On Preaching to a Bunch of Latter-day Baptists 12/5/1999

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture:  Matthew 11:2-11

Introductory Note: The sermon owes a debt of gratitude to Barbara Brown Taylor and her treatment of John the Baptist in an incredible book, God in Pain.

I am not a lectionary preacher, meaning that I do not follow a list of pre-assigned texts, Sunday by Sunday. Instead, I choose and preach my own. But I am cognizant of what the lectionary says, and why the lectionary says it. Which is why very few congregations ever get to Bethlehem without passing through the land (or should we say “the waters”) of John the Baptist. Because the lectionary requires it, don’t you see?

To be sure, John and Jesus don’t “gather at the river” until both are grown men. But wiser heads than mine have decreed that while Bethlehem was the beginning of Jesus’ life, the River Jordan was the beginning of Jesus’ ministry. So if we are going to await him in Advent….and receive him at Christmas….perhaps we had better prepare our hearts to receive all of him, meaning who he was early, and who he was late. And who better to deliver the “get ready” speech than John the Baptist, even if it be 30 years out of sequence?

You and I have spoken of John before. That’s because every three years or so, I tell myself: “If the lectionary demands it, I ought to preach it.” But it’s never easy. Because John is never easy. Preaching John the Baptist at Christmastime is not like sliding a hot knife through butter. No, preaching John at Christmastime is like dragging fingernails across a chalkboard, or forcing a reluctant patient to take a huge pill without first dissolving it in applesauce.

A colleague writes: “To me, John the Baptist has always seemed like the Doberman pinscher of the Gospel.” In the lectionary, John always appears right before Christmas, when no one’s defenses are up. Here we are, trying to get to Bethlehem….not hurrying….but maintaining a steady pace. Yet while still separated from the stable by several blocks….several dark blocks…. we hear this “GRRROW-ROW-ROWL.” And notice that a big old dog with a spiky collar has got us by the ankle. “Repent,” the big dog says, “for the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand.” And before he lets go of our leg, our heads are pounding with images of “vipers, axes and unquenchable fire.” When all we wanted was to get to the church in time to sing “O Holy Night.”

Yet there is no getting around John. Every gospel writer introduces Jesus by introducing John. Which means that this Doberman is (in some way or another) God’s idea….and that this messenger may also be (in some way or another) God’s idea. John is like the guard dog who tests all who think they want to take the plunge by growling: “Are you ready to take the plunge?”

By “ready,” John means “repentant.” That’s John’s business. Repentance! Begging us to change our ways in preparation for an audience with God….and willing to scare us half to death (if that’s what it will take) to wake us up and see that we are sleepwalking through our lives, confusing our ways with God’s ways, while accumulating sin like an empty house accumulates dust. And, to the degree that we are willing, John says: “I’ll hose you down.” Meaning that if we come out of our comas long enough to see what is wrong….and say so out loud….then John will wash it all away.

The way most of us were taught it, repentance means owning up to how rotten we are, and saying out loud (if only in the shower) that we are selfish, sinful, deeply defective human beings who grieve the heart of God….and that we are very, very sorry about it.

But then Jesus comes along….in response to the same message (and the same messenger)….and says: “Baptize me.” To which John says: “Well, I never….I mean, I can’t….I mean, isn’t this somehow backwards?….I shouldn’t be baptizing you….You should be baptizing me.”

I mean, John was so sure….then. So certain….then. So clear about who Jesus was….then. “I am not even fit to shine your shoes….or lace them up,” John said to Jesus….then. Did you ever have your shoes shined at the airport? There you sit in that big, elevated chair (way up high)….so that down below, someone can go to work with brush and cloth, wax and paste. While you are up there, reading or sleeping, somebody is removing the crud through which you have walked, while shining the leather so that when you look at the ground, you can see your face.

I don’t know about you, but I never have my shoes shined at the airport. I can’t place myself in one of those seats so that the shiner can do his thing. I can take my shoes off and hand them to somebody for shining. But I can’t sit there, towering above them while they do it.

So John is saying to Jesus: “I am not worthy to shine your shoes, yet you come to me for baptism.” To which Jesus says, in effect: “Just do it.” That’s how sure John was then. About Jesus, I mean.

But then is not now….at least the “now” of Matthew 11. Months have passed. We are nowhere near a river. John is in jail. And he sends “his people” to see Jesus. I bet you didn’t know John had “people.” But he did. Even then, John was a big deal. John’s people come to Jesus with a question: “Are you the one who is to come, or should we wait for somebody else?”

What’s going on here? Where is the old John….the early John….the convinced and utterly certain John….who was there at the riverside saying: “I know who you are.” Why is John asking such a thing? Has his memory failed? Or did somebody get to John? Sure, something got to John. But it was not an individual. It was life. Which is what gets to us all from time to time.

John is in jail, remember. Put there by Herod. Not for preaching on street corners without a license. Not for entering rivers without showering. John is in jail for disapproving of Herod’s marriage to his brother’s wife….whose daughter will soon ask for John’s head on a platter (a silver platter) and get it. But if God’s Kingdom really was around the corner….and if Jesus really was the one to launch it (as John told everybody he would be)….why was he (John) in hotter water now than the water into which he pushed Jesus, just months earlier?

After all, the Messiah was supposed to change things. He was supposed to burn all the human trash of the world. He was supposed to take an ax to the dead wood of the world. He was supposed to take a gleaming pitchfork and separate the wheat from the chaff in the world. And he was supposed to clean the world up, so that men like Herod were no longer in power and men like John were no longer in prison. But he hadn’t. And, perhaps, couldn’t.

In a moving and brooding book (The Last Temptation of Christ), Nikos Kazantzakis paints a picture of Jesus and John that is hard to forget. They are sitting high above the Jordan, where they have been arguing (all night) about what to do with the world. John’s face is hard, and (from time to time) his arms go up and down as if he were actually chopping something. Jesus’ face (by contrast) is tame and hesitant….eyes full of compassion.

