First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan
Scripture: Malachi 2:13-16, II Corinthians 4:7-12
The prompting of this morning's title led a friend of mine to recall an ancient memory, concerning the summer he and his friends vacationed on the shores of Lake Michigan. Bored by the third day, the three boys were hungry for something to do. Which was when they found the boat. Half-buried in the sand, it had been clearly abandoned the previous winter. But they dug it loose, cleaned it up, and created something of a gummy-gluey mixture to caulk the cracks. Then they named it "Hell's Mess."
The next morning they put out to sea, taking oars, lunches and three coffee cans (just in case). I was tempted to ask: "Just in case what?" But I kept my mouth shut and let my friend get on with his story. Since everybody wanted to row first, they more-or-less tried doing it simultaneously. This worked for a while, at least until the gummy-gluey stuff failed and the boat began to leak. Without any discussion about the need to shift responsibilities, first one boy and then a second took coffee cans and began to bail. My friend, who truly merits the term "eternal optimist," kept on rowing toward the state of Wisconsin. But eventually, even he dropped his oars and picked up a can.
In similar sequence (and with still no discussion over who next needed to do what), first one boy and then the second put down his can, jumped over the side, and began half-swimming, half-pushing the boat toward shore. My friend said: "All the while I kept bailing, confident that each coffee can was going to be the one that stemmed the surge and turned the corner." Then he added: "But that's just my nature. I'm generally the last one to bail out on anything."
So it goes in life. Some of us keep on bailing, after others of us have long-since bailed out. Each of us addresses the hopelessness of a given situation at our own pace. For some it becomes a gut-wrenching decision.
Consider the 84-year-old man who desperately wanted to join my church in Livonia. For years he lived in our neighborhood, attended many of our functions, and became acquainted with our people. Yet every Sunday morning he got in his car and drove 20 miles to a dying, inner-city church. The neighborhood had changed. The membership had changed. Finally, he was the last old member left. He felt he couldn't leave as long as they needed him, although it was far from certain that the newly-appointed pastor valued or even understood his sacrifice. His story was a little bit heroic and a little bit sad. When it gradually became more sad than heroic, he began to ask me with increasing frequency: "How much longer do you think I should hang in there?" And as much as I loved him as a friend and wanted him as a parishioner, I never knew quite what to answer. For you see, the building to which he was driving so religiously each Sunday morning was my boyhood church.
Or consider my preacher-friend….closer to 54 than 84….who recently raised the same question. He's been at it for 28 years (of which, by normal human reckoning, there have been but a handful of good years.) He moves often. But he never moves up. No church keeps him very long. No church pays him very much. He knows but one way to do ministry….and figures that the "day" for his "way" passed several years ago. He also figures that he's "too close to the end" to learn a new way. On bad days, he worries that he's doing the church more harm than good. On good days, he remembers his promise to God and counts the years he has left to be a "good soldier."
Which, I would have to say, has not been all that difficult for me. As commitments go, I am still serving the same Lord….in the same profession….for the same denomination….with the same woman….as when I first began. Most of which has been good. Little of which has been hard. But others have not found it so. Some have broken commitments they have made. And some are, even now, being broken by them. Meaning that there may be (much as I would wish it otherwise) times for walking away. And the church which does not understand this will, over time, become one of the places that is walked away from.
To those who have already walked away, the church has tended to say one of two words….either a word of rejection (as in "sorry that you had to leave, but there could no longer be a place for you here"), or a word of reconciliation (as in "God loves you and we love you; come, let us begin your reconstruction together"). I would hope that we are a church of the latter word, rather than a church of the former word. But I fear that in our confusion over what to say, sometimes we say nothing, and our silence is viewed as one of rejection rather than reconciliation.
But what about those who are still considering walking away….giving up….letting go? Do we have any word for them which will help them in their agonizing? I have yet to hear any pulpit address that question. I have wrestled with such issues for a long time. Only now am I beginning to develop a set of guidelines which make sense to me. In fact, what I am about to say is still so unformed, that I wouldn't want to lump my suggestions under the heading of "guidelines" at all. Instead, I would set them before you as "considerations" on the way to a hard decision.
So let's assume that you presently find yourself in the predicament I describe. Let's assume that a commitment that once seemed "right as rain" now seems "dry as dust." Let's assume that you are feeling both burdened and pained. And let's further assume that, at long last, you have sighted a door….or a sign (hinting at a door)….that reads "this way out." How do you know whether it is time to leave?
