“Nowadays You Can Be Too Careful” 7/18/1993

First United Methodist Church

Birmingham, Michigan

Scriptures: Matthew 25: 14-30

There ought to be a law against preaching from the Gospel of Matthew in the summertime. For Matthew's version of things is always darker and more foreboding than other versions of the same things. There is, for example, more judgment in the Gospel of Matthew than in any other book of the New Testament, save for the Book of Revelation. All of the harsh images are there in Matthew: fire; worms; the outer darkness; weeping; wailing and the gnashing of teeth. Matthew is full of this.

What's more, Matthew violates one of the cardinal rules of good preaching. This is the rule which says: "If you have a negative thing to say and a positive thing to say, put the negative first." Send them home on some good news. You clean off the lot and then you build. You don't build and then clean off the lot. But Matthew does the opposite. He ends on the negative.

Consider the Sermon on the Mount. Where do you find it? In Matthew, that's where. Wonderful stuff. Three marvelous chapters of teaching. But how does Matthew finish it off? With a story about a wise man and a foolish man.  Each man built a house. One built on a rock. One on sand. How does it close? Not with the wise man who built his house on the rock. That's how I would have finished the story. Not Matthew. He closes with the house built on sand. The rains come. The winds howl. And the last visualization of the whole Sermon on the Mount, is that of a house and all of its contents floating downstream. That's Matthew for you.

Or consider Matthew's telling of the story of the ten virgins. Five are wise. Five are foolish. All are waiting for the bridegroom. Good preaching form would suggest that Matthew tell about the foolish ones first. This would enable the preacher to end with a story of the wise virgins, finishing on a rising crescendo of affirmation, which would leave everyone with the memory of a positive example ringing in their ears as they rise to sing the final hymn. But how does Matthew tell it? He gives us a closing scene of five foolish maidens, blood on their knuckles, banging on a locked door.

Or consider another of the stories that are unique to Matthew. The setting is a banquet. A wedding banquet. We are feeling good about the banquet. Why? Because the messenger has gone out to the highways and byways, the streets and the lanes, bringing in everybody. The good the bad and the ugly, all are sitting down to eat. That's good news. And just as they are about to plunge a chilled fork into the salad, the host arrives. He looks over the crowd. He spots a man without a wedding garment on. He walks over and says:       "Friend, how did you get in here?" The man is speechless. Wouldn't you be? Whereupon the host calls to the bouncer and says: "Throw him out." Just like that. "Throw him out." That's how the story ends.

Why does Matthew do that? Why does he feel a need to recast many of Jesus' stories so that they end on a downer? There can be only one answer. It is because Matthew is so concerned about what he finds, or what he does not find, in the church of his day, that he feels it his duty to warn them. Justifiable or not.  True to the merciful elements of the Gospel or not. Good preaching technique or not. Good news or not. That's what he does. Comes on strong. Comes down hard. Warns. Judges. Which is why Matthew ought to be out-of-bounds for summer. Matthew is too heavy for summer. Keep things light and airy in the summer. After all, people don't have to come. They could just as well make a pitcher of ice tea and sit by the pool. I'll have to think about that.

But in the meantime, we have this text from Matthew with which to contend. It is more familiar than the others I have mentioned. It is also harder to like. Concerning this story, Fred Craddock writes:

"There is a kind of shocking discomfort about Matthew's telling of the parable of the talents. It has the judgment, which I have come to expect in Matthew. It closes with the punishment, I have come to expect in Matthew. There has also been a success story or two. Five made ten. Two made four. But the emphasis is not on those who succeeded. The emphasis is on the one who buried it. I am even ready for that in Matthew. What I am not ready for in Matthew, or in any other writer who concerns himself with the Gospel of Jesus Christ, is to say that anybody is going to be bound hand and foot and thrown into the outer darkness (with weeping and gnashing of teeth) simply because they said to the Lord: "I was afraid.  I did what I did because I was scared.'"

And I am right with him. So are you. We're all uncomfortable. Why? Because we're all afraid. Some of us are more afraid than others. But we're all afraid to some degree. I wonder why.

It's not that we were born that way. I think it was in my first college psychology textbook that I saw that picture of a babysitting in the high chair. Locking the baby firmly into place is the little tray that slides in and out, the one on which you put the cereal before the baby puts the cereal in his hair.  But there is, in this picture, no dish of cereal on that tray.  What there is, instead of the cereal, is a coiled snake. And it is clear from the expression on the face of the baby that there is no fear there.

I am afraid of snakes. So are many of you. But we weren't born that way. We had to learn most of our fears. People helped us along by saying things like: "Watch it...look out...don't touch this... don't do that... don't go there... uh-uh-uh..." And many of those messages saved our lives. But some of those messages also scarred our lives.

Some of our fears were taught quite unintentionally. If I take my kids and crawl under the bed during a storm, it isn't going to make much difference if I say: "Now don't be afraid." I've already sent a message to the contrary.

My father was afraid of the water. I don't have the faintest idea why. I never saw him swim in it, or even wade in it. I can't remember seeing him in a boat more than a few times, and then never without a pained look on his face. And while I do not totally share his fear, I recognize that it was a part of my early learning that I had to overcome. And, to this day, I do not dive head first into water.

Sometimes fear can be exhilarating. Listen to a group of kids exiting from a thrill ride at Cedar Point. "I was scared to death. Weren't you? I thought I was going to die. I felt like I was going to lose my breath. I felt like I was going to lose my lunch. Wow! You want to do it again? Yeah, let's do it again."

