“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.

Maybe I Do Live In A Fantasy World 6/27/1999

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture:  Romans 12: 1-2, 9-21

Under the general heading of“the older one gets, the faster time flies,” I would note that this morning begins my seventh year in this place….doing this thing….in the midst of this congregation….and in the service of this Lord.  Not a long time by some standards (given that my four immediate predecessors all hung around for a decade or more.)  But given the turn-over rate nationally (for Methodist preachers and others of note), seven ought to count for something.  My Presbyterian colleague next door arrived one month before I did.  And he announced, just last week, that he is moving on. 

Major league baseball….which loves statistics….now has a new category of“ stats” to measure and record.  It’s called “quality starts.”  A quality start is any time a starting pitcher finishes six innings and yields three runs or less.  The implication being that lasting into the seventh inning is unusual, bordering on the exceptional.  Friday night, Brian Moeller went nine innings for the Tigers.  And that was the first time it had happened all season.

My friends in the school business tell me that both superintendencies and college presidencies tend to be shorter than they have ever been in history….3-5 years, on average.  Meaning that wanting such jobs is one thing, getting them is a second thing, but keeping them is a third (and infinitely harder) thing.  What’s more, it is now widely assumed that five years is all you can expect out of a television sit-com, given thatstory lines tend to go stale after the 100th episode.  And sit-coms have entire teams of writers….who only need to create 22 minutes of material, for a mere 26 episodes per year.  Pulpits are the only places where re-runs are frowned upon….if not outright prohibited. 

So I feel grateful for this opportunity….for this venue….and for this collegiality of effort we call ministry at First Church.

            Of a preacher….you ask agreat deal.

            To a preacher….you offer a great deal.

            With a preacher….you accomplish a great deal.

But enough mutual back-patting.  On with it.  Or, as we should say on “Elevator Dedication Sunday” …. up with it!

Let me begin with a recent conversation.  It occurred at one of those events where, because the dinner was overly-long in coming, the guests were overly-long in mingling.  You understand that.  You’ve been there.

Which is how it came to pass that Kris and I spent the major slice of an hour with a government official from a neighboring Oakland County community.  Being from Birmingham, we got to talking about house size, lot size, land-use permits, deed restrictions, and related matters of development.  In response to which, the official shared a number of horror stories about local citizens fighting over this, violating that, abusing something else, claiming exemptions and demanding exceptions….all in the name of special needs, special problems or special interests.

To which I said: “Doesn’t anybody ever say (after reviewing such matters with you):     

              Yes, this is what I want to do.  But I see (now that you have pointed it out to me)

            that what I want to do is not necessarily in keeping with my neighbor’s needs, the

            city’s needs or the environment’s needs.  So I’llgo back to the drawing board

            and see if I can come up with something more mutually agreeable .”

In response to which, she gave me a most incredulous look….followed by an equally incredulous laugh….as she said: “Reverend, you must live in some kind of fantasy world.”

Well, no and yes.  No, I don’t like to think so. Yes, I probably do.  Let’s start with my “No.” 

Two weeks ago….in my baccalaureate sermon….I bristled at any suggestion that high school students and Methodist preachers are not yet members of the “real world.”  As concerns the high school kids, I would contend that their world is as “real” as it gets.  But so is mine.  As a card-carrying member of the Preacher’s Union,  I am here to tell you that, like everyone else, my taxes come due….my bills pile up….my car breaks down….my body gets old….food still spoils in my refrigerator….worry still festers in my heart….streets are no safer for me, than for anybody….and eventually (if not permanently) death will come creepin’ ‘roun’  my door.

And all of us preachers know that the churches we serve are not havens of innocence.  Like the ark that once carried the future of each species to the higher, dryer land of God, the church….once it gets two or three days out to sea….tends to smell as it sails.  I do not know a preacher who, if he or she set out to chronicle the horrible things that sometimes happen in churches, could not fill a book.  Or a library. 

Which is not because churches have grown worse over time.  We were never innocent.  And we always smelled.  Every once in a while I hear someone say: “Oh, if we could only get back to the purity of the first century church.”  As if the church, fifty years out from Jesus, was the New Testament’s institutional equivalent of the Garden of Eden.  To such suggestions, I find myself wanting to say: “Hello….what Bible have you been reading?”  When I read the book of Acts….the letters of Paul….the Pastoral Epistles….the advice offered to the seven Asia Minor churches in the Book of Revelation….it makes this congregation look like a poster child for ecclesiasticalpurity and perfection. 

