Negotiating the Demolition Derby

(A Sermon for Graduates and Confirmands)

Dr. William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church

Birmingham, Michigan

Scriptures:  Matthew 7:24-27, I Corinthians 10:23, Philippians 2:1-5

Seeing as I no longer have kids of my own at home, it’s nice to have four next door. I am serious. I’ve got four great kids one house to the north of me. Two of them are in grade school….two, in middle school. Three of them are boys….one is a girl. They have taken me to school as their guest on “Special Visitor Day.” They have sold me more cups of lukewarm Kool-Aid than I ever knew I needed. And I even enjoy the footballs, soccer balls, baseballs and tennis balls that come flying across the yard, especially when accompanied by the phrase “Catch this one, Dr. Ritter.”

But they’re not here this summer. In their house, I mean. Their house is being remodeled on the way to being doubled. So they have moved out to a rental house a few blocks away.

But they were back last Tuesday evening. They were in their rooms….on the second floor…. calling to me through open windows: “Hi, Dr. Ritter. Good to see you, Dr. Ritter. Have you missed us, Dr. Ritter? Betcha can’t guess what we’re doing, Dr. Ritter. We’re demolishing our rooms. Our dad said we could.” And so they did….with great relish. They were having a wonderful time, finding the act of demolition to be one of the coolest things in the world. Obviously, their folks figured: “Hey, it’s all going to be redone anyway. Why not let them have at it….crayons on the walls….hammers on the walls….whatever on the walls.”

While you ponder the parental wisdom involved, let me hasten to add that these are great kids. They have respected property before. They will, no doubt, respect it again. But for one night, they were given carte blanche to go a little wild and be a little reckless.

I can identify with that. In my Steeple Notes letter, I told about the time I participated in a one-day work project with a group of Methodist Men from Newburg Church. They were going to tackle several construction projects on an inner city house. But one of those projects, building a new porch, required demolishing an old porch. Which task they assigned to me. And with a sledgehammer in one hand and a crowbar in the other, I was a one-day wonder. What’s more, I had a blast. And I was 35 years old at the time.

My sermon title talks about a demolition derby. Which, for all I know about it, is something of a car race. Except you drive old cars that have already taken a beating….and have been rebuilt (in strategic places) so they can take an additional beating. Which means that you win a demolition derby, not by having the fastest car (none of these cars are fast), but by having the most durable car. The theory being: “If you can’t beat ‘em, hit ‘em.”

Which may not sound like fun now, but I’m willing to bet it was fun once. I’m talking about the days of your youth, when you went to the amusement park, paid your quarter (or dollar) and rode the dodge ‘em cars. There you were….out on that floor….connected to an electrified grid in the ceiling….seated behind the wheel (long before you were old enough to drive, legally). And you had two choices as the driver. You could try to steer around everybody. Or you could try to steer at everybody. For while you could log more distance steering around people, you could have a lot more fun steering at them.

Demolition! It fascinates all of us. Even the oldest among us. Which explains why we all tuned in our television sets on the day they imploded Hudson’s. Someone said that the television coverage of that event drew the highest ratings of the month….to watch a building get blown off the face of the earth. And what of those charity fundraisers where, for five dollars or five hundred dollars, they’ll give you a sledgehammer and let you take a swing at a brand new Jaguar?

In controlled settings, demolition can be great fun. But in uncontrolled settings, demolition can be painfully fast. Picture this scene. You are out on the beach. You spend virtually all day sculpting a sand city. You’ve got your castle….your tower….your moat….your fort. You’ve got roads and houses. You’ve got rivers and bridges. You’ve got water flowing in and water flowing out. It’s magnificent. Everybody on the beach says so. Except for the bully….who runs at it….jumps on it….and, just like that, it’s history. Five hours to create. Five seconds to cream.

Then there’s the museum masterpiece, valued in the millions. One talented artist, with paintbrush and palette, pours everything she has into its creation. But one slasher….with one knife….hidden in one trench coat….using one swift arm motion….turns creation into destruction, just like that.

I was talking about these ideas with my daughter (Julie) over long-distance telephone. Which led her to come up with this one (not because she’s lived it, but because she’s seen it….plenty). A family works with a daughter for 17 years, nurturing self esteem and coaching confidence. But it all comes undone when she falls in love with (and is misused and dumped by) one rotten boyfriend halfway through her freshman year.

Demolition happens. And when you are the demolishee, rather than the demolisher, demolition hurts. I wish I could tell you that because of your relationship with Jesus Christ….because of your membership in a Christian church….because of your familiarity with Christian scriptures…..and because of your companionship with Christian friends….nothing hurtful will ever happen to you. But I can’t. It will. There is no immunity….even for the friends of Jesus. And if you read the New Testament long enough, you will discover that there is no immunity….especially for the friends of Jesus.

One of the problems with growing up is that life forces you to learn that. When you are a little kid, you can be on an outing with your parents….one that requires a lengthy car ride. And, at some point, it gets very late. Then it gets very dark. And you get very tired. So what do you do? You find some room on the backseat….or on the floor of the backseat….and you go to sleep. With maybe a little discomfort. But with absolutely no worries. That’s because there are people in the front seat. You figure that they will know how to stay awake….where to go….when to turn….when to get gas….how to pump it….how to pay for it….in short, how to get where they are going. And if you don’t wake up, that’s all right. Because when the car finally stops, they will lift you from it (even if it means slinging you over their shoulder like a sack of potatoes). Then they’ll carry you up to bed. And should you wake up and mutter “Where are we?”, they’ll say: “Don’t worry, we’re home.” And, at that moment, that’s all you need to know. Or care to know.

Well, I hate to tell you this. But those days are pretty much over. You are the people who are about to be in the front seat. There is no blanket protection. And, from time to time, there may even be demolition. Two years ago, in the best graduation speech I ever delivered, I invited you to remember one of the first songs you ever learned. I am talking about the one with the hand motions.

