Dr. William A. Ritter
First United Methodist Church
Birmingham, Michigan
Scripture: Genesis 11:1-9
June 6, 2004
Once upon a time they came from the East, found a level plain in the Land of Shinar, and built a city where they settled. They were as ingenious as they were industrious. They were all on the same page, given that they were all of the same language. There was no stopping them. But figuring that no city deserves its name….or claims its fame….without a tower, they built one of those, too. Higher and higher it went until its top was said to be “in the heavens.” This, of course, was before the days of elevators or giant construction cranes. It was incredibly impressive. “That’ll show ‘em,” they said. Or “That’ll show Him”….maybe that is what they said.
And do not diminish what they accomplished. Such unanimity of effort (labor and management) is worthy of applause. I would love to have been there for the ribbon cutting. I could have given the invocation, had there been one.
But there wasn’t. You have to read between the lines to realize that there wasn’t. But it’s there if you look for it….the omission of the invocation, I mean. God wasn’t addressed. So God got miffed. Elsewhere, in the same section of scripture from which this story is drawn, we are told that “the Lord our God is a jealous God.” Meaning that God takes such oversights personally. So to the tower builders who said, “We’ll show Him,” God said, “I’ll show them.”
And you know what happened. Sure, you know what happened. Did you ever spend several hours building something out of Legos (or Lincoln Logs) only to have your father (or anybody….but for the sake of my analogy, let’s make it your father) knock it into a zillion components, with pieces of it flying into every nook and cranny of creation? Well, in a way of speaking, that’s what happened to the tower. All because there was no invoking at the ribbon cutting. God said: “We can’t have this. We’ve got to nip this in the bud. I mean, just look:
· They are one people.
· They have one language.
· This is only the beginning of what they’ll do.
· And, from this point forward, nothing they propose will be impossible.”
So God said: “Let us go down there.” (Who, one wonders, constituted the “us”….unless it is the earlier “us” of “Let us make man in our image after our likeness.”) “Let us go down there,” said God. “Let us scatter them….confuse their language….and put an end to this building program once and for all.” And for years I thought that meant that God demolished the tower. But the text doesn’t say that in so many words. It is the people who are scattered rather than the bricks. But the net result was the same. The pecking order of the universe was reestablished, so that (when measured against God Almighty) everybody knew who they were….and, more importantly, who they weren’t.
So, is this story history or is this story theology? It’s theology, although its point gets played out over and over in the pages of history. You could say it is a story about pride going before a fall. In reality, it is a story about pride ensuring a fall. This is one of those Bible stories that is less about the way it was than about the way it is. Those who invade God’s space….or assume God’s place….shall be leveled.
Funny that I should have used the word “story” to describe a tale about a tower. Because in our culture….and in our language….the word “story” is often used in association with tall buildings. Someone asks: “How tall is that building?” Someone else answers: “That, my friend, is a two-story building….or a ten-story building…..or a twelve-story building.” Which is a funny way to phrase it, given that we could just as easily say that a building has ten levels….or, even more to the point, ten floors….so why do we say it has ten stories? Well, it goes back to an earlier day in Europe, when artists painted scenes from stories known to the people (sometimes Bible stories, sometimes local fables) around the perimeters of buildings. In other words, if you walked around the outside walls you could follow the plot of the story.
This was especially true of houses. It was a big deal to have a story painted on the walls of your dwelling place. And when your dwelling place was expanded upward (perhaps to accommodate another family), the artist returned to paint scenes from a new story around the upper level. So that when you told a stranger where you lived….or how to find your house….you told that stranger that you lived at the second story (not so much on the second story, but behind the second story). And thus it was that a word from the world of literature became associated with the world of architecture.
But there’s a living, breathing story behind other inanimate things that, in and of themselves, have neither life nor breath. When you go to Alta Yager’s house, the first thing you notice is her basket collection. But hers aren’t baskets woven from reeds or sweet grass. Hers are formed from glass, clay or materials of similar hardness.
