps even the home of a relative).

But with the “kataluma” (guest room) already filled….by Uncle Oscar and Aunt Mildred from Dubuque, most likely….Mary and Joseph were given the next best place in the house to stay, which was probably the outer room (front room) of the house. It was to this room that livestock were brought on winter nights, only to be ushered out in the morning so as to allow for other family activities. Those of you who go to sleep, this Christmas Eve, on somebody’s hide-a-bed….because Uncle Oscar and Aunt Mildred beat you to the queen-sized bed in the kataluma….will know whereof I speak.

But if there were animals there, it probably felt like a barn. So a barn, we’ll let it be. Why? Because it will preach better that way. That’s why.

If this child is a gift from God….and if this child (in ways you can’t begin to imagine and I can’t begin to explain) somehow is God….I suppose it can be said that God was born in a barn. Which sounds appropriate, given that God’s first appearance to humankind was in a garden. Now, 1200 pages later, God’s come indoors.

And could it be that God….growing out of his desire to tinker with creation on a daily basis….might be more at home in a barn than anyplace else? For God is more farmer than field general….more farmer than watchmaker….more farmer than (say) artist, architect, or even astrophysicist….more farmer (certainly) than Supreme Court judge or slum landlord.

            For what does a farmer do?

                        He does his chores, that’s what he does.

And when does a farmer do them?

                        He does them daily, that’s when he does them.

            And what happens when the farmer misses a few days?

                        Things go to hell in a hand basket, that’s what happens.

Farmers not only sow it and reap it, farmers also have to keep after it, stay on top of it, and seldom (if ever) get to leave it....especially if the “it” is not corn and carrots, but cows and chickens. Farming is daily work. Barns are symbols of where such work is done. Chores are the nature of that work. And we are God’s chores.

As for barn doors being open, I suppose that such is a good thing. For it means that anybody can come there. And it means that everybody belongs there. Which includes both shepherds and kings….who can be readily distinguished by their feet. That’s because kings ride about the “stuff” of earth, while shepherds walk through it. But it doesn’t matter in a barn. Because everything smells a little bit in a barn. Sort of like in here….if the unperfumed truth be told.

In this December’s issue of New York Magazine, there is a half-page ad for Marble Collegiate Church….Norman Vincent Peale’s old church…..where (as they proclaim) “good things happen.” And what do they say in their Christmas Eve ad? They say, in big block letters:
“WE DON’T ASK IF YOU’VE BEEN NAUGHTY OR NICE.” Well, neither do I. Because I already know, don’t you see. I already know.

And God doesn’t care. At least for tonight.

Marilyn Monroe has become a pop icon of our time. Arthur Miller, in his autobiography Timebends, tells of his marriage to her. During the filming of The Misfits, Miller watched Marilyn descend into the depths of depression and despair. Fearing for her life, he watched her estrangement, her paranoia and her increasing dependence on barbiturates. One evening, after a doctor had been persuaded to give Marilyn yet another shot, she was sleeping. Arthur Miller stood watching her, reflecting:

I found myself straining to imagine miracles. What if she were to wake and I were able to say: “God loves you, darling.” And what if she were able to believe it? How I wish I still had my religion and she, hers.

I don’t know what brought you here tonight….or how you got from home to church. I only hope that you are “straining to imagine miracles.” For it is nothing less than the miracle Arthur wanted for Marilyn that I proclaim to you in the midst of the Christmas Eve darkness.

Remember the kid who was afraid to go from the house to the barn at night because, as he put it, “it was so dark.” So his daddy handed him a lantern. But the kid said: “Even with this light in my hand, I can’t see the barn.” So his daddy said: “You don’t have to see the barn right now. Just walk to the end of your light.”

Well, you’ve come to the barn. And we’ve handed you a light. Maybe not all the light you wanted. But all the light you need.

And maybe you don’t need much. Maybe you are among those who swallowed a Franklin Planner for breakfast and have the next 20 years of your life all planned out. Hey, that’s great…. smart….and very resourceful.

But maybe you are here tonight, not knowing where you are going to be 20 months, 20 days or 20 hours from now….not knowing whether you’re going to have a job, a spouse, a happy home, or any home (for that matter). Things change so fast, don’t you know. At 7:30 this morning, I was in line for croissants and brioche at the Petit Prince Bakery. The lady in front of me spotted a lady in back of me. “It’s been forever since I’ve seen you,” she said. “How are you?” “I’m homeless,” said her friend. “I’ve been out of my house since December 7 when a tree fell on our roof.” Now I know there is a mild incongruity between “being homeless” and standing in line at the most expensive French bakery in Birmingham. Still, on the morning of December 7, there was no entry in her Franklin Planner that said: “Roof caves in.”

Nor in yours. So what I want you to do this night is take as much light as you can grab….from this old barn of a place….and from this old farmer of a God….and then walk to the end of it. Knowing that it will be enough….even more than enough….for the living of your days.

* * * * *

Christmas Eve, 1998….“chilling the body, but not the soul.” For along about 1:00 this morning, the house waits….the fire waits….the lobster bisque waits….the chilled shrimp waits….the presents wait….the peace waits….and two wonderful women wait.

Life is not meager. Love is not wanting. Friends are not scarce. Memories are still mixed (most of them sweet, but some of them, incredibly sad….given that a full table does not always disguise an empty chair).

But you still come. Words still come. The Word still comes. And with it, the fire.

For I was born in a barn, don’t you see? And I have yet to reach the end of its light. So Merry Christmas. And peace to all who are within the house.

Note:  Let me share my appreciation with Lloyd Heussner for passing along the ad from New York Magazine featuring Marble Collegiate Church.