What's wrong with being afraid? Go back to our text. The frightened servant says to Jesus: "Here! Take your money back. I buried it because I was afraid." What's the problem here? It's not just the fear. Nowhere does the Master say: "Shame on you, you shouldn't have been afraid." Instead, the Master says: "Look, if you were afraid, why didn't you just put my money in the bank. That way I would have gotten it back with interest. The fact is, you let your fear paralyze you... immobilize you... control you. It's not your fear. Of course you're afraid. But your fear became the governing factor of your life, so much so that you considered doing nothing a victory."

Pistons versus the Celtics. Game four of the series. Pistons are up two games to one. What we have is a chance to put the Celtics in a terrible hole. The game is at the Silverdome. Memorial Day.  Monday afternoon. Forty thousand people in the stands. The entire nation watching on TV. And what do the Pistons do? They stink up the joint. They lose- the game... the home court advantage.., the favorite's role... and the respect of their fans. They score but ten points in the first quarter. More importantly, they score but ten points in the last quarter, when thanks to the nearly equal ineptitude of the Celtics, the game was still there to be won. In the locker room after the game, with the rafters draped in crepe. Isiah Thomas said: "We were not playing to win. We were playing not to lose."

What did I say a moment ago? Sometimes fear becomes such a dominant factor in our lives, that we consider doing nothing a victory. We play not to lose.

Can you imagine a politician so consumed with the fear of not being elected, that no mailings are sent. "After all, I may not get elected. If I send all these letters, think of the bill I'll be stuck with." No radio or television spots are purchased. "After all air time is expensive. What if I am not elected?" No campaign workers go out with circulars to place on windshields of cars in the parking lot. "After all, what if I am not elected? I could end up owing hundreds of thousands of dollars." Then the election is held. The politician is not elected. He is heard to say: "Thank goodness, I don't have that huge bill."

Imagine a businessman, similarly consumed by fear, going into the grocery business. "You know, if I rent a building on a main street. I'll be out a lot of money." So he rents a little place on an alley. Then he says to himself: "You know, if I bring in a lot of produce and it doesn't sell, I could be left holding the bag." So he gets a few dark bananas, a couple of cabbage heads, and a can of peas. "You know, those electric cash registers that do everything including talk to people, those things are expensive." So he gets himself a cigar box. Then he says: "You know, you can't pay people today at the wages they want."  He gets his brother-in-law to run things. Then he takes a crayon and letters on a piece of cardboard: "Open for business." Misspells "business." The store fails. He goes home and says to his wife: "Congratulations, woman, you're married to a wise man. You and I could have been out a lot of money."

Can you imagine a minister in this church, or any other church, going home and saying to the spouse: "Congratulations. We just went another week without anything happening."

Fear!  It permeates every other crippling emotion we know. What is jealousy, if not the fear that you will leave me the first time someone more attractive comes along? What is greed, if not the fear that if I don't stuff away everything I can get my hands in the good times,  I will have nothing to fall back on in the bad times? What is anxiety, if not the fear of failing.., or losing.. or dying? Especially dying.

"Child, why did you lie to me?"

"Because I was afraid."

"Student, why did you cheat on this exam?"

"Because I was afraid."

"Servant, why did you bury my treasure?"

"Because I was afraid."

Afraid!  I was out mowing the lawn. It was about a week or so ago. And I looked up to see a nine pound sparrow walking down the street. I said: "Aren't you kind of heavy for a sparrow?" He said: "That's why I am out walking, trying to get a little of this weight off." I said: "Why don't you fly?" "Fly." he cried. "I've never flown. Seems to me that lots of things can happen to you when you fly. What do you think I am?" So I asked him what his name was. He said: "Mr. Church. My name is Mr. Church."

"Not along ago," says Fred Craddock. "my wife was away. I figured I'd have one of my big meals while she was gone. So I stopped into the Winn-Dixie Supermarket to get me a jar of peanut butter. But I didn't know where they kept the peanut butter. They have so much stuff in these supermarkets nowadays, and they change things around all the time, that you never can find anything. I tried to read the generic signs that they hang midway down each aisle. But I have yet to see one of those signs that says 'peanut butter.' Besides it was about 5:30 when I got to the store, which meant that the place was filled with people.

So I happened upon a women pushing a cart. She looked like she must be at home here. So I said to her: 'Pardon me, ma'am, could you tell me where the peanut butter is?'

She looked around at me and said: 'Are you trying to bit on me?'

So I said: 'Lady. I'm just looking for the peanut butter.' And just about that time a stock boy came along. He must have overheard part of the conversation, because he mumbled in passing: 'Peanut butter... aisle 5... about halfway down on the left.' So I went to aisle 5... halfway down on the left.  And there it was. Right where he said. So I got me a big jar of peanut butter. And suddenly along came the woman with the

shopping cart. She looked at me and said:       'You really were looking for the peanut butter.'

I said: 'I told you I was looking for the peanut butter.' And she said: 'Well, nowadays you can't be too careful.' And I said: 'Lady, yes you can. Yes, you can.'"

The world tells us to "take care." And Jesus tells us to "take care." But strange, isn't it? When the world says "take care." it means one thing. And when Jesus says "take care." it means something altogether different. The world says: "Better safe than sorry." And Jesus says: "No way."

"You should have multiplied what I gave you. You should have worked it, ventured it, risked it, advanced it, taken it further."

A little boy fell out of bed one night. His daddy heard the thud and hurried to his rescue. Fortunately, little harm was done. The next morning his daddy said to him at breakfast: "Why do you think you fell out of bed last night?" And the little boy said: "I think it was because I stayed too close to where I got in."

