Dr. William A. Ritter
First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan
Scriptures: I Corinthians 2:6-12 and I Peter 3:18-19
Sermon:
“Everybody wants to go to heaven, but nobody wants to die.” Or so they say. However, as is the case with a lot of things, I don’t know who “they” are. But they probably have it right. Most people (when they think about it….which isn’t often) do want to go to heaven. And most people don’t want to die. Although some do. It’s a natural thing. Death, I mean. Curious, too. Frightening, sometimes.
In my business, it goes on all around me. Even in my yard. At 7:15 last Monday night….with 25 people coming to my house at 7:30….Kris says: “There’s a dead squirrel out where the street and the driveway meet. You’d better get rid of him, lest somebody park on him….or step on him.” So with trusty shovel in hand, I scooped him up (not knowing whether he was really a “he,” or whether he could have been a “she”….observing, only, that he or she was fat. But, then, all of the squirrels in my yard are fat. Which says something about the mildness of winter in Michigan, or the sweetness of life in Birmingham.) Not knowing what to do with him….and thinking that I ought to bury him (had I the time, which I didn’t)….I trashed him. Literally. Once again making my driveway safe and clean for visitors.
The next day….the very next day….Kris said: “Come here. Look at what’s happening beneath our kitchen window.” And you can look for yourself, should you be so inclined. For it’s still going on (and will be, I suspect) for several days. A mother duck is sitting on her eggs. We saw her a few days previous, when she and her husband (a gay blade if ever there was one….with brilliant slashes of color on his back, including some of the greenest hues you ever saw) scouted out the little four-foot pond I placed in the patio several years ago, and decided that this was as good a place as any to contemplate maternity. Which will make us surrogate parents to anywhere between three and fifteen ducklings. And which makes my yard into the mirror image of my church, don’t you see….given that, in my yard, I’ve got them “going” in the front and “coming” in the back.
Ten days ago, one of my better friends in all the world called and said: “Mom’s dying in Dayton and she’s having some problems with that. Given how far back she goes with you, I think it would mean the world to her if she could see and talk with you.” So between 12:00 and 12:00 (a week ago Thursday), my friend and I went to Dayton and back, helping his mom get comfortable with the idea of dying. She was more honest and searching than most. She had departure questions….as in “how do people go.” And she had destination questions….as in “where do people go.” It was a wonderful visit, conversationally launched and prayerfully concluded. And, as of last night, she is still very much among the living. Although, as our beloved custodian, Joe Simpson, used to say to me (when Joe’s cancer began crawling from one body part to another): “Bill, I no longer buy green bananas.” And neither should she.
Would that we could slip away knowingly and beautifully….having done it all….seen it all…. healed it all….blessed it all. And, once in a while, that’s pretty much the way it works. Fred Buechner, in his beautiful little book The Eyes of the Heart, writes his beloved grandmother back into his life and library for one more visit….on one more night. Her name (at least the name he had for her) was “Naya.” And probably still is Naya (although who is to say whether our old names follow us to new places). Listen:
Naya is knitting a sock and has her knitting face on, her eyebrows slightly raised, her lips pressed tight.
“You’ve already set sail,” I say. “What can you tell me about it?”
She glances at me over the top of her spectacles and lets her needles come to rest. “My poor, ignorant boy,” she says. “Don’t you know better than to ask a question like that when I’m turning a heel?”
The ball of wool falls off her lap and rolls toward me across the green carpet. I pick it up and put it on her lap again.
She says: “When somebody once asked your Uncle Jim if some friend or another had passed away, he answered (in his inimitable fashion): ‘Passed away? Good God, he’s dead.’ And I knew just how he felt. I always thought ‘passed away’ was a silly way of putting it….like calling a water closet a powder room….or calling it a water closet for that matter. It’s all so very misleading.”
