Making Room 12/22/2002

William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scriptures: Luke 2:1-7, John 14:1-3

Long after I forgot the very bad joke it fits, I remembered the punch line: “Everybody’s gotta be some place.”

Well, truth be told, everybody does. We are space-taking people, although some of us take up more space than others. When I was researching the 50-year history of this sanctuary, I came across a notation suggesting that this wonderful worship space can seat in excess of 600 souls. Now as to whether Methodist “souls” have swelled, shrunk or stayed the same size over the last half century, I can’t rightly say. But if this place once held “in excess of 600 souls,” those souls came packaged in much smaller bodies.

Or maybe we haven’t changed size all that much. Maybe we just crave a bit more elbow room between me and thee….meaning that sanctuary seating limitations have more to do with greed than bloat. At the University of Michigan, where stadium seats are numbered in the belief that only midgets go to watch behemoths, there is constant talk of reconfiguration, so as to give all of us a few more inches. Thankfully, they tell me that at the Lions’ new playpen downtown, they’ve actually done it. I guess Ford really does have a better idea.

Several years ago, my daughter attended Peachtree Road United Methodist Church in Atlanta. Which was how it came to pass that after years of her mother and I taking her to church, she returned the favor. One Sunday morning, while not exactly late, we did have to jostle the choir to get into the sanctuary, claiming three in the back row….the last three in the back row. But that didn’t deter people coming later than us. While the choir walked down the center aisle, they walked down the side aisles….clogging them….leaning against the outer walls….all in all, quite unseemly. Surely a fire hazard, I thought.

But you can imagine my surprise when, between the end of the hymn and the beginning of the Call to Worship, the liturgist (thank God it was the Associate) said: “Okay folks, you know the drill. Everybody in the pews, squeeze. Everybody in the aisles, sit.” And they did. Quietly. Passively. Agreeably. Like sheep.

Last week I quoted a couple of lines from West Side Story’s “Tonight” (my second favorite song from my all-time favorite musical). The whole cast sings it when the day is very much ripe….and their lives are very much in front of them. But my favorite song….introduced not by horns, violins or even castanets, but by a very lonely cello….is the song that closes the play. It is when Tony and Maria (the lovers) sing together one last time. “Last,” because he is dying….in her arms….of a bullet….from a rumble….during a gang war….over turf control on the streets of New York. I can hear them now:

            There’s a place for us,

            Somewhere a place for us.

            Peace and quiet and open air

            Wait for us, somewhere.

Everybody’s got to be some place. And woe unto those, this Christmas, who find themselves misplaced, displaced, replaced or (for any number of reasons) uncomfortably out of place. I am talking about the brown-shoe people in a black-shoe world….or maybe even the no-shoe people in an over-shoed world.

As many of you know, my wife now works at Cass Church and Community Center. She is the part-time coordinator of volunteers for the wonderful new Scott Building (into which a lot of us have poured money, sweat and love). They do it all at the Scott Center (with folks the Bible often refers to as “the least of these”).

And in dealing with the homeless, they do so in multiple levels….from semi-permanent residents who enjoy two floors of very private, well-kept rooms, to people who sleep on mats on the floor. But even the latter group….the “floor folk”….do all kinds of amazing things to stake out their space….to define it, protect it, repel encroachment into it, or turn back trespass against it. Sometimes it’s hard to know where those invisible boundaries are until they have been breached. But they had better not be breached, lest the breachee come up swinging.

Faith Fowler has been at Cass since 1994. I worry that she is walking a tightrope between burnout and sainthood. But she perseveres with a little help from her friends. Which is why, on the day Jesus asks me to account for the space I took up on earth, I want to be able to say: “One good thing I did, Lord; I was Faith’s friend.”

And Faith’s favorite story of ministry at Cass (growing out of the day she turned to her dog and said, “Guess what, Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore”) was the day she was trying to do holy paperwork in her office, only to be interrupted by the incessant knocking of a very much under-dressed and over-painted lady. Who, upon entering, pointed to a 14-year-old girl she had dragged in by the arm, and said: “Rev. Fowler, tell her to get off my corner.”

Everybody’s got to be some place. Which is why even the hookers and the homeless resent intrusion. When Rev. Fowler sent the cowering 14-year-old with a social worker in search of some food to fill her belly and a coat to cover her body, the veteran prostitute calmed down a bit and said: “Rev. Fowler, it’s true. I don’t want her on my corner. But she’s too young to be on any corner. And if there’s any place that can save her, it’s Cass Church.”

Everybody’s got to be some place. Except Jesus. For when it came time for God’s beautifully-orchestrated coming out party for our Lord, would you believe there wasn’t a single ballroom available anywhere in Bethlehem. More to the point, there wasn’t a single birthing room available anywhere in Bethlehem. For they had stumbled into a strange town….late at night….with lots of people and no room.

“No room at the inn,” Luke says. My gosh, was there only one….inn, I mean? Luke doesn’t say. In reality, the text is incredibly spartan. Even the definitions are imprecise. “Inn” is probably not the best translation. “Lodge” is currently the word in favor. Although in 150 A.D., Justin made a good case for the birth of Jesus taking place in a cave. And there are those (well versed in first century living configurations) who figure that “cave” was what it was then, and what it should be now. The Greek word is katalyma….which is actually a pasted-together word, suggesting “a place where one lets down one’s harness (or baggage) for the night.” But in my research, I keep coming across the word caravansary….a public place where entire groups of travelers might spend a night together (not unlike the waiting room of a train station, with or without a roof).

Note, for purity of text’s sake, that there is no innkeeper….no innkeeper’s wife….no innkeeper’s scullery maids….no innkeeper’s servant boys….no Amahl and the night visitors….no little drummer boy….and no animals, except by inference. After all, if Jesus uttered his first cry from a feeding trough, something on four legs must have fed there. But if you want to be technical, you should probably forget about sheep, goats, cattle and camels. Instead, you might want to view the scene through the lens of an 800-year-old prophesy, where oxen and asses were the animals of choice (at least according to Isaiah 1:3).

