True Grits 11/22/1998

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Exodus 16:1-4

Knowing my wife’s reputation in the kitchen and her penchant for trying new things, someone recently gave her a “mountain and plantation” cookbook entitled “Cookin’ Yankees Ain’t Et.” Which made for good reading….including recipes for a lot of things I’d never tried. I learned about things like Hog Jowl Turnip Greens….Hopping John….Cabin Cucumber Ketchup….Pot Likker (which has absolutely nothing to do with what you think it does)….and Brunswick Stew (how can anything be other than wonderful when it starts with two large tablespoons of bacon grease).

But at the top of my list of “Dishes Yet to Be Tried” is a southern Appalachian Mountain concoction called Baked Grits and Pork. Not that I know all that much about grits. Or even like grits. Truth be told, I have yet to meet a grit I couldn’t walk away from. Which probably has to do with being a Yankee. Because Yankees didn’t grow up with grits….don’t understand grits….and have no feeling for grits (given that they have no memory for grits). But before the morning is history, I’ll hear from every grit lover in the place. In spades. Both barrels.

While spending some time in Myrtle Beach with Ann and Zeno Windley, Ann tried to introduce me to this beloved morning repast. Four mornings in a row, she served them. Four mornings in a row, I ate them. Truth be told, they got better each day (even though I swear they were warmed over from the days before). That’s because Ann kept adding more stuff. And quite apart from the blandness of the grits (which never did improve), I found myself falling in love with the add-ons. That’s because grits without add-ons don’t impress anybody. You need cheese….butter…. egg….salt….pepper. Or you can add other stuff like garlic, redeye gravy and thick, heavy cream. Or you can throw stuff on top like shrimp (and, apparently, pork). As to whether you can add anchovies and pepperoni, Ann declined to say.

Grits, of course, are nothing but coarsely ground corn. You can cook ‘em in water. Or you can fry or bake ‘em, once they harden. The corn, in question, is not the corn most of us eat off the cob. Neither is it the same corn the Jolly Green Giant tosses into those cute little cans. Grits come from corn that is raised for milling. In the same family can be found cornmeal, polenta, and hominy (which has to be an acquired taste, if ever there was one). Hominy starts with really big grits which are then mixed with ashes or limestone (the better to remove the hull).

When Ann learned of my interest in grits, she began surfing the Web. Whereupon she discovered that while the first mention of the grit was in the Sinai Desert (more on that in a moment), the next mention was found amidst the ruins of ancient Pompeii in a woman’s personal diary. The woman’s name was Herculaneum Jemimaneus (better known as Aunt Jemima to her friends). The Internet also contains the “Ten Commandments of Grits,” four of which read: “Thou shalt not put syrup on thy grits.” Apparently syrup is a really big no-no. Another of the commandments reads: “Thou shalt not eat Cream of Wheat and call it grits, for this is blasphemy.” And the fourth commandment stipulates: “Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s grits,” (which is one commandment I can truly say I have never broken….or even thought about breaking). And the Internet goes on to describe ways you can cook grits, eat grits, store grits, and use leftover grits. As concerns the latter, it has been suggested that grits are very good for patching blowouts, caulking bathtubs, and making a pleasing party punch. I won’t tell you, however, what you have to add to the grits to make a “pleasing party punch.”

All of this is more than you care to know. So why am I telling you? Well, consider this. Recent research suggests that grits are the food that most commonly resembles the mysterious manna that God rained down upon the Israelites during their sojourn through the Sinai. Some critics disagree, stating that there is no record of butter, salt or cheese raining down from the sky, and that God would not punish his people by forcing them to eat grits without these key ingredients. But Barbara Brown Taylor, who is as good a preacher as the South has produced in the last 20 years, writes: “Whenever I hear about manna, I think of grits.” Although she admits she never knew what grits were until she was 12. Which was when her cousin told her that grits were small bugs that lived in colonies on the surface of ponds and lakes, like algae. At the end of every summer they were harvested, shelled and dried in the sun, so that little girls could not tell, upon eating them for breakfast, that they once had legs on them.

Her reasons for equating grits with manna are threefold. Both are fine. Both are flaky. And both are absolutely no good as leftovers. Concerning manna, God told Moses: “Each day the people shall go out and gather enough for that day. One day’s worth. No more.” Manna would not keep. Whenever the people tried to hoard it, it spoiled overnight. In the morning it stank and crawled with worms. When the sun got hot, it melted.

The only exception was the Sabbath. Since God meant for the people to rest on that day, God let them gather twice as much on the day before. Manna was the Israelites’ food. Raw manna…. boiled manna….baked manna….ground manna. Manna was a symbol of God’s very practical care for them. Long after their sojourn in the desert was over, they remembered their manna meals. Which is why they kept two quarts of it in a jar by the tablets of the Law as an everlasting reminder of their dependence on God….who gave them (each day) their daily bread.

There has been a good bit of speculation about what manna was. The Bible simply says (Exodus 16:31) that it was “like coriander seed….white….and the taste of it was like wafers made with honey.” The linguistics scholars don’t help us much. For the word comes from the Hebrew “man hu”….which means: “What is it?” But if you go to the Sinai Peninsula, it will not stay a mystery for long. The Bedouin shepherds still gather it and bake it into bread….which they still call “manna.” The flakes, themselves, come from plant lice that feed on local tamarisk trees. The lice go to the trees to suck the sap. But since the sap is poor in nitrogen, the bugs have to suck a lot of sap in order to live. In point of fact, they suck far more sap than their bodies can retain. So they excrete the extra in a yellowish-white flake (from a juice-like secretion) that is rich in carbohydrates and sugars. Once exposed to air, it decays quickly and attracts ants. So a daily portion is the most that anyone gathers.

Some believers reject this explanation because they think it takes away from the miracle of manna. In other words, if it comes as a byproduct of nature, God can’t be in it. But think about that. Does manna have to come out of nowhere in order to qualify as a miracle? Or does the miracle consist in the fact that God heard the complaining of hungry people and fed them with secreted bug juice….fried into bread cakes….which was something that would never have occurred to them to eat? Or, to put it another way, what makes something “bread from heaven?” Is it the thing itself….or is it the one who sends it?

