First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan
Scripture: John 12:27-32, Philippians 2:1-11
Shopworn (and more than a little shaggy) is the story about the Methodist, newly arrived in heaven, being given a tour of the premises by St. Peter. Down the hallway they walked, Peter pointing out the doors. “Behind this door, the Catholics. Behind that one, the Presbyterians. And that door over there opens on the Lutherans. But when we pass this next door, we need to tiptoe very quietly.” “Why is that?” the Methodist inquired. “Well,” said St. Peter, “that’s where the Baptists are. And they think they’re the only ones here.”
Like I said, the story is as old as it is apocryphal. You could change the names and no one would be the wiser. The only reason the story survives is because there are groups who believe they will be the only ones there….ought to be the only ones there…..and have a God-given right to be the only ones there.
Among those certain that God is going to cap heaven’s population, there seems to be a division between those who are delighted by the idea of limits and those who are worried by the idea of limits. With the greatest worry of the worriers being: “What if I’m there and my loved ones aren’t?”
Several times in my ministry (including here, recently) retired individuals in their seventies and eighties have come to me about a concern, raised by one of their children or grandchildren, that they won’t be going to heaven. Now mind you, these retirees have (in every instance) been lifelong members of the church….workers in the church….and givers to the church. And once upon a time….seventy years ago when they were confirmed….some pastor asked them: “Do you accept Jesus Christ as Lord and Savior?” To which they said: “Yes, I do.”
But now, someone in their family is saying to them:
That may be true, Grandma and Grandpa, but there’s something about that that wasn’t right. Either the words weren’t right, the mood wasn’t right, the means weren’t right, or the church (especially the church) wasn’t right. Because it wasn’t our church. It wasn’t the right church. It wasn’t the true church. So give us some assurance by doing it our way. Which we believe to be the only way. Because heaven won’t be the same without you.
Even clergy families are not immune. Steve Swecker is a fellow Methodist minister (ordained in West Virginia but now living and serving in Maine). While we have never met, we both have essays in a newly-published collection entitled Wells of Wisdom: Grandparents and Spiritual Journeys. In Steve’s essay, he describes the day he became a great disappointment to his grandmother, creating a wedge in their relationship that never healed. It was the day he was ordained as a United Methodist minister. But he can tell it better than I can.
Not once did it occur to me as a young man in my twenties that my decision to seek ordination to the Methodist ministry would distress a family member, much less Grandma. As far as I was aware, she was proud of me and her blessing seemed secure.
It stunned me, therefore, to learn through my mother that not only was Grandma not proud of my decision to enter the ministry, but she believed my doing so would effectively cut me off from any possibility of salvation. Until my vocational decision was made, she could hope that someday I would see the light and embrace the rock-ribbed Church of Christ that had shaped her spiritual understanding since childhood. According to her church’s belief, it alone possessed the gospel truth and keys to heaven. Hence, the prospect of her grandchild—her Stephen—becoming an “unsaved” United Methodist preacher erected a barrier that stood between us for the rest of her life.
One of the last times I saw Grandma after crossing the spiritual Rubicon of ordination was on the front porch of my aunt’s house, where Grandma was visiting at the time. Although I greeted her warmly as always, she scarcely acknowledged my presence, never looking me in the eye. It was a moment of profound sadness for me, one that some thirty-five years later echoes in my heart.
Well, I don’t know about you, but I feel the pain in that. I feel the pain in Grandma’s fear. I also feel the pain in Stephen’s loss (if not of heaven, then of Grandma). But I feel even greater pain when the promises of God….which are offered, I think, to bridge us together….keep wedging us apart.
Let me be both forthright and honest with you. In all my years of preaching, nothing I have said about any social issue….even the most controversial and volatile social issue….has generated as much feedback (some of a questioning nature, some of a critical nature) as my occasional claim that God’s desire is to heal all of his creation, redeem all of his children, restore all of his family, and re-gather all of his people. Meaning that heaven’s population may turn out to be more numerous than many think…more diverse than many think….more inclusive than many think….and hence, more surprising than many think. Making the “church triumphant” grander and greater than many think…..or want, if the truth be known.
I realize that every time I say that, it sounds like fingernails on the blackboard to some of you. For which I profoundly and humbly apologize. Profoundly, because I really don’t want to hurt you. Humbly, because I could be wrong.