As to why there is no room, don’t go looking for villains here. Let’s lay to rest, forever, Stephen Vincent Benet’s greedy innkeeper….who, in Benet’s words, “loved the sound of coin….loved it, in fact, more than life itself.”

Truth be told, the reason there is no room for this little trio (or, at the time of their arrival, this little two-thirds of a trio) is because other people got there first. Did that ever happen to you…. other people getting there first, I mean? Sure, that’s happened to you. The other guests got there first. The other diners got there first. The other applicants got there first. The other candidates got there first. The go-getters got there first. The fast-trackers got there first. The old boyfriend got there first.

Besides, they didn’t come by Cadillac or Caravan. And nothing about the sweatshirt Mary was wearing screamed “FUTURE KING,” with an arrow pointing down at her belly. So who was to know?

Still, everybody’s got to be some place. So, thank God (and I really mean, “thank God”), somebody created a place. “Prepared him room,” I mean. Which, whenever it happens still, causes “heaven and nature to sing”….does it not?

If there is a colossal error in my ministry (and there may be), it’s that, for 38 years, I have been guilty of drawing too few lines and opening too many doors. But, then, you know that about me. And you have grown to tolerate that in me.

About two weeks ago, I had a dream. I don’t usually tell you my dreams, for fear of what you may see in them and therefore think of me. In fact, I’ve only told you one other dream….in my first sermon….on my first Sunday….at our first meeting. On that occasion, I talked about “the unpreparedness dream” (which is common to a lot of us). In its most classic form, it is final exam day….in high school….but you haven’t read the book….haven’t been to class….can’t find the room….can’t find your pencil….or maybe your pants. You know that dream.

But this dream was different. I was at camp. It was clearly a Methodist camp. In fact, it looked remarkably like Judson Collins Camp out in the Irish Hills. I was there as the minister-in-charge of a group from this church. Many of you were there, too. I think most of you were young. But not all of you were young. Anyway, we were all together in the dining room, just prior to the evening meal. And they (the camp staff) were laying out a wonderful spread….a grand and glorious smorgasbord, really….quite unlike any food I ever ate at Judson Collins. I mean, the tables just went on and on.

Which was when one of you whispered in my ear that someone else had come….actually two someone elses. Not that I remember who they were or why they weren’t there from the get-go. All I remember is that they weren’t in the count, don’t you see. “Could they stay and eat?” you pleaded. And I said: “I am sure they can. Why just look at all that food.”

So I went to the kitchen people and made my request. But they said no….no way….the count is what it is….sealed on the day I gave it….sacred from that point forward. So I offered to pay. Still, “no.” Then I said: “What if I don’t eat? Can one of them sit down to the table in my place?” Again, “no.” Still pleading, I tried everything I could think of. So at last they said: “We’ll call the camp manager.”

Figuring that I could count on there being sense and sensitivity in the supreme court of campdom, I confidently stated my case. Leading him to laugh in my face. So I said (and I am not proud of this….no, I am not proud of this at all): “See if you ever get even one apportionment dollar from First Church again.” Whereupon he said something unprintable, which included: “Who did I think I was, trying to play Big Bucks Billy?” Which is when I elevated an entire end of one table of salads so that they slid to the floor (a slow-motion waterfall of ambrosia and lettuce leaves).

Instantly, I recanted, repented and began cleaning up the mess. Which is when I woke in a sweat, not knowing whether I was more shocked by my conviction about all of us eating, or my anger upon discovering that all of us couldn’t.

But let me push this….and you….one step further. I can make an adequate sermon out of whether they made room for Jesus….whether we’ll make room for Jesus….or whether we’ll make room for each other (in the name of Jesus). But somehow, this sermon won’t seem complete unless I also remind you that the one for whom there was no room, promised to go ahead and make room for us. “In my Father’s house are many rooms. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go and prepare a place for you. And I will come again and receive you unto myself, that where I am you may be also.”

Leading me to close with a story, which (in my earlier days here) some of you heard me tell at funerals. But I have never told it on Sundays….until now. It concerns a time in my life when I was both young and invincible. I figured I could do virtually anything, including driving maximal distances on minimal rest. So one morning I started before sun-up….drove through snacking hours….lunching hours….nappy hours….happy hours….dinner hours….darkening hours….midnight hours….all the while, confident that if I could just keep at it, I had prearranged lodging at the end of it.

Finally, in the wee hours of the morning, I found my exit, parked my car, and entered the inn of prior choosing. There was still a desk clerk on duty, even though she was half asleep. So I announced my presence in a louder than usual voice. “Ritter,” I said. “I have a reservation.” When that generated no response, I repeated my name again, this time spelling it. “I am Mr. Ritter….R I T T E R….I have a reservation.” Still, she said nothing. But she did scan a small stack of 3 by 5 cards, slipping them much-too-quickly between her thumb and forefinger. It occurred to me that she already knew my name wasn’t on any of those cards. But she didn’t say so. Instead, she excused herself and went to the back room. I am not sure what she did there. But if there is a manual that trains desk clerks, I am sure on the middle of page seven it reads: “When confused and in doubt, excuse yourself and go to the back room for five minutes, thereby allowing yourself the opportunity to think of something.”

What she thought of was to come back and say: “I am terribly sorry, Mr. Ritter. There must be some mistake. For we have absolutely no record of your existence.” Weary as I was, I was still quite certain that I existed. But I didn’t say that. Instead, I said: “Not to worry, just give me any room you happen to have.” Which was when she told me that she didn’t happen to have any. So again I said: “Not to worry. I passed several of your competitors on my way into your parking lot. Point me in the direction of one of them and make a phone call on my behalf, alerting them to my imminent arrival.” Which, while a great plan, didn’t work either. For again she said: “I am sorry, Mr. Ritter, but we tried that half an hour ago for someone in your situation. Everybody’s full. There’s a convention in town.”

