Dr. William A. Ritter
First United Methodist Church
Birmingham, Michigan
Scripture: Genesis 3:8-10, Psalm 139:1-6, I Corinthians 13:12-13
October 12, 2003
It seemed odd when she said it, but (as I was soon to learn) there was much more to it. She was bright, vivacious, talented, attractive and young. He was bright, vivacious, talented, handsome and less young. Color her, mid-twenties. Color him, pushing forty….not as in nudging forty, so much as in shoving forty. He was my friend. My divorced friend. She was his friend. His new friend. His new, never-before-married friend.
Her odd remark came in a casual conversation about their alikes and differences. Swimming, supposedly, was one of the “alikes.” “I love it,” she said. “He claims to love it, too. But, for as many times as I suggest it, he makes excuses not to do it.” Which he let pass while she was present. But once we were alone, he came clean.
I suppose you are wondering about the swimming thing. I like swimming, boating, water-skiing….all those things. But I’ve got a hang-up that is connected to the difference in our ages. I’m getting a little thin on top (if you know what I mean). But with a creative comb-over that I’ve mastered (and a liberal amount of hairspray), I can hide it. Except in the water. Which, were I to enter, might blow my cover. This relationship looks promising. But there is this thing about our ages. What if she sees “bald” and thinks “old?” I’m not sure I’m ready to risk it.
Don’t be too hard on him. Because most of us have been him….and, to some degree, still are him. It’s not so much a matter of concealing, so much as a matter of packaging. We have multiple versions of the “creative comb-over”….very few of which have to do with hair.
I’m not so far into aging so as to have forgotten dating. Especially early-in-the-game dating. I packaged myself so as to impress. Clean car. Clean shirt. Clean shaven. I got my act together. I mean, dating was competitive. Fiercely competitive. That’s because there was always a rival. Every girl I desired most, I had to steal first. Including the present one. Which required packaging on my part. Eminently doable. But hardly sustainable. One can’t keep up that pace forever. So I didn’t. Eventually, the real Ritter surfaced. Or, to be more accurate, the parts of Ritter which didn’t fit the package leaked out of the package. Leaving me exposed.
In that wonderful tale (which is less the story of one of us, than the story of all of us), Adam has already gone the “forbidden fruit route,” discovering his nakedness in the process. We’re talking “blown cover,” here. So Adam, knowing God’s penchant for unscheduled check-ins with his creation, does two things. He sews an apron for wearing. And he seeks some trees for hiding.
Which, from the get-go, is not a picture I like. There he is, our ancestor, concealed and cowering. Why couldn’t the Bible begin with a story of God coming to visit Adam in Adam’s office….on the top floor of Adam’s office building….with Adam’s name on the door….Adam’s oils on the wall….Adam’s etchings on the credenza….and Adam’s offspring, pictured on the desk?
Why couldn’t God sit in the outer office, cooling his heels, till Adam is able to free himself from the phone? Then God could be buzzed in. Adam could send a courier for coffee (would God like one lump or two?). Then Adam could take God over to the window….the big window….the big Andersen window….where Adam could show God just how much one can see from there.
But that’s not the story the Bible gives us in Genesis 3. True, we get a version of that story in Genesis 11. That’s where we see the big tower. It doesn’t say “office tower,” although it could be an office tower. All it says is that the top floors nearly touch heaven. Which floors God levels….with or without coffee.
But we’re not there today. We’re here today. With Adam hiding behind a tree. Unsuccessfully. God knows where he is. And what he’s done. Or, in the words of the old spiritual, there’s “no hiding place down here.” Which is supposed to be comforting. Except it isn’t always. After all, aren’t there privacy laws concerning such things? And shouldn’t God have to obey them?
Kris and I were out to dinner the other night with two other couples. Both couples being good friends of ours….but very good friends of each other. Just before the waitperson came with her notebook and pen, one of the women who was not my wife said to the other woman who was not my wife: “I know what you’re going to have.” And she did. Main course. Salad course. Dressing for the salad course. It was a huge menu. But she knew her friend so well that she could read her friend as well as she could read the menu. About which they laughed. And there was comfort in the laughter. But a hint of irritation, too.
Isn’t that one of the paradoxes of marriage? Namely, how good it feels to be fully known. And how irritating it feels to be fully known. While I can still occasionally surprise my wife, I long ago passed the point where I could fool my wife. Like the back of her hand….that’s how she knows me. Like a well-worn book….that’s how she reads me. I both love it and hate it when she begins a sentence with the words: “I haven’t lived with you for 37 years without learning a little bit about you….” The longer we stay married, the shorter our arguments get. Because we know each other’s points and can say each other’s lines. Which is why most arguments end in laughter. After a while, even the bumpy roads are familiar. And once you see where they are going to end up, why not break them off early with a good laugh and save ourselves some time.
Still, one of the last freedoms we hold onto in any relationship is the freedom to conceal. “I’ll tell you this….won’t tell you that. I’ll show you these cards….won’t show you those cards. I’ll tip half my hand….won’t tip my whole hand.”
I am not a trained therapist. And I wouldn’t be a good one, were I a trained one. That’s because I’m impatient. I want to cut through the crap faster than others want to cut through it. Although Dr. Laura does it in five minutes….like a hot knife….through butter. But one of the things I have learned about therapy is that you should listen to what people don’t say, even more than you listen to what they do say. Listen for where they change the subject….skirt the subject….dance all around the subject….or superficialize a subject that would appear to be anything but superficial. Better yet, listen closest to the awkward and uncomfortable silences.
