Those Who Watch and Those Who Watch Out

Dr. William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church

Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Mark 13:24-26

Last Friday night, at the conclusion of our district ministers Christmas gathering, our new District Superintendent, Dale Miller, reminded us to wish each of you a “happy new year” on Sunday. This Sunday. “Unless,” he added, “the members of your congregation already think you are crazy and will take your greeting as confirmation that their worst suspicions are true.”

Everybody measures time differently. There are plenty of calendars that shape our lives….school calendars….national calendars….fiscal calendars….planting and harvesting calendars….even boating and fishing calendars. Ours (in the church) organizes itself around Jesus. Which is why a “new year” is properly launched when we begin tidying up our lives in anticipation of his appearing.

We call this season Advent. Initially, it was just what I suggested….a tidying up period….a penitential period….a period of getting ready by getting clean (meaning lots of confessing, repenting, renewing, that sort of thing). The predominant theory as to why we light a pink candle on the third Sunday of Advent (instead of a purple one) is that no Christian can stomach four long weeks of penitence without a break. So the third Sunday represents a joyful respite in the middle of a sober and somber month. That way, having laughed and smiled for a moment, we can get back to the brooding business of rigorous self-inventory and self-polishing. Ironically, children seem closer to this original spirit of Advent than the rest of us, given that even the most obnoxious of them sense that December is not a month for screwing up, so much as a month for cleaning up. The rest of us have largely forgotten the “penitence” part in favor of the “partying” part. But we continue to light the candles, even though there isn’t one of us in a hundred who can remember why the third one is pink.

Perhaps you have noticed that this year of ours….this new year of ours….begins in the dark. Two Saturdays ago (when I was in Boston for the Yale-Harvard game), I wasn’t sure they were going to finish it while they could still see to play it….even though it started before 1:00 in the afternoon. That’s because Boston is on the eastern end of the time zone while we are on the western end. Which means that afternoon tea time is nighttime on the eastern seaboard. At least in December.

Not that Michigan is much better. Or much brighter. Thankfully, in Advent we light more and more candles as the season goes on. But we also suffer more and more darkness as the season goes on. But, then, people of faith have always known that it sometimes gets darker before it gets light….sometimes gets worse before it gets better….and sometimes seems as if night will never end before we get to morning. Which always surprises people outside the church, who figure that God should work on their timetable, not His. But it does not surprise those of us inside the church, who know that we do not always keep the faith because we see the light….but until we see the light.

Yes, we know that tomorrow morning will come….that Christmas morning will come….that Easter morning will come….and that our own great gettin’ up morning will come. But we also know that there will be a whole lot of tossing and turning, sheep counting and floor pacing, along with the outward push of laboring and the downward pull of dying, before morning comes. Light will not be rushed. Which is why the Bible says that we hope for what we do not see. For if we have light, we have sight. And if we have sight, who needs hope? Or faith? Or belief, for that matter? But we don’t always have light. Nor do we always have sight.

In our text for today, Jesus is talking with Peter, James, Andrew and John….those four, no more….about how the mighty walls of Jerusalem (in whose shadow they were presently standing) would begin falling, stone upon stone. What’s more, he said that on that day the sun will be smudged, the moon will be snuffed, and the stars will tumble from their constellations like so many cheap pearls breaking loose from a necklace whose string has snapped. “Then you will see,” he said, “the Son of Man coming in clouds with great power and glory.”

They, of course, wanted to know when. I mean, wouldn’t you? So, in one breath, he told them: “Before this generation passes away, you will see these things.” But with the next breath he seemingly took it all back when he said: “But of that day….or that hour….no one knows. Not the angels. Not me. Only the Father.” Ironically, while there are several questions in the New Testament Jesus wouldn’t answer, this is the only question he said he couldn’t answer. “When will it all crash and burn, Jesus?” To which he said: “Don’t know. Don’t pretend to know. But you will see it in your generation.”

Which they did, of course….see things “crash and burn” in their generation, I mean. Thirty years later, the walls of the Temple came tumbling down, stone upon stone. Jerusalem in ruins. People in prison. Families torn apart by conflicting loyalties. Street corner messiahs….each one louder than the next….each one nuttier than the next….each one claiming exclusive access to the mind of God.

