Dr. William A. Ritter
First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan
Scripture: John 1:43-51
As personal experiences go, this one didn’t happen to somebody else….it happened to me. And as remembered history goes, this didn’t happen months or years ago….it happened in the last couple of weeks. I had attended a meeting with a cluster of clergy….some wearing our uniforms, others dressed in uniforms of the opposition. But this didn’t happen during the meeting. This happened after the meeting. In fact, it happened on the way to the parking lot. Why is it, I wonder, that there is more honesty in parking lots than in churches, or even confessionals? Could it be that there is a freedom out there that does not exist in here? I mean, in a parking lot, you’ve all but left. You are half gone. With one turn of the key (which is already in your hand), you could be all gone. People will say anything when they know they can leave anytime.
All I did was ask a respected colleague how things were going. Key in hand, he confided that things weren’t going as well as he’d hoped. “How so?” I asked, knowing that just over a year ago he’d brought great gifts to a great church amidst great excitement. “Well,” he said, “things look pretty good on paper. Money’s a problem. But where isn’t money a problem? The bigger issue is that people don’t seem to be buying in.”
He went on to explain that when the ministerial change occurred, all the ministers changed…. meaning three ministers changed. Old trio out. New trio in. Which, some would argue, is a good way to do it. Clean sweep. Whole new team. Less chance for funny politics….people lining up old staff versus new staff….choosing sides….gathering allies….training armies. If and when they do a sweep-out up the street, they are going to have to buy an extra-wide broom.
And that’s what occurred in this fellow’s shop. Clean sweep. No politics. Good people out. Good people in. But when the old team went, a ton of history went with them. Not about policies. Not about practices. Not even about programs. But about people. Personal history, don’t you see. Said my friend in the parking lot: “I’ve never seen so many church people walking around saying, ‘Nobody knows my story.’”
Interesting, isn’t it, that we can communicate with incredible speed in unprecedented ways, but the only way our stories are revealed-to and shared-with each other is over time. This is because story-sharing presumes (even requires) trust….and like Rome, trust isn’t built in a day. My colleague is a good preacher….good teacher….good leader….good administrator. His people see that in him. But they have not opened themselves to him. Or to his newly-assembled team. Hence, their lament: “Nobody knows our story.”
Will that lament diminish with time? Maybe. But maybe not. A lot will depend on the quantity and quality of his pastoral encounters. Some of his people will get married. Others will get buried. Some will become dis-eased….giving them reasons to weep. Others will become eased….giving them reasons to rejoice. There will be suffering. There will be partying. And the questions are: “Will his ministry place him at their doors then? And will they let him in then?”
Not everybody who comes to church wants to know and be known. Some want to hide and be hid. Especially in larger churches. Anonymity is an option that large churches offer. And anonymity is something all of us seek some of the time, and some of us seek all of the time. So if you have come here to lay low, be my guest.
But I think it safe to say that most people, either secretly or openly, hope that somebody in this counter-cultural community we Christians call “church” will welcome them, accept them, and perchance (over time) even love them in ways that will incarnate and radiate the love of Christ. The very same people who (with abundant breath) say, “Pastor, tell me the stories of Jesus,” also say (under their breath): “But pastor, listen to mine.”
Which is a legitimate expectation, given that ours is a relationship theology. The distant God does not remain so, but comes to us where we are….lives among us as we are….starts from the premise of who we are….before calling us beyond what we are.
When I organize the gospels thematically, it seems to me that there are stories about Jesus, teachings of Jesus and encounters with Jesus. In terms of stories about Jesus, there are relatively few….most of them centered upon the night he entered the world or the afternoon he left it. As concerns the teachings of Jesus, one finds the extended Torah commentary which Matthew calls the Sermon on the Mount and Luke calls the Sermon on the Plain. But most of the other teachings grow out of encounters Jesus has with people, encounters where Jesus takes them seriously….their question seriously….their needs seriously….their doubts seriously…..and their faith seriously (especially when he can see more faith in them than they can see in themselves).
Textually, I took us back this morning to the story of Philip and Nathanael. I read it to you on Palm Sunday (but only as my auxiliary text). You remember how it goes. Philip meets Jesus. Philip buys into Jesus. Philip tries to tell Nathanael about Jesus. Nathanael discounts Philip’s testimony, given that Jesus comes from Nowheresville (“Can any good thing come out of Nowheresville, i.e. Nazareth?”).
And everybody who teaches this story stops there, because the put-down of Nazareth is so preachable. There are a million ways to sermonize the “small-town boy makes good” theme. I’ve done it. Others have done it. Peter Mitchell, President of Albion College, did it from this very pulpit on the Monday evening of Holy Week. In fact, Peter said that this little story was one of his two favorite Bible passages. Peter didn’t exactly say why. But I think I know why. You see, Peter comes from Ishpeming (which is every bit as close to Nowheresville as Nazareth is close to Nowheresville).
That’ll preach. As will Philip’s line to Nathanael: “Come and see for yourself.” That’ll preach, too. What has never preached is the truncated conversation between Nathanael and the man from Nowheresville. Jesus sees him coming and says: “Look, a genuine Israelite in whom there is no guile.”
Leading Nathanael to ask: “How did you know me?” Occasioning Jesus’ answer: “Before Philip called you, I saw you under a fig tree.”
Which impresses the daylights out of Nathanael….that Jesus looked so deeply….discerned it so quickly….and said so, so openly. I mean, think of the last time that somebody you didn’t know, knew you….as in “really” knew you. And you wondered how.