Nearly 35 years ago, a young lady came into my office to do a bit of churchy business. Baptism?….Yes. For your lovely daughter?….Yes. Date, time, forms, godparents?….Sure, we can handle those. Procedures?….Let me describe them. Differences between us and the Catholics?….Let me explain them. Roses on the altar?….I’ll tell the secretary. Brunch at the house?….I’ll talk to Kris. Pictures following?….Why not? Flashes during the ceremony?…. Please, not. These were the questions she was asking me.
But having covered everything there was to cover, why didn’t she go? What else could there be? Was she making up things to say so as to be able to stay? Why were her words coming slower and her smiles growing fewer? Why was she looking more and more uncomfortable, with one hand going to her mouth, far too often….as if there were words in her throat she didn’t know whether to pull the rest of the way out or push all the way back in? Finally, I heard myself say: “I could be wrong, but I get the feeling there is something else you are trying to tell me.” Which was when I heard her say, almost inaudibly: “I’m not sure this child is my husband’s.”
The psalmist prays:
O Lord, you have searched me and known me.
You know my sitting.
You know my standing.
You know what I am thinking.
and where I am going.
Before I speak, you know what I am going to say.
Before I act, you know what I am going to do.
To which the question of the day is not: “Is that what the Bible calls omniscience?” For the record, it is. But who cares? The real question of the day being: “Is that good news or bad? That God knows it all, I mean.”
And don’t go getting sidetracked into predestination issues….thinking that the reason God knows it all is because God scripts it all. On this side of Pleasant Street….the east side of Pleasant….the Methodist side of Pleasant….we kind of suspect God doesn’t (script it all, I mean). On the other side of Pleasant….the west side of Pleasant….the Presbyterian side of Pleasant….they kind of suspect God does (script it all, I mean).
But none of us knows for sure. Besides, that’s not what I asked you. The question I asked was: “If God knows you as well as the psalmist says God knows you, is that good news or bad?”
Frankly, the psalmist isn’t sure. For while your version of the Bible reads “such knowledge is too wonderful for me,” the more accurate rending of the Hebrew reads “too overpowering for me is your knowledge.” Which is followed by that long section of Psalm 139 which lists all of the places God can’t be hidden from….suggesting (methinks) that the psalmist has considered hiding in them all.
Writes Paul: “Now I know (God) in part. One day I shall know (God) fully. Even as (God) fully knows me.” People read that at many of my weddings. Which I have concluded is all right, even though Paul’s passage has nothing to do with weddings. Because marriage may be as close as we come (in this life) to being fully known in the context of love.
Which is not automatic. Nothing about marriage is automatic. People walk away upon discovering that, where the spouse is concerned, they are seeing things today that they weren’t seeing yesterday. Or as one unhappy woman said to me: “The more I see, the less I like.” That’s why marriage is risky business. But when it works like it’s been designed to work….like it works for people like Jerry and Betty LaBrake (who are celebrating their 50th this week)….the more you see, the better you feel. And the closer you get. Because it’s good to know there is at least one person in your life you can’t fool….to the point that you eventually stop trying….and to the further point that you no longer want to.
Over the years, I have gone to a lot of surprise birthday parties thrown by one spouse for the other spouse. Some of which have worked (as genuine surprises, I mean). And others of which haven’t. But once everybody jumps from behind the curtain….or out of the cake…and shouts “Surprise,” there is always a debriefing of sorts that takes place between the spouses. One spouse wants to know: “Were you surprised. I mean, really surprised?” To which the other spouse says: “Sure I was surprised….at least sort of surprised.” Which is when the spouse who planned the party will say: “The hardest part involved all the things I had to hide from you….all the plans I couldn’t share with you….(worse yet) all the lies I had to tell you. Because that’s so not us.”
Jesus tells a woman a hard truth about her life….that she’s had a wedding ring for every digit on her left hand (including her thumb). And even now, she is shacking up (Dr. Laura’s language) with Seymour the Sixth without benefit of clergy. So how does Jesus know?
Because he’s clairvoyant?
Darned if I know.
Because he’s observant?
Darned if I know that, either.
But the story is not about how Jesus knew. The story is about how she felt about him knowing. For, as you will remember, she felt darned good. So much so, that at the bar later that night, she said to anyone willing to listen:
I met a guy today. No, it’s not what you think. This guy was different. He told the truth to me. And about me. Go figure. I can’t. But if you like, I’ll take you to him. Ain’t no reason I’m the only one who should feel this good.
It’s fun to fool people. But only for a while. A couple of weeks from now, a whole bunch of little people will come to your door, all costumed and concealed. They’ll be expecting candy. And you’ll look at them and say: “Oh my gosh, a witch….(or) Would you believe, a real live fairy princess?…..(or) Come on out here, Beatrice, and shake hands with Batman.” Only to hear the kid giggle and say: “It’s just me, Mary.” Or “You know me, Mr. Jones. I’m Billy from next door.” They want the truth to surface.
As did the little kid who, during a game of hide and seek, hid too well. He started out by saying: “They’ll never find me. Nobody will ever find me.” But if the game goes on too long, that same kid panics and wonders if “anybody will ever find me.”
Sooner or later, everybody wants to be “outed.” If not to everybody, to somebody. And if not to somebody, at the very least to deity.
“It’s me….it’s me….it’s me, O Lord. Don’t be fooled by the comb-over.”
