William A. Ritter
First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan
Scriptures: Luke 2:1-7, John 14:1-3
Long after I forgot the very bad joke it fits, I remembered the punch line: “Everybody’s gotta be some place.”
Well, truth be told, everybody does. We are space-taking people, although some of us take up more space than others. When I was researching the 50-year history of this sanctuary, I came across a notation suggesting that this wonderful worship space can seat in excess of 600 souls. Now as to whether Methodist “souls” have swelled, shrunk or stayed the same size over the last half century, I can’t rightly say. But if this place once held “in excess of 600 souls,” those souls came packaged in much smaller bodies.
Or maybe we haven’t changed size all that much. Maybe we just crave a bit more elbow room between me and thee….meaning that sanctuary seating limitations have more to do with greed than bloat. At the University of Michigan, where stadium seats are numbered in the belief that only midgets go to watch behemoths, there is constant talk of reconfiguration, so as to give all of us a few more inches. Thankfully, they tell me that at the Lions’ new playpen downtown, they’ve actually done it. I guess Ford really does have a better idea.
Several years ago, my daughter attended Peachtree Road United Methodist Church in Atlanta. Which was how it came to pass that after years of her mother and I taking her to church, she returned the favor. One Sunday morning, while not exactly late, we did have to jostle the choir to get into the sanctuary, claiming three in the back row….the last three in the back row. But that didn’t deter people coming later than us. While the choir walked down the center aisle, they walked down the side aisles….clogging them….leaning against the outer walls….all in all, quite unseemly. Surely a fire hazard, I thought.
But you can imagine my surprise when, between the end of the hymn and the beginning of the Call to Worship, the liturgist (thank God it was the Associate) said: “Okay folks, you know the drill. Everybody in the pews, squeeze. Everybody in the aisles, sit.” And they did. Quietly. Passively. Agreeably. Like sheep.
Last week I quoted a couple of lines from West Side Story’s “Tonight” (my second favorite song from my all-time favorite musical). The whole cast sings it when the day is very much ripe….and their lives are very much in front of them. But my favorite song….introduced not by horns, violins or even castanets, but by a very lonely cello….is the song that closes the play. It is when Tony and Maria (the lovers) sing together one last time. “Last,” because he is dying….in her arms….of a bullet….from a rumble….during a gang war….over turf control on the streets of New York. I can hear them now:
There’s a place for us,
Somewhere a place for us.
Peace and quiet and open air
Wait for us, somewhere.
Everybody’s got to be some place. And woe unto those, this Christmas, who find themselves misplaced, displaced, replaced or (for any number of reasons) uncomfortably out of place. I am talking about the brown-shoe people in a black-shoe world….or maybe even the no-shoe people in an over-shoed world.
As many of you know, my wife now works at Cass Church and Community Center. She is the part-time coordinator of volunteers for the wonderful new Scott Building (into which a lot of us have poured money, sweat and love). They do it all at the Scott Center (with folks the Bible often refers to as “the least of these”).
And in dealing with the homeless, they do so in multiple levels….from semi-permanent residents who enjoy two floors of very private, well-kept rooms, to people who sleep on mats on the floor. But even the latter group….the “floor folk”….do all kinds of amazing things to stake out their space….to define it, protect it, repel encroachment into it, or turn back trespass against it. Sometimes it’s hard to know where those invisible boundaries are until they have been breached. But they had better not be breached, lest the breachee come up swinging.
Faith Fowler has been at Cass since 1994. I worry that she is walking a tightrope between burnout and sainthood. But she perseveres with a little help from her friends. Which is why, on the day Jesus asks me to account for the space I took up on earth, I want to be able to say: “One good thing I did, Lord; I was Faith’s friend.”
And Faith’s favorite story of ministry at Cass (growing out of the day she turned to her dog and said, “Guess what, Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore”) was the day she was trying to do holy paperwork in her office, only to be interrupted by the incessant knocking of a very much under-dressed and over-painted lady. Who, upon entering, pointed to a 14-year-old girl she had dragged in by the arm, and said: “Rev. Fowler, tell her to get off my corner.”