“Isn’t love enough?” he asks John.

“No,” John answers angrily. “The tree is rotten. God called me and gave me the ax, which I placed at the roots of the tree. Having done my duty, I now ask that you do yours. Take the ax and strike.”

To which Jesus responds: “If I were fire, I would burn. If I were a woodcutter, I would strike. But I am a heart, and so I love.”

Had such a conversation actually occurred, I am not certain how John might have taken it. Or how you might take it. For there are latter-day Baptists among us….even now….who once numbered ourselves among the certain, but now number ourselves among the disillusioned. Why? Because life has ground us down, that’s why. And the deliverer didn’t deliver….at least with the immediacy of the tooth fairy. I mean, when life kicks us in the teeth, she shows up with a quarter. That very night.

I don’t know where life may be defeating you this Advent. I don’t know how Jesus may be disappointing you this Advent. But I would suggest to you….this Advent….that any disillusionment you feel may not necessarily be a bad thing. For what is disillusionment if not, literally, the loss of an illusion? And, in the long run, it is never a bad thing to lose the lies we have mistaken for the truth.

            Did Jesus fail to come when you rubbed the lantern?  Then perhaps Jesus is not a genie.

            Did Jesus fail to punish your enemies?   Then perhaps Jesus is not a cop.

            Did Jesus fail to make everything run smoothly?  Then perhaps Jesus is not a mechanic.

Over and over again, our disappointments draw us deeper and deeper into who Jesus really is….and what Jesus really does.

* * * * *

“Are you the right guy,” John’s people ask, “or should we look for somebody else?” Which sounds like a “yes” or “no” question if I ever heard one. Except that Jesus, upon hearing it, answers neither “yes” nor “no.” Instead, he says: “Go and tell John what you see and hear.”

·         Blind people seeing.

·         Lame people walking.

·         Deaf people hearing.

·         Dead people reviving.

·         And poor people hearing news that, for a change, doesn’t depress the daylights out of them.

Which, you could say, is no proof of Messiahship that you ever heard. Unless, that is, you are blind….lame….deaf….poor….or dead. In which case, I think you’d probably be impressed. Maybe even convinced.

On a First Name Basis 10/31/199

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture:  I John 4:13-16, Romans 8:26-27, Galatians 5:22-26

Several years ago, I preached a sermon from this pulpit entitled “Confessions of a Reluctant Hugger.” In it, I identified a pair of competing needs that most of us have, naming them (for purposes of recall) “skin hunger” and “space hunger.” Simply put, there are times when we have a very strong need to be touched. And there are times when we need everyone to remain at arm’s length. Now comes anthropologist Edward T. Hall, with the results of his pioneering study on “The Effects of Distance in Relationships.” He suggests each of us operates in four zones, but may differ as to how comfortable we are in each.

The first is the “Public Zone.” This is the distance at which preachers, teachers and other lecturers stand in relation to their audience. The public zone is in effect when there is a distance of 12 feet (or more) between speaker and listener. Which explains why the front row (directly in front of the pulpit) is the hardest pew for ushers to fill….even when the sanctuary is crowded to the point of overflowing.

Next is the “Social Zone.” This is the distance we want to stand apart from each other in normal, small group conversation. Meetings and interviews occur in the social zone, where the comfortable distance ranges from 4 to 12 feet.

The “Personal Zone” is the distance we define when we come within normal touching range of another individual. This zone ranges from 18 inches (on the narrow side) to 4 feet (on the wide side). People often protect their personal zones by placing handbags, coats or other barriers between themselves and others. One problem with going to a college football game….especially at the University of Michigan….is that one’s personal zone is breached by total strangers, given the miniscule number of inches allocated to each $35 seat. And it also explains why some of you feel uncomfortable on Easter Sunday, when the ushers try to pile the maximum number of bodies into each and every pew. I am convinced that one reason some of you will do anything possible to maintain your seat on the aisle has nothing to do with your desire to make a quick exit, so much as your desire to keep at least one side free from “space invaders.”

Finally, we have the “Intimate Zone” which is the distance we use for embracing. Most of us allow no one but family members and very close friends into this zone. For most North Americans and Western Europeans, any invasion by strangers into the intimate zone causes irritation, anxiety or fear. We don’t like being crowded. And all of us know at least one individual who, quite uninvited, regularly violates our space.

In a similar vein, there are as many different degrees of “knowing” as there are of “touching.” We know someone by reputation. We know someone else by report. We know people through mutual acquaintances. Or by formal introduction. Sometimes we presume too much knowledge, saying, “Oh, I know you” or “Of course we know each other,” when what we mean is: “I think we were introduced at a wedding reception back in September (or was it October) of ’94.”

We know faces. We know names. And, if we’re lucky, we know which goes with which. We know family members, who we address with tender titles like “Mom,” “Dad,” “Sis” or “Grandpop.” And we know friends, who we feel comfortable calling by their first names, like “Ricky,” “Lucy,” “Fred” and “Ethel.” Yet there is often one who we know with an intimacy that exceeds all others, for it is a “knowing” that involves body as well as mind.

I think I was a fifth grade Sunday school student at old Westlawn Church in Detroit when the teacher read (from the book of Genesis): “And Adam knew Eve, his wife….” At which point Tommy Teeter elbowed me in the ribs and said (in a stage whisper, loud enough for all but the teacher to hear): “You know what that means, don’t you, Ritter?” Which I did. Except I didn’t want the teacher to know I did. And for years after that, any time a girl’s name would come up in conversation (and some guy would say that he knew her), someone else would be sure to add: “You mean in the biblical sense?” I suppose it was a good thing our Sunday school teachers never knew of our ability to twist and abuse God’s holy word in such spurious ways.