            The eensy weensy spider climbed up the water spout.

            Down came the rain and washed the spider out.

            Out came the sun and dried up all the rain.

            And the eeensy weensy spider climbed up the spout again.

Well, that’s the nature of rain. To come down, I mean. Just when your “climb up the water spout” has a good head of steam, you will be set back, held back, pushed back or flushed back. That’s what happened to one spider, two little piggies, and the unfortunate guy in today’s Bible story who built his house on sinking sand. It happens.

So what would I say to you this morning? Three things. All of them short. All of them simple. None of them easy. What are they?

1.     Watch out for yourself.

2.     Take care of each other.

3.     Hang with Jesus.

First things first. Watch out for yourself. It has occurred to me, on more than one occasion, that while Jesus told his friends to be trusting, he never told them to be dumb. “Be innocent as doves,” he said. But he also said: “Be wise as serpents.” Serpents, in biblical shorthand, means snakes. And how are snakes wise? That’s simple. They know what to watch out for, and what to stay away from.

The other day I was driving down Chesterfield when a kid about 13 or 14 rode his bike right out in front of me. Not as in “darted” out in front of me. But as in making a big, slow, lazy loop in front of me. A “dart” would have been careless. A “slow, lazy loop” was stupid. He didn’t know I might be there….didn’t care I might be there….and figured, even if I was there, I would look out for him. Right….this time. Wrong….some time.

Your parents worry about you, you know. Because you have a tendency to be dumb in the way I just described….by thinking that you are invincible (you’re not)….and by lazily looping and loping your way through life, figuring that everybody else is going to watch out for you (we’re not).

Which is why older people sometimes say to you: “Why don’t you use the head you were born with?” Except the “head” they are talking about is not the “head you were born with.” You were born with a head for numbers and letters. You were born with a head for dancing and singing. You were born with a head for trusting that people are generally good, choices are generally easy, and that nothing will hurt for very long (because there will always be somebody to kiss your boo-boo and make it better). The “head” that adults criticize you for not using is a head that you have to develop. It is the one that reasons: “I can make some decisions that will do me a lot of good. I can make some decisions that will do me a lot of harm. And the day will come, much sooner than I ever thought it would, when no one will stop me from making any decision (including decisions that will do me harm).” Which is why the apostle Paul said to the Corinthians (more than once): “You can choose to do pretty much anything. But not all choices are helpful. Nor will they build you up.”

Watch out for yourself! Take care of each other. The worst sin of teenagers….in that it is virtually universal among teenagers….is that you have a tendency to be obnoxious to each other. You criticize each other. You belittle each other. You talk about this one to that one, and about that one to this one. You cause pain by what you say to each other, or about each other. And you expend precious little worry over whether any of the stuff you say is true. You claim that friendship is important to you. But it is often unsafe in your hands. Your gossiping ways and cutting tongues are outgrowths of your own insecurities.

So I would encourage you to wake up and recognize how much you need each other. Life is too hard to attempt it alone. And the world is already too diced and cubed to further fracture the circle. For God’s sake….and for yours….build more bridges than you burn. And learn….if you learn nothing further….to be kind.

Watch out! Take care! Hang with Jesus! I am not talking about wearing a bracelet with four initials (or even writing with a Cross pen). Although if you need a visual reminder, by all means wear one (or use one). I am talking about keeping company with Jesus and his friends….hanging out where he hangs out….and where they hang out. Not that you can’t find him anywhere. But why not start with the obvious? I mean places like this one.

Did you ever hear it said that dogs, over time, begin to look like the people who own them? And did you ever hear that married people (over time) begin to look like each other? I don’t know about any of that. But there is one thing I do know. I know that the longer people hang out with Jesus, the more they begin to look like Christians.

Let me drive my point home with a football story (which, now that girls are playing football, may finally be gender appropriate). None of you kids will remember Bud Wilkinson, but he was one of the greatest football coaches who ever lived. We’re talking Oklahoma Sooners. We’re talking Cotton Bowl appearances. We’re talking national championships.

I recently read that Bud Wilkinson had a unique way of working with his quarterbacks. During the season, he had his quarterback move from the dorm into his house and live with his family. The coach and the quarterback became like father and son. They lived together, ate together, rode to practice together, studied films together, diagramed plays together, and discussed football together. When asked why he did this, Bud Wilkinson answered: “Because if that young man spends enough time with me, he will begin to think like I think. Then, when he gets out there on the football field, he will know what I want him to do.”

If you don’t see the point of that, you’re probably not as bright as I think you are. But if you need me to make the connection for you, here it is.

So if there is any encouragement in Christ, any incentive of love, any participation in the Spirit, any affection and sympathy, complete my joy by being of the same mind, having the same love, being in full accord and of one mind. Do nothing from selfishness or conceit, but in humility count others better than yourselves. Let each of you look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others. Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in Christ Jesus.  (Phil. 2:1-5)

So….Corey, Heather, Elizabeth, Ben, Brendan, Evan, Elisabeth, Patrick, Nicole, Amanda, Ashley, Tisha, Amanda, Elise, Matt, Tyler, Amy, Marlee, Chris, Jessica, Marin, Danny, Laura, Kathryn, Nick, Jordan, Anna, Patrick, Lindsey, Sam, Erik, Travis, Jenna, Nolan, Hilary, Blake, Neil, Bob, Bill, Kenneth, Megan, Brianna, Miranda, Brooke, Katy, Marty, Bobbie, Jamie, Anne, Sam, Ashton, Mark, Sam….

Watch out.

            Take care.

                        Hang with Jesus.

                                    And build something of your life.

After all, we do work for a Jewish carpenter. There’s that….and, I hate to be the one to break it to you….but you’re soon going to be too big for the dodge ‘em cars.