Which is not an idle question. How you answer has a lot to do with how you sense God’s presence in your life. If your manna has to drop straight out of heaven looking like a perfect loaf of butter-crust bread, then chances are you are going to go hungry a lot. When the bread you get does not look like the bread you are praying for, you tend to think God is ignoring you, punishing you, or….worse yet….non-existent. Then you start comparing yourself to other people and wondering why they have more to eat….or get more of their prayers answered….than you do. Meanwhile, you miss most of the things that God is doing for you….because they look too ordinary (like bug juice), or too transitory (like manna, which melts the minute the sun gets hot).

Isn’t that the point of that old-as-the-hills story preachers love to tell about the storm that floods the town and threatens the inhabitants. One man’s house floods, whereupon he stands on the porch and prays to God to save him. A rowboat comes by and offers him a ride. “No thanks,” says the man. “God’s gonna rescue me.” Flood rises. Man climbs. From the second floor balcony, the man prays again. Second rowboat comes. Same offer. Same refusal. Finally, the man is on the roof, praying for all he’s worth. A helicopter flies by and offers to drop him a ladder. “Thanks a bunch,” says the man, “but God’s gonna be along any minute.” Five minutes later, there’s no more footing on the roof and no more life in the man. “Death by drowning,” is what they write on the death certificate. On to heaven he goes. Looking like a drowned rat, he confronts God for failing to answer his prayers. Causing God to say: “Hey, I sent you two rowboats and a helicopter….”

The issue is not whether that joke is old or new, witty or lame, funny or unfunny. The issue is whether it’s true or false. Because if it’s true, then you’ve got to be willing to look at everything that comes your way as a gift from God. Which, if you do, will mean that a can of soup can be manna….a buck to buy it can be manna….a pot to cook it can be manna….a fire to warm it can be manna….an appetite to enjoy it can be manna….and a friend to share it can be manna. Especially the friend to share it, given that even manna braised in puff pastry (with a gentle whisper of Bernaise on the side) doesn’t taste like all that much, when night after night you have to eat it alone.

Now, if I have convinced you that the sustenance of God can be incredibly ordinary, give me half a chance to convince you that the sustenance of God can also be incredibly daily.

When Kris and I were a whole lot younger than we are now, somebody tried to sell us a food plan. For a mere several hundred dollars….in monthly installments, of course….we could have a year’s worth of meat (roasts, chops, loins, ribs, patties, stew scraps) along with a whole lot of other stuff to go with it. Leading us to exclaim: “So much food. We’ll need a freezer to store it.” And leading the salesman to answer: “That’s the idea, Mr. Ritter. For a few hundred extra, a freezer can be part of the deal.”

Needless to say, we didn’t buy the plan. We didn’t buy the freezer. And we’ve never even opened the huge freezer chest we found in the basement of the parsonage. Instead, we use it for a shelf. Still, we’ve got two full refrigerators and a well-stocked pantry, so it’s not like we’re living on roots and berries. I suppose you could call it our “manna insurance,” in case God does not come through. But, then, where did we get this “insurance,” if not from God?

But prudent as we may be….and careful as we try to plan….some of the stuff in there spoils. Just like God said it would. So we have to clean it out and flush it down the disposal….lest it turn to worms, or something equally gross and smelly. Point being: some things nourish us, only if consumed in a timely fashion. Like when they are given. Or as they are needed.

Over and over again, I see people with terrible problems….great burdens….devastating illnesses….unraveling relationships….and I find myself wishing I could make it all go away and praying that God will make it all go away. But I can’t. And God doesn’t. Which does not always make perfect sense to me….until my head comes to terms with what my heart never fully accepts….that some storms have to be ridden and some valleys have to be crossed. Although God can….and does….provide shelter in the storm, while setting tables in the valleys.

What am I talking about? I am talking about the sustenance of God, most of which comes in bite-sized chunks….a mouthful at a time….an hour at a time….a day (or a night) at a time. A favorite verse from a cherished hymn reads:

            Lead kindly light, amid the encircling gloom,

            The night is dark and I am far from home.

            Keep thou my feet; I do not ask to see

            The distant scene….one step enough for me.

As concerns the Christian faith, I signed up (50 years ago) for the lifetime food plan. But there are days, even now, when I go to the cupboards of the spirit and find them bare. And so I pray: “Give me, O God, whatever you can give me. Right now. For now.” And I leave it for you to judge if God has answered that prayer or not. I mean, do I look undernourished?

And while you’re considering that, chew on one thing more. The gospel tells me that Jesus once fed people in Galilee….thousands of them. I don’t know how he did it. But, then, neither did they. Still, while sopping up the last little bit of fish juice with the last little hunk of bread, it must have occurred to them that this was remarkably reminiscent of the “manna stories” they had heard since they were little kids. So they figured that maybe (in Jesus) they had a second Moses in their midst….an eternal bread truck that would follow them wherever they went. So they stuck to Jesus like glue. I mean, it was like living above a bakery.

But to the disappointment of everybody, nothing ever appeared “fresh from the oven” again. Which led some to say: “What happened to the butter-crust?” And which led Jesus to answer: “I am the true Bread from Heaven….the Bread that gives life to the world.”

And the ones who didn’t go chasing the skirts of Sara Lee, understood. Which is why they said: “Lord, give us this bread always.”

Which was their choice. And a good choice, I might add. But would it….would he….be your choice? A loaf of bread versus a relationship with Jesus. A loaf of bread versus a relationship with Jesus. That’s a pretty weighty question.

But before you answer, think back to when you were young….single….smitten. One night the two of you went out to dinner. Nice place. High price. Wonderful chef. Great reputation. Sterling service. And you ordered well….and sat long….endlessly talking…..discreetly touching…. searching and discovering.

Food came. Food sat. Food went. Back to the kitchen….barely picked at….largely uneaten.