Alta says that when people ask if they can come and see her baskets, she is always willing to oblige….provided they allot at least an hour to the viewing. Because, as Alta says: “I can’t show you the baskets without telling you the stories….of how I got them…..where I got them…. and the fascinating people whose lives were connected with my getting them.” Which is why, in downsizing, Alta is expending as much care in dispensing them as she did in collecting them. She wants people to have them who will appreciate the stories behind them.
Things have stories. And many of those things become more valuable as they age because the stories associated with them become more precious as they age. Sometimes we keep a thing because of its story. Other times we buy a thing because of its story. Kris and I once bought an antique table in a village in England because the dealer told us it came from a village church where it held the bread and wine that once serviced communion. Since then, virtually every other dealer who has seen it has told us that its original home was more likely a pub than a church, where it serviced a rather different sort of communion. In other words, the dealer who sold it to us simply fashioned a story to fit my profession. So we gave the table to Julie.
But the same logic explains why, in our new house, Kris and I went considerably overboard….both in mess created and money expended….to rip up the old tiles and install new tiles in the room where we eat our breakfast and read the morning paper. Because the new tiles are not new at all. They’re old….between 500 and 1,000 years old….when they were originally part of the streets of Old Jerusalem. Where we have been four times. And where Jesus was at least three times. Not that we (or he) ever walked on them there. But the connection is there, don’t you see. We didn’t pay all that money for the floor. We paid all that money for the story.
Other times people pay because of the story. Isn’t much of the crisis of the Middle East story-related? This was never clearer to me than a week ago Wednesday in our Christian Life Center, when 600 people came to see a production of Detroit’s Mosaic Youth Theater entitled Children of Abraham. Following which I got to sit on a reaction panel with, among others, a rabbi and an imam.
The play was about religious differences today and their rootage in the ancient stories of yesterday. Many of which began with Abraham and his two sons. There was Ishmael, born to Abraham and his wife’s servant girl, Hagar. And there was Isaac, born to Abraham and his wife, Sarah. Most everybody knows that it is through Isaac, the second born (which, when translated, literally means “laughter”) that the Jewish people trace their heritage. While it is through Ishmael, the first born (which, literally translated, means “wanderer”) that the Muslim people trace their heritage.
But what most people do not know….or did not know until a week ago Wednesday….is that both Jews and Muslims (in the Torah and the Koran, respectively) have a story in which God challenges the faith of Abraham by requiring him to sacrifice his son on a makeshift altar, only to have that son spared at the last possible moment. In the Jewish story, Isaac is prepared for the sacrifice, only to be spared when a ram appears as a substitute. In the Muslim story, Ishmael is prepared for the sacrifice, only to be spared when Abraham’s knife (heretofore trustworthy and sharp) proves too dull to cut his son’s tender flesh. Same story. Same script. Same sacrificial intent. Same dramatic reprieve. Same father holding the same knife. The only difference being the name of the victim. And to whatever degree the story is literally true, then the Muslim version might conceivably have greater claim to authenticity, given that (in that culture) the sacrifice of the first born would stand as a greater sacrifice than that of the second born. Unless, of course, the first born didn’t count as the first born, given who his mother was….or wasn’t.
Now go with me to the old city of Jerusalem and climb the Temple Mount where the Jewish temple once stood, but where a world-famous mosque now stands. I’m talking about the Dome of the Rock, capped entirely in gold. Let’s pause a minute to take off our shoes before entering. Let me also issue a warning to all of you men: Don’t touch your wives or your girlfriends in or around the mosque. Which I did….and for which I was loudly rebuked (“No touch. No touch.”). Then let me take you to the center of the mosque, which is nothing more than a rock. Albeit a very big rock. Which both Jews and Muslims believe is Mount Moriah. And which, as both Jews and Muslims tell it, was where Abraham brought Ishmael….or was it Isaac?….for the sacrifice. But the Muslims are able to trump the Jews, two stories to one, because not only was Ishmael nearly sacrificed here, but this is the same rock from which Mohammed and his horse ascended into heaven. Look right over here. Can’t you see the hoof print in the rock? That’s the last hoof of Mohammed’s horse pushing off to glory. Maybe.