Somewhere Between Great Lakes Crossing and the Plains of Bethlehem 12/20/1998

First United Methodist Church

Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Psalm 34:8, John 1:43-46

Let’s start with a word about economies and how they change, or birthday cakes and how they evolve. Back in the days of the agrarian economy (when most of us lived on farms or depended upon those who did), mothers made birthday cakes from scratch, mixing farm commodities like flour, sugar, butter and eggs, that together cost mere dimes.

As the farms gave way to the factories….and as the agrarian economy gave way to the Industrial Revolution….moms paid a dollar or two to Betty Crocker for birthday cake ingredients that were already pre-mixed and pre-boxed.

Later, when the service economy took its place alongside of the industrial economy, busy moms ordered cakes from the bakery or the grocery store, which (at $10 or $15 a pop) cost ten times as much as the ingredients that Betty Crocker provided.

Now, in the time-starved nineties, moms no longer bake the cake or even buy it and bring it home. Instead, they are likely to spend $100 or more to “out source” the entire event to McDonald’s, Chuck E. Cheese’s, or some other entertainment emporium that will stage a memorable event for kids (and probably throw in the cake for free).

“Welcome to the experience economy.” Which is not so much my greeting as that of Joseph Pine and James Gilmore, who are the co-authors of a book entitled Every Business a Stage: Why Customers Now Want Experiences. Truth be told, I haven’t read their book. But, thanks to Bill Burnett, I did read their article in the Harvard Business Review published in July of this year. And they make an interesting case. They suggest that from now on, leading-edge companies will find that the next competitive battleground lies, not in providing goods or services, but in staging experiences. Unless companies want to fall by the wayside, they will be compelled to upgrade their offerings to this newest stage of consumer gratification.

But how does an experience differ from a service….and how do you sell it? Some of you remember the old television series, Taxi, and a rather sleazy character named Jim Ignatowski (who sometimes went by the title Rev. Jim). One day, Jim decided to become the best taxi driver in New York. So he served sandwiches and beverages to his passengers, conducted guided tours of Manhattan, and even sang Frank Sinatra tunes while cruising the city. By engaging his riders in a way that turned an ordinary cab ride into a memorable event, Jim gave them something decidedly extra for their money. His customers responded by giving bigger tips. And a few even asked him to drive around the block one more time, the better to prolong the enjoyment.

Now all kinds of businesses are trying to get in on the act. Earlier this fall, I told you of my invitation to attend the grand opening of the Kroger store in downtown Birmingham. As one who seldom frequents such places, I declined. But then I began to understand that I had missed something. So I went to see for myself. And what I discovered was that this was “not my father’s grocery store.” It engaged all of my senses. There were things to look at….things to smell…. things to taste. There were things to stretch my imagination, from seaweed to sushi. And while I haven’t been back many times since, the Kroger people have broken through my earlier barriers, thus guaranteeing return visits at some time in the future.

Or consider movie theaters. I used to fork over my money and sit down to see a film. But now the owner of the Star Theater complex in Southfield suggests that “it should be worth the price of the movie just to enter his building.” Which is why the Star Theater annually charges its 3 million customers a 25 percent higher admission than the local competitor down the street, because of the fun-house experience it provides. And with 65,000 square feet of restaurants and stores being added to the complex, it is not inconceivable that Star will charge us to walk through the front door, whether we ever see a movie or not.

Which brings me to Great Lakes Crossing. Some of you wondered about its inclusion in this morning’s title. Actually, when I selected the title, I’d never been to the mall. I feel about outlet malls pretty much as I feel about grocery stores….maybe even worse. But I kept hearing those advertisements promising “eye-popping, heart-stopping, jaw-dropping shopping.” And I kept reading about traffic jams at the Joslyn Road exit, not to mention five hour waits at some of the mall’s more popular restaurants.

So last Thursday night, I took a little field trip. In the company of my wife (a seasoned shopper), I actually spent two hours in the place. Not that my heart stopped, mind you. In fact, I was rather disappointed. To be sure, the place was big. There was a food court “half the size of Utah.” And there were 204 places that would have been glad to take my money, had I chosen to part with any. But half of the shops, I’d never heard of. And the biggest discounts were clearly reserved for the least popular items. I did take a closer look at a place called Neiman Marcus’ Last Call (which sounded like a title chosen by a bartender rather than a retailer). And it looked like the sale of a bunch of stuff that nobody else had wanted. Which didn’t do much for making me want it, either.

The restaurants were cool. There was a place with the word “Alcatraz” in its title, offering me the opportunity to bite a burger behind bars. But having spent quite a bit of time in prison the last few weeks, that was the last thing I wanted to do. So Kris and I tried the Rainforest Café….where it really does rain….right beside you….all the time. I didn’t stay long enough for mold to grow on my sport coat. But the food was decent. And there were animated animals, ranging from elephants to crocodiles. Which were fun the first time. And my grandchildren might like them a second time….if and when I ever have grandchildren. But I passed on buying a T-shirt. And probably won’t go back anytime in the near future. It’s a mall, for crying out loud. Although others would call it “the wave of the future.”

Notice that in my mild critique of Great Lakes Crossing, I said less about my shopping than about my experience. Which didn’t match the hype….or my expectation. Had I actually bought something and saved several dollars in the process, I might have come home thrilled. But I did not go there to purchase a product. Nor was I invited there to purchase a product. I was invited to participate in a pleasure. Which did beat cleaning the leaves out of the gutter. But not by a lot.