But, as you will note from our fall campaign literature (which is hanging from banners, printed on decals, and replicated in free-flowing script that will be increasingly hard to avoid before November 14), we are encouraged to “know the Spirit,” with the implication being that one is encouraged to “know” the Spirit in the biblical sense….as an intimate insider (rather than as an intellectual observer).

Whatever else this sermon is, it is not a theological treatment of the work of the Holy Spirit. I’ve done that. Neither is it an answer to the institutional question: “How do you measure a Spirit filled church?” I’ve done that, too. Instead, this is about the Spirit of God, alive in you…. living….breathing….supporting….sustaining….sighing….wrestling….goading….directing.

Which is something, I believe, that can be known and named. Some years ago, the United Methodist Church attempted to rally the troops around a campaign entitled “Catch the Spirit.” It had a nice ring to it. And it had a million dollar ad campaign underneath it. But it never really caught on. And I think I know why. It had nothing to do with the word “Spirit.” But it had everything to do with the word “catch.” For it implied that the Spirit was….in reference to the self….both elsewhere and external. The Spirit was either somewhere you weren’t, or something you weren’t. Meaning that you had to find it….snatch it….grab it….capture it. And failing to do any of the above, we had to drum it into you.

I have been to a lot of football games in my life where I felt downright sorry for the cheerleaders. I mean, there they were, dancing on their feet, windmilling their arms and screaming out their lungs. And there we were, sitting like “bleacher potatoes,” with our arms folded, tongues stilled and posteriors parked….glaring at them (as if to say): “Just try and make me feel it, or shout it.” To be sure, I’ve been in the bleachers when it all came together and we all came to our feet. But, more often than not, I’ve been there when it didn’t. And we didn’t.

As a kid, there were things I would have given my eye teeth to catch….like screaming line drives hit directly over my head. And there were things I would have given my eye teeth to avoid catching…. like the measles that were going around my school or the intestinal flu that was running through my family.

Is God’s Holy Spirit like that….something that I’ve got to run from when I don’t want it, or run toward when I do? If so, what would it take to catch it? Would a better glove help? A deeper net? A bigger basket? An antenna in my yard? A “dish” on my rooftop? My problem, you see, is with the word “catch.” It puts the Spirit in a dodging and elusive light….like a firefly, and me with a mason jar.

I know that scripture contributes to this perception….especially when Jesus says to Nicodemus (concerning the Spirit): “It’s hard to pin down, Nick. It blows where it will.” Which I take as a warning against locking in too early….with too much rigidity….on too much certainty. What Jesus was trying to do for Nicodemus was light a fire under an old man who was saying (in effect) that he’d seen it all, done it all, and knew it all. Where such is the case….as with many churches I know….the blowing of the Spirit can sometimes lead to “a whole lot of shakin’ goin’ on.”

But the more I read about the Holy Spirit, it would seem that the Spirit is not something to catch, so much as someone to know….intimately (as I said earlier), as “in the biblical sense.” Notice that I did not say “ecstatically” (although Pentecostals tend to read it that way). I said “intimately.” And don’t be afraid of that word. Let me remind you of what you just sang, mere moments ago.

            Teach me to love thee as thine angels love,

            One Holy passion filling all my frame,

            The kindling of the heaven-descended Dove,

            My heart an altar, and thy love the flame.

I don’t want to push this too far. Neither do I wish to precipitate a discussion of the Holy Spirit’s gender. But, throughout the history of the church, there have been those who have viewed the Holy Spirit as feminine….the softer “yin” to the Creator’s “yang.” I really don’t know about that. But, as a guy, it is sometimes tantalizing to think of the Holy Spirit as a female who has been a part of your life for a long time….seemingly forever….whose presence is always assumed, but seldom courted. The one who loved us, long before we ever thought to love her.

Now there’s a lot wrong with that metaphor, given that it won’t solve every puzzle or fit every life. But before you discard it outright, notice how many times the word “indwelling” appears with the word “Spirit”….as in “been there all along, doing whatever it takes, for as long as it takes.” To accomplish what? To create passion….and to establish a connection between creator and created (or between God and his own). As I John says: “By this, we know that we abide in God, and He in us, because he has given us of his own Spirit.” Which merely builds on what Paul said to the church in Rome (3:24) when he wrote: “When we cry Abba Father (“Abba” literally meaning “Daddy”), it is the Spirit bearing witness with our spirit that we are children of God.”

If there is any reason for God to be confident that He will one day have his way with us….and looking at it from my perspective, I can’t figure out why God didn’t go to be treated for depression years ago….God’s confidence (I think) rests solely in this. God has an agent working undercover….on the inside….who regards no case as hopeless, and no mission as impossible.

People sometimes say to me: “So you think there’s hope for me yet?” To which sheer honesty would lead me to answer: “By my reckoning, no.” But I never say that. Not simply because I am polite. But because things don’t rest on my reckoning. My evaluation is not the last word on your prospects. The elevator of my hope does not always go all the way to your basement. But God’s does. And when the doors open on the bottom floor, I think it is the Holy Spirit who gets on….not off. In fact, it is probably the Holy Spirit who called for the elevator in the first place. For the Spirit has been down there all along….doing subterranean work.

Don’t ask me to describe the work. Only you can do that. Sometimes the Holy Spirit works nights, moonlighting as a world class wrestler….Hulk Hogan in heavenly haberdashery. I have known people who the Holy Spirit has taken to the mat. And pinned….till they cried, “Uncle.” Or till they cried, “Bless me.” Or till they just plain cried. When you find yourself moved to tears about the plight of your life, the people of your life, or the pure unadulterated pleasure of your life, look for the Spirit.