Go read the stuff in the Bible.  You want to see church fights?  I’ll show you church fights.  You want to see harassed preachers?  I’ll show you harassed preachers.  You want to see people welching on their vows….holding back their money….selling out their faith….putting down their neighbors….ignoring the widows and orphans….rushing to the front of the food line so they can pile their plates high with all the good stuff (before it runs out)….getting sloshed on communion wine….or heading for the parking lot saying: “That’s it.  I’m outta here.” at the slightest provocation?  I’ll show you that stuff,  too.   It’s all in there.  Because it’s all in us.  That’s why it’s in there.

And while we preachers have long since surrendered the notion that the church is innocent, we know that (as individual church members)  you are far from innocent either.  Even though (at the outset) you tend not to cuss in front of us, spit in front of us, drink, smoke or chew in front of us, or show your moral and spiritual warts in front of us.  But you can’t keep it up.  Sooner or later, we preachers are going to see it all, hear it all, and learn it all.  At least if we’re any good, we are.  Because, at some point, you will have little choice but to pick even your most carefully-covered scabs in our presence.  And we, in yours.  Even if we emulate the Jews and cover our heads out of respect for all that is holy, whatever (pray tell) will we do with our feet....which are perpetually dirty....given that they are made of clay.

No, my dear local government official, I don’t live in a fantasy world.  I have seen it all.  I once conducted a funeral for several severed parts of a body, stuffed in plastic bags and thrown in a dumpster.  Twice I have counseled men charged with criminal sexual offences against minor children.  Daily I rub up against reminders that (although the spirit be willing), the flesh is incredibly weak.  There is no protection from the “real world” inmy world.  The secret is to last this long without letting it get to you.

But the paradox of it is….the life-giving, career-saving, faith-restoring paradox of it is….that my world is different.  And by “different”, I mean “better.”  So much better, that it sometimes seems fantasy-like.

I want to tell you when I learned that.  I learned that a dozen years ago when I served a couple of terms as president of a Homeowners Association….up north….where I sometimes hang out, when I’m not hanging out here.  We have a cluster of homes in our little community.  Some of them face Grand Traverse Bay.  Others face a harbor, dredged out of Grand Traverse Bay.  In the early years, it was difficult for the Bay people and the Harbor People to be friends.  We were like the farmers and the cowboys of the stage musical “Oklahoma.”  Our interests were different.  Our needs were different.  And, more to the point, the costs of meeting our interests and needs were different.  The first Association meeting I ever attended (as a new homeowner) was brutal.  The president was being skewered and eaten alive, without benefit of being barbequed and marinated first.  And he was the new president.

Late in the meeting, I voiced a moderate….and (to some) a logical….way out of a dilemma.  Whereupon,  I because the next president.  They knew I was a preacher.  They knew I didn’t know anything about dredge contracts, aquatic weed maintenance, mosquito control, or dealing with the Army Corps of Engineers.  But they figured people might not yell so loud if they were yelling at a preacher.  And they might not yell so often, if that preacher lived 240 miles away.

All told, my two years went pretty well.  But I learned something from the experience.  I learned that most people show up at a property owner’smeeting to protect their interests….and their investments.  They want to make sure that if anybody gets anything, they will get theirs.  And they want to make certain that nothing close to their hearts will get diminished, devalued, or destroyed in the process.  They will yield to “the good of the organization,” as long as there is personal benefit in it for them.  And they will lend an occasional hand at a community project, so long as you ask softly, make no assumptions, accept all excuses and don’t go back to the same well too many times in a row.

Once I understood this, I led quite effectively.  But I first had to rid myself of any misguided notion that a collection of homeowners resemble….in any way, shape or form…the church of Jesus Christ.

o be sure, churches are sometimes myopic, naval-gazing and self-serving.  But not all the time.  And, here, not even much of the time.  Churches realize, when they stop to think about it, that theirs is a different agenda.  It is an agenda that includes opening more doors than they close, holding more hands than they clench, giving more money than they hoard, and existing (both evangelically and missionally) to serve a bunch of people who aren’teven on the scene. I have yet to serve a church that didn’t understand (at some level of its being) that sacrifice was a part of its charter, and the only way it was going to have a life (institutionally) was to lose its life for Jesus and the Kingdom.  To someone outside the church, that language is gobbledygook.  To someone inside the church, that language is second nature.

