I Don't Remember Growing Older 8/29/1993

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, MI

 Scripture: Ecclesiastes 3:1-8, Mark 1:16-20

In case you tried to reach me during the first three days of the week just passed, I wasn't here. I was taking my second child, for her second year, to a university seven hundred miles to the south of here. Julie is the child's name. Duke is the university's name. And while this is far from her final year there, she is very much my final child. And therein lies the tale.

If you have read the cover notes in the "Steeple Notes," you know how last year's trip went. It was powerful. It was painful. It was emotional. Her mother and I were not quite ready to take one so young, so far.... and then just drop her there. But we did. And my description of the journey back to Michigan is one that you can read for yourself, if you haven't already. This year's trip was every bit as long, made every bit as fast. But there were far fewer tears and far greater acceptance. We knew what to expect. What's more, we like what is happening in her life, as a result of her being where she is. And as a strategy of coping with the memory of last year's emotional return to Michigan, Kris decided to shop away the pain in advance. With the van suddenly emptied of Julie's things, we hurriedly filled it with North Carolina antiques. Our goal was to test the ancient theory that while it's always hard to let the last child go, it feels a bit better if you can say that you traded her for furniture.

But all humor aside, you and I know that it's far from an even trade. Letting go is hard, no matter how much stuff you come home with in return. Still, I wasn't going to preach about it this year. Having preached about it last year, I figured I should have made my peace with it by now. Which I had.  Sort of.  But that was before everything else changed. For when the "girl child" first went off to college, the "boy child" was still home. And home was still the same old place. As was the job. As were the friends. As concerned my life one year ago, all the words applied.... "same".... "old".... "predict-able".... "comfortable".... you finish the list.

Then everything happened at once. The old job went. And since the old house was attached to the old job, the house went too. And while friends will always be friends, the lions' share of them were part and parcel of the old job. So prudence and protocol dictated that friendship's pool be cooled. Meanwhile, my son Bill got a new job, a new apartment, and moved on. Even my sister Gail got very sick in a very short period of time, and passed on. Which is a lot of change for anybody to absorb. And I am far from superhuman. In fact, I would probably be blowing smoke if I told you that I have put it all behind me and am ready to move on. I haven't and I'm not. Progressive and forward-looking though I may seem, there is a part of me that has always wanted to hold onto things. And it is that part of me that is talking to you this morning.

There is a name for the life-situation I am describing, and the name is "separation anxiety." Where parents and children are concerned, it begins at an incredibly tender age. My former office was located immediately across the hall from the rooms that were used by a church-based community nursery. And each time September rolled around, I would pay close attention to the new three-year-olds beingfreshly integrated into the program. The same thing will happen here about two weeks from now. And I am certain that if I but walk down the hall, I will be able to view the same familiar drama being played out. The door will open and the child will be ushered in. The door will close and the parents will be ushered out. There will be no malice intended in any of this. Everyone agrees to the closing of the door. But then I'll see parents squatting, squinting, and trying to peer through the keyhole. They are hopeful of catching a glimpse of an all-right child.... praying that on the other side of the door there exists an all-right child.... yet feeling ever so slightly betrayed when later on, over lunch at McDonald's, the question, "Did you miss mommy and daddy?" is met with the kind of stare that suggests that the question must rank among the dumbest questions in the world, and that any parent daring to ask such a question must rank with the dumbest parents in the world.

Or consider the fathers who, at the back of the church (with the organ swelling), turn to their daughters and say: "You know, you don't have to go through with this if you don't want to."  I'm not kidding.  A lot of fathers really say that. Or something very much like that. Do they say it in jest? Of course they do. Pretty much. But maybe there is one small part of a father's heart that says: "How in the world did we get here so quickly.... and would it really bother anyone if we just sort of put this on hold and went home for a year or two?"

Parents don't say such things seriously, of course. For every parent knows that the teaching side of love is never complete until you teach people to leave. And good parents start those children early, so that the harder "leavings" will come as second nature later, when the distances are further and the stakes are higher. As Bob Hawkins shared with me between services: "First you teach the child to walk. Then you teach the child to walk away." Love releases.... in a slowly unfolding symphony of goodbyes. Most of which are natural. Some of which are painful. Virtually all of which are necessary. And fortunately few of which are final. Although some are.... final, that is. Which is why giving someone you love (and desperately want to hold on to) your personal permission to die, may be the most powerful (and poignant) releasing of all.

All of which is as biblical as it is essential. Moments ago you heard the words of a wise (albeit occasionally cynical) old Hebrew sage named Koheleth, who (writing under the pen name of Ecclesiastes) suggests that there will be seasons when we shall seek, laugh and embrace, but that there shall also be seasons when we shall lose, cry, and refrain from embracing. I suppose he might also have gone on to say that for every season of holding fast, there will also be a season of letting go.

And then there was that other reading of Mark's story of Jesus calling the sons of Zebedee to be His disciples (surely a strange choice for a sermon like this). But I recently had it pointed out to me that the one thing Mark's story doesn't say is what old Zebedee thought about his two sons walking away from the family business to follow an itinerant Galilean rabbi they had just met. Not only does the story fail to say what old Zebedee thought, the story doesn't care. To which my source added: " I suppose that, in his own way, Jesus broke the hearts of many a first century Jewish family."

So why is It so hard? I'm not completely sure I know. But I would propose, for your consideration, that it has something to do with a pair of fears. The first has to do with the fear we parents hold for the future of our children. We want so much for them. But we can't guarantee anything to them. In a recent reflection on the college graduation of his youngest daughter, Tom Mullen (my Quaker colleague) wrote: "Doesn't Ruth know how tough the world is? She's ready to conquer it, but the world has its ways of counterattacking. And she's ready to set it on fire. But what if her matches are wet?" Then, reflecting on the fact that little Ruthie from Richmond (Indiana) was about to begin her journalism career in New York City, he added:

My little girl, who used to sleep with a night- light, was entering the real world for sure. And her future was certainly no longer in my hands. Which is why it has taken a while for my wife and me to accept the fact that we have run out of little kids whose hands we need to hold. Twenty-five years (and four children) ago, we were convinced we had a lifetime supply.