So Mark, who wrote his gospel around 70 A.D. (when all these things were going on, don’t you see), recalled these words of Jesus as if to say: “Look, Jesus said it was going to crash and burn. Jesus said that the light was going to go out of your life and the stars were going to fall from your sky. He said you’d see it. Didn’t say when. Didn’t know when. Just that you’d see it.”

Which we have. Over and over again. In every generation. In this generation. Which of you, sitting within the sound of my voice, hasn’t watched it all crash and burn….hasn’t seen the lights go out….hasn’t watched the stars fall from the sky (or at least one special star fall from the sky)? Jesus doesn’t know when it’s going to happen. Nobody knows when it’s going to happen. Only that it will happen….in every generation….to pretty much everybody in that generation. Am I talking about the end of the earth? Well, it sometimes feels like it, doesn’t it? Things crash and burn. Lights fall from the sky. Terrible things happen. And we hear ourselves saying: “That’s it. No more. All over. Can’t go on.”

So what do you do then? Well, you look again, (says Jesus). Past the crashing. Past the burning. Past the rubbish, ruin and rubble. Past the fallen stars rolling like pearls in whatever direction the floor of your life happens to be tilting. Past the smudged-over sun and the snuffed-out moon. Past the turbulence that is, at that very moment, shaking your airplane or your attitude….shaking your faith or your life….even shaking the earth on which you stand or the heavens toward which you gaze. Look past all that, Jesus said. Look through all that, Jesus said. And you will see, amidst the darkness, that the Son of Man is coming in the clouds with great power and glory.

Is he talking about the Second Coming? Of course he is. But do not be confused. The Second Coming need not necessarily mean “final coming” so much as it means “your coming”….as in the sense of his “coming to you.” Which is why Jesus said: “I don’t know when it will happen. Nobody knows. Angels don’t know. Mortals don’t know. Even messiahs don’t know. But this much I do know. People in your generation will see it. Because people in your generation will need to see it….the Second Coming, I mean.” Will Jesus come again when the world ends….or when your world ends? Yes!

When Jesus died, his disciples believed their world had ended. When Jerusalem fell (and Nero began slamming doors in the collective faces of some very fragile “Jesus people”), the church thought its world had ended. But whenever it was that it happened for you, I can’t quite rightly say. Except I believe it has. Or will. Your world come to an end, I mean.

So what do you do? Well, you watch and you wait. Fearfully? I think not. Jesus did not talk about the Son of Man appearing in the clouds to frighten his friends, but to comfort them. And I think he would say the same to us. What the text says is that if darkness will not stop him, it need not stop us either.

So we have a choice this Advent. We can go to bed and lie there with pillows over our heads….having first shoved all the heavy furniture against the door, even that cumbersome and nearly-impossible-to-move bureau that we inherited from Uncle Frank. Or we can put a parka over our PJs and make our way to the porch at midnight….candle in hand….the better to scan the skies for the one whose appearing we cannot….yet….see.

Note:  I am indebted to Barbara Brown Taylor for her suggestion of this rather unusual text for the first Sunday in Advent. Look for her treatment of the theme in one of her earlier books entitled God’s Medicine.

At the conclusion of the sermon, I paused to light a candle and scanned the skies (or, at least, the upper regions of the sanctuary).

Three Lifelines

First United Methodist Church

Birmingham, Michigan

Dr. William A. Ritter

Scripture: Luke 11:5-13

Even though it has been 35 years since I was a contestant on a televised game show, I still remember the “rush” that came as the result of sitting before the cameras, trying to answer questions for money. The game was Password. The host was Bill Cullen. Playing partners were Kitty Carlisle (with whom I won) and James Mason (with whom I didn’t). Unfortunately, the prize money was miniscule….$300 plus a set of World Book Encyclopedias. Today, I can’t account for any of the dollars. But I still have all of the encyclopedias. Along with the memories.

