What If? 10/7/2001

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Matthew 26:26-29

I have a friend who was once invited to a little rural church to speak. Because of a terrible rainstorm, they cancelled the service, notifying everybody by telephone. But because my friend wasn’t reachable by phone, the notification missed him. So he drove out into the boondocks of Oklahoma, slipping and sliding along the muddy roads. Two of the men thought about the fact that the guest preacher might not know they wouldn’t be “having church,” so they went to the sanctuary to wait for him, just in case he showed up. Which he did, finding them seated at the table down front….the one that had the words “In Remembrance of Me” carved into the facing….and they were playing cards.

“What in the world are you doing?” my friend asked.

They said: “We’re just playing a little poker, waiting for you to come.”

“On that table?” my friend said.

“Well,” said one of them, “the way I look at it, a table’s a table’s a table.”

To which my friend said: “No it isn’t. No it isn’t. At least, not for me.”

Some tables have an importance, far beyond their size, shape or construction. I’ll bet a lot of you can still remember the dining room table in the home of your childhood….and may still have the dining room table from the home of your childhood. Or your grandmother’s table. Or the first kitchen table you bought because, if you were going to be married and start sleeping over, you had to have some place to eat breakfast.

My 27-year-old, single, male nephew recently extracted his grandmother’s table from our basement. I’m not sure why he wanted it. It’s not a young man’s table. It’s not mod or stylish, sleek or trim. It’s not a Friday night, gather your buddies, drink beer and play poker till 3:00 a.m. table. And it’s not like my nephew can’t afford a table. He can afford any table he wants. So why his grandmother’s table? You know the answer as well as I do.

 As I said last Maundy Thursday, tables are symbols of our civility. More than any other piece of furniture, they suggest how far we have come as a culture, a people or a family. Listen to the phrase: “If we can just get everyone to the table.” Do you hear the hope in that? Sure you do….whether the issue be carving a turkey or signing a treaty.

This is Table Day in the life of Christendom. Second only to Maundy Thursday, this is the penultimate Table Day in the life of the Christian church. Because, on this day, we break the bread and lift the cup together….all across the world….in solidarity, if not perfect unity. Broken though we may be….by everything from time zones to ideologies….on this one day, the table (and the cloth that covers it) are seamless.

Holy Communion! Why do we do it? Lots of reasons….some of which we, in the Christian church, still fight over. How do we do it? Lots of ways….some of which we, in the Christian church, still fight over. Does it always lead to a powerful religious experience? Probably not. On those perfunctory, mechanical, how-long-is-this-going-to-take (and how-soon-can-I-get-out-of- here) days, I suppose the most that might be said is that, upon rising from the table, we will have remembered Jesus. But on those days when the membrane that separates things temporal from things eternal, things seen from things unseen, is stretched a little thinner than usual….or maybe even splits for just a crack….the best that might be said is that, upon rising from the table, we have experienced Jesus.

“Do this and I’ll be there,” he said. Which is sometimes called “the Doctrine of Real Presence.” And while most of us don’t go as far down that road as the Roman Catholics do (literal body, literal blood, in a holy and mystical form of cannibalism), I have yet to meet a Christian who professes a “Doctrine of Real Absence.” Which is to say that Jesus is here somehow, some way, somewhere….in this moment….at this table….through this act. We do this with him.

And with each other. “Drink ye all of this,” was the way the preacher put it when I was a boy. Which did not mean “all of the liquid” but “all of the people.” I got it backwards in those days. When I was a child, I equated the preacher with my mother: “Finish your juice. Drink it all. Don’t leave any in the bottom of the glass….the bottom of the cup….the bottom of the chalice.”

But the preacher was not my mother. And Jesus is not my mother. The words “drink ye all” relate to the people around, not the contents within. I am talking about people I can’t necessarily name, but people I must try to visualize.

There was once a preacher who went back to his boyhood church….a little congregation, scarcely bigger than the proverbial church in the wildwood….where he was surprised to discover that they had acquired a sanctuary full of beautiful new windows. They were stained glass.… leaded…. brilliantly colored. He couldn’t figure how they could afford it. But that wasn’t all he couldn’t figure. He began reading the names (the dedications in the windows), failing to recognize a single name. And he was reared there. So he asked the pastor if the dedications represented people who joined up since he left.

“No,” said the pastor. “A church in St. Louis ordered these windows from Italy, and when they got them, they didn’t fit. So they put an advertisement in a church paper saying they would sell them cheap to any church willing to give them a home.”

When asked about the unfamiliar names etched into the windows, the pastor said: “Well, the Board discussed that and decided against coloring them out”….adding that, “It’s good for our little church to realize there are some Christian people besides us.”

Well, it’s good for all of us….even here, where there’s a lot of us. Could I but scan the table this morning, I’d see people I’ve supped with from the Upper Room in Jerusalem to a jungle room in Costa Rica. And that’s just for starters. I’ve got family breaking bread this morning in Prague, in London, all over Israel, all over Great Britain, down South, up North, in tens of towns and hundreds of churches.