Two questions:

            Did you go home hungry that night?

            If not, how can you remember it as being the best meal of your life?

Note:  I am indebted to Ann Windley for her meticulous research on the issue of grits (and for preparing some). I am also grateful to Barbara Brown Taylor and her most-thoughtful book, Bread of Angels.

If I Had a Hammer 11/8/1998

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scriptures: Isaiah 44:9-20, Jeremiah 23:23-29

Shortly after the earth cooled and Twin Pines stopped delivering milk, door to door, I graduated from Yale Divinity School and launched my career as a youth minister in Dearborn. That’s right, I did what Matt does. And we had a good program, for it was a great time to be working with teenagers. Kids were questioning a lot of things, but had not yet begun their surly revolt against everything. Times were a’changing (as Bob Dylan sang) and feet were a’marching.

But most of the kids I worked with were tame for the time. They hadn’t dropped out. They weren’t dropping acid. They were still in church. And they were still singing songs. Which was why I learned to strum the guitar. Not many chords. And not many keys. Just enough to lead a hootenanny (how’s that for a word that dates me?) and sing a little Peter, Paul and Mary. Whatever else we did at MYF, we sang. We sang fun songs. We sang faith songs. We sang folk songs. And we sang freedom songs. I knew every possible chorus to “Do Lord.” And I knew every possible chorus to “We Shall Overcome.” And, of course, there was “Blowin’ in the Wind,” “Michael, Row Your Boat Ashore,” “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?” and the never-to-be-forgotten “If I Had a Hammer.”

Which, unfortunately, has been forgotten….by far too many. But not by me. Which is how it found its way into this morning’s title. And which is why it finds its way into this morning’s lyric.

If I had a hammer, I’d hammer in the morning,

            I’d hammer in the evening, all over this land.

            I’d hammer out danger; I’d hammer out warning;

            I’d hammer out love between my brothers and my sisters,

            All over this land.

And there were additional verses….about songs that could be sung and bells that could be rung. But there’s no need to sing or ring them now. Although should you feel differently, just do it under your breath.

Actually, the word “hammer” may not be the best possible choice for this particular morning, given the local news about a pair of recent hammer murders, including the latest one in Holly…. where we have been reading about a 25-year-old with a smallish drug debt (and a largish drug habit) who broke into an Oakland County home and finished off the four people sleeping there with a claw hammer. Which proves, once again, that hammers can be dangerous tools to use…. and dangerous tools to talk about. But, for all their danger, they are also decisive. Hammers are not dainty. A hammer is a tool with which a statement can be made. One swings a hammer…. making things happen….making things fit together….or making things fly apart. A hammer is an impact tool. Screwdrivers and socket wrenches are finesse tools.

Go back to Peter, Paul and Mary’s song. It, too, makes a statement….concluding (as it does) in a make-it-happen manner:

            I do have a hammer….of justice.

            I do have a bell….of freedom.

            I do have a song….about brother and sisterly love.

With the implication being that,

            I’ll swing it….ring it….sing it,

            Here….there….everywhere,

            And good stuff will happen as a result.

Like most of the songs I sang in the sixties, it was both “feel good” and “do good” music.

But few of us feel that way….or sing that way….anymore. The get-it-done spirit of the sixties has been replaced by something else….harder to pin down….but harder, still, to shake. Namely, a feeling that the solitary individual can’t get much done. That hammers (when swung) won’t connect. That songs (when sung) don’t motivate. That bells (when rung) no longer call anybody to action.

Parents know the feeling. Consider the TV commercial for some frozen taco product. It’s dinner time. Mom is in the kitchen, slaving over a hot microwave. Junior’s in the bedroom, surfing the Net. Mom wants Junior to come down to dinner. But Junior is not budging. Until, that is, he gets wind of the fact that tacos are on the menu. Apparently he likes them, for he comes down. The implication being that if he didn’t, he wouldn’t. And Mother would be powerless to make it otherwise. Moral of story: Isn’t Mother lucky that the frozen taco people have come to her rescue so that she won’t have anarchy on the home front? I mean, what’s a mother to do?

But don’t all of us feel that way from time to time?

What’s a mother to do?

What’s a father to do?

What’s a voterto do?

What’s a concerned citizen to do?

What’s a committed Christian to do?

There we stand….hands heavenward….heads lowered….knees buckled….the posture of those who bemoan their fate. Which, along with impotence, bleeds into the spiritual issue of insignificance. Colin Morris writes: “Much of the despair of our time stems from the individual’s sense of his or her insignificance….the disproportion between the size of the world’s problems and the slenderness of one’s personal resources for dealing with them.”

Somewhere, Morris adds, are world leaders whose decisions affect the destinies of nations. Somewhere, are prime movers whose “movings” can affect the price of prime. Somewhere, are employers who can create heaven or hell for those beneath them. “But for all our huffings and puffings, most of us can’t even frighten the dog. We are layers in a meat sandwich that grows more gigantic (and claustrophobic) by the hour.”

Even the future, which was once the singular province of the dreamers, has now been co-opted by the mathematicians (armed with their statistical paradigms and computer-projected trend analyses). I’ll never forget the day some genius announced to the Annual Conference that, as a result of feeding declining membership statistics into his computer (and adjusting for certain selected variables), he concluded that the last member would turn out the last light in the last Michigan Methodist church, sometime during the summer of 2046.

And while a part of me thought, “Hey, I’ll be a member of the church triumphant by then (and its numbers are surely rising),” the other part of me thought: “What’s the use? What’s a poor preacher to do?” So I skipped the rest of the session and treated myself to an ice cream.

What I totally ignored, of course, was that such trends are reversible and that there are a pair of factors that can orchestrate such reversals….human effort and Holy Spirit….the combination of what man can do and what God is already doing. Someone once reminded me that had computers existed in the 1890s (when horse-drawn transportation was well-nigh universal), they would have predicted that by the 1990s, every last street in America would be covered with seven feet of horse manure. Which it isn’t….pointing to the fact that something (or someone) made one heck of a difference.