I resonate to the image of the Holy Spirit as a world class wrestler. I was recently talking with a fellow who is trying to come to terms with the faith intellectually. He wants it to make sense in his head. But when he talks about religious ideas, his arms move. He looks like somebody who is sparring and circling….making and breaking wrestling holds. What’s that all about? Could it be the Spirit?

Sometimes the Spirit works days as a translator. A couple weeks back, an 83-year-old man called me up and asked me to come see him. He said he had something important to discuss with me. When I got to his room, he dismissed his caregiver. Then, without even a moment’s worth of small talk, he said: “Bill, I can’t pray. It’s all blocked up. I try, but nothing comes.” I didn’t comment on his imagery. I knew what he was saying. I asked him if he didn’t think God would look upon his sending for me as an act of prayerful longing. But that idea didn’t compute. So I reminded him of Paul’s word (again, to the Romans): “That the Spirit helps us in our weakness. For when we cannot pray as we want or ought, the Spirit steps in and sighs on our behalf, too deep for words.” Meaning that when you can’t even voice a prayer, the Spirit says: “I’ll take over and make some sounds that God will be able to understand.”

And sometimes the Spirit is like a cat burglar, casing the basement of your soul, having gained entry through the only window you forgot to lock before nightfall. Then the Spirit goes to work, nudging you toward something you need to do….someone you need to see….or some door you need to walk through.

One of the reasons I am in this line of work is because a bunch of elderly ladies (in my boyhood church) kept saying to me: “I bet you’re going to be a minister someday.” And the reason they kept saying that is because every time they were at the church, I was at the church. And they figured the only reason some kid would behave in such a delightful….albeit abnormal….way, is because God had fingered him. Early on. Eventually, I figured they knew something I didn’t.

But the first time I told this to the Board of Ministry examiners (that a bunch of little old ladies had called me to preach), fifty percent of the clergy at the table said: “That can’t be a call to ministry.” While the other fifty percent said: “Oh, yes it can.” So for the next several minutes, I simply sat back and let them go at each other. The bottom line is, I’m here. In part, because that old cat burglar of a Spirit found a weak point in my adolescent resistance….little old ladies.

I don’t know how it is for you. But if I get you alone in my office….and get you talking about what’s really going on in your life….we’ll find the Spirit’s disguise. And we’ll uncover the Spirit’s work. I just know we will. Then I’ll tell you to go with it….move with it….dance and swing with it….ebb and flow with it….anything but deny it….or sit on it. For, as our other campaign text says: “If we live by the Spirit, let us also walk by the Spirit.”

I suppose it is possible that, to some folks, at some times….especially when they are frenzied, frazzled and flying about with no focus, no anchor and no strength….the Spirit may indeed say: “There, there now. Calm down. Cool off. Take your ease. Make some tea. Settle and sit. Let go. Let somebody else. Let God.” Yes, the Spirit may say that. But I would be one surprised preacher if that were the last word the Spirit had to say. Really surprised if that would be the last word the Spirit had to say.

I remember reading about the Rolls Royce Company at the time they were said to make, without equivocation, the world’s best motor car. In that article, someone actually asked the president if any of his cars ever broke down. To which he replied: “My dear man, a Rolls Royce never breaks down….although it may temporarily fail to proceed.”

My friends, I think I know you well enough to know that few of you are broken down. But I also know you well enough to know that many of you are failing to proceed. About which there is relatively little I can do. Except to help you discern the Spirit in your life….by asking questions, issuing challenges, opening windows, opening wounds, and then giving you avenues by which to express whatever God is laying on your heart to do. For God’s work at Birmingham First is taking place in you. I’m just here to steer the ship. But I can’t begin to tell you where all the power is coming from.

A guy stopped by my office this Friday afternoon. He told me he had a joke for me. It concerned the pastor who stood before his congregation and said: “Concerning the fall campaign, I’ve got good news and bad news. The good news is that this church has more money than it knows what to do with. The bad news is, it’s in your pockets.” To which I said: “So, what’s the joke?”

* * * * *

Know the Spirit. Keep the Promise.

Home Repairs 7/25/1993

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Luke 10:38-42

There once lived a couple, a man and his wife, in a small house in the city.  One day the man noticed that a tree, a sapling really, was starting to grow through the living room floor. He thought about mentioning it to his wife, but he didn’t for fear of feeling foolish.  For who had ever heard of a tree growing through the living room floor.  His wife noticed the tree also but she didn’t say anything either.  With each passing day the tree grew larger.  It grew taller and its trunk thicker. Pretty soon it was no longer a sapling, but a sturdy young tree. The man and his wife watched the tree grow but they never mentioned it, for who had ever heard of a tree growing through the living room floor.

Time passed. The tree grew more quickly. Every fall it would shed its leaves on the living room rug. Insects would fly about and burrow in its bark. Birds began building nests in its branches. And the living room rug was really quite a mess, what with dead leaves, twigs and bits of bark lying all around. The man and his wife had to spend a good deal of their time cleaning up around the tree. But they never mentioned it to each other, for no one had ever heard of a tree growing through the living room floor.

Time marched on. The man and his wife spent more and more of their time cleaning the rug, ducking lower and lower under the branches, and walking in greater and greater detours around the trunk. On one side, the trunk almost touched the wall, forcing them to suck in their stomachs in order to get from one side of the room to the other. Both were thoroughly unhappy with the situation. But neither saw fit to mention it, for who had ever heard of a tree growing through the living room floor.

As time went by, the trunk grew thicker and thicker. Every day the man and his wife had to make a bigger and big­ger detour in order to go from one side of the room to the other. As the branches grew and spread every which way, they also had to bend their heads in walking about the room. But neither mentioned the tree to each other, for who had ever heard of a tree growing through the living room floor. 