As many of you know, I am not terribly domestic. But one of my jobs at the parsonage is to put the extra leaves in the dining room table at holiday time. We store them behind the winter coats in the first floor closet. But my whole house….which is a wonderful house.…wouldn’t be able to hold all the leaves required, were all of my friends in Christ to show up on the same day. And those are only the friends I know.

One of them wrote me Friday from a little town on the Sussex coast of England. I haven’t seen her for over 20 years. I served her church for a summer once. She has sent me a Christmas card every year since. This letter, occasioned by something other than Christmas, begins:

            Following the travesty in your country on September 11, I just wanted to tell you that you are all being held in our prayers….mine personally….and those of my church, my prayer cell, and my house group.

And the rest of the page is filled with handwritten prayers. The last concludes with her personal reflection on Psalm 46. You know Psalm 46. At least you know the following lines:

            God is our hope and strength, a very present help in time of trouble.

            Therefore, we will not fear, though the earth be moved.

To which she adds: “The earth has moved. Please, God, help us.” Isn’t it amazing how endearing we Americans have become to the rest of the world in the face of our suffering?

We come to this table with him. We come to this table with each other. And, in ways I can’t begin to explain, we come to this table with those who have taken an earlier bus to Glory. They are not here, some of them. They should be. They were here once. They are not here now. And there are days when their absence speaks as eloquently as did their presence. But just as there are empty places at our table (where they have been, but are not now), I think there are empty places at their table (where we are going, but are not yet).

While raising the cup, Jesus said to his disciples: “This is the last time I shall drink with you here. But the day shall come when I shall drink with you there” (the operative words in that sentence being “with you”). Meaning that the Sacrament is given by Jesus to tide us over, to see us through, to keep us keeping on….until we shall be one with Jesus….one with each other…. and one with those who, as the poet says, “we have loved long since, yet lost a while.” Or, as we shall soon sing:

            Feast after feast thus comes and passes by,

            And passing, points to the glad feast above.

They were one with us in life. They remain one with us in death. And quite apart from the fact that their future may one day be ours, our fight (in the present moment) continues to be theirs. As Colin Morris loves to say: “We must not, in assessing our strength, ignore those regiments camped over the hill.” For as we shall soon hear in the Great Thanksgiving, we are joined with “all the company of heaven.” My friends, we are incredibly well supported.

Do me a favor as we close. Picture, in your mind’s eye, a piece of paper. Picture also a pen. Now picture yourself making a list….a list of names. It is a list you are going to add to from time to time and keep with you over time….even if you have to leave everything else behind (car, boat, books, furniture, computer, whatever). In fact, when your life is ended and you have to leave the earth, take it with you (your list, I mean).

Now I know, I know, I know. When you get to the gate, Peter’s going to say: “Look, you know the rules. You went into the world with nothing, you’ve got to come out of it with nothing. So what’s that in your hand?”

And you’ll say: “Well, it’s just a list.”

“A list?”

“Yes, just a list with some names.”

“So let me see it.”

“Well, it’s just the names of folks who helped me….people who, if it weren’t for them, I’d have never made it.”

To which Peter will say (again): “I want to see it.”

So you’ll give it to him. And he’ll smile and say: “I know ‘em all. In fact, on my way to the gate, it seems like I passed ‘em all. They were painting a great, big sign to hang over the street. I didn’t see it real close, but it looked (for all the world) like they were fixin’ to write WELCOME HOME.”

My friends, what if you could see even a fraction of all those people at the table? And what if you could see Jesus at the table? Would it make your life any easier….your road any smoother…. your landings any softer? Maybe. Maybe not. But I guarantee you this. You would not be lonely. Or hungry.

Note: In preparing this meditation for World Communion Sunday, I hauled out no small number of “heavy hitters” in my dugout of supporters. They include Colin Morris, Barbara Brown Taylor, Fred Craddock and William Barclay. The letter from England came from Frances Nightingale who is a member of the Rustington Methodist Church on the West Sussex coast. I served the Rustington church on a pastoral exchange in 1975 and later hosted a youth orchestra conducted by her husband, Peter, in 1980.

Two Nights in December: A Pair of Epiphanies on Crystal Lake 12/30/2001

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Luke 2: 21-35

While I am far from young, let the record show that I am not so old so as to have fought in any of the wars my elders call “The Big Ones”….namely, World Wars I and II, and that regional skirmish (nearly a century-and-a-half back) known as the Civil War. I am not even a great student of the Civil War, although I have walked the battlefields at Gettysburg, Harper’s Ferry and Antietam.

But Bruce Catton knew the Civil War and, in marvelous books like Stillness at Appomattox, wrote so vividly that one could read about it in one’s armchair and (yet) be there at the same time. Some day I shall take the time to read those books and refight that war. But that time is not now.