Everybody’s got to be some place. Which is why even the hookers and the homeless resent intrusion. When Rev. Fowler sent the cowering 14-year-old with a social worker in search of some food to fill her belly and a coat to cover her body, the veteran prostitute calmed down a bit and said: “Rev. Fowler, it’s true. I don’t want her on my corner. But she’s too young to be on any corner. And if there’s any place that can save her, it’s Cass Church.”
Everybody’s got to be some place. Except Jesus. For when it came time for God’s beautifully-orchestrated coming out party for our Lord, would you believe there wasn’t a single ballroom available anywhere in Bethlehem. More to the point, there wasn’t a single birthing room available anywhere in Bethlehem. For they had stumbled into a strange town….late at night….with lots of people and no room.
“No room at the inn,” Luke says. My gosh, was there only one….inn, I mean? Luke doesn’t say. In reality, the text is incredibly spartan. Even the definitions are imprecise. “Inn” is probably not the best translation. “Lodge” is currently the word in favor. Although in 150 A.D., Justin made a good case for the birth of Jesus taking place in a cave. And there are those (well versed in first century living configurations) who figure that “cave” was what it was then, and what it should be now. The Greek word is katalyma….which is actually a pasted-together word, suggesting “a place where one lets down one’s harness (or baggage) for the night.” But in my research, I keep coming across the word caravansary….a public place where entire groups of travelers might spend a night together (not unlike the waiting room of a train station, with or without a roof).
Note, for purity of text’s sake, that there is no innkeeper….no innkeeper’s wife….no innkeeper’s scullery maids….no innkeeper’s servant boys….no Amahl and the night visitors….no little drummer boy….and no animals, except by inference. After all, if Jesus uttered his first cry from a feeding trough, something on four legs must have fed there. But if you want to be technical, you should probably forget about sheep, goats, cattle and camels. Instead, you might want to view the scene through the lens of an 800-year-old prophesy, where oxen and asses were the animals of choice (at least according to Isaiah 1:3).
As to why there is no room, don’t go looking for villains here. Let’s lay to rest, forever, Stephen Vincent Benet’s greedy innkeeper….who, in Benet’s words, “loved the sound of coin….loved it, in fact, more than life itself.”
Truth be told, the reason there is no room for this little trio (or, at the time of their arrival, this little two-thirds of a trio) is because other people got there first. Did that ever happen to you…. other people getting there first, I mean? Sure, that’s happened to you. The other guests got there first. The other diners got there first. The other applicants got there first. The other candidates got there first. The go-getters got there first. The fast-trackers got there first. The old boyfriend got there first.
Besides, they didn’t come by Cadillac or Caravan. And nothing about the sweatshirt Mary was wearing screamed “FUTURE KING,” with an arrow pointing down at her belly. So who was to know?
Still, everybody’s got to be some place. So, thank God (and I really mean, “thank God”), somebody created a place. “Prepared him room,” I mean. Which, whenever it happens still, causes “heaven and nature to sing”….does it not?
If there is a colossal error in my ministry (and there may be), it’s that, for 38 years, I have been guilty of drawing too few lines and opening too many doors. But, then, you know that about me. And you have grown to tolerate that in me.
About two weeks ago, I had a dream. I don’t usually tell you my dreams, for fear of what you may see in them and therefore think of me. In fact, I’ve only told you one other dream….in my first sermon….on my first Sunday….at our first meeting. On that occasion, I talked about “the unpreparedness dream” (which is common to a lot of us). In its most classic form, it is final exam day….in high school….but you haven’t read the book….haven’t been to class….can’t find the room….can’t find your pencil….or maybe your pants. You know that dream.
But this dream was different. I was at camp. It was clearly a Methodist camp. In fact, it looked remarkably like Judson Collins Camp out in the Irish Hills. I was there as the minister-in-charge of a group from this church. Many of you were there, too. I think most of you were young. But not all of you were young. Anyway, we were all together in the dining room, just prior to the evening meal. And they (the camp staff) were laying out a wonderful spread….a grand and glorious smorgasbord, really….quite unlike any food I ever ate at Judson Collins. I mean, the tables just went on and on.
Which was when one of you whispered in my ear that someone else had come….actually two someone elses. Not that I remember who they were or why they weren’t there from the get-go. All I remember is that they weren’t in the count, don’t you see. “Could they stay and eat?” you pleaded. And I said: “I am sure they can. Why just look at all that food.”