I am going to suggest seven windows through which to view that question. None is meant to stand alone. And all, taken together, may not make a compelling case. In sharing them, I am not going to say a great deal about them. Instead, I'm going to read them….close with an Ari Goldman story….and then leave you to "chew."
It may (just may) be time to think about leaving….
1. When you are no longer doing yourself any good. When you are experiencing
no good….feeling no good….and being led to believe that, at the very deepest
level of your being, you probably are no good.
2. When you are no longer doing anybody else any good. When there is little
evidence that anybody is better off as a result of your persevering in marriage,
ministry, or whatever. When no one who is counting on your "hanging in there"
will be appreciably harmed if you don't.
3. When all that seems to be resulting from your efforts is more harm than good.
When you find yourself speaking and acting in ways that are more indicative of your worst self than your best self. And when, in the act of persevering, you find
yourself becoming more and more perverse.
4. When you are hurting the body….by being tense all the time….sick much of the
time….abused some of the time….and self-destructive in the darkest of times.
5. When you are killing the soul, by the fact that more is consistently going out from
you than is coming back to you. When you are underfed….undernourished….
and withering (as they say) on the vine.
6. When you are the only one who seems to care, to the point of discovering that
without a mutuality of effort, it is hard to accomplish anything alone.
7. When, having prayed to God, it seems that God is no longer giving you the
strength to stand. As to when that point is, I don't really know. But I suppose
it is the point when you find that you are no longer standing.
It should be obvious that these are some tough considerations. It should be equally obvious that they can be applied to any number of stay-or-leave possibilities. But since the most common such arena is that of marriage and divorce, let's pull this together around that issue. How do you leave a lover? There must be "Fifty Ways To Leave A Lover," says Paul Simon.
Slip out the back, Jack.
Get on the bus, Gus.
Make a new plan, Fran.
Toss in the key, Lee.
And get yourself free.
And for many, it would seem as if it were just that easy. It's not, of course. And one suspects that Paul Simon knows it. Ari Goldman certainly does. Ari Goldman is an Orthodox Jew….former religion editor of the New York Times….mid-life Harvard Divinity School enrollee….published author (The Search for God at Harvard)….and himself, a child of divorce. Listen to him on the latter subject, some twenty years after the fact.
To my mind, divorce is a deplorable breach of contract for which children shouldbe allowed to sue. Consider the facts. Two people, with the best of intentions, agree to create a human being. They promise to give it love, a home, security and happiness. Then something goes awry. They find that they really hate each other or cannot live with each other. But, in separating, they put themselves first. They forget about the contract they have with the child. They rationalize that this new state of affairs will surely be "best for the children." Yet they never ask the children.
Didn't my parents, by divorcing, spare me a home where fighting and anger were the regular modes of communication? Not necessarily. For I believe that as in-compatible as they were then (and remain to this day), they could have learned to stop shouting and slamming doors. At least they could have learned all of that more easily than I was able to learn to be a child of divorce.
I feel the force of that. I hear the pain of that. I'm not even sure I know what to make of that. I am certain that Ari Goldman's parents would have written the story differently. They probably had good reasons for leaving. But there were still three Goldman boys who felt that their marriage, bad as it was, was still good for something. Namely, it was good for the boys.
And, employing my list of seven considerations (especially number 2), minor children are always enough reason to "keep on keeping on." Especially when the issue is marital happiness.… or lack thereof. To the lady with three kids who wanted to know if divorce is justified, seeing as how she no longer loves their father, the answer (from the church's perspective) is a no-brainer. Of course it's not.
Or consider the mother who came late of an evening to the parsonage after I had preached a sermon earlier that morning entitled, "How Many Times Do You Take The Prodigal Back?" She poured out the story of this kid.…early twenties….drop- out….jobless….brushes with the law…. bouts with addition….and a growing flirtation with the neo-Nazi movement. This kid was a real pain in the house, not to mention other areas. But she finally reached the end of her rope. She wanted to change the locks. She also wanted to know what I thought. "I'm tired of hanging in there," was the way she put it. And while she was talking to me in my study, the kid saw her car in my driveway, causing him to take his truck and do a lawn job all over mygrass.