Now she had given me all the bad news she could possibly give me in a single evening. So, as her final word, she said: “But if you’re ever in our fair city again, please come back and give us a chance to make it right.” Which led me wearily to the car and the open road, knowing yet another meaning of Frost’s immortal line: “And miles to go before I sleep.”

Wrap the gospel around that one last time. “In my Father’s house are many rooms. Were it not so, would I have told you that I go and prepare a place for you?” Translated, I take that to mean that God knows we’re out here and has made more than adequate provision against the day of our dying.

* * * * *

Everybody’s got to be some place.

            Save for Jesus.

                  For whom there was no place.

                                    When he came to our place.

                                                But when we get to his place,

                                                            Ah….when we get to his place….

Kiss the Habit 2/3/2002

Dr. William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scriptures: Proverbs 22:6, Colossians 3:1-10

When it comes right down to it, there are really only two kinds of people in Michigan….those who think that the best fried chicken in the world is served in Frankenmuth, and those who don’t.  And among the pro-Frankenmuth people, there are only two kinds of people….namely, those who eat their chicken at the Bavarian Inn, and those who go across the street to Zehnders. And at either of those places, there are really only two kinds of people….those who eat their chicken with a knife and fork, and those who pick it up with their fingers. The next time you go to Frankenmuth, take your own survey. Pay special attention to the way people eat the small pieces like wings and legs. Most people concede that chicken legs are finger food when pulled from a bucket and eaten on a blanket. But all bets are off when there is a tablecloth beneath you and a waitress beside you.

Table manners are hard to figure. Most of us know they’re important. Most of us make some attempt to practice them, especially in what is called “polite society.” And most of us have enough knowledge of mealtime “do’s and don’ts” so as to be able to pass a multiple-choice test on etiquette (provided that the test is graded on the curve). But most of us would have a hard time grading our own table manners without comparing ourselves to friends whose manners are more abysmal than our own. In short, we know “gross” when we see “gross.” Those of us who are men take great pains to call such crude displays to the attention of our wives, using them as justification for doing things as we’ve always done them. “You think I’m bad,” we say. “Look at him.” Thank God for the slobs of the world. They make the rest of us look good.

Children, of course, do not care about any of this. For them, food is pleasurable. Getting it into their mouths, by whatever means, is the pathway to pleasure. And manners are the “monkey wrench” by which pain is introduced into this pleasure-system. Kids associate food with fun and manners with rules. They get confused when too many rules get in the way of having fun. Which puts mothers in an awkward position. Because while mothers make the food which produces the fun, mothers also make the rules which get in the way of the fun. This means that fathers should either make more of the food or more of the rules, thereby taking mothers off the hot seat. This is especially true, given that the same fathers who let things slide at home are the most embarrassed (and become the angriest) when the kids screw up in public.

Manners, however, are hard to correct at home. This is especially true when kids become old enough to argue that they really do know the proper way to eat, but shouldn’t have to demonstrate it when it’s just parents and siblings at the table. “We’ll know what to do when we’re out,” they say. “Don’t worry about us. Do you think we’d eat this way and make these horrible noises if there were real people around?” Which always led me to wonder why Kris and I weren’t considered “real people.” Not that I ever got anywhere when I raised that question.

But I did wonder about their basic premise….that they would be able to turn it on in public if they hadn’t practiced it in private. Sometimes, I would ask Bill and Julie: “What if you suddenly found yourself at an elegant dinner party seated next to Walter or Wanda Wonderful? Would you know what to do?” They, of course, were absolutely certain they would know what to do. They were also certain that the parents of Walter and Wanda Wonderful probably worried about the same thing. Just as my parents worried over me. And just as your parents worried over you. It’s universal.

But don’t dismiss my concern too quickly. Because the world is full of people who don’t know how to eat, but who were certain they would be able to figure it out when the time came. Except they couldn’t. Or didn’t. And part of the problem lay in the fact that such things were not practiced (day in and day out) in a way that enabled them to become “second nature.” For while practice may not make one perfect, practice will (over time) make one comfortable. And that’s the goal, don’t you see? Just as the rules of grammar are not learned for the purpose of making you a grammar teacher, the rules of eating are not learned for the purpose of turning you into Emily Post. The rules of grammar are practiced so that you can eventually forget them and enjoy speaking, just as table manners are practiced so that you can eventually forget them and enjoy eating.

If it appears that mothers are (therefore) on to something, they are far from alone. For military commanders know the same thing mothers do. So do football coaches, drill instructors, and police academy trainers. You can almost hear the litany: “Practice things until they become second nature….until they become habitual….until they become comfortable….and until you are confident you can perform them under stress.” Which doesn’t mean that one-of-a-kind situations won’t arise….for which there will have been no practice, and for which fresh thought will have to be expended at the moment. But if most responses have been practiced to the point of becoming “natural,” it will be easier to do the “unnatural” when a problem presents itself, unlike any that has been seen before.

Over the past several years, I have become interested in the subject that is often referred to as “character development.” And while the subject is immense, to the point of being overwhelming, one thought is becoming clearer and clearer in my mind….that the development of character has less to do with the correctness of any particular decision we make, than with the consistency of the behaviors we practice. In short, character development has more to do with habits than choices.

Take truth-telling. That’s a practiced behavior, if ever there was one. How does one learn to tell the truth? One learns to tell the truth by telling it over and over again, until it becomes virtually impossible to lie or deceive. Unfortunately, the contrary is also true. The first lie makes the second one easier to tell. And the first lie may even make the second one necessary to tell, given the need to cover up the first one.

Or take cheek-turning. One kid accidentally bumps another kid in the hallway at the high school. In a flash, the bumpee lays the bumper flat on the floor with a punch. Good-bye consciousness. Hello concussion. The good news is that there is no gun. There often is, anymore. People get shot for a bump, a slur, or even a look. Violence is in. But not everywhere. Consider Amish children….Mennonite children….Quaker children….who, from day one, practice methods by which aggression can be met non-aggressively. Certainly, a rare occasion might arise which would evoke a physical response from even the most polished cheek-turner, just as the habitual truth-teller might lie to the Nazi at the door to protect the neighbor’s Jewish children hiding under the bed. But how many times do such exceptions occur, really?