Truth be told, I have read only one of Bruce Catton’s books all the way through and that book had little, if anything, to do with armed conflict. What it had to do with was growing up….his growing up….in Benzie County in northern Michigan. Bruce’s father started a private school, Benzonia Academy, early in the twentieth century. Benzonia, the town, sat on top of a hill. Beulah, its sister town, sat at the bottom of the hill. Kissing up to the edges of Beulah was Crystal Lake, which (if you swam the length of it, east to west) would take you eight miles to Frankfort. Still will, for that matter. And there are those who say there is no more beautiful body of water in Michigan than Crystal Lake. I don’t know about that. I don’t want to start a fight with the Walloon people. But what I do know is that, in size and shape, there is no lake anywhere that more closely resembles the Sea of Galilee than Crystal Lake. Which, as information goes, might be worth something to you in the event that you never make it to the Middle East.

My purpose in placing you at Crystal Lake is because that is where Bruce Catton’s two stories take place….the two stories I am going to tell you this morning….after which I shall append a comment or two and sit down. If that sounds like a lazy way to go on my part, at least listen to the stories before rendering judgment. Ready or not, here we go.

Story Number One

It concerns the morning that Lewis Stoneman and I went sailing on skates. I do not know whether anyone does that nowadays, but it was quite the thing at the time and we had read about it in some magazine. You took thin strips of wood and made an oblong frame about four feet long and three feet wide and added an old, discarded bed sheet, cut to size and tacked to the frame. Then you put on your skates, held the frame out in front of you, and let the wind take charge.

So one day, frames erected, we went down to Crystal Lake which, as luck would have it, was as clear and smooth as a pane of glass. Skating conditions were perfect. The sun was bright. The bare ice was as polished steel and there was a brisk wind to the east. The wind soon filled our sails and took us down the lake from east to west at what seemed like a fabulous speed. We had never moved so fast on skates before. In fact, we had not even imagined that it was possible to move so fast. And it was all so completely effortless. It was like being a hawk, soaring above the ridge on a great updraft of air.

Neither of us knew anything about sailing. To tack or even to go on a broad reach was entirely foreign to us. We simply had to go where the wind went. And, if I had thought about it, the realization that I would have to walk back into the face of it would have sobered me a bit. But there would be time to worry about that later.

For the moment, it seemed as if the whole world had been made for our enjoyment. The hills that rimmed the lake were white with snow, cut in places by bare tree trunks standing like sentinels observing our passing….while the sun beat down as a friendly weight upon our shoulders. Save for the creasing of our blades upon the ice, there was hardly a sound anywhere. I do not believe that I have ever felt so completely in tune with the universe than I felt that morning on Crystal Lake. It was friendly. And all of its secrets were good.

Then, suddenly, came the awakening. We had ridden the wind for about six miles or so and were within two miles of the western end of the lake. When we realized that not far ahead of us was a broad stretch of sparkling, dazzling blue….running from shore to shore, flecked with picturesque whitecaps. Open water….beautiful, but carrying with it the threat of sudden death. The lake was not entirely frozen after all, and we would reach its open end in no time. The lake was a good 100 feet deep there, and the temperature of the water scarcely one degree warmer than the ice itself.

Suddenly we looked down. There was also a change in the ice beneath us. It was transparent…. and the water below was as black as a starless midnight. Moreover, it was now sagging under our weight, giving out ominous creaking and cracking sounds. We dropped our sails and made a grotesque race for safety….half skating….half running….until we clumsily reached the beach and collapsed on a log to catch our breath.

Yet the whole business cut a hard groove in my mind. I found I did not want to talk about it. I did not even want to think about it. For what I had seen through the transparent, bending ice seemed to be nothing less than the heart of darkness. It was not just my own death that lie down there….it was the ultimate horror lying below all life….a horror held at bay by something so fragile it could break at any moment.

Although it does not happen the same way to every kid….or at the same age to every kid….no one makes it all the way through high school without some experience where, after surviving it, one is led to say: “Whew, that was a close one.” Which means “I could have died there.…been badly hurt there….been crippled or maimed there….been caught and arrested there….or gotten myself in a lot of trouble and lost a whole big chunk of my future there.” Life is full of near misses. More than once, you and I have skated on some very thin ice.

But I promised you a second story. Same kid. Same town. Same December. So here it is.

Story Number Two

Shortly after the experience on the lake came Christmas. By the time I was 16, the old excitement of Christmas gifts had, of course, worn thin. And I was about ready to admit that the intense emotion centering about the tree in the living room was primarily for small children (whose ranks I was certain I had left). Yet, in some ways, Christmas that year had an impact it had never had before. It seemed to come out of what I had always considered a routine observance….the Christmas Eve service in our little village church.

Every year in the week before Christmas, the tallest balsam which could be cut and gotten into the church was erected on the raised platform where the choir ordinarily sat, and it was covered with homemade decorations….looped chains out of colored paper….white popcorn threaded on long strings….silver stars….and metal clips holding lighted candles. We had no electric lights in those days. And the fire hazard represented by open candle flame must have been enormous. But nothing ever seemed to happen.