Then she says: “It is the world that passes away. When I used to lie there in that shadowy little room Mrs. Royal gave me in her establishment that looked out onto the garden….with your blessed mother dropping by every day or so to keep me abreast of the local gossip at Missildine’s (where everybody used to congregate for a Coke after picking up the mail and Miss Capps would read everybody’s picture postcards over their shoulders), I could feel the whole world generally slowing down, more and more. Until one night, after that charming nurse (whose name I regret to say I’ve forgotten) turned out the light and was ready to go home. I realized it was finally going slow enough….the world, I mean….for me to get off. And that is just what I proceeded to do. It was rather like getting off a streetcar before it had quite come to a stop. There was a little jolt when my foot first struck the pavement. And then the world clanged its bell and went rattling off without me.”
There’s a certain loveliness in that, isn’t there? I love the idea of the world slowing down so that I might step off gently at the end of my ride. But sometimes the world speeds up, throwing us off rudely in the middle of the ride. And sometimes the world is so cruel….so quickly….that we never even get to sit down and enjoy any of the ride.
Yesterday we bade farewell to Clarice Percox, who got to ride till she was 93. She died on Tuesday, with Carl Price in her room, having come to deliver a lily. Actually, as she breathed her last (and gave the appearance that she would breathe no more), her pacemaker clicked in and jump-started her back to life. When I shared that story with my Wednesday Morning Men’s Group, somebody said: “Oh, that’s terrible news.” To which Paul Metzler said: “No, that’s wonderful news.” That’s because Paul has a pacemaker, don’t you see.
Clarice is the wonderful lady who gave us the elevator, you will recall. Meaning that one can only pray that God has raised the one who raised us. Which, I believe, is a fait accompli. The problem being, how can I get you to believe it?
Which is not easy if your heart (and head) be not inclined in the direction of belief. God’s job (the “raising” part) is easier than my job (the “convincing” part). Sometimes, I wish God and I could switch jobs. Not because I necessarily want to do the raising, but because there are times when I wish I could get out the way and let God do the convincing.
Like Friday, for example. It is late on a rainy afternoon, and I am delivering potted plants to some very dear people on the southern side of town. My final visit is with a man I have known for 20 years. Now, in a state of severe depression and physical decline, an aide is feeding him dinner (one forkful at a time). This evening’s fare is macaroni and cheese….because it’s easy going in….and it’s easy going down.
Given the length of time I have known him….and the depth of the valleys I have walked with him….I know that his primary burden is not physical, but spiritual. Midway through the conversation, he thanks me for coming, telling me in words so soft and stretched out that I can barely hear or connect them, what my friendship means to him. I tell him how good he is looking. One of us is lying.
Then I remind him of what week it is (Holy Week)….what day it is (Good Friday)….and what day it will soon be (Easter Sunday). When, through a half-chewed mouthful of macaroni and cheese, I hear him say: “No hope.” And I know what he means, given that I know all the pieces of his story. When he says “no hope,” he is not talking about his future in this life. He is talking about his future in the next life.
But he and I have had this conversation before and have yet to resolve it successfully. I have tried telling him that he is good. I have tried telling him that God is good. And while he may believe the latter, I cannot convince him of the former. Meaning that what he believes about God’s goodness does not outweigh what he believes about his own goodness….or lack thereof. Which is why he responds to my words about Easter by saying: “No hope.”
Which might be echoed, this Easter day, by the young mother I have visited in prison over the course of the last year. She is 33 years old. And, just a few days ago, she got herself sentenced to 40 years. Which she probably deserved (on the scales of human justice). But which does leave one gasping for breath, where hope is concerned.
* * * * *
On Friday, Jesus died. He didn’t “slip away.” He didn’t “kick the bucket.” And he didn’t “pass on.” He died. The world double clutched, shoved its pedal to the metal and threw him off….prematurely and violently. And then on Saturday, everything went to hell. Or, more to the point, he who was everything (I mean, what else does the term “all in all” mean, if not “everything”) went to hell. “Hell” being whatever you need it to be in order to describe the antithesis of heaven. Call it death. Call it prison. Call it Hades. Call it Sheol. Call it outer darkness….inner darkness….total darkness. Call it “the place where light is not, and hope goes to die,” or “the place where God is not, and futures go to die.” Except that God went (in Christ) to the place where God is not. And all hell broke loose, don’t you see.