I ama part of some wonderful non-church organizations.  I joined one of them because….like First Church….they have four openings for clergy.  It’s a place with a lovely dining room, some very nice public rooms, a six-lane baptismal font and an incredible lawn on which to play.  What’s more, they are incredibly attentive to my needs over there.  Every couple of months they want to know if I am happy….if they are doing enough for me….if there’s any new amenity which they could offer me.  I mean, they couldn’t be nicer.  They know my name.  They know my wife’s name.  They even know my car’s name (and color.)    Every time I arrive, they say things like: “How are you doing today, Dr. Ritter….great to see you, Dr. Ritter….gee you’re looking good, Dr. Ritter.”  All they ask is that,  if I play with my ball on their lawn, I do it in four hours or less.  Plus, they don’t want me to wear blue jeans.  I can wear pink and green checkered pants.  But I can’t wear jeans.  That’s all they ask.  That….and a monthly check. 

But my instinct tells me that a steady diet of organizations catering primarily to me, probably isn’t all that good for me.  Which brings me back to the church, don’t you see.  Here, we ask all kinds of amazing things….along with your check.  We ask for your time.  We ask for yourtalent.  We   ask for your prayers.  We ask that you teach, work, sing and serve.  We ask that you turn a second cheek, offer a second garment, travel a second mile and forgive a second time.  We ask that you feed hungry people, visit lonely people, comfort sick and dying people, and prop up physically and emotionally lame people.  We ask that you fan out in the world and (as I said last week) rub up against people in ways that make a difference.  And we even ask you to volunteer for crosses....not just bearthem.

And the amazing thing is that you do.  So we escalate our expectations, to the point of asking patently ridiculous things like prayers for those who persecute you and mercy for those whoabuse you.  And, miracle of miracles, you occasionally do that, too.

Barbara Brown Taylor recently wrote of her nephew Will’s first birthday party.  At that point in his life, he was round and bald as a Buddha, still hovering on the verge of speech.  As an only child, he was accustomed to being the center of attention.  He wasn’t really spoiled, in that he had not yet learned to manipulate the love of others for his own ends.  But he was comfortable in the fact that people seemed to like him for who he was.  Which is why he felt quite open and free to love them back.

It was a good party.  Just a handful of family….along with his Godparents and their seven-year-old son Jason.  Along with cake….of course.  Presents….of course.  Singing….of course.   And then Will doing a little one-year-old dance (kind of a twirl, really) which everyone decided to admire and imitate….of course. 

Which was when Jason finally had all he could take.  So he charged Will in mid-dance, pushing him down to the floor….which Will hit, first with his rear-end, then with his head.  Crack!  Will looked utterly surprised at first.  After all, no one had ever hurt him before, and he didn’t quite know what to make of it.  Then he commenced to howl.  But not for long.  His mother reached for him, cradled him, hugged him and kissed his head better.  But he didn’t stay with his mother very long.  Instead, he tottered back over to Jason.  He knew that whatever had happened, Jason was at the bottom of it.  But since no one had ever been mean to him before, he didn’t know what “it” was.  So he did what he had always done.  He put his arms around Jason and lay his head lovingly against that mean little boy’s body.

And the very fact that you can understand that instinct (and its appropriateness to the Gospel)…. even if you can’t always emulate it….means that you do have a small tent pitched in a world that is not quite like the “real world,”  and maybe (if I can be mildly arrogant about it) better than the “real world.”  

I am talking about a world where people do, occasionally, “put on Christ”….who, as I remember it, once took on all the meanness of the world and ran it through the filter of his own body.  And then said: “What you have seen in me, do.” 

There are those out there who would call that world,  “madness.”  There are those out there who would call that world , “frivolous.”  And there are those out there who would call that world,  “fantasy.”  But there are those in here who call that world , “home”….because it just seems to fit, don’t you know.  It just seems to fit. 

The Theology of Baseball 9/26/1999

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: John 4:1-30

It has struck me, during this season-long farewell to that venerable old relic at Michigan and Trumbull….which we have begun referring to (in hushed and holy tones) as “The Corner”….that our nostalgia has less to do with architecture or athleticism than with relatives and remembered relationships. I love baseball. My father loved it before me. His father loved it before him. And I have now lived long enough to transmit the disease to both my children.

