Sometimes A Very Earthen 9/19/1993

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, MI

Scripture: II Corinthians 4:1-12

Had he lived to see it, no one would have been more pleased by the recent accord between Israel and the PLO than Dr. Harrell Beck. In his prime, Harrell Beck was as good a preacher as there was, and also as good a teacher as there was. The Old Testament was his subject. Boston University was his school. But the Middle East was what he knew.... where he sometimes lived.... and the region from which he first claimed his wife. Concerning the tensions in that part of the world, he was inordinately fond of saying: "Who should know about this struggle better than I, given that I go to work with the Hebrew scriptures every morning, and go to bed with an Arab woman every night?"

And it was the same Harrell Beck who told me the story of the Arab sheik who once took a bag of dates back to his tent to enjoy before bedtime. After making himself comfortable, he lit a candle, removed a date from his bag, held it up against the candlelight, found it wormy, and proceeded to throw it out the door of the tent. So he took a second date, examined it against the light, found it similarly wormy, and threw it out of the tent.  A third date led to a third examination, revealing a third worm, and a third eviction from the tent.  Whereupon he paused, thought for a moment, blew out the light, threw the candle out of the tent, and proceeded to eat the rest of the dates that remained in his bag.

I suppose you could draw any number of points from a story like that. But the point that leaps out at me is this. If you look at anything close enough.... in a light that is bright enough.... you are likely to find it flawed.  Which is certainly true of the church. And which is painfully true of the clergy.

Concerning clergy, these are not easy days for many who do what I do for a living. I have been pondering this sermon since that mid-August morning when I wandered into a Traverse City bookstore and saw the Detroit News headline about the resignation of my Episcopal colleague, Almas Thorpe.  For more than a decade, Almas has served as the Rector of our neighboring house of worship, Christ Church, Cranbrook.  His resignation, it seems, was tendered voluntarily, albeit not without some degree of coercion (bordering on a mandate) from his ecclesiastical superior, Bishop Stewart Wood. I know Bishop Wood, having once broken bread with he and his wife. To my best recollection, I have never met Almas Thorpe, although there is a certain kinship to be felt with anyone who is 53 years old and who presides over a major suburban congregation in North Oakland County. In the cold hard facts of a newspaper page, it was reported that Almas Thorpe committed adultery with several women, on several occasions, over the course of several years. And in a somewhat warmer letter to the people of Christ Church, he acknowledged those allegations to be true, and expressed both his contrition and sorrow for any pain he may have caused (in the course of being any less than he might have been).  Not many days after all of this became public, our staff here at First Church held a half-day retreat at Christ Church (which location had been previously arranged before our destination became somewhat controversial). Following a tour of the sanctuary, we learned from the business administrator that Christ Church was both reeling and rallying from the announcement...

that a young assistant rector was exhibiting exceptional maturity in leading the congregation.... and that summer attendance had never been stronger (as people found "gathering" to be the first essential step in "healing"). It was interesting that as the eight of us walked past the wall where the pictures of past and present rectors are prominently displayed, every one of us paused to look at Almas Thorpe's picture. Stranger still was the fact that the first comment out of virtually all of our mouths was: "My gosh, he really is handsome, isn't he." I don't have the faintest idea what that meant. But we all said it. Certainly none of us believed that physical beauty renders one more susceptible to adultery. Or did we? Perhaps we did. ("Ah, look how good looking he is. Surely that explains it.")

Upon first confronting the headline of Almas' indiscretions, I brought the newspaper home and laid It on the coffee table. It was only later that I noticed that it was adjacent to the Newsweek magazine cover which screamed: "Sex and the Church: Priests and Child Abuse." And on that same coffee table was a very serious book I was reading. Its title was "Saints and Sinners." Its author was Lawrence Wright. And its text profiled six prominent persons of religion, including Walker Bailey (that once-rising star of Texas Methodism.... who (on the way to being touted for bishop), may or may not have strangled his wife. Unfortunately, his wife can't tell anybody the truth of the matter, given that she has spent the last four years of her life in what has been described as a persistent vegetative coma.

All of this troubles me, I suppose, because all of this taints me. Where clergy are concerned, people already have enough reasons to mistrust us, shy away from us, and turn their collective backs on the God whom we serve. As we learned during the demise of Jim and Tammy (and the fall of the House of Swaggert), every church-related scandal paints with a broad brush, and the world does not lack for people who are ready and willing to point out the stains.

But when these things hit closer to home than Charlotte, North Carolina or Baton Rouge, Louisiana, what I feel is not so much "the troubling" as it is "the pain."  I look upon our Episcopal neighbors to the north and realize the "quiet carnage of hurt" that has swept over them. There must be enough pain present to give everybody a second and third helping, whether they desire it or not. I think of the people whose lives are in pieces. And I think of other people who are tenderly trying to sweep up the pieces (so that they don't get any more broken than they already are, and so that none of the pieces gets lost).