I mean, isn’t that what I Peter said (in the text I just read). And isn’t that what you and I sang (in the hymn we just belted):
Death could not keep its prey,
Jesus my Savior.
He tore the bars away,
Jesus my Lord.
Meaning that neither death nor hell can hold either one of us….once I say “come in,” and he says “come on.” Do I believe it? You bet your bottom dollar I believe it. But we will have to use your dollar. I’ve long since bet mine. Which wasn’t a hard wager to make, as the noted French philosopher Blaise Pascal once said….since you’re gonna be a winner either way. If you bet everything and it turns out that there’s nothing, you’ve had a lot of good years (riding the coattails of faith in Jesus). But if you bet everything and it turns out that there’s something, then (as the other hymn says), not even the sky’s the limit.
Why am I willing to make that bet? Because every single thing in his life points to it. Every single yearning in my life points to it. Every single experience in the early Christian community points to it. Every single affirmation of the New Testament points to it. And virtually every single pastoral experience (in my 35 years of watching people die) points to it, too.
Do I understand it? No, I don’t understand it. But I am not wired to understand it. As Paul says, my eyes haven’t seen….my ears haven’t heard….my mind can’t begin to wrap logic or imagination around “the things that God is preparing” for me.
I know how Kris and I prepare for you. We cook. We clean. We rake. We bake. We paper and paint. We trim and we mow. We sweep and we vacuum. We weed and we hoe. And, Paul says, none of that can hold a candle to the preparation God is making so that we will not feel unwelcome or unexpected.
But, in that same Corinthian passage, there are hints of another preparation going on. I am talking about the preparing that God’s Holy Spirit is doing in us. Which makes sense, doesn’t it. Why would God contain himself with preparing a place, when God could also prepare a people to inhabit a place? Although “preparing a people” is harder. Much, much harder.
Eighteen months ago, I wrote to you in Steeple Notes of one of my heroes, Leslie Weatherhead.
Leslie Weatherhead was pastor of City Temple, London from 1936 to 1960. Early in World War II, his church was destroyed by German air raids and the congregation worshiped in seven different buildings. His personal ministry during those difficult days was acclaimed as nothing less than heroic. Eventually, income gained from writing and speaking, coupled with the generosity of American Christians (including the Rockefellers), enabled the Temple to be rebuilt.
In an out-of-print volume recently found, Weatherhead offers a fascinating perspective on the life hereafter. Let me slice and serve a small portion.
My own opinion is that everybody survives death, but Christianity offers something more than mere survival. It offers something worthy of the name “life.” Imagine that two men go to a classical concert. The first….we’ll call him Murray….is a musician to the fingertips: trained in music, able to play brilliantly, capable of entering fully into every part of the concert. The second….we’ll call him Smith….is Murray’s friend and goes to the concert only to please his buddy. Although he likes a melody that swings, he is bored with most music and a high-brow concert leaves him cold.
At the concert, Murray really lives. He is in a world of wonder and delight, “thrilled to bits,” as we say. Smith is, musically speaking, just alive. They sit side by side, but between them is a great gulf. Murray’s long training, hours of study and laborious practice have enabled him to revel fully in this musical treat. Poor Smith is feeling horribly out of it.
I wonder if dying is rather like that concert. We pass to a spiritual world where the primary enjoyment is spiritual. We all survive, I think. But whether we fully revel in the afterlife will depend on the extent to which….on this side of the grave….we have allowed the Holy Spirit to help us train our spiritual faculties. I never think of heaven and hell as two places. Instead, I think it must be hell to be in heaven and not be able to enter fully into its delights….like being at an endless concert and being tone-deaf, or like being at a great banquet and having no appetite.