Note:  This sermon was preached, with slight variations, for a graduate recognition service at one hour and a Confirmation service at another. The names listed above belong to the 53 confirmands. At other services of the morning, I inserted the names of several graduates and/or members of the congregation.

I am indebted to my Pennsylvania colleague, Eric Ritz, for the anecdote about Bud Wilkinson.

Who Buries the Bad Guys? 10/1/1999

First United Methodist Church

Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: II Samuel 18 and 19 (selected portions)

When last you passed your eyes across the cover of Steeple Notes, you saw a passing reference to my late, great aunt, Emma Michefske (the word “late” having to do with the fact that she is long-since dead….the word “great” having to do with the fact that she was not my aunt, but my father’s). Not that I knew her long.  Or well. She was a Ritter….my grandfather’s sister…. until she married John Michefske.  John was a quiet German who worked with his hands, smoked cigars (whenever Emma let him), and kept a spittoon beside his favorite chair in the living room of their little bungalow on Beechdale. They never had a television….or any kids to entertain them. But they regularly watched the radio….which was, in those days, a big piece of furniture, centrally located so that all who heard it could also see it. We had interesting pastimes in days gone by.

My relationship with Emma was somewhat limited. For a few summers, I cut her grass….for which she gave me a dollar and a peanut butter cookie (sometimes two…. cookies, not dollars.) And her cookies were good. Much better than the one solitary pie she baked for John each Friday. We used to call it “Aunt Emma’s Passion Pie.” That’s because there was so little filling in it that the top crust always hugged the bottom crust. And once, each year, Aunt Emma would take me to the sauerkraut supper at the Lutheran church. Which always led me to offer a prayer of thanks for being a Methodist, given that the spiritual heirs of John Wesley ate better than the spiritual heirs of Martin Luther. Or so it seemed when I was ten.

To be sure, there wasn’t a whole lot that distinguished Emma’s life….or Emma’s death, for that matter. But I was surprised that, when I went to her funeral, it could have been anybody’s funeral….for all her pastor said. That’s because he didn’t say a word about Emma. He may have mentioned her name whenour eyes were closed. Whenour eyes were open, I looked around and saw several of my relatives….thus reassuring me that I had not wandered into another parlor (and, hence, another funeral) by mistake. No, this was for Emma. But it was certainly not about Emma.

Which was by design, don’t you see. Her pastor knew her, and may have had some measure of affection for her (although it seemed that she seldom attended unless sauerkraut was on the menu). Her pastor was simply part of a school of thought that said: “A funeral is about the reassurances of God, not the remembrances of the deceased.” Which certainly made it easier to write funeral sermons, one would think. No need to gather stories. No need to write stories. No need to tell stories. Just read John 14 (about not having “troubled hearts,” and proceeding on toward “many mansions” or “many rooms”….pick your translation).  Which was how he did it. And which is how many of my colleagues continue to do it, lo unto this very day. All of you have heard them. And there’s a school of thought that very much admires them.

Which does not include me. For I still deliver eulogies. I still tell people’s stories. Always have. Probably always will. Which is certainly not the sum total of all I do, given my belief that the primary purpose of a funeral is not to talk about what a great guy Joe was, but what a great god, God is. Still, Joe deserves more than a passing name in a prayer. As did Emma. Which has nothing to do with “making a fuss” over either Joe or Emma. Neither does it cozy up to the   idolatry of “ancestor worship.” Rather, it is simply the way “good-byes” are effectively said, grief is appropriately acknowledged, and gratitude is fittingly offered.

Each of us (says my friend, Barry Johnson) is a “unique, unrepeatable miracle of creation.” Which means that, where funeral sermons are concerned, one size will never fit all. Each of us tells a story with our lips. Each of us tells a story with our life. And if we believe that God is the author of that story, then no story is totally divorced from God’s story. And each story (Joe’s, Emma’s, yours, mine) matters in the highest places….which means, to God (himself).

As a nation of compassionate voyeurs, we have just passed through the wringer of three deaths at sea, followed by three burials at sea. Which gave rise to a tidal wave of eulogies for the Bessetts and the Kennedys….some to be read on the page….others to be watched on the screen. And we both read and watched them. “To excess,” some said. But I don’t see any great harm in it. In fact, we lamented being denied access to the memorial services, in that we (the public) were offered no tickets, and benefited from no cameras. We wanted to be there. But we were told that we couldn’t. Which was all right, too. But disappointing. Yes, disappointing.

Their stories mattered to us. Perhaps they shouldn’t have…. to the extent that they did. But they did. Which means that we took their deaths personally. Just as we take a lot of deaths personally. Which is why, as a professional theologian, I treat them personally. And which is why (as a work-a-day preacher) I preach them personally.

Which, I will admit, is sometimes a challenge. Not every story is easy to tell. And you can’t just make up stuff. Because no one….in any family….is ever comforted by a pack of lies. Which is why every eulogy I deliver is as honored as it is human (meaning that I don’t airbrush every wart from my manuscript, prior to delivery). We do not come to a funeral to evaluate someone’s life. Neither do we come tograde someone’s life (Joe, C-….Emma, C+). We come to give thanks for someone’s life….to God….from whom it came….and to whom it returns. And that means the “whole nine yards”  of someone’s life….including the parts we liked more, and the parts we liked less. If someone struggled in this life….and lost more struggles than they won….I will probably allude (albeit very kindly) to their struggles in my sermon. After all, everyone in the room already knows what I know. And to pretend otherwise contributes to a corporate sense of denial that helps nobody….and (in the end) may harm everybody.

More than once, I have shared the wonderful words of Mary Jane Irion, who (in planning her funeral) counseled her pastor: “Please remind my friends that any good I may have done in my life did not have to be perfect to be effective….and that something of me will go on, lending aid in this amazing human endeavor.”