Anyway, the church was filled with people, and just to be in it on Christmas Eve seemed as to be partaking in a mystery. The service was extremely simple. There were carols….prayers, I suspect….the reading of the Gospel story….a few quiet remarks by the minister….the distribution of candy canes and popcorn balls to the youngest children….and a final hymn.

And when the wheezy organ, pumped vigorously by a sweating young man behind the pulpit screen, gave forth with “Joy to the World,” and the doors swung open to let us out into the winter night, it was as if we heard the sound of far-off trumpets.

Walking home afterward….the frozen snow creaking under our boots….and the silent air still echoing the carols we had sung….there seemed to be an endless host of stars whose clear flames denied the darkness. The message was unmistakable. Life was leading us somewhere… somehow….miraculously….to a transfiguration.

It stayed with me. I felt that I had caught a glimpse behind the veil. I had seen the ultimate truth. And the truth was good (or so it seemed to me at the time).

And then I remembered that, under the ice on my wind-driven cruise across Crystal Lake, I had seen something entirely different. For under that ice lay an outright denial of everything I had seen in the stars on Christmas Eve. In the space of but a few days, I had seen two visions….one of horror….and one of transfiguration….and they seemed equally authentic. They spoke with equal force. And I could not accept one and discard the other.

* * * * *

Nearly every one of you I have talked to….along with all you Christmas letter writers out there….have told me the same four things.

1.      That this Christmas is different.

2.      That this Christmas is more painful and perilous than those previous.

3.      That this Christmas is also more precious than those previous.

4.      And that the song is right….that we “need a little Christmas, right this very minute”….even though some of you went so far as to replace “a little” with “a lot.”

I don’t need to belabor the point. Bruce Catton’s stories have already made it. Life is not without its horror….or its glory.

Eight days after Jesus was born, they brought him into the Temple for three very ancient and very Jewish ceremonies. The first….circumcision. The second….the redemption of the first born. The third….the purification of Mary. All of which are interesting. But they do not concern me here. What concerns me is this old man….this very old man….this one Luke calls Simeon, who is hanging around the Temple on the day Jesus is brought to it.

As you know, every Jew waited for a Messiah. And most Jews waited with expectations that included political dominance and military might. The argument went as follows: The Messiah will come over and we will overcome….anybody and everybody….those who got in our way once…. those who get in our way now…..and those who could ever conceivably get in our way in the future.

But not everybody waited thusly. There were some who were known as “the quiet in the land,” who had no thoughts of violence and no dreams of power. By contrast, they practiced a life of gentle watchfulness and constant prayer against the day of God’s coming. Simeon was one of “the quiet in the land.”

Upon seeing the baby, he breathed a sigh of relief….smiled a very deep smile….and then said (prayerfully) to God: “Thanks for the vision. Having seen it….having seen him….I can die now.” But before he did, he said to Mary: “This is only the beginning. Because of your baby, some will rise…some will fall….and before this mothering business of yours is finished, your heart will be broken.”

Which it was, of course. As will all of ours….be broken, I mean (at some time or another). But, as Simeon suggests, we can bear the worst because we have seen the best.

It could not have been much lovelier than it was here on Christmas Eve. Then, about 2:45 p.m. on Christmas day, something in me said: “Ritter, you’ve got a few minutes. Go over to Beaumont and see Pat Work.” Which I did. And, upon walking into her room, found her dead. It had just happened a couple of minutes earlier. Although it was hardly a surprise.

We shall remember her at 2:00 this afternoon. At which time I shall respond to someone’s suggestion that the death of a loved one on December 25 could (conceivably) spoil Christmas forever. To which I will say:

            No, you mustn’t look at Christmas through what has happened.

            You must look at what has happened through Christmas.

Note: Bruce Catton’s boyhood memoirs were published under the title Waiting for the Morning Train and, to my knowledge, are still very much in circulation. The wonderful quote that closes the sermon was passed along to me by Carl Price. And it is Carl’s recollection that he heard it from our former ecclesiastic leader, Bishop Dwight Loder

Hook, Line and Sinker 10/28/2001

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: John 21:1-17

When last we gathered at this way station in the wilderness, I told you that, in preparation for this trio of sermons, I had learned more than I ever wanted to know about fishing in the Bible. This research included the four primary ways fish were caught in the pages of scripture….or, more to the point, in the waters of Israel.

What was caught was primarily perch, carp, bream, and the sweet (albeit bony) little St. Peters fish, which everyone, once in a lifetime, must eat with a plateful of fries in a little outdoor café in the lakeside village of Tiberias. What was caught but not kept was a garbage fish known as the sheet fish, along with eels and a few other unscaled water animals which the Jews (according to Leviticus 11:9-12) considered “unclean.”

Most of these fish were hauled overland to Jerusalem (70 miles from Galilean fishing ports, 40 miles from Mediterranean fishing ports) where they were brought to the markets of the old walled city, entering through the Fish Gate of the second Temple. All of this, mind you, before the days of refrigerated trucks.