One day, however, the man said to his wife: “It seems that there’s a tree growing through the living room floor.” His wife said that she, too, had noticed it and wasn’t very happy about it, because she had to spend so much of her time cleaning. And the man said that he was tired of sucking in his stomach to squeeze from one side of the room to the other. And his wife said that she didn’t like making greater and greater detours around the trunk. And the man said that he was tired of ducking and bending beneath the branches. So the next day they had the tree removed. The man and his wife were much happier. After that, whenever a tree started growing through the living room floor, they removed it before it got to be too much of a problem.  

*     *     *     *     *     *

I do not know who this couple is. Neither do I know where this couple lives. I do know the man who tells their story. He lives in Connecticut.  His name is Steven Pearce. He is a rabbi. I find myself wondering if the good rabbi Pearce has been looking in local living rooms lately. For I suspect that there are a good many trees to be found in the living rooms of Birmingham as well.

Sometimes people let me see their trees. Sometimes they even ask my help in cutting them down. But before a tree can be surgically removed, there must be some prior acknowledgement that the tree exists. And the point of the good rabbi’s story is that it is a lack of acknowledgement, rather than the growth of the tree, that lies at the root of the problem.

This brings us to our first truth about trees growing in living rooms. The tree is not the problem. In fact, notice the relative ease with which the tree is removed, once the man and his wife acknowledge its presence and admit that it bothers them. What is the tree, you ask? Let me be a bit like Jesus and answer one question by asking another. What is it that you are not talking about in your living room, that is beginning to cause difficulties in some significant relationship in your life?

A very lovely lady died a few months ago because of a tree that was growing in her face. Only it looked like a mole. People had noticed it for years. While far from offensive, it was certainly no beauty mark. A few friends, recognizing that it is sometimes kinder to be candid, asked: “Why don’t you have something done about that?” I’m not sure that she ever answered them honestly. Just recently, someone told me what the real issue was. The issue was that she didn’t like doctors.... at all. So she didn’t go to them.... at all. I do not know what her husband and children felt about doctors, or about her mole. I suppose that, over time, the subject became another one of those “trees” that is easier to ignore than remove.

For decades the mole was as dormant as any discussion about it. Until one day it wasn’t.... dormant, that is. It went from nothing to something. It went from dormancy to malignancy. And a couple of months ago, they did something about it. They buried her. But for years, the mole was not the problem. The problem was her refusal to see it, face it, or talk about it.

Lots of trees that grow through living room floors relate to matters of the body. There is the check-up we do not have....the diet we do not follow....the symptom we do not treat....and the signal we do not heed. Some of the trees relate to the alcohol that we consume or the pills that we swallow. But, again, the problem is not the tree. The problem is in the denial of its existence.

Almost anything can be denied. And almost anything will be denied, provided that it relates to an issue of sufficient magnitude, so as to have its revelation threaten the security and serenity of the household. Some people do not talk about money and how it is made or spent. Other people do not talk about jobs and how they are lost or found. Still other people do not talk about the self-destructive personality patterns exhibited by one of their children. Many people avoid expressing doubts about their faith. Still others steer clear of voicing dissatisfaction with their circle of friends, or acknowledging a growing sense of drift and boredom with life itself. And sometimes the most difficult tree to acknowledge, is about love that is not being made in the bedroom, or the fear that love is perhaps being made in someone else’s bedroom. But the point is still the same. The tree is not the problem. 

Which leads to a second truth about trees. Most trees thrive on neglect. One of the most amazing things about relationships is how seldom things go away as a result of being ignored. This is a hard truth for me to acknowledge. For I am the kind of person who would like to believe that just the opposite is true. I would, by nature, rather skirt things than face them. I would like to believe that you really can let sleeping dogs lie, and either they will never wake up or, if they do, they will arise with marvelous dispositions and faulty memories. I would like to believe that time really does heal all things, even though I know that there are very few things healed by time, and that most things are healed by people. Trees thrive on neglect.

This introduces a third truth about trees in the living room. We delude ourselves if we think that denying their existence means that they will have no power to affect our lives. Recall that the tree in the good rabbi’s story extracted enormous concessions from two people who could never acknowledge its presence. They had to clean up after it, detour around it, and duck under its branches.

Think of the family members who can never acknowledge that one of their number has a drinking problem, but who never invite anybody over because of the possibility of unpredictable behavior on the part of the person who is drinking. Or think of the family which is afraid to take a vacation because of a teenager in the household who will not go, yet cannot be trusted to stay at home. Still, in these and similar issues, the problem is not the tree. The problem is the way the tree is hidden, particularly if people deceive themselves into thinking that its existence takes no toll.

Let me hasten to add that I am not a terribly public person. Like most people in my generation, I was schooled in the art of concealment. Dirty linen was never to show. And recognizing that, I am not saying that it is imperative that everything be laid out for all to see.  So if you are among the more reticent types who do not bleed easily on cue, that’s all right. But do not delude yourself into thinking that unacknowledged trees take no toll. They do. They take an enormous toll. And the reason consists in the fact that it takes great personal energy to maintain a system of denial for very long. And nobody has that much energy. Nobody. If you don’t believe me, just ask yourself how easy it is to pretend in front of people. And if it is so easy, why do you gradually stop going places where you feel you have to pretend. And what happens when the place you have to pretend the most, is the one place you can’t get away from....the place where you live.

With that idea nailed down, are you ready for a fourth truth about trees? If only one person in the house sees the tree, it is no less real. Sightings of trees in the living room do not require cross-verification.  Sometimes those who refuse to acknowledge the trees are teenagers. “Things are fine,” they say. They have told us a hundred times that things are fine. Why do we keep trying to make problems where there are none? Why don’t we stay off their backs? But what do we do when we sense that things are not fine? I once heard an absolutely wonderful speech by a teen sexuality counselor. Somewhere within it she recited the three classic parental laments:

How do you help when help is resented?