I think about Almas and wonder how it must feel to be 53 and see so much of one's past slipping away. I wonder how it must feel to know that one has hurt the very people that one has been commissioned to help. And I wonder what it would be like to say an enforced "goodbye" to a congregation one day, with little likelihood of being able to say "hello" to another, the next.

I think about his wife (who left him several months previous).... and what she must have gone through before she did.... and what she must be going through now. Ditto for his kids. And double ditto for his friends.

I think about the other women.... and how superfluously "catch all" that category sounds ("other women")....  and how they must have thought they loved him.... and how he must have thought he loved them.... and how empty-handed such people come up, when (as the song says) they go "looking for love in all the wrong places.” I think of the marriages of those "other women."  I also think of the number of uninvolved people trying to figure out who the involved people were.... and whether they

knew them.... all the while understanding what such speculation can do to rip apart the cohesion of any community (even a faith community).

Clearly, what Almas did was as unfortunate as it was inappropriate. It does not serve anybody well when the shepherd fleeces or fondles the flock. Some years ago, Kris and I were entertaining an old friend in our living room.  Earlier that evening, he had preached a sermon in the church I was then serving. Out of friendship he had come north from one of the largest and most influential congregations in Ohio.  He talked about his love for his church.  But he also talked about the amount of pastoral work still needed there. This additional quotient of pastoral care was necessitated by his predecessor's divorce and subsequent departure with another woman who had deep roots in that congregation.  That conversation with my friend was a decade or more ago. Last year my friend not only reopened that congregation's wound, but salted it. How so? By resigning his position, divorcing his wife, and departing in the company of yet another woman with deep roots in the congregation.

To all of this, I have but a pair of things to say. And I submit that while the two may appear to be contradictory, each of them is true. Hear me out.

First, we who (as clergy) would profess to speak to Christ's Church and for Christ's Church, need to understand that we will be looked at by Christ's church in a closer light than other people.... and (I think) properly so.  Clergy do not like to hear this.  I have not always liked hearing this.  Few of us like the "fishbowl" nature of our existence.  We do not like being watched, we say.  Our spouses do not like being watched, we say. Our children do not like being watched, we say. We are ordinary, flawed, fallible human beings.... fighting the same demons.... wrestling with the same doubts.... struggling with the same sins as everyone else... we say.  All of this is true.  And I, for one, have never attempted to pretend otherwise.

Still, we (who accept this calling) are asked to do more than merely confess our common humanity. We are asked to live lives worthy of emulation. That's the part of the job I have never liked, given the awesome nature of the responsibility. But with the passing of the years, I have come to accept it as being both inevitable and necessary.  Who says so?  The Apostle Paul, that's who.  Four times he wrote to churches under his care, saying: "Be imitators of me."  "Become as I am," he told them. Which is quite a thing to say when you are as human as Paul was.

To the Philippians he wrote: "Ignore those enemies of the cross whose god is the belly" (wouldn't you like to know what that meant) "and recognize that you have an example in us." Paul, in appealing to his flock for imitation, placed himself squarely in that moral and pedagogical tradition which assumes that a teacher is one who is willing to be exposed to the glare of a student.... that the road to learning is in the imitation of a Master.... and that those in the forefront have a responsibility to live as they lead, and walk as they talk.

Concerning all of this, my colleague at Duke Chapel (William Willimon) adds

Lifestyle is ultimately converted through lifestyle. And there can be no weaseling out of the truth, that discipleship is utterly dependent upon our being able to identify examples worthy of imitation. And if we who preach the faith can't point to such examples.... even to ourselves.... we really have very little to say.

While it is too much to ask that clergy become "poster children" for the Christian life, it is not too much to ask that we live as if our preaching has taken root in us.... and that our claim that "things go better with Christ" might just be true because, from outward appearances, things seem to be going better with us. A group of sixth graders once sent a note forward to their teacher. Upon unfolding it she read: "If you are happy, why not send a message to your face." All of which suggests a second note, scribbled and passed from congregation to clergy.  Unfolded, it might read: "If discipleship is as possible and as wonderful as you say, send a message to your life."  In short, people probably do have a right to ask more from us.... and expect more of us.... than they ask and expect of themselves.

Having said that, however, I think that it is absolutely critical to remember that most clergy.... like most dates.... are wormy. It is also important to remember that God not only knows this, but has designed it so.  If I were God, I would have done it differently.  I would have created an elevated breed.... a worm-resistant breed.... in short, a better breed.... to feed those who come hungering to the tent of meeting. But God didn't.  Instead, God entrusted this treasure to earthen vessels.... meaning clay pots.... occasionally meaning cracked pots.... in which this fine wine of the Gospel is to be carried, and from which it is to be poured.