Now, it’s possible Jesus was spiritually clairvoyant. That’s one extreme. And it’s possible that somebody tipped Jesus off (“See that guy over there? That’s Nathanael. He’s good people. If he comes around, say something nice about him.”). That’s the other extreme. And it’s also possible that the fig tree is the clue. Some scholars say that a Jew sitting under a fig tree is a person of peace. Others say that a Jew sitting under a fig tree is a person of prayer. Both agree that it may be Nathanael’s location that creates his reputation.
But whatever the case, Nathanael signs up….on the spot….not because Jesus had great eyesight (“I can see all the way to the fig tree”), but because Jesus had great insight (“When I saw you, Nathanael, I knew you were the real thing.”).
Jesus knew his parishioners’ story. And I have discovered that people who work for Jesus had better mirror the same trait.
One of the things I do pretty well is preach funerals and memorial services. That’s because I tell people’s stories…..either because I remember well or because I listen good. I don’t do whitewash jobs. The dead don’t need my preaching to clean them up. God’s grace takes care of that. But I try really hard to capture (in words) not only the facts of someone’s life, but the depths of someone’s life. And I’ve been successful, to the degree that I’ve actually had people say: “I can’t wait to die to hear what you’re going to say about me.”
Now, I have colleagues who think that’s wrong. Who never do it. Who never get personal. Who believe it’s idolatry. Who think that if funerals ought to glorify anybody, they ought to glorify God. And so their funeral sermons are generic….one size fits all….insert name here….and if you don’t know you are in the right room because you recognize your relatives sitting beside you, nothing the preacher says is likely to clue you.
Wherever clergy gather, the debate rages between the “glorify God” group and the “remember Harry” group. But it’s not either/or. It’s both/and. The book on Harry is closed. Chapter finished. But the Author of Life does not necessarily drop the pen when the blood clot drops Harry. Which means that the Big Book on Harry is far from closed. For who can say what yet resides in the Author’s imagination?
At funerals, I have never failed to preach the greatness of God. Nor have I ever failed to offer the promises of God. But neither have I failed to milk the most that I could….and the best that I could….from Harry’s chapter (as he lived it, before death closed it). Because believing, as I do, that Harry matters to God, I am more than willing….and at least moderately able….to detail the ways in which Harry mattered to us.
What occasionally surprises me, however, is the number of people (some of them Harry’s dearest relatives and closest church friends) who tell me that there were things in my remembrance….in my eulogy, if you will….that they never knew and wish they had. As to whose fault that was, darned if I know. The issue is neither guilt nor blame, the issue is sadness. I find it sad that people can share the same table (year after year), or sit in the same pew (year after year), and know so little about each other. Why should I be left to tell you at death, things that you could have learned about each other in life?
While you’re pondering that, kindly permit me to close with a remembrance of a seminary professor I once knew.
A few years ago in a church in Oklahoma where I was worshiping with my family, I had an afternoon engagement and had to leave quickly. I said goodbye to them after the benediction. In order to get to the parking lot quickly, I cut through the back, through the choir room. I said to one of the women in the choir as she was putting away her robe, “I appreciated very much the anthem this morning.”
She said, “I hope so, because that’s it.”
I said, “What do you mean?”
She said, “That’s it. I’m hanging it up.” She was putting away her robe.
I said, “Are you retiring?” She’d been in the choir 103 or 104 years; I thought she was retiring.
She said, “No, I’m quitting.”
I said, “You’re quitting?”
She said, “I’m quitting.”
“Oh, you’re not quitting.”
“I’m quitting.”
“Well, why are you quitting?”
She said, "I sat up there in the choir loft this morning and looked around at the other choir members. I looked at the minister and looked at the worship leader. I looked at the ushers and then looked out over the congregation. Finally, I said to myself what has haunted me for years.”
I said, “What’s that?”
She said, “Who cares?”
Well, I was in a hurry. I had to make a speech, so I said, “Oh, you’ll be all right.” I went to the parking lot, but all the way to my engagement and all the way back I thought of that indictment. I was a member of that church at the time, and she was indicting me and all the members. In fact, if it were true, what she had said was, “This is not a church.” If her opinion after longtime membership was that the sum gesture of that church was a shrug of the shoulders, then it was not a church.
When I got home that afternoon, I called that lady. I said, “I want to talk to you.”
She said, “If you want to.”
I said, “I want to.” I went over there; we talked, and we disagreed. I finally asked her, “Well, what would we have to do to show that we cared?”
And this was her definition. She said, “Take me seriously.” Which was a strange way to put it, especially for her. She was a kind of comic, a sort of stick of peppermint; she was always playing practical jokes. She would pin the tails of choir robes together. She would go early and put some big cartoon on the pulpit so that when the minister came out in all his sobriety, he’d look down and be blown out of the water. She was that kind of person, so I said, “You can’t be serious! Take you seriously? What are you talking about? You’re always joking, laughing.”
And she said, “You bought all that? I thought it was rather transparent, myself. I like to be taken seriously.”
When I left that lady’s house, I said to her, “You’re wrong, you know.”
She said, “I’m not.”
I said, “I get to travel to churches all over the country, and everywhere I go there are people who care for each other. They take care of each other.”
She said, “Where?”
I said, “Everywhere I go, there are people who care.”
She said, “Really?”
“Yes.”
She said, “Name some.”
She wants names. May I use your name? May I give her your name?
note: The closing story comes from the collected stories of Fred Craddock, recently published by a pair of his colleagues. For more detailed discussion of “fig trees” and people who sit under them, see any reputable biblical commentary (the best being the Anchor Bible Volume on God)