Some years ago….though not that many, really….Robert Schuller addressed several thousand pastors in Orlando, Florida. The group included mainline and Pentecostal pastors, fundamental and charismatic pastors. After his presentation, he agreed to field questions from the congregants. I wasn’t there, but my friend and colleague Rod Wilmoth was. He describes the scene thusly:
At that point, one of the clergy said, “Dr. Schuller, I read recently that you gave an address to a national gathering of Muslims. Why did you speak to them and what did you say?” There was something about the question that implied that a Christian would have no reason to speak to such a group.
Robert Schuller, in his usual open and direct manner, said: “I was honored to speak at their national gathering. I talked about what Muslims and Christians have in common. That, in many ways, we both come from the same roots and that we could accomplish much by working together, focusing not on our differences but on our similarities.” And then, sensing the uneasiness with the question, Dr. Schuller said: “Let me tell you about a book I’m reading now. The author said, ‘Don’t be surprised if, when you die and go to heaven, you will meet people there who have never heard of Jesus Christ.’”
I doubt if everyone present especially liked what Dr. Schuller said, but it was the right thing to say, given where we are in our world today. Christians who feel that they have exclusive membership in heaven may be in for a real surprise. My congregation has often heard me say, “If you have Jewish neighbors and you’re not getting along, you had better work on improving the relationship because, in all reality, they will be with you in heaven!”
I believe that. As does Father Richard John Neuhaus (currently the most influential Catholic scholar in America). I read Father Neuhaus because he is a most eloquent spokesperson for what might be called Christian conservatism in America. I also read him because I need to give people access to me who, on many issues, think differently from me. But concerning my broader understanding of salvation, I was surprised to discover he stands with me. His recollection of how that line of thinking began is one of the best biographical memories I have read in years.
When I was a boy, no more than seven years old, I attended a “mission festival” in the Canadian hamlet of Petawawa, Ontario. The annual mission festival was a very big event among the people of that time and place. Each parish would take its turn in hosting the mission festival, and since individual churches could not hold the crowds that came from surrounding parishes, the day of preaching, prayer, hymns and picnicking was held outdoors. For such a special occasion, a guest preacher was required, and this year he came all the way from “the States,” which meant two hundred miles away in upstate New York. This preacher had a most dramatic flair in making the case for the urgency of world missions. Well into a sermon that lasted an hour or more, the preacher suddenly stopped. For a full minute there was complete silence as he looked intently at his wristwatch. Then he tossed his head, threw out his arm and, pointing directly at me in the third row, announced: “In the last minute, thirty-seven thousand lost souls have gone to eternal damnation without a saving knowledge of their Lord and Savior Jesus Christ!”
It was, I believe, the first theological crisis of my life. This seven-year-old boy was electrified. I immediately put my mind to work figuring out how many minutes we had been sitting there while thirty-seven thousand people per minute were going to hell. I looked around and was puzzled to see everybody else taking the news so calmly. Mrs. Appler was straightening the bow in her daughter’s hair, and Mr. Radke was actually smiling as he nodded approval at the preacher’s words. Hadn’t they heard what he said? In my agitated state, I wanted to jump up and shout that we had better get going right now to tell all those hell-bent people about Jesus. The real crisis came later, however. I was excited all day and had spent a restless night contending with dreams about all those people in hell. The next morning I discovered that the visiting preacher and my dad (who was the pastor of the host church) were taking three days off to go fishing.
Thirty-seven thousand people going to hell every minute and they were going fishing! I knew there was something very wrong here and wrestled with the possible explanations. Maybe they didn’t care about all those people. It was not only my dad and the other preacher, but my mom, my brothers and sisters and the entire parish who seemed to be taking very much in stride yesterday’s announcement of cosmic catastrophe. This said something not at all nice about the people who were dearest to me. Slowly, another explanation began to recommend itself. The mission festival preacher didn’t really mean what he said. Not really. And everybody understood that, except me. After a time, my initial alarm subsided as I came to think that he and they did not mean it at all, that it was just “church talk” and not to be taken too seriously.
I think the question of salvation must always be taken seriously. But I have fought for forty years against its being taken narrowly. There is much in the Bible suggesting that God’s desire is that all be saved. Let me illustrate with a few examples.
I Timothy 2:4: “God desires all to be saved and come to full knowledge of the truth.”
Ephesians 1:7-10 speaks of God’s purpose….set forth in Christ….“to unite all things in him.”