Which means, you see, that you will occasionally get some rather wonderful stuff from a rather dismal pot. Or, as Harrell Beck might have said: "Even wormy dates can nourish." The tragedy at Christ Church Cranbrook, is not so much that Almas Thorpe is gone.  He probably should be (for the time being).  But the greater tragedy, in the wake of his departure, is that people will discount all the good and wonderful stuff he ever did, as if he had never done any.  His fall from grace should not obliterate the message of grace.  Neither should it obliterate the fact that (from everything that I've heard) he certainly preached it admirably.... administered it capably.... and distributed it widely to some of God's poorer, hungrier and more easily forgettable children. And, in that grace, one can only hope that Almas Thorpe may live to do all of the above again.

Earthen vessels. Clay pots. Wormy dates. Why is it that God has chosen to entrust the store to the likes of us?

There is an old legend (also passed on to me by Harrell Beck) that has Jesus meeting an angel on the front porch of heaven, after His work on earth was done. It is said that their conversation went something like this.

Angel: 'We've missed you. Where have you been?"

Jesus: "I've been to earth."

Angel: "Were you gone long?"

Jesus: "About thirty years, give or take a couple."

Angel: "That's not very long.

Jesus: "I suppose you could say that I died rather young."

Angel: "How did you die?"

Jesus: "Martyrdom.... by crucifixion."

Angel: "Oh, you must have had a great influence."

Jesus: "I ended up with eleven friends."

Angel: "How, then, will your work continue?"

Jesus: "I left it in the hands of my friends."

Angel: "And if they fail?"

Jesus:" I have no other plans."

Thirty Eight Years On the Verge 9/12/1993

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: John 5:1-9

Most intelligent people, upon reading the New Testament, seem able to agree (in principle) that Jesus healed people. What these same people seem unable to agree upon is how (in practice) he did it. That's because his healings followed no consistent script and, more often than not, violated commonly-held expectations.

Keeping that in mind, let your imagination wander long enough to consider a conversation involving three men, each healed by Jesus of blindness. Quite by chance, they encounter each other in a video store. As people who have had marvelous experiences are apt to do, they begin to share their good news. The first man says: "I used to be blind, but Jesus healed me." The second responds: "The exact same thing happened to me." And the third man chimes in: "Small world, isn't it?" Then they begin to analyze their experiences more carefully.

The first man says: "I know how he does it. When he reaches out to touch your eyes, a power surge from his fingers fuses your optic nerve." The second man says: "What are you talking about? Jesus doesn't touch your eyes. He just speaks. He says the magic words, 'Be healed,' and that's when it happens." The first man counters: "Yes, he may say some magic words, but he has to be touching your eyes when he says them." The second retorts: "Nonsense! Jesus isn't into all that touchy-feely stuff. He just speaks."  Which leads the first man to shout:  "Well, I was there. I ought to know."

Finally the third man enters the debate, saying: "You guys have both got it wrong. What Jesus really does is spit on the ground. Then he makes little mud pies and presses the goo on your eyeballs." The first man glares back: 'That's disgusting. Jesus would never do that. He just touches you with a clean hand." "No," screams the second. "He just speaks. No touching. No spitting. No goo. No nothing."

So they all go off in separate directions and form their own churches. The first man's church holds hands and touches a lot. The second man's church has long sermons and relies heavily on the spoken word. I'm afraid to try the third man's church. Their sacraments might be a little weird.

But the point should be clear. When you spend all of your time arguing about method, you tend to lose sight of the miracle. And although you are no longer technically blind, you still don't see things very clearly.  No.... not very clearly at all.

Having said that, I invite you to move to another healing of Jesus which similarly divided the house when he first performed it. This is my all-time favorite healing story. It is very nearly my all-time favorite gospel story. Understanding it, however, requires that we switch diseases. No longer are we dealing with a blind guy, but a lame guy.  And not just any lame guy.  We're dealing with a guy who has made a career out of lameness.  Thirty eight years he's been lying there on his mat, adjacent to the infamous pool at Bethzatha.  I'd call thirty eight years a career, wouldn't you? Two more years and he can retire. Maybe he'll even earn a gold watch from the towel attendant. Think of it. Thirty eight years living the invalid life. Thirty eight years living the in-valid life. Thirty eight years on the verge of wholeness....well-ness....greatness.  And don't tell me I'm being hard on him.  I've got good authority for being hard on him. Jesus is hard on him. But I'm getting ahead of my story.  More on that, momentarily.

Let's put things in context. What is our thirty-eight- year sufferer doing by the pool? Well, let me tell you. This pool comes equipped with a legend.  A healing legend. 'Tis said that once a day, every day, the waters get turbulent. They bubble right up. Could be an underground spring. Probably is. But people hereabouts prefer a different explanation. They say that the waters wouldn't behave like that, were it not for an angel of healing suddenly entering them.  And then, because one unprovable theory deserves another, they say that whoever enters the waters first (following the onset of the turbulence) will be healed of whatever ails them. But you have to be first.  One healing per troubling. No more. No less. Every time I think of it, the beauty of the picture is ruined when I consider the pushing and shoving that must take place among those vying to be first. Which is why someone has to help the more un-able of the dis-abled. After all, isn't this the complaint of the lame man? Listen to what he says to Jesus: "You want to know the crux of my problem? I have no one to put me in the pool when the waters are troubled. And while I am still on the way, someone gets there before me." What the lame man appears to want from Jesus is help with a transportation problem. But Jesus doesn't fall into that trap. And neither should we. Before we get caught up in the mechanics of how to get the patient to the pool more quickly, perhaps we should question the underlying assumption that the pool is necessarily the best, or only, place to find healing.