Which is why most of us fall from bed... from grace... from life itself... with a thud... to the floor.., to the bottom... or even to the outer darkness, wherever that may be.

Jailbreak

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan
Scripture: Acts 16:16-40

One of the great delights of my early years in Detroit was seeing Tommy Teeter land in jail, especially when he had to go directly to jail.... could not pass "Go".... and was not allowed to collect $200. Meanwhile, I could take his turn as well as mine, all the while amassing money, purchasing properties, and putting houses (and even hotels) on properties already owned. For unlike Tommy Teeter, I had no fear of landing in jail. That's because on one of my earlier trips around the board, it had been my good fortune to draw a "Get Out of Jail Free" card.

The game (as you probably know) was Monopoly. And Tommy Teeter (as you probably don't know) was my friend. One summer, when we were somewhere around 11 or 12, we played Monopoly every time it rained. During one particularly-drizzly period, we played for three days on end, pausing only to eat and sleep. "Jail" was at the lower corner of the Monopoly board, and being forced to go there often meant the forfeiture of several turns. In short, being jailed meant that one was no longer free to play the game....no longer free to move around....no longer free to buy and sell....and no longer free to make (or lose) a fortune. While sitting in jail, one was out of the flow (so to speak), meaning that others went on while you sat still.

And so it is that in this game called life, the thought of "Jail" is equally abhorred by most of us. It represents the very antithesis of freedom. We'd just as soon not go there. And we'd just as soon not have anybody we know go there. Still there seem to be some who grow to like it. Overseers of the prison system report that no small number of potentially releasable inmates resist "parole" like the plague. And many who are let out, quickly commit crimes that will insure their return.... not always because they are bad people.... not always because they run with a bad crowd.... but because they perceive the free world to be a bad place and prison to be a better place. Which makes no sense to me. But what do I know?

A couple of weeks ago, Free Press columnist Susan Ager wrote about some common male fantasies. Don't get nervous. They were not what you think. One concerned a bank heist. That's right. A rather upscale, successful male acquaintance of Susan Ager has a fantasy about committing a bank robbery or two.... however many it will take before a judge sends him up the river for a few years.  Ideally, he envisions a resort-like prison of the kind that he believes once housed the Watergate conspirators.... a prison whose residents are all good conversationalists....whose library is well stocked with the latest best sellers....and whose pool is both clean and Olympic-sized. In short, he wants a prison where he can read, write letters, build his body, and maybe even get a law degree.  A prison where he can be.... well.... free. Free of what, you might ask? Free of anxieties and responsibilities, he might answer. And while you might counter by saying that no such prison exists (and that he wouldn't really be happy were he to find one), the fact remains that such fantasies are not entirely foreign to any of us, and (on those days when the world is altogether-too-much with us) might even be desirable.

All of which would seem to say that jail is not always as bad as it seems, and that freedom is not always as good as it seems. And that's a strange idea to contemplate, especially on the 4th of July. For freedom is not only a heritage we claim, but the principle which we believe sets us apart from (and perhaps one step above) those poor folk who have less of it that we do. There will be a lot of sloganeering before this day is done about "preserving and protecting freedom." As well there should be.  Few, will temper that prescription with a warning about freedom's more dangerous side effects. And almost no one in this freedom-loving-land will even hint that we do not know what true freedom is. No one, that is, save Luke, who is the author of this marvelous little tale in the book of Acts.  I have never preached this story before....until this morning, that is.

It's a great tale, really.... all about freedom and bondage, jails and earthquakes, complete with a mob, a sword, and even a hymn sing for good measure. So listen up. But keep at least one ear tuned to the issue of who (in this story) is free, and who is not.

We begin with Paul and Silas on their way to church. Sort of like us. Color them free. No one is making them go. No one is making us go. And if there should be a teenager in the house today who has been dragged here under threat of losing the car keys for a week, see me later. I'll see what I can do to get your money back.

Anyway, on their way to church, Paul and Silas are accosted by a slave girl. Color her unfree. She is a slave because she works the streets for money and then gives the money back to others (presumably men) who are described as her "owners." We have names for such ladies (and such owners) in this country. But wait. Things are not what they seem. This slave girl makes money on the streets, not with her body, but with her mind. She tells people's fortunes.... reads people's palms.... that kind of thing. It is believed that she knows how to do this because she is a little "unbalanced" (as they say). She is mentally ill. Her elevator doesn't go all the way to the top floor. But in the vernacular of her day (when mental illness was far less understood than it is now), she is described as being "possessed by a demon." Which is not all that bad a description (whatever you may think of its psychiatric accuracy). That's because mental illness often feels as if some sort of intruder has walked in (unannounced) and assumed control.  If you have ever been terribly depressed.... or if you have ever been pulled this way and that in some schizophrenic-tug-of-war with reality.... you know that it feels like having been overtaken by some dark, intrusive force, against which you are powerless to compete.

Paul, after putting up with enough of this mad woman's raving, cures her in the name of Jesus. And the Bible says that she is "well," that very hour. Which, in a way, becomes her first real hour of freedom. And which, in another way, becomes Paul and Silas' last. For Luke writes that "when her owners see that any further hope of making money from her is gone," they seize Paul and Silas and drag them into the marketplace before the authorities. The owners, of course, represent the business community, who react instinctively when their cash cow is threatened. Which clearly blinds them to the fact that, were their money not involved, they would probably be rejoicing in her good fortune. After all, mental illness is bad. Sanity is good. And getting free from demons is customarily a reason to throw a party. But these owners are not "free" to do that. It is one thing to send an annual $100 check to the local mental health association. It is another thing to set this particular "crazy lady" free. It was the same feeling the Pork Dealers Association had when Jesus drove the demons out of the crazy man of Gadara, causing those same demons to take up residence in a nearby herd of pigs. As you remember the story, the demons drove the pigs over a cliff, causing them to plunge headlong into the sea. Which was a whole lot of pork chops down the river.