The truth of Christianity can be dismissed (by some) as outdated and illusory. But what cannot be dismissed is that the entire course of history was impacted by a group of rather ordinary people who sensed that something, or someone, had entered their lives….a man worth following….which translated into a song worth singing, a word worth preaching, a work worth doing and a cause worth advancing.

Like them, we may be mere individuals. But we are individuals plus the ideas for which we stand. And I have seen what can happen when ordinary people become possessed by extraordinary ideas.

Do you know the most extraordinary idea in the Gospel? There’s a lot of ‘em in there. Were I to stop the sermon and invite you to discuss the matter among yourselves, you’d come up with most of them. But I am willing to bet that nobody would come up with this one. For me, the most extraordinary idea in the Gospel comes out of a conversation between Jesus and his disciples. They are marveling at his power while lamenting the lack of their own. It’s the old “you can do anything….we can’t do squat” conversation that crops up from time to time. But, on this occasion, Jesus dropped everybody’s jaw when he said: “Everything you have seen me do, you will do….and more. Nothing shall be impossible for you.” Which is a most extraordinary idea by which to be possessed, wouldn’t you think?

Funny, though, one of the places we find it hardest to believe is in the church. Oh, maybe not this church. But most churches. When I came here (five and a half years ago) I was told over and over again:

            This church can do anything it wants to do.

You have no idea how many times people said that to me. Which put the onus squarely on my shoulders:

            How do I get it to want to?

Do I preach and prod? Do I offer the energy of my own example? Do I hire and unleash gifted people whose talents dwarf my own? Do I keep throwing out ideas, in seed-like fashion, and then rake the ground onto which they fall? Or do I listen carefully to what lies deep within you….your dreams….your gifts….your ministries…and then play the midwife so that you can give birth to that over which you’ve been laboring?

I’ve tried all of the above. And met with some success. But there’s so much more that could be done. Some of which will be done. Let me fuel your imagination for a minute. Can you envision:

            A new organ?

            A new worship option?

            A church-wide living prayer weekend?

A partner church relationship in Eastern Europe (with a Methodist congregation in Prague or Budapest)?

            A shared staff person (employed half-time here and half-time in an inner city church)?

            A lecture/concert series of community-impacting proportions?

            A Habitat for Humanity home, funded and executed by First Church?

That’s not a refined list. That may not even be a doable list. But it’s a starter list. All I have to do is keep reminding you that, as a church, you have more tools than even you know. And since we’re one week from D-Day (in our stewardship campaign), I should remind you that some of your tools are financial. I’m certainly not embarrassed to ask you for more money, because I know the basic levels of your giving. And one of the functions of my asking….along with your responding….will be to ease your embarrassment before God (as concerns the basic level of your giving). Or let me simply remind you of what you said to me when I came:

            This church can do anything it wants to do.

* * * * *

But maybe I’ve overstated things. Maybe you don’t see yourselves as hammers. Maybe you see yourselves as nails. Which is all right. Because sometimes I see you that way, too.

I see some of you as spikes (sort of like the Trustees)….invisible to the naked eye….but down there in the foundation, holding stuff together.

I see some of you as regular nails (two penny, four penny, six penny, eight)….different sizes….different lengths….but holding up your end….doing your part.

I see some of you as roofing nails….short….squat….more head than shaft….making sure that everything we’re about doesn’t float mindlessly into thin air.

And I see some of you as finishing nails….pretty little things….binding beauty to belief and fine arts to firm foundations.

But about nails of any kind, I know three additional things.

             First, they gotta have a head.

Second, they gotta have a point.

Third, it will take a power greater than they possess to drive them into place.

Which, don’t you see, puts things in proper perspective. As Jeremiah suggests, God’s Word is the hammer that drives everything else.

Let me close with this. My father taught me that every tool has its place. And he taught me that every tool has its time. Then came a clergy colleague, who taught me about a man who went into the bus station at Athens, Georgia, to buy a ticket for Greenville, South Carolina. He was told that the bus would be a little late. So he thought he’d take a walk around the station and have a look at things. He came upon a machine that advertised: “I will tell you your name, your age, your home town, and other interesting information.” Curious and mildly skeptical, the man put a quarter into the machine. A card came out of the slot. It read: “Your name is Bill Jones. You are 35 years of age. You live in Athens, Georgia. You are waiting for a bus to Greenville, South Carolina. Your bus is delayed.”

The man was dumbfounded. This couldn’t be possible. So he reached for another quarter, put it in the machine, and received a second card. Itread: “Your name is Bill Jones. You are 35 years of age. You live in Athens, Georgia. You are still waiting for a bus to Greenville, South Carolina. Your bus is delayed a little longer.”

This was beyond belief. Now he was truly fascinated. He thought: “I am going to stump this machine.” He left the station, found a five-and-dime store, and bought a pair of those Groucho Marx glasses with eyebrows and mustache, along with some fake ears, a wig and a cane. Hobbling back into the station, he approached the machine and inserted a quarter. Out came the card. “You name is Bill Jones. You are 35 years of age. You live in Athens, Georgia. You are still waiting for a bus to Greenville, South Carolina. You look ridiculous in that get-up. And while you were horsing around, the bus left.”

Unfortunately, my colleague horsed around (if you know what I mean), so the Bishop took his tools away from him. But we have ours….tools, that is. We’ve got hammers….songs….bells (whistles, too). And the bus is waiting. Not the bus to Greenville. But the bus to greatness.

Note:  Colin Morris first suggested the sermonic possibilities of the hammer in his marvelous book on Christian hope entitled The Hammer of the Lord. It was the late Harrell Beck of Boston University who first talked about “nails” and the Kingdom. Unfortunately, I can’t track the reference (but I remember h

Forewarned is Forearmed 12/6/1998

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Matthew 10:16-23

In tallying up the numbers for my year-end pastor’s report to the Charge Conference, I discovered that in 1998 I did twice as many baptisms as I did funerals. I don’t know what that means, save for the fact that, in my little corner of Christendom, more people seem to be coming than going. Which feels good, personally….and bodes well, institutionally. It also occurs to me, professionally, that most of you would rather attend a baptism than a funeral. It’s shorter, for one thing. Less sad, for another. And it is always easier to say “hello” to someone coming into the family of God, than “good-bye” to someone who would appear to be leaving it.