I have long contended that the pool is important to the story, not for what it does, but for where it is. And where is it?  Over there.... that's where it is.  It is somewhere else. Somewhere where I am not. I am here. The pool is there. If only I could get to where the pool is. Then things would be better. But I can't "be better" here.  And I can't get from here to there. And every time I try, somebody beats me out.

My profession is full of clergy who are convinced that somewhere there are great churches.... significant churches.... good paying churches, filled with responsive people.... churches where ministry is a joy to perform and every sermon is critically acclaimed.... churches where every invitation produces dramatic conversions and every prophetic suggestion produces behavioral changes.... churches where finance campaigns are supported by tithers and where surrounding neighborhoods swell with potential shakers and movers, just begging to be shaken and moved.

These churches represent "the pool" in my business.  And all kinds of clergy quietly pull their district superintendents aside, or attempt to catch the bishop's ear, just long enough to say:

You want to see what I can do? Put me in the pool. Send me to that church. Nobody can do ministry in this place where I've been stuck.  Sure I'm limping now, but this is a lame church. What's more, this church cripples everybody who comes to it. You want valid ministry? Put me over there. I can only be in-valid here.

In fact, a lot of my colleagues are convinced that Birmingham First is one of the "pool churches." Others include Midland,  Nardin Park and Rochester St. Pauls. But they can't get to the "pool." Because someone else beat them to it.... with help, they figure. Somebody is already there and shows no sign of leaving. So whenever clergy get together, they talk about the likelihood of such "pools" becoming "vacant" again.

Everybody waits for the troubling of the waters to produce an opening. And that's all right, assuming that it represents nothing more than an exercise in parlor room politics. But when it is offered as an excuse for ineffective ministry, it represents a sickness that no change in pools can cure.

There is a fundamental danger in assuming that health can't happen where I am.... that happiness can't come where I am.... that a life of significance can't be lived where I am.... that joy can't bubble up where I am.... that I am stuck here, while the pool of "good stuff" is over there, with a different job or a different mob, in a different house with a different spouse.

A teenager sits with a group of her friends in a Big Boy, absentmindedly dipping french fries into a pool of ketchup.  She is only half tuned into the Friday night conversation of her friends because she is convinced that somewhere else, in a very similar restaurant, eating some very similar french fries, is the "in crowd" of girls.  These are the girls who lead the cheers and date the players. These are the girls around whom it all swirls and for whom it all happens. The "pool" is that other restaurant. This is just "me and my friends" hanging out at Big Boy's.

A wife and mother, still young and attractive, but much less confident about it than she used to be, fights off drowsiness in an upstairs bedroom on a Monday night. Her goal is to stay awake long enough to finish one more chapter in her Danielle Steele novel, the chapter where it appears that the hero will (at long last) crush the heroine into his arms and set her body afire with searching and passionate kisses. Meanwhile, her husband sits one floor below in the family room, shouting: "Go 49ers! Go 49ers!" The "pool" is wherever it is that Danielle Steele is taking her. Downstairs is just "my husband" and Monday night football.

Notice the common thread that runs through both of these laments. I am here. Health is over there. I can't get from here to there. And even if I can, somebody will probably beat me to it. All of which is strangely reminiscent of Baudelaire's great line: "Most of us see life as a hospital and mistakenly assume that our condition would dramatically improve if someone would move us to a different bed."

Many of you already know of my affection for the Traverse City region of our state. In fact, many of you share it. One day I was talking about that with the minister who preaches at Central United Methodist Church in Traverse City. (They actually pay him for that.) But he was telling me that the job is not entirely what I would imagine it to be. Apparently the counseling load gets pretty heavy. That's because people come up there, thinking that they are plunging head first into paradise. Except (for many of them) it's not. Not because the bay isn't beautiful. It is. Not because the people aren't friendly. They are. But because no place can make you happy if you don't bring the basic ingredients for happiness with you, from wherever it was you came. And when people, dragging the wrong kind of baggage, find they can't even get it together in Traverse City, they feel that either paradise has failed.... or they have.... with either realization being equally depressing.

Which is why (to all you would-be pool and paradise seekers) Jesus bristles: "Do you want to be healed?" One supposes that question probably angered the lame man, leading him to snap back in frustration: "Why in the world do you think I've been lying here for 38 years?" To which the only conceivable comeback would have been: "Well, why have you been lying here for 38 years?"