As concerns decision making, I don’t know whether I heard it on television or read it in some novel, but I love the line of the young lady who, trying to let her date down easy, smiled and said: “You know, I’m really not in the habit of unbuttoning my blouse in the backseats of automobiles.” What a splendid response.

Again, I submit: Character development has less to do with choices than with habits. We need to identify desirable behaviors and practice them until they become second nature. Because not all desirable behaviors are a part of our first nature. That’s what Paul says to the Colossians. He tells them that if they have really been raised with Christ, they should walk away from the way they formerly walked….putting behind them their old nature and its practices, while putting on their “new nature,” which (he goes on to suggest) is something one keeps working on, and working on, until it fits.

Which training begins young, says the collector of wisdom in the book known as Proverbs. “Train children in the way they should go, and they will not depart from it.” All of us have heard it. Most of us can sense the truth of it. Like seeds planted early, patterns practiced from our earliest years can produce a lovely foliage.

Which I can illustrate from my early days. I was eight or nine years old at the time when, on the sidewalk in front of the neighborhood grocery store, I found a $20 bill. That was a lot of money in 1948. Not just for me, but for anybody. Not knowing quite what to do with it, I pocketed it and took it home. When I told my folks, they didn’t say:

·         Gee, Billy, this is your lucky day.

·         How about splitting it with your old man?

·         See, just like we’ve tried to tell you, God rewards good little boys.

Nor, did they begin to sing:

·         Every time it rains, it rains twenties from heaven.

Instead, they said: “I wonder if somebody lost it who needs it more than you do?” Which, as it turned out, somebody had (lost it, I mean)….who did (need it more than I did, that is). Which I found out when I found him. Don’t ask me how I found him. That’s a good story, but not essential to my point. But, as a result of that experience, it has become my habit (across the years) to think about your loss first and my gain second….to the degree that it’s no longer something I have to think about. It has become my second nature….one that is more in keeping with the Gospel.

But I have an even better story for you. While at my recent seminar in Sea Island, Georgia, someone began talking about Frank and Nellie Baker. Who you don’t know. And there’s no reason you should know. But, in his heyday, nobody knew more about the history of Methodism (including the life of John Wesley) than Frank Baker. I only heard him once (ironically, in England at the rededication of Wesley’s Chapel on All Saints Day in 1978). But the man could think. And write. And remember. Especially, remember.

Which was why it was so tragic when his memory began to go. Frank was one of those people who suffered from Alzheimers for no small number of years before he died. Which is a bad enough disease for anybody. But for a scholar….a thinker….a chronicler of history….it was nothing short of tragedy. Fortunately, Frank was a relatively peaceful Alzheimers patient rather than a feisty one. Meaning that he was able to stay at home through most of his declining years. And meaning that Nellie was able to care for him with a minimal amount of help.

Shortly after Greg Jones came to be Duke Divinity School’s dean, he and Susan paid a courtesy call on the Bakers. Without apology, Nellie welcomed them in, gave them tea and cookies, introduced them to Frank, and included her husband in the circle of conversation as if he could still participate. Which he couldn’t, of course. There he was, all dressed up, sitting in his wheelchair, with friends in the living room, but there was “nobody home”….if you know what I mean. Which everybody overlooked, out of kindness….and respect. Although, on several occasions, Frank interrupted to say: “Now who did you say you were?”

At last, the pot was drained of tea and the conversation was drained of pleasantries. Leading to good-byes from all but one. That one being Frank. When suddenly he broke into the conversation, clear as a bell, to say: “By the way, if you ever need anything to eat, stop by and we’ll give you whatever we have cooking on the stove.” It was the most intelligent sentence he had said the entire hour. Heck, it was the only sentence he had said the entire hour. But it made wonderful sense. And it was warmly received.

Only later did Greg and Susan learn that Frank and Nellie Baker had opened their home….and their dinner room table…to scores of students across the years. Two and three nights a week, they had students over for dinner. And every Sunday they trolled the narthex of their Methodist church, finding strays who might like a warm and friendly place to have lunch. And every time volunteers were sought for a local soup kitchen or meal preparers were needed for the local homeless shelter, it was Frank who said: “I think Mother and I can do that.”

Long after most of his mind was gone….most of the wires had been cut….most of the connections had wafted away with the wind….Frank Baker knew enough to invite a stranger to partake at his table. It was the case of the practice becoming the person….and the habit taking over the man. When everything else was gone, that’s what was left.

All over this state, treatment centers are filled with people who have habits that need to be kicked. Would that churches could be filled with people who have habits that need to be kissed. Or blessed.

Jesus and the Big Apple 3/24/2002

Dr. William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scriptures: Luke 19:28-42 and John 1:45-51

If you would believe it, it was a mere 1973 years ago that Jesus woke from sleep, greeted the dawn, attended to the necessities of the morning, and then said (to everyone within earshot): “Friends, let’s go to town.”

Nobody talks about “going to town” anymore. The image has the words “country bumpkin” written all over it. All week long in the boonies….the outposts….the villages….the farms…. herding cattle and mending fences….until, late of a Saturday afternoon, it becomes time to bathe the body, stuff the wallet, saddle the horse, crank the Chevy, and head for someplace with a few more lights and a lot more action.

Today, there is hardly any place where “town” isn’t….and hardly any time when “town” isn’t. I seldom hear anybody talk of “going to town” anymore. Even those who talk about “nights on the town” could just as well be talking about Tuesdays as Saturdays. And to whatever degree “town” be equated with the nearest and biggest city, I am preaching to many this morning who haven’t “been to town” in years.

Not that Jerusalem was as foreign to Jesus as Detroit is to many of us. Depending upon which chronology of his ministry you extrapolate from which gospel, Jesus had been there a few times. Certainly more than two. Probably less than ten. I think it’s fair to say he didn’t go often, and didn’t stay long. Jesus was a northern boy….village boy….“field and stream” boy….in short, a country boy.