Yet, if the truth be known, there is one thing about baptism that is more ominous than obvious. And that consists in the fact that life in Christ (which is what the baptizee is being baptized into) is not always going to be a bed of roses….and that the church (which is going to do everything in its power to encourage, equip and educate said child) is not necessarily going to be able to protect him. For baptism is the introductory rite of discipleship. And discipleship, in its most elemental form, is the act of following Jesus. And Jesus, more often than not, is headed for Jerusalem (geographically), and a cross (theologically). And although there will be a crown on the other side of the cross, there may not necessarily be a crown on this side.

For as much as I have talked about baptism (and from time to time, I have talked about it long and well), I suspect that half the people who come to it, look upon it as an inoculation rather than an induction. “Inoculation theology” begins when grandma (often Roman Catholic grandma) says: “You’d better hustle on down to the church and get that baby done….before something happens.” What grandma means by “something happening,” is: “What if that baby should die, unbaptized….and not be able to go where all good babies should be able to go, in the event that they ‘go’ before their time?” Grandma’s assumption is that baptism will fix that up. One watery inoculation….a few prayers….and the phrase “onto glory” is all but a done deal. Baptism performed. Grace guaranteed. Eternity assured. Sweet little Priscilla, protected.

Which is not how we Protestants look upon such things. We believe that what the church does, sacramentally, does not launch God’s grace….as if it wouldn’t be there, had we not done it. We believe that what the church does, sacramentally, points to God’s grace….which was already there, long before we ever thought of doing it.

But while you are wiping the sweat from your brow and uttering, “Well, that’s a relief,” I would remind you that while “inoculation theology” is out, “induction theology” is in….meaning that baptism is a form of enlistment, to the degree that it would be entirely appropriate to end every act of baptism with the terse liturgical pronouncement: “Now your troubles are just beginning.” No church says this, of course. But the Orthodox church symbolizes it in a rather unique way. Just before the priest admits someone to the sacrament of baptism, he whacks them hard on the chest with his pectoral cross. This is done to remind everyone present that the cross hurts, and one day the baptizee may have to pay a price for taking it up.

Perhaps each baptism certificate….which Janet so carefully letters, and I so carefully sign…. should come with a pre-pasted warning label from some spiritual Surgeon General: “Caution, this water could be dangerous to your health.” My mother always warned me about getting my feet wet. But, to my fading recollection, she never said anything about my head.

Well, we do have a warning to issue this morning. But it doesn’t come from the Surgeon General. It comes from Jesus himself. “Behold,” he says to us (which is a 50-cent religious word for “quiet down and listen up”): “Behold, I send you out as sheep in the midst of wolves. So be wise as serpents and innocent as doves.” Which would hardly qualify Jesus as an television evangelist. For who would accept an invitation to something that all but guarantees personal discomfort? I mean, who would watch his programs? Who would fund his network? Who would buy his books? There’s not a lot of warm fuzzies in that warning. Which is why I’ve seldom preached it, and my colleagues consistently underplay it.

Still, there it is. So what shall we make of it? Well, we could try to get inside the animals involved, meaning “wolves, sheep, serpents and doves.” That might be interesting, since few of us encounter any of these species on a daily basis.

Who are the sheep? Well, they’re us. Or supposed to be us. At least the text assumes that they’re us. Which may not always be true, given that most of us have a wolf suit tucked away somewhere….which still fits us. It fits us, because it is us. Which tends to confuse Little Red Riding Hood, because sometimes the wolf really is her grandmother….her grandfather….her funny uncle….her philandering husband….or the charming woodsman who rides out of nowhere to come to her rescue. Sometimes the wolf is even Little Red Riding Hood, herself. If the suit fits, acknowledge it….(“Why yes, those are my teeth….my fangs….my fur”).

But let’s assume, for the most part, that the wolves are “out there,” more than they are “in here.” How can they be identified? In my just-concluded class on the Book of Revelation, the wolves came clearly marked as “seven headed beasts, dragons, tempters, temptresses, lions, tigers and bears.” To be a Christian in the Book of Revelation is to feel a little like Dorothy and her helpless friends, wandering through a frightening wood and wondering if she will ever make it safely back to Kansas.

Our wolves, lions, tigers and bears….the ones among which we sheep must walk….come disguised and closeted. They are far more chameleon-like, making them all the more bewildering and all the more dangerous. Somebody should pass a law that, in the presence of sheep, wolves must immediately (and clearly) identify themselves. But nobody has made such a law. Which is why few of us can tell them when we see them.

In that marvelous vision known as the “Peaceable Kingdom” (which we find in Isaiah 65), there is the image of the wolf and the lamb feeding together. Well, let me tell you a story about that. Back in the days of pre-perestroika Russia….when hers was a name that made all of us tremble….the Russians brought an exhibit to the World’s Fair that was entitled “World Peace.” In it was a large cage. And in the cage were a little lamb and a Russian wolf….feeding peaceably together. As an exhibit, it was most impressive. And as the fair unfolded, it was spectacularly attended. One day, however, somebody asked the curator the obvious question: “How in the world do you do it?” To which he replied: “Oh, it’s really very simple. We replace the lamb every morning.”

I am not going to ask you if you heard that. I am going to ask you if you felt that. I suspect you did if you are parents….or remember having been parents….or are still trying to get up enough nerve to become parents. Parents know all about sending lambs out to live among wolves. Nowhere seems safe. No one seems trustable. And you can’t be everywhere….every day….every minute. A parent told me, just last Sunday morning: “If we have to move to protect our kid, we’ll move.” And that parent lives here….where all kinds of parents would love to move, if only they could.