Or consider a divorced friend of mine who is currently attending services at what I euphemistically refer to as "The Church of What's Happening Now." He likes it because the minister is liberal….more liberal than me. His complaint with other churches is that they make him feel guilty. To be specific, they make him feel guilty about his divorce. It's not that they say so in so many words. "It's just part of the package," is how he puts it. He believes that when the church lays on all that "'til death do us part" language….at a time when most people don't understand such commitments (or themselves for that matter)…. the church is setting people up for a fall. In other words, if the church tells you that you are supposed to hang in there forever, and you can't, the church is partly to blame for what happens. To be sure, the church isn't responsible for your divorce. But it's at least partly the church's fault that you feel so darn bad about it afterward.
And time would fail me, were I to tell you of others who have asked, in the wake of a difficult marriage….a difficult family situation….a difficult friendship….a difficult calling….or some other once-happy commitment gone sour…."How much longer do I have to hang in there?"
It's one of the toughest questions I face as a pastor. For to a society that seems to regard commitments as hastily-purchased articles of clothing which can be taken back to the "return desk" at will (and for virtually any reason), I find myself wanting to say some hard-line words about perseverance and permanence. But to my struggling parishioners, whose pain I have borne, whose burdens I have shared, and whose guilt level is already such that I would rather not add any more to it, I find myself wanting to say: "Sometimes it's all right to walk away." It's the age-old debate, so familiar to everyone in my profession. When do you preach law? And when do you preach grace?
For it is clear that ours is a hard-line, high-expectation gospel. It asks of us more than the world does. It expects of us more than the world does. It thinks nothing of requiring that we go beyond convenience….beyond comfort….even beyond happiness….in holding fast to the deepest commitment in our lives. The term "second mile" was coined to describe a level of perseverance which is clearly out-of-the-ordinary for the average bloke, but well within the scope of what is expected of Christians. Much of the advice in Paul's letters takes the form of encouragement, offered to those who are about to drop out, fall away from, or quit on some significant venture. To which Paul's word….simply and repetitively given….is "Don't."
Concerning the marriage commitment, Paul says (in capsule form): I'm not really much in favor of marriage for myself, but if you get yourselfin that state, you ought to stay in that state. Jesus' own anti-divorce word is as strong a word as he delivers to anybody about anything. And the number of New Testament warnings about "falling away" convey an impression that treating commitments lightly is much frowned upon. The ethic of the first-century church is clearly a "perseverance ethic," to the degree that the great festival "Te Deum" of the early church exalts both "the glorious company of the apostles" and "the goodly fellowship of the martyrs." And the ultimate model of the Christ-like life is that we who walk in the way of Jesus are following the one who hung-in-there until he hung- up- there!
Still, people leave. They leave justifiably or not. They leave with an eye to the guidelines or with a blatant disregard for guidelines. They leave after careful planning or on a whim in the middle of the night. Whatever be the case, they let go. They split. They cease hanging in there. They stop bailing and bail out. Are they bad people? Should guilt consume them? Should censure be visited upon them? Should vengeance be taken against them?
Listen to Ari Goldman:
For years I harbored a fantasy that I would one day get married and invite all my relatives on both my mother's and father's sides to a festive wedding banquet and it would be up to me to make the seating arrangements. My mother and my father would be at the same table. My aunt, who for years filled my ears with ugly gossip about my grandmother, would be seated next to her. The family members who disliked each other the most would have to look at each other, forcing them to smile and be polite. The main course would be rib steak and the table would be set with steak knives so sharp that they would reflect the light dancing off the chandeliers. Then, in the middle of the meal, just as the family (in the midst of their collective politeness) would be lifting their knives to cut into the steak, I would sneak outside and pull the main power switch. Suddenly the hall would be plunged into total darkness. And I would sit back and see who, if anyone, would survive.
It's an interesting fantasy. But not a very biblical one. For time and again, Jesus suggests consideration of a similar fantasy….a wedding feast. And Jesus says that when everything is the way that God intends it to be, everybody is going to be there….
· the saint and the sinner
· the just and the judged
· the righteous and the unrighteous
· those who abandon ship early and those who are bailing yet
· the leavers and the left
· his side, her side
· the right side, the left side
· the inside and the outside
· Paul Simon…. Carly Simon….Simple Simon….Ari Goldman.
And at the dramatic moment we shall all be plunged into light (not darkness) and will use our razor-sharp steak knives on the succulent ribs of the fatted calf rather than on the cold, hard hearts of each other.
And this shallhave been made possible—not because we hung in there with each other—but because God (in His infinite mercy) hung in there with us.
Amen.