Over the past several weeks, I have been working my way through Martin Marty’s A Short History of Christianity, wherein can be found these words:

            In the early years of the Roman Empire, the years when Caesar Octavianus (later named Augustus) was emperor, when Herod the Great was ending his reign in Judea, when Roman procurators ruled the Jews, and when writers of the Augustun Age (like Ovid, Horace and Livi) were flourishing, there was born in Palestine, to a girl in Nazareth, a child who seemed destined to obscurity in the carpenter shop of her husband. He was given a name common in the period, Jesus. Little is known of his early years. When, at about age 30, he began preaching, he was rejected by his own townspeople as a carpenter’s son, and by the urbanites to the south as an upstart from Nazareth.

Those words are both stinging and true. He was “an upstart from Nazareth,” a place from which almost anybody was “destined for obscurity.” Even one of his own disciples reflected Nazareth’s low status by wondering, out loud, how anything good could come from a place like that. And, in all likelihood, nothing much would have happened to Jesus….positively or negatively….had he stayed there.

Come late May, when this year’s clergy retirees assemble on the stage of the Annual Conference at Adrian College, we will be introduced to a man who has served the last 36 years in one church. I am sure he has done good work there. I am equally sure they value him highly there. But there aren’t five of you here this morning who could name his name….or his church’s name. In part, because he prefers it that way. But, also in part, because he never went to town. Truth be told, he pastored longer than Jesus lived. Not that Jesus couldn’t have pastored till retirement, had he but listened to those who said: “Don’t go to town.”

But there were voices….of history, destiny and deity….that counseled otherwise. So Jesus went to Jerusalem….the biggest possible place (we’re talking “population”)….at the busiest possible time (we’re talking “Passover”). And he did not last the week. No, he did not last the week.

But that was not perfectly clear on Palm Sunday. Maybe to him it was. But I am not certain, even of that. For, given my belief that, in the enactment of God’s plan, a measure of flexibility must be granted to history in its unfolding, I have to allow for the possibility that it could (conceivably) have turned out differently.

Certainly, Jesus had an agenda. But he was far from alone. Others had agendas, too. Among his own people….the Jews….one counts at least four groups with four agendas. And as he rode into Jerusalem, each of those groups might have written his script differently, depending upon their ideology.

Some Jews were Zealots….meaning militants….meaning people energized around physical confrontation with Roman authority. Many Zealots were Galileans (meaning northerners). But Jesus, himself, was a Galilean from the north. And there were camps in Galilee where would-be guerrilla fighters were trained and semi-sophisticated weapons were fashioned. One of Jesus’ disciples is never referred to by his birth name without also adding, “the Zealot.” Two other disciples are called “Sons of Thunder” and may well have had leanings toward this group. And the word “Iscariot” (as in Judas Iscariot) is not Judas’ last name. Rather, it is likely a title, identifying him with a society of dagger men or brigands (the “sicarii” meaning a crudely fashioned blade of dagger-like dimensions). What did the Zealots hope that Jesus would do inJerusalem? Polarize and provoke, that’s what the Zealots hoped Jesus would do in Jerusalem.

A smaller number of Jews were Essenes. For all intents and purposes, they were a group of celibate Jewish monks. And provocation was what they feared most and desired least. So fearful were they of confrontation that, by the time Jesus rode into the city, most of them had left the city. Where had they gone? To create a small, monastic-like community by the Dead Sea….a community today remembered only by the name Qumran….but popularized by the relatively recent discovery of the Dead Sea scrolls. Jesus may have been linked to the Essenes through baptism, given that John the Baptist, prior to his beheading, may have lived among them. Had Jesus encountered any Essenes in Jerusalem, they would have counseled not provocation, but prayer.

The largest group of Jews, of course, were Pharisees. And for as many harsh things as Jesus sometimes said about them, it is a pretty good bet that he numbered himself among them. Coming, as he said, not to overthrow the law but fulfill the law, he shared the Pharisees’ delight in the law, regretting departures from it almost as much as they did. And since it is commonly known that the more cosmopolitan the city, the more sloppy people get with the law, the Pharisees….upon seeingJesus ride into Jerusalem….would have counseled neither provocation nor prayer, but purification (as in “tidy things up and straighten people out”). I suppose one could argue that Jesus’ act of driving the money changers from the Temple, while surprising in its aggressiveness, was a very Pharisee-like thing to do.

And then, of course, there were the Saducees. Jerusalem was full of them. Who, while they were Jews, had learned how to get along with Romans…..gained the trust of Romans….to the point of prospering in spite of Romans. Everybody knows that in hard times, there are people who “get along by going along.” It wasn’t quite to the point of “if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.” But, concerning the Romans, the Saducees had learned that you could do quite nicely (economically, politically, even religiously) if you didn’t go out of your way to antagonize them. Consider the fact that the Sanhedrin….the Jewish supreme court (which pronounced the initial death sentence on Jesus)….did not lack for Saducees. So any Saducean sympathizers Jesus may have had in Jerusalem would have counseled him not to provoke, not to pray, not even to purify, so much as to placate (“We’ve heard about you, Jesus. In time, we might even rally around you. But for now, don’t make waves.”).

Don’t you see that everybody had expectations of him that morning? But not the same expectations. Preachers understand this. We ride into a new church….meet the committee….read the job description….preach the first sermon….attend the first reception….eat the first cookie…. and then smile inwardly, saying to ourselves: “What a good feeling. From first appearances, it would seem that we are all on the same page.”

Then, one by one, they start to come….into the office….closing the door….introducing themselves (“I just thought you’d like to know a little bit more about me, Reverend”). Which is always followed by the introduction of an agenda: “Well, Reverend, not to take up too much of your precious time….but one of my reasons for coming today is to give you my take on a little situation in our church that probably hasn’t been made clear to you yet. But, given your great beginning and your obvious skills, I just know you’ll want to do something about it, once I give you my reading of it.”

