First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan
Scripture: Matthew 13:24-30
The pink card by the kitchen sink, addressed to my wife, announced a meeting of the Landscape Committee at 1:00 this coming Wednesday. Note that the card was not addressed to me. Nobody lets me anywhere near the Landscape Committee….or the landscape, for that matter. That’s not because I am lacking in brawn for the work, so much as I am lacking in brain for the work. Meaning that I can’t tell what belongs in the garden from what doesn’t. At least that’s my story. And so long as it keeps dirt from the undersides of my fingernails, I am sticking to it.
But here comes this parable, which drives me right into the ground, whether I like it or not. About seeds, it is. And weeds, it is. Jesus says: “Let me tell you a little something about the Kingdom. A man sows good seed in his field (we later learn that it is wheat). But when everybody is asleep, an enemy comes and sows weeds in the field.” Meaning that when the wheat grows up and begins to look like what it is, the weeds also grow up and begin to look like what they are. Which isn’t wheat….although given my lack of experience on the Landscape Committee, the distinction is probably lost on me. But the servants….the field hands….the folks who are out there day after sweaty day….they know. So they say to the owner: “Did you not sow good seeds?” And the owner says: “Yes.” Leading the servants to ask: “Well, how do you explain these weeds?” To which comes the answer: “An enemy has done this.”
Now don’t get sidetracked here. Jesus does not tell the story in order to get you focused on the enemy. Jesus doesn’t name the enemy. Matthew doesn’t name the enemy. None of us knows who the enemy is….or who the enemies are. It doesn’t say that the enemy is supernatural or extraterrestrial. It doesn’t say that the enemy is from next door or from the next town. It just says that the weeds cannot be traced back to the owner of the field. Make no more of it than that. Although, if you want to latch onto one of the better lines of the week, recall the folk wisdom of the recently-departed Mother Waddles, who was fond of saying that “we live in a society that creates a lot of monsters”….“enemies in the night,” she might have said.
Which brings us back to the servants who say (concerning the weeds): “Do you want us to go into the field and cut them out?” To which I would have answered:
Yes, by all means. Get rid of them. Be careful about it. But do it. If it doesn’t belong, pull it up.…cut it down….trim it off….hit it with a shot of Round-Up….whatever it takes. We can’t have all those weeds messing things up, choking things out, threatening to take over. No, we can’t have that at all.
Which is the most natural response in the world. Got some bad weeds in the classroom….yank ‘em out. Got some bad weeds on the team….kick ‘em off. Got a bad weed in your daughter’s life….show him the door. Got some people who won’t work, won’t learn our ways, won’t speak our language, and do nothing but clog up the welfare rolls….put ‘em on the boat and send ‘em back where they came from. Everybody deserves a chance. But nobody is guaranteed a place. You’ve got to pull your weight….do your share….contribute to the betterment of the whole….of course you do. You can’t let a few ruin it for the many. That’s what they say.
Consider the extreme….as in convicted criminal sex offenders (especially repetitive criminal sex offenders). You say you don’t want them in the neighborhood. Who does? You say you can’t keep them out. Well, at least label them. Tell everyone they bought the house down the street. Post their names on the World Wide Web. Stick a sign in their front yard: “Weed Here.” At the very least, do that. Single ‘em out, even if you can’t weed ‘em out.
On a lesser scale, consider the church. There is some speculation….unproven, but persistent…. that this parable is intended for the church. Which makes sense to me. I have yet to serve a church that couldn’t benefit from a little weeding. I’ve never been a district superintendent, but there’s a phrase I have heard at least eighty percent of them say. They’ll be talking among themselves….off the record….not for publication.…on the QT.….about one of the more troublesome churches on their district (preacher-eating churches, you might say). Then, as if to accentuate the impossibility of a quick turnaround, the superintendent will say: “No, the only thing that will help that church is two or three good funerals.” Which is another way of saying: “That church has got problems. Preacher can’t fix ‘em. Superintendent can’t fix ‘em. Bishop can’t fix ‘em. Ain’t nothing gonna happen until the Grim Reaper fixes ‘em.”