So I went to the kitchen people and made my request. But they said no….no way….the count is what it is….sealed on the day I gave it….sacred from that point forward. So I offered to pay. Still, “no.” Then I said: “What if I don’t eat? Can one of them sit down to the table in my place?” Again, “no.” Still pleading, I tried everything I could think of. So at last they said: “We’ll call the camp manager.”
Figuring that I could count on there being sense and sensitivity in the supreme court of campdom, I confidently stated my case. Leading him to laugh in my face. So I said (and I am not proud of this….no, I am not proud of this at all): “See if you ever get even one apportionment dollar from First Church again.” Whereupon he said something unprintable, which included: “Who did I think I was, trying to play Big Bucks Billy?” Which is when I elevated an entire end of one table of salads so that they slid to the floor (a slow-motion waterfall of ambrosia and lettuce leaves).
Instantly, I recanted, repented and began cleaning up the mess. Which is when I woke in a sweat, not knowing whether I was more shocked by my conviction about all of us eating, or my anger upon discovering that all of us couldn’t.
But let me push this….and you….one step further. I can make an adequate sermon out of whether they made room for Jesus….whether we’ll make room for Jesus….or whether we’ll make room for each other (in the name of Jesus). But somehow, this sermon won’t seem complete unless I also remind you that the one for whom there was no room, promised to go ahead and make room for us. “In my Father’s house are many rooms. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go and prepare a place for you. And I will come again and receive you unto myself, that where I am you may be also.”
Leading me to close with a story, which (in my earlier days here) some of you heard me tell at funerals. But I have never told it on Sundays….until now. It concerns a time in my life when I was both young and invincible. I figured I could do virtually anything, including driving maximal distances on minimal rest. So one morning I started before sun-up….drove through snacking hours….lunching hours….nappy hours….happy hours….dinner hours….darkening hours….midnight hours….all the while, confident that if I could just keep at it, I had prearranged lodging at the end of it.
Finally, in the wee hours of the morning, I found my exit, parked my car, and entered the inn of prior choosing. There was still a desk clerk on duty, even though she was half asleep. So I announced my presence in a louder than usual voice. “Ritter,” I said. “I have a reservation.” When that generated no response, I repeated my name again, this time spelling it. “I am Mr. Ritter….R I T T E R….I have a reservation.” Still, she said nothing. But she did scan a small stack of 3 by 5 cards, slipping them much-too-quickly between her thumb and forefinger. It occurred to me that she already knew my name wasn’t on any of those cards. But she didn’t say so. Instead, she excused herself and went to the back room. I am not sure what she did there. But if there is a manual that trains desk clerks, I am sure on the middle of page seven it reads: “When confused and in doubt, excuse yourself and go to the back room for five minutes, thereby allowing yourself the opportunity to think of something.”
What she thought of was to come back and say: “I am terribly sorry, Mr. Ritter. There must be some mistake. For we have absolutely no record of your existence.” Weary as I was, I was still quite certain that I existed. But I didn’t say that. Instead, I said: “Not to worry, just give me any room you happen to have.” Which was when she told me that she didn’t happen to have any. So again I said: “Not to worry. I passed several of your competitors on my way into your parking lot. Point me in the direction of one of them and make a phone call on my behalf, alerting them to my imminent arrival.” Which, while a great plan, didn’t work either. For again she said: “I am sorry, Mr. Ritter, but we tried that half an hour ago for someone in your situation. Everybody’s full. There’s a convention in town.”
Now she had given me all the bad news she could possibly give me in a single evening. So, as her final word, she said: “But if you’re ever in our fair city again, please come back and give us a chance to make it right.” Which led me wearily to the car and the open road, knowing yet another meaning of Frost’s immortal line: “And miles to go before I sleep.”
Wrap the gospel around that one last time. “In my Father’s house are many rooms. Were it not so, would I have told you that I go and prepare a place for you?” Translated, I take that to mean that God knows we’re out here and has made more than adequate provision against the day of our dying.
* * * * *
Everybody’s got to be some place.
Save for Jesus.
For whom there was no place.
When he came to our place.
But when we get to his place,
Ah….when we get to his place….