So the owners of the girl make their case before the magistrates, all the while arousing the crowd which is hovering on the fringe. Paul and Silas are painted as disturbers of the peace.... as Jews.... as foreigners.... and as "people who understand neither our laws or our customs." Talk about working up a crowd. In one short speech, the owners have managed to link nationalism with anti-Semitism ("everybody knows how the Jews are,") in a way that makes Paul and Silas look like the enemy of everything that is essential to truth, justice, and the Philippian way.

And if the magistrates know a judicial travesty when they hear one, even a right-thinking judge is going to think twice before rendering a ruling that will rile an angry mob. For the story suggests that it is the mob which is turning things into a mini-riot, leading to Paul and Silas being stripped, flogged, and jailed.... with orders given to the jailer to look after them securely.

And so our story ends with Paul and Silas rotting away in a Philippian prison until their hairs grow white, their nails grow green, and they eventually renounce their faith in return for an extra ration of leftover beenie-weenies.

No, that 's not how it ends. Instead, the story says that along about midnight Paul and Silas are praying and singing hymns to God, and the other prisoners are listening to them. Picture it. Stripped, bruised, chained, and with their legs in stocks (forcing them to be stretched uncomfortably apart), Paul and Silas are leading a hymn sing.

A few years ago, Bishop Emilio de Carvalho, Methodist Bishop of Angola, was asked if there were any tensions between the church and the new Marxist government of his nation. He said: “Of course there are tensions. Not long ago the government decreed that we should disband all women’s organizations in our churches. But the women kept on meeting.” Then he added that the government was not, at that point, strong enough to do anything about it.

“And if the government becomes strong enough....”, he was asked? “Then we shall just keep on meeting (he responded). The government does what it needs to do. The church does what it needs to do.  If we go to jail for being the church, then we go to jail. Jail is a wonderful place for Christian evangelism. Our church made some of its most dramatic gains during the revolution when so many of us were in jail. In jail, you have everyone in one place. You have time to preach and teach. You have time to organize. You have time to evangelize. We came out of jail a much larger and stronger church.”

But back to our story.  Along about midnight (how’s that for high drama?) the earth heaves....the prison shakes....the doors fly open....and every last chain falls off every last prisoner. Which not only shakes up the prison population, but wakes up the jailer. The jailer is horrified at this chain of events. And knowing what can happen to jailers who let their prisoners escape, he draws his sword in disgrace and prepares to fall on it. At which time Paul shouts: “Hey, don’t kill yourself. Youhaven’t lost any prisoners. We’re still in here singing Kum Ba Yah.”

All of which must have blown the mind of the jailer. Just five minutes earlier, Paul and Silas were bound in chains and he was free to come and go. Now they are free to go, and he feels bound to die. Except that they don’t choose to go. So he doesn’t have to die.

And the jailer (recognizing a good thing when he sees it) says to Paul and Silas: “What must I do to be saved?” Meaning, “tell me where I have to go, and what I have to do, to get what you’ve got. Because while I’ve got a decent job (with tenure, cost-of-living adjustments, pension benefits, and a chance to make Warden if I don’t screw up), you guys have got something the likes of which I have never seen before....which seems to make you a whole lot happier (in the worst of circumstances) than what I’ve got is making me (in the best of circumstances).”  And so the jailer is baptized by the jailees.

Thus, at our tale’s end, everyone in the story who first appeared to be free (the girl’s owners, the judges, the jailer) are shown to be slaves. And everyone who first appeared to be enslaved (the crazy lady, Paul and Silas) are shown to be free. Leading a colleague of mine to observe that Jesus has a way of doing that to people.

What’s the point? You’re a bright congregation. The point ought to be obvious. The point is that real freedom has less to do with what goes on around us, than with what goes on within us. Furthermore, real freedom has nothing to do with the number of our choices, and everything to do with the quality of our choices.

But in case you still missed the point, let me give you (in closing) one look at a pair of multiple-choice lives and a contrasting look at what would appear to be a no-choice life.

The multiple-choice lives belong to a young couple I know. They were never my members or I wouldn’t be telling their story. I married them several years and two kids ago. They had good responsible jobs then. They have good responsible jobs now. Both work in what might be called the helping professions. Your paths could very easily cross theirs. But the only reason our paths crossed after no-small-passage of time, was that they suddenly needed my help. They had gotten themselves into a bit of a fix. Since I had seen them last, they had begun to drink a lot and party a lot. Which was how they began to drink and party with one particular neighbor couple. Which was how they began watching videos while drinking and partying with this particular couple. Which videos, overtime, became increasingly x-rated, portraying life in the loose lane as a most attractive alternative for liberated people. Which led to some talking. ..some teasing....some tempting. ...and (eventually) some swapping. Which lead (in turn) to some jealousy....some guilt....some anger.... and (eventually) some violence. Which is how the screaming, drunken ugliness of it all exploded onto the front lawn at 5:00 a.m. early one Sabbath morning, with the wife sobbing and the husband beating on the cops who were in the process of arresting and jailing him.

Happy to say, it was a wake up bell for their marriage. For while things are still too raw to call, I’d be willing to bet on them making it. At least they’re working hard. And in reflecting on what went wrong, the wife said: “I guess we just kind of overdosed on the ‘90’s. For in a world where anybody is pretty much free to do anything, we got carried away and tried a little bit of everything. And we nearly lost it all.”