Still, this “enchantment with experience” intrigues me, given the degree to which I find it impacting the church. Increasingly, people come not just to “get something” or “give something,” but to “experience something.” For years, people who studied the church market (the better to instruct marketing dummies like me), said that what people wanted from the church were a wider-range and better-quality of goods and services. Sunday schools for the small ones. Youth groups for the growing (and, potentially, straying ones). Choirs (vocal, bell, handchime, instrumental, folk, soft rock and praise) for the musical ones. Teams for the athletic ones. Support groups for the troubled ones. Growth groups for the searching ones. Social groups for the gregarious ones. Work projects for the handsy ones. Day trips for the antsy ones. And seminars for the studious ones. Every year….more. Every year….better.

Which was a message I heard. But now, I am told, there is another shift. One which is more subtle….less specific….harder to classify….harder, still, to satisfy. People are now coming “to experience something.” And when they do, they are not altogether sure what it was. But they announce a willingness to come back (as they tell me), because they liked the “feel” of the place. Which puts a lot of pressure, don’t you see, on those of us responsible for creating the “feel” of the place….given that we don’t fully understand this phenomenon, and don’t agree 100 percent among ourselves about what a fitting and proper church of Jesus Christ ought to “feel like” in the first place.

But there is one thing I do know. This business of “experiencing church” is never more pronounced than at Christmastime….when people who seldom darken our doors suddenly find themselves streaming through them. Which is fine by me. You will never hear this preacher decrying (or denying) the “C and E crowd,” or the “twicesters” as some of my colleagues call them. Because I, for one, can’t always tell the mildly curious from the deeply devout. And even religious voyeurs, peering through the Christmas Eve darkness from the shadowed corners of the balcony, would appear to be looking for something. Although I doubt that many of them understand the nature of their search, or the depth of their need to be here.

At Duke Chapel, they have already announced (well in advance) that the ushers will close the doors to the 11:00 p.m. service after 1700 persons have been admitted to the sanctuary. This is in response to a would-be congregant (last year) who berated the head usher, screaming: “This is Christmas Eve. You’ve got to let me in. I’ve got my rights. You can’t keep me outta church on Christmas Eve.” I doubt that anybody (usher….preacher….screamer) fully understood what lay behind his behavior….or his need. All I know is that when you are hungry….and somebody tells you there is a two hour wait at the restaurant….more than your stomach will growl.

But (on Christmas Eve) hungry for what? I’m not always sure. Certainly for something old. An old story. Several old songs. An old face. An old faith. Certainly, an old feeling (“I came Christmas Eve, and got that old feeling”). And perhaps (just perhaps) an old assurance….that the timeless verities we trumpet at Christmas (sometimes to the point of spirit-numbing banality) are still verities (meaning still “true”). I’m talking about things like peace, love and joy….light in the dark places….highways in the crooked places….songs in the silent places….those sorts of things. Christmas Eve is the one time of year when the sheep come to be fed yesterday’s food….having remembered that it filled them once….desperately hoping against hope that it will fill them again. And in a world where cruise missiles are falling, impeachment votes are flying, and Marcy Devernay’s list of 20,000 names is longer than Santa Claus’, who can blame them.

But in addition to being hungry for something old, I think they (and we) are also hungry for something deep….perhaps too deep for human telling. I’m talking about a mystery that cannot be explained, so much as entered into (which is another word for “experienced”….which is another word for “felt”). Unlike the late Joe Friday of the L.A.P.D., people come on Christmas Eve wanting more than “just the facts.”

It took me awhile to learn it….but learn it I did….that nobody comes to church on Christmas Eve for an explanation of the incarnation. And when, in a darkened sanctuary we sing “Round yon virgin, mother and child,” no one is interested in debating gynecology or paternity (not that such subjects aren’t important….but, at that moment, hardly appropriate). Whenever people tell me they’re having a hard time “getting Christmas,” they are not talking about a problem with the intellect, but a problem with the emotions.

So what is this mystery that the church would have us enter? Namely, that God has not, will not, and perhaps (if God be true to God’s nature) cannot abandon history. God is not an absentee landlord who lets the old place run down because he doesn’t live there anymore…..doesn’t go there anymore….and doesn’t care what happens there anymore. Rather, God is a stakeholder in history….in humanity….and in the happenings of ordinary human beings like you and me. If Easter is about a God who comes back to collect us at life’s end, then Christmas is about a God who comes to “comfort us” in life’s middle.

How can this be? Well….come and see! That’s the answer of the carols. That’s the answer of the gospels. That’s the answer of the shepherds. That’s the answer of the angels. That’s the answer of the star. And that’s the answer of pretty much everybody in the Gospel of John….from Philip speaking to Nathanael….from the eleven speaking to Thomas….from the blind guy speaking to the Pharisees….and from a five-times-married lady speaking to a bunch of guys who used to pick her up at a local watering hole. Come and see. “O taste and see how gracious the Lord is” (Psalm 34:8). Meaning, move in….draw near….come close….open up….drink it in (first with your eyes, then with your heart).

And how might one do that? Well, it depends on whether you are a kid or a parent. If you are a kid, all it takes is putting on a costume. I mean, which one of us (at least one time in our lives) didn’t don a bathrobe, lace up some sandals, put a crook in our hands or attach some wings to our back, and stand around some straw-filled box with a plastic baby in it. Most of the really good Christmas stories have to do with something silly or sublime that once happened when a bunch of neophyte munchkins answered a casting call for a script that began: “Now the birth of Jesus Christ took place in this way.”