We never quite lose that "protector mentality," do we? It's funny.  Children grow out of childhood,  but parents never grow out of parenthood. It's something of a biological miracle. The umbilical cord gets cut, but it stays connected to the parent.

And Tom Mullen is right.  Life has its cruel face, which it occasionally shows to even the fairest, the finest, and the blissfully invincible. Last Tuesday, while moving Julie into her new room at Duke, I saw an endless stream of wonderful kids. They were strong. They were vital. They were energized. They were capable. But, along with studying a ton, working a little, maturing a lot, and (every now and again) even darkening the door of the chapel, these kids (over the course of the next several months) will also do some wild and crazy things that will strain their endurance, test their limits, and contribute to the raising of what has been euphemistically called "a little hell." And most of them will survive it, laugh about it, and live to tell stories about it forever.

Kids are invincible. Right? Wrong! Most, maybe.... but not all. Sometimes, perhaps.... but not always. For at the very same time I was moving among Duke's undergraduate finest and fairest, messages were being left for me all over Durham. The subject? A funeral. The deceased? A twenty-six year old young man back here in Michigan. Himself, fine.  Himself, fair.  Himself, as invincible as he was resourceful. And it was that resourcefulness that led him, last Saturday night, to climb into his Royal Oak house through a window, given that he had gone off to a wedding hours earlier without being certain of the whereabouts of his key. It wasn't the first time he had forgotten his key. And it wasn't the first time he had entered by the window. But it was to be his last. Somehow he shook the window loose from its moorings, just as he was pulling himself head-high to the sill. The window came down on his neck, pinning him with his head in the house and the rest of his body outside. Which is where the neighbors saw him hanging (with his feet eighteen inches above the ground) come Sunday morning.

But I ask you: "Who among you never forgot a key? And who among you never climbed in a window? And who among you (in those days when life was ripe and ready for the picking) never slept too little, partied too late, drove too fast, or chanced too much, without giving a thought to the potential consequences?" Alas, life has ways of bruising its most tender fruit. And, as the trees responsible for bearing much of that fruit, we parents know that better than anybody. Which is why I want to hold my kids close, even though I would never want to be accused of holding them back. For I know the degree to which life can fail them and people can hurt them.

But the other fear which makes it hard to "let go" has more to do with me than with them. For every act of letting go is a reminder that not only is part of my life changing, but part of my life is ending. Holding fast to my children's past is one way of holding fast to my own past.

A few minutes before making last year's trip to Duke, I decided I'd better take one last trip through the house, looking for potentially forgettable items which might later be needed. In the basement I found a portable electric fan. Necessity! In the basement I also found a child's table and chairs, along with several Barbies. No longer necessities! But I remembered buying every last one of them, and felt suddenly old. It also took me a few extra minutes to come up from the basement.

During the last few of my child-raising years, people regularly said to me: "Treasure these days with your kids. They go by incredibly quickly." I always listened and nodded, figuring that what they meant was that kids get old before you know it. It never occurred to me that what they meant was that I would get old before I knew it.

On our first Sunday here in Birmingham, I looked down at Kris (sitting in the front row with Dale Parker), and suddenly saw that her lip was no longer singing, but quivering. Later on she told me the reason. For it was at that moment it occurred to her that, as churches go, this might be the very last time we would ever say "hello" to a new one. Which was a bittersweet reminder (in a month that didn't need more reminders), that "goodbyes" were likely to be our horizon's long suit, and "hellos", our horizon's short one. One can be grateful for the moment, but still recognize (out of the corner of one's eye) how fleeting it all is. After all, it was at his child's wedding (a glorious occasion, if ever there was one), that old Tevye, my favorite Russian milkman, first sang "I don't remember growing older.... when did they?"

So what do you do? I mean, really, what do you do? I trust you will pardon me this morning if I am longer on analysis than I am on cure. I can make very few suggestions. What I have personally tried to do is remember that new occasions teach as many pleasures as they do duties. Some of my pleasures include:

-          a pair of kids who are proving to be every bit as interesting as adults, as they were as children (and sometimes more so). In fact, in the wake of my sister's death and my newly-assumed responsibilities for a pair of twenty-two year old nephews, it has been my son's legal acumen and his familial sensitivity that have come to both my rescue and theirs, time and time again.

-          and then there's my wife, with whom there is the refreshing thought that the "empty nest" may offer more time for quiet dinners, uninterrupted conversations and private pleasures. Realizing now that (on most days) we're all we've got, it feels good to know that what we've got is more than enough.

-          And then there's you (the people of this congregation) for whom the song "Getting to Know You" seems to have been most fittingly written. Over the course of the summer, many of you have found ways to tell us that not only are we welcome here, we are needed here.

And I think the other thing one does (as a means of coping), is to better trust the God one preaches. And one does that by taking seriously the promise that "goodness and mercy really will follow you all the days of your life".... and that if yesterday was so wonderfully full of meaning, why not tomorrow? After all, if all our days come from the same source, why can't the Maker of the "good old days" be trusted to provide a few good new ones?

And as for my kids, it is good (this morning) to feel... with all my heart.... that both of them belong where they are. And that while neither of them belongs with me, there is little doubt that each of them belongs to me. The ties that bind are no less real for being elastic. And although (once upon a time) Kris handled the initial matters of gynecology and delivery, all four of us come proudly equipped with stretch marks.

Where is King Solomon When We Really Need Him? 8/22/1993

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: 1 Kings 3:16-28

This sermon could start almost anywhere.... Blairstown, lowa.... Ann Arbor, Michigan.... or even in the royal court of King Solomon in Jerusalem. But for the time being, let the sermon begin in a remote country village of northern Yugoslavia, where a 17 year old girl is boarding a train that will take her to a boat, on which she will sail to a land known only to her as the "New World." She is the first child in a large family.... whose mother is dead and whose father is old. Four years earlier (at age 13) she left home to take up residence in an adjoining village, cooking meals and watching children for a family considerably better off than hers. As regards the trauma of separating at such a tender age, she said: "It beat staying home and going to work making bricks."