But contrast their story with the no-choice life of Viktor Frankl....that most-amazing author who survived so much and wrote so eloquently on the subject of the German death camps of World War II. Over time, Viktor Frankl lost everything that was of value.  Work. Wife. Family. Friends. Freedom. In periodic attempts to break his spirit, he was put on “wheelbarrow duty” with his cargo being the skeletal remains of those who had been previously selected to have their miserable plight terminated by death. But the decision which kept him alive was his decision that his captors, who had claimed everything else, could not have his spirit. And that the one freedom that he could hold on to, was the freedom to choose the way he would look upon his situation and the meaning he would attach to it. With that decision made, he wrote: “I was a free man.... more so, even, than the guards who brought my daily ration of food and water, and who occasionally struck me in the act of delivering it to me.”

All of which would have made perfect sense to the Apostle Paul....and no sense, whatsoever, to Tommy Teeter. But, then, Tommy Teeter could never sing hymns, especially when he was in jail.

Editor’s note: This sermon owes a debt of gratitude to William Willimon’s treatment of the same text in a sermon prepared for delivery at the Duke University Chapel and subsequentlyreprinted in his book Preaching To Strangers.

About That Messy Business in the Temple 4/2/1999

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Matthew 21:12-17

Note:  This message was delivered at First Baptist Church, Birmingham as part of a community-wide Good Friday service. The three-hour format was divided into six segments, with each segment’s message highlighting a different event that took place during Holy Week. The assignment for the 12:30 segment was to address Matthew’s description of the “cleansing of the Temple.”

* * * * *

Interesting, isn’t it, that we’re still talking about the Temple after all these years? I mean, it hasn’t stood since 70 AD. But as a memory for some….and as a dream for others….it looms larger in its non-existence than it ever did when it was here.

I have been there, you know. Four times now. And I could take you, anytime you’d like to go. Not that we’d see all that much….of the original, that is. That’s because there’s but one wall left….a part of a wall, really. Called the Western Wall or the Wailing Wall, it is an incredibly holy sight (even for a non-Jew). I have never failed to approach it without going all the way to the stones themselves, pressing my forehead against the rock in a posture of prayer. And I’ve yet to go to the Wall without taking a few slips of paper from people back in the States…. prayer requests was what they were….to slip between the cracks until God read them or the rains destroyed them.

If you’re a man, you can’t go to the Wall bareheaded. Even Christian men need yarmulkes. Which few have. So they supply you with a cardboard version, free of charge. Which never fits very well. And which never stays on your head very long. But every one of my male friends who has been to the Wall has a picture of himself in a yarmulke, somewhere in a drawer or a scrapbook. I could show you mine. But I trust you won’t ask.

The first time I went to the Wall, I was privileged to witness a bar mitzvah. For there can be no more holy experience for a young Israeli Jew than to be bar mitzvahed in the old city, in the shadow of the Western Wall. There we were, under sunny skies. The young boy was reading from the scroll. The rabbis were standing around him. His father was standing beside him. His brothers and his uncles were standing behind him. There were cousins there….neighbors there….friends of the family there….and me, I was there too. The only thing that distinguished us was our gender. Every last one of us was male. As I remember it, the boy had a mother….some sisters….several aunts….and a passel of girl cousins. But they weren’t as close as I was. They were in the general vicinity. But they were standing beyond a fence. Where they had access to the Wall….on their side. But only on their side. Ancient traditions run deep. Along with ancient divisions.

Why am I telling you this? Because you need to know something about divisions in the Temple, then as well as now. When we talk about Jesus chasing the money changers from the Temple, we not only need to know what he did, but where he did it. And why. Which means that a little stage-setting would seem to be in order.

The Temple, you see, was not one space, but many. Picture it as a series of ascending courtyards. Your first entry was into the outer courtyard….the place that was called the Court of the Gentiles. You could be admitted there….because anybody could be admitted there. But if you were a Gentile….which virtually all of you are….you could not go beyond there. For it was “death” for a Gentile to penetrate further.

Next came the Court of the Women, entered by the arch that they called the Beautiful Gate. Any Israelite could go there. This was followed by the Court of the Israelites, entered by Nicanor’s Gate (a gate of Corinthian bronze which required 20 men to open and shut it). It was in this court that the people assembled for Temple services. Lastly, came the Court of the Priests, into which only the priests might enter. There could be found the great altar of the burnt-offering….the lesser altar of the incense-offering….the seven-branched lamp stand….and the table of the shew bread. It was at the back of the Court of the Priests that the Holy of Holies stood, accessible only to the High Priest, and only once a year. To enter the Holy of Holies was to approach the very throne of God. Which is why legend has it that more than one rabbi attached a rope to his ankle before passing through the veil, thus ensuring that (should he be struck dead by the power of God while praying) his colleagues would be able to pull him out without endangering themselves.

So when Jesus went into the Temple for purposes of “cleansing,” where did he go? Not to the Holy of Holies. Not to the Court of the Priests. Not to the Court of the Israelites. Not even to the Court of the Women. Jesus went into the outer court…the Court of the Gentiles.

And when did he go there? Well, it depends on which Gospel you read. John would have you believe that he went following his temptation in the wilderness….as the very first act of his public ministry. John was probably wrong. But John had good literary reasons for playing fast and loose with history. In today’s texts….Matthew’s text….it is suggested that Jesus entered the Court of the Gentiles on Sunday….Palm Sunday….presumably later in the afternoon. In Mark’s text, Jesus enters on Monday, presumably in the morning (having paid a brief visit….a scouting visit?….the previous afternoon). For reasons too complex to go into here, I like Mark’s chronology. Therefore, let’s assume it’s Monday.