But maybe we could all go outstate….like to Muskegon. Where last week we learned that sometimes the very kids the parents thought were lambs, were really wolves….and it was the parents who cried (with their dying breath): “My God, it’s a jungle out here.” Nobody’s immune. Everybody’s vulnerable. We are all “sheep in the midst of wolves.” Or, as my favorite philosopher, Norm Peterson, once said: “It’s a dog eat dog world, and I’m wearing Milk Bone underwear.”

So….be wise as serpents and innocent as doves. Two more animals. Two more strategies. Let’s start with the serpents.

The Christian faith is not now….nor was it ever….meant to be a battle plan for losers. We were not put here for the sole purpose of dying heroically, so that those who mock us, prey upon us and knowingly make sport of us, might live profitably. Jesus is a practical man. And this little warning reveals his practical side. “Know the wolf culture,” he says. “Not so as to copy it, but to defend yourselves against it.” We may not always be able to beat the wolves at their game. But we darned well better know what their game is….and be guided by a better one.

But what does this have to do with serpents? Well, I’ll tell you. Don’t make this harder than it is. This isn’t rocket science. The serpent being referenced is not some mythical monster or prehistoric reptile. The serpent being referenced is the common, ordinary snake. And one of the things that is more true of snakes (than of any other creature, save a large-antlered Michigan deer in November) is that snakes are incredibly aware of everything that goes on around them. A snake is sensitive to its surroundings because, as a slitherer, its entire body is a live wire of sensations. I am not a zoologist. But those who are, tell me that snakes survive by missing nothing about their environment that could offer a clue as to how to interpret it. Snakes are not so much sneaky, as crafty. “Go learn from them,” Jesus said. “Then copy them.” Which is not an invitation to cynicism, but an admonition to always know what is going on around you.

I would dwell more on that, but I suspect most of you find that part easy. Too easy. And too all-consuming. Craftiness, you’ve mastered. Innocence is another story. So what does it mean?

I am not sure that it means “unspoiled” (although it could). If it meant “unspoiled,” I think Jesus might have said: “Be wise as serpents and innocent as virgins” (given that the words “innocent” and “virgin” are clearly linked elsewhere in scripture). Instead, I think that the word “innocent” (rather than meaning “unspoiled”) means “unjaded.” For when you become crafty….clever…. savvy in the ways of the world….when you get enough experience under your belt so as to be able to spot the wolves a mile away, all the while devising plans to foil them at their game….then you tend to become jaded, cynical, even despairing. It is only a matter of time before people who keep their eyes peeled for the worst, find the worst. Until, eventually, they find nothing but the worst. And the sickest of these people, we call “paranoid.” While the remainder of these people, we call “sad.” For while they can spot all of the dangers, they miss most of the joys. I mean, if warnings are all you ever give to your children….your spouses….your pastors….yourselves….who needs you? But that may be the wrong question. The fact is, everybody needs you. It’s just that nobody wants you.

So….“be innocent as doves.” A dove, don’t you see, is a symbol of the Holy Spirit. The dove is not a dumb bird. The dove is not a weak bird. The dove is not a fragile and endangered bird. The dove, biblically understood, is a bird that reminds us that God is very much at work in the world….our world….this feisty, fleshly, jungle-like, wolf-infested world….doing God only knows what. Which means just what it says, don’t you see….that when we think we know everything….and much of what we know is bad….we are saved by what we don’t know….what only God knows….and may be trying to reveal. But we can’t see it. Because we look through snake’s eyes rather than dove’s eyes. And you know where snakes tend to hang out…..versus where doves tend to hang out….don’t you?

I wrote this sermon up north (where I went for a day to write it, along with half of next week’s). Thursday morning, I am in my favorite Elk Rapids coffee shop having a “morning special.” That’s eggs (scrambled), bacon (lean), hash browns (extra crispy), toast (whole wheat), and several cups of coffee (all for $3.85….the cheapest way to a heart attack in northern Michigan). There are only two other people in the place. Both are old-timers….regulars….born-and-bred northerners. They are the kind of people who hate “fudgies.” And, as a 12-year irregular who shows up once every other month, I am just one step removed from a “fudgy.”

So they talk, while I listen. One of my best skills is eavesdropping. And this is what I overhear.

Yeah (says one to another), they make a lot of money down there….move up here….build a huge house….install security lighting all around the perimeter….and then they go outside at night and complain that they can’t see the stars.

Mental note to myself: “Ritter, no security lighting. Ever.”

It’s the serpent, you see, that tells me I need security lighting. For security lighting is savvy….crafty….clever….wise. But it’s the dove, don’t you see, that tells me I need the stars.

And correct me if I’m wrong. But this is star season, is it not?

Note:  I am indebted to the usual biblical sources for scholarly commentary. But I acknowledge a special debt to Peter Gomes and his publication Yet More Sundays at Harvard.

The Bigger They Are… 10/18/1998

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scriptures: I Samuel 17:1-11, 31-40, 48-51

Last Wednesday evening, shortly after darkness descended on the cradle of the Confederacy, the San Diego Padres (great name….“Padres”) adjourned to the clubhouse to celebrate their first National League Pennant in fourteen years, having just achieved it by dispatching the talent-loaded, heavily-favored and seemingly-all-but-invincible Atlanta Braves. Directly ahead, however, waited an even more ominous foe, the Bronx Bombers from the Big Apple (which sounds a whole lot better than merely saying “The New York Yankees”).

But if they were frightened, the Padres weren’t showing it. For in addition to momentum and Tony Gwynn, they had biblical precedent on their side, which surfaced in the words of their champagne-soaked president, Larry Lucchino. Said Larry (from beneath a shower of bubbly): “We feel a little like David going in, ready to sling a few stones at Goliath.”

Well, as a lifelong student of The Book, I appreciated his reference. And as a lifelong hater of the Yankees, I hope he’s right. So let the stones fly. Let the Giant fall. And let the San Diegoans, who already enjoy the best weather in North America, have (at long last) a championship to go along with it.