I have buried saints. And I have buried sinners. Most of the time, I have had difficulty telling them apart. Which, as a statement, says more about my theology than about my eyesight. I have buried people mourned by hundreds. And I have buried people where I had to make a sudden transformation from preacher to pallbearer, given that they were mourned (at least on that day) by fewer than six.

And there have been several scoundrels mixed in among them. How do I know that? Because someone in the family invariably tells me. “Reverend, he was a real scoundrel.” Don’t laugh. People really say that. I once said in a sermon that I only bury the “good guys”, leading me to wonder who buries the “bad ones.” But I wasn’t completely accurate. I have buried the whole bloody lot, as they say. But not,  ever, a killer.  At least not knowingly.

Which brings me, as promised, to Dylan Klebold. Dylan (along with Eric Harris) was responsible for the carnage of April 20 in Littleton, Colorado, which left 12 classmates dead, one teacher dead, and themselves dead….by their own hand, as you will recall, once their day’s work was done. Even as we longed to avert our eyes, we sat riveted to the tragedy. And we sat riveted to the funerals that followed. Except for two funerals, that is….those of Dylan Klebold and Eric Harris.  As funerals are my stock in trade, I watched parts of several.  But I did not watch Dylan’s (or Eric’s), because nobody televised them.  For good reason.

A few Detroit reporters researched the “local angle” on Eric (who spent some of his early years in Oscoda, where he lived kitty-cornered from a United Methodist pastor). But about Dylan, I knew nothing….until I read about Don Marxhausen of St. Philip Lutheran Church, Littleton, who officiated at Dylan’s service. Marxhausen served as pastor to the Klebolds for about eight months (five or six years ago). And although they drifted away from his church (for reasons largely unexplained), they mustnot have landed anywhere else, given that Don was the pastor they turned to, when their world literally turned on them.

One of the reasons they may not have “rooted” at St. Philip is because Sue Klebold (Dylan’s mom) is Jewish. She and her husband, Tom, tried to do it all….religiously….sort of.  Forwhile they didn’t go to church or synagogue with any degree of regularity, they did “do both Christmas and Passover”….welcoming the Christ child in one….sitting down to the seder in the other.

Given Sue’s Jewishness (however diluted it may have been last April), I can’t begin to imagine her pain upon learning that Dylan occasionally wore a swastika to school, shouted “Heil Hitler” during bowling class, and chose the anniversary of Adolph Hitler’s birth for his massacre. Said Dylan’s father: “I don’t know where all that Nazi stuff came from. Or the violence, either, given that the only weapon we keep in the house is a BB gun, and the only time we use it is to scare away woodpeckers.”

Fifteen people attended the service that Don Marxhausen conducted for Dylan Klebold. “It was awkward,” Don said. “Tense, too.” For the first part of the service, Don simply invited those present to talk about Dylan….what they remembered….what they felt. They talked about Dylan’s difficulties at Columbine High School. They talked about his loneliness and disconnection. They talked about his feelings of rejection. But they also talked about how he had already registered at the University of Arizona, having paid his dorm fees for the fall semester. Tom and Sue said they had tried to be good parents….thought they were good parents….and figured they had a “good finished product.” There was also an outpouring of love from another couple who remembered that Dylan played so nicely with their son, when both the boys were little.

Then Don took over and began his message. In it, he stressed God’s love and healing power for Dylan’s family. Which was predictable and safe. Everyone would expect that. You would expect that. For who among us cannot identify with their grief….if not by experience, at least by extension? He compared their situation (as parents) to being run over by a truck, only to have the truck shift gears and roll back over them….the first hit being the loss….the second hit, the shame. Concerning the shame, many will tell them they shouldn’t feel any. But they will….in spades….for years…. maybe, forever.

Empathizing with their grief, Pastor Marxhausen read them the story of Absolom’s death. Absolom was David’s third son, whose beautiful sister (Tamar) was raped by Amnon, David’s first son (by another mother). Absolom seethed for two years. Then, at a sheep shearing festival, he got Amnon drunk and had him killed. That’s right, he had his step-brother killed.

Eventually, Absolom was woven back into the family tapestry….David’s family tapestry….even though Absolom was actively scheming to steal David’s crown. For four years, Absolom’s double-dealing went on, until the day for the coup d’etat arrived. Catching wind of it in advance, David marshaled his troops under a trio of generals. But not without instructing them: “Do whatever you need to quash the uprising, but spare my son.” Which they either couldn’t….or didn’t….depending upon how you read the story.

At any rate, with Absolom’s armyin retreat, Absolom (himself) was lifted clean off his mount as a result of having his long flowing hair become entangled in some low-hanging tree limbs. Half dead….half alive….dangling in mid-air….one of David’s generals finished him off with three spears to the chest. Then word was sent to the king that his murdering, scheming, coup d’etat-ing son was dead. Whereupon David was inconsolable in grief, crying: “My son, Absolom, my son, my son. Would that I had died instead of you.” And if you don’t understand that reaction (incongruous as it may have seemed, given everything that had happened), maybe you don’t understand anything. No, maybe you don’t understand anything at all.

Then, to the grieving parents, Don Marxhausen said:

The God who lifts us up after the journey through the valley, will do so to you….in time….and in surprising ways. Some people will run from you. Others will come to you. There is God’s mercy. And there is the mercy of others. True enough, there will be those who do not know grace and who will want to give only judgment. But God will reach out to you through those who know his grace. I have no idea how you are going to heal. But I know that God wants to reach you, and will find some way to do it.

All of which was well said. And, one suspects, well heard. God’s mercy will certainly be offered to Tom and Sue Klebold. But will the same mercy thatreaches them, reach Dylan? For while Pastor Marxhausen didn’t negate that possibility, he didn’t really say.