My friends, do you want to be well?  Healing begins with the answer to that question.  Healing does not begin with the troubling of the waters and the rush to the pool. The dramatic movement of the story does not move from question to pool. The dramatic movement of the story moves from question ("Do you want to be healed?") to command (iThen take up your bed and walk"). The implication is that any place can be a healing place, any time can be a healing time, and that a crucial component of any healing experience is that movement when the invalids of the world cultivate a desire to be valid where they are. The grass is not always greener on the other side of the fence. The grass is greener where it is watered.

Now I realize that this sounds dangerously like a gospel of self- improvement. ("Pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and start all over again.") And if that's all it is, who needs Jesus?  Well, for starters, the man in the story needed Jesus. He thought he needed Jesus to throw him in the pool. What he really needed was for Jesus to frame the right question, suggest a new possibility, and then challenge him to accept it.  I sometimes wonder if we haven't overpreached Jesus the rescuer and underpreached Jesus the midwife.  What's the difference between rescuer and midwife?  Think of it this way. The rescuer pulls us out of something.  The midwife pulls something out of us.

Robert Fulghum reports a conversation with a colleague who was complaining that he had the same dam stuff in his lunch bag, day after boring day. "So who packs your lunch?" Bob asked. "I do," replied his friend. How do you save such a man? Surely not by taking him to a restaurant.

There is a lot of health within us that literally begs for someone to call it out of us. And surely one of the roles of Jesus is to say to some of us (all of the time) and to all of us (some of the time), that this is a good time and here is a good place, therefore, why not get up and get on with it.

In rare moments of spiritual sobriety this summer, I have occasionally found myself worrying about this church. I worry that we will get too lazy lying on our mat, and forget how to walk. I worry that it will become tempting to assume that our moment was yesterday.... or tomorrow.  I worry that we will get sucked into believing that greatness will only come to us.... or come back to us.... once the long-range plan is activated.... once the building is enlarged.... once the air conditioning is fixed.... once the staff is made larger.... smaller.... better....or is reconfigured (take your pick).... once the times are more conducive.... the tax laws more favorable.... or a couple of benevolent millionaires suddenly show up in our midst.  My friends, eleven weeks here haven't taught me a lot. But eleven weeks have been enough to teach me that there is no place better than ours.... there is no moment riper than this....and there are no people more valid than we.

Recall, as we close, the parable about the football game between the little animals and the big animals. The big animals were winning by a large margin. This should come as no surprise, given the fact that football is a game in which big animals have a decided advantage. After the halftime break, the big animals took the field again. On the first play they sent the elephant up the middle. Surprise of surprises, he was tackled at the line of scrimmage. So they sent the rhinoceros around the right end. He, too, was tackled at the line of scrimmage. Finally they called a power sweep to the left, giving the ball to the hippopotamus. When the dust settled, he was lying at the bottom of the pile at the line of scrimmage. For the first time in the game, the big animals were forced to punt and the little animals had the ball.

The quarterback, a squirrel, said in the huddle: "Before I call the first play, I want to know who was able to tackle the elephant coming up the middle." The centipede raised his hand and said: "I got the elephant" Then the quarterback asked: "And who got the rhinoceros coming around right end?" The centipede said: "I got the rhino."  So the squirrel asked: "Well, who was it that stopped the power sweep by tripping the hippo coming around the left side?" And again the centipede raised a hand. "Well," said the squirrel, "All I want to know is, where were you during the first half?" To which the centipede replied: "I was tying my shoes."

Moral of story: There is a time to prepare and a time to get in the game. Jesus never asked us to flatten a rhino. He did (however) command us to get out of bed.

Enjoy the Ride 11/10/2002

Dr. William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: 1 John 1:1-4

Note: This is the third and final sermon of a stewardship campaign built upon Paul’s word in I Thessalonians 5:19: “Hold fast to what is good.” The campaign theme is “Don’t Let Go.” As is the custom at First Church, the campaign is visually and creatively imaged throughout the building….this time by a series of ropes. Some of the ropes are coiled and hung from various pillars, while others are stretched taut, crossing the sanctuary in decorative array from balcony to pulpit. 

* * * * *

“So what’s with the ropes?” That’s what he wanted to know a week ago Saturday night when, as a visitor from another church, he attended the Composer Festival concert in our sanctuary. And he wasn’t alone. There were a lot of outsiders here that evening and, to a person, they were intrigued by the ropes. Several concluded that the ropes were liturgical and tried to make a connection between the configuration of the colors and the seasons of the church year. One fellow literally bubbled over with excitement, claiming that he had “figured it out” by counting 13 ropes descending from the corner of the balcony to the crown of the pulpit. “I know what that means,” he said. “It means Jesus and the 12 disciples.” While a few, knowing our church’s reputation for creativity and artistic design, knew that there had to be a connection between the ropes they were viewing and the pledges we are seeking, but they didn’t know what it was. And then there was one man from a small, struggling church who said (in tones literally dripping with depression): “I just wish our little church could raise what these ropes cost.”