Which have been rekindled by the amazing success of a ABC’s boffo game show, Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. Not that I watch it much. But, given the way it has blanketed prime time, who can avoid it? Just yesterday, I read that it will air four times weekly, come fall. Already, it has run away with the ratings….averaged 24 million viewers a night….saved a struggling network….made a star out of an aging talk show host….forced every male in America to consider dressing monochromatically….and injected into everyday speech the phrase: “Is this your final answer?”

Concerning the show, there’s a lot to like. The host is good. The set is good. The music is good. The money is good. And the premise is good. Most of us wouldn’t mind being millionaires. But we’d rather not have our desire labeled “greed” and splashed into the title. I have noticed that almost nobody wins a million….not because they are stupid and miss questions, but because they are smart and settle for lesser jackpots. Meaning that they quit while they’re ahead. Which differentiates them from gamblers. But that’s another sermon.

But the show’s real appeal rests in a pair of other considerations. First, the questions are relatively easy. Second, the format is uncommonly interactive.

Concerning the questions, most of us can answer some of them. And some of us can answer most of them. They draw heavily upon popular culture. And they are all multiple choice. The right answer is staring you in the face. Which means you don’t have to know it, so much as recognize it. What’s more, anybody who has graduated from college in the last quarter century has taken hundreds of multiple-choice exams, and may have mastered the art of out-psyching the test’s designer.

But it is the show’s interactivity that makes it captivating. Once you make it to the chair opposite Regis Philbin, there is no other contestant to compete against. But there are a host of people (seen and unseen) to collaborate with.

Thirty years ago, Hal March (remember him?) hosted an equally-popular show, The $64,000 Question (remember it?). What a big deal $64,000 was. And what an expert you had to be to win it. But if you remember that show, focus on the absolute isolation of the contestant. He or she was sealed (not placed….sealed) in a soundproof booth. Meaning that nobody….offering anything in the way of help….could get anywhere near. Much was made about the absoluteness of the isolation.

On Millionaire, there is neither booth nor barricade. The contestants are exposed for all to see. We see them. The audience sees them. What’s more, the audience is allowed to help them. That’s where the “lifelines” come in. To reach a million, the contestant must correctly answer fifteen questions. But a lifeline can be used three times in order to soften the impact of ignorance. Picture a relatively simple question:

            Bratwurst, as an edible delicacy, is most commonly associated with what country?

a.     Italy

b.     Hungary

c.     Germany

d.     New Guinea

And, for the sake of argument, let’s say that you have never seen, cooked or eaten bratwurst. What lifelines could you employ? Well, you could ask Regis to remove two wrong answers (presumably eliminating Italy and New Guinea). Or, you could poll the members of the audience, who would then punch their individual opinions into keypads, giving you an instantaneous spreadsheet of response. Obviously, if 94 percent of the audience settled in on one answer, you’d be stupid not to go with it. Your third option would be to phone a friend, who would then have 20 seconds to ponder “bratwurst” or look it up in a dictionary.

The correct answer, of course, is “c. Germany”….which you should have known linguistically, if not gastronomically. But if you didn’t, help was available….presuming you were willing to call upon it, or trust it, once received.

You see where this is going, don’t you? I suppose it is fair to compare life to a test. Not because God has designed it that way, but because it gosh-awful-often feels that way. Sometimes the stakes are minimal. But sometimes, incredibly high. And some of the most difficult tests center around choices….often, multiple choices. Which offer? Which lover? Which road? Which route on which road? High or low? Easy or hard? Cut the corner? Play the angle? Today? Tomorrow? Now? Never? It’s not by accident that America’s favorite poem begins: “Two lines diverged in a yellow wood….” But had Robert Frost lived longer….and become a part of the multi-optional society we have created….his depiction of “forking roads” wouldn’t have stopped at two.

I am talking about choices here. All kinds of choices. Moral and immoral. Legal and illegal. Vocational choices. Relational choices. You name ‘em, sooner or later, you’ll have to make ‘em. So how do you go about it? Well, let’s stick with the three lifelines. They’ll preach. After all, they aren’t called “lifelines” for nothing. Use them correctly….you go on. Fail to use them…. you go down.