But this is not four years ago and America is not the next village. This trip, once made, will never be made again. Her passage is being paid by a well-to-do Jewish couple in New York, who have agreed to pick up the tab for her crossing in return for 6 months service as a live-in domestic in their Central Park apartment. The couple's name is Rubinstein. The family business is jewelry. And the arrangement works to a tee, given that (upon her arrival) the Rubinsteins keep their promise and the village girl keeps hers.

Eventually, the debt of passage is paid and a small salary is earned. The village girl meets a few people and makes a few friends. And it is through this growing circle of contacts that she meets a young man who is not only from her country, but from a neighboring village less than 10 miles away. She admires his strength and industriousness. He admires her beauty, her sweet singing voice and her talents in the kitchen. In time they marry, leave Manhattan, and rent a tiny apartment in New Jersey. A child is born....a little baby girl. They call her Lily.

One day the Rubinsteins call, inviting them to visit the following Saturday. So they pack up their little girl, cross the river, and make their way to the Central Park apartment she once knew so well. There are coffees and cakes, not to mention oo's and ah's, as the baby is passed along with the plates and cups. And after everyone is properly warmed by good talk and good food, a checkbook is produced and an offer is made. The Rubinsteins share the fact that they have never been blessed with children, nor do they expect to be. But they deeply desire a child and have much (in the way of advantages) that they could give to one. To the young villagers, they point out: "You are young and just beginning. You will have many more children. We can help you get started in life. You, in turn, can help us realize a dream we thought was dead." In short, they wanted to buy "Lily."

To whatever degree the offer may have been "considered," I do not know. All I know is that it was graciously rejected. Whereupon the man and his wife (scarcely more than children themselves by today's standards) wrapped the baby in a blanket, said "thanks, but no thanks" to the Rubinsteins, and headed across the Hudson to their meager rented quarters on the Jersey shore. The strong industrious man was named Anton.  His sweet singing young wife was named Agnes. Two generations later, they became my grandfather and grandmother. For their little "Lily" (short for Lillian.... who, as it turned out, was the only child they ever had), is my mother.

I didn't know that story for years. And I haven't told that story in years. But I tell it now as a way of reminding you of something you probably already knew (but may have forgotten), that when it comes to children and who ought to possess them, every story is different.... every story is personal... and every decision is experienced emotionally, however much it may have been considered rationally or rendered legally. Scarcely a day has gone by this summer without the folks who bring us the news forcing us to consider yet one more controversy over custody. And there is scarcely a one of us who doesn't want to avert our eyes, lest in reading too far, or watching too long, we come to care too much.

I know I was doing quite well with the matter of Baby Jessica.... debating her case in polite social circles like the lawyer my son is, the caseworker my wife is, or the theologian that I am. It was pretty much a "head" thing with me, like it was -a "head" thing with you. Until she screamed, that is, when they took her from the home of Jan and Roberta DeBoer to be reunited after 2-1/2 years with Dan and Cara Schmidt. For it was her scream that made Jessica something other than an issue. And it was her scream that pulled her problem from the lofty environs of my head and drove it south to the soft and mushy repository of my heart.

I found myself feeling sad for her.... and just a little bit mad at everyone else. Like you, I could probably work up a small amount of righteous indignation against everybody involved.... against the Schmidts (who pushed things), the DeBoers (who prolonged things), the courts (which couldn't get together on things), and the media (which surrounded things with cameras, and is now dousing them with money) .... to the degree that the whole thing began to smell like the circus it wasn't, rather than the human tragedy it was.

You all know the story. In February of 1991, 28 year old Cara Clausen of Cedar Rapids, Iowa gave birth (apart from anything resembling wedlock) to the little girl we eventually came to know as Jessica. Whereupon she, and some other man named as the father, signed releases allowing Jan and Roberta DeBoer to take the little girl home to Ann Arbor. Within 30 days of that release, however, Cara Clausen had identified another man, (Dan Schmidt) as the child's father, and instituted legal proceedings in the state of Iowa requiring Jan and Roberta DeBoer to bring the baby back.

Legally, the Schmidts were in the driver's seat from that day forward. As the baby's father (which he was clinically proven to be), Dan Schmidt had never signed away his rights.... and (to his credit) moved immediately to assert those rights once he learned of Jessica's existence, further buttressing his case by marrying Cara and amending his lifestyle, thereby suggesting that the two of them, at long last, were getting their act together.

Meanwhile, Jan and Roberta DeBoer balked, claiming that whatever rights Dan may have been denied and Cara may have signed away, Jessica should not be uprooted from a place where she was happy. And they got a Michigan judge to agree. Alas, in a jurisdictional dispute, a Michigan court would not have the last word. An Iowa court would. The only hope the DeBoers ever had was that if things dragged on long enough.... and Jessica got old enough.... somebody, somewhere, would forget about what the law said and would think about what being uprooted might do to Jessica. And while it was a gamble that won the hearts of nearly everybody, it clearly failed to win the day in court. And Jessica is back, where any seasoned court-watcher could have predicted she would be all along. She is somewhere in Iowa, with the two people who reproductively, albeit perhaps unintentionally, brought her into the world. Biology won! Public sympathy lost!  Or so it would seem, from reading the avalanche of mail that has found its way into the Op/Ed pages of our local daily newspapers.

There are hundreds of arguments made between disagreeing adults in cases like these. But it seems that each argument always boils down to the issue of “First Claim” vs. “Best Claim.” Those who stand beneath the "First Claim" banner argue that creating life is an incredibly serious business.... initiating an incredibly powerful bond.... which ought to be honored and protected by an increasingly tight series of safeguards. Meanwhile, those who group themselves under the "Best Claim" banner, argue that giving life involves far more than creating life.... and that parenting is not nearly so much about reproducing as it is about loving, nurturing, and supporting. And both positions are eminently arguable. The Bible (for example) treats birth very seriously. But no less seriously than it treats one's responsibility to a child, once that child is born.

Strangely enough, one is forced to debate the issue of "First Claim" vs. "Best Claim" in a strangely different arena, every time one goes to visit the nation of Israel. It becomes clear (at least to many of us) that certain towns currently controlled by Israel in the occupied West Bank, have Arab roots that run ancient and deep. (First Claim). But, in some of those towns, the Israelis have placed massive numbers of Jewish settlers, many of them Russian, with the result of that occupation being an incredible improvement (by Western standards) of the land. I have seen places where the desert has literally been made to bloom, as a result of Jewish energy and ingenuity. (Best Claim). To that degree it becomes tempting to say: "I don't care whose it was.... as compared with who is doing what with it now."