How do you guide when guidance is rejected?

How do you communicate when attention is perceived as attack?

Sometimes the one who refuses to acknowledge the tree is the spouse. One common scenario, in this time of emerging consciousness on the part of women, is a desire on the part of some wives to redefine the nature of marriage itself. When I once made reference to this in a sermon, a woman paused to speak to me at the door. She said: “My husband’s response to all of this is to shake his head and proclaim, “You certainly are not the same woman I married.” “To which I customarily answer (she said) I certainly hope not.”

I suppose that a lot of women (and no small number of men) are not the same person. Which means that the same marriage will not work. But people tend to become uncomfortable with that. And the people who feel the greatest discomfort are usually male. A man has a hard time seeing trees growing through the living room floor. “I have no problem,” he says. “I am fine. We have no problem. The marriage is fine. You have a problem. You are not fine. Go find someone who will help you with your problem.”

But that’s not true. A marriage is a very delicately balanced system. There is no such thing as one person having a problem. If it is a problem for you, it is a problem for us. And if I delude myself into thinking that I bear no responsibility for it and that you should go fix it, I have no right to be surprised when someday you just go.

Truth number five may seem strangely paradoxical. But hear me out. The truth is this. Talking about the tree may, in some cases, actually do more harm than good. But how can that be? Haven’t we been talking about communication all along? Isn’t “better communication” the twentieth century panacea for everything that ails us from the boardroom to the bedroom? How, pray tell, can talking about the tree do more harm than good?  Well, communication is just a tool. And tools can be misused. Besides, it is a myth to think that people in struggling marriages and families don’t talk. They talk a lot. Some of them talk endlessly. They talk until three o’clock in the morning before falling into bed exhausted. Then they get up and resume talking at breakfast. They say everything, over and over again. But they don’t solve anything. That is because they hold “press conferences.” They present their position. They state their case. They tell their side. They describe where they are “coming from.” But I have yet to find anybody who ever solved a problem in a press conference. 

All of this leads to a final and concluding truth about trees. Truth number six is this. A willingness to talk about the tree must also imply a commitment to do something about it. In the last analysis, there is only one basic ground for divorce. And it is not adultery, addiction, or even abuse. It is, instead, a consistent unwillingness (on the part of one or both parties) to address and begin working on the problems that threaten the relationship. Such problems, of course, may include adultery, addiction, and abuse.

And the idea of "working on" a problem implies several things. First of all, it implies mutuality. It is extremely hard to work on something by yourself. I suppose it can be done for a while. But private work on a relationship issue becomes, over time, a very poor substitute.

"Working on" a problem also implies negotiation. It means that in the midst of stating my case, I will be willing to surrender something of my case, the better that I can accommodate something of yours.

And in addition to mutuality and negotiation, "working on" a problem also implies a willingness to forgive and be forgiven. Walter Wangerin puts it so beautifully "Communication often magnifies a sin. Forgiveness, alone, puts that sin to bed."

Is any of this biblical? Gosh, I hope so. Especially since there is a terrible scarcity of good biblical material on how to be married and raise a family. In the New Testament, all that we find are a few lines from Paul, who neither married nor raised a family. What's more, he didn't think it was a good idea. And concerning marriage, Jesus said that once you get that way you ought to stay that way. But the Bible makes you do a whole lot of reading between the lines in order to figure out how.

But as concerns trees growing through living room floors, there is ample evidence that Jesus thought you ought to spot them, face them, and cut them down. I challenge you to read the stories that describe Jesus in the midst of conversations with other people. Pay particular attention to those encounters wherein Jesus is talking to one or two individuals rather than a crowd. Read them carefully. Then tell me what you read. Do you read any hint of avoidance, denial, or pretending? Can you picture Jesus not bringing something up because of its difficulty? Can you picture Jesus skirting "touchy" subjects, the better to ensure that all conversations will be harmonious? Or do you read, in Jesus, a style that is both compassionately honest and lovingly confrontational? Listen!

….. Peter, you are probably the best friend I have in the world. But sometimes you are so incredibly dense, to the point that you say things that border on the satanic. When those things happen, I find myself wishing that you'd stand a long way behind me, even to the point of getting out of my life.

….. My young friend, I find myself drawn to you. I like you a lot. It is clear to me that you have a great deal of money. But it is also clear to me that your love for your money is greater than your love for anything else.... including me.

….. For heaven's sake, Martha, I only get through Bethany every once in a blue moon. So will you please sit down and stop fussing with the pots.

….. Zacchaeus, this is by far and away the best meal I have ever eaten in Jericho. But it doesn't obscure the fact that you are a crook.

….. Come off it, lady; we both know that you have already had five husbands.

I've got ten more lines, just like those, in my notes at home. But the key thing to remember is that this somewhat confrontational style drew more people to Jesus, than it drove away. In fact, the lady with multiple husbands went back to her hometown that night, marveling that anybody could know so much about her and still care so much for her.

I simply do not know what Jesus would say about the day-to-day workings of marriage and family life. What I do know is that it was very much in the nature of Jesus to call a tree a tree.

Life is Lumpy 11/21/1993

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: I Thessalionians 5:12-19

Thirteen years ago, America was turned on to the subject of “spiritual formation” by psychologist M. Scott Peck and a best seller entitled “The Road Less Traveled.” Many of you read the book. The FLAME Class studied the book. I joined forces with Don Hadley, a local psychologist, to lead a nine-week exploration into the contents of the book, meeting around the Youth Room fireplace on Wednesday evenings.  Don and I were reminiscing about that group yesterday while sitting in the rain with 106,000 other people at Michigan Stadium, watching a “Magic” show.