Interesting, isn’t it, that a baseball executive can evoke images of David and Goliath and all of us know what he is talking about. Jews know. Christians know. Agnostics know. Illiterates know. For the story transcends its setting and transplants a culture which is ignorant of….and (in some cases) hostile to….its origin. Which gives me pause when I consider that I have never preached it. But, better late than never.

The story is a heroic tale, featuring an underdog (who is as unlikely as he is undersized), going up against a foe (who is as fearsome as he is formidable). No way can the underdog win. Except he does. Which doesn’t happen very often. After all, the surest way to go broke is to buck the odds rather than bet them. But when the mini rise up to smite the mighty, how sweet it is.

The story, of course, comes out of Israel in that period where the issue was nothing less than the creation of a monarchy. “Can we find a king? Can we stand a king, once we find him? And if we find a king we can stand, can the king stand?” As you know, there were only three great kings of the monarchy….Saul, David and Solomon. And this is the story of how public sentiment began to slip away from Saul and swing toward David.

For Saul was up against it. Or, more to the point, Saul was up against the Philistines. There they were….fourteen miles west of Bethlehem….poised on one hill. And there Saul’s troops were…. looking across a valley….trembling on another hill. Whereupon a very large warrior emerged from the ranks of the Philistines and shouted across the valley:

Look, let’s save a whole lot of time and spare a whole lot of blood. Let’s go man-to-man instead of army-to-army. I’ll come from this side. You send someone from your side. We’ll meet in the middle. One of us dies. One of us lives. And the winner takes it all.

Which sounded good, until Saul’s army looked more closely at “Mr. Big Mouth.” Which wasn’t his name, of course. His name was Goliath. And he was one big dude. How big? Well, it’s hard to say. Biblical measurements (at least in this narrative) are far from precise. They range from cubits (which represent the distance between the elbow and the tip of the index finger), to spans (which represent the distance between the thumb and the little finger of the extended palm). Depending upon who’s doing the measuring, cubits and spans vary greatly. I’ll go into that more fully on Wednesday night. But for now, let the record show that Goliath had girth to match his mouth. I’ve got a trio of commentaries on my desk that put him at 9’6”. And I’ve got a fourth commentary on my desk that puts him at 6’9”. Ironically, I think the latter commentary is correct….which puts Goliath in the same league with Grant Hill (albeit a bigger, meaner, and better padded 6’9” than Grant Hill).

Much of the padding was body armor, which (if we translate the word “shekels” correctly) weighed in at 125 pounds, 15 ounces. But who’s counting? What is important about the description of Goliath’s armor is not how thickly it covered how much, but what it failed to cover at all. Meaning that the one part of Goliath’s body lacking armor was his forehead. But the text doesn’t tell you that. You have to read between the lines to figure it out.

But on with the story. Goliath thundered. Saul’s army trembled. And everybody tried to figure out how to keep from volunteering or getting volunteered. You know how that works. Lots of you are masters at it. But then David saved everybody’s day (and everybody’s hide) by saying: “David, here….reporting for duty.” Which blew everybody away. Because he wasn’t very old. He wasn’t very big. He wasn’t very experienced. And he wasn’t even a member of the regular army. What he was, was a lute-playing, lullaby-singing shepherd….whose only previous military experience was as a sandwich carrier and message bearer (linking his daddy at home with his brothers at the front).

“You are just a lad,” Saul said (when David volunteered). And, indeed, he was. Which troubled Saul. And which embarrassed Goliath, once he saw who Saul was sending. I mean, if you are figuring to kill somebody, it kind of taints your victory if the kill comes too quickly….or too easily. After all, if all that stood between the Yankees and a World Series title were the Tigers, they might not even show up.

But Goliath showed up….insulted everybody in sight (including David, Saul, Israel and Israel’s God)….and then waited for his opponent. Who came, in time. But when David arrived, he came totally without soldier suit, spear, sword, snub-nosed revolver, or sub-machine gun….because (well, we will return to that in a moment). But he did have a slingshot, five smooth stones and a good aim. Which he used to stun the Giant….knocking him down….knocking him out….but not necessarily knocking him dead. Which shows how much you know (or don’t know) about the story. David didn’t kill Goliath with a slingshot. David killed Goliath with a sword. What he did with his sword is called decapitation. Which was not very nice. But which was very final. Ironically, in the original version of the Jack and the Beanstalk tale, the Giant did not die when Jack cut the beanstalk out from under him, but when Jack cut his head clean off him.

So there you have it. A story for the ages. And a story for the sages. Was it true? Sort of. But who requires absolute accuracy? Still, for the historical purists among us, it is twice suggested (II Samuel 21:19 and I Chronicles 20:5) that a Jewish warrior named Elhanan (one of David’s heroes) slew Goliath. Which means that there were either multiple Goliaths (which was unlikely), or that David’s tribal name was Elhanan (again, unlikely), or that followers of David may have borrowed a story belonging to another Jewish warrior and applied it, retroactively, to their king (considerably more likely).

But don’t get all worked up about that. Israel certainly didn’t. While he was still a young man, David looked heroic and performed heroically. So whether he did this deed….or someone else did this deed….once the deed was done it seemed David-like. And so it has been attributed to him ever since.

What interests me today is neither the “who” of the story, nor the “how” of the story, but the meaning of the story. Which changes, I think, from place to place and from people to people. So what I want to do in the time remaining is address a trio of questions:

            1. Why does Israel love this story?

            2. Why do children love this story?

            3. Why might you love this story?

Israel loves this story because it depicts her experience as a nation. Israel, the underdog. Israel, the undersized. Israel, the nation which has no business being here, but is. Meaning that Israel must have been watched over….or watched out for. By God. Or by somebody. Time after time, Israel was broken into….broken up….broken off….broken in pieces. The quintessential Israeli question begins: “How close did we come to not being here?”  And the answer always begins: “Well let me tell you a story.”

