A Chainsaw for Christmas 12/5/1993

William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Matthew 26: 51-54; I Corinthians 1: 26-31

Over the course of the last few days, I have managed to reacquaint myself with my hammer, my screw driver, my handy-dandy pliers, my trusty wire cutters, and a couple of step ladders of varying heights and stabilities. I needed those tools because there were a few things around the house that needed to be hung, secured or adjusted in preparation for the visits that many of you will make to the parsonage this afternoon.

Notice that I did not equate the use of these tools with the "fixing" of anything around the parsonage in preparation for your visits this afternoon. That's because I seldom "fix" things. Tim Allen's popular sitcom was written neither for me, nor about me. Where home repairs are concerned, I am colossally unhandy. I can do any job that requires a strong back and steady legs. Wall washing and garden spading are my forte.  I am less adept at any job that requires the connection of a keen mind with nimble fingers. As fingers go, my ten have never worked in close harmony with one another.

When I helped build a church in Costa Rica, I noticed that our crew was divided into two classifications of workers. There were people who walked around with pencils behind their ears, and there were people who walked around with work gloves on their fingers. In the course of two hot, sweaty weeks, my ear never felt a pencil. But my fingers were seldom, if ever, ungloved. My job was cement.... mixing it.... by hand.... all day. I was good at it. Largely, because I had the back for it. 

Male pride being what it is, it is hard to admit my unhandiness to you. Most men would like to have their friends believe they can fix anything. I am no exception.  Except that, I can't.  Never could.   This is why I have this marvelous idea for a repair shop, run the way the Catholic Church used to run the confessional. Upon entering a big, dark building that looks like a church, I select a small booth, bisected by a privacy screen so that nobody can see who I am. Meanwhile, somebody like Mitch Middleton sits (in priestly garb) on the other side of the screen. I tell him that my toaster is dead and that I am confessing to the sin of being unable to fix it. Then I slip Mitch a $20 bill which he promptly deposits in his clerical apron. Once my penance is paid, Mitch absolves me of my stupidity by saying something like: "That's okay, a man of your stature and calling surely has more important things to do."   And for the same twenty bucks, he also fixes my toaster.

All of this is a prelude to telling you that there is one skill I have recently mastered. I have learned how to operate a chain saw. My first lesson involved some old railroad ties in my planter boxes in Farmington Hills. Real railroad ties. Monster ties. Black ties, soaked in creosote. Not those wimpy ties sold by landscapers today. At any rate, they were rotting and needed replacing. Everybody said so. Kris said so. But it was my friend Al Green who showed me how to cut up the old ties into manageable pieces with his chain saw. After a couple quick lessons, I made toothpicks out of those babies. I also covered myself, beyond recognition, with alternating layers of sawdust and creosote.

Having mastered railroad ties, I decided to fell a forest, or at least 8 large trees from a forest that fell on my Elk Rapids property during a mini-tornado. This time it took a full day. But, when day was done, my personal enjoyment was every bit equal to the results achieved.  

I like chain saws. While not quite ready for movies featuring massacres committed thereby, I nonetheless enjoy what such a chain saw can do and how I feel while using one. I like the noise, the surge, and the raw power of it all. I like the speed with which things can be cut up and through. A man with a chain saw is a man on the way to accomplishing something. A man with a chain saw is a man on his way to making a mark. A man with a chain saw is a man not to be messed with. So much of my life is spent working gingerly, carefully and subtlety, so as to achieve my goals without offending my constituency. Obstacles in the ministry often have to be met by nibbling away at the edges or by coming at them via the back door. By contrast, a chain saw seems remarkably direct. O, if I could only get one for Christmas. I could:

·         Slash through bureaucratic red tape

·         Whack away at institutional underbrush

·         Cut the legs out from under my opposition

·         Clear paths, open logjams, trim dead wood

·         Level mountains, exalt valleys, make rough places plain, crooked places straight, and prepare a proper highway for our God.

Lest you wonder about my sudden switch from contemporary to biblical imagery, let me be so bold as to suggest that, for several hundred years before the birth of Jesus, the Jews were also looking for a chain saw for Christmas.... in the person of a Messiah who would cut a mighty swath through the obstacles, the opposition, and the oppressors of the day. Jews, throughout much of their history, did not have it easy. Therefore, one popular image pictured a Messiah who would be as hard on the opposition as the opposition had been hard on them.

That is why biblical messianic prophecy (in passages we never quite get around to quoting in Advent) is rich with images of an avenging Messiah who will "dash in pieces, princes and nations," and break those who oppose God's will "with a rod of iron."

This is power language, for which the chain saw is not an inappropriate image. What's more, even the gospels are not entirely sure that they want to let such language go. Here and there, little pieces of narrative slip through, indicating that some gospel writers were not completely comfortable with the weakness of Jesus. It has often been suggested that both Matthew and John are concerned to depict Jesus as someone who could have operated in chain-saw-like-fashion, had he chosen to. A few moments ago, we heard Matthew's account of the arrest in the garden of Gethsemane. You remember how it goes. Someone comes to Jesus' defense, brandishes a sword, and slices off the ear of a soldier. Jesus tells the man to re-sheath his weapon, adding that those who take up swords will just as surely perish by them. Then Matthew (alone) has Jesus say: "Don't you think that (if I wanted to) I could put out the call, and twelve legions of angels would immediately appear to kick the living bejeebers out of these who have come to arrest me?" Although I have taken some liberties with the translation, I have also taken the time to read seven commentaries on that specific verse. Each of them suggests that it probably reflects a view in the early church that couldn't bear to see Jesus crucified because of weakness in the face of opposition.

Jesus, of course, did not get 12 legions of angels in the garden that night. And the Jews did not get a chain saw for Christmas. They got a baby instead. Which was why this whole business about stables and cradles (lovely as it was) had to offend more than a few of them.