So, who do you listen to? And how much weight do you give to what you hear? Those are the questions that make ministry difficult (even more than “What did I do to deserve this?….Why don’t I feel anything when I pray?….(and) Do you really think I will see my loved one in eternity?”). I think it is fairly common knowledge that my beleaguered and beloved colleague (a mile and a half to the north) is suspended from his pulpit this morning, not because of words (as a writer) he failed to footnote, but because of expectations (as a leader) he failed to meet.

Mike Davis knows the problem. Who is Mike Davis? Mike Davis is the coach of the Indiana Hoosier basketball team (which, on Thursday night, broke a small chip off of my heart, by beating the Dukies….and which, given yesterday’s victory in Lexington, now moves on to the Final Four).

But Mike Davis is the “Rodney Dangerfield” of college coaching, quoted as saying the other day: “I win 20 games two years running and they don’t like me. I win the Big Ten title and they don’t like me. I qualify for the Big Dance my first two years on the job, and they still don’t like me.” Why is that? Because he doesn’t wear a red sweater, throw occasional chairs, and answer to the name of “Bobby.” That’s why. And if those are the primary criteria, he never will meet expectations.

How many marriages regularly bite the dust….not because of anything either partner does, or because of anyone either partner sees….but because there were expectations regarding the marriage that weren’t realized. How easy it is to move from “this hasn’t turned out like I expected” to “you must (therefore) not be the one I needed.” But if you wait until all the expectations are both understandable and acceptable, you will never marry….you will never coach….you will never preach….and you will never go to town.

Into the city Jesus came….as if to confirm, once again, Bill Coffin’s wonderful axiom that “you can’t save the world from a safe address.” And his entrance excited enough people so as to bring their song-singing, coat-throwing, palm-waving, hosanna-chanting behavior to the attention of the fearful, who said: “Teacher, stifle this disturbance….or (in short) shut these people up.” To which he replied: “I suppose I could do that. But if I did, the very stones over which we are strolling will scream. So I won’t….shut anybody up, I mean.”

There are those who say we shouldn’t make a big deal out of Palm Sunday, given how things turned out. They are joined by those who say we shouldn’t make a big deal out of Palm Sunday, given those who turned back. But I would point out two things.

1.      Jesus gave those revelers permission and encouragement to do exactly what they did, and say exactly what they said.

2.      In spite of the fact that they may have misunderstood the eventual nature of his kingdom, they were cheering the right king. We haven’t always, you know.

* * * * *

For years, I was a night person. Read at night. Wrote at night. Did my most creative thinking at night. Sometimes stared at the television, late into the night. Those days are done. I am no longer comfortably nocturnal. Which is why I couldn’t care less if Letterman moves one way and Koppel, another (even though I am “into” Koppel more than I am “into” Letterman). There was a day when I was a Tonight Show junkie. Currently, that means Jay Leno. Before him, that meant (help me here)….that’s right, Johnny Carson. And before him (to whatever degree life existed before Johnny Carson), there was (more help please)….you’ve got it, Jack Paar.

But I doubt that any of you remember the night Jack Paar said to his New York studio audience: “I want to introduce you to a man who has been in all the news as well as on the cover of all the major magazines, because he has liberated his people from a tyrant and a dictator.” And upon seeing him, the audience rose as one….clapping….cheering….standing on the seats…. dancing in the aisles….raising a din that seemed as if it would never die. And who was it all for? Fidel Castro, that’s who it was for.

We don’t always get it right, do we?

But they did….lo those 1973 years ago. To be sure, they may not have known everything he would do….everything he would be….everything he would offer….and certainly not everything he would ask. They may not have had the most scholastic or panoramic view of his kingdom. And they probably didn’t know even a fraction of “the things that would make for peace,” let alone see “heaven opened and angels ascending and descending upon the Son of Man.”

But, praise God Almighty, they had the right guy. Oh yes, my friends, they had the right guy.

Note: My calculation that Palm Sunday took place 1973 years ago is based on the assumption that Jesus was born in 4 BC and died in 29 AD. My description of Zealots, Essenes, Pharisees and Saducees is taken from a number of sources, most specifically Jim Fleming of the Jerusalem Center for Biblical Studies and Thomas Cahill in his relatively-recent book entitled Desire of the Everlasting Hills. There is some question about the equation of “brigands” in 29 AD with Zealots who were historically referenced in 66 AD, but there is little doubt that Jesus was aware of informal revolutionaries who resisted the dominant oppression. Meanwhile, Martin Marty’s status as a historian is all but unassailable and his A Short History of Christianity is a good refresher course for any preacher who hasn’t plowed through the material since seminary.

The reference to my colleague “a mile and a half to the north” relates to a clerical suspension based on charges of plagiarism (a story that has made its way all the way to the venerable pages of the New York Times). A Fred Craddock audiotape recalled the Jack Paar/Fidel Castro story. And Peter Gomes (Memorial Church, Harvard) gave me additional justification (as if I need any) for making a “really big deal” out of Palm Sunday when he wrote:

            When we have our own palm procession here, the Memorial Church is transformed from its usual frosty decorum into a splendid chaos, where there is movement, noise, a little confusion and a lot of action. And it is wonderful when intelligent people don’t quite know what to do. When there is a spectacle and you do not participate in the spectacle, even then you are a part of the spectacle. A church school pupil once told me that he liked this service better than any other because there was a lot going on. He didn’t exactly know what was going on, but there was lots of it and he liked it.

Go Ahead and Take It Personally 9/26/1993

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan
Scripture: Genesis 3:1-13

Every so often, J.P. McCarthy provides a valuable service for his WJR listeners by inviting them to call him up and tell his vast radio audience what is bugging them. "No matter what it is.... no matter how insignificant it seems.... no matter how big or small it may be.... if it rankles in your craw, call it in and spill it out."

It's kind of interesting to find out what bugs people. It never seems to be anything of substance. But, then, it seldom is. As any hiker knows, it's not the size of the pebble in your shoe that matters, so much as how long you've been walking on it.