First lifeline: Simplify life by eliminating those answers that are obviously wrong. But how might you do that? At the risk of sounding simplistic, you might become a student of scripture. But don’t misread me here. The Bible is not an instantaneous answer book. Most people are not going to be successful if they approach the Bible with a conundrum, open it at random, and then let their mind devour the first sentence their finger discovers.

Worse yet, in addition to there being conundrums the Bible will not instantaneously enlighten, there will be riddles the Bible will never completely resolve. That’s because the writers wrestled with the same things we wrestle with. And the Bible records that wrestling…. which is, in and of itself, helpful.

But that being said, the Bible is pretty clear that some choices don’t work….that some roads lead down dead ends….and that some options will turn out to be life-destroying (and guilt-producing) no matter how many people try them, believing themselves to be the exception. Jesus’ word to the multiply-wedded and frequently-bedded woman of Samaria said (in effect): “Lady, you keep getting on a train that never takes you anywhere.” Later that evening, talking with the guys at the bar, she was overheard to say: “How come that guy at the well talked turkey to me about my destination, while all you guys ever want to do is ride the train?”

The Bible isn’t going to solve everything. But it is going to take you through a whole lot of “been there, done that” stories that didn’t get anybody anywhere. I realize there is a human propensity for learning things the hard way. But if we believe that “trial and error” is the only way folks ever learn things, we might as well surrender the notions that history can be progressive and training can be productive. If, in a class for would-be chainsaw operators, the instructor centers in on a particularly dangerous behavior and says, “Remember, the last 17 guys who tried this now purchase single cufflinks,” I’d probably listen. Well, the Bible can reward the serious reader similarly, by removing the least productive answers from the great game board of life. Such answers are unproductive, not only because God has decreed them so, but because time has proved them so.

Second lifeline: Poll the audience (which, in this case, would seem to suggest “the congregation”). Now don’t dismiss this suggestion by viewing it with a literalness that is ridiculous. I am not suggesting we replace the sermon-of-the-week with a dilemma-of-the-week, while encouraging you to record your responses by punching keypads in your pew racks. Although there have, undoubtedly, been worse abuses of a Sunday morning.

Instead, I am suggesting that while a Christian congregation might not know the answer to everything….or agree on the answer to everything….it comes to the discussion with a leg up on all lesser constituencies. That’s because churches are filled with people who, when they talk about pursuing the “good life,” are not only talking about the “sweet life”….but also the “Godly life” (including, by inference, the “moral life”). Does this happen in every church? Sadly, no. And in churches where it happens, does it involve everybody? Sadly, no.

But I am here to tell you that clusters within congregations do provide opportunities for reflection (that are experientially driven and biblically grounded). It could be a group engaged in Bible study or book study. It could be a seminar talking about parenting issues or ethical issues. It could even be a circle of people sitting in the Thomas Parlor talking about modern movies and their content. Such groups provide forums wherein people can sharpen their thinking and refine their choices.

I have known a lot of people who have quietly introduced a personal issue into a group discussion and drawn great benefit from the conversational “chewing” that took place. Seldom do such folks say to the group: “I’ve got this problem and I would appreciate your counsel.” Instead, they pose it as somebody else’s problem….or a hypothetical problem….or a problem faced by somebody in the book (the text or the lesson). Then, when the group bites on it, I can see the wheels turning in their head. Later, they may say to me (privately): “I really learned a lot from Dale’s comment in this morning’s class” or “I was really surprised with the group’s reaction to Abraham’s dilemma….Mary Magdalene’s dilemma…. Kathleen Norris’ dilemma.” As your pastor, who watches you closely, you have no idea what you learn from each other. No idea at all. But such learning is taking place all the time. Hopefully, on my less ego-driven days, I am smart enough to get out of the way and let it happen.