When it became clear that we were going to feature ropes this year, I was of two minds. On one hand, I liked the initial word associations that accompanied “ropes”….words like “rugged,” “strong,” “durable” and “outdoorsy,” coupled with visual images like tugging and climbing, tying and connecting. Picturing ropes, I could see tents standing tall, sheets drying on a sunny day, water skiers crisscrossing the wake, and camping gear lashed to the roof of an SUV.

But I also realized that I knew next to nothing about ropes. I probably own one, but I can’t tell you where it is. And upon finding it, I wouldn’t be able to tell you much about using it. As a kid, it was my job to string the clothesline for my mother. But we have a dryer now. I last water skied at age 50 (brilliantly, I might add), whereupon I retired from it, having proved to my daughter I could still do it. As a Scouter, I passed on the merit badge for knots. And to this day (except for Sunday mornings, funerals and weddings, when Kris tells me I need to look the part), I don’t wear tie shoes, much preferring loafers instead. What’s more, as rope sports go, I’m not into lashing, lassoing, sailing, rappelling, or even tug-of-warring. So I said to myself: “This should be interesting.”

Actually, let me dispel several myths quickly. First, any liturgical connections are purely accidental. Nobody thought of “Jesus and the 12 disciples” when hanging the 13 ropes. Nor did anybody check the ropes’ colors against the church’s seasons. And as for costs, there weren’t many. People have said: “Can we have the ropes when you’re done with them?” Some of you have even offered to buy them. Be my guest. Just don’t do anything serious (or dangerous) with them. They are less than meets the eye. We didn’t get them from an outdoor outfitter’s store. We got them from Home Depot. Cheap. Meaning, don’t entrust your life to them. They may not hold.

They are symbols. They don’t represent anything. Much of their meaning is in what you bring to them, or the associations you make with them.

Biblically, rope is used to draw carts (Isaiah 5:18)….to haul stones (II Samuel 17:13)….to bind prisoners (Judges 16:11)….and to rig boats (Acts 27:32). Israeli potters made designs by pressing ropes against wet clay. And, of course, ropes were essential to fishnets, meaning that they figured in many stories involving Jesus and the disciples.

To me, ropes suggest ways we tie things down (as in “securing”) and tie things together (as in “connecting”). They also suggest the art of ascending (as in “climbing with ropes”), as well as the art of familiarizing (as in “learning the ropes”).

Nobody is going to go home with a rope today. Neither is anyone going to get one in the mail tomorrow. But you are going to get a caribiner (the name of which I could neither recognize nor spell two months ago). Caribiners and ropes go together. I am told that everybody under 40 knows that, but that very few over 40 know that.

Look closely. This is a caribiner. So is this. And this. And this. They make great key chains. But that’s not what they’re made for. Consider them all-purpose connectors. They connect gear to gear….or gear to you….or you to rope….or you to almost anything. They come in shapes known as “oval,” “pear,” “bentgate,” and “straightgate” (the gate being the part of the caribiner that opens). This one lights up in the dark and tells you what time it is (I kid you not). While this one has a miniature boombox inside, complete with a two-position volume switch and a micro-music clip that plays the songs of ’N Sync. Every kid in the church is going to want this one when I’m done. Suffice it to say, if there is something you want to hold on to, you need a caribiner (which isn’t in the Bible)….or a healthy dosage of faith (which is).

“Interesting,” say some of you. “Who cares?” say others of you. Well, let me resort to all of this paraphernalia to make a couple of very simple points. The first is about connecting. The second, about joy riding. Start with “connecting.”

If you haven’t gotten clear about “connecting,” you have either slept in or slept during the last two Sundays. “Don’t let go,” says the theme. “Hold fast to that which is good,” says the Bible. “Hold on to dear life” (not for dear life, but to it), said yours truly in a sermon two Sundays ago. “Carry the treasure” (albeit in fragile and fallible hands), said yours truly last Sunday. “Blest be the tie that binds,” we shall sing (momentarily) this Sunday. Could it be any clearer….this business about connection, I mean?

We are not meant to be disconnected. And to whatever degree we are, we can’t live that way. In one of Jesus’ more graphic analogies, he compared himself to a vine and us to the branches. Which he followed by saying (in effect): “You know what happens when vines and branches get separated, don’t you? I’ll tell you what happens. No fruit. No raisins. No grape jelly. No grape jam. No grape juice. No wine for the table. No wine for the soul, either. None of the above. Disconnected.”

I got an e-mail from Betty Breedlove the other day. The Breedloves are down in Brazil where Dave is fiddling with Ford trucks and Betty is, at the moment, grieving the loss of her mom (who was laid to rest just a few weeks ago….concerning which, she writes):

I am doing well. But I still catch myself a bit misty-eyed when I talk about Mother. The Brazilians have a word for this feeling….“saudade.” I read that the word means a yearning or longing for someone (or something) who isn’t with you….the aching feeling you have when you miss a lover, a friend, your family, or a place. The Portuguese language is full of words to express feelings, and this feeling is very strongly felt by Brazilians. When spoken, the word “saudade” conveys far more feeling than when we say “missing you” in English.