In fact, Sue Ives tells me that 105 kids have signed up to take part in our 4:30 p.m. reenactment on Christmas Eve….meaning that we truly will have a host of angels and (perchance) an entire brigade of kings. We could, I suppose, have multiple Marys. But Kate Wilcox tells me we have but one Mary suit. And we wouldn’t want to open ourselves to the promulgation of a new (and potentially deceiving) doctrine….namely, group childbirth.

But, if there is no costume that fits you and no pageant that requires you, let me invite you to get in touch….not with a childhood memory….but with a parental one. I want you to remember the first time somebody gave you a baby to hold. Your baby to hold. How shriveled it looked. How small it appeared. How fragile it seemed. How proud, excited, humbled, dumbstruck and frightened you felt. Perhaps even to the point of resolving (as one father did) that: “I had better clean up my act and become somebody….because she is somebody.”

What if, on a night of great solemnity, you were to draw nigh to some simple nativity, only to have Mary call you over….with a name….with a nod….or maybe with but the merest movement of a finger, and say: “Yes, Ron, you….why don’t you hold the baby….just for a moment. Because it is your child, you know.”

What would it feel like to hold that much of God’s future for the world….and that much of God’s faith in you….in your very own hands?

Should Mary make the offer, don’t deny it. And, for God’s sake, don’t drop it. For, as Sister Mary Corita once said: “Be, of love, a little more careful than of anything.”

Note: I am indebted to Bill Burnett for sharing the article by Joseph Pine and James Gilmore entitled “Every Business a Stage: Why Customers Now Want Experiences.” Look for it in the July-August issue of Harvard Business Review. I am equally indebted to Peter Gomes and his perceptive understanding of the Christmas Eve congregation, which can be found in his newest work, The Good Book, in a chapter entitled “The Bible and Mystery.” And for those not familiar with Oakland County politics, Marcy Devernay is a highly-publicized provider of female escorts whose “black book” allegedly contains the names of some 20,000 citizens (many of them prominent).

On Playing in the Fairway 10/11/1998

First United Methodist Church

Birmingham, Michigan

Scriptures: Proverbs 3:11-12, Galatians 6:1-5, Ephesians 4:15-16

Let me begin by confessing that I once lost my sole on the golf course. Fortunately, my shoe manufacturer gave me a full refund.

Having just returned from Scotland, many of you have asked about my golf game. In fact, many of you asked about my golf game before I went to Scotland. As your final words to me, at least 50 of you said: “Hit ‘em straight.”

Actually, I did play twice….which, given the raindrops, was no small achievement. Both courses were links courses (meaning that they are laid out along the sea). Both courses were historic courses, meaning that I was taking divots from hallowed ground. No, I didn’t get on the old course at St. Andrews. But I did get on the old courses at Prestwick and Crail. And I would have played the queen’s course at Balmoral, had not the rain turned it into a quagmire.

Golf is a hobby for many, a sport for some, and an addiction for a few. Into the latter category falls a man I heard about recently. It seems he teed his ball on the sixth hole of his favorite course, hooked his drive terribly, and ended up in an unplayable position. Between where his ball landed and the green began was a barn….a rather large barn. But his wife, playing with him, assessed his predicament and then suggested:

Look, why don’t you go for it? You’ll never hit it over the barn, but you might be able to hit through it.  I’ll open the barn’s front door. Then I’ll walk through and open the barn’s back door. When I wave, you take out a two iron, smack it hard, keep it low, and you may luck out.

So she proceeded to open the barn’s front door, walked through and opened the barn’s rear door, and then gave a wave, indicating that the time had come to hit. Seeing the signal, he took out a two iron, rocketed a shot through the barn doors, and hit his wife upside the head, killing her instantly.

Three years later, while playing with a friend, he hooked the same drive on the same hole, landing in virtually the same spot. Upon surveying the predicament, his friend said:

Look, why don’t you go for it? This barn has two doors. I’ll open the front. Then I’ll walk through and open the back. When you see me wave, take out a two iron and whack it with everything you’ve got.

“No way,” said the golfer. “The last time I tried that on this hole, I took a six.”

Someday, someone will explain to me why so many stories about golf are also stories about death. I can think of at least three classic jokes that combine the two. Rather than tell them, I’ll simply call them to mind by reciting the punch lines:

The good news is that there are great golf courses in heaven. The bad news is that you have a tee time on Monday morning.

Why wouldn’t I interrupt my round to pay my last respects? After all, she gave me the best 30 years of my life.

(And who can forget the immortal:) “I’ll tell you why it took me eight hours to play 18 holes. I had to hit the ball and drag Fred….hit the ball and drag Fred.”

Humor has a way of illuminating a lot of things, not the least of which is the way we tend to get our priorities all screwed up, playing away at “life’s little games” while life’s most significant relationships take it in the head. Such is not my primary point this morning. But if it happens to fit your particular situation, feel free to use it as you like.

Instead, I want you to note that this story could never have been told, had not the golfer strayed from the fairway. But being aware of the fact that there are a few non-golfers among us, I suppose a brief definition of a“fairway” might be in order. When you hit a golf ball, the fairway is where you want your ball to land. The grass is shorter there. The ground is smoother there. And the route to the hole is less encumbered there. Should your ball stray outside the fairway, I suppose it could be said that you have found the “foulway.” And while there is no such word as “foulway” (at least until now), it pretty well sums up the problem. In golfing’s lexicon, straying from the fairway (interesting choice of verb….“straying”) lands you in the “rough,” which (on more difficult courses) is often described as being “unforgiving.” And upon reaching the rough, three ponderables come into play….all of them bad. You may not be able to find your ball. You may find it, but not be able to hit it. Or you may be forced to take a penalty.