But I’m not quite arranging the stage. First, you need to know something about money changers. They were extremely visible. For they were extremely necessary. Every Jew, you see, had to pay a temple tax of a half sheckel. That tax had to be paid near to the Passover time. About a month before Passover, booths were set up in various towns and villages and the tax could be paid there. But after a certain date, it could only be paid in the Temple. What’s more, it had to be paid in a certain currency. It could not be paid in ingot silver, but only in stamped silver. It could not be paid in coins of inferior alloy or coins which had been clipped. It could be paid in Galilean half sheckels, but Tyrian currency was preferred.

The function of the money changers was to change unsuitable currency into proper currency. For this, a small fee was charged. Which was certainly understandable. And for pilgrims…. flocking to Jerusalem from distant places….exceedingly helpful. The surplus charge was called the Qolbin. Call it “profit.” Or call it a “handling fee.” At issue was not the existence of the handling fee…. but the amount. Quite frankly, some of the handlers took advantage of the time.…the place….the season….and the opportunity….to gouge the masses. All of you have heard the phrase “What the traffic will bear.” And in the Court of the Gentiles at Passover time, the traffic bore plenty.

The selling of doves was another matter. For most visits to the Temple, some kind of offering wasexpected. Doves, for example, were necessary when a woman came for purification after childbirth (which is why Mary and Joseph brought a couple of young pigeons with the baby Jesus, “at the time of her purification”). It was easy enough to buy animals for sacrifice outside the Temple. But any animal offered for sacrifice must be without blemish. Believe it or not, there were official animal inspectors at the courtyard gates. And it was not uncommon for inspectors to be “on the take”….so that they would reject animals purchased elsewhere, thereby forcing persons to the stalls within the Temple itself.

No great harm would have been done if the prices inside the Temple matched the prices outside the Temple. But the price could double, once you passed through the Temple gates. Once more, the opportunity for “rip offs” was magnified. And the fact that abuses had gone on for years did not excuse them in anybody’s eyes….especially Jesus’.

Which is why he reacted as he did. He was not against the practice of money changing or animal selling, per se. What he was against was the greed that gouged those who were simply trying to comply with Temple expectations, the better to perform proper worship. As to what kind of ruckus was caused, one can only imagine. I’ve seen a lot of paintings which suggest swirls of commotion….birds flying everywhere….coins rolling everywhere….people running everywhere ….along with much noise and public consternation. As to whether he upset the entire multitude, who can say? But he upset the people of vested interest….who, as it turned out, were people who were willing to make their displeasure known.

* * * * *

What does all this mean? I’m not entirely sure. But let me offer a trio of suggestions.

First, it depicts Jesus in an exceedingly angry state. Which is strange to see. But which is also good to see. Because I am no stranger to anger. And neither are you. Which means that Jesus is like me. Occasionally. Sort of.

The only difference being that the things that irritate Jesus are not necessarily the things that irritate me. Which may mean that, as irritations go, I ought to elevate mine. Because I certainly wouldn’t want Jesus to lower his.

Second, there is this sharply drawn line between “a house of prayer and a den of robbers.” Which is sometimes overplayed by purists. I mean, we’re never going to separate commerce from the church completely. On any given Sunday morning at First Methodist, you can leave the sanctuary and buy and sell anything in Fellowship Hall. We sell tickets to dinners. We sell silent auction items for the Endowment Fund. We sell baked goods at the Hunger Table. We sell garden produce for urban missions. We sell sponsorships for walkers and fasters. We sell bricks for the courtyard and flowers for the memorial garden. We sell citrus fruit for choir robes. And, at certain seasons of the year, we let the Boy Scouts sell Christmas wreaths and the Girl Scouts sell cookies. When you walk into Fellowship Hall, it can feel like an old-world bazaar. And every few weeks, someone is sure to tell me that I should “do something about the money changers in the Temple.”

But I never have. I have yet to crack the whip. And I have yet to overturn my first table. Not because I have sold out to the market place. But because I understand the text. Some things exist for the legitimate convenience of the parishioners. Which was true in Jesus’ day. And which is true in ours.

But, as a pastor, I must always keep my eye out for excesses….for manipulations….and for corruptions of a good thing. If somebody comes to church to see God….and whatever they experience distorts God….where is there left to go? I do not know the location of the line that separates the holy from the common. But I hope I can still recognize the line that separates the holy from the profane. On the day when such is no longer the case, I trust that someone will tell me that it’s time to sit down (until I regain my sight).

Finally, I would raise this little matter of four words that Matthew drops from the text. When you read the story in Mark’s gospel, the sentence reads: “My house shall be called a house of prayer for all the nations.” For some reason, Matthew has dropped “for all the nations.” But it is ironic, is it not, that all of this exploitation was taking place in the only section of the Temple where non-Jews could worship. Meaning that the people who were most inconvenienced by the presence of the predators were those who were furthest from the faith and relative novices to its practices.

In our day….and in this community….I keep hearing that certain churches are promoting themselves as being “user friendly” to those who have been “turned off” by other congregations ….other denominations….other preachers. And I find myself pondering: “How did this come to be? Why did these people get so angry? Did I do that? Or did I stand by while others did that?”

I don’t know if I did or not. But something happened in that “outer courtyard” of my church…. when they came and did not stay….sought and did not find….hurt and were not helped….or worshiped and went away disenchanted. Not one iota of which was intentional. Surely, nothing I did turned them off. But do I know that for sure?