You feel the tug of war, don't you? And you see its application to the present predicament. Of course you do. Which makes it hard to know who to back.... in the occupied territories of the Middle East, or in the child custody battles of the Middle West. In the case of the Schmidts versus the DeBoers, I felt myself leaning ever so slightly in favor of the DeBoers, reasoning that they would probably be the best parents, if not the first parents. But, then, given their maturity and the vast resources at their disposal, perhaps the Rubinsteins might have been able to make the best claim for custody of my mother. Who knows, I could have been a rabbi.

The complexity of the Jessica controversy was reflected by how few sermons were preached on the matter, and how few church pronouncements were made. Most preachers found it easier to pray for those involved rather than speak on behalf of them. But even more interesting were the number of letter writers who made reference to this little story in 1 Kings, read to you earlier. Solomon was the king. And custody was the issue. You remember how it went. A pair of prostitutes came to see the King of Israel. (One wonders how in the world a pair of prostitutes got to see the king. Or perhaps one doesn't wonder at all).  Whereupon their story unfolds. Both women live in the same house. Both women give birth 3 days apart. Both women have boys.  One woman's son dies because his mother rolls over on him in the middle of the night. The second mother claims that a switch was made.... with the first mother taking her dead child and substituting his lifeless body beneath her breast, for her living, breathing child. (Apparently these babies must have looked pretty much alike).

So each mother makes her case before the king, arguing that the sole remaining child is hers. And each, no doubt, hurls enough insults in the general direction of the other, so as to make a sailor blush. Unable to decide the merits of one claim against another (this being prior to the days of genetic testing, mind you), Solomon simply says to his servant: "Bring me a sword. We'll send each of these mothers home with half." (I've always wondered whether he was planning to slice the child from top to bottom, or from side to side). But, of course, he doesn't have to slice the child at all, because the real mother offers to give the child to the impostor. And Solomon knows that only a love that is genuine and true would inspire such an act of sacrifice as that.

Alas, in the case of the Schmidts and the DeBoers, nobody seemed willing (apart from a court order) to make such a sacrifice. So the law spoke, echoing George Will's trenchant observation, that it is the twilight of the gods which has brought the dawn of the age of the attorneys. For when frightened people no longer have a faith to instruct them, they will inevitably turn to the courts in an attempt to stave off the chaos.

But the point of the Solomon story should not be lost. For (apocryphal or not) what it does is refocus the issue, not on the relative legitimacy of the claims of either parent, but on the very real needs of the child. In an ironic and allegorical way, Solomon's sword cuts right to the heart of the matter. Had a "Consider The Child First" rule been in the thinking of everybody two years and five months ago, Dan and Cara Schmidt might have given her up then. The DeBoers (seeing the handwriting on the wall) might have given her back then. Or the courts (seeing the impasse) might have appointed an independent attorney for Jessica, placed her temporarily in a foster home and streamlined the appeal process to reach a swift and certain conclusion.

Which, of course, could become future policy in the cases of future Jessicas. For the mark of a maturing culture is how much we learn from our mistakes, not how many fingers we point in the wake of them. Earlier I said that (on any given day) I could probably work up a fairly good case of righteous indignation against any of the grown-ups involved. Unfortunately, however, grown-ups aren't likely to stop making such mistakes any time soon. Which means that the challenge for preachers and lawyers is to figure out ways to insulate children from the consequences. Otherwise, it's the kids who are going to be torn in two.... even if no one is so crude as to put a sword to their body.

Good Dirt 8/1/1993

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Matthew 13:1-9

Contrary to my father who, when he wanted to be difficult, would try to convince me that there really was only one correct way of doing anything, it did not take long for me to discover that there are a great many different ways of doing things, and a great many different ways of saying things. And it is often when people choose unorthodox means of doing and saying things, that we are left with some of the best stories.  

Recall the Roman Catholic nun who ran out of gas on a remote rural road in Northern Ireland. She walked half a mile to a filling station where, sure enough, there was gas to be had for a price. And while she had the price of the gas, what she lacked was a means of getting it from the pump to her car. ...a problem that was not as easily correctable as you might think. Because of the ongoing hostilities in Northern Ireland, there was a local ordinance against pumping gas into any hand-held container. And the station attendant was unwilling to make an exception, even for a container to be carried by a nun. But the nun was persistent, leading the attendant to pursue some kind of solution. At last he hit upon an answer. He found an empty six pack of beer bottles and filled them with gas, figuring that no one would be suspicious of such unlikely containers in the possession of such an unlikely lady. So back to her car walked the nun, whereupon she began to empty one beer bottle after another into her gas tank. In the midst of all this activity, a leader of the Protestant Extremists happened to drive by. He slowed down, stopped, and then in utter amazement rolled down his window Just long enough to shout: “Sister, we may have our political differences, but I’ve sure got to admire your faith.”

Like I said, in a world in which there are commonly-accepted ways of doing and saying commonly-accepted things, we find ourselves remembering the unorthodox. Which brings us to the tendency of Jesus to teach in parables. Parables are (by definition) simple stories affording deeper looks at basic truths, presented in ways which are disarmingly unorthodox so as to make them dramatically compelling. Most of them grab us because they start where we start....in the day-to-day experiences of ordinary life. A woman is baking bread. A man tears a garment. A valuable coin is lost. Some people are going over the seating chart for a banquet. All of us can identify with truths that grow out of experiences which are so incredibly daily. In fact, part of a parable’s power rests in the reader being able to say: “Hey, I’ve been there.”

Moreover, parables go with a light touch. They never overpower anybody. As contrasted with an argument (which seeks, by definition, to win), a parable makes its point without appearing to put anybody down. And parables are more interesting than arguments, which explains why dull preachers tend to employ them as a means of delivering their sermons from boredom and their congregations from sleep.

So given the fact that summer is a very out-doorsy season and that Jesus was a very out-doorsy man, perhaps an out-doorsy parable is in order. But before getting into the meat of it (or, should I say, the “kernel of it), a little stage setting might well be in order.