As to how biblical fish were caught, most of them were netted. Some fishermen preferred to cast their nets while other fishermen preferred to drag them. Hand casting was done from the shore. You simply folded the net loosely over your arm, waded slightly into the water, whirled the loose end skillfully over your head, and then released. Done correctly, the net would unwind and fall like a tent, with weights pulling it to the bottom. This effectively trapped any fish upon which it fell. Picture throwing a lasso….which cowboys can do in their sleep, but I could never master as a kid….and you have some idea of the principle involved.

Drag netting, to the contrary, required at least one boat, and most often two. This method utilized a bigger net, but it also covered a wider area. In addition to weights to drag it down, a drag net also required floaters to keep it up. Clearly, many of the disciples were familiar with both kinds of netting. When Jesus met some of them along the shore of the Sea of Galilee, they were casting. In this story, they were dragging. Man, were they dragging.

A third method involved a hook attached to a line. Both “hooks” and “lines” are mentioned in scripture. But no pole is mentioned in scripture. So one either assumes a pole, or speculates that a line was dropped from the hand (which sounded stupid to me, until many of you confessed that that was how you began your early fishing career as children). Perhaps you will remember that when Jesus needed a coin to pay the half-shekel Temple tax, he had Peter hook a fish. Whereupon he pulled a coin from its mouth and asked Peter whose image was on it…. occasioning the famous line about “rendering unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and unto God the things that are God’s.”

Finally, the Bible also speaks of spearing or harpooning, which the Jews learned in Egypt. This generally occurred at night, with flaming torches held over the stern of the boat so that the fish, drawn by the light, would swim within arm’s length (the better to ensure that spearing did not lead to drowning).

I explained all this to Roger Wittrup in the narthex last Sunday. In addition to being a world-class forensic psychologist, Roger is also an avid fisherman. What’s more, he is absolutely certain that heaven will be crisscrossed by trout streams (much to the chagrin of the golfers). Who knows, he may be right. But when I explained the four biblical methodologies of fishing (cast-netting, drag-netting, hooking and harpooning), Roger said: “And, of course, dynamiting.”

What Roger was referencing, of course, was an old wives' tale I once told, some 20 years ago, in a sermon. I’ll give you the short form. A salty veteran takes a rookie fishing….motors to a remote corner of the lake….kills the motor….reaches into his tackle box….pulls out a stick of dynamite….lights it….throws it….waits for the explosion to stun a slew of fish….then scoops them into the boat when they float to the surface. In response to which, the rookie objects…. loudly….strenuously….keeps at it….won’t stop it. So the veteran reaches into his tackle box a second time….lights a second stick of dynamite….hands it to the rookie and says: “Are you gonna complain or are you gonna fish?”

My trouble began when I personalized the story, telling it as if it were true. I told it as if I, the newly-arrived preacher, was the rookie in the boat. What’s worse, I told it as if Ralph McCubbin (a long-time church member, local undertaker, and inveterate fisherman) was the fellow with the explosives in his tackle box. There must have been 500 people who heard me tell it. And there must have been 400 people who “got it” upon hearing it. But the other 100 took it as gospel. They thought that Ralph….their dear friend and beloved undertaker….really did take the new preacher out to fish with dynamite. And a few of them let him have it. I mean, he heard it about it for weeks….in a couple of cases, for years. It got so bad that I actually preached a disclaimer sermon. Thankfully, it didn’t hurt our friendship. For 20 years we chuckled over it. Then Ralph died a couple of weeks back. His wife wanted me to tell that story at the funeral. Which didn’t work out. But it did bring it all back (in a bittersweet sort of way).

Last week I turned our text in the direction of catching fish. This week I want to turn it in the direction of being fish. I want to talk about what it’s like to be caught and landed….hooked, if you will.

In the first campaign mailing, you received a fish hook (albeit a fish hook with its point clipped for safety’s sake). Then you read these words that followed:

Did you ever stop to ponder

What it was that brought you here

What hooked you on First Church, Birmingham?

            Was it family tradition

            The invitation of a friend

            Was it worship, or music, or something more

            Or was it simply faith?

And what is it that brings you back, time and again?

We are all lured by many things in life.

How wonderful for each of us that this place

             and God’s grace has caught us.

I love that. I only wish I’d written it. I didn’t. Lindsay Hinz did. But it’s great theology, don’t you see. And true to life, don’t you see.

Start with the “true to life” part. Some days it seems as if everybody wants to hook you, or….in that strangest of euphemisms….wants to “get their hooks into you.” Sometimes they dangle and dance colorful “flies” before your eyes. Other times they go right for your unprotected flesh with something sharp and pointed.