Colossians 1:15-20 suggests that the purpose of God, through the cross of Christ, is “to reconcile all things to him,” whether in heaven or on earth (suggesting that heaven may also include some who still need reconciling).
Philippians 2:5-11 suggests that it is the goal and vision that, in time, “every knee shall bow and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.”
John 12:32 has Jesus saying: “And when I am lifted up, I will draw all people to myself,” with common agreement suggesting that this passage intends nothing less than “universal range of atonement.”
Clearly, the question of your destiny (or mine) is both very personal and very important.
Will I be saved?
Will you be saved?
Will either of us go to heaven?
Or neither of us?
But the focus of such questions is surprisingly and shockingly individualistic….even self-centered. The question of the gospel is not simply: “Where will I spend eternity?” The question of the gospel is: “Will God accomplish his eternal destiny?” And what is God’s destiny? “That we might all be one” (the gospel of John). “And that we might dwell in fellowship one with another” (the first letter of John). Why? So that God’s joy (and ours, for that matter) might be complete. And having seen what God desires, it should be axiomatic that God’s desire be our desire.
Quoting Father Neuhaus again:
Not only Catholics, but probably most Christians, suspect it cannot be right that the overwhelming majority of people who have ever lived will be eternally lost to the love of God. I mean, if all the Christians in the world marshaled all the evangelistic resources in the world, and devoted twenty hours of every day to nothing but relentless proclamation of the gospel around the world, how many millions of people would still be going to hell? If this is God’s plan of salvation for a world we are told he loves so much, it would seem to be seriously flawed.
Which is why the second Vatican Council in its “Gaudiam Et Spes (The Pastoral Constitution on the Church in the Modern World)” says:
We are obliged to hold that the Holy Spirit offers everyone the possibility of sharing in the cross of Christ….in a manner known to God.
Which allows that Jesus is still “the way, the truth and the life” (John 14). But, by the working of the Holy Spirit (in ways known only to the Spirit), others who have not known Christ….who have never been introduced to Christ….or who may have chosen other than Christ….might yet have their ways and truths be brought into harmony with Christ. “Why?” asks Father Neuhaus. “That none may be lost.” And with that statement, I am quite comfortably and fraternally Catholic.
I will be sad if many are damned. I will be sad if any are damned. Sad for them. Sad for me. But sadder still for God….who will not get, at the end of the day, what God has desired from the beginning of the day.
Hell may exist. But I pray that hell is continually in the process of being emptied. As for heaven, if granted access, I won’t so much mind the company of those who behaved badly (in this life) as those who believed smugly (in this life). But if Jesus really is the Great Physician, then even spiritual arrogance can be healed.
Hearing me preach a similar sermon 28 years ago, an angry young mother (why is it always the young?) scalded me at the door: “If you mean I may have to spend eternity with the likes of Charles Manson, then I don’t want to go.” Not quite knowing what came over me….or who came into me….all I could think of to say was: “Gail, beggars can’t be choosers.”
* * * * *
But just in case you are wondering, I am so glad I gave my life to Jesus Christ early in my teenage years. Not because I might have died. But because I didn’t.
Note: I am aware that other New Testament passages can be cited that would appear to contradict the universality of God’s desire “that all be saved.” I have wrestled with those passages in previous sermons and chose not to read them into the record here. If the Bible spoke with the clarity of “one voice” on this matter, we would have less conflict in theology classes and fewer arguments in the church.
For purposes of this sermon, I am heavily indebted to Richard John Neuhaus and his penetrating book, Death on a Friday Afternoon: Meditations on the Last Words of Jesus From the Cross. Those of a more conservative bent will find Father Neuhaus interesting, given his attempts to reconcile John 14:6 with a more universal understanding of salvation. For persons not wishing to read the entire book, a careful study of chapters two and five will unwrap the main argument.
Steve Swecker’s reminiscence of his grandmother can be found in a new book entitled Wells of Wisdom:Grandparents and Spiritual Journeys (edited by Andrew Weaver and Carolyn Stapleton). Rodney Wilmoth’s remembrance of Robert Schuller can be found in his book, How United Methodists Share Their Faith. And I am grateful to my friend, Jim Standiford of First United Methodist Church, San Diego, for recalling the old joke about St. Peter and the doors in heaven. Ironically, the sermon in which Jim shared this story was entitled “Full House.”