And it's not as if the Jews were totally wrong in their desires. Power is not necessarily a bad thing. I know I'd rather have more of it than less of it. And what little I have, I'd just as soon not give up. What's more, I could make a pretty good list of people I'd like to get more power into the hands of. Had I been alive 2000 years ago, that list would have certainly been headed by Jesus.  So had I received word (while stargazing in the Orient) that a baby in some faraway stable was God's anointed Messiah (and that I ought to go see him and bring along a gift of sorts), I might have skipped over gold, frankincense, myrrh, or some dumb drum song, and headed off to Sears of Judea to buy the kid a chain saw. I have always figured that you can't go too far wrong if you can get the right tool into the right hands to accomplish the right ends.

Here you are....sweet Mary's baby. This may not make any sense to you now, but it may   come in handy when you grow up.

Power has its uses. When connected to the world of ideas and ideals (writes Bart Giamatti), power can be a marvelous force for public good.

Power is not to be sneezed at in a world where powerlessness is both real and frustrating. A couple of years ago, the power went out of our electrical circuits for six days. For the first couple of days, we had a good time playing pioneer. Then we got testy. By the end of the week, it began to feel like the end of the world. And we knew that power was coming back on. What happens if you lose it and you don't know that? That happens to people every day. People lose power over their life.... their health.... their family.... and their future. They can't make happen what needs to happen. And they can't stop from happening, the things that ought not to happen.

Or what if they hunt and sniff, scratch and claw, and finally get to the place where power is supposed to be, only to find that it isn't?  John F. Kennedy was famous for saying that the most surprising thing about the presidency was his discovery of how little he could do in the office, once he actually got elected to it. On a lesser scale, the same thing happens in churches. I have seen people wander through the committee structure of the United Methodist Church, always wondering when they are going to get elected to the committee ''where the important stuff happens."

Power is elusive (meaning slippery, hard to find, and harder still to hang on to). That's what the world says. But power is also illusive (meaning that it's not everything it's cracked up to be, and can't do everything people think it can do). That's what the Bible says.

First, power can be incredibly seductive. That's why Jesus rejected it in the wilderness, saying: "Don't tempt me with it."

Second, power can be incredibly frightening. When you finally get power in your hands, and it comes time to exercise it, it is not unusual to find those same hands turning to jelly. In such moments, were someone to come along and offer to take power out of your hands, would you willingly give it up? Consider the person who is entrusted with the power to make decisions about another individual's medical care. Surgery or no? Heroic measures or no? Feeding tubes.... ventilators.... defibrillators.... code blues.... or no? Tell me how easy it is to exercise that power.

Or consider Pastor-Parish Relations Committees in local churches. Most of the people serving on that committee welcome the chance to be there. In my 29 years of ministry, nobody has ever turned down an invitation to serve on the PPR Committee. That's because the PPR Committee is considered to be a "power committee" whose members are privy to all kinds of "inside stuff." Then comes a tough decision. Shall we employ this one or that one? Shall we re-evaluate this one or that one? Shall we terminate this one or that one? Suddenly, nine stomachs rumble in unison, as each member wonders why in the world he or she ever said "yes" to this job.

Power tempts. Power frightens. And the third part of the equation is that power fails. The ultimate illusion is that power can always deliver the goods. It can't. Not every mountain is movable by force. Parents know that better than anybody else. When your kids are little, you can tell them to do something and they will generally do it. They may whine.... complain.... forget.... procrastinate.... but they generally do it. But one day you tell them to do something and they say: "You can't make me." Which (of course) is wrong.... for the time being. You can make them. And you do make them. But even in that moment of parental triumph, you know that your power to extract compliance is coming to an end. The day will come when you won't be able to make them to do something if they don't really want to do it. You can ground them.... deny them.... curse them.... some even hit them. But if they set their resistance against you, you won't be able to break it.

Fortunately, few homes get to that point. But if and when they do, there is no way that a raw exercise of power will correct the situation. Parents who have never been in that situation can't understand that. They say things like: "If my kids ever said that to me, I'd show them who is the boss." But until you've faced that situation, you don't realize that there are limits to what you can do as "boss".... limits to what you can do with authority.... limits to what you can do with physical strength.... and limits to what you can do with allowances, privileges and car keys. You name the issue. If a kid wants to resist you, that kid is going to resist you.... even if it means not doing what you said "do".... doing what you said "don't".... going where you said "stay away from".... or walking out the door when you said "you're in for the night."

That doesn't mean that parents should be wishy-washy. There is much to be said for firmness. There is much to be said for taking authority. There is much to be said for holding one's ground. But it may not win the day. Or it may win the day in a way that causes the win to feel like a loss. You can't make anybody do anything, really. Which, I suppose, was (and continues to be) God's problem, leading to a search (as the scriptures suggest) for a more excellent way. A few weeks ago, a good friend got me a copy of Terry Anderson's memoirs, "Den of Lions."  Anderson, as you will remember, was one of a small contingent of Americans who (as the result of a rather brutal exercise of power) were held hostages in and around Beirut. Their names became legendary: Reed.... Sutherland.... Pollhill.... Weir.... Anderson.... Steen.... Cicipplo.

In time, freedom came to each. And with it, light.  And with light, the beginnings of something else. Father Lawrence Jenco, one of the earlier releases, recalled the day of his departure from Lebanon. A young guard approached him, saying: 'Will you forgive me for keeping you six months in isolation?" To which Father Jenco responded: "If you will forgive me for hating you every minute of that time."

Then Jenco added: "After that, there was a peace between us. Call it the Stockholm Syndrome if you want. All I know is that there was love in the end."