Every year, for far different reasons, we weed the church rolls. Doesn’t come. Doesn’t give. One year. Two years. Three years. Get out the hoe. Which I hate to do. Not because I’m into big numbers. But because I feel like such a failure. It’s always easy to weed the rolls for the first couple of years. That’s because you’re weeding out dead wood left by your predecessor. But along about year four, you’re weeding out your own. Not that you can do it willy-nilly. There are rules and procedures to be followed. But even when you’re squeaky clean, things come back to haunt you. Two churches back, there was a guy who hadn’t been seen or heard from for more than a decade. So we removed him. Five years after that, he died. His son came from out of town to handle the details. The son told the funeral director he didn’t care what preacher did the service, as long as it wasn’t Ritter. Why? Because I threw his daddy out of the church. That’s what he said.
Which hurt me. So I told a couple of friends in the congregation. But they said: “No, you did right. You’ve got to clean the rolls.” Recalling Elijah, who stood before God and declared: “Lord, I’m the only one you’ve got left. Everybody else has bowed their knee to Baal. Which means they’re off the rolls. So you’d better take care of me, Lord, or you won’t have anybody.”
Which recalls the man who was shipwrecked and drifted at sea until he chanced to land on an otherwise uninhabited island. Over the course of 20 years, he managed to carve out a modest but comfortable existence for himself. Finally another shipwreck threw another visitor his way. Showing the newcomer around, he pointed out his house….his cabana….his storage shed….his church. The church was small, but complete with steeple, cross, prayer bench and a pew. Exiting this humble worship space and walking along the beach, the newcomer spotted a small building that looked (for all the world) like the one he’d just left. Pointing out the similarity, he asked the 20-year settler: “What’s that?” “Oh,” said the settler, “that’s the church I used to go to.” Once you start weeding things out, where do you stop?
Which must have been on the owner’s mind (the owner of the field in the parable, I mean), given his response to his servants:
Leave the weeds alone. Let ‘em grow. As problems go, that’s one less for you to worry about. Just let things be. Because once you start, you will end up doing more harm than good. So don’t start. Get rid of your weed digger, weed cutter, weed eater and weed whacker. Retire your Round-Up. Trash your trowel. Sheath your scythe. For God’s sake, cut the weeds some slack.
Now you’ve got to remember that this story is told as a parable of the Kingdom. And the Kingdom is about God and how God works….not necessarily about us and how we work. God is clearly the owner-figure here. And God is saying to the servant-figures (guess who they are?): “Let’s get clear about my role in this process, as distinguished from your role in this process. Your role in this process is to leave the weeds alone.” Why? Two reasons.
First, because you can’t always tell which are weeds and which aren’t. Not because you are stupid or horticulturally challenged, but because things are not always what they appear to be. Weeds and wheat do not come clearly marked. You may think you know the difference. But you don’t.
Fred Craddock writes:
Folks, I’m telling you, I do not know a weed from wheat. Nor do I know a weed from a flower. I’ll be pulling back the blade, ready to assault this bunch of weeds, and there will be my wife, Nettie, saying: “Wait….wait….wait….wait!” Then, that night at the supper table, there will be that weed in a vase in the center of the table. It looked like a weed. I thought it was a weed. But I do not know a weed from a flower. And every church I have known that has tried to weed the garden has made terrible mistakes. This is God’s business, don’t you see. God said: “In the harvest, I will take care of such things. I am the only one who knows weeds from wheat. So leave well enough alone.”
Second, we are to leave well enough alone, not only because God can tell weeds from wheat, but because God can turn weeds into wheat. Weeds today. Wheat tomorrow. It’s really quite possible. That is, if you believe in God.