Advertisers are brilliant….simply brilliant….at this. I can’t believe how good they are. In fact, I envy how good they are. But preachers do the same thing. Given the world you live in, I know that many of you won’t give me 22 minutes of focused attention. And some of you who will, can’t. So I have to hook you early in the sermon. I have to make you care about what I am going to say. I can do it by asking a question you can’t answer, unfolding a mystery you can’t solve, posing a paradox you can’t bring together, or inviting you on a journey you can’t see the end of, but are willing to take because it seems intriguing. Or I can tell you a story that gets a little bit close….sometimes a little bit too close.…to where you live. In the old days, preachers hooked you by starting each sermon with a joke. But you got wise. You stayed awake through the punch line before mentally going to sleep.

There are lots of lures in the world. Nice ones from lovers (“Why don’t you come closer?”). Dangerous ones from drug dealers (“Hey kid, want to try something cool?”). There are few places where any of us swim free. Not that we want to, mind you. I think most of us want to be caught. Somebody once crooned about courtship: “A man chases a woman until she catches him” (even though it sometimes works the other way). While somebody else explains an activity or cause that has changed his or her life by saying: “I don’t know how I got started. I just got caught up in it.”

Remember, I said that while Lindsay’s words were true to life, I also said that they were good theology. Why? Because people of faith are often caught up before they sign up. Chris Hall’s little song (which we have adopted for the campaign) is so instructive here. How does it begin? I’ll tell you how it begins. “It’s all about who is the fish and who is the fisherman….” Maybe….just maybe….you and I are the fish.

So who is the fisherman? You know darn well who is the fisherman. In this story, he’s the only one not in the boat….the only one not trying to shake off a night’s worth of failure….the only one who’s not empty of net, empty of heart, empty of hand and empty of hope. The man on the shore, I mean. Jesus, I mean. The man who (when Peter hears John say: “It’s the Lord”) causes Peter to vacate the boat….half swimming….half running….looking every bit as clumsy as I do when I try to run in the water.

End of scene. Cut to the next scene. We’re a little further up the shore now. What I want you to see is the fire….the charcoal fire….over which Jesus is grilling fish. Jesus is getting ready to feed somebody. But what’s new about that? Always did. Still does.

But don’t let this lonely little detail slip by….about it being a “charcoal” fire, I mean. So what’s the big deal about Jesus grilling Peter’s breakfast over a charcoal fire? Think. Think hard. Surely you remember. It was a charcoal fire that was warming the soldiers outside of Caiaphas’ palace the night that Jesus was arrested and brought to trial. I am talking about the same charcoal fire across which the soldiers squinted and spotted Peter in the dark. Yes, the same charcoal fire over which, three times, they asked Peter: “Are you not one of this man’s disciples?” To which Peter said: “No….no….for the third time, No.” And for the rest of his life, a charcoal fire would be Peter’s symbol of shame (as if we all didn’t have one….a symbol of shame, I mean).

Yet there is Jesus cooking fish over a charcoal fire, saying: “Come and have breakfast.” That’s all he said. All he needed to say. I could preach a thousand sermons on forgiveness and none of them would be as eloquent as Jesus saying those words over that fire.

But the story is not over yet. They eat….scrape the plates….throw the dirty napkins into the fire….pour a second cup of coffee (decaf for Peter, who’s already fidgety enough). Jesus looks at Peter. “Do you love me?” he asks. Peter says: “Yes.” “Feed my lambs,” Jesus says.

Second time: “Simon, son of John, do you love me?” “Yes, Lord, you know that I love you,” says Peter. “Tend my sheep,” says Jesus.

Third time: “Simon, son of John, do you love me?” Now Peter is hurt….angry….agitated…. clearly out of sorts by the probing intensity of the grilling. Jesus will not let Peter off the hook. Why? Because unless Peter and Jesus get into it….or down to it….Peter’s never going to get past it….or move beyond it. It’s always going to be between them. It’s always going to get in the way.

“Yes, Lord….you know it all….you know everything….you know as much as I do….more than I can hide from you….you know who I am….what I did….how I feel about it….and how desperately I love you in spite of it.” And Jesus simply said: “Feed my sheep.” Which, translated, means: “Peter, you’ve got your old job back.”

You have probably figured out by now that Ithink this story….written as it is….placed where it is….is about the church. The fish are those who need hooking. The sheep are those who need feeding. And Peter is the one who needs healing….along with a job.

So, who are we?

           Are we fish?

                        Are we sheep?

                                    Are we Peter?

I think that’s something you need to figure out for yourself. If not right now, at least after breakfast.

            “It’s all about who is the fish and who is the fisherman.”

Meeting the Lord in the Dining Room: 3. The Protocol

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

March 18, 2001

Scripture: Luke 14:1, 7-11

A colleague of mine recently received a letter from one of his parishioners. It read as follows:

            My dear pastor, I notice that you seem to set a great deal of importance on your sermons and spend no small amount of time preparing them. I have been attending services for the past 30 years and, during that time, I have listened to no less than 3000 sermons. But I hate to inform you that I cannot remember a single one. I wonder if your time might be better spent on something else.