Lifeline three: Phone a friend. That’s what they’re there for, don’t you know. The other day, it occurred to me (actually, it occurred to Kris) that while our acquaintances are drawn from every sphere of life, virtually all of our friends are people we met in church. This dates back years. Which, in some minds, is a violation of professional protocol. Clergy aren’t supposed to form close friendships with people they serve. Too many opportunities for favoritism and jealousy, they say. Too many problems for successor pastors, they say. Too many ways to blur the personal and professional, they say. All of which are warnings well heeded. Such things happen. But what’s the alternative? The alternative is a lot of pastoral families who are starved for friends. Friends are not only valuable, but critical. Even for pastors. Especially for pastors.

So why wouldn’t most of mine be church-related? After all, who is more likely to look at the world with lenses similar to mine, than you? Who is more likely to affirm values similar to mine, than you? And who is more likely to follow a Lord similar to mine, than you? Which means that if I find myself at some critical juncture of my life (unsure of which way to go), why wouldn’t I turn to a friend who would know “where I was coming from”….who would know something of my story….who would know something of my history….and who would know the impossibility of separating my history from His story.

Jesus told a story about a man who knocked on his friend’s door at midnight, saying: “I’ve just had a hungry houseguest arrive and I have no food to put before him. If you’d be so kind, lend me some bratwurst and some buns.” To which the reply came: “It’s late. You’re late. I’m sleepy. Kids are sleepy. Whole darn house is sleepy. Don’t have bratwurst. Only have summer sausage. Buns are stale. Refrigerator is padlocked.” Which is to say that most friendships have limits.

But, says Jesus, suppose the guy at the door doesn’t recognize those limits? Suppose he keeps knocking….keeps buzzing….keeps leaning on the doorbell….keeps calling out your name? Sooner or later, you’ll give up, get up and ante up, just so he’ll shut up. Which, several verses later, is followed by the kicker: “If he’ll do that, how much more will your heavenly Father do for you when you ask….when you seek….when you knock?” We’re talking connections here…. friends on earth and friends above….friends in low places and high places.

Everybody ought to have somebody they can call at midnight….or when they run out of bratwurst….or patience….or hope. Everybody ought to have somebody they can call when they’ve been dumped and have no honey….or been dumped and have no money. Everybody ought to have somebody they can call when they need someone to come to a police station with a checkbook that is open immediately, and questions that will wait till morning.

It recently occurred to me that the highest compliment Jesus paid his disciples was when he said (John 15:15): “I no longer call you servants. I used to call you servants. But now I call you friends….and no greater love has anyone than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” Which brings to mind that snatch of a musical (which I can sing, but can’t name):

            He’s my friend, to the bitter end,

            No matter what the other people say.

            He’s my friend, to the bitter end,

            Though the bitter end’s not very far away.

Which it may not be….far away….the bitter end, I mean. So phone a friend.

            The friend that may have the answer.

            Or the friend that may be the answer.

Living With Weeds

Dr. William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church

Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Matthew 13:24-30

One of the benefits of having a “brown thumb” is that nobody asks me to work in the garden. They don’t want to risk it. After all, there’s no telling what I might do if left unattended. My lack of knowledge makes me a liability where gardening is concerned. I don’t know weeds from annuals. I don’t know weeds from perennials. I don’t even know weeds from vegetables. When Kris says, “Why don’t you go out and do some weeding?”, I respond: “Of course. But you’ll have to stand right beside me.” More often than not, she says: “Never mind. I’ll do it myself.”

Not that I am totally ignorant. I can identify some weeds. And there are several varieties I positively hate. Crabgrass would top the list. I can’t stand the stuff. Dandelions, too….although I loved them as a kid. I remember picking them and taking them to my teacher. Once or twice, I even took them to a girl in my class. Now, when I see dandelions, all I can think about is what they are doing to my lawn. And then there are those weeds with sharp, thorn-like prickers. You can’t pull them. You have to dig them. I can’t find anything good to say about them.

But I recently gained a new appreciation for weeds. Kris and I were at the Community House for the annual antique show. We wandered from room to room, looking at all the furniture and jewelry. Suddenly we were in a basement room looking at art. I was thumbing through a bin of “horticultural engravings.” They were extremely old….and beautifully rendered. They were also incredibly expensive. I didn’t find one priced less than $500. And most were well above that. “What do you call these?” I asked my wife. “Botanicals,” she answered. “They’re weeds,” I said. “So what’s your point?” she countered.