Just when we thought there was no hope (and no way), God delivered us from the deluge….from the famine….from the Pharaoh….from the waters of the sea and the sands of the Sinai….from the Canaanites, the Ammonites, the Jebusites, the Hittites, and the Girgishites….from the giants….from the Germans….and from the Jordanians. Against all odds, God made a way for us through the waters (and through the wall) so that we might claim, conquer, inhabit and rule a good land…. a broad land….a land flowing with milk and honey (albeit the only piece of land in the entire Middle East with nary a hint of oil beneath it).

But we almost blew it….almost lost it….almost forgot it….almost turned our back on it….almost had it taken away from us. Which would have happened, were it not for a slew of unlikely heroes, including a man on Social Security named Abraham, a man on the lam from the law named Moses, or a man one step removed from puberty named David.

You get the picture? Of course you get the picture. Israel loves this story because Israel has lived this story. And lives it still….to this very day. What is impossible for Israel to conceive (in 1998) is that, to many parts of the world, Israel is beginning to look more-and-more like Goliath and less-and-less like David.

In a related passage we will examine Wednesday night, Israel is out wandering in the desert. As a people, she has not yet reached the Promised Land. But she is close….close enough to send spies. Which she does. And the spies come back, saying: “Wow, it’s wonderful there. It’s fruitful there. Grapes grow as big as watermelons there. But don’t get your hopes up, ‘cause we’ll never be able to go there. For the land is full of giants. Compared to them, we look like grasshoppers” (Numbers 13:33). At least that’s what ten of them said. But two others issued a minority report, saying (in effect): “Grasshoppers or not, we’ve got a chance.” Which they did. Which they took. And which paid off.

So much for Israel. Let’s turn to the kids. Why do kids love stories like this one….featuring great big giants and little boys who fell them? Because kids live this story, too….that’s why. To be a kid is to live in a land of giants. Kids walk around undersized, trying to fill roles that are too big for them (in a world that is too big for them).

In that vein, I love the little subtlety in the story wherein David tries to walk in Saul’s armor. But he can’t. The stuff is too big and too cumbersome. The suit doesn’t fit him….because the responsibility doesn’t fit him. And notice what David says next. He doesn’t say: “I am too small.” Instead, he says: “I have never practiced”….meaning: “I have no experience at this.” Which is lovely, don’t you see? Because who among us has not, on occasion, been thrust into a role for which we have had no experience. It’s happened to me. And every time it happens, I find myself saying: “What am I doing here? I don’t belong here. Nothing I’ve ever done….ever tried….ever learned….has equipped me to be here.” Which is when I either run like holy hell or pray to holy heaven (which is what David did….at least as I read it).

Even though I am 58 years old, there is still a child in me that feels like a pigmy in a giant-infested world. To this day, I have occasional nightmares which find me waking in a cold sweat because of a great weight sitting on my chest….which I cannot outrun, overthrow, shake off or otherwise subdue. There are giants in my life. And not all of them are friendly. Which brings the matter home to those of us who are neither children nor Israelis, but adults (more or less). What does this little tale have to do with us? I suspect it depends on where we place ourselves in the story.

Some of us identify with Goliath. At least we should. For most of us are “the giant” in somebody else’s world….to whom we seem bigger than life and more ominous than death. We are oversized. They are undersized. Our desires control their destinies. Our actions shape their futures. Our words manipulate their emotions. When we smile, they sing. When we frown, they tremble. When we jerk, they dance. When we sneeze, they run for cover.

It both surprises and undoes me whenever I discover that somebody is afraid of me. Because I don’t have it in me to hurt a fly. But it doesn’t have to “be in me”….you see….if it’s in them. Sometimes people create Goliaths where none exist, and I become the product of their imagination.

Last Wednesday night, I had dinner in Colorado Springs with a colleague from Texas. In the fourth year of his present assignment, he still feels uncomfortable….uneasy….unable to change anything. He believes that little will improve (in his church) until he preaches three funerals…. for three men….all of them, over the age of 75….and each of them named Goliath. They’re out there. Or at least he thinks they’re out there.

Which means that he identifies with David. As others of us do. Undersized. Underarmed. Yet finding a way to use some unique gift.…some unrecognized talent….some “fruit of the spirit”…. to level the playing field. If I can’t subdue you with five smooth stones, perhaps I can subdue you with five stunning sermons (or with something else that I can sling under your skin or into your heart). If I can’t outbox you, outlast you, outshout you or outspend you, maybe I can outlove you….which is how several of my heroes have brought giants to their knees.

But most days, none of this fits. I am neither Goliath nor David….neither giant nor hero. Who am I? I am a buck private in Saul’s army, cowering on yonder hill….hoping that it won’t be me….knowing why it can’t be me….slipping deeper into the crowd….all the while saying: “Would that there was someone who would go in my place….fight in my place….and (if need be) die in my place.” Which sounds cowardly, I know. But it’s also honest….and Christian.

For there was one, wasn’t there, who once went forth for me….lonesomely (as the song says) into that valley, where the shadow is longer than that cast by Goliath, or by Grant Hill for that matter. He, too, went without arms or armor, while I watched from the safety of an adjacent hill.

And he emerged victorious, although I scarcely knew it at the time. Or understand it, even now. But had he not gone where he went….had he not done what he did….I’d still be camped with the cowards, sleeping with the grasshoppers….with the giants calling out during the day, and crushing me by night.

Note:  Readers of the text may quarrel with my assertion that Goliath died from decapitation (by a sword) rather than concussion (by a stone). After all, verse 50 of chapter 17 suggests that the stone was sufficient, even though verse 51 adds: “Then David ran and stood over the Philistine, and took his sword and drew it out of its sheath and killed him.” The issue is resolvable only when one understands that there were two narratives stitched together to form the present story….one early and one late. The early narrative includes verses 1-11, verses 32-40, verses 42-48a, verse 49, and verses 51-54. Later additions include verses 12-31, verse 41, verse 48b, verse 50, and verses 55-58. Most everyone agrees that verse 50 (supporting death by stoning) belongs with the latter source….meaning that death by decapitation was clearly the position of the earlier narrative.