As for me, I would have opened that door wider than he did. But that’s me. You know that. I am known for being overly bullish on mercy. Which doesn’t always set well with some of you. But that’s all right.  I understand that….personally and theologically. Had I been the parent of one of the kids he killed, I’d have wanted to strangle Dylan myself (had he lived) or condemn him to hell (once he died).

But, in time,   I would be ill-served and less-than-satisfied with both desires. And even if I never came to that realization, I would have to admit that, where ultimate issues of judgment and mercy are decided, my desires don’t matter squat. “My thoughts are not your thoughts, saith the Lord. Neither are my ways your ways.” Which is probably fortunate, in the long run.

Yes, I think that none of us (including the likes of you and me) will ultimately be able to escape accountability. But, I also think that none of us (including the likes of you and me) will ultimately be able to escape mercy. Of course, that’s just me. But maybe not only me. Try this: “The good news of God in Christ is that when the bottom has fallen out from under you….when you have crashed through all your safety nets and can hear the bottom rushing up to meet you….the good news is that you cannot fall farther than God can catch you. And you can’t be too picky about where (or when) the catch happens. Sometimes it happens after the funeral is over.”

Did you read the paper yesterday? Did you see the transcriptions of the letters that Mark Barton (Atlanta’s mass murderer) wrote to his children…. the same children he bludgeoned to death with a hammer, for crying out loud. He said that: “If God be willing, I would like to see you again in the resurrection.”  He really said that.   He probably even believes that.

As for me, would I be willing? My initial reaction (after reading the papers): “Hell, no.”

Fortunately, however, this may be one of those moments when it’s a good thing   I do not always speak for God.

Thin as Thieves 4/18/1999

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture:  Luke 23:  32 - 43

If the popular emergence of Dilbert has taught us anything, it is that humor can be found anywhere….even in corporate America.  But it wasn't Dilbert who recently sent me a compendium of the ten best things to say to your boss if caught with your head down, sleeping at your desk.  I won't share them all, but among them are these: 

            .  They told me at the blood bank that this might happen.

            .  Whew!  Somebody must have substituted decaf for regular.

            .  Thank God you got here in time!  I must have forgotten to recap

               my whiteout.

            .  I wasn't sleeping.  I was merely meditating on our corporate mission

              statement and envisioning a new paradigm.

Still, the very best thing to say when caught, head down, catching forty winks;

            …. In Jesus name, Amen.

But the real problem most of us have is not nodding off when we should be working, but remaining awake when we should be sleeping.  Not all of us are lucky enough to drift off to dreamlandwithin minutes of hitting the pillow.  Sometimes it takes hours.  For which there are many causes.  Too much coffee after dinner.  Too much excitement before bed.  Too much worry over what is past.  Too much worry over what is coming.  A garlic and anchovy pizza.  Any number of things can keep us awake.

Including the 11 o'clock news.  All those fires and murders…. rapes and robberies…. schemes and scams….busts and bombings…. corruptions and cleansings…. coupled withyet one more investigative report on sexual molestations by childcare workers, orcockroaches in the kitchens of four-star restaurants. Taken collectively, there is a numbing quality to their endless quantity, which induces not only sleeplessness, but helplessness.  Even on the sports reports, there seem to be more strikes than strikes…. and more scores than scores (if you know what I mean.)  What's a body to think?  What's a body to do? 

To paraphrase the old hymn, "the wrong is oft so strong."  What's more, it keeps coming at you.  Sometimes you have to turn it off and tune it out.  Consider the high burn-out ratio among those who do front-line duty against drugs and crime.  Police officers have a particularly hard time keeping perspective.  Some adopt the very postures they oppose.  Those are the corruptible ones.  Others lose faith in the basic goodness of humankind.  Those are the hardened ones.  My friend, Fred Timpner, left police work after ten years on the street,  trading it for a career in management and personnel.  Fred was a darned good cop.  But concerning his decision to leave the force, he mused: "I still liked the work.  I still could do the work.  But I didn't like what the work was doing to my head.  My thinking was getting all screwed up.  It was getting so I couldn't see the good in anybody." 

Another friend, Bob Bough, tells me that people who work in the chemical addiction field experience the same thing.  Ten years is a long time to stay in that business.  Twenty years is an eternity.  It gets to you.  You've got to take a break.  You've got to walk away.  Because if you don't put some distance between yourself and the job, you will be consumed by the overwhelming negativity of the very thing you are fighting. 

"But though the wrong seems oft so strong, God is the ruler yet."  How fervently we sing that.  How deeply we'd like to believe that.  But it doesn't always ring true.  Sometimes, in the ongoing struggle between good and evil, it seems as if evil has all the advantages.  Evil is industrious, while virtue is often apathetic.  Evil is cunning, while virtue is easily conned.  Evil is often profitable, while virtue is said to be its own reward.  Evil is attractive and exciting to the senses, while virtue tends to be pedestrian and colorless. 

Several years ago, the New Yorker carried a cartoon in which two middle-aged women were discussing a married couple seated near them in a restaurant.  Said one of the women to the other: "Oh, she's such a perfect saint.  But he's much more interesting."  Commenting on the cartoon, Bill Muehl was led to observe: "Most of us quietly suspect that the saint is some kind of traitor to the human race, while harboring a sneaking respect for men of evil reputation and women of easy virtue."

That may be a bit strong.  But it does occur to me that outlaws, bandits, hookers and pirates have always provided storytellers with some of their most appealing characters, just as television argues, week after week, that "good people" are dull, and "bad people" are fascinating. 

What's more, evil is destructive.  And destruction, by its very nature, is quick and easy.  Compare that with the effort required to accomplish the good, which is often laborious and slow.  Contrastdestruction and creativity.  Six children may labor for hours, building an intricate sand castle on the beach.  It takes but a matter of seconds for a strong-legged bully to kick it to smithereens.