My friends, if it does nothing else, Christmas comes (just in the nick of time for some of us) to remind us that there was love in the beginning, too.

The Two Faces of Advent 12/12/1993

Dr. William A. Ritter 

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Isaiah 40:1-5

If you were among the several hundred to pass through the parsonage last weekend, you know that my wife does not lack for things with which to decorate a house at Christmas. And among the Christmassy things scattered here, there and about, were a large number of pictures featuring Santa Claus and my now-grown children. Many of those pictures were unearthed and framed just for the occasion. If memory serves me correct, a few of those pictures were obtained because we, as parents, either pleaded ("just one more year and you'll never have to do it again"), threatened ("you will comb your hair; you will not make faces at the camera"), or bribed ("once the picture is taken, we will all go to lunch anyplace you like").

When Karen Plants saw some of the pictures of young Bill, she hatched a plan to borrow them for future display at the Contemporary Singles Class, whose members know my son only as a 26 year old attorney in a suit. But the best Santa picture was not available to be seen, that's because the best Santa picture was never even taken. That was the year that Julie (as a Harrison High School sophomore) was encouraged to sit on Santa's lap by her friends, and was (in turn) pinched gently on the thigh by the Harrison High School senior (who was sitting in for the real Mr. Claus at one of our area malls, and who secretly desired.... and ultimately obtained.... a date with my daughter).

All of those pictures, and all of those stories, are now part of the Ritter family Christmas lore. And, none of us would have it any other way. Both kids agreed to having the pictures displayed, even the "weird" ones.... especially the "weird" ones. Which surprised me. But which also pleased me, given that both of them are now old enough (and secure enough in their present lives) to feel good about the more unusual elements of their past.

For if the truth be known, there is no season of the year which finds us dragging more of our past behind us, than does the Christmas season. Hopefully, much that we drag is pleasant. We drag decorations and pictures. We drag menus and culinary traditions. We drag family rituals and patterned ways of doing things. And the trail of things dragged becomes longer and weightier with each passing year. Just try dropping a Christmas tradition and see what happens: ("No cookies this year? But Mom, you always bake cookies for Christmas"). Quickly one tradition becomes two.... and two become ten.... to the point that "twelve days of Christmas" is not so much a song as a necessity (and, even at that, may not be enough time in which to get everything in).

But if the sum total of things remembered is what makes the season of Christmas, it is also the sheer weight of things remembered which thwarts the season of Advent. In the very first line of my "Steeple Notes" notes, I dared to suggest that Advent is probably the most unsuccessful liturgical fragment of the Church year.... a suggestion which may have surprised the majority of you, even as it shocked the liturgical purists among you. But look at it this way.

Advent is, in the liturgy of the church, a time of watchful waiting.... of heightened anticipation.... of cultivated expectancy.... of preparing for something that, should it come, would make everything that has come before, pale in comparison.

But in reality, Advent is not nearly so much a time of looking forward, as it is a season of looking back.... having far less to do with anticipation than it does with nostalgia. We begin the Advent season with Charles Wesley's lovely carol, "Come, thou long expected Jesus," even though we know that the real sentiment of the season is better captured by the one who croons that "there's no place like home for the holidays."

What more fitting Advent scripture could there be than the one just read, namely Isaiah's promise that "a highway shall be made straight in the desert for our God." But even were that highway built and subsequently traveled by the motorcade of the Almighty, few of us would be out in the desert to see it, having chosen (instead) to celebrate the end of December by wending our way down Memory Lane, or seeking out that never-to-be-forgotten trail that meanders over the river and through the woods to grandmother's house. Unless, of course, grandmother has long since moved to a condo in south Florida.... in which case Memory Lane and southbound 1-75 become (temporarily) one and the same road.

With the best of intentions, we try to work up a mood of breathless expectation each December, only to find our minds drifting to the question of whether it really did snow every Christmas Eve when we were young. The net result of such nostalgia is that Advent is not so much something we celebrate, as it becomes something we rehearse. Will we remember it right? Will we remember it all? And will we be able to enact everything exactly as we remember it? The effort can become, in the extreme, more than a little confining.

Some twenty or more years ago (at a Christmas dinner prepared by my mother), both drumsticks were removed from the turkey platter, by others dining at the table, before the platter had quite come around to me. Without thinking, my mother said: "Oh! One of those drumsticks is for Bill (meaning me). Bill always eats the drumstick of the turkey at Christmas." Which may or may not have been true. And I hasten to add that it hasn't been true for years (meaning that should you invite me for dinner and plan to serve turkey, you need not fear that I will occupy myself through the meal by gnawing on the turkey leg). Even back then, there was absolutely nothing of consequence riding on whether I did (or did not) eat the drumstick. But my mother feared there might be (although whether that fear was for me or for her, I really don't know). All told, it was a minor blip on the radar screen of Christmas. It quickly passed, and nothing more was said. But, in some families, it might have caused the screen (and the season) to short circuit altogether.

I have found it to be true that when a young couple gets married, the odds are high that their first major argument will take place at Christmas time. For when Johnny marries Mary, Johnny brings an entire set of Christmas rituals from his family (his culture and his church), even as Mary brings an equally powerful set of her own. Even in the first year, such things become hard to mix and match. The problem is more often skirted than solved. Johnny and Mary end up keeping everything of both sides, accommodating everybody from both sides. Which works.... sort of.... until they have a child. Or two. Or three. How interesting it is that we celebrate a season where Christ's appearance in the human family changes absolutely everything, by expecting that those who marry into the nuclear family will change absolutely nothing.