Little things bug us. Know what bugs me? One thing that bugs me is that when people are about to say a word to me which is either painful or critical, they preface it with a disclaimer which is somehow supposed to soften the blow of what they are about to say. The disclaimers come in all shapes and sizes. But one that especially gets to me is when people introduce their critical opinion with the phrase: "Now I'm only saying this for your own good." Whenever I hear those words, a series of radar-like signals go off in my brain.  I find myself becoming defensive.  I also find myself torn between wanting to know what is coming next, and not wanting to know.

Part of my problem is a trust problem. I don't always trust the motives of the speaker. I know that for every person who tells me something of a critical nature "for my own good," there is another person who tells me something of a critical nature for their own good.  I suppose another part of my problem involves some ancient memories. People who tell me things "for my own good," generally assume that they know "my own good" better than I do. Sometimes they do. But the reminder always comes off sounding parental. And parental messages always trigger ancient memories. We didn't like it when our parents knew what was good for us then, and, we are not all that sure we like it any better now. It is not that we are unwilling to face criticism. Most of us have made our peace with that. But most of us would prefer our doses of corrective medicine delivered directly, unprefaced by words of disclaimer that come masquerading as kindness.

Close cousins to the people who tell us critical things "for our own good," are the people who begin harsh judgments with the words: "Now I don't want you to take this personally....". I wish it were that easy.  I wish I had more trust in the motives of people who speak this way. All too often, it seems as if the ones who tell me that I shouldn't take something personally, are the very same people who phrase things in such a way, that there is no way left to take things, but personally. I am acquainted with one individual who uses this phrase as a legal license to hurt. Once he gets it out of the way, he feels he can say virtually anything.  And often does.

Some things, however, do need to be "taken personally."  In this world (where loneliness and overpopulation seem to be paradoxical social ills) there is a genuine hunger for relationships which are personal. Consider the growing number of self advertisements in the "Personals" columns of daily newspapers and monthly magazines. I am occasionally drawn to these cryptic self- descriptions, wondering who in the world writes them.  All of these people sound so interesting and attractive. I find myself wondering why it is that people with so much to offer, have to resort to newspaper ads and post office boxes to find someone to offer it to. And notice, if you will, that the common denominator for all such ads is the seven-letter word "seeking." Everybody seems to be seeking something.... or someone.... which somehow keeps eluding them. The thirst is great. But the normal wells keep coming up dry. The "personals" ads are modern-day scriptures of loneliness. But I don't mock them, because there have been times in my life when I could have written them. And there have been times in your lives when you could have written them too.

Alas, not all hungers are easily satisfied. And not all hungers can be humanly satisfied. To be sure, we hunger for friends.  We hunger for lovers.  But we also hunger for God.  And our hunger does not stop at the door of the church.  Even we who claim to know much about God, seek more intimate knowledge of God. While I doubt that the search consumes any of us all of the time, I am convinced that it consumes virtually all of us, some of the time. There are no exemptions, even among professional Christians. Carlyle Marney was both a great Baptist and a great theologian. It was Dr. Marney who became something of the conscience of the South, during those years in which his powerful voice boomed from the pulpit of Myers Park Baptist Church in Charlotte, North Carolina. He was one of my heroes in the 60's and 70's. Many of us knew him as a man whose preaching reeked with honesty, and whose honesty increased with age. Listen to these words, written in the latter stages of his career:

And now, a long way out of Seminary, a veteran of the classic descriptions of God, doctrines of God, dogmas about God, and a reader of endless books on revelation, inspiration and incarnation....I con­fess to you that I long for God, have waited for God, have run after God, and have often said more about God than I knew. Moreover, I have worshipped God, analyzed God, prayed for God, to God, with God, and (along with a great majority of my colleagues) have beat endlessly upon the gates of heaven for some word of God to share with others.

I find that I am now becoming old enough and honest enough to be able to say "Amen" to that, without any sense of vocational embarrassment or shame.

But, to all of that, I would add that men and women are not the only seekers. I would put God in the seeking class. I think that there is something in God that clearly hungers after us. I think that there is some essential emptiness in God that only we can fill. And I think that out of the kind of loneliness that only unreturned love can know, God first created men and women so that God would have someone to talk to. And it is out of that same loneliness (I think), that God comes looking for us.... not so much to check up on us.... not so much to catch us in the act of being "ungodly".... but out of a genuine curiosity as to where it is that we have gone off to, and what it is that we have been up to.

Which, of course, brings us to Adam, which is where (moments ago) Charlie laid the story down. So let's pick it up there. God has gone looking for Adam. Adam, however, is hiding. I suppose that this explains why we human beings do not connect with God more often than we do, because it is hard to look for God and hide from God at the same time. Not only is it hard, it is schizophrenic. But it is certainly not impossible. If you think it is impossible, let me tell you that there are all kinds of people out there who desperately want something, yet who are scared to death of finding the very thing they want. Which may also explain why lonely people look for lovers in want ads, given that there is not much chance of finding them there.

But back to our story. This time we have God looking for Adam. God calls out: "Where are you?" To which Adam says: "I'm hiding." Which is really a rather stupid thing to say if you are genuinely hiding. Did you ever play hide and seek with a small child?  No matter how well the child has hidden, he will always find some way to tip off his whereabouts, because a child cannot stand the thought of not being found.

I must confess to you that I am not enamored with the idea of Adam in hiding. I want Adam to start things off with God on a more equal footing.  None of this hiding business.  I want Adam and God to sit down man to man. A man who runs and hides from God is a man who will surely pass the buck, first chance he gets. Definitely unmanly. Adam exhibits very poor form.

In fact, I would like to see the story written differently. I would have God come to Adam's office. I would put the office at the top of a very tall building. An "office tower" would be nice. God would have to look up Adam's floor upon entering the lobby. Then God would have to take an elevator to Adam's suite. God would check in with the receptionist, who would politely inquire as to the proper spelling of God's name, before phoning word of God's arrival to Adam's inner office.