A painter can spend a year creating a masterpiece.  A committee of art patrons can spend another year raising the funds to purchase it.  A museum curator can spend a third year moving it from wall to wall, seeking the perfect wayto display it.  But one angry man with a concealed knife in his trench coat can slice it into ribbons of canvas in a matter of seconds.

A family can pour sixteen years into the socialization of a child.  They can teach her a sense of values.  They can assist her in the development of a conscience.  Then, in the words of an eighteen-year-old boy I heard recently: " All you gotta do is get the chick high and she won't care what she does with her body." 

In much the same way, a great career can be compromised by a slanderer telling one lie….a great leader can be toppled by an assassin firing one bullet….and a great cathedral can have a hole blown in its side by a fanatic tossing one pipe bomb.

In the face of"strong wrong,"  can God really bring things into line?  Every time we recite the Apostles Creed, we articulate the line: "I believe in the final triumph of righteousness."  But can it be brought to pass, short of the end of history?  Will God have to destroy the world before goodness can win?  Personally, I think God can pull it off prior to doomsday.   But the house divides on that one.

Which leavesmore to be said….more that is positive….more that is promising….more than will please, placate and pacify.  So let me get on with it, weighing in with but one simple observation:   Evil tends to be self-defeating….if not immediately, certainly inevitably. 

That's right.  Evil defeats itself.  Evil sows the seeds of its own destruction.  Evil has a remarkable tendency to shoot itself in the foot.  How so?  I'll tell you how so.  Because evil,  by its very nature,  is a separatist thing, while good is a unifying thing.  We would, by now, be totally under the rule of the criminal, the conspirator, the despot and the deviant one, were it not for this one redeeming factor….one tide-turning truth that cancels out the advantagesevil has in its impressive arsenal of weapons.

Evil breaks apart.  Evil separates itself, not only from the good, but from other evil as well.  We all know that evil is destructive.  But I am here to tell you that evil is also self-destructive.  Samuel Johnson, venerable British sage, put it well when he wrote: "Wickedness would have long ago overwhelmed the world, did not those who practice it grow faithlessto each other." 

In my cover notes for this week's bulletin, I invited you to consider a pair of cliches. The first cliché  suggests that there is "honor among thieves."  Do you believe that?  I don't.  Were that true, it would mean that thieves would treat each other better than they treat their victims.  They would respect each other's rights.  They would make no infringements upon each other's territory.  I once heard about a man who blew a tire on the freeway.  It was his rear tire.  He steered to the side of the road, jacked up the frame, and was about to exchange the flattened tire for a spare, when he looked up to see astranger raising his hood.  "What's going on?" he screamed.  To which was heard the response: "Cool it, buddy.  You get the tires,  I'll get the battery.  Keep your mouth shut and we'll both make out like bandits."  I suppose that could be classified as honor among thieves.  Except it doesn't work out that way most of the time.  Thieves have little honor for each other.  And what honor there is can be sold for a price.

A better cliché….a more descriptive cliché….suggests that "thieves fall out."  It's inevitable.  It goes with the nature of thievery.  In fact, it goes with the nature of most evil.  Evil is anti-social in nature.  Evil is based on selfish motives such as greed, avarice and private gain.  Evil cares only about me and mine, never about you and yours.  Since the thief (or evildoer) is primarily interested in private gain, he or she is seldom capable ofenduring loyalty.

Trust and loyalty require that one will act (most of the time) in the best interest of another.  But evil sees "the other" as one to be fleeced, conned, abused, victimized…. certainly not as one to be sacrificed for.  So evil generates no trust, creates no community and promotes no loyalty.  Which is why thieves tend to fall out. 

Evildoing, in the long run, becomes a solitary and lonely thing.  Which explains why there are relatively few drug dealers over the age of 35.  They kill each other off or carve each other up.  This explains why conspiracies always sound more plausible in theory than they work in practice.  Most conspirators can't trust each other long enough to make a conspiracy work.  This explains why most crimes are solved by giving immunity to one of the criminals who, in turn, spills the beans on everybody else.  This explains why the least stable unit of social organization is a group of bank robbers trying to divide the loot from the heist.  This explains why tyrants are more often killed by their lieutenants than by the armies massed against them.  This explains why Hitler and Stalin could sign a non-aggression pact with each other, but couldn't maintain it longer than a year.  And this explains why the phrase "partners in crime,"  involves a pair of words that cannot coexist in the same sentence, and may constitute the world's most obvious oxymoron.

Evil has no center.  It is always a separatist thing.  We should have known this, we who understand theology.  For centuries we have been saying that "sin is separation."  It is separation of the self from God.… often called estrangement.  It is separation of one self from another self…. often called brokenness…. And it is the separation of the self from itself….often called schizophrenia.  All you have to do is focus the light sharply enough, and evil will fragment….running and hiding, just like the book of Genesis said it would.

Evil splits from within.  Occasionally, even Hollywood recognizes it.  My son, Bill, was something of a movie buff.  He understood film artistically, cinematographically, and, sometimes, even theologically.  Which is why he told me to rent a video that,  to this day, enjoys a bit of status as a cult film.  It's name :  "A Fish Called Wanda." 

It is a movie about a crime….a diamond heist to be exact….perpetrated by three rather ugly men and Jamie Lee Curtis (who is certainly far from ugly, herself.)  The plot is interesting, filled with surprising twists and turns.  But the movie ends strangely, almost amorally.  Nobody gets caught.  The diamonds are never returned.  From the standpoint of justice, the crime is quite successful.  But there is no hint that the criminals ever get to enjoy the money.  The whole plot concerns the breakdown of community within the circle of thieves.  This one turns on that one.  That one betrays the next one.  Finally, none are left, save for Jamie Lee Curtis and the judge she corrupts.  They fly off into the sunset, the jewels resting between them.  But, given all that has gone before, only a fool would conclude that either will rest comfortably, or that (together) they will live happily ever after.