After waiting a couple of days to heal his pride and swallow his defensiveness, my friend wrote back, saying:

            My dear parishioner, I have been married for 30 years. During that time, I have eaten 32,580 meals….mostly of my wife’s cooking. Alas, I have discovered that I cannot remember the menu of a single meal. Yet, judging by outward appearances, I have been nourished by every one of them. In fact, I have the distinct impression that without them, I would have starved to death years ago.

That story was reported to me in response to my last two sermons on the subject of food. In fact, everywhere I go, I find people responding to these sermons on food. Mark Demorest sent me a wonderful article (following last week’s sermon) about the state of gluttony in the good old USA. It appeared in Money Magazine (if you can believe that) and it was written by a travel writer reporting on restaurants where you can put your appetite to the test. As the result of his research, he suggests that while gluttony may still be one of the seven deadly sins, it’s loads of fun. What’s more, gluttony may cancel out a few of the other sins, given that after tackling a 72-ounce steak, lust will be the furthest thing from your mind.

Which he did….try to consume a 72-ounce steak, I mean. It happened at the Big Texan Steak Ranch in Amarillo, where four or five customers a week try to finish that much beef in one sitting. The challenge is to consume 72-ounces of sirloin (as well as a salad, baked potato, shrimp cocktail and a dinner roll) in 60 minutes running time. Unfortunately, they do not allow you to eat at a regular table. Instead, they move you to a little stage near the center of the dining room so that everyone can watch you pig out. Which led the author to observe: “Eating on display may seem a bit weird at first….but hey, no guts, no glory.” Alas, he had the guts, but missed out on the glory. Meaning that he wasn’t successful. But then, only one in five is. As for me, I think I’ll pass. But should you give it a try to next time you are in Amarillo, make sure somebody takes pictures.

There used to be an ice cream parlor over on Telegraph Road which made a big deal out of big orders. As I remember it, they had a concoction called the Pig’s Trough. And every time one person ordered it, six waiters delivered it. What’s more, they rang bells, banged drums and made a whole lot of noise. Which meant that every eye in the place turned in your direction. They might as well have put you on a stage. Or on television, for that matter.

What is this thing about having people watch you eat? Well, it takes many forms. Such as this little, overlooked line in Luke’s 14th chapter. Let me read it to you again.

            “One Sabbath….when Jesus went to dine at the house of a ruler who belonged to the Pharisees….they were watching him.”  (Luke 14:1)

Have you ever been watched while you eat? Years ago, my mother told me that people would notice the way I ate and draw conclusions about me….and about the people who raised me. To some extent, she was right.

Much is revealed by the way we eat. I know a man whose corporate responsibility includes selecting candidates, from among those newly hired, for his company’s executive training program. He is the one who has to figure out which of the fast-trackers can cut the mustard. So he holds interviews, gives tests, reads letters of recommendation, and reviews transcripts….all the traditional things. And then he takes each candidate out to dinner and observes his or her behavior. “Watch how a person eats,” he claims, “and that will tell you all you need to know about their character….given that manners are what you learn (and what you do) not for yourself, but out of regard for other people.”

Which reminds me of Will Willimon’s story about being interviewed for a job at Yale. The first evening they took him to Mory’s (as in “from the tables down at Mory’s, to the place where Louie dwells”). There he was, face to face with five Yale professors. And his host said that he must have….in fact, his host ordered for him….the French onion soup. Then everybody sat back with perverse delight as Willimon fielded question after question, while trying to plunge his spoon through the thick, cheesy crust, without sloshing liquid over the side in the process. And then there was the matter of the cheese, which never quite broke free from the glob and ended up stringing itself from chin to spoon until severed by the fingers. Which is why I never eat the Swiss onion soup at Peabody’s when I am dining in polite company. I love the Swiss onion soup at Peabody’s. It simply doesn’t get any better. But every time I eat it, I embarrass myself by wearing it. Which isn’t pretty. No, not pretty at all.

But on this occasion….while they were watching Jesus….Jesus was watching them. At issue was not the “how” of their eating, but the “where” of their seating. To be specific, Jesus ended up addressing the seat selection process and the way that certain people plunked themselves down at the head table (or as close as they could get to it). Leading Jesus to say: “Don’t do that. It could get embarrassing, you know. I mean, you could be sitting in one of the front seats and your host could approach you and ask if you would mind ‘movin’ on back.’ I mean, it could get ugly.”

When my friends and I were teenagers, we used to go to the ballpark and sit in the cheap seats. Most of the time, that meant “General Admission” in left field. From our distant perch, we would gaze upon those wonderful field-level seats between home plate and third base, adjacent to the Tiger dugout. Most of those seats were in the hands of people with season tickets. “Fat cats,” we called them. And even though the seats were sold, they were not always occupied. Meaning that there were days when the ticket holders didn’t show up. Once the game started, we would monitor their availability. If, by the end of the first inning, they were still empty, we would quietly make our way toward them. Sometimes we would get lucky and slip past the gaze of an usher. Whereupon we could enjoy the next several innings from the best seats in the house.