I have “saudades” for my mother, my dad, Cortney and Brian, my many friends, and my church. The other day, I clicked on the church website. I think God made me do it. As you know, I don’t do it often because it makes me cry. Anyway, I read your letter in Steeple Notes with many tears because there is another side to the question of finding churches. What if there is no choice? Here in Salvador, Janet McGuinness and I searched for a couple of months for a church with a service in English, but there was none….zero….zip….in a city of two million. We did try a couple of services in Portuguese but, when you don’t know much of the language, it’s not the same. At least the Catholic church had most of the service written out in its bulletin. We felt so blessed when we met John Shepherd and he agreed to offer a service in English, if only twice a month. By the way, we have added two more families and now boast 20 lusty voices singing from the Methodist hymnals you sent down.

I doubt if many churches in the world can compare with FUMC. First Church offers so much in programming and services (along with a great building in which to house them). But, most of all, it offers wonderful people….truly a church family to grow and share with, ensuring that one will not be alone. Like losing a mother, I don’t think anyone understands the “saudades” until she is gone. For me, it is the same with First Church. I wish you and the church much success in this year’s EMC campaign. When people read your words “give yourself fully to this church while you have it,” I hope they take them to heart. As I said, what if the day comes when there is no choice?

Well, if that doesn’t move you, I don’t know what will. So when you receive your caribiner, think Betty in Brazil….think vines and branches….think Jesus and the church. In short, think “connection.”

And when you think about the ropes, think “joy riding.” I know I am pushing you here. You have already thought “tugging and tying, climbing and rappelling, skiing and sailing.” Now I want you to lift your sights. I mean, I really want you to lift your sights. Like into the trees. Three weeks ago, Damian Zikakis….our resident tenor, Finance Committee leader, youth counselor, Wednesday morning study group attender, and all-around good guy….wrote to us about recreational tree climbing. He told us about ropes, harnesses, helmets, caribiners, and an 80-foot elm tree in his back yard. Today, Damian can scale the tree.…swing through the tree….sleep in the tree….even hang upside down from the tree. Next, he’ll want to take Patti, Alex and Sam to Judson Collins Methodist Camp where they have a ropes course. Today, every camp has a ropes course. You can’t run a successful camp without a ropes course. Ask your kids. They’ll tell you. Where, with good leadership….good training….good equipment….and good group support, you can both scale trees and swing from tree to tree. But it gets even better. If the ropes course has a zip line, you can ride it (from high in the tree) clean over a pond….a river….even a small lake. It’s not everybody’s thing. But it can be a wonderful thing.

And if, as Damian suggests, this is somehow a paradigm for the journey of discipleship, it suggests that your spiritual journey ought to provide experiences like this. You are meant to climb….meant to soar….meant to see glimpses of forever….and meant to relish the ride. Sometimes I fear that I spend so much time telling you how demanding the Christian life is, that I forget to tell you how rewarding the Christian life is. To whatever degree I have left that confusion in anyone’s mind, I am profoundly sorry. As the author of 1 John testifies: “We have this fellowship with the Father and the Son, Jesus Christ. And we want you to have it, too. Not because misery loves company. But so that our joy might be complete.”

* * * * *

Well, that’s my sermon and I’m sticking to it. Except for this, by way of addition….the only connection being the word “ride.” It concerns a little girl and her mother who, for years, made a weekly trip to Meijers Thrifty Acres for groceries. Each time they made the trip, the daughter’s good behavior was rewarded with a ride on the mechanical pony named Sandy. Lots of you know Sandy. And each time the mother gave the daughter two coins, even though she took but one ride. After the ride was over, the mother lifted her off the pony and the child carefully placed the second coin on top of the coin box. Then she said a sweet “goodbye” to the pony, stroked his plaster mane, and cheerfully walked away.

One day an elderly woman sitting on a bench stopped the girl and said: “Child, you’ve left your money there.” “I know,” said the little girl. “I always leave some there. It’s for the people who don’t have any money for the ride.” Bewildered, the woman asked: “But how do you know the money will go to someone who really needs it?” Not at all discouraged by the woman’s question, she replied: “I just do.”

But really, does it matter who gets the leftover money? I think not. Why not? Because I know that little girl. And I am here to tell you that she is turning into a truly beautiful human being. Funny, isn’t it, how generosity can do that to a person?

Dust and Ashes 2/13/2002

Dr. William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Genesis 3:17-19

During the mid-sixties, when I was just starting out, the “in group” (musically speaking) was a folk duo out of Nashville who traveled the country under the name Dust and Ashes. They were good. And they were Methodist. Now, some forty years later, I don’t know if they’re still singing, still recording, or still traveling under that name. But if any day is a “dust and ashes” day, this day is a “dust and ashes” day.