My father lived just long enough to see ball players become prima donnas and crybabies. Those are not my words, but his. Whenever he would hear of a player failing to give his all, surrendering to a minor injury, or holding out for a bigger contract, he would become extremely irritated. At some point in his irritation he would exclaim: “Doesn’t that so and so know that I would give my right arm to be able to play in the major leagues?” (Let the record show that I cleaned up what my father really said.)

I once pointed out to my dad that he would be better off if he offered something other than his right arm in trade. There has been but one major leaguer in the history of baseball who played the game with one arm. (In fact, I will give a dollar to the first person who can tell me his name, following the service.) But my attempt at humor was lost on my father, who would look at me kind of “weird-like” and then mumble: “Oh, you know what I mean.” And I did….know what he meant, that is. It meant that he loved the game and would have given anything to be able to play it passably.

I suppose that only a baseball lover’s daughter would fly in from Atlanta to see tomorrow’s finale with her old man. And I suppose that only a fanatic like her old man would dare stand before you with a sermon entitled “The Theology of Baseball.” Some of you have questioned my sanity. Others, my seriousness. To you I would say: “Hear me out.” Then, decide for yourselves if I be either, neither or both….“sane” or “serious,” I mean.

Does baseball have a theology? Not implicitly! Does baseball reflect a certain theology? I think so! Was Abner Doubleday a theologian? No, he was a general in the Army! But he invented a game which dramatizes a very human predicament, namely, the predicament of trying to measure up to a demanding standard of perfection, and always falling short. Sometimes, far short.

The Apostle Paul talked a lot about what a burden it was to live with standards of perfection that were impossible to meet. To Paul, those standards were symbolized by what he called “the Law.” And Paul said that sometimes the Law can be like a curse, forever reminding you of how poorly you’re doing.

Well, baseball is a lot like that. Baseball is fascinated with measuring things against impossible standards. Baseball is a game of numbers. Everything is counted and written down somewhere. You can open the Sport’s Section in the Free Press, and you can read (with good glasses) an entire page of baseball numbers. You can read how your team did last night, Friday night, and the night before that. You can read how your team did over the last ten games. You can read how your team did over the course of an entire season. Those same numbers will tell you how every player in baseball is doing. RBI’s. ERA’s. Batting averages. Fielding percentages. Everything is measured.

What’s more, you can tell how each player stands in relationship to every other player….those who play on the same team….those who play on different teams….those who play the same position. In fact, you can go to the bookstore and find an encyclopedia that will enable you to compare your favorite present-day player with every other player who ever donned a uniform. I don’t think there is any other field of endeavor where an individual’s contribution is so accurately calculated and recorded.

As if that weren’t enough, that record is available for the entire world to see. Your batting average is printed every day, announced over the radio, and flashed in bright lights on the stadium scoreboard. It is even carried out to three decimal points. They don’t say: “He hits pretty good.” None of that vague, imprecise stuff. They say: “He hits .286.” They even know if he hits right handers better than left handers, whether he hits better in May or September, whether he hits better on grass or astroturf, whether he hits better by day or by night, whether he performs better in the clutch or only when there is no one on base.

You can’t fake it. It’s all in the book. But do you know what is so amazing about this? Nobody’s record is very good. Consider the hitters. The very best ones are lucky to get three hits out of ten tries. Measure that against your job. If you delivered three times out of ten, you’d be out on your ear. If I preached three good sermons out of ten, I’d be out on my ear. But if you go three for ten in baseball, they give you three or four million dollars. And if you do it several years in a row, they put you in the Hall of Fame.

Consider the late Mickey Mantle. I remember seeing Mantle play. In fact, I saw some of the longest balls Mantle ever hit. I was eleven years old when Mickey came up to the Yankees. And I was a married man with a child of my own when Mickey Mantle reached the seats off Denny McLain, late one September afternoon, and bid farewell (forever) to the people of Detroit. Now Mickey Mantle’s dead, Denny McLain is jailed, and I (alone) am left to tell you what Bill Freehan once acknowledged to me, that Mantle knew what pitch was coming on the day of his final blast into the upper deck. Which was one of life’s nicer gestures, don’t you think, given that the Tigers had clinched the pennant against the Yankees, just the night before.