You will, perhaps, remember that the very first sentence of Peck’s book is but three words long: “Life is difficult.” Peck would claim that those three words are more important than all the rest of the chapters put together. For unless (and until) we master them, there is little possibility that we can become mentally healthy human beings. “Life is difficult.”    That is the  first great truth, Peck says. But many do not believe it. Instead, they moan about the enormity of their problems, their burdens, their difficulties, as if life were generally easy, and that (somehow) their life was an exception to the easy-life rule. Peck even concluded that paragraph with a personal confession, saying: “I know about such moaning because I have done more than my share.”

I continue to marvel at how obvious and trenchant Peck’s truth is.  Life is difficult. It’s a rule. There is no such thing as an easy-life rule. No one lucks out. No one skims through. No one escapes unscathed. So when your life becomes more difficult than it has been on other occasions, it ought to bring you some measure of comfort to know that there is nothing unusual about this changed state of affairs.  You have not been singled out. You have not been dumped on. Neither have you been pinpointed for dethronement from the state known as “easy existence.” There is no such state. Appearances suggesting otherwise are more illusory than normative.

With that truth established, it was only a matter of time before someone attempted to improve upon it. And it now appears that someone has. That someone is Robert Fulghum, who is fast becoming America’s favorite pop philosopher. Fulghum emerges from the pages of his newest book to suggest that life is not only difficult, but  lumpy. And as with every idea that Fulghum advances, there is a story behind it that literally cries out to be heard.

Apparently, in the summer of 1959, Robert Fulghum took a job fresh out of college as the night desk clerk of a lodge in the Sierra Nevada Mountains of northern California. Like every 22-year-old fresh out of college, Bob Fulghum figured that he knew more about running a mountain  resort than did the owner, an Italian-Swiss innkeeper, who managed the place with what Fulghum considered to be a certain Fascist flair for authority and discipline.

Clearly, owner and student failed to get along from day one.  Fortunately, the owner was seldom around at night, and the student stayed out of his way by day. All remained tolerably stalemated until the “week of the weiners” came along. That was the week when lodge employees were served the exact same meal seven days running, a meal consisting of two weiners, one mound of sauerkraut and a stale roll.  On Friday night of that awful week, Fulghum went into the kitchen to get a midnight snack, only to see a memo to the chef on the refrigerator door announcing yet two more days of the same employee menu.

Angry at such colossal insensitivity, our boy went back to the desk fuming and proceeded to unload his wrath on the only audience available, a solitary night-shift bookkeeper named Sigmund Wollman.  But let Fulghum tell it.

I declared that I was quitting....that I had had it up to here....that I was going to get a plate of weiners and sauerkraut and go wake up the owner by throwing it on him....  that I was sick and tired of putting up with such crap, and who did he think he was anilyway_...that nobody could make., me eat weiners and sauerkraut’ nine days running when I didn’t even like weiners and sauerkraut and eating it was probably un-American in the first place and ought to be looked into ....and that it really made no difference anyway, given that the hotel stinks, the guests are idiots, the horses nags and the boss is a fool. So why wouldn’t it make more sense to pack my bags and head for Montana where they never heard of weiners and sauerkraut and wouldn’t feed it to pigs if they had.

On and on he raged, a good twenty minutes worth, punctuated by desk pounding, chair kicking and much profanity.  All the while, Sigmund Wollman sait quietly on his stool, smoking a cigarette, looking (for all the world) like a sorrowful bloodhound in a coat and tie. As it turned out, Sigmund Wollman had good reason to look like a sorrowful bloodhound. Survivor of Auschwitz. Three years.  German Jew. Thin. Consumptive. Coughed a lot. Probably screwed up on the insides for life. He liked working nights, where there was peace....quiet....freedom from hassle....an unending supply of weiners and sauerkraut (which he actually liked) and, most important, nobody around to tell him what to do. It was a death camp survivor’s dream, except that he had to put up with a 22-year-old who knew it all and didn’t care who he told. At the conclusion of the tirade, Sigmund Wollman said:

Fulchum, are you finished?

No, why?

Lisssen, Fulchum. Lisssen  me. Lisssen good.  You know what’s wrong mit you? It’s not weiners and kraut. It’s not the boss or the chef. And it’s not this job.

So what’s wrong with me?

Fulchum! You think you know everything. But you don’t know the difference between an inconvenience and a problem. If you break your neck. If you have nothing to eat.  If your house is on fire. Then you’ve got a problem. Everything else is inconvenience. Life is inconvenient. Life is lumpy.  Learn to separate inconveniences from problems. You will live longer. And you will not annoy people like me so much.  Good night.

I find myself hoping that the conversation went exactly that way.  Because, if it did, that has to be one of the great conversations of all time. That’s truth hitting you with the subtlety of a two-by-four. 

For  there are problems that are deep and vexing. And then there are inconveniences ....irritations.... annoyances.... lumps. Life is lumpy.  Which mecans that it isn’t 4r.i’t smooth. But there Flit th,Pr,=, are lumps and there are lumps. There are lumps, as in the oatmeal. And there are lumps, as in the breast. One ought to be able to tell the difference, and respond accordingly.

Every one of us could illustrate this principle in spades. I will illustrate it by telling three stories. The stories will be followed by three points. Then we will all go home and thaw turkey. All three stories are less than a week old, really the only thing they have in common.

Story number one. It is late last Sunday afternoon. Kris sends me to buy eggs as Kroger. The parking lot is full. Hundreds of people must be out of eggs. I circle the lot until I spot an opening space.  Notice that I did not say an open space, but an “opening” space.  There’s a difference. I pull into it. Someone honks at me. That same someone rolls down a window, screams at me, and then salutes me (sort of). That someone is a she. Wondering what I have done to invoke her wrath, I suddenly realize that she (coming from the facing direction) was eyeing the very space I had just pulled into. So I backed out and gave it to her. I thought it would make her happy. It didn’t. She still glowered at me as if I were pond scum. 