We are formed from dust, says the Good Book, and we shall return to dust, once our time on earth is done. I learned that as a child. As did most of you. As to what I made of it then, I can’t rightly recall. But all of us have heard of the child who came downstairs and asked his mother whether he could believe everything he heard in Sunday school. When she asked for specifics, he told her about the “from dust we came, and to dust we shall return” claim. Leading her to answer: “Well, son, if you heard it in Sunday school, it’s got to be true.” Whereupon he responded (with no small manner of urgency): “Then you’d better come upstairs quickly. Because, from what I can tell, someone is either coming or going under my bed.”

Infantile humor aside, life is not only mortal but fragile. Last night, Kris and I pulled into our driveway about 10:30 following a five-day trip to Salt Lake City. We attended the Winter Olympics….an event alive with athleticism (with young life straining against past and present limits to skate smoother, jump higher or ski faster). As is her custom, Kris went straight to the answering machine. And after four calls from aluminum siding salesmen, we learned of a young man, age 34, who decided to end his life at the end of a rope….effectively setting his own limits.

Some choose death. Death chooses others. Sixty-five percent of the people I say a few well-chosen words over (at the close of their days) have already chosen cremation. And a growing percentage of those I inhume in the garden in front of the church. I do it all for them. I dig the hole for them. I say the prayer over them. I open the box that contains them (prying loose the hard plastic lid with the business-end of a letter opener). And then I let go of them, allowing the collective dust of their earthly life to pour from my hands into the cavity waiting to receive them. So much for the body.

And our achievements, while having a slightly longer shelf life, eventually follow suit. Four weeks ago on a Saturday, the woman I live with asked how my sermon was coming. She was not so much concerned with its quality as with its completion. In short, was I finished? And if not, would I be willing to take a break from writing? In the interest of marital harmony, I said: “Sure, why not?” So we went to an antique store in St. Clair Shores….one she’d read about earlier that morning and wanted to visit. Once there, we began our respective wanderings….mine bringing me to a rather large shelf containing no small number of Oscar-like statuettes. Each had a pedestal. And each had some printing on the pedestal. Always a name….followed by an accomplishment. One spoke of excellence in bowling. Another, excellence in golf. A third, excellence in public speaking. Still another, excellence in community volunteering. On each statuette there was a little orange dot. Each dot contained numbers. Twenty-five cents. Thirty-five cents. For the bigger statuettes, half a dollar. Never more. Strangely, I found myself wandering through the rest of the store humming a beloved old hymn.

            So I’ll cherish the old rugged cross

            Till my trophies at last I lay down.

Bodies to dust. Achievements to dust. So, too, our enjoyments….equally dust-bound. I’ve heard half a hundred jokes about whether there are golf courses in heaven. The best of them concerns a message sent back from the “other side,” complete with good news and bad. The good news is that heaven’s links are lavish beyond belief. The bad news is that the hearer has a tee time the following Tuesday.

As to whether any of that is true, I haven’t a clue. But I can take you to another antique store (when you’re married to my wife, you learn the landscape)….this one in Naples, Florida. Where I can show you an entire room filled with golf clubs….nearly-new golf clubs….in nearly-new golf bags. The clubs were purchased by people who retired and moved to Naples, believing that they would now have “world enough and time” to play. Except they didn’t. Sobering, isn’t it? Humbling, too.

Still, there is this. It is into dust that God first breathed….and continues so to do. And it is dust that once, for thirty years and change, even housed the eternal. And it was in dust that Jesus silently wrote with his finger, while an adulterous woman’s accusers walked away (one at a time), quietly dropping the stones they had intended to throw at her. As to what Jesus wrote in the dust, who can say? But if you ask, that woman will tell you what it felt like to have her life handed back to her. It felt, for all the world, like mercy.

Ah yes, we may be dust and ashes. But this earthly stuff (this “stuff” that constitutes our nature) is infused with the divine and shot through with the holy. Meaning that, unlike the dust with which we deal, this dust…our dust….is never discardable, but is infinitely renewable, redeemable and (at the end of the day) resurrectable.

Ben Jones is the middle child of Greg and Susan Jones. One night, at the age of nine, he was waiting in bed for the story and tuck-in routine that was a ritual in that house. But when the reading was done….and when the tucking was done….he didn’t wait passively for his mother’s kissing to be done. Instead, he said: “Let me kiss you tonight.”

But he did not kiss her once. And he did not kiss her twice. He kissed her seven times….on the forehead. Three across. Four down. Puzzled, she received it. But didn’t “get” it. Until later, while talking to her husband (who, after all, is the dean of a divinity school) she realized that Ben’s kisses were offered in the form of a cross.

Where had her nine year old come up with that? As best as she could figure, it had to do with an Ash Wednesday service the family attended, which featured a cross of ashes marked on the forehead of each worshiper present. On the surface, it seemed as if Ben had the symbolism all screwed up.

            Ashes? Kisses?

            Ashes? Kisses?

            Ashes? Kisses?

But isn’t the message of the hour….the message of the season….the message most of us need desperately to hear….that we are as kissable as we are fallible?

But what does a nine year old know?

Plenty, it would seem.