But, then, the family of the church is not really all that different. Upon being appointed to any new church, I have always inquired as to which local Christmas customs matter most to the greatest number of people, and then vowed never to mess with them. Upon arriving at Nardin Park in 1980, I learned that there were more people worried that I would do something to "ruin" the 8:00 Christmas Eve service, than were concerned over anything else I might do. And when I finally found out what there was about the 8:00 service that I could possibly "ruin,"  it boiled down to the simple issue of maintaining as close to a condition of total darkness in the sanctuary as was practically and electrically possible. It took me three years before I truly enjoyed Christmas Eve in that church, not because I disagreed with the premise about darkness, but because I feared that somebody (well removed from my control) would do something to make it appear to those who were watching me so closely, that "since Ritter came, Christmas Eve at Nardin Park has never been the same." The ironic thing was that (during that period of finding my way), I couldn't get any two people to agree on how much dark was just the right amount of dark, and how the switches on the light board ought to be orchestrated so as to make certain that things would be as they had always been. As the scriptures record: "The true light that enlightens every man was (on that night) coming into the world." But woe be unto any preacher who beat the light of Christ to the punch by turning on too many lights of his own. Still, traditions have a way of capturing those they would initially trip.... to the degree that I find myself wanting to darken this place down.... at least a little.... come the evening of December 24.

Underneath all of this, however, is a problem that is every bit as theological as it is personal. Namely, is the coming of Christ a once-upon-a-time event, or is there the possibility of fresh-and-repeated-comings to hearts and homes that may need His appearing, look for His appearing, long for His appearing, but which (heretofore) may have done little to receive His appearing (by making measurable effort to "prepare Him room")?

I think that most of us instinctively lean toward the idea of "repeated comings." I think that the real reason for our endless rehearsing is not that (apart from such rehearsals) we will forget the lines of the story, but that (apart from such rehearsals) we will forget the central character of the story. For underneath the innumerable rituals that go into "keeping Christmas," is the fear that, were we to let go of too many too quickly, we might lose Jesus too.... along with the hope of ever finding Him again. I believe that every time we light another Advent candle against the encroaching darkness of December, we are like a family turning on a porch light.... because someone who belongs in that house has not yet come to that house.... and because we cannot sleep the sleep of the blessed until we hear Mary's donkey pull up (however late) in the carport, and hear Mary's Boy Child (at long last) turning His key in our locks. I keep thinking that we ought to fly in Tom Bodette to light the Advent Candle some year,  just so we could hear him say: "Hey Jesus, we'll leave the light on for you."

But more than that, I believe that some of us are not only lighting the light over the door, but actually going through the door in search of whatever light there may be outside.... complete with the willingness to follow it (like the Kings of old) wherever it may lead. Is it not possible that it was not idle curiosity, but spiritual desperation, that drove those ancient men of the Orient to follow that star in the first place? And how precise could that journey really have been? How many wrong turns did they take? How many arguments did they have? How many times did they come to a crossroads and find themselves flipping a coin in order to decide upon a direction? How many maps did they consult (and then have trouble refolding)? How many times did they pull into a gas station for directions.... or were they too manly to ever pull into a gas station for directions? And how many more than three may have started out with them, but gave up and went home because of weariness, indecisiveness or lack of progress. And if they really got there twelve nights late, so what? Some of us are already twelve weeks late.... twelve months late…. twelve years late.... or so incredibly late that we stopped counting, and almost stopped believing.

I haven't been here all that long (five months only seems like forever), but I've been here long enough to know that some of you are living in the midst of some pretty abnormal darkness. And I know that your personal Advent prayer could very well echo the one I saw (from my car window, some thirty years ago) spray painted in graffiti-like fashion on the wall of an abandoned warehouse in the south Bronx: "PRONTO VIENE, JESU CHRISTO".... (loose translation: "Come quickly, Lord Jesus").

Some of you probably take that to infer a dramatic "second coming," when Christ shall come again to bring an end to the kingdoms of this world. As for me, I look for less climactic and more repetitive re-appearings, when Christ shall come (over and over again) to heal and transform the kingdoms of this world.

What do I expect? Let me be biblical. I expect nothing less than that the lame shall walk, the blind shall see, those in bondage shall be released, and that the poor shall have the good news preached to them.

I expect that the hungry shall be fed, the thirsty quenched, the naked clothed, and the prisoner visited in his or her place of captivity.

I expect that swords shall be beaten into plowshares, spears into pruning hooks, and that the nations shall study war no more.... or at least a whole lot less.

I expect that the lion shall lay down with the lamb, the ox with the ass, the calf and the fatling together…. with people of color and caste taking note and following suit.

I expect that the tongue of the dumb shall sing, even as the foulest are being made clean.   I expect that when the Lord says to us moral and spiritual cripples, "do you want to be healed?", some of us will finally say "Yes," and accept His invitation to rise from our beds of self pity and walk.

I expect that the pure in heart (and, hopefully even some of the impure) shall see God.... and that the peacemakers of the world shall one day get more accolades than the warmongers.

I expect that (on some climactic day) we shall see beyond the mystery, live beyond the grave, and that no one (thanks to the amazing nature of grace) shall eternally sleep the sleep of the dead or the sleep of the damned.

But even more radical than that, I dare to expect (as age slowly overtakes me), that I shall yet see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.

So haul out the holly, bake the cookies, and have yourselves a good "old fashioned" Christmas. But in the midst thereof, don't forget to keep your eye alerted to demolition work in the valley, and your ear attuned to the distant sounds of road graders in the desert.  For the glory of the Lord has been.... is now.... and is still being revealed. Which will be visible... in the flesh.

"PRONTO VIENE, JESU CHRISTO"

Even so Lord, quickly come.

Forewarned is Forearmed 12/6/1998

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Matthew 10:16-23

In tallying up the numbers for my year-end pastor’s report to the Charge Conference, I discovered that in 1998 I did twice as many baptisms as I did funerals. I don’t know what that means, save for the fact that, in my little corner of Christendom, more people seem to be coming than going. Which feels good, personally….and bodes well, institutionally. It also occurs to me, professionally, that most of you would rather attend a baptism than a funeral. It’s shorter, for one thing. Less sad, for another. And it is always easier to say “hello” to someone coming into the family of God, than “good-bye” to someone who would appear to be leaving it.

Yet, if the truth be known, there is one thing about baptism that is more ominous than obvious. And that consists in the fact that life in Christ (which is what the baptizee is being baptized into) is not always going to be a bed of roses….and that the church (which is going to do everything in its power to encourage, equip and educate said child) is not necessarily going to be able to protect him. For baptism is the introductory rite of discipleship. And discipleship, in its most elemental form, is the act of following Jesus. And Jesus, more often than not, is headed for Jerusalem (geographically), and a cross (theologically). And although there will be a crown on the other side of the cross, there may not necessarily be a crown on this side.

For as much as I have talked about baptism (and from time to time, I have talked about it long and well), I suspect that half the people who come to it, look upon it as an inoculation rather than an induction. “Inoculation theology” begins when grandma (often Roman Catholic grandma) says: “You’d better hustle on down to the church and get that baby done….before something happens.” What grandma means by “something happening,” is: “What if that baby should die, unbaptized….and not be able to go where all good babies should be able to go, in the event that they ‘go’ before their time?” Grandma’s assumption is that baptism will fix that up. One watery inoculation….a few prayers….and the phrase “onto glory” is all but a done deal. Baptism performed. Grace guaranteed. Eternity assured. Sweet little Priscilla, protected.

Which is not how we Protestants look upon such things. We believe that what the church does, sacramentally, does not launch God’s grace….as if it wouldn’t be there, had we not done it. We believe that what the church does, sacramentally, points to God’s grace….which was already there, long before we ever thought of doing it.

But while you are wiping the sweat from your brow and uttering, “Well, that’s a relief,” I would remind you that while “inoculation theology” is out, “induction theology” is in….meaning that baptism is a form of enlistment, to the degree that it would be entirely appropriate to end every act of baptism with the terse liturgical pronouncement: “Now your troubles are just beginning.” No church says this, of course. But the Orthodox church symbolizes it in a rather unique way. Just before the priest admits someone to the sacrament of baptism, he whacks them hard on the chest with his pectoral cross. This is done to remind everyone present that the cross hurts, and one day the baptizee may have to pay a price for taking it up.

Perhaps each baptism certificate….which Janet so carefully letters, and I so carefully sign…. should come with a pre-pasted warning label from some spiritual Surgeon General: “Caution, this water could be dangerous to your health.” My mother always warned me about getting my feet wet. But, to my fading recollection, she never said anything about my head.

Well, we do have a warning to issue this morning. But it doesn’t come from the Surgeon General. It comes from Jesus himself. “Behold,” he says to us (which is a 50-cent religious word for “quiet down and listen up”): “Behold, I send you out as sheep in the midst of wolves. So be wise as serpents and innocent as doves.” Which would hardly qualify Jesus as an television evangelist. For who would accept an invitation to something that all but guarantees personal discomfort? I mean, who would watch his programs? Who would fund his network? Who would buy his books? There’s not a lot of warm fuzzies in that warning. Which is why I’ve seldom preached it, and my colleagues consistently underplay it.

Still, there it is. So what shall we make of it? Well, we could try to get inside the animals involved, meaning “wolves, sheep, serpents and doves.” That might be interesting, since few of us encounter any of these species on a daily basis.

Who are the sheep? Well, they’re us. Or supposed to be us. At least the text assumes that they’re us. Which may not always be true, given that most of us have a wolf suit tucked away somewhere….which still fits us. It fits us, because it is us. Which tends to confuse Little Red Riding Hood, because sometimes the wolf really is her grandmother….her grandfather….her funny uncle….her philandering husband….or the charming woodsman who rides out of nowhere to come to her rescue. Sometimes the wolf is even Little Red Riding Hood, herself. If the suit fits, acknowledge it….(“Why yes, those are my teeth….my fangs….my fur”).

But let’s assume, for the most part, that the wolves are “out there,” more than they are “in here.” How can they be identified? In my just-concluded class on the Book of Revelation, the wolves came clearly marked as “seven headed beasts, dragons, tempters, temptresses, lions, tigers and bears.” To be a Christian in the Book of Revelation is to feel a little like Dorothy and her helpless friends, wandering through a frightening wood and wondering if she will ever make it safely back to Kansas.

Our wolves, lions, tigers and bears….the ones among which we sheep must walk….come disguised and closeted. They are far more chameleon-like, making them all the more bewildering and all the more dangerous. Somebody should pass a law that, in the presence of sheep, wolves must immediately (and clearly) identify themselves. But nobody has made such a law. Which is why few of us can tell them when we see them.

In that marvelous vision known as the “Peaceable Kingdom” (which we find in Isaiah 65), there is the image of the wolf and the lamb feeding together. Well, let me tell you a story about that. Back in the days of pre-perestroika Russia….when hers was a name that made all of us tremble….the Russians brought an exhibit to the World’s Fair that was entitled “World Peace.” In it was a large cage. And in the cage were a little lamb and a Russian wolf….feeding peaceably together. As an exhibit, it was most impressive. And as the fair unfolded, it was spectacularly attended. One day, however, somebody asked the curator the obvious question: “How in the world do you do it?” To which he replied: “Oh, it’s really very simple. We replace the lamb every morning.”

I am not going to ask you if you heard that. I am going to ask you if you felt that. I suspect you did if you are parents….or remember having been parents….or are still trying to get up enough nerve to become parents. Parents know all about sending lambs out to live among wolves. Nowhere seems safe. No one seems trustable. And you can’t be everywhere….every day….every minute. A parent told me, just last Sunday morning: “If we have to move to protect our kid, we’ll move.” And that parent lives here….where all kinds of parents would love to move, if only they could.

But maybe we could all go outstate….like to Muskegon. Where last week we learned that sometimes the very kids the parents thought were lambs, were really wolves….and it was the parents who cried (with their dying breath): “My God, it’s a jungle out here.” Nobody’s immune. Everybody’s vulnerable. We are all “sheep in the midst of wolves.” Or, as my favorite philosopher, Norm Peterson, once said: “It’s a dog eat dog world, and I’m wearing Milk Bone underwear.”

So….be wise as serpents and innocent as doves. Two more animals. Two more strategies. Let’s start with the serpents.

The Christian faith is not now….nor was it ever….meant to be a battle plan for losers. We were not put here for the sole purpose of dying heroically, so that those who mock us, prey upon us and knowingly make sport of us, might live profitably. Jesus is a practical man. And this little warning reveals his practical side. “Know the wolf culture,” he says. “Not so as to copy it, but to defend yourselves against it.” We may not always be able to beat the wolves at their game. But we darned well better know what their game is….and be guided by a better one.

But what does this have to do with serpents? Well, I’ll tell you. Don’t make this harder than it is. This isn’t rocket science. The serpent being referenced is not some mythical monster or prehistoric reptile. The serpent being referenced is the common, ordinary snake. And one of the things that is more true of snakes (than of any other creature, save a large-antlered Michigan deer in November) is that snakes are incredibly aware of everything that goes on around them. A snake is sensitive to its surroundings because, as a slitherer, its entire body is a live wire of sensations. I am not a zoologist. But those who are, tell me that snakes survive by missing nothing about their environment that could offer a clue as to how to interpret it. Snakes are not so much sneaky, as crafty. “Go learn from them,” Jesus said. “Then copy them.” Which is not an invitation to cynicism, but an admonition to always know what is going on around you.

I would dwell more on that, but I suspect most of you find that part easy. Too easy. And too all-consuming. Craftiness, you’ve mastered. Innocence is another story. So what does it mean?

I am not sure that it means “unspoiled” (although it could). If it meant “unspoiled,” I think Jesus might have said: “Be wise as serpents and innocent as virgins” (given that the words “innocent” and “virgin” are clearly linked elsewhere in scripture). Instead, I think that the word “innocent” (rather than meaning “unspoiled”) means “unjaded.” For when you become crafty….clever…. savvy in the ways of the world….when you get enough experience under your belt so as to be able to spot the wolves a mile away, all the while devising plans to foil them at their game….then you tend to become jaded, cynical, even despairing. It is only a matter of time before people who keep their eyes peeled for the worst, find the worst. Until, eventually, they find nothing but the worst. And the sickest of these people, we call “paranoid.” While the remainder of these people, we call “sad.” For while they can spot all of the dangers, they miss most of the joys. I mean, if warnings are all you ever give to your children….your spouses….your pastors….yourselves….who needs you? But that may be the wrong question. The fact is, everybody needs you. It’s just that nobody wants you.

So….“be innocent as doves.” A dove, don’t you see, is a symbol of the Holy Spirit. The dove is not a dumb bird. The dove is not a weak bird. The dove is not a fragile and endangered bird. The dove, biblically understood, is a bird that reminds us that God is very much at work in the world….our world….this feisty, fleshly, jungle-like, wolf-infested world….doing God only knows what. Which means just what it says, don’t you see….that when we think we know everything….and much of what we know is bad….we are saved by what we don’t know….what only God knows….and may be trying to reveal. But we can’t see it. Because we look through snake’s eyes rather than dove’s eyes. And you know where snakes tend to hang out…..versus where doves tend to hang out….don’t you?

I wrote this sermon up north (where I went for a day to write it, along with half of next week’s). Thursday morning, I am in my favorite Elk Rapids coffee shop having a “morning special.” That’s eggs (scrambled), bacon (lean), hash browns (extra crispy), toast (whole wheat), and several cups of coffee (all for $3.85….the cheapest way to a heart attack in northern Michigan). There are only two other people in the place. Both are old-timers….regulars….born-and-bred northerners. They are the kind of people who hate “fudgies.” And, as a 12-year irregular who shows up once every other month, I am just one step removed from a “fudgy.”

So they talk, while I listen. One of my best skills is eavesdropping. And this is what I overhear.

Yeah (says one to another), they make a lot of money down there….move up here….build a huge house….install security lighting all around the perimeter….and then they go outside at night and complain that they can’t see the stars.

Mental note to myself: “Ritter, no security lighting. Ever.”

It’s the serpent, you see, that tells me I need security lighting. For security lighting is savvy….crafty….clever….wise. But it’s the dove, don’t you see, that tells me I need the stars.

And correct me if I’m wrong. But this is star season, is it not?

Note:  I am indebted to the usual biblical sources for scholarly commentary. But I acknowledge a special debt to Peter Gomes and his publication Yet More Sundays at Harvard.

The Near Edge of God 12/13/1998

First United Methodist Church

Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: John 1:1-3, 14

When I was three years old, I used to think that the true measure of things was how big they were in comparison to how big I was. There were Billy-sized things. And there were bigger things. But when I was three, almost everything fell into the category of “bigger things.”  Most everything was huge when I was small, but seems to have shrunk, now that I have become huge.

Whenever I go back to the house in which I previously lived….the school in which I previously studied….the fields in which I previously played….and the woods in which I previously roamed….I am amazed at how common, how ordinary, and (yes) how tiny they seem compared to the way I remember them. I find myself wondering: “How did it happen that (after I left it) they came along and downsized my entire neighborhood?”

But it wasn’t just my neighborhood, don’t you see? The world got smaller as Billy got bigger. When I wasn’t allowed to cross the street, there was no end of mystery about what was on the other side. Much of which has now disappeared, given the number of times I have crossed the Atlantic. Albion (on the day I went there to start college….which, ironically, was the first time I ever laid eyes upon the place) might just as easily have been the end of the universe. Given a car and a map, I was far from certain that I would have known how to get home to Detroit. Which changed quickly….not because Albion moved, but because I did.

When first I sang, “Twinkle, twinkle, little star, how I wonder what you are,” I really did wonder. And still do….sort of. But an introductory course on astronomy (coupled with seven Star Trek movies) have reduced my reverence. And every time I tilt back my head and belt, “O Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder, consider all the worlds thy hands have made,” it occurs to me how little I consider such things at all. Until people I respect say: “Hey, take a look at this. It’s going to blow your mind.” So once in awhile I do. And once in awhile it does.

Just the other day, while reading to keep ahead of my Wednesday morning study group, I stumbled upon Leonard Sweet telling me that physicists are currently dismantling every boundary that separates us from the universe, meaning that we are learning more….drawing closer….and sensing connections that we never saw before. But the more we learn, the less we seem to know. For each step of science opens the door to several hundred miles of history. Speaking of the inability of science to measure the “blackness” of matter in space, University of Washington astrophysicist, Bruce Margon, confesses: “It’s a fairly embarrassing situation to admit that we can’t find 90 percent of the universe.” Which I can’t comprehend. Here I am, worrying about a clothes dryer that eats every seventh sock. And there he is, looking for 90 percent of the universe. (“Now slow down, Bruce. Think of where you last saw it.”)

We live in a galaxy so big, that a light ray (traveling at the rate of 186,000 miles per second) takes 100,000 years to go from one side of the galaxy to the other. And how many galaxies did God create? More than one, they tell me. But I’ve never seen ‘em. Which is not God’s fault….that I haven’t seen ‘em, I mean. Physicist Charles Misner believes this is why Albert Einstein had so little use for the church (even though he said a lot of things that seemed friendly to religion). He must have listened to preachers like me….talking about subjects like God….and figured that he (Einstein) had seen far more majesty than I’d ever imagined.

Still, there is Sweet’s suggestion that the old distinctions between out-there and in-here are breaking down…..meaning that we are connected to the totality of the universe (including the 90 percent of it we can’t find) in more ways than we previously expected, and that we are connected to the God of the universe in more ways than we previously believed.

Let me try and explain, knowing that in doing so, I am skating at the naked edge of my knowledge zone, and (quite possibly) your comfort zone. It all has to do with what the scientists call “Chaos Theory”…..which is anything but what the name would seem to suggest. So work with me, here.

Until very recently, we believed in a world that could be understood and managed. In fact, we believed that way since 1686 when Sir Isaac Newton wrote a startling book entitled Principia. In that book, Newton suggested that the earth circled the sun (rather than vice versa), and that the atom was the basic building block of the universe. He also suggested that the solar system worked like a vast machine, operating on a series of fixed laws. He summed up these laws in four relatively simple algebraic formulas, thereby putting the question of “how things worked” to bed, where it stayed nicely tucked in for some 300 years.

But now Newton’s model has come apart….the covers have become untucked….and mystery is once again loose in the cosmos. With the work being done in quantum physics, we are discovering a sub-atomic world that does not behave (at all) in the ways that Newton said it did. Things are impossible to pin down, what with particles turning into waves and waves turning into particles. Things that have shape and mass one minute, become pure energy the next. And nobody knows when such changes will occur….and why.

Which makes it hard to predict anything in the universe. Or study anything in the universe. In fact, the very act of attempting to study a particle, changes it (meaning that scientists can no longer stand outside of anything and observe it). Because the very particles and waves that are responding to each other, will end up responding to the watcher as well.

Picture a teacher saying to her class (at the beginning of the morning): “Class, that big guy sitting in the back corner is from the Board of Education. He has come to observe us today. But we will just go on with our work like we always do. So forget he’s here and open your books to page 132.” But they won’t “forget he’s here.” And very little will “go on like it always does.” Because his presence will have changed everything, don’t you see? I suppose he could observe the class through a two-way mirror so that nobody in the room would be able to see him. But the quantum physicists tell us that, in the universe, there is no two-way mirror behind which to hide. So every act of trying to chart something, changes it. Which means that everything reacts to everything else, and there is no such thing as pure scientific activity.

What this also means is that it is no longer helpful to think of the world as a machine. For machines are full of little parts….all doing what they were made to do….always have done…. always will do….until they wear out and (in order to keep the machine running) someone replaces the worn out part with another, to do exactly the same thing. Which is how machines work. But not universes.

A better image for the universe is that of a living body, in which no part operates independently from the rest, and where every change in one part of the body is noted, recorded, and adapted to by changes in every other part of the body.

For those of you who don’t like physics, consider economics. It used to be said….and probably still is….that every time Tokyo catches a cold, Wall Street sneezes. Which occurs not only because we are world-connected economically, but because we are world-connected informationally. Wall Street knows (or learns) of Tokyo’s troubles, almost instantaneously. And you and I understand the role of technology in the information-sharing process….meaning that we know how we know.

But when such connections are spotted in the universe, we don’t know how we know. A few of you may be familiar with the “butterfly effect,” first brought to our attention in 1961 by a research meteorologist named Edward Lorenz. Interested in why he could not come up with foolproof weather forecasts, he found that every weather pattern is acutely sensitive to conditions present at its creation. Meaning that when a butterfly beats its wings in Beijing, it affects the weather (weeks later) here in Birmingham. We are that connected.

But that’s not all. We have found that two particles separated by whole galaxies (you remember that I said there are more than one) seem to know what each other is doing. Change the spin on one, and the other reverses its spin….wherever it is….at the same instant. We don’t know how it knows to do that, since it happens faster than the speed of light. It probably has something to do with what is now being called “Field Theory,” which is more than I can explain and more than you need to consider (given my sense that your eyes are moments removed from glazing over).

All of this is related to what we call “Chaos Theory.” Which is a term I have recoiled against for years, because it sounded like reality was random, purposeless and wildly-out-of-control (all of which seem like synonyms for Godless). Perhaps “chaos” is a bad choice of words, but it doesn’t mean what it sounds like. It simply means that the universe is a giant web. Any place you touch it, everything else will feel it. All is connected. Meaning that we are all connected. And while there is an ultimate order to the chaos (in the sense of boundaries beyond which the web will not go and patterns to which the web will inevitably return), within the web, everything is alive, acting, adapting, participating, exchanging, relating, giving and taking, impacting and sharing.

So what? So plenty. But I will settle for raising a pair of implications in the time I have left. First, I would suggest that God is bigger than we ever thought God to be. And that God is more intimate than we ever thought him to be.

Let’s start with “bigger.” Much of the church’s theology has contented itself with declarations “of the wonderful works that God has done.” But can we declare what God has done, without shutting down a consideration of what God may do next? Chaos Theory is incredibly alive. Meaning that, within certain prescribed boundaries, every part of God’s web tingles….whether we be the tingler….or God. Which is most biblical, although we tend to gloss over such texts as Isaiah 43:18-19: “Do not remember the former things. I am about to do a new thing. Now it springs forth. Do you not perceive it?”

All of which means that while we should love God, praise God, adore and revere God, we should not sit too comfortably in the saddle of familiarity with God….assuming that we know everything there is to know about God. Almost everybody who is anybody in theology is now talking about “the re-enchantment of the universe.” But the theologians did not invent this term. They borrowed it from the scientists. What does it mean? It means that the scientists and the theologians are presiding over a rebirth of mystery, wonder and awe. Science has been humbled, learning that it does not know….cannot predict….and therefore is no longer able to dominate the universe, as was once thought possible. Dominion belongs to God alone.

Which leads Barbara Brown Taylor to suggest that perhaps (just perhaps) some of us have gotten a little too chummy with God. Tune in many sermons on Sunday morning and you will hear preachers speaking of God as they would a pet lion: “Oh, he was fierce once, but there is nothing to be afraid of now. You can climb up on his back if you want to. We’ve had all his teeth and claws pulled.”

Now, I am not suggesting that we should necessarily fear God (although the Bible is not afraid to offer that admonition). But I am suggesting that we should respect God. When a sailboat skipper tells me that he is doing this or that….or not doing this or that….because of the healthy respect he has for Lake Michigan, he is not saying that sailing is no longer fulfilling or fun. Indeed, he may believe that he is never happier, more alive, or at greater peace, than when he is five miles out on the open water. But by “respecting the lake,” he is acknowledging that the waters are cold, deep, challenging and (from time to time) utterly unpredictable. As a seasoned sailor, what he knows is wonderful. But he does not know it all. And what he does not know could change his life in an instant. Sailing begins in reverence. As does theology.

But if theology begins in reverence, it ends in intimacy. If, indeed, everything in the universe relates to (and is affected by) everything else….if, indeed, God is both the spinner of the web and the tingler of the web….if, indeed, it is impossible to know how any one thing works, but only that all things are connected….doesn’t it stand to reason that God (himself, herself, Godself) would want to be known in the most intimate, web-tingling, life-touching way possible?

And isn’t it possible that if the body (rather than the machine) is now the paradigm by which we understand the universe, doesn’t it stand to reason that God would want to become a body….so that through that relationship we might become somebody (and, collectively, God’s body). For this, in all of its mystery, is what the church means by the word “incarnation.”

* * * * *

Oh, God is so big. And yet God is so near.

Go back to the sea. I’ve told you this before, but let me tell you again. The first time I saw the sea, I didn’t so much see it as hear it. And it scared me half to death. I was eight or nine and on a vacation trip with my parents. Late at night, we reached the New England shore with no place to lay our weary heads. No reservations had been made….with mother and father carping at each other about whose fault that was. “No Vacancy” signs (in blinking red neon) dotted every hamlet of the landscape. No moon. No stars. Just the sound of wave after wave smacking the seawall, to the point of spraying the windshield. And although the sea was just being the sea….being true to its nature….doing what seas do….I was very much afraid.

Then in 1981….July….Honolulu.…Waikiki Beach….Kris and I took a taxi to a wonderful restaurant at the base of Diamond Head, where we ate our fill, spent our wad, foreswore the taxi and walked home along the shore. Taking off our shoes, we danced the line where the water quietly kissed the sand (except for those moments, of course, when we stopped to quietly kiss each other). And we were thankful that the sea….also true to its nature….was making itself known to us in this way.

* * * * *

In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God. And the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things were made through him. And, apart from him, was not anything made that was made.

And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us. Full of grace. Full of truth. And we beheld….not comprehended, beheld….his glory.

Note:  I am indebted to Leonard Sweet’s book The Jesus Prescription for a Healthy Life and Barbara Brown Taylor’s essay “Preaching Into the Next Millennium,” found in a collection of essays entitled Exilic Preaching: Testimony for Christian Exiles in an Increasingly Hostile Culture.

In a post-sermon conversation with Bob Pierce, I learned that, as a result of the Hubble space telescope, astronomers now estimate the number of galaxies in the universe to be at least 50 billion (and, with some 200 billion stars, the Milky Way is pretty much “an average player” as galaxies go). Larger galaxies are said to contain a trillion or more stars. Not that I’ve counted them.