Upon appearing at the door, Adam would be very gracious. He would ask that God be shown in, and would instruct his secretary to hold all calls for the next half hour or so. God would comment favorably on the furniture in Adam's office, taking special note of the art on Adam's walls. There would be a recent picture of Eve on the desk. God would render an approving comment. Adam would then send out for coffee and Danish, trying to remember whether God took one lump or two. Adam would try on, only to reject, the idea of inviting God home for dinner.... not being certain how Eve would take it, and remembering that the Garden was still a little bit messy when he went to work that morning. At long last, they would begin to talk, with God on one side of the desk and Adam on the other.

Don't tell me I can't write it that way. I can write it any way I want. After all, all I am trying to do is cover up Adam's nakedness a little bit. And concerning this business of "nakedness," remember that "being naked" in this story has little to do with the lack of adequate clothing. Being naked in this story has everything to do with the lack of an adequate defense. To be naked means to be stripped of any visible means of covering one's tail. To be naked is to be exposed.... and to be aware that one is exposed.

But don't miss what comes next. Note that it is Adam, not God, who introduces the subject of nakedness. God simply asks the question: "Where are you?" God does not say: "Come out, come out, wherever you are.... two bits says you're naked as a jay bird." No, God doesn't say that at all. God just inquires as to the whereabouts of Adam. It is Adam who says: "I heard the sound of You in the garden, but I was afraid because I was naked, so I hid." And don't miss what God says next. God says: "Who told you that you were naked?" I love that. It means that Adam spilled his condition before he was even accused.  God does not have to say anything.  God does not have to ask Adam anything. God does not have to investigate, interrogate, or even cross examine Adam. God simply has to show up and Adam spills the beans.

Which leads me to a story. It's a Howard Thurman story. Howard Thurman was a saintly black preacher.... author of spiritual classics.... semi-mystic.... founding pastor of San Francisco's Church of All

Nations.... and (finally) Dean of the Chapel at Boston University. Howard Thurman was recalling his boyhood years.

The streets were a way of life, and the game of the streets was marbles. But with our gang there were certain rules. Among our gang you could trade marbles and you could win marbles, but you couldn't keep any marbles you won from another kid on the street. And, most importantly, you could never keep another kid's "shooter" marble. But one day a new kid moved onto the block. And this new kid was fat and friendless. But he soon found that the entré into our group depended on getting some marbles. Which he did. They were all new and shiny, not like ours. So we decided to let him play. But where marbles were concerned, this kid wasn't very good. And he wasn't very bright. And he didn't know the rules that prevailed on our street. So we let him watch.... which made him feel good. Then we let him play.... which made him feel better. Then we let him win a little.... which made him feel great. And then we cleaned him out.... and divided up his marbles.  And among the marbles I took home was his "shooter." It was the most beautiful and brilliant marble I had ever seen.

I took my new prize home and added it to my collection. I was polishing it before bed when my mama came in. My mama looked at my marbles.... looked at me.... looked at my marbles.... and said: "Howard, where'd you get that shiny shooter?"  I could tell by the sound of her voice that she was seeing right through me. I managed to mumble some excuse, even though I could tell that she was seeing right through that too. But she didn't say anything. She just shrugged her shoulders and left the room. Still I could tell that she was disappointed in me. After that, the marble didn't seem nearly so pretty.

So after a night of mostly not sleeping, I took the new marbles back to school. And when my friends weren't around, I gave them back to the kid who was fat and friendless. That night, just before din­ner, I walked through the kitchen where my mama was. And as I was about to pass into the dining room, I said (over my shoulder): "By the way, you'll be glad to know that I gave back the marbles I stole." Quickly, she turned and said: "Howard, what are you talking about? What marble, who stole?" And then I realized that she didn't know anything about it. It was all in me.

And God said to Adam:  "Adam, whatever are you talking about? Who told you, you were naked?"

Some people don't like religion because they say it makes them feel guilty. That may be true. But I also suppose that there are times when religion takes a bum rap. Religion does not make us feel guilty. We make ourselves feel guilty. Most of us do not need a lot of help.

How schizophrenic we are. We look for God because we can't stand the loneliness. And we hide from the God we look for, because we can't stand the exposure. Thankfully, God often finds us first, cutting through the schizophrenic splitness of our human condition.

Let's make a big jump. Jump with me 900 years.... 900 pages.... and one entire Testament.   See Jesus talking to a foreign woman by a village well. They are standing there at noontime. The time of the day seems like such a throwaway detail. But it's not. It is extremely significant. We are not certain as to why Jesus is there at noontime.  For sake of argument, let's assume that He is thirsty. We do, however, know why the lady is there at noontime. She is there because nice ladies come to the well in the morning and the evening. But she is not a nice lady. So she comes at noon to avoid getting stared at or talked about.

The conversation begins. I hope that you know how strange it is that this conversation (between a male, would-be, Jewish messiah and a not-so-nice foreign lady) takes place at all. But what a wonderful conversation it turns out to be. She wants to talk about water. Then she wants to talk about theology. It seems that Jesus wants to talk about husbands. She has had five. And she is currently living with number six, who is not yet hers by benefit of clergy. And I'd give almost anything to have heard the last two or three hours of that conversation. Because if you think that John has told us everything that happened there, you're more naive than I think you are. Somehow, Jesus found her.... talked to her... listened to her.... and then confronted her in a way that was so brutally honest, and yet so wonderfully affirming, that she went back to her village a different woman. And later that evening, when she didn't respond to the men at the tavern in the way that she usually did, she told them: "I want you to come see this man by the well, who spoke to my human situation in a way that no one ever spoke to it before."

And because there is so much hunger in us for that kind of honesty and that kind of love, the author of John's gospel adds this marvelous little detail when he says: "And the whole village dropped what they were doing and came running out to see this miracle for themselves."

My friends, whether you run after it

whether you stand still and let it come to you

whether it reaches in and pulls you out of your hiding place

when you hear that kind of word

or when you meet that kind of love

for God's sake (and for your own) take it personally