I’ve seen it happen. You’ve seen it happen. It’s happened all around you. Maybe it’s even happened to you. Look back at your old pictures. I’ll bet some of you looked pretty weedy. I’ll bet some of you were the little kid your friends’ parents didn’t want them to play with. I’ll bet some of you were the kid who, at one time or another, someone thought ought to be weeded from the classroom. I’ll bet some of you were the kid who the coach was advised to drop from the team (can’t throw, can’t hit, can’t catch, drools in the outfield, get rid of him). I’ll bet some of you were the creep some girl’s father told her to dump, or the girl about whom some guy’s mother said: “She’s all right, I guess. But she’s not for you.” I’ll even bet some of you were the college roommate that a pair of parents prayed their son or daughter would never be linked with. But look at you, you little weed. Look at what you became. Thank God, somebody spared the sickle way back then. You might have been history.
Not that some aren’t….history, I mean. They did something wrong….got labeled….got weeded….got themselves yanked right out of the garden. From time to time we have clergy who momentarily forget who they’re married to. These days, we weed ‘em out fast. We don’t fool around with those who fool around. Now you see ‘em. Now you don’t. And may never again. Which is good, in the case of those who are predators. Which some are. But which is bad, in the case of those who are simply stupid. Which some are. To be sure, the denomination has a reentry process….long….hard….laborious….at the end of which, reinstatement to the ministry is possible. On paper. Except that hardly anybody gets reinstated anymore. “It’s too much of a gamble,” some say. “It’s a problem of institutional liability,” some say. So it’s easier to shoot the wounded. Once a weed. Always a weed.
Except, I’ll tell you this. Were the whole clergy staff to disappear overnight (which I hope and pray they don’t), the fastest way I know to restock and reload would be to include, among the hirees, two or three colleagues whose credentials have been stripped and will not likely be restored….even though they, themselves, have been restored, and could perform wonderful ministry in the restoration of others.
I have grown tired of the shallow determinism that says: “You can’t change a leopard’s spots, you know. Neither can you teach an old dog new tricks.” Wrong! If you believe in God, you have to think differently about the future possibilities of spotted leopards and aged dogs.
Concerning leopards, I know next to nothing. But concerning dogs, I’ve met a few. Pet dogs. Show dogs. Hound dogs. Guide dogs. Tracers. Racers.
I knew a racing dog once….down Florida way….greyhound, if I remember right. He lined up on a track with all the other greyhounds. Gun went off. Dogs went off. Around the oval. Toward the wire. Chasing a mechanical rabbit. Until this particular greyhound retired. Called it quits, just like that. I didn’t know him all that well. But, as luck would have it, I got invited to his retirement party. Talking to him afterward, I said: “Do you miss the glitter and excitement of the track?”
“No,” he replied.
“Well, what was the matter? Did you get too old to race?”
“No, I still had some race left in me.”
“Well, what then? Did you not win?” I asked.
“I won over a million dollars for my owner.”
“So, what was it? Bad treatment?”
“Oh no,” the dog said. “They treated us royally when we were racing.”
“Did you get crippled?”
“No.”
“Then why?” I pressed.
“I quit,” he said.
“You quit?”
“Yes. I just quit.”
“Well, why did you quit?”
“I quit the day I discovered that what I was chasing was not really a rabbit.” Then he looked at me very seriously and said: “All that running, and running, and running, and running….and what I was chasing, it wasn’t even real.”
Old dog. New trick.
A whole new life, just like that. That’s what I believe. Yes, that’s exactly what I believe.
Note: Once again I find myself indebted to Fred Craddock for his thematic twist on an old text and his inventive gift for telling a story. Shortly after completing this sermon, I read this quote by Rochelle Riley in a Detroit Free Press column about the plight of the CEO of Detroit Public Schools. Concerning Dr. Kenneth Burnley, Rochelle wrote: “He’s talking to some parents whose kids are weeds growing wild without nurturing or guidance, kids who sometimes steal the sun from other little flowers struggling for excellence beside them.” Interesting!