* * * * *

Finally, I keep coming back to this thing about “robbers” in the Lord’s house. Which surely there were….surely there are….and surely I have been. But the only saving grace for that horrible thought, is that it was but a matter of days before another robber hung on a cross….adjacent to Jesus….and received the promise of Paradise.

Is There Life After High School? 6/13/1999

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture:  I Corinthians 1: 18-31, John 6: 1-14

I do not know when life begins.  I think it was George Burns who, one day, put down his cigar long enough to suggest that life begins at eighty.  I think it was Art Linkletter, among others, who argued that life begins at forty.  There are a lot of kids who think that life begins when they get out of the house, andmore than a few parents who agree with them.  And I have a good friend who contends that life begins when the last kid leaves home and the dog dies. Which explains why, when his youngest son graduated from high school, I suggested that somebody ought to sniff Chipper’s dog dish from time to time.

Seriously, let me begin with an apology for the “cute-sy” nature of my sermon title. The implied question is rhetorical. It is also dumb. Of course there is life after high school. There is also life after college. There is life after graduate school. There is even life after ordination. There is life after thirty. There is life after forty. And, God be praised, there is even life after fifty-eight. 

But my title does have something behind it. Life’s major transitions always have a hint of death in them. Before one can graduate to something, one must graduate from something. And where there are separations, there are bound to be separation anxieties. For every graduate who shouts: “I can’t wait to get out of here,” or “Free at last,” there is another graduate who says (so that no one can hear): “I am afraid to leave.” More often than not, those feelings reside in the same person. My son’s high school class President, a lovely girl named Dawn Sherman, said, in the midst of a marvelous graduation speech: “Do you realize that tonight is the very last time we will ever all be together again?” And the sound of 325 people sucking in their breath at the same time, spoke with an eloquence that more than matched her words.

To be sure, there is life after high school. But there is just enough death in the transition, so as to make whatever comes nextlook a little bit like being reborn. The whole business of graduation is powerful and promising. But it ismore than a little bit painful.

And what is ityou are graduating to? There are some who would say that you are graduating to the “real world.” But I would suggest that such thinking is fraudulent and badly in need of correction. Allow me to volunteer for the job of Corrections Officer.

The “real world”  is not out there!  If it is, what does that have to say about your world? Are you living in a fantasy world? A play world? A preparatory world? There are few things I like less about the ministry than the suggestion that members of the clergy have no working knowledge of the “real world.” And you, dear graduates, should be no less offended at such a suggestion than I.

To graduate from high school means, among other things, that many of you have already:

·         coped with the divorce, or severe discord in the marriage of your parents.

·         watched an ambulance pull up to your high school and haul off one of your friends.

·         watched them close your school….or conduct a day’s worth of classes under armed guards….because one of your classmates phoned in a threat to blow it up or shoot it up.

·         found at least two jobs….quit at least one job….and groused about the wages you received at all of them.

·         experienced your first (ever) brush with failure or rejection.

·         confronted the blunt edge of your own limitations.

·         didn’t get the grade you wanted….the part you wanted….the letter of acceptance you wanted….the date you wanted….or the position on the team you wanted.

·         broken a law, gotten a ticket or crunched a fender.

·         caused someone close to you to cry, curse, or wring their hands.

·         been forced to make some rather personal decisions (under the influence of some very powerful pressures) about whether you would drink too much, go too far or stoop too low….only to discover that destiny (as a teenager) often turns on what you uncap, uncork, or unzip.

If those things don’t constitute slices of the real world, I don’t know what the “real world” looks like. So, if someone tells you that you are not a part of the real world yet, what they mean is that you are not fully earning your way. Which is probably true. But it carries with it the extremely dangerous assumption, that the only thing separating you from the real world is money and the fact that you are not making very much of it. As assumptions go, that is not a very good one to get trapped into believing. For it implies that retirees, housewives, and others who are not a part of the full-time work force, are also without a position in the real world. But that is another sermon, and in order to hear it you will have to come back another day.

Whether or not you are making any money, you are learning a great deal. And you must have gotten to be halfway decent at it, oryou would not be graduating. So do not let anyone disparage that (either graduating or learning). I issue that as a warning. For I fear that serious learning is somewhat under fire these days, especially if there does not appear to be an obvious and immediate connection between serious learning and financial benefits to be gained therefrom.

Much of Christianity (which certainly ought to know better) has climbed onto this rolling train of anti-intellectualism. This has become attractive to some Christians, because the faith they preach cannot stand the scrutiny of too-scholarly a glance. And they know it. “Don’t go to school,” some churches tell their would-be pastors. “It’ll only ruin you.” And I can understand how learning can get a bad press. After all, the Apostle Paul reminds us that knowledge is one of the things that will pass away, while love is one of the things that will abide. Elsewhere in his letter to the Corinthians, Paul suggests that“God has made foolish the wisdom of the world.” It is Paul’s way of telling us that knowledge is not God, and that reason has its limits. After all, if you dissect a frog, you will have a great deal of information on how frogs are put together. But you won’t have a frog anymore. And if you subject your faith to too much dissection, you might not have a faith anymore. Or so the argument goes. 

Paul, of course, is talking about one particular group of Greek-Christians who are much into mind games. He is talking about people who claim they can think their way propositionally, step by logical step, to God. But Paul saysit won’t work. Logic can lead you a lot of places. But logic will never lead you, no matter how carefully crafted it may be, to a God who loves.  Although a cross will.