But back to our story. A landowner sows good seed in his field. His enemy sows bad seed. Which can happen, I suppose. I heard tell of a fraternity prank that involved “bad seed.” On “Fraternity Row” at a southern university, there was a great rivalry between two of the houses. At one fraternity house, a new lawn was being prepared. Topsoil had been brought in. Seed had been laid down. But late one night, members of the rival fraternity threw kudzu seeds in the cultivated plot. Which may not mean much to you who have lived your life in the North. But a Southerner would understand the implications of such an act.

Kudzu was brought to this country in 1876 to decorate the Japanese pavilion at the Philadelphia Centennial Exposition. As an exotic import, it became popular as a shade plant, and was seen as a God-given solution to the soil-erosion problem, following the Great Depression. Between 1935 and 1942, government nurseries produced 84 million kudzu seedlings, planting them wherever they would grow. By 1943, there was a Kudzu Club of America with 20,000 members and an annual “Kudzu Queen.”

So what’s the problem? I’ll tell you the problem. Kudzu is a vine with phenomenal growth. Twelve inches in 24 hours is not unusual. And 50 feet in a single growing season is well within the norm. People in the South have a saying: “If you’re gonna plant kudzu, drop it and run.” Which explains why some have called it “the vine that ate the South.” It can cover anything and choke everything. It can twine itself around fruit trees until it kills the entire orchard. It can strip the gears of farm machinery. And railroad engineers have even accused it of causing trains to slip off the tracks. Which is why the USDA (United States Department of Agriculture) eventually demoted kudzu to “weed status”….with the definition of a weed being “any plant that does more harm than good.”

The weeds in Matthew’s little parable are “darnel.” If you grew up reading the King James Version of the Bible, you call them “tares.” If you spend your days immersed in botany books, you call them “lolium termulentum.” Just so you’ll know. They are members of the wheat family. They look like wheat. They hide out in wheat. But they are poisonous in the end, capable of causing blindness….even death….if too many of their little black seeds end up in the bread dough.

But back to our story. This is a judgment parable. Matthew is big on judgment parables. Matthew is big on judgment language. Whenever you read words like “weeping….wailing….gnashing of teeth….outer darkness….consuming fire”….you can pretty much figure you are reading from the book of Matthew. But, in this parable, it is clear that judgment is God’s business. Meaning that it is not our business. We are not the sower in the story. We are not the judge in the story. We are not even the seeds in the story.

Who are we in the story? We are the would-be “helpful servants”….that’s who we are. And you will remember that the helpful servants approach the owner of the field, having noted the weeds growing in the wheat, and suggest that they go out and do a little culling. Instead, they are told to keep their hands off. “Let the weeds grow along with the wheat,” the owner says. Then he adds: “I’ll take care of things at the harvest.”

So who are the “helpful servants?” I think the “helpful servants” are the church….meaning us. We are the ones who want to sift, sort and separate. We are the ones who want to thin the house. Turn us loose with our shovels and machetes….not to mention our wonderful bottles of Round-Up….and there’s no telling what (or who) we will chop down, pull up, or spray into oblivion.

Picture me as the “helpful servant.” Picture me going through your yard with my handy clippers and trowel. Better yet, picture me going through Christ’s church.

            Weed.                             Wheat.

            Weed.                             Wheat.

            Weed, Weed, Weed.       Wheat, Wheat, Wheat.

            All weeds in this pew.   All wheat in that pew.

Which I could do. Except that I wouldn’t know where to start. But that doesn’t stop my colleagues. I have colleagues who think they know exactly where to start.

            This one goes.                That one stays.

            This group’s all right.    That group we can do without.

I have colleagues who continually want to cull the field, making decisions on the basis of belief….behavior….even baptism. As many of you know, my wife is into genealogy. She’s traced portions of her family back over 500 years. Just a few months ago, we learned that she had a relative who was burned at the stake in Switzerland. Why? Because he had the wrong understanding of baptism, that’s why. They weeded him out. Then they burned him up.