Sometimes even worse things happen. I once hit a shot through some lady’s kitchen window at 7:30 in the morning. She was nice enough to bring the ball out to me….in her nightgown. And seeing that she was already out in the yard returning my ball, she struck up a conversation so as to learn a little more about me….such as my address, my phone number, and the name of my insurance agent.

As I have suggested on other occasions, I believe that God created people who can hit the ball a long way, and people who can hit the ball a straight way. Alas, those are seldom the same people. Which turns “fairways” into “foreign countries” for those who have the strength to put plenty of postage on the ball, but can never seem to guide it to the right address.

That very problem once caught up with me at Wabeek Country Club, when (playing as somebody’s guest) I lofted a five iron majestically into the heavens, whereupon it cleared the green….cleared the fringe….cleared the rough….and landed in somebody’s back yard. That somebody was named “Lou Whitaker.” And having heard for years that the term “Sweet Lou” was coined to describe his agility around second base rather than his disposition around strangers, I tiptoed into his yard….picked up my ball….and tiptoed out. Even though I had a shot. I mean, I really did.

By now you have probably surmised that I am playing with the word “fairway” as something of a moral metaphor for lives that do not stray into the rough or land out of bounds. But in life, as in golf, such is easier said than done….and maybe unaccomplishable, apart from a little help from one’s friends.

This is best illustrated by one last golf story, this one concerning a great golfer (Arnold Palmer) playing in an even greater golf tournament (the Masters at Augusta National). How sweet it would be to find myself in Augusta some April, as was a ministerial colleague of mine a few years ago. And it is his account that I share with you now. It seems that he chose to follow Palmer, joining the gallery that was known, in those days, as “Arnie’s Army.” On the 13th hole, Palmer shanked one down along the edge of the creek bed. Let my friend tell it from here:

When I saw where Arnie’s ball landed, I said to myself: “No way will he be able to recover for par.” So turning to the person next to me, I decided to play strategist: “What Arnie needs to do,” I said, “is to play it safe, chip out to the fairway and settle for a bogey. Because if he tries a long iron out of that lie, either he won’t get it out, or he’ll hit it flat and wind up out-of-bounds on the other side.” This observation caused the guy standing next to me to say: “That just shows how much you know. This must be your first trip to the Masters.” Then he went on to add: “What Palmer is really going to do is hit the ball as hard as he can. And he won’t go out of bounds, because he’s going to hit the ball straight at the gallery.”

Which is exactly what Palmer did. He slashed the ball straight at the crowd, where somebody who loved him a whole lot more than I did got in front of the ball and let it hit him. There followed a bit of kicking and scuffling. And when the ball stopped, it was right back on the fairway. Whereupon the person standing next to me turned and said: “As long as there’s a crowd at Augusta National, Arnold Palmer will never hit if out of bounds at the Masters.”

What a wonderful story. It makes me wish I could play with a gallery like that. Heck, it makes me wish I could live with a gallery like that….a gallery filled with people who would love me enough so that they would do everything in their power to keep my life from going out of bounds. Lots of lives do….go out of bounds, that is. And few there are who seem to notice or care.

Harvard theologian Harvey Cox often talks about the demise of what was formerly known as “town morality.” Let’s say you were a kid growing up in a small town where people shopped at your dad’s store, got their hair done in your Aunt Flo’s salon, or sang in the Presbyterian church choir where your mom was the organist. Townspeople knew your people. And they knew you. They knew your face. They knew your voice. They especially knew your car. If you drove it a little too fast, somebody knew that. And if you parked it on a lookout over town (to the point of steaming up the windshield), somebody knew that, too. And if you pushed the limits of propriety a bit too far….and a bit too often….somebody would hear about it. Which means that sooner or later, you’d hear about it. So you kind of watched things, because you knew (in the back of your mind) that you were being watched.

Which is not all bad. And, to the degree that such social networks no longer operate like they used to, that’s not all good. Consider preachers’ kids. Everybody knows who they are….which can be stressful. But everybody also cares who they are….which can be helpful. Why must we always assume that living “under scrutiny” is a terrible thing?

Today, “town morality” is largely dead. People move around. People live more privately. People live in multiple circles which seldom intersect. People seek anonymity. Therefore, nobody watches them. But the flip side is that nobody watches out for them. Morality has become privatized. The business of staying “in bounds” is largely a personal business….which makes it harder.

The other day, in a cluster of male friends, the conversation turned to a particular group of establishments across the river in Windsor. These establishments are widely known for the fact that there are more women who dance on the tables than there are who wait on them. In the middle of the conversation, someone turned to me andsaid: “Have you ever been over to one of those joints?” And I said: “Just as soon as I’d walk in the door, I’d run into a bunch of my parishioners at a table in the corner.” Which was an interesting response on my part. For while there are a whole lot of other reasons….and better reasons….as to why I’m not a “regular” at Jason’s, it is interesting that I cited you (my parishioners) as being an important component in my decision-making process. For your opinions matter to me….as do your expectations. And while I don’t necessarily feel bound by them, my natural inclination is to pay close attention to them.

This is why people seek anonymity whenever they feel inclined to deviate from the norm. “I’ll go where nobody knows me.” After all, the prodigal didn’t take his share of the money and split for a “far country” just because the rate of monetary exchange would be more favorable, once he crossed the border. To the contrary, the words “far country” constitute a biblical euphemism for a place where ordinary constraints that govern human behavior no longer apply.

Isn’t this why most school districts have distanced themselves from those exotic trips….such as Caribbean cruises….taken by high school seniors? There’s a reason school administrators have soured on such ventures. As one superintendent once said to me (very much off the record): “Some of what we’ve learned is pretty awful.” Which is not meant to indict any specific kid, or any cluster of kids. But it is to acknowledge that one of the reasons 17-year-olds like to sail beyond the three-mile limit is that open water feels (for all the world) like a moral twilight zone….where everything that matters….and everyone who matters….can be temporarily put on hold.