But having spoken his piece about the folly of worshipping knowledge, Paul is not saying we ought to be fools. Neither is he writing a brief in defense of stupidity. For the human mind is a wonderful thing. I would submit that the human mind may be the most indisputable proof that a Divine Mind is guiding the unfolding process of creation. As Harold Kushner writes, “When you realize that human beings are born weaker, slower, more naked (in terms of protective body hair) and ever-so-much more vulnerable than most other creatures, you come to understand that apart from our intellect….and the ability to apply it….we wouldn’t be able to survive at all.” Or, as my late Aunt Marion used to say to people in perilous predicaments: “You dumb cluck….why don’t you use the brains God gave you?” Now I doubt that my Aunt Marion ever went to church a Sunday in her life. But, at that point, she was a pretty fair theologian.

But enough, dear graduates, from the soapbox. Let me turn, in closing, to a different matter.  Allow me to ask what you are going to do with all this present and future learning. I am talking “vocation” here. Not vacation (as in chilling out….kicking back….blowing the summer off…. sleeping ‘til noon), but vocation (as in what are you going to do with your life, most days, from nine o’clock to five). 

Vocation is a fancy word I use to describe “the work I do.” But what I would have you remember is that the linguistic root of “vocation” is “vocare.” Which is not so much the work I do, as the call I answer. 

For I still believe that God calls people. I believe he calls them to do all kinds of things. And while I don’t have time this morning to flush out all of the ways that works, I do have some “feel” for how it works in my business….the ministry business.

God nudges people in all kinds of ways. Come fall, both Pam Beedle-Gee and Sarah Moore are heading for seminary. Pam is going to Garrett. Sarah is going to Duke. Sarah is young….just starting out. Pam’s young at heart….but (as years go) has already circled life’s track a few times.  In Sarah’s case, God used some great experiences working with our youth group to divert herfrom the world of architecture. In Pam’s case, God used some great experiences in Girl Scouts, in Bible study, and as a two-year member of our Costa Rica work team to convince her and John (in Abraham-like fashion) to put the house up….load the wagon up….get her hopes up….and head (three or four years down the road) for some church’s pulpit.

And time would fail me, were I to tell you Todd Query’s story. Todd is heading down the home stretch, meaning that he will soon complete his final year at Methesco (in Delaware, Ohio) and wait to see what God will do with him next. Todd’s story is different. But then, every story is different. Especially Elmer’s. Having just finished his career in seminary, Elmer will start his career in ministry a couple of weeks from now. The church is in Croswell. Where I hope they are patient. Because Elmer is still getting his English whipped into shape. Elmer was born in Honduras with incredible health problems. More than once, he was written off as dead. But, as he puts it: “My mother’s faith in the Divine Doctor established my life.” After graduating from college in Honduras with a degree in Elementary Education, Elmer taught for awhile. But political instability in his country led him to set out for America. He landed in Texas….as an “illegal.” So he flew to New York City….as an “illegal.” The person he stayed with in New York finally said he couldn’t put him up any more. So Elmer went to the bus station, plunked all the money he had on the counter, and said: “Where go?” The agent on the other side of the counter counted all Elmer’s money, consulted his book of fares and said: “Detroit.”

Arriving here, he sat down on a bench until someone said: “Where are you going?”
“Detroit,” Elmer answered. “You’re in Detroit,” the man said, and pointed him in the general direction of Vernor Highway. Which was how it came to pass that Elmer Armijo wandered into our Methodist Church in Mexican Village….the one we call El Buen Pastor (the Good Shepherd)….and which is where he met Reverend Saul Trinidad, whose first words to him (in Spanish) were: “Brother, are you hungry?” 

Eventually, Elmer landed a place to live, a place to work, a green card to make him legal, and a set of friends to make him loved. All of which came through the church….where he worshipped….where he worked….and where God found him (not that God had ever lost him) and tabbed him for ministry. Now, years later, he has jumped through all the hoops, cut through all the tape, passed through all the classes, and (a few week’s back) when Elmer said, “Where go?”, the Bishop said: “Croswell.”

I don’t know what you are being called to. I don’t know what is going on inside of you at this present moment of your life. I don’t know what is cracking loose in you…. or comfortably congealing in you.  I don’t know what major idea is playing with you…. toying with you…. or drumming its fingers for attention on the armorplate that covers the soft underbelly of your soul.  But I do know that whatever that idea is, you had better listen to it.

Permit me to return, once again, to the vocation I know best. And if you will be so kind,      permit me to be momentarily crude in order to make a more lasting point. Allow me to quote for you, Rev. Tex Sample, who has done so much to touch my heart. Said Tex: “The call to the ministry is a lot like the feeling you get when you are about to throw up. You know you can put it off for a while….but sooner or later….”

My friends, there are many magnesias that will coat your call, so that it cannot be heard or heeded. Throw them away. Then ask yourself: “What is it that I have to keep swallowing back, lest it bubble up to the place where I can no longer ignore it.” For as crude as that image is memorable, there is one place where it breaks down. For the true calls of God (to ministry….or to anything else) tend to bubble up as joy.

I once had a friend who had reached a crossroads in her life. This way or that? This job or that?  And I couldn’t make her decision for her. Nor was she asking me to. What I did was help her to listen to herself….to what she was saying about both alternatives. Or, more to the point, to the way she was saying it. For no matter how logically she tried to present both opportunities, there was an unmistakable bubble of joy that accompanied her telling of the one, that I found impossible to trace in her telling of the other.

So, my graduating friends, listen to your stomachs. Then listen to your joy. Because somewhere between nausea and laughter, you may hear something you can put off for awhile. But sooner or later….