By the time we get to Matthew’s 13th chapter, things are beginning to take a turn for the worse in the life of Jesus. He has begun to surface some serious opposition, especially among the religious authorities. And as my old college chaplain, Bill Coffin, is quick to remind us: “Hell hath no fury like that of a bureaucracy scorned.” Still, we read that “the common people heard him gladly,” which may explain why he always seems to turn up in private living rooms or on public beaches. In this particular instance, he has just left somebody’s living room to go sit by the lake. But so many people have gathered around him that he gets into a boat, from which he tells this story.

“A sower went out to sow some seed,” he begins. And it is entirely possible that both he and the crowd can look off into the distance and see some farmer doing exactly that. But Jesus has already lost me. I know next to nothing about seeds. I am a city boy. When I was growing up, if a piece of ground didn’t have a curb in front of it and an alley behind it, I couldn’t relate to it. Oh, I’ve cut a little grass, watered a few flowers, and snipped an occasional bean. But you couldn’t fill a 3x5 card with what I know about farming. And in spite of being the son-in-law of a horticulturist, I can’t spell “euonymus,” or identify “coreopsis.”

But people who know such stuff tell me that Jesus is describing a methodology of planting known as the “broadcasting of seed.” Apparently, you put a whole lot of seed in your apron, and (while using one hand to keep a pocket formed in the apron) you use the other hand to scatter seed anywhere and everywhere as you walk along. Which is something I could get into. The few times I’ve planted seeds, I remember spending all my time on my hands and knees trying to figure out how deep I should submerse them, how far I should separate them, while trying to follow the little white string that keeps the row straight. Therefore, the idea of throwing seeds hither and yon kind of appeals to me.

Except that this parable is not primarily about seeds and how they are thrown, but about the soil that they are thrown into. Which puts me at a greater disadvantage, given that I know even less about soil than I do about seeds. The only thing I know about soil is that, until I got to Birmingham, I never lived anywhere where it was any good. After 11 years of watering sand in Livonia and 13 years of breaking my back in the clay of Farmington Hills, the Bishop took pity on me. One day he called me up and said: “Ritter, you’ve been a good boy. You’ve paid your dues. Now go to Birmingham and play in the dirt.” The move has been a salvation experience for the spasm-prone muscles of my lower back. For previously, whenever my wife wanted to torment me, she would suggest that we (that’s an editorial “we”) move some shrubbery. Some husbands get to rearrange furniture in the family room. I consider them the lucky ones. I get to move trees. But having been liberated from a backyard where I once busted a spade in half while moving a bush from one place to another, I am ready (if not entirely knowledgeable) to hear what Jesus says about soils.

“A sower went out to sow some seed. And some of it fell along the path, where the birds came and devoured it.” Which means that the first kind of soil is “hard.” You might call it stubborn soil. So much has gone over it that nothing can get into it. Nothing sinks in. I have seen that kind of soil. And I have met those kinds of people. Nothing sinks into them. They are tough. They are resistant. They are hard-nosed. They play hardball. They are hard nuts to crack. They are hard to reach. And, when reached, they play hard to get. They take pride in their rigidity. There is even a major denomination in this country whose more fanatical members identify themselves with the adjective “hard-shell.” What a terrible word to describe the Christian life....”hard-shell.”  Oh, I know it’s just a phrase that is meant to describe the zeal of their devotion and the untainted purity of their conviction. But that same shell which (they believe) keeps temptation, doubt and heresy out, also keeps them from being penetrated by things like truth, pain, and human need.

You can admire the hard-shell people of the world, but I am willing to bet that you don’t like them. That’s because (as unreceptive soil) they have long since defined their lives in ways that are pleasing to them, and have long since passed the point where renegotiating that definition is something they are willing to do. So they announce to us: “That’s just the way I am. I have no interest in changing. What you see is what you get.” I suppose we should thank them for warning us.  But once warned by them, why do I always have the feeling that I want to get away from them?

Still, there is one additional word to share with any hard-shell folk who may happen to be among us. “You’re for the birds.” Don’t get mad at me. Get mad at Jesus. For didn’t he say that if seed be cast upon you, yet can’t work its way inside you, it may lead to your getting pecked to death by the birds who come to eat the seed off of your hard-shell head....or off of your hard-shell heart?

But let’s move along. “Other seeds fell on patches of rock where they found little soil, causing them to spring up almost immediately because there was no depth of earth.” Which is relatively easy to understand, once you begin with the fact that much of Israel is a rock pile. It is common, therefore, to find thin layers of soil barely covering large ledges of lime rock So that when Jesus speaks of casting seeds on rocky ground, he is not necessarily talking about soil that is full of individual rocks, but about a thin coating of soil resting atop a rock ledge. The rock, you see, will absorb and retain the suns rays (baking the soil from below), even as the sun is beating down upon the soil (baking it from above). As a result, seeds falling into this thin layer of warmed soil will sprout quickly. But upon sending down roots in search of moisture, will strike rock and starve.

We are talking now, not about soil that is hard, but about soil that is “shallow.” I have seen that kind of soil, too. And I have met those kinds of people. There is a character in a Peter deVries novel who speaks for quite a few of us when he says: “Down deep, I’m shallow.” Some of us are shallow because we never stay long enough in any one place, with any one person, doing any one thing, to grow the kind of roots which will be sufficient to feed us when life becomes parched and dry. Others of us are shallow because we never drink in enough learning or corral enough up-to-date information, so as to help us form a set of convictions worth having the courage of. But even education alone can’t save us from shallowness, given the number of scholars I have known who have chosen to be alive, only from the neck up.

Religion can be shallow, as when it promises everything to us, while asking nothing of us.... or when it coaxes tears from our eyes without ever inducing movement in our feet....or when it allows us to substitute a ten dollar bill in the plate for the kind of discipleship that Jesus urged upon his followers. Steven Birmingham (a novelist with an interestingly-appropriate name) writes of a wealthy matron who is proudly showing the rooms of her elegant home to an impressionable visitor. Later, while serving tea in the garden, the matron says: “Perhaps you would like to see the pool. It’s just beyond the hedge.” Which it is.  But the visitor is shocked by the pool’s highly unusual shape, which is a scant 28 feet wide by 200 yards (600 feet) long. In response to the obvious question, the matron explains: “The reason I had them build the pool long and narrow is because while I truly like to swim, I’ve never been able to build much enthusiasm for turning around.” That should strike a nerve with us, given that most of us would like a faith that keeps us swimming, but few of us want a faith which requires that we do much turning around.