I have to tell you that, in his earlier days, Mickey Mantle never impressed me as being one of the great intellects of the world. But, as my German grandfather used to say: “He got late, smart.”  In fact, the mature Mantle was well worth listening to on a variety of subjects, ranging from baseball to life in general.

One day, Mickey Mantle was reminiscing about his career. He recalled that he had struck out 1,710 times. He also recalled that he had walked 1,734 times. That’s 3,444 times up to bat without ever hitting the ball. Think about that for a minute. You figure that a healthy, full-time player goes to bat about 500 times a season. Divide 500 into 3,444. “And,” says Mantle, “you can quickly see that I played seven years without ever hitting the ball.”

Nobody’s record is very good when measured against the absolute standard of 1.000. A good bowler can be 75 percent effective much of the time. But even a great baseball player can’t come anywhere near that.

The first time I ever put any of these thoughts together, the Tigers were known for their woeful inability to hit left handers. They still can’t hit left handers. But, in that year, they went out and hired themselves an antidote….a lethal right-handed bat which came attached to a third baseman named Bill Madlock. Madlock supposedly feasted on left handers. But on the morning I first preached these sentiments, Madlock’s average was .219. What’s more, in the week just previous, he had gone 0 for 21. In baseball lingo, that’s a week worth of failure. You can look it up.

* * * * *

What we’ve got here is one side of a predicament. A very tough side. You’ve got a very high and lofty standard. You’ve got a very measured game. And you’ve got the fact that when measured against the standard, nobody’s very good. But you can also say that baseball has a tender side…. a softer side….a side that faces failure, even as it hints of grace.

In other times and places, I have quoted the poet Ugo Betti. Betti writes: “To believe in God is to believe that all the rules will be fair and that, in the end, there may be wonderful surprises.” Well, I’ve given that a lot of thought. And I haven’t figured out if I completely believe it. But a friend of mine says: “Test it out on baseball before you apply it to life.”

In baseball, the rules are eminently fair, probably fairer than in life itself. Everybody has an opportunity to bat. Everybody gets the same number of balls and strikes. Over the course of a season, most injustices will be corrected and most breaks will even out. What’s more, baseball’s fairness is accentuated by the lack of a clock. In baseball, you do not run out of time. On most days, unless it rains, you get your full complement of innings. As baseball’s resident theologian, Yogi Berra, was once heard to remark: “It ain’t over ‘til it’s over.”

Now everybody thinks that’s funny. It is. But it’s also a brilliant insight. In games such as football or basketball, sometimes it is over before it’s over, in the sense that if there had been a bit more time, it might have all turned out differently.

Real life is less fair than baseball. One of the sad facts about real life is that, for some, it is over before it’s over. The next time you say about someone, that he or she died before their time, or that they got cheated out of their innings, you’ll know what it means to have it be over before it’s over. But not in baseball. Baseball has no clock. The game goes on until everybody has had a fair chance at winning or, at least, playing heroically. Think of what a wonderful world it would be, and how much closer to God’s will and intention, if the rules were always the same for all, where everyone had more or less an ample opportunity, and where it wasn’t over until it was over.

And think of how wonderful it would be if we could be certain that “the end would contain some marvelous surprises.” I think this means that there will always be a chance for wonderful endings, wherein what isn’t supposed to happen may still happen. Just when you think you’ve got it figured out, you haven’t. Just when you think that nothing can happen, it does. Just when you master the law of averages, somebody breaks it. The poet is talking about a world in which there is always room for mystery and surprise.

Which brings me to Bob Brenly. You probably never heard of Bob. But he’s a recently retired ball player. His last team was the Giants. They’re in San Francisco now (just in case you missed their move from New York, back in the 50s). Bob Brenly was a catcher. But, for some strange reason, the Giants occasionally played him at third base. He played third base….like a catcher. One day he set a record with four errors in one game. Then, in his final time at bat….in the ninth inning….he hit a home run and the Giants won, 7-6.

That’s grace. Grace means that you’ll always have another chance. It doesn’t mean that grace will erase your errors. Just as it doesn’t mean that grace will erase your sins. But it does give you a chance to play over them. “It’s not over ‘til it’s over.” “There is always room for marvelous surprises.”