As for me, I don’t always know whether I am weed or wheat. Wasn’t it Alexander Solzhenitsyn who said: “If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds, and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being.” Which, I suppose, includes my heart. For all I know, I may even be the weed in somebody else’s garden. Perhaps in your garden.

Once or twice a year, I tilt my head back and sing those wonderful words of Fanny Crosby about “vile offenders.” I am not sure I always believe myself to be a “vile offender.” I mean, I don’t have a long history of black deeds. One reason I could never make it as a tent evangelist is that I don’t have a “sordid past” to describe in graphic detail….meaning that “meeting Jesus” did not force me into an “about face,” so much as a slight “veering to the right.” But when I read the Apostle Paul, it forces me to look in the mirror and acknowledge some measure of offense, “vile” or no. With Paul, “if I say I have no sin, I deceive myself.” Seedy and weedy….that’s me.

But I don’t always know whether you are weed or wheat, either. I used to think I knew. There was a time in my life when I was less reticent to make judgments. I remember shouting at the younger brother of my best friend: “Pat Max, you are rotten to the core.” I can’t remember what he did that made me feel it….or say it. And his brother (my friend) never let anybody forget it. His brother would walk around saying: “My brother’s rotten to the core. Ritter says so. And everybody knows Ritter’s gonna be a preacher.” Today, Pat Max is an upstanding citizen and a successful attorney. Don’t make anything out of that. Just accept it as an admission that I was wrong.

And there’s a third thing I don’t know. I don’t know what God can do with weeds (or wheat) on the way to the harvest. I mean, if we believe that grace is as amazing as we sing it to be, then what we see in the morning is not necessarily what we are going to see at night….what we see in the springtime is not necessarily what we are going to see in the fall….and what we see in the beginning is not necessarily what we are going to see in the end (when God gets done working in the garden).

I look around and notice that you are a pretty weedy lot. I hope that doesn’t surprise you. I mean, you didn’t think you were a field of “American Beauties,” did you? And even if you did, I suspect the film of the same name shot that designation full of holes. But don’t worry about whether I find you weedy. You have no fear from me. Thanks to this parable, God has taken the shovel and machete out of my hand.

Toward that end, let me recast the parable (courtesy of the wonderfully innovative work of Barbara Brown Taylor).

One afternoon in the middle of the growing season, a bunch of farm hands decided to surprise their boss and weed his favorite wheat field. No sooner had they begun to work, however, than they began to argue….about which of the wheat-looking things were weeds. Did the Queen Anne’s lace, for example, pose a real threat to the wheat, or could it stay for decoration? And the blackberries? After all, they were weeds. But they would be ripe in a week or two. And the honeysuckle….it seemed a shame to pull up anything that smelled so sweet.

About the time they had gotten around to debating the purple asters, the boss showed up and ordered them out of his field. Dejected, they did as they were told. Back at the barn, he took their machetes away from them, poured them some lemonade, and made them sit down where they could watch the way the light moved across the field. At first, all they could see were the weeds and what a messy field it was….and what a discredit to their profession. But as the summer wore on, they marveled at the profusion of growth. Tall wheat surrounded by tall goldenrod, accented by a mixture of ragweed and brown-eyed Susans. Even the poison ivy flourished beside the Cherokee roses. It was a mess. But a glorious mess. And when it had all bloomed and ripened, the reapers came.

Carefully….gently….expertly….they gathered the wheat and made the rest into bricks for the oven where the bread was baked. And the fire the weeds made was excellent. And the flour the wheat made was excellent. And when the owner called them together….farm hands, reapers, along with all the neighbors….and broke bread with them (bread that was the final distillation of that messy, gorgeous, mixed up field), they all agreed that it was like no bread they had ever tasted before. And that it was very, very good.

Let those who have ears….and half a brain….hear and consider.

Note: My treatment of this parable was inspired by Episcopal priest and professor, Barbara Brown Taylor. The final recasting of the parable is drawn from her sermon on The Protestant Hour, delivered in 1990.