Finally, following hard soil and shallow soil, comes what most farmers like to call “dirty soil.” This is soil that is rich but cluttered. Concerning it, Jesus said: “Other seeds fell among the thorns, and the thorns grew up and choked them.”

Now I may not be much of a gardener, but I know that it’s hard to grow anything of value without some attention being paid to cultivation... which customarily includes things like weeding, thinning, pruning, and cutting away. All of which leads to a personal question. What is currently choking your growth? What is thwarting your harvest? What is dirtying your soil? Could it be a destructive habit you can’t break, or a destructive feeling you can’t purge? Maybe its a hurt you can’t forgive, or a grudge you won’t surrender. Maybe it is the icy crystal covering of self- hatred that you will not allow the love of another to melt. Or maybe it is a bridge over troubled waters, lowered by your enemy, onto which you refuse to take the first step. Or perhaps it is the lingering presence of a favorite sin that you have chosen to tame rather than maim. Or maybe your soil is being dirtied by the terrible ways you use clock, calendar and date book, so as to leave no time for better seeds to grow.

Hard soil! Shallow soil! Dirty Soil! All three have one thing in common. They yield no harvest Good soil alone does that. And we are called to be good soil. True, we cannot guarantee the harvest We cannot even will the seed to appear. But we can go to work on the dirt.

Which is my task, every bit as much as it is yours. For it falls to me as your leader to mind (not only my own dirt) but yours as well. This is something I take with utmost seriousness.

When I gathered the program staff for a two-day retreat at my place up north (just one short week into my tenure here), I began our time together with this question from Eugene Peterson:

Why, pray tell, do new pastors often treat the congregations to which they have been freshly appointed with the impatience and violence of a developer building a shopping mall, instead of the patient devotion of a farmer cultivating a field?

Then, having raised the question, Peterson goes on to admonish and advise:

The congregation is not the enemy. Pastoral work is not adversarial. These people in the pews are not aliens to be conquered and then rehabilitated to the satisfaction of the pastoral ego. Neither is the congregation stupid and lumpish, just waiting for pastoral enlightenment. No! The congregation is topsoil, seething with energy and organisms that have incredible capacities for assimilating death and participating in resurrection, before which the only proper pastoral stance is awe.

Listen to that last sentence again: ‘The congregation is topsoil.... before which the only proper pastoral stance is awe.” When I finished reading that, I expected the staff to be most impressed. Bertha, in turn, announced that she was going to go home and tell you that I said you were dirt. So I beat her to it. But I also said it. For you are.... dirt, that is. And if you have followed this little story carefully, you know that “dirt” is precisely what you ought to be.

For from dust we came. And to dust we shall return. But in between the dust that was...and the dust that is to be.... let us (in this present hour) make of ourselves the best dirt possible. And as for the rest, what choice do we have but to

Entering the Zone 8/8/1993

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

You may have noticed that the sermon titles have begun to appear in the newspaper, and are included in the ad we place in the Thursday edition of the Eccentric. And you may have also noticed that, from time to time, the titles (themselves) are more than a little bit eccentric. But, believe it or not, I have had people wander into the sanctuary, drawn by a title, wondering what in the world I am going to say about some off-the-wall subject. Perhaps there is just such a person here today, wondering where the "zone" is.

Some of you may have wondered. And some may think you know. I have heard any number of guesses. The idea most often mentioned is "the twilight zone." Those people figure that I am going to talk about things that are ethereal and fourth dimensional. Running a close second is "the Fretter Zone." Those people figure that I am going to talk about VCRs, microwaves, and give away five pounds of coffee if I can't beat somebody else's best deal. I have had suggestions of "the combat zone" and "the demilitarized zone," generally from hawks and doves respectively. The more athletically inclined have mentioned "the end zone," "the strike zone," and the "2/3 match up zone." One lone environmentalist has come at things from left field and speculated that I was going to talk about "the ozone." And those were just a few of the suggestions. Not every suggestion was printable.... or preachable.  And none was correct.

Actually, the people who came at things athletically were pretty much on track. All you have to do is go back to the local sports pages about three weeks ago. The place was Grand Rapids. The event was one of those Senior's golf tournaments, put together so that people who are as old as me can still win lots of loot. The golfer was Butch Baird, who (on the first day of the tournament) shot a 63. Now Butch has never been mistaken for Arnie, Jack or even Chi Chi Rodriguez. And Butch did not go on to win the tournament. But for one day, nobody played better. So it was fitting that he should command all the media attention. For thirty minutes every reporter asked a variation on the same question: "Hey Butch, how'd you do it'?" And after fumbling for a variety of ways to explain the unexplainable (because if he really knew how he "did it," he'd go out and do it tomorrow), he finally put the questions to rest by saying: "It was unreal out there today. It was like I was in a zone where everything was easy.... everything was pure.... and where I couldn't do anything wrong."

And the fascinating thing is that Butch didn't make that up. For one of the newer terms in sport's jargon is “the zone." And what is "the zone?" It is that semi-mystical place...or moment...where there is almost perfect harmony between mind, body and the environment. The "zone" is where nothing is impossible.... where everything goes right.... and where the athlete enjoys a feeling of complete confidence and mastery.

Since this concept is athletically foreign to me, I can't tell you what it is like to enter "the zone" personally. But others can. One of the best descriptions of this phenomenon was offered by Pele, the now-retired Brazilian soccer immortal.  Pele said that in a match one day he felt a strange and eerie calm. He described it as a kind of euphoria. He said he felt as if he could run all day without tiring and that he could dribble right through the defenders, every last one of them. It was almost as if he could pass through them physically.  He felt that he could not be hurt or injured.  It was a feeling of near-total invincibility.