But some of us have appetites. Boy, do we have appetites. Henry Hitt Crane was, in our town, every bit as famous as Leslie Weatherhead was in his. Preaching through the forties and the fifties from the pulpit of Central Church, Detroit (which now stands in the shadow of Comerica Park), his brilliant mind, sparkling wit and ethical sensitivity earned him the title “The Conscience of the City.” Years later, dying in a farmhouse in rural Pennsylvania, his eyes lit up as he turned to his caretaker and said: “In a mere matter of minutes, I’m gonna know. I’m finally gonna know.” But it was toward that discovery that Henry had been pointing all his life.
Some day….from the outer edge of life’s ultimate balcony….one of God’s bigger-voiced angels (maybe you, or even you) is going to shout: “Red Rover, Red Rover, let Billy cross over.” And having, up until that minute, held onto the life I love with a white knuckle grip, I shall let go….running like heaven, toward heaven….trusting that (upon reaching it) I will be utterly amazed. But not necessarily surprised.
A word of explanation:
The title of this morning’s sermon is tied to a phrase employed by Frederick Buechner in talking about the promise of eternal life, which I quoted in my Easter letter to the congregation of First Church. For readers not familiar with First Church or its publications, let me share the contents of that letter.
It has long interested me to note what people say to buttress their believability when challenged by skeptics. I once had a friend who would get red it the face, pound his fist on the table and shout: “It’s true….I swear it on a stack of Bibles.” Which made for good theater. But nobody ever produced the Bibles so I never got to see him do it. I always wondered why “a stack of Bibles” was better than one Bible. There is certainly strength in numbers. But what about truth?
I have never “sworn on a stack of Bibles.” Not because I have never been challenged. But because Jesus told me not to. Look it up in the Sermon on the Mount. But there have been times when I have wanted to add some extra “punch” to a questionable argument. Which has led me to exclaim: “I will bet my bottom dollar.” Not that I know what it means….or have ever done so. I am not a betting man. Putting a couple of dollars on a couple of squares at a Super Bowl party is as risky as I get. And none of those dollars was my bottom one.
Imagine my surprise when a reference to betting one’s “bottom dollar” appeared in the newest book by a favorite author. I am talking about The Eyes of the Heart, recently released by Frederick Buechner. It contains the author’s thoughts about dying, even as he anticipates a few fertile springs. In response to a conversation with his mother….on a day on which they were talking about nothing in particular….she suddenly turned to him and said: “Do you really believe anything happens when you die?” What follows is his answer:
Later, when I got home, I tried to answer the question in a letter. I believe that what happens when you die is that, in ways I knew no more about than she did, you are given back your life again, and I said there were three reasons I believed it. First, I believed it because, if I were God and loved the people I created and wanted them to become at last the best they had it in them to be, I couldn’t imagine consigning them to oblivion when their time came, with the job, under the best of circumstances, only a fraction done.
Second, I believed it, apart from any religious considerations, because I had a hunch it was true. I intuited it. I said that if the victims and the victimizers, the wise and the foolish, the good-hearted and the heartless all end up alike in thegrave and that is the end of it, then life would be a black comedy, and to me, even at its worst, life doesn’t feel life a black comedy. It feels like a mystery. It feels as though, at the heart of it, there is Holiness, and that we experience the horrors that go on both around us and within us as horrors rather than as just the way the cookie crumbles because, in our own innermost hearts, we belong to Holiness, which they are a tragic departure from. And lastly, I believe that what happens to us after we die is that we aren’t dead forever because Jesus said so.
Jesus was another of the dead people I knew my mother wouldn’t want to talk about, and I had no idea how she would react to my invoking his authority. I said that because, in one way, Jesus was a human being like he rest of us. I imagined he could be wrong about lots of things like the rest of us too and probably believed the world was flat just the way everybody else did in his day. But when he said to the Good Thief on the cross next to his, “Today shalt thou be with me in Paradise,” I would bet my bottom dollar that he of all people knew what he was talking about, because if in one way he was a human being, in another way he was immeasurably more.
Were my mother to ask a similar question, my words might be different….but no better. And I would gladly back them with my dollars (even my “bottom” one). Indeed, I already have. And it is out of that conviction I will preach on what I anticipate to be a glorious Easter morning.