I was on one of those four day cruises, four years ago. It was about the time that several seniors were celebrating “spring break.” Many of them did not even see dinner on the first night. Which was the direct result of too many rum punches between shoving off from shore at 1:00 and sitting down to supper at 7:00.

Comedian Billy Crystal pointed to the same “suspension of responsibility” in his marvelous film on male bonding known as City Slickers. In one especially poignant scene he put the question to several friends: “If the opportunity ever presented itself, and you could be 100 percent certain (absolutely guaranteed) that nobody would ever find out, would you consider cheating on your wife?” And I suspect that every single man, at one time or another, has at least pondered that question.

Part of what supports us in our moral decision-making is that others will find out….and we value what they think. What’s more, we count on their thinking to help us frame and fashion our decisions. We have always found it hard to be “good” in a vacuum. It is abundantly clear to me that whenever the church has been most true to its New Testament calling, it has been the kind of community that helps keep its members from slipping out of bounds. “Gently reprove one another,” Paul said to the Galatians. “Speak the truth to one another in love,” he urged the Ephesians. “Accept discipline as reflective of God’s love,” the people were told in the letter to the Hebrews.

Which was probably as hard to do then as it is now. For we are afraid to intrude upon another’s space. We are afraid to violate another’s freedom. We are afraid of appearing intolerant in an overly-indulgent age. All of which are valid fears. But if we constantly act as if the things people do don’t matter, people will begin to get the idea that they don’t matter. “The Lord reproves those he loves,” says Proverbs 3:11, followed by: “The Lord admonishes those in whom he delights.” I remember an athletically inclined friend of mine saying: “The worst day of my football career was the day I realized that the coach was no longer chewing my tail. Because that’s the day I realized I was pretty much superfluous to the team, and that there were no further plans to play me in any game that mattered.” Do you think that Weight Watchers has mastered the art of addressing people in a manner that "speaks the truth in love?” You betcha. Alcoholics Anonymous? You better believe it. And what do you think a teenager is doing when that teen quietly takes the car keys away from a friend? Or when an adult, without great fanfare, raises a truth that everyone else is about to trample?

I promised myself that I would not wallow in the reams of material recently released by the grand jury in Washington, concerning who touched who, where, in the intimate recesses of the White House. And, for the most part, I have kept that promise. But all of us are forced to swim in a river of information that has exceeded its banks and permeated the neighborhoods. Which means that there is no avoiding the particulars. And one of the particulars that concerns me is the number of people who knew about the President’s behavior, but said nothing to the President. One might have hoped for a critical question or two….a raised issue or two….a pointed conversation or two (initiated out of a concern for the man, the marriage, the office or the intern). But it seems that such never happened. Which is understandable, I suppose. But sad….so incredibly sad.

How do we help each other stay in-bounds? That question haunts me more and more as boundaries seem to matter less and less. As questions go, I’ll lay it on your hearts as I close with a story of one of the angriest ladies I ever met. She was a minister’s wife, well known to many of us. What was also known to many of us was the fact that her husband (who had been our colleague and friend for 20 years) was openly involved with another woman….herself, a church professional. Their affair had been going on for a number of years. People had seen them. People had talked to them. People had talked about them. And the body of talk had reached the highest levels of the church.

Finally, it all broke open. And the wife (having known nothing previously) found out. What she also found out was how long everybody else had been in on the secret. Which made her feel like a fool, in addition to feeling like a victim.

To virtually anybody and everybody, her anger boiled over in the form of three questions.

1.      If you knew, why didn’t you talk to the Bishop?

(And the answer was, “Because we didn’t want the responsibility of his career on our hands.”)

2.      If you knew, why didn’t you talk to me?

      (And the answer was, “Because we didn’t want to hurt you.”)

Which inevitably led to question three:

3.      If you knew, why didn’t you talk to him?

(And, sad to say, for that question, none of us had an answer.)

And You Think You’ve Got Marital Problems 9/20/1998

First United Methodist Church

Birmingham, Michigan

Scriptures: Hosea 1:2-8, 2:1-4, 14-16; Luke 11:5-13

Given the recent “rush to confession” by public figures of all types and stripes, I suppose it is high time for me to acknowledge that I have placed the same wedding ring on the hands of several different women. I am talking about this ring….my ring….which, as late as last Friday evening, was off my finger and on the finger of another. Which does not make me a bigamist…. or a serial monogamist….but simply a quick thinking (and even quicker acting) preacher.

The explanation is really quite simple. When you marry as many people as I do, sometimes you need to come to their rescue. Like when the maid of honor or the best man forgets the ring, can’t find the ring, or drops the ring between the back of the church and the front of the church. I know that sounds stupid. But nervous people do stupid things. And my job is to minimize the effects of the problem. Which I accomplish by removing my ring and giving it to whoever needs one. It works every time. And I’ve gotten it back every time. So far.

As confessions go, I realize that the one I just made is small potatoes. But I really can’t produce anything that could be published under the heading of “spicy and salacious.” So if you read today’s title and came to hear about my marital problems, I’ll have to disappoint. And if you read today’s title and came to hear about the Clinton’s marital problems, I’ll have to disappoint further. As concerns mine, there’s really nothing to talk about. And as concerns Bill and Hillary….well….I’m not on the list of high profile clergy types (like Jesse Jackson and Tony Campolo) summoned to the White House for intimate pastoral conversation. Not that I’d tell you if I were.