 

In that same essay, shared with me by my San Diego colleague, Mark Trotter, there was a similar testimony from John Brodie. Some of you know John Brodie as a TV commentator. Others of you know him as a near-scratch golfer. But if you go back a ways, you will remember that John Brodie once quarterbacked the San Francisco 49'ers. Listen to his remembrance from that era: “There were occasional moments in games when time seemed to slow down in an almost uncanny way. It was as if everyone were running in slow motion. It would seem like I had all the time in the world to watch the receivers run their patterns, yet knowing that the defensive line was coming at me just as fast as ever."

It would seem that similar feelings can be experienced in virtually every sport. Just two weeks ago (in response to a question about whether John Olerud could conceivably hit .400), our own Cecil Fielder talked about "the zone." He said that there are days when he can't help but hit.... when the ball comes to the plate in slow motion.... when he can see the seams, count the threads, and hear it crying 'kill me."

Then there was this amazing testimony by an inter-collegiate gymnast named Carol Johnson. She was talking about performing on a balance beam. That's the little thin board from which one does flips and cartwheels. Now I don't know about you, but it's been 35 years since I last did a flip or a cartwheel from the ground, let alone a beam. And I probably wasn't very graceful, even then. But Carol Johnson says: " There are days, in competition, when the beam seems to grow so wide, that any fear of falling completely disappears."

That's far out stuff. But that's what is known as "entering the zone." There comes a time when everything comes together and falls into place exactly as it should. Fear passes. Anxiety recedes. You know that you are going to be able to do whatever it is that you need to do. And you know that nothing is going to be able to stop you.

Think back to that amazing year when the Michigan Wolverines (in the first 6 games of Steve Fisher's coaching career...after that infamous night when Bo broomed Billy) swept through the NCAA tournament and captured the national title. Do you remember how they won it? With 2 seconds to go, the Wolves were 1 point down to Seton Hall. And Rumeal Robinson (their dyslexic point guard) was on the free throw line. Robinson needed 1 to tie and 2 to win. But he had to sink the first to get the second. And earlier in the season he had missed a pair of free throws with 8 seconds to go, costing Michigan a key game against Wisconsin. But with the title on the line, Robinson swished both. Afterward he said that there was no doubt.... no fear.... never a question in his mind.  He knew that he wouldn't miss, because he knew that he couldn't miss. He had entered "the zone."

Moments ago I read you a very different version of the same phenomenon. I read you the 23rd Psalm. And you probably snoozed through it, because if any slice of scripture can be too familiar, the 23rd Psalm can be too familiar.

But I read you some amazing stuff. I read about walking through the valley of the shadow of death. I read about spreading a table and sitting down to eat in the midst of one's enemies. I read about fearing no evil. Isn't that like "entering the zone?" It sounds like pretty much the same thing to me. It sounds like fear and anxiety fading away. It sounds like being filled with extraordinary confidence. It sounds like not knowing the outcome, but figuring that whatever the outcome may be, that things are going to be alright.

One of the neat things about studying scripture is that you never get the Bible completely figured out. You keep finding new things. And one of the things I never knew until recently is that the 23rd Psalm is called a "pilgrim's psalm." It was originally written for use by travelers who had to pass through dangerous stretches of country, facing both hardships and enemies on their way to the high holy festivals in Jerusalem.

Such treks to the temple were called "pilgrimages." And they were as difficult as they were necessary. Prudence often said: "Don't go this year. It's a dangerous trip." Duty responded: "If I forget you, 0 Jerusalem, let my right hand whither and let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth." In other words: "If I fail to go to Jerusalem, let me be as a crippled, speechless man."  So they went to Jerusalem, carrying these psalms. No doubt they sang them en route. The pilgrim psalms served as a confidence-building, faith-reinforcing talisman.

My dad had such a talisman. It was a St. Christopher medal that he pinned to the roof liner of every car he ever owned. Don't ask me why. My dad wasn't Roman Catholic. He didn't believe in saintly intervention. And he didn't believe in St. Christopher. But somebody gave him the medal and he probably figured, "It can't hurt." Which was pretty much my father's philosophy about religion in general.... that "It couldn't hurt." At any rate, when he died the St. Christopher medal just kind of disappeared. I didn't look for it. I don't use such things. I am told that contemporary Catholics don't either. But I don't disparage those who do.

The 23rd Psalm said (in effect): "On the way to the temple, things will not be easy. But you will make it there. And you will make it back." I especially like the line about "preparing a table in the midst of mine enemies." What an amazing image of confidence. One usually runs from enemies.... hides from enemies.... goes out of one's way to travel where enemies are not likely to be.... or travel at a time of day when enemies are likely to be occupied elsewhere. One does not march right into the midst of enemies, unfold a picnic table, spread a tablecloth, and sit down to eat. That's preposterous. No one takes time out for a Big Boy in the midst of the bad boys. To sit down to eat in the midst of one's enemies implies that the opposition is totally immobilized. It's like Pele said earlier: "It was as if I could dribble right through the defenders, every last one of them, and absolutely nothing could hurt me." We are talking about "entering the zone."

Consider Psalm 121, another pilgrim's psalm.  Bruce read it for you just moments ago. That's the one about lifting one's eyes to the hills and looking for help. Recall the line: "He will not let your foot be moved." Now cut to Carol Johnson (the gymnast) who said: "On good days the balance beam grows so wide that any fear of falling completely disappears." Both psalmist and gymnast seem to be saying the same thing, are they not.  "My foot will not slip.  It will not slip as I walk the narrow beam. It will not slip as I walk the narrow road. It will not slip as I walk the narrow way. And it will not slip as I straddle the narrow precipice where snares and dangers lurk on either side."

Consider Psalm 27. "Though an army (an entire army, mind you) pitches its camp against me, my heart will not fear. Though war be waged with me as its target, my confidence will not be shaken. For, in times of trouble, He will shelter me under his awning.... hide me deep within His tent.... or set me high upon a rock where my enemies will not be able to reach me."

Or consider Psalm 91. "No disaster will be able to overtake you. No plague will come near your tent. He will put His angels in charge of you. Should you dash your foot against a stone, they will lift you up on their hands."