But, more often than not, the occupants would merely be late in arriving. Along about the third inning, the usher would come and ask to see our tickets. Which, when produced, would indicate that we were not where we belonged. So we would slink back to left field, not entirely unrepentant. After all, why should such wonderful seats go begging? Besides, we didn’t know anybody who hadn’t, at one time or another, tried the same thing. I will report, however, that I gave up the practice when I began to take a date to the ballpark.

In anticipation of such an embarrassment, Jesus said: “Instead take the lowest seat when you enter, the one with the clear view of the dishwasher (every time they open the kitchen door). For you never know. You could get lucky. And the host could come over to your table and say: ‘Hey friend, how about movin’ on up?’”

I know a fellow who is employed by a great university. And he’s hung around the place so long that he knows all the signs that tell whether you are on the “inside” of university politics or on the “outside” of university politics. A big indicator is your table assignment at major university dinners. The head table is best. Tables 1-3, next best. Any table, 10 or under, you’re pretty much okay. But if you wind up at table 20, you’d better update your resume.

As some of you know, Kris and I enjoyed the recent privilege of breakfast with President Bush, along with a couple thousand of his nearest and dearest. The occasion was the National Prayer Breakfast in Washington, which has been going on since 1949. It was a wonderful occasion…. one that I talk about everywhere I go. But given the number of people squeezed into the ballroom at the Washington Hilton, I wondered if I’d need a telescope to see the speakers’ platform. To our great fortune, we were actually pretty close to the front. We sat with Murray Jones (talk about “good company”), a couple of other Americans, the recently-ousted monarch of a small African nation, and the Honorable John Taylor from the British House of Lords. I resisted any temptation to make a stupid joke about Lord and Taylor. But it felt good to be near the front.

Given my role in banquet occasions, I often sit at the head table. What’s more, I appreciate….and, to some degree, enjoy….the status of high placement. And yet I hear the words of Jesus when he says: “Hey friend, don’t presume anything. Start down low. Consider yourself lucky to be there at all. Let your host call the shots.”

What’s involved here? More than meets the eye….I’ll tell you that. And I’ll tell you how I know that. There’s a little clue in Luke’s narrative that gives it away. For Luke tells us that the “banquet” in this story is a “marriage feast.” And whenever you see the phrase “marriage feast,” you know that it is meant as a symbol for the Kingdom.

And this is one of those stories. Its purpose is to give us a glimpse of “end time.” It says: “Don’t count on what you count on now, counting then. All this jockeying for position. All this wanting to be in the right seat. All this wanting to be number one. None of that is going to count.” The only thing that is going to count in the Kingdom is humility. Which means that at that banquet….at that time….the appropriate place to gather is at the foot of the table.

And concerning that, listen to what Mark Trotter says next:

Nobody knows what is going to happen at the banquet. I get impatient with people who think they know what is going to happen. They always seem to know who is going to heaven and who is not, as if they were privy to the guest list….as if they knew beforehand who had been invited….as if they had access to the seating chart….and as if they knew who was going to be at the head table right next to Jesus. I notice that the people they say are going to be in heaven tend to be the people who agree with them. And the people who aren’t going to be there are the people who do not agree with them. These people pass themselves off as Bible-believing Christians. But one wonders if they have even read the Bible. Because if you read the Bible, it’s as clear as “clear” could be. Nobody knows! The only certainty is that there are going to be surprises. As the old spiritual suggests: “Everybody talkin’ about heaven, ain’t goin’ there”….at least, right off.

Except there is one clue. The humble are probably going to make the first cut with the least trouble. Which leads to a pair of concluding thoughts.

The first concerns a test for humility. I picked it off the Internet the other day. It’s amazing what you can find there. Consider this:

During my second month of nursing school, our professor gave us a pop quiz. I was a conscientious student and had breezed through the questions, until I read the last one. “What is the first name of the women who cleans the school?”

Surely this was some kind of joke. I had seen the cleaning woman several times. She was tall, dark-haired and in her fifties. But how would I know her name? I handed in my paper, leaving the answer blank. Then I heard another student ask if the last question would count toward our grade. “Absolutely,” said the professor. “In your careers you will meet many people. All are significant. Each deserves your attention and care, even if all you do is smile and say hello.”

I’ve never forgotten that lesson. I’ve also learned that her name is Dorothy.

My second concluding observation concerns the whereabouts of Jesus at the banquet. I mean, you might want his autograph. Or you might want to have your picture taken standing next to him. So you’ll want to know where he’s sitting, won’t you? Of course you will. So I’ll locate him for you. He’s at table 20.

* * * * *

Oh, by the way, their names are Tony, Chito, Gary, Dastin and Kate. Who are they? Why, they’re the people who clean the building. Just so you’ll know.

Note: I am indebted to Dick Cheatham, Mark Demorest, Will Willimon and Mark Trotter for various and sundry contributions to this sermon.