Instead, I rise to talk about Hosea’s marital problems which (as you will see in a moment) were even more painful and public than Sweet William’s. And you will have to take my word for it that I picked this morning’s subject, date and title, at least 30 days before the Starr Report became public. Perhaps I was being prophetic. Which Hosea certainly was.

For he was a prophet….in Israel….in the 8th century BC. Next to Elijah, Hosea is my favorite prophet. For he called it as he saw it….he told it as he lived it….and he was not at all bashful about his belief that God was deeply enmeshed in both the telling and the living.

But first we need to back up and remind ourselves of why prophets arose in Israel in the first place. Which can be explained by the fact that there was a covenant in Israel in the first place. The covenant was between God and the people. But the people kept forgetting it….and breaking it. The covenant was not unlike a deal (of sorts), wherein God said: “Look, here’s what I am going to do for you. I am going to rescue you from bondage. I am going to lead you where you need to go. I am going to help you settle and structure your life once you get there. And I am going to see to it that your children prosper and multiply from generation to generation.” Then God added: “Your part of the deal is to believe and behave” (which is biblical shorthand for saying: “Honor my claim and obey my law.”).

Mark Trotter points out that the contribution of the Hebrew prophets was enormous. For it was the prophets who first defined man’s relationship to God by moral acts (such as ethical conduct), rather than by religious acts (such as sacrificial offerings). Recall Hosea’s 8th century contemporary….the prophet Amos….who thundered: “I hate, I despise your feasts. I take no delight in your solemn assemblies. But let justice roll down like waters and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.”

Which explains why the prophets were always trying to get people to repent and clean up their acts. Which probably wasn’t any more popular then than now. Most of us don’t like the word “repentance.” Because saying “I’m sorry”….meaning “I’m sorry”….and turning away from the acts that forced the “I’m sorry” in the first place, are not things that are fun to do. But what repentance means is that life can be better than it is now, and there are things we can do….and should do….to make it better.

Most other Middle Eastern religions (at the time of the prophets) did not take history or morality seriously. They did not believe that human beings could influence things for the better (by acting better), or for the worse (by acting worse). They were nature religions. God was the God of nature, not the God of history. Things that were important in nature religions were the rhythms of the seasons and the cycles of sun and moon, seed time and harvest, fertility and infertility, along with deluge and drought. And since human beings couldn’t do much about any of that stuff….I mean, who could make it rain if it hadn’t rained in weeks?….it was assumed in the “nature religions” that only God could improve things. So if you needed rain….if you needed a good harvest….if you needed fertile fields….then you made sacrifices to God. You offered God grain, meat and (in some cases) even children. But then God spoke through his prophets and said: “I hate and despise your sacrifices. Stop offering me these dumb things and start doing the things I tell you to do, and you’ll see how much better things will get in your world.”

It was a hard message. And a blunt message. But it was also a moderately hopeful message. For in castigating the people for bad choices…and urging them toward good choices….the prophets were saying that choice makes a difference. Meaning, by implication, that we can make a difference. It’s not just the moon and the stars. It’s us. So the prophets said: “Shape up, lest there be consequences to your behavior that you won’t want to live with. Which there will be. And it will be your own damn fault.”

Which was, in a nutshell, the prophetic message in Israel. At least it was the prophetic message before Hosea. Prior to Hosea, the covenant (the “deal” between God and his people) was pretty much like a contract. If one party violated it, it was off (as in void….finished…. flushed….done deal). The offended party (God) could take his marbles and go home. But to Hosea….and, subsequently, through Hosea….came the radically amazing notion that even should Israel break the deal, God would hang in there anyway.

Where did Hosea come up with such an idea? Through his own painful marital experience, that’s where. He married an unfaithful woman. There are several interpretations as to how this happened (including the possibility that God told him to marry such a woman). At any rate, her name was Gomer. How’s that for a name? I have a good friend in the ministry whose name is Hosea. But I don’t have any friends (male or female) named Gomer. Yet that was her name. But that wasn’t half of it. For Gomer was a whore. The Bible doesn’t sugar coat it. It says so right up front. At one point it says that she “played the whore,” meaning that she might not have been a card-carrying hooker. For there was, at that time, a class of vocational prostitutes who hung out in Caananite temples. That way, if you went to the temple to pray for a fertile field, you could involve yourself (ritualistically) with a fertile woman. We don’t really know if Gomer was one of these. Maybe she just acted like one of these.

But Hosea married her and she had three children. Chapter One suggests they were Hosea’s children. Chapter Two suggests they may have been other men’s children. But whether or not Hosea conceived them, we know that Hosea named them. For each name was symbolic. And each name revealed the disintegrating nature of Hosea’s marriage to Gomer, while also revealing the disintegrating nature of God’s “marriage” to Israel.

The first son, Hosea named Jezreel. This was probably a variation on the name of the nation (“Jezreel” – “Israel”). The second child, a little girl, Hosea named Lo-Ruhamah. This meant: “I will no longer have pity.” Then followed a third child, a little boy. And Hosea named him Lo-Ammi, meaning: “You are not my people and I am not your God.”

Talk about how tough it is to be a preacher’s kid. Look how tough it was to be a prophet’s kid. A prophet’s kid had to walk around like a billboard, even to the point of being saddled with a name that sounded like a sermon. Imagine Hosea’s little boy going to school….first day….teacher’s calling the roll. “What’s your name, little boy?” “My name is ‘You are not my people and I am not your God.’” I mean, it could turn you into a dropout….from kindergarten.