I found myself reflecting, early on in Holy Week, about the fact that Jesus was crucified between a pair of criminals.  Matthew and Luke go so far as to call them "robbers."  But there is no mention of who they robbed or what they stole.  For all I know, it may have been state secrets.…since crucifixion was most often reserved as a punishment for high crimes of a treasonous nature.  But that's all speculation.  The Bible doesn't say.  And in addition to not knowing their crimes, we don't know their ages, their nationalities, their politics or their religious leanings.

Legend has named the penitent one Dismas….Demas….or Dumachus.  But that's legend.  All we know is that they were apprehended, convicted and suspended….above the crowd….with nails….on wood….beside Jesus.  Which only adds to our Lord's humiliation, don't yousee.  There he hangs, among common criminals….wretched of the land….refuse of the courts….scum of the earth….whatever.

One wonders if thesetwo thieves knew each other….rode with each other….robbed with each other….hung with each other.  Maybe so.  Maybe no.  But even if they started together, they are far from together now.  Not at the end.  One rails at Jesus: "Some King you are.  Can't save yourself.  Can't save us."  And you can darned well betthe only hide this thief is interested in saving is his own.

But the other thief either sees something….senses something…hunches something…feels something….splitting him from his comrade opposite, while drawing him to the stranger in the middle. 

            Leading him to say to the comrade:

                        Do you not fear God, since you are under the same condemnation….justly 

                        so, I might add.

            Even as he says to the stranger:

                        Do Lord….O do Lord….O do remember me!

Proving once again, that goodness reopens bridges that evil burns.   For, in the face of evil, it is goodness (alone) that heals the breech.

And since we are recalling movies, let me help you remember another one….a better one….an endearing and enduring one…."Driving Miss Daisy."  In it are to be found but two characters that matter.  Miss Daisy, played by the late Jessica Tandy, is an 80-year-old widow of the deep South….very Jewish….cussedly independent….innately crotchety….and frustrated because she can no longer drive her car, thus requiring the services of a chauffeur.  The chauffeur's name is Hoke, played by Morgan Freeman, who is nearly 70….very black….functionally illiterate…. but possessed of a dignity which will not quit.

For much of the picture, Miss Daisy does not like Hoke, precisely because she does not like the fact that she needs him.  And her dislike, coupled with a subtle sense of racial superiority, leads her to treat him in ways that are not always sensitive or kind.  Then one day Hoke is driving her to Sabbath services at the Temple and they are caught in a traffic jam.  "Stalled" would be a better word.  Impatiently, she urges Hoke to get out and see what the problem is.  Which he does.  On his return, the conversation goes something like this: 

"Miss Daisy, I'm afraid you're not going to be able to go to Temple today."

"Of course I'm going to Temple.  Why wouldn't I go?"

"Because the Temple's been bombed.  That's why all the cars are stopped."

"Bombed?  Don't be ridiculous!  Who would do such a thing as bomb the Temple?"

"I reckon the same ones, Miss Daisy.  The same ones."

And in the face of such an evil, there was a coming together of the black son of a slave and the white daughter of Israel, as slowly they began to realize they had more in common than they had in conflict.  And God smiled.  Which God always does, when things work out according to plan.

The Kid Who Shared His Lunch 6/13/1999

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: John 6:1-14

I found the cereal box, got out the milk, made a piece of toast, buttered it, and then completed this marvelous culinary enterprise by sectioning an orange. Then I sat down the coffee and the Free Press, waiting for the Galloping Gourmet to sweep into my kitchen and paste a gold star on my forehead.

That was when Julie said those five wonderful words that symbolized one of the great moments in the history of father-daughter relationships: “Dad, I need a lunch.” Actually, Julie can make her own lunch, and often does. But she also counts on the fact that I will not remind her of that. Therefore, I made a lunch. It consisted of a tuna fish sandwich and a banana. I even made the tuna fish from scratch (well, not exactly, but you understand what I mean), applied it nice and thick and even, and then proceeded to cut the sandwich into triangles.

Later that afternoon, I asked Julie how she enjoyed her lunch. She said that it was fine. Secretly, I was hoping for a little bit more than “fine.” So I said: “Wonderful?” “It was wonderful, Dad,” she answered. “I bet all your friends wished they had a lunch like that.” To which Julie said: “Dad, don’t be dumb. Kids don’t sit around in the lunchroom looking at other kids’ lunches, saying: ‘Gee, your dad sure has a great way with a tuna fish sandwich.’” I bet her friends really did say that. Julie probably doesn’t want to tell me, lest it go to my head.

Actually, all of this has absolutely nothing to do with anything. Unless you consider the fact that today’s gospel story literally pivots upon what happened when a boy, who had gone to hear a teacher, opened up a lunch that his father (or maybe his mother) had packed in a sack. The story is incredibly familiar. Every gospel has a version of it. This is John’s.

In other words, John suggests that Jesus feeds more people with less bread, and fills nearly double the number of doggie bags to take home. There are 12 bags of leftovers. And if you said: “Gee, that adds up to one doggie bag for each disciple,” you’d be right. You could probably go home and make a nifty sermon out of that. Or you could go home and cut the lawn.

Ah, but there is at least one other major difference. It is only in John’s version that we have a kid. John gives us a boy, the proper Greek translation being “lad.” You can do what you like, but I choose to see him as a sixth grade boy from Tiberias Middle School, who has come to listen to Jesus and has brought a lunch.

Now I know that the boy is not the hero of the story. Jesus is. And if we are too blind to see that, John tells us that Jesus is the hero. Verse 14 reads: “Now when the people saw the sign he had performed, they began to say, ‘This is undoubtedly the prophet who is to come into the world.’” I suppose that this could be a rough translation of what people in the crowd might actually have said: “Did you see that? Totally awesome! That was out of this world. But we saw it with our own eyes.” To which, John would say: “Yea!”