So what does this have to do with any of us? Why do Christians care who controls the Temple Mount? We have relatively little investment in the near-sacrifice of Ishmael or Isaac. And we have no investment in the heavenly ascendancy of Mohammed and his horse. But there is a connection, don’t you see. For while the story is not widely known, many Christians believe that Jesus will return physically to earth and be led (back) into Jerusalem by Elijah (Elijah being the only biblical figure said to have ascended to heaven without first dying). The story goes on to say that Elijah will lead Jesus into the city through the Beautiful Gate….sometimes called the Golden Gate. Which is alleged to be the gate of the Palm Sunday entry. And where is that gate located? I’ll tell you where that gate is located. Look for it at the perimeter of the Temple Mount, adjacent to the Dome of the Rock. You can still see the outline of the gate in the wall that surrounds the old city. But there is no opening in the gate, given that it has been bricked up. That way, if Elijah and Jesus do return that way, they will have their way blocked and their plan thwarted. One piece of real estate. Three peoples claiming it. Each, because of a story (or stories) associated with it. Amazing. And perplexing.
But if you find that odd, I have a question for you. Is any space….or anything that stands in any space….deemed sacred apart from the stories associated with it? I remember, along about the third or fourth grade, asking my minister where Holy Water came from. I don’t know what answer might have pleased me, but I suppose I was expecting him to say: “From the Holy Water store.” I never expected him to say: “From the sink.” But that’s where our baptismal water comes from. There’s a sink in the sacristy, right behind where the altos and the basses are sitting. That’s where we get the water for baptism every time we celebrate the sacrament. Unless, of course, some grandparent collects water from the River Jordan (but probably never thinks to boil it, lest in boiling the germs out of it, they also boil Jesus out of it). No, it’s not the water that is holy, nor is it the Jordan that is holy. It’s the story of Jesus in the water of the Jordan that is holy.
Throughout our discussion of our sanctuary’s restoration, I have listened to your stories (over and over again). You have told me about what you did here. What God did here. How the Spirit moved in your life here. Leading you, as a person, to say: “Fix it….even improve it….but, for God’s sake and for my sake, don’t mess with it.” I mean, this is the very place where, 52 years ago, Russ Ives was carried into the church by one woman. And where, 52 years from now, Russ will be carried out by six men. If I know Russ, he’ll be singing all the way. And this sanctuary has a million stories, just like that one.
But we can tell those stories until we are short of breath and weak of voice. And if they are merely our stories….especially if we become the center, sole occupant and (worse yet) the hero of those stories….they won’t be enough. They won’t be enough, no matter how much we tell them or how high we pile them.
For there’s another story, don’t you see. The other day, I happened upon a bumper sticker which read: “If garbage collectors and ministers went on strike the same day, which would you missfirst?” I winced at the comparison. Because I know the answer as well as you do. The garbage collectors would be missed first. But, over time, I believe the clergy would be missed most. Because when your liverwurst begins to smell, it’s one thing. But when your lives begin to smell, it’s another. Take us preachers away for very long and the stench will be unbearable. Which is why it’s time we stop apologizing for the word we preach. Not only is it a word about life and death, but (to those who are perishing) a word of life and death.
We have a story that not only changes lives, but saves lives. You remember Scheherazade? She was one of the wives of the emperor of Persia. And Persia’s emperor was a man who was convinced that all women were unfaithful. So he vowed he would marry a new wife each day, have his way with her at night, and have her executed early the next morning. Which constitutes a rather large problem for the wife. Except that Scheherazade was a very clever woman, one who set out to save not only her own neck, but the necks of all the women in Persia. So on her wedding night, she began to tell the emperor a tale that so fascinated him, he decided to stay her execution for an additional night so he could hear the rest of the story. You know the outcome as well as I do. Scheherazade kept on talking, and so fascinated the emperor that he listened to her tales for a thousand and one Arabian nights. After which he was sufficiently convinced of her fidelity that he made her his consort.
Don’t you see? Some stories are the thread upon which life itself depends. And the “old, old story of Jesus and his love” is the one we preachers put forth as our means of offering the world a stay of execution. It’s what people like me tell to people like you….in places like this….on Sundays like these.
I love to tell the story,
’Twill be my theme in glory,
To tell the old, old story
Of Jesus and his love.