I figured that Matt Hook….lover of scripture that he is….would give his kids names that sounded like messages from God, once he and Leigh started having children. And when they named their firstborn “Hunter,” I said: “Ah, that’s from the Cain and Abel story in Genesis 4. I get it.” So when Jillianne was born, I figured they’d call her “Gatherer.” But they didn’t. And then they completely missed the boat with Graham and Joy. Think of the Hosea-like possibilities. They could have called Graham “The Lord’s wrath is rising.” And they could have named Joy: “You’re all headed for Hell in a handbasket.” Maybe next time.

At any rate, Gomer (the mother of these kids) was unfaithful to Hosea. She was unfaithful openly. She was unfaithful shamefully. She was unfaithful repeatedly. He pleaded with her. He had the kids plead with her. He exposed and shamed her. He punished and banished her. But he could not completely forget her. Or forsake her. So he pursued her. He wooed her. And then came those beautiful words at the end of the second chapter:

            But look, I am going to seduce her

            And lead her into the wilderness and speak to her heart.

            There I shall give her back her vineyards

            And make of the valley of Achor a door of hope.

            Then she will respond as when she was young.

            And when that day comes, (she) will call me “my husband.”

Which sounds as if they are going back to the place of their courtship, doesn’t it? Back where love began….back where promises were made….back where the future was ripe with hope. Which is what couples do, isn’t it….when trouble comes, and (hopefully) goes. Couples go back to some special place….where they met….where they courted…..where they proposed….or where they honeymooned. They go back to remember and renew. They go back to start over where they started once. People do it all the time.

But note the identity of the lover in the words I just read. The words of wooing sound like Hosea. But the wooer is God and the wooee is Israel. And the place to which Israel is being drawn (or seduced) is the wilderness, where (once upon a time) it was just God and his people.

What is Hosea saying? Hosea is saying: “If you welsh on the deal (the covenant), you will have to pay the consequences. Which means that you will lose your comfortable life. But you will not lose God. For God will be true to his beloved.”

This is one of those “how much more” narratives for which the Bible is famous. For when we read that Hosea stood by….waited for….and sought-to-be-one with his wandering woman, the Bible is saying: “How much more will God stand by….wait for….and seek-to-be-one with you?”

Which leads us from Old Testament to New, and from prophet to parable. In Luke’s little story (11:5-13), a neighbor comes to the door at midnight. Banging on the door, he wakes up the man of the house, crying: “Give me some bread. I’ve had somebody come to visit me and my cupboard is bare.” Which doesn’t exactly please the householder who says: “Hey, it’s midnight. The kids are asleep. The wife’s asleep. I’m asleep. You’re waking up half the town. Go away.” But the neighbor persists. And the text reads: “Because of the knocker’s importunity (which is a five dollar word for ‘making a pest out of himself’), the householder gets up, comes downstairs, opens the door, and gives him three loaves of Jewish rye. Point being: if a sleeping neighbor will eventually open the door to a boorish pest, how much more will God stand ready to open the door to you?”

And why will God do that? Because that’s who God is. And that’s what God does. Let me illustrate. I recently became aware of someone who works for the phone company in the area of customer complaints. Hers is a tough job. I wouldn’t have it. For she must represent the policies of the company, while attempting to be sympathetic to the predicaments of the customer. One day a lady called, professing grave problems with her phone service. My friend said that while it was a bad problem, it did not fall within the guidelines of things customarily handled by the company. In other words, it was the customer’s problem, not hers. But the customer….a widow….living alone….on a fixed income….persisted.

My friend said: “During the conversation, the lady said something that really got through to me.” She said: “I’ve always loved and respected the phone company. Since I was a little girl coming home to an empty house, my mother always said: ‘If I’m not home and you ever have a problem, just call the operator at the telephone company and she will help.’”

My friend said: “At that moment a light went on in my brain. For I realized that this was not merely a dispute over money and service, but a discussion about the character of the company. What kind of company were we? Were we still a company that cared….a company that could be trusted….and a company that valued a long-term relationship with its customer?” And when my friend reframed the question that way, she figured out a way to solve the caller’s problem. Leading me to ask: “How much more will your Heavenly Father do to affirm the long-term relationship He has with you?”

I think you know the answer to that. The Gospel says that God will do anything….and stop at nothing….to woo and win this whore-like bride of a church that never tires of finding lovers with which to go asunder. And you know what that means. As does Greg Jones.

Greg Jones is the new Dean of the Divinity School of Duke University. Recently, he attended an Annual Conference of the United Methodist Church. That Conference, like so many church bodies today, was torn apart by the controversies that divide our church and our nation. At the opening session of the Conference, a spotlight was fixed on a stained glass window that was set in a frame on the stage. Shortly after the opening hymn, someone rose from his seat in the auditorium and threw a brick through that window, shattering it into a thousand pieces. Then followed a time of confession with each worshiper confessing his or her own brokenness.

The next night, as they returned to the auditorium for worship, they were given a fragment of that stained glass. During the service there was an offering. Baskets were passed. Everyone was encouraged to put their piece into the basket. The baskets were then taken up to the altar and poured into a metal pan. When the last basket was emptied, a cloth behind the altar dropped, and there was a cross made of pieces of fragmented stained glass.

Like I said….whatever it takes. That’s what God will do. Whatever it takes.

Note: I am deeply indebted to Mark Trotter (First UMC San Diego) for suggestion of theme and for his helpful understanding of the prophetic role in the light of “nature religion.” The juxtaposition of the Hosea texts with the story of the neighbor who knocked at midnight was suggested by the common lectionary. Will Willimon (Pulpit Resource) suggested the “how much more” theme, in the light of the story of the lady who worked for the phone company.