The real point of the story is that Jesus fills people up….in unlikely ways….using unlikely people….working against ridiculous odds….and would not have been able to do it unless God were with him. That’s what the story seems to say. But there may be more.

Go back to the kid with the lunch. But first, let me set a stage. Jesus sees a large crowd. He turns and says to Philip: “Phil, where shall we ever buy enough bread for these people to eat?” But Philip knows that this is not a “where” question. If it was a “where” question, Philip would have given a “where” answer. Philip might have said something about a bakery on the road, or the 7-11 Store in Tiberias. But Philip knows it is a “how” question. (“How shall we ever buy enough bread to feed these people?”) And the answer is: “No way.” “Lord, I could work for 200 days and not be able to buy enough bread for all these folks.”

Enter Andrew! See him waving his arms furiously. “Over here, Lord. Andrew, on microphone three. I’ve got a kid here with a lunch. He’s got five barley loaves and two dried fish.” But, then, even Andrew seems to realize how ridiculous he sounds. “But what good is that for so many?”

Now what I’ve got to do next is tell you something about those five loaves. They are barley loaves. Barley loaves are cheap. Poor people eat them. Wheat loaves are not only better, but preferred. Barley loaves are also smaller. Somewhere it is written that three barley loaves make one meal. And the fish are dried. What John is trying to tell us is that this kid is not carrying a feast.

Now I don’t know where this kid got this lunch. I think his father packed it. But I don’t know that for sure. And I am left to guess at the rest of it. The fact that he brought a lunch indicated that he knew he might be needing one. Perhaps he was planning to spend the day. The fact that a sixth grader from Tiberias Middle School would plan to spend the day listening to Jesus, says something rather special about this kid.

No, I suspect that the kid volunteered it. And I also suspect that his offer, once made public, may have stimulated a widespread miracle of sharing. Maybe everybody brought a lunch, but they kept it hidden. They were too selfish to bring it out. So Jesus made an example out of this kid, and people began to feel guilty. So one guy says: “Well, I didn’t say anything before, but I’ve got six oranges in my knapsack.” And another says: “Well, I’m kind of embarrassed to say so, but I’ve got a kielbasa up my sleeve.” And pretty soon, presto feasto! A miracle of sharing, stimulated by a middle school kid.

Let me tell you about kids in middle school. One of the things that I know about kids in middle school is that they are not always all that sure of themselves. They know that they aren’t what they used to be (hence, the oft-repeated phrase, “That’s kid stuff”). And they know that they aren’t what they’re going to be (hence, all the grandiose talk about what they are going to do when they grow up). So here they are. God’s in-betweeners. There is not a one of them of whom their parents have not said: “Some days this kid is 13 going on 25; other days this kid is 13 going on 6.”

But I know something else about kids in middle school. Kids in middle school can also do a whole lot of things they never give themselves credit for. In the years when I made my living doing youth work, I remember something that happened on a junior high retreat. I asked the group of kids to make a name tag. But, in addition to their name, I wanted their tag to include two additional notations. I wanted them to write something they were proud of. I also wanted them to write down something they were good at. About half of the kids couldn’t think of anything to write. And many who could, were reluctant to put it down. That didn’t surprise me. For to be in the middle school years is not only to occasionally wonder who you are, but to have an occasional doubt or two as to whether you are (or will ever be) very good at anything. A lot of kids in middle school feel that way. They doubt themselves. But that is not something that you ever share with anybody. Middle school is a time for keeping doubt a secret, trying your best to hide your worst.

But I also know a third thing about the middle school years. No matter how bad your day is going….no matter how bad your life is going….relief is often just a phone call away. To live with an adolescent is to discover that sometime around the 12th or 13th year, an amazing capacity develops in human beings. The telephone rings, and bodies that were nearly comatose, suddenly spring to life. I call it resurrection by telephone. Bodies leap into action, footsteps pound and race, and you hear a voice shouting: “It’s for me.”

Well, how do they know that? So you ask them: “How did you know that call was for you?” They say: “I was expecting a call.” Mark Trotter says: “I think that to be 13 years old is to be expecting a call.”

You see where this is going, don’t you? One of the best things about being 13, or even 14, is to be expecting a call. Maybe one of the best things about having a little bit of age 13 or 14 left in you, even if you are long past it, is to be expecting a call.

Not every caller uses the phone. Jesus doesn’t. But I believe that he is trying to reach people. And you never know when he is going to try and reach you. Jesus called out to the boy with the sack: “Hey, you with the brown bag….”

            “I want what you brought today.

            I want your lunch.

            I need it.

            I can use it.

            I need you.

            I can use you.

            It’ll do.

            You’ll do.”

Erik Anderson, Chris Banas, Brent Barnhart, Steve Blair, Peter Boyle, Tom Cassel, Alexandra Chadwich, Michael Comeau, Caitlin Cummings, Jacque Dauch, Josh Dickerson, Greg Fenton, Allison Finney, Jonathan Firth, Dan Glisky, Steve Grabiel, Todd Griesen, Craig Johnson, Matt Jones, Jaclyn Julow, Whitney Kulas, Adam Lachowicz, Katie Lohr, David Lorenz, Michael Marburger, Jay Markevich, Eric McComas, Mike McGill, Sarah McNab, Bill Meese, Niki Mehta, Lindsey Muirhead, Alexander Roberts, Sophie Rokicki, Brent Saeli, Patrice Sherman, Jill Signorello, Laura Stewart, Haley Sztykiel, Mark Thomson, David Tomlinson, Claire Torok, Sara Tull, Amanda Venettis, Emily Wilkinson, Matt Williams

This is your Confirmation Sunday. Don’t ever apologize for what you bring. Don’t ever apologize for what you are. Don’t ever stop expecting a call. Listen for Jesus! You never know when somebody will be hungry. You never know when He’ll need your lunch. You never know w hen He’ll need you.