We had succeeded at irritating each other... I, by beating her to the space.... she, by failing to appreciate my gracious gesture of concession. I carefully avoid her by taking a short cut to the eggs.  Two dozen grade A larges in hand, I approach the check out line.... the express check out line....which is backed halfway up the frozen food aisle. There must be thirty people in it. The lady in front of me must have 30 items in her basket. And a checkbook in her hand. In my boorish, younger days, I had been known to gently point such things out to such people. Now that I am older, I realize that no one died and appointed me God. So I stew silently.

Meditating on lumps in the fast lane, a neighbor pulls up behind me in line. I have seen him around. That is, I have seen him in the neighborhood.... not in church. He goes to a different church. He goes to a church pastored by a friend of mine. Which was where my neighbor was earlier that Sunday morning, when it was announced that his pastor (and my friend) had surrendered his ministerial credentials, that very weekend, in response to a deep and vexing ethical crisis. I swallowed hard as I felt my previous irritation melt slowly into insignificance. 

Story number two concerns a girl who blames her mother for the fact that she is doing poorly in school. It is the mother’s fault because the mother will not buy her a car. If she had a car she could stay after school and get help from her teachers. Without a car she has to take the bus or catch a ride with her friends. Staying late and walking home is out of the question. It’s less than a mile from school to house. But only geeks walk. Her mother could pick her up forty five minutes late, but the girl doesn’t want to wait that long.  Her mother could also take her in early. That way she could see her teachers before school. But she can’t wake up that fast. And even if she could, she’d hate to have her friends see her being driven by her mother.

Fortunately.... or perhaps unfortunately.... she is not related to the boy who went totally out of control the other day when his father showed up at school. Which may have been because there is good reason to believe that the boy is being sexually abused by that very same father. But, for all I know, the boy may have a car. 

Story number three concerns Lomas Brown. Lomas is the gigantic left tackle of our stalwart Detroit Lions. Lomas did not play last week against the Rams. But he says that he will play this week against the Vikings. He will play, even though his shoulder (which has been paining him) has not improved all that much from one Sunday to the next. He will play, he says, because Mike Utley can’tcan’t ....ever ....  again. Mike Utley is Lomas Brown’s running mate at offensive guard.  Last week, Mike Utley broke his neck against the Rams. He will be a paraplegic for the rest of his natural life. Looking at Mike Utley, Lomas Brown figures that what Mike’s got is a problem. What he’s got is an inconvenience.

Life is lumpy. Not all lumps are the same lump. I like to think that I have a high tolerance for inconvenience.... that I don’t get irritated easily.... that I put up with a lot. But then something that is really quite minor will get to me.  It will be one lump too many, causing me to choke on it. And after humoring me for awhile, Kris will play Sigmund  Wollman to my Robert Fulghum, saying something like: “Ritter, it’s no big deal.” Sometimes this is all it takes to heal me. But 4 sometimes she just adds more fuel to my fire, especially if I have not reached the point where I am not willing to surrender to her the right to decide between the big deals and small deals of my life. 

Which leads me to point number one. The best way to get a healthy perspective on life is to look at the big picture. And you can’t see the big picture if you’re standing in the middle of it. Young Robert Fulghum allowed his irritations to become his world. Then, when they became his world, he couldn’t see anybody else in it....including Sigmund Wollman.

I think therapy is a marvelous thing. I wish I had the skill and the time to be a crackerjack therapist. Yet one danger of the therapeutic process is that in encouraging you to give voice to everything that happens in your life (what you did....what you said....what was done and said to you....and how you felt about it all), you become the center of a very closely examined universe. And when the therapist suggests that there is nothing too small or too insignificant to mention, there is danger in thinking that every piece of life’s data is of equal magnitude. It’s not, of course. And good therapy will help sort out the major deals from the not-so-major deals. But I sometimes think that if people spent one hour working in a soup kitchen for every hour spent in a therapist’s office, such lessons might be hastened, and a better self might be found in the process.

 Point number two focuses specifically upon gratitude and the spirit of the season. If you believe that the only life worth being thankful for is a smooth one, then you probably aren’t going to find many occasions for giving thanks. The fact that oatmeal has lumps in it does not preclude its ability to nourish. Which is equally true of weiners, sauerkraut, and most other things. The Apostle Paul, in scripture’s most famous line about gratitude, tells the Thessalonians that they should “give thanks in all circumstances.” That line is sometimes translated: “In everything, give thanks.” It doesn’t mean that you are supposed to feel equally good about everything, especially the bad stuff. Life does not lack for bad stuff. But in the midst of that which is unneeded, unwanted and unhelpful, you need to find those things that are sufficiently sweet, so that even the terrible taste left by the rest cannot diminish the sweetness. In the midst of life’s general lumpiness, you need to ask yourself what (or who) is so lovely and precious, so as to bring a lump to your throat when you speak of them (or to them) about what they mean to your life. 

Point number three follows. In this world, where none of us are going to get out alive, how many hours are you going to allow inconveniences to commandeer from what may be the precious few you have left? Some of the lumps in you r can kill you. But not every lump should be given that opportunity. When Sigmund Wollman said to his young friend, “Learn to separate the inconveniences from the real problems, and you will live longer,” he was speaking more truth than he knew. 

There is a line, only vaguely remembered, from a Neil Diamond song, that reads: “Pity the poor ones, the shy and unsure ones, who wanted it perfect, but waited too long.” I think I remembered that line all 5 these years, because I know that life will never be perfect. Troubles will come. Lovers will disappoint. Friends will fail. Illness will cut you down to size. And always, there will be lumps in the gravy of life that cannot be strained out or filtered away. Life is difficult.  Smoothness is elusive. Yet don’t wait too long for what may never be and, in the process, miss what is. Learn to give thanks.... in all circumstances.

6