And what of Psalm 139? Listen to some of its language. "Where can I go, 0 God, where You are not? If I climb to the heavens, You are there. If I lie down in the watery pit, You are there as well. If I fly to the point of the sunrise or dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, Your hand will still be guiding me.... holding me.... leading me."

That's an amazingly confident statement. But the Psalms speak of such confidence eloquently. And they speak of it frequently. They also sound like the testimonies of the athletes who talk about "entering the zone" .... where calm prevails.... where anxiety diminishes.... where mastery come to the fore.... and where there is a growing certainty that everything is going to be alright."

Now a fair question might be: "How does one acquire such confidence?" How does one "enter the zone?" In the article about the athletes, the researchers studying this matter came up with a theory. They said that the key is concentration. That's how you enter the zone. You concentrate. And concentration consists of a couple of major elements. First, one needs to feel at home where one is. Whether it be the batter's box, the balance beam, the free throw line, the first tee, or even the pulpit, one needs to feel comfortable there. I suppose that practice plays a part in that. After so many repetitions you say: 'There is nothing strange about this place.... nothing I have not seen before.... felt before.... overcome before.... mastered before." Concentration is a product of comfort.  And comfort is a product of familiarity.

But it takes more than that. Concentration also requires that you become supremely focused, to the degree that you permit no distraction. This requires you to put everything from your mind, save for the objective at hand. Have you ever noticed when a basketball game is in the hands of someone at the free throw line in the final seconds, what the opposition does? The opposition calls time out. Why? To "ice the shooter," that's why. And what does "icing the shooter" mean? It means: "Let him cool off. Let him think about what he is about to do." There are times when the most devastating thing an athlete can do is think too much.  Someone once asked Yogi Berra whether his knowledge of pitchers (gained from years of catching pitchers) helped him once he stepped into the batter's box. To which Yogi is alleged to have said: "Darned if I know. I can't think and hit at the same time."

Concentration! For an athlete it means blocking out all distractions and permitting no thought to enter, save for the one that is locked on the objective. That's why, when John Brodie was "in the zone," those crashing defensive ends didn't exist. Those lumbering tackles, who looked like sequoias in shoulder pads, didn't exist. Those quick-footed blitzing linebackers didn't exist. Those lithe and lean cornerbacks, who stuck to his receivers like glue, didn't exist. What existed? Nothing, save the quarterback and the wide receiver streaking toward the corner of the end zone. The rest was suspended animation. That was life "in the zone."

But we need to switch gears one more time. We need to go back to the Psalms and compare notes. How does the psalmist think we "enter the zone?" What does the psalmist believe produces this sense of diminished anxiety and elevated certainty? What does the psalmist think will generate that sublime trust that, though the outcome be unknown, the unknown need not be feared? What, to the psalmist's way of looking at things, enables one to believe that it is possible to sit down and eat a four course meal in the enemy's lair, with death and destruction lurking on every side?

Is it concentration? Is it suspension of thought? Is it blocking out all distractions? Is it cultivating such an extreme sense of singularity so that nothing else exists at that moment, but you? No! It isn't any of these things. What it is, is a cultivated sense of the presence of God. That's the secret, says the psalmist. Go back and read the pilgrim psalms once more. Listen to what they say: "I can get from here to there.... I can go to Jerusalem and back.... I can pass through whatever lies in my way.... for thou art with me." For the psalmist, it is not so much an issue of what you block out, but Who you let in. What an incredible affirmation this is. For the psalmist would seem to be saying: "There is no place you can go where God is not There is no environment so hostile so as to exclude the possibility of God's accompanying you there. There is no physical condition.... no emotional crisis.... no mental breakdown.... no spiritual malaise.... no loss.... no guilt... no sorrow.... no valley so impenetrable.... so as to defy God's ability to lead you through."

Let's wrap this up and put it to bed with one last story about an athlete. Given all he has been through, I am an unabashed fan of this man. His name is Orel Hershiser. He pitches for the Los Angeles Dodgers. And this particular story grows out of one of the more memorable World Series in recent history.... the one where Kirk Gibson limped up the dugout steps to take Eckersly deep and claim Game One for the Dodgers over Oakland. Now, however, it is Game Five. The Dodgers are up three games to one and Orel Hershiser has already won two of those games. Yet, here he is, pitching Game 5 on little or no rest. Somehow, he is in command through seven innings.

Now, however, it is the eighth inning. He is tiring. He is losing control. He begins walking people. Howell and Pena are heating up quickly in the bullpen. Lasorda is fidgeting in the dugout, trying to make a decision between his tiring star and two unreliable relievers. The Oakland crowd, mocking the chant of adoration that Hershiser often hears in LA, begins jeering (in sing-song fashion): "Orel.... Orel.... Orel." Hershiser looks at the stands....looks at the bullpen....looks at Lasorda. Then he steps off the mound, closes his eyes, and (for several seconds) takes a series of deep breaths. Then he steps back on the mound, gets Jose Canseco on a foul pop, closes out the eighth inning, retires the side in the ninth, and becomes the World Series MVP.

I suppose you could say that he "entered the zone." I suppose you could say that stepping from the mound, closing his eyes, and breathing deeply were acts of intensely focused concentration. I suppose you could say that he was blocking out 51,000 Oakland fans.... blocking out a trio of Oakland base runners.... blocking out Canseco at the plate.... blocking out Howell and Pena in the pen.... and blocking out Lasorda in the dugout.

Except that's not what he said. Maybe we should let Orel Hershiser finish his own story. After the game he was asked: "What about that tension in the eighth inning? What were you doing out there?" To which he answered: "When my adrenalin begins to race, I put my head back.... I close my eyes.... and (get this) I sing hymns." In other words, his is not an act which blocks everybody out, so much as it is an act which lets Somebody in.

My friends, when life gets rough.... when you get tired.... when there's a pilgrimage to be made.... when

the road to some Jerusalem forces you to pass through enemy territory.... when you are up against

giants.... when you have got to try and keep your balance in some narrow and perilous place.... or

when you feel like your life has entered the late innings and you are fading fast

Step aside.

Close your eyes.

Throw back your head.

And start singing

Through many dangers, toils and snares

I have already come.

'Tis grace has brought me safe thus far

and grace will lead me home.