Consider the Samaritan woman. I’ve preached her story before. Obviously, I like it. There’s so much in it. A preacher can do so much with it. Jesus meets the Samaritan woman at the well. Right away, we know that something unusual is going on. A devout Jew….a devout male Jew….would not customarily have this kind of dealing with a woman (an issue of gender) or a Samaritan (an issue of race). He asks her for a drink. She says, “What have you to do with me?” That’s a key question. Don’t lose it. Then they talk for awhile about two different kinds of water (“wet your whistle” water versus “quench your thirst” water).

Suddenly the conversation changes from water to husbands. “Go call your husband,” says Jesus. To which she says: “I have no husband.” And Jesus says: “I know.” In fact, Jesus goes on to tell her that she’s gone through five husbands, and is currently living with another guy without benefit of clergy. I think you could say this lady has had a “checkered” past. Jewish law allowed for no divorce. She has had five husbands. She has struck out five times. She is about to strike out again.

Jesus knows all this. I’ve always wondered how he knew it. Did someone tell him? Or did it show? Perhaps it showed in her face….in her eyes….in her shoulders. Is it possible that it shows in us, I mean the way we’ve lived our lives?

Anyway, he knows. He knows it all. Five strikeouts. A sixth in the making. Then it dawns on her, just who he may be. So she asks: “You aren’t by any chance the Messiah, are you?” And he says: “You better believe it, sweetheart.”

At this point, she should be terrified. She is in the presence the “The Standard.” She is talking to the One who is expected to judge the world, condemning sinners, rewarding the righteous. It is enough that she is striking out. But she is striking out in the presence of One who could be called, “The Keeper of the Scoreboard.”

But what she ends up with is the feeling that she has been given another chance. It’s a story about grace. It ain’t over ‘til it’s over. And at the end, there may be marvelous surprises. In her day, she figured to be condemned by the rules. Mess up and you’re out. Strike out and you sit down. Boot four in one game and you sit down. Spell the word incorrectly and you sit down. Go through five husbands and you sit down. It’s over.

But it’s not. Nothing is finished until God gets through with it. No one is finished until God gets through with them.

Which brings me to Dwight Gooden. At this writing, Dwight is more or less in the twilight of his career. He pitches for the Indians. The Cleveland Indians. The World-Series-bound Cleveland Indians. Before that he pitched for the Yankees. But his first major league team was the Mets. He was in the major leagues at 18. He won 24 games his first full year. He struck out everybody in sight. He could throw a fast ball clocked at nearly 100 mph. In three short years, his salary shot up to the then-lofty heights of $1.5 million per year. At 22 years old, with a limitless future in front of him, he ended up in a Manhattan treatment center trying to lick a cocaine addiction….his first treatment center.

Before all of Dwight Gooden’s troubles became public, Bob Feller was asked to comment on this young man’s amazing talent. What Feller said is incredible: “Give him a chance to mess up his life, and then we’ll see how good he is.”

Well, that’s one of the chances we get, isn’t it? The chance to mess up our life. Some of us make little messes. Some of us make bigger messes. Some of us get dirty in the messes that other people make. And Feller’s comment recognizes that the measure of a person is the way they come back. How do they pull themselves out of the mess? “Give him a chance to mess up his life, and we’ll find out how good he is.”

But grace says something else. Something more. “Give him a chance to mess up his life, and we’ll find how good God is.”

            Four errors.

            Five husbands.

            1,700 strikeouts.

            0 for 21.

            28 days in a rehab center….repeated multiple times.

                        It ain’t over ‘til it’s over.

                        Keep your eye pealed for surprises.

                        And here’s to you, Denny McLain, Jesus loves you more than you will know.

Note:  Let the record show that Mark Trotter (who roots for the Padres in San Diego when he isn’t preaching for the United Methodist church in Mission Valley) first suggested the possibility that baseball had an underlying theology. Let the record further show that the very first person who correctly identified a one-armed outfielder named Pete Gray of the St. Louis Browns, was none other than Colin Kaline, Al’s grandson. Colin received a dollar at the first service. Subsequent winners at 9:30 and 11:00 were David Vandegrift and Skip Neilson. And let it be noted that this entire exercise was inspired by the closing of Tiger Stadium and the final game which was played on the Monday